Hostage

by Kay Hooper

  “He should have checked in by now. He should have checked in hours ago.”

  “Given the terrain, I doubt he could get a signal out.” John paused, then asked deliberately, “Not a conventional signal, at least. Have you sensed something else?”

  Maggie frowned. “I don’t have a very strong connection with Luther. It makes him uncomfortable. He’s fine with the telepaths, but since I pick up on emotions, and he’s still buttoned up tight . . .”

  “He’d rather keep his feelings to himself. Okay, I get that. With all the shit he’s been through, I doubt most people would be eager to open up. But you’re still sensing something?”

  “It’s just a vague feeling that something is wrong. Sort of a ghostly echo of pain.”

  “Physical pain?”

  “I think so. Hard to be sure, though.”

  “Then probably not mortal pain.”

  “No, probably not.”

  “It was a simple enough assignment,” John said, in a thoughtful tone. “Granted, our information put his target deep in the middle of nowhere, but hiking in there and finding him shouldn’t have been much trouble for Luther, considering his tracking and survival skills on top of his . . . psychic radar. All he had to do was get his hands on that last car we’re certain Jacoby drove, however briefly. After that, it was only a matter of tracking him, then settling down to observe from a distance for long enough to make sure the guy wasn’t going anywhere, then withdraw and report in. We turn the information over to Nash, and he has the location of their escaped fugitive. Our job is done. The feds can go in and get him.”

  “Yeah.” Maggie was still frowning.

  “What?”

  “Well . . . didn’t it strike you as a little odd that Agent Nash came to us?”

  “He checked out,” John reminded her.

  “I know he did. I know. And it made sense that, working pretty much alone out of a small field office in Tennessee, Nash didn’t have the resources to launch a manhunt when he couldn’t even narrow down the area in thousands of acres of wilderness.”

  “Didn’t have the skills to do much on his own, either. He’s pretty obviously a city boy.”

  Maggie nodded. “And the report from the Forest Service was clear enough; without a lot more information, they couldn’t narrow down the area enough to search effectively themselves, especially since the search dogs lost the scent about a hundred yards from that abandoned car. It was pretty much straight up a mountain from there, and what towns exist in the area are scattered, tiny, and have a well-deserved reputation for minding their own business and not being especially welcoming or forthcoming to outsiders. Especially outsiders with badges.”

  “Remote doesn’t begin to describe them,” John agreed. “In an age of instant communication, they certainly do represent almost a return to simpler times.”

  Shifting to betray a rare sign of unease, Maggie said, “There are reports of survivalist and militia groups in that wilderness. Very credible reports. Some of the groups have been up there for years, and they aren’t just unwelcoming to visitors; they’re actively hostile.”

  “Luther has too much experience not to be able to avoid that kind of potential trouble.”

  “I know, I know. But I wish now I hadn’t sent him in alone.”

  “One man alone, skilled and accustomed to rough terrain, could cover the distance faster and get in and out with the least chance of being detected. We agreed, and so did Luther.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, it makes perfect tactical sense. And we had to get someone in close, since none of our operatives have the ability to pick up on Jacoby from a distance.”

  “It’s the sort of thing our operatives do, love. And word has spread in the last few years; we have several active cases pretty much all the time.”

  Maggie finally voiced what had been nagging at her. “Why didn’t Nash go to Bishop? That would have been the natural thing for a federal agent to do, to keep it inside the FBI. Why turn to a civilian organization when he had to know about the SCU?”

  “Bad blood?” John suggested after a moment. “Bishop has made more than his fair share of enemies, and at least a few inside the bureau have been heard expressing resentment over the relative autonomy the Special Crimes Unit enjoys. Or maybe Nash simply didn’t want his superiors to know he needed outside help to complete his assignment.”

  With a slight grimace, Maggie said, “I’d almost rather it was the former. For a federal agent to use us and then claim the credit in locating an escaped felon is just so . . .”

  “Underhanded? We always request anonymity anyway; maybe he knew that going in.”

  “Maybe. Still.”

  If there was anything John Garrett had learned in the last few years, it was to respect his wife’s feelings, however vague they might seem. He leaned forward to kiss her, then said, “Well, we can’t report anything to Agent Nash until Luther reports in to us. But we can call Bishop.”

  * * *

  LUTHER FOUND HIMSELF staring down the business end of a shotgun, all too clear in the moonlight. He actually had to force himself to lift his gaze from the barrels and focus on the woman holding the weapon.

  “Taking the scenic route?” she repeated, her tone calm.

  The angle made it impossible for him to see her face; she wore jeans and a warm jacket with a fur-trimmed hood pulled up.

  He envied her the hood; he thought his ears might be frozen.

  If he’d had two solid legs under him, Luther probably would have handled the situation differently, but as it was he judged he had little choice. The light-headedness was getting worse. “Ran into a little trouble hiking,” he said.

  In the same calm tone, she said, “Yeah, people run into bullets all the time in these mountains. Especially miles off the hiking trails and on private land. Posted private land. Anybody comes way up here to live, they generally prefer to be left alone.”

  “A simple ‘Go away’ would have been enough.”

  “That’s what the NO TRESPASSING signs were for. Or did you manage to miss all of them?”

  He decided, after backtracking a bit mentally, that he had missed the important point, and added, “How do you know it’s a bullet wound? I might have fallen or . . . something.”

  “Looks like you’re about to fall on your ass,” she said. Then added, “That gun come with a badge?”

  He wondered how she could see his handgun, since it was in a shoulder holster inside his zipped jacket. “Sort of.”

  The barrels of the shotgun lifted until they were pointed at his face. “Either you have a badge or you don’t.”

  “Private investigator,” he said, hoping he wasn’t tripping over syllables in his haste to get the words out. “Licensed. Hired to locate an escaped fugitive.”

  “Escaped from where?”

  “Uh . . . Virginia. Federal custody in Virginia.”

  And they sent a civilian after him?”

  “Not at first. I mean . . . there were state cops and FBI and maybe marshals, I dunno. Bunch of people. Tracking dogs. But he gave them all the slip. And in these mountains . . . Well, fugitives have gone missing pretty much forever.”

  “So you were hired.”

  “I’m good at this sort of thing,” he said, wryly aware of the irony that drove him to add, “usually.”

  But all she said was, “And did you locate him?”

  He had to think about that for a minute, aware of the vague notion that just because she had a gun in his face it didn’t mean he had to tell her everything. In fact, it actually meant he shouldn’t tell her anything.

  Name, rank, serial number.

  He remembered the drill.

  “Yeah,” he heard himself say. “But I was just supposed to find him and report in, that’s all. Sneaky bastard slipped around behind me when I was waiting for it to get dark enough fo
r me to leave without being seen. After that, I was just trying to get away from him and his dogs.”

  “Cole Jacoby.”

  He had the odd, fuzzy thought that she wasn’t providing information so much as probing to find out what he knew. Except . . . he also felt she didn’t have to do that. For some reason. What reason? “You know that because you’re neighbors?”

  “That. There aren’t many of us up here this time of year. And I heard his dogs. Around here, we usually keep our dogs in at night—unless there’s something we need to run off.”

  “Which is why you came out here?”

  “I also heard shots. And the whole area is posted no hunting. Besides which, it wasn’t rifle fire I heard.”

  Luther wondered why she was now aiming the shotgun above his head, and realized only then that he was sliding slowly down the tree at his back. His legs felt like rubber.

  “Shots. Uh-huh. Those would have been him shooting at me, and me . . . returning fire. I wasn’t supposed to shoot him, so . . . I didn’t try to hit him. He didn’t . . . grant me . . . the same . . . courtesy.” He shook his head to try to clear his vision. “Jesus, you’re tall.”

  A sigh misted in the air in front of the face he still couldn’t make out, and she lowered the shotgun until the barrels pointed downward. “No, you’re tall. And heavy. And it’s going to be a bitch getting you back to my place.”

  “Are we going to your place? That . . . sounds like . . . a plan.”

  “A plan that would work better if you didn’t pass out along the way.”

  “Me? Pass out? Nah, I’m . . . fine. Just need to rest a little . . . while. And . . . I’ll be . . . good as . . . new.”

  She bent toward him, and he tried really hard to see her face. But all he caught was the almost eerie gleam of her eyes.

  You’ve got a ways to go before you’re as good as new, pal.

  It was the last thing he remembered, wondering if that had been his thought—or hers.

  TWO

  Haven

  “Bishop.”

  “You’re on speaker,” Maggie told him. “I’m here with John. Sorry to call so late. Although I have no idea whether it’s late where you are.”

  Being Bishop, he didn’t answer the implied question. “Let me guess. One of your operatives hasn’t checked in.”

  Maggie exchanged looks with her husband. “That didn’t sound like a guess,” she said. “You have an agent in Tennessee?”

  “For a while now.”

  This time, it was John who said, “Agent Nash led us to believe his escaped fugitive was a . . . recent problem.”

  “Probably was recent, to him.” Noah Bishop, chief of the Special Crimes Unit, sounded as calm as usual. “The problem part, I mean. Cole Jacoby was officially in custody and halfway across Virginia two weeks ago. Neither of the agents responsible for him could quite explain how he managed to slip his leash. In fact, they had a number of unexplained gaps in their memories. Lengthy gaps.”

  “Both of them?” Maggie asked. “Both missing the same memories?”

  “The same time gaps, at least. No physical injuries, and nothing showed up on the medical tests, including any signs of drugs or other known toxins. But they’re experienced agents, and they’d never lost a prisoner during a transfer before Jacoby.”

  “SCU?” Maggie asked the question even knowing the answer.

  “No. We wouldn’t oversee or be part of the transfer of a prisoner unless he was psychic—and we knew it.”

  “I’m liking this less and less,” John said. “You suspect Jacoby is psychic? That’s why you sent an agent to Tennessee?”

  “By some means we don’t yet understand, the memories of two experienced agents were . . . tampered with. The vehicle was clean, no sign it was bumped or run off the road or otherwise stopped. All the prints inside and on the doors belonged to the agents or the prisoner, which is pretty strong evidence no one else was involved. And yet at some point during what should have been a routine prisoner transfer, with their prisoner safely cuffed in the backseat, two experienced agents lost that prisoner—and a chunk of time. Someone or something was responsible for that. If it was Jacoby, I need to know how he managed it.”

  Maggie spoke slowly. “Because we don’t have an agent or operative capable of manipulating memories or imposing their will on others, not psychically.”

  “Exactly.”

  “How did you place him in Tennessee?” John wanted to know. “Was Nash straight about that?”

  “The manhunt was already under way when I was officially notified about it,” Bishop said, without commenting on the second question. “Standard operating procedure, since we were expecting him. And the only thing that stuck out a bit about this particular fugitive was that he didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry, lingering in the general area where he escaped, around Arlington, long enough to be spotted more than once, always in a different car. And then there’s the dogs.”

  Maggie and John exchanged looks, and she was the one who asked, “Dogs?”

  “Yeah. The last time we believe he was spotted, the witness swore he had at least three large dogs in the car with him. It was only after that, that he picked up his pace and left the area, neatly avoiding checkpoints or any law enforcement contact despite the BOLO out on him. He ditched cars a couple more times, and despite his countermeasure of removing or destroying any GPS units, the cars were found with relative speed and ease. And forensics did find dog hair as well as his prints and DNA in the abandoned cars.”

  “Not exactly worried about being nailed for grand theft auto,” John mused. “Or escaping custody.”

  “If he does have a ten-million-dollar stash from his last heist, probably not.”

  Maggie asked, “Do we know where he got the dogs?”

  “An informant who shared a prison cell with him for a short time claims he talked almost continually about his dogs, dogs he raised from pups. Said he had a trusted pal on the outside taking care of them until he got out. So far, we haven’t been able to identify said pal, though he must have been within the area where Jacoby spent the most time after his escape and before he finally took off.” Bishop paused a moment, then added dryly, “My guess is that once he was paid for looking after the dogs, and undoubtedly paid well, he headed straight for an island somewhere with no extradition with the U.S., there to live happily ever after.”

  “Do people still do that?” Maggie wondered aloud, but absently.

  “I like to hope so,” Bishop responded.

  John kept them on track. “But Jacoby took the time to get his dogs. Even knowing every law enforcement agency in the East had to be looking for him. And then he headed for the mountains.”

  “So it appears. Despite changing cars a couple more times, Jacoby was traced as far as the Tennessee state line. No reports in the area of a stolen car, no dealer in the area has any record of selling a car to him. And the shady dealers were all under close observation because we had an escaped felon in the area. I doubt he went anywhere near them. The feeling was, he planned ahead, and planned well. He must have had a vehicle stashed and waiting for him, possibly courtesy of the same friend who kept his dogs for him while he was locked up. The vehicle had to be a Jeep or truck, maybe even a Humvee, definitely a serious four-wheel-drive. Fully gassed up and ready to go. Tracking dogs followed a trail through rough terrain to an old logging road headed up into the mountains, then lost the scent.”

  John said, “I gather the road was explored.”

  “For about a mile. Until it was blocked by several trees. Big trees, felled recently by hand, not by nature. Exploring on foot farther in, the search team found more trees blocking the way, a road growing less and less worthy of the name, and terrain so rough the rangers claimed only highly experienced and very athletic hikers could keep going.”

  “No sign of his vehicle, though.”<
br />
  “No sign.”

  “Decoy?”

  “Maybe. Maybe he created a diversion and took another path into the mountains. In any case, as per procedure, that’s when the nearest field office would have been notified.”

  “Nash,” John said. “Was he told what you suspected?” Like Maggie, he asked a question already knowing the answer.

  “No. The official report listed Jacoby as an escaped felon, a bank robber possibly armed. Which is true—as far as it goes. He’s suspected of half a dozen fairly minor heists in the last ten years or so, but was never charged for lack of evidence. He was known to use a gun, but had never to our knowledge harmed anyone, or even fired the gun. But this heist was different. One, he was—rather uncharacteristically—caught on camera and easily identified. And two, the fact that he’d stolen ten million dollars still unaccounted for made him a very valuable fugitive indeed.”

  John mused, “Must have been some bank if they had ten million on hand.”

  “Yes,” Bishop said. “As it happened, this bank was a hub for other banks and for various investment firms. Nine-tenths of that money was scheduled to be transferred to a Federal Reserve bank the day following that of the robbery.”

  Still musing, John said, “And Jacoby just happened to hit it on the right day.” It was a question.

  “The theory is, he had someone on the inside. Investigation of that possibility is ongoing.”

  “You don’t believe it.”

  “No. Not the way Jacoby works. Which begs the question . . .”

  “How did he know so much money would be there?” John finished.

  “He has some computer skills. Never known as a hacker, but maybe he didn’t waste his time inside. That money should have been protected by layers of electronic security, but nothing’s foolproof and we all know security is usually at best an illusion; if someone wants in badly enough, and has the skills, they get in.”

  Realizing, Maggie said, “That’s the kind of skill even more valuable than bank robbery itself. Skill the law enforcement community would want to understand. And he wouldn’t give up easily. They were bringing him to you for questioning?”