by Meg Gardiner
And worst of all, she could believe it.
She could believe Lee would be involved in the heist. But there was one thing she couldn’t believe: that her uncle was behind the courthouse attack, or any attempt to hurt her. That still made no sense.
“How am I going to tell my parents?” she said.
Lucky simply looked at her. Almost, it seemed, with pity.
“You don’t have to tell them,” he said. “It won’t come as a surprise.”
Her limbs went cold. She felt like she was shrinking inside. And then she felt stupid. Blind.
Of course her parents suspected. How could they not? And the low conversations, the mutters in the kitchen that stopped abruptly when she walked in, the awkward glances and forced smiles that came from mentioning Uncle Lee—the entire Mackenzie way of doing emotional business took on new shades of gray.
The night of the meteor shower, the night of Freddy Krueger, she and Seth had hidden in the countryside for an hour before she snuck back into her room through the window. She’d paused, listening, but the house was quiet. In the morning, at breakfast, she said, “I heard a noise last night.”
“It was nothing,” her mom said.
“There was a van out back. A guy got out.”
Her mom’s smile looked like a jack-o’-lantern. “It was a man from your dad’s work. He was drunk. He just needed to sleep it off.”
And her mom stood and took her dishes to the sink and left the kitchen.
A random fragment of memory bloomed, full color. Her mom, coming into her room to tell her good night, after the Memorial Day barbecue. After Boone and Riss had gone home. After the postcards from Uncle Lee had been ripped from her corkboard.
Sam had strolled in, smiling. Rory was sitting on her bed with a book in her hands. Sam bent, kissed her on the top of her head, smoothed down her hair, said, “Don’t read too late.” Rory had nodded, feeling roiled and disturbed. Sam stepped back, and her gaze snagged on the corkboard. The bits of postcard stuck beneath the tacks, all that remained. Rory waited for her mom to say something. She herself did not want to mention her cousins. Did not want to start a thing. Just let it all stay quiet. Shh. Nothing to see here.
But Sam stared at the corkboard for a pensive moment and forced a smile again. “Sleep tight, sweetie.”
Turned and left.
What had Sam thought? That Rory had torn down the postcards herself? They never mentioned it aloud. It was one of those things that just floated past, a piece of emotional junk that the family presumed would degrade and sink to the bottom.
No more postcards arrived from her uncle after that. The supply on the corkboard was never replenished.
Sam didn’t know, however, that Rory had another postcard from Uncle Lee, one she kept in her desk drawer. It was particularly colorful and adventurous, and Rory had kept it as a special, secret message from her uncle. So Boone and Riss hadn’t been able to rip it down. As far as she knew, the postcard was still there, in her old desk or in a box in her closet at her parents’ house.
The shrinking, sinking sensation intensified. Lee hadn’t withdrawn from his family. He had run.
She felt Seth and Lucky staring at her.
She exhaled. “So what do we do?”
Lucky said, “I’ll ask the department to pull the file on the Geronimo Armored robbery.”
“No,” Seth said.
Lucky sat back, stung. “I haven’t been put completely out to pasture. The department has a cold-case crew—some of us old-timers look at open cases from time to time. And this is a big one.”
“Don’t,” Seth said. “Not yet.”
“You got to trust somebody, son.”
“Dad, I trust you.” For a moment Seth looked hurt. Then he crossed to the sofa and put a hand on Lucky’s shoulder. “Just let me think about this for a while.”
Rory stood. “Seth’s right. Don’t excavate the file yet.”
Lucky seemed regretful. “If your uncle’s involved, you won’t be able to keep it buried forever. And you won’t be able to protect your folks. Or your aunt.”
“I don’t want to. I want to find out the truth. And if Lee’s involved, the chips will have to fall where they may. But let me talk to my parents first.”
She nodded at Seth, indicating she was ready to leave. To Lucky she said, “Thanks. I appreciate your help. And your honesty.”
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” he said.
“It is what it is. Nothing to do with you.”
At the door she gave him a hug. He squeezed her and thumped her on the back, then turned guardedly to Seth.
“Good to see you.”
After an awkward pause, Lucky gave him what Rory’s dad called the Great American Buddy Pat: a hearty cuff on the shoulder.
The phone rang as Seth opened the door. They were halfway to the truck when Lucky called to them and came outside.
His expression was cool. “I know you want time to think about having me talk to the department. But time’s up.”
Seth said, “Who was it?”
“Another old-timer. Detective who still punches the clock. He pretended he was calling just to chat, but he gave me a heads-up. The detectives who interviewed Rory last night—”
“Xavier and Zelinski?” Rory said.
“Them. They wanted him to feel me out, find out what you’re up to. And find out what’s going on between you two. Word’s spread that you’re here, son.”
“What the hell?” she said.
“Watch yourselves,” Lucky said. Then he looked at her. “Just a second. Rory, Seth’ll catch up with you.”
Seth looked wary, but Rory nodded and said, “I’ll be in the truck.” She walked toward the pickup and heard the men’s voices behind her.
Lucky said, “I know you’re going after the truth. And I know it’s futile to try and stop you. But don’t get Rory killed.”
“Dad.”
“Listen to me, Seth.”
Rory forced herself not to turn and stare. Lucky lowered his voice. But she heard it, as clear as glass.
“She loves you,” Lucky said. “And you love her even more. You couldn’t live with her death on your head.”
In the sun, as Rory approached the truck, her reflection warped and winked back at her, distorted and semitransparent. She saw beyond it. She saw that by returning to Ransom River, Seth might put himself in danger. And she saw why he had returned despite that risk: for her. The sun jumped from the windows and stung her eyes.
32
They rolled through flat farmland striped with rows of strawberries. Irrigation sprinklers rainbowed the air in the warm autumn afternoon. On the stereo the Black Keys pounded out hard blues. Rory stared out the windshield.
You love her even more.
She didn’t want to bleed in front of Seth. She listened to the music.
“Lee,” she said. “That night.”
“Freddy Krueger,” Seth said.
“If that was him…Goddamn it.”
In her hermetically sealed memories, her uncle had delighted in seeing her. She remembered a man who always had a moment, a smile, a laugh for her. He could have ignored her, as adults sometimes did, and paid attention only to her parents, but he was generous with his affection. She clearly remembered her sense of soaring when Lee came through the door. He was fun. He was young. He tickled her. He made her laugh.
Maybe he just never had a job, so he always had the time. Maybe her parents were too busy being responsible to engage in lighthearted mischief with her. But that didn’t seem right either. They’d delighted in her too. A warmer, calmer enchantment, but one that was solid, that always bore her to safety.
Even if her uncle had been part of the gang that robbed the Geronimo Armored car, what could that have to do with an attempt twenty years later to abduct her?
“Why would anybody want to grab me?” she said. “I know nothing about the money from the heist.”
Seth watched the road. “You’re
a bargaining chip.”
“But who’s trying to drive the bargain?” She shook her head. “Not Lee. Presumably, if he was the fourth man on the robbery, he’s the one who got away with the money.”
“That’s the bottom line, literally and figuratively. If he got the money and got himself over the border, he’s the big winner.”
“And the surviving members of the gang, who are about to get out of prison, want their cut. So they use me…I still don’t—” She stopped, her lips parted.
“What?” Seth said.
“Oh my God. It makes sense now. What the gunmen whispered in the courtroom.” She half turned in her seat. “They mentioned ‘payment’ and ‘consequences.’ And then they very clearly said something about ‘drawing him out.’”
Seth flicked her a look, sharp. “You thought they were talking about a witness to Obrad Mirkovic’s murder.”
“I did.” She rubbed her forehead. “Everything’s come at me so fast, I haven’t kept track of it all. They mentioned ‘losing’ and ‘the girl.’”
“If you’re the girl, and they were after the money…”
“Then Lee is the one they want to draw out.”
Slowly, as though far gone in thought, Seth nodded. Rory’s pulse began to pound.
“If they want a bargaining chip to draw Lee out of hiding, why go for his niece?”
“Instead of his immediate family.”
“Maybe they have a lingering sense of loyalty to Lee? Or to Amber?”
“Rory.” He looked jaundiced. “We’re talking about people who sent gunmen to storm a trial during open court. Loyalty and consideration played no part in it.”
He was right. She said, “You’re not going to sit back and wait for me to tease the family history out of my parents. Are you?”
“No. I’m going to find out about the men who carried out the heist. One’s dead; two are in prison. I’ll chase down their records, see if there’s anything we can hook onto.” He looked serious. “Couple of cons, about to be released after twenty years inside, thinking their partner Lee took off with millions while they paid the price—that’s motive.”
“No kidding,” Rory said.
“But talk to your folks.”
“That’ll be fun. Like running my hand through a can opener.”
He looked pensive. “I never knew your uncle. Were you his pet niece or something?”
“You mean, if I were to be taken hostage, would he surface to rescue me? What made me special?”
“Yes.”
“He played this magic trick where he pulled a coin out from behind my ear. And he always called me Aurora. He explained that Aurora meant dawn. The sun coming up. He said that was me.”
Seth eyed her. “He adored you.”
“I thought so.”
“And you adored him.”
“I was a child.”
“All the purer.”
They drove past an avocado orchard. The trees flashed green in the sun. The hard blues on the stereo faded.
Seth said, “About calling the cops.”
“You’re not going to let your dad talk to his old buddies on the force?”
“He doesn’t want to believe there’s corruption in the department. It’s not that he’s naïve; it’s that he trusts the people he worked with. But I don’t know who those trusted people might talk to. And I don’t want somebody bent to get word that you’re digging into this.” He glanced at her. “So about you calling the cops to discuss this matter further.”
“They can talk to Nussbaum from now on.”
“You know why they gave you twenty-four hours to come clean?” he said.
“So they have time to get mints for my pillow at the jail?”
“They’re working on a ‘first forty-eight’ theory.”
“Yes. If they don’t solve a crime within the first forty-eight hours, the likelihood of doing so plummets.”
“I know you’ve been to law school.”
“Law school doesn’t teach that stuff. TV does.”
“This is the flip side. The department is under enormous pressure to close this case. Believe me, the detectives who interviewed you, the uniforms, the lieutenant who took the lead on the siege—they’re all being stepped on to show results.”
“Within forty-eight hours.”
“Which gives them a huge incentive to claim they’ve done just that.”
Her stomach tightened.
“The chief of police is pressuring them. The mayor is pressuring the chief. The county’s pressuring the mayor. Fox News and Court TV are pressuring all of them and asking why nobody’s been dragged to jail yet.”
“They’re demanding red meat,” she said.
“And guess who they’ll throw to the dogs. Tomorrow morning, they’ll haul you in on some flimsy pretext to show they’ve ‘solved’ the case. They’ll perp-walk you into the police station with the cameras rolling.”
His expression soured. “They’ll ruin your reputation. But arresting you will only put the investigation into a holding pattern. They’re not stupid.”
“Just ruthless,” she said.
“You don’t understand how ruthless. Once they get you inside, their purpose will be twofold.” He glanced in the mirror. “First. Frighten you into confessing.”
“I won’t do that.”
“Rory. You’re a suburban girl who reads Toni Morrison. The last place you bought espresso was a lakeside café in Geneva, where the graffiti is in French. They will try to frighten you into confessing to any goddamned thing they want, by putting you in lockup with violent felons.”
She swallowed.
“And once you’re in lockup they will not protect you. I guarantee this. No matter what happens to you, the guards won’t stop it.”
“You know too much about how this kind of pressure works,” she said.
He eyed her. “What do you know about jail? Have you ever been arrested?”
“Yes.”
His surprise was immediate. “When?”
“College. A Free Darfur protest. We chained ourselves to the admin building. Campus police hauled us into the station.”
“How long were you locked up?”
“Three hours.”
“You haven’t been to jail.”
She waved him off.
He said, “At the very least they’ll lock you in a cell full of informants. Thanks to the drug war, there’s a whole dirty shadow economy of jailhouse snitching in return for reduced sentences. And yes, a snitch will be happy to lie and say you’ve confessed, in exchange for a plea deal.”
She sank in her seat.
“Or maybe the cops will use you as bait to draw the real bad guys into the open. They’ll spread the word that you have valuable information. Then see if somebody tortures or kills you for that information, so they can watch who the torturer passes the information along to. Phone calls, jailhouse visits, that way.”
“Bait. Fun. Shit.”
He gave her a sharp look.
“Sorry. Jesus. Is this America?”
The playing fields of Ransom River High School scrolled past. Beyond them, through thickening haze, the foothills looked blue-gray in the afternoon sun.
Rory felt a black spot growing in her heart. She needed to act. “Would you mind turning around?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“To speak to the person who’s been bugging me about the siege. My aunt Amber.”
“You think she’s involved?”
“In the past fifteen years, you know how many times she’s asked about me?” She made a big round zero with her fingers. “Yet last night and today she’s all over this thing. Calling me, leaving messages, flagging me down outside the courthouse.”
“Rory, excuse me, but if Amber’s the woman I remember…”
“Not a criminal mastermind? I know. It doesn’t mean she’s clueless. And she would lose nothing by throwing me to the wolves.”
“And maybe gain millions sh
e thought she deserved all these years?” Seth said.
“Bingo.” She pointed at a freeway on-ramp. “She lives out near Pedregosa Ranch. You mind?”
“Not at all.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. “But I’m going to take an indirect route.”
“Why?”
“Because somebody’s following us.”
She didn’t turn. Her security training from the NGO and Peace Corps days kicked in. Don’t look. “Who?”
“Wrecker with RANSOM RIVER AUTO SALVAGE written on it, about a hundred fifty yards back.”
She glanced in the side mirror. The truck was behind them on the busy road. Her voice grew cool.
“That,” she said, “is Boone.”
33
“How long has he been following us?” Rory said.
“At least two miles. I saw him when we turned out of Dad’s neighborhood.”
“Which means he tailed us there,” she said.
“He’s been following longer than that.” Another glance in the mirror. “I saw that wrecker last night near the police station.”
She turned to him. “You were at the police station?”
“Nearby.”
She didn’t know what to say. She looked in the side mirror again. Maples blurred past. The wrecker cruised along steadily, seven or eight cars back.
“What is he doing?” she said.
“Watching you.”
The black spot in her chest felt cold. “He’s either scouting on behalf of his mom, looking for something they can sell to the tabloids, or…”
“Or what?”
“I don’t know. But it’s something bad.”
“Do you want to ask him?”
“No.”
“You can confront him. Politely, if you want. I’ll pull into that Taco Bell and you can wave him down.”
“You in the mood for confrontation?” Rory said.
“He hasn’t stolen my skateboard this time. I don’t need to do anything. But if you want to see what happens when you call him on this game, I’m up for it.”
“You haven’t spent any time around him in the past decade. I don’t recommend you start now.”
