For the second time that night, pork threatened the life of Mike Delancey. He began to choke. The cook leaned across the counter and pounded him on the back.
“You okay, mister?”
When he got his breath back, Delancey had to admit that he was better than okay. He’d been hired to do Holyfield’s dirty work and, in the process, he had stumbled on twenty-five thousand dollars in reward money. Courtesy of Gary Graham, aka Aiden Falconer.
Meg lay on her bed, still fully clothed, dead asleep. Her day had begun at four o’clock in the morning and had been endless and stressful. She had passed out from the sheer weight of her exhaustion and emotional upset.
Agent Lucy Batista stepped through the connecting door into Emmanuel Harris’s room. “She’s dead to the world, poor kid,” she reported. “Did we get it?”
Harris nodded, swiveling his laptop so she could see it. There on the screen was the text of Meg’s recent e-mail to her brother. “Our tech people caught it. They’re in touch with the Internet service provider to get the location of the recipient.”
Agent Batista squinted at the message. “What meeting? Between her brother and the man they call Lindenauer?”
“That’s my guess,” Harris nodded grimly. “Or at least she believes that’s what Aiden has in mind. For sure, it’s the reason she gave herself up.”
“Or she’s conning us,” Batista added thoughtfully.
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Harris conceded wearily. “But I don’t think so.”
His cell phone rang. It was the FBI’s tech center in Washington, DC — a conference call with the offices of Zipnet.USA.
“Conference call?” Harris repeated. “What for? We need an address, period.”
“They won’t release the information to us,” the tech explained. “They’re asking for the authorization of the agent in the field.”
Harris reeled off his name and badge number … and a lot more as well. “What’s the matter with you people? Why are you wasting my time?”
The Zipnet representative was apologetic but firm. “I’m sorry, Agent Harris, but it’s company policy to double-check because of the other inquiry.”
Harris was on his feet. “Other inquiry?”
“About an hour ago,” the man confirmed. “Another agent called for a street address on this very account.”
Harris was horrified. “And you gave it to him?”
“He was from the FBI!”
“I’m from the FBI! You just released private information to someone who may very well be a murderer! I need that address — now!”
On a piece of hotel stationery, he wrote:
Zephraim Turnbull, RR #6, Aberdeen, CO
The next thing Meg knew, she was being hauled out of bed by strong arms. Her eyes came to bleary focus on Emmanuel Harris, yelling at her from point-blank range. What was he saying?
“You’ve got to take us to Aiden! Now!”
“Put me down!” she demanded in outrage.
A piece of paper was held under her nose. On it was Zephraim Turnbull’s name and address.
In spite of her shock, she tried to bluff her way through. “Never heard of him.”
“Look,” said Harris, “I’m going to find it eventually. But only after wandering down every dark country road in Aberdeen. How’d you like it if Frank Lindenauer got there first?”
“You’re bluffing!” she accused. “Frank Lindenauer doesn’t know anything!”
“Are you willing to bet your brother’s life on that? I just traced your e-mail. And Zipnet says somebody performed the identical trace an hour ago. Who do you think that might be?”
In that instant, Meg’s defenses crumbled, and she very nearly went down with them. This was her worst-case scenario — being too late to save her brother.
Hairless Frank had gone after Aiden already. The killer had a head start. The “meeting” was about to happen, right on the Turnbull farm. And Aiden had no idea it was coming.
She turned to the man who had arrested her parents, the man she hated above all others.
“I’ll take you there.”
* * *
In the dead of night, the Turnbull farm was as dark as intergalactic space. A single flashlight bobbed along the edge of the pasture adjoining the barnyard. Aiden trudged the path, leading one of the cows, Essie. Or possibly Babette. Even after all this time, he had trouble telling the two apart.
Yes, it was insanity to be milking a cow at midnight — especially when the whole world seemed to be falling apart. But what else was he going to do? In the state he was in, sleep wasn’t really an option. With all his worries — Meg gone, no word from Hairless Frank, and now a spy from Holyfield on his neck — the least he could do was his job. He owed it to Mr. Turnbull. He even sort of owed it to the cows.
So Essie (Babette?) was the test cow. He was going to get milk from her, or die trying. And if that worked, he would bring in the others, one by one. It was going to be a long night.
Am I losing my mind?
He had no answer to that question. But doing something, even milking, was better than having time to think when all thoughts were so awful.
He opened the creaking door and reached up to pull the chain that lit the single bulb in the hanging pigtail socket. Light flooded the barn. He set up the pail and stool, and led Essie into the milking stall.
“Okay, girl,” he said aloud. “Here goes.” He grabbed hold with what he hoped was authority, and began moving his hands in a pistonlike motion, the way Meg always did it. To his surprise, the result was not bad at all. Thin streams of milk sang against the metal of the empty bucket. He broke into a goofy grin of triumph.
Essie was not as elated by the victory. She had been asleep in the field and would have preferred to remain that way until daybreak. Her head swiveled around, and she glared at him with a loud moo of complaint.
Aiden ignored her and milked doggedly on. But when he saw the telltale twitch in the animal’s haunch, he knew exactly what was coming. The hoof came up, aimed unerringly at his head. Hugging the bucket to protect the milk, Aiden ducked off the stool and made himself small on the straw-covered floor.
The kick missed him.
So did the bullet.
The shot came from the doorway, whizzing barely an inch away from his shoulder and burying itself in a wooden post. There was no doubt in Aiden’s mind that its path was straight through the empty space where his head had been a split second before.
As he rolled, he caught a glimpse of the figure with the gun standing just inside the barn — the stocky frame, the burning eyes, the bald head.
Hairless Frank.
The assassin had an overwhelming advantage — gun against bare hands, professional against rank amateur, in a small, enclosed space.
Pure instinct took over. Aiden grabbed the milking stool and flung it up at the pigtail socket. The bulb shattered with a pop, and the barn was plunged into darkness.
Hairless Frank couldn’t shoot what he couldn’t see!
Now, how am I going to get out of here?
* * *
Zephraim Turnbull was in the last place he had ever expected himself to be — sitting in front of that fool computer and actually using the blasted thing.
He had to give Gary credit. There really was a whole world inside this cockamamie invention. And the farmhand had painstakingly showed him exactly how to access it.
Access it. Listen to that. He was throwing around computer language already. He had even found an online article about Mountain View Homes and their plans to develop this area. A map actually showed the new subdivision running right through his farm! The nerve of that Holyfield, promising Mountain View the Turnbull farm to build on. It was unbelievable! Yet there it was, right on the Denver Chronicle’s Web site.
He scrolled down, skimming the paper for articles of interest. And then a picture caught his eye. Under the small caption STILL AT LARGE, was a photograph of — he blinked —
Gary, his
hired man!
Denver police still have no leads pointing to the whereabouts of Aiden and Margaret Falconer, the children of convicted traitors John and Louise Falconer …
Even the unflappable Zephraim Turnbull was rocked back on his heels. The Falconer kids! Gary was Aiden Falconer! And the sister — he thought back to the mysterious girl Holyfield was always bleating about.
Two fugitives from justice were lamming it on his farm!
At that very moment, an unmistakable sound cracked across his barnyard. It would have taken a great deal to distract him from the huge discovery he had just made, but this did the trick.
It was a pistol shot.
A cold, raspy voice rang out in the pitch-black of the barn. “Okay, kid, you wanted to talk. Here I am.”
“First you drop that gun!” Aiden blurted, and was instantly sorry. Hairless Frank aimed in the direction of the words and fired. Aiden saw the muzzle flash and heard the slug rip into the wall not far away.
He’s shooting at the sound! The realization amped his panic to a new level. How could he get out of here if every move created noise, and every noise was a target?
Luckily, the shots had agitated Essie, who was thrashing about and mooing her distress. It covered the rustling of Aiden slithering on his belly through the straw into the second stall. His hand closed on the milk pail he’d known he would find there. It was a risky move, but one he had to chance. His only hope was to draw the assassin away from the lone exit.
His reared his arm back and heaved the pail toward the back of the barn, where the milk canisters were stored. It struck with a clatter. A volley of shots added to the din. Flash after flash illuminated Hairless Frank’s monstrous silhouette.
Aiden’s heart sank. His enemy was still in front of the doorway. Of course — Hairless Frank was a professional. He would never allow himself to be lured away from the position of power.
As long as he’s blocking the exit, I’ll never get out of here. Unless —
It came to Aiden like a distant point of light in an endless tunnel. The barn had some rotting wood right at ground level on the outside wall. Mr. Turnbull was planning to replace those boards as soon as he was finished with the porch. If Aiden could find the right spot, maybe it was weak enough for him to —
He squirmed to the back of the stall and ran his hand over the planks. The wood was damp and crumbly, but there was no give to it.
“Pack it in, kid,” the assassin advised. “You’ve got nowhere to run.”
Aiden rolled under the barrier separating stall two from three. The sound of his movement brought a bullet thudding into the divider. Barely daring to breathe, he pawed the wall. This was the spot! There were holes big enough to poke his finger through. The wood was weak … but was it weak enough?
Praying that Essie’s renewed mooing would cover his activity, he turned onto his back, swiveled, and aimed both work boots at the wall. Then he pulled back his legs and dealt a mighty kick to the rotted boards. The wood splintered, opening a hole to the outside. He pounded with both feet, and the ruined planks came apart.
Just a little more —
A bullet chirped past his ear, very close. He’d hoped for a bigger hole. But what were scrapes and splinters compared to the horror that awaited him inside the barn?
He squeezed through the opening, barely noticing the sharp, splintered wood ripping at his flesh. Then he was sprinting, intent only on flight — until the thought struck him.
The tape recorder! Get the tape recorder!
The idea of confronting Hairless Frank once more after just barely escaping with his life turned his heart over.
You can’t run away! You have to get his confession!
He came to an abrupt stop, quivering like a hunting dog on the scent. The tape recorder was in the hired hand’s quarters! He took a step in the direction of his apartment.
The tackle from behind flattened him to the ground. Aiden rolled over onto his back, expecting to see Frank Lindenauer’s pistol about to deliver the shot that would be the last thing he would ever hear.
Instead, a handcuff clicked onto his wrist and pulled painfully tight. Mike Delancey snapped the other cuff onto his own arm and hauled Aiden upright.
“Hi, kid,” he said smugly. “Miss me?”
“Let me go!” Aiden hissed. “There’s a guy trying to kill me!”
“You’re very convincing,” Delancey conceded. “I can see how you kept ahead of the cops all these weeks, you and your sister.”
Aiden stared at the private investigator. Delancey knew who he was! But at this terrible moment, that fact was low on Aiden’s list of priorities.
“It’s no lie!” he pleaded. “There’s a guy with a gun in that barn! When he figures out I’m not in there, he’s going to come out after me!”
“You must think I’m some dumb flatfoot!” Delancey sneered. “You’re worth twenty-five grand!” He jerked on the cuffs, hauling his captive along. “You’re coming with me!”
Aiden stumbled along behind him. “Please! I’ll go with you! I’ll let you turn me in for the money! But not now!”
Delancey snorted and kept going.
All at once, Aiden’s desperation morphed into white-hot rage. Mom and Dad would not spend the rest of their lives in prison because of this bozo’s greed.
“You better let me go,” he seethed, “or I’m calling Bernard!” And when Delancey kept on dragging him, Aiden knew he had to follow through. Yes, it was dangerous to make noise with Hairless Frank so close by. But there was no other way.
He placed two fingers of his free hand inside his mouth and whistled long and loud. That was how Mr. Turnbull summoned his guard pig. But would it work for Aiden?
Delancey looked at him nervously. “Nice try, Falconer. Like a pig comes when you call him.”
Then they heard the hoofbeats.
In the space of a split second, Mike Delancey asked himself if twenty-five thousand dollars was worth another meeting with Bernard. When the handcuff key came out of his pocket, the private investigator’s hand was shaking so badly that Aiden had to take charge and unlock himself. The instant the two were separated, Delancey fled for his car.
Keeping a wary eye out for the pig, Aiden started back for the apartment and his tape recorder.
The squeak and slap of the screen door of the farmhouse stopped him in his tracks. He turned to see Zephraim Turnbull limp onto the porch, on one crutch only. In the other hand was a double-barreled shotgun.
Aiden was stricken. If Hairless Frank came out of that barn and saw an armed man, he’d blow him away without a thought!
It was Aiden’s fault that Mr. Turnbull was in peril of his life —
I’ve got to warn him!
Hunched over the wheel, his head pressed against the roof of the small rental car, Agent Harris was becoming frustrated. “Well, is this the road, or isn’t it?”
“I can’t tell!” Meg yelled, her indecision bubbling into belligerence. “It’s too dark!”
“Focus on the landmarks,” Agent Batista advised soothingly. “The barns, the houses, maybe a distinctive silo.”
“I was stuck inside all the time!” Meg snapped back. “I wasn’t mapping the neighborhood!”
She was so angry with herself that she could barely think straight. A killer was closing in on Aiden. He might be there already! And here she was, unable to get her act together, dithering around like — like — like Aiden would!
Concentrate! she commanded herself.
A tiny bend in the road brought the car’s headlights down a long double-rut driveway. It was only for a second, but the beams played off the tailgate of Zephraim Turnbull’s pickup truck.
“Right there!” she screamed.
“Where?”
“You passed it! That driveway!”
Harris threw the car into reverse.
* * *
Frank Lindenauer made his silent way across the barnyard, alert to any sound and movement. His muscular body trem
bled with rage. He was a professional — he knew emotion was a weakness that could blunt his skill. Yet his fury was difficult to contain.
How long had he stood alone in the barn, straining to hear sounds of movement over the caterwauling of that cow? He had been guarding the only exit, and yet Aiden Falconer had made it out of there.
He had badly underestimated the Falconer children. He knew that now. They were formidable enemies. But that was all going to change in short order tonight.
He tensed like a raptor sensing its prey. Someone was out there, cutting across the barnyard toward the road. Someone in a hurry. He moved stealthily to intercept, adjusting his sight to detect motion in the dark.
He sprang, grabbing the fleeing figure in a choke hold, cutting off any cry for help. He pressed his pistol against a sweaty temple.
“Where’s your sister?”
A completely terrified voice quavered, “Don’t shoot — you’ve got the wrong guy!”
The assassin spun his prisoner around. “Who are you?”
Mike Delancey was almost witless to discover that Aiden had been telling the truth about a killer running loose on the property. “I’m nobody!” he babbled. “I swear!”
“Where’s Aiden Falconer?”
“He was heading for the house — ”
Savagely, Hairless Frank brought the butt of his gun down on the private investigator’s head. The man dropped like a stone, unconscious.
The assassin turned his attention to the residence.
It would all end there.
* * *
Aiden pounded onto the porch where the farmer stood armed and ready.
“Mr. Turnbull, get back inside! Somebody’s after me!”
Turnbull steadied himself on his single crutch. “If you think I’m going to let that snake Holyfield — ”
“It isn’t Holyfield!” Aiden insisted. “It’s a professional killer! You don’t know who I am!”
The farmer hefted his shotgun. “I know exactly who you are. And nobody’s going to hurt you — not on my watch!”
At that very instant, Agent Emmanuel Harris burst out of the darkness, pounding toward them in a full sprint, weapon at the ready.
Hunting the Hunter Page 7
