by Cast, P. C.
Mark snorted again, but didn’t say anything.
Linus Bowen didn’t rush through his breakfast, but he didn’t dawdle, either. Less than forty-five minutes had passed when Eve told her brothers, “He just finished the last pancake. Time to pay and get to the car.” Then she put enough cash for a decent tip on the bill, and the four of them nonchalantly left the café and waited in their nondescript rental SUV for Bowen to exit.
“Is the old guy really getting into that Miata convertible?” Luke said, craning his neck around so he could watch Bowen.
“Looks like it,” Matthew said. “Old dude’s got style.”
“All right. Here we go,” Eve told Mark, who was driving. “Keep him in view, but hang back. He wasn’t hard to find by accident. He obviously values his privacy.”
Mark nodded and pulled out of the parking lot, following the quick little Miata. And then they drove for almost an hour as the Miata made its way from Galveston Island to the eastern part of the Bolivar Peninsula.
“Good thing traffic is fairly steady each way. I don’t like that we’re on this one road following this one car,” Mark grumbled.
“Mark, some rain would help,” Eve said. “Just a little. Just enough to obscure visibility. Matthew, some low-hanging clouds would help with that, too.”
Mark nodded silently again and Eve watched his expression flatten, like his mind was suddenly elsewhere, and then a light rain began—a rain that slanted directly across the highway, almost like the Gulf had begun spitting at them. Moments later clouds started to billow overhead. Eve heard Matthew whispering to himself, and the billowing clouds lowered and expanded, changing to fog.
The lights in the SUV came on automatically as they slowed and the Miata put on a right turn signal.
“There!” Eve pointed, though all of them were already watching the sports car. “He’s turning down that little side road. There’s only one house down there. See! That big yellow one on stilts. He just pulled the car into the garage.”
“I’m going to keep going down the highway for a few minutes to give him a chance to get inside and relax,” Mark said.
“Smart,” Eve smiled encouragingly at her favorite brother. “And he won’t think that we followed him.”
Mark nodded silently again. Eve suppressed a sigh. He’d been withdrawn on the jet to Galveston, and silent last night at the hotel. This morning he was barely communicating. Was it just because invoking water was wearing on him, or was there so, so much more to it than that?
“Okay, I’m turning around. That’ll give him about half an hour to get settled,” Mark said.
“Perfect,” Eve said.
“Should we send the fog and rain away now?” Matthew asked from the backseat.
“No,” Mark answered before Eve could respond. “If we need to force Bowen to come with us, it’s better that we have some cover.”
“Hey,” Eve touched his arm gently. “We’re not here to kidnap anyone.”
“Okay, Eve, answer me this.” Mark studied the road as he spoke in clipped sentences. “What if he won’t cooperate? What if Tate’s warned the old man and he says he doesn’t know anything or he refuses to help us? Are we just going to shake his hand and walk away?”
Eve felt herself harden like the crystals she had begun regularly summoning to her. “We’re not going to hurt him, but we need information and if that old man has it, we’re going to get it from him.”
“Which means the fog and rain stay,” Mark said.
Eve bit her lip, but didn’t say anything more. They retraced their way to old man Bowen’s secluded house in silence.
The small, single-lane blacktop that led from the highway to Bowen’s property was like the house and the grounds—well lived in and well cared for. They followed the blacktop, which led to a tall privacy fence and an imposing iron gate.
Mark stopped the SUV in front of the gate and turned to Eve. “Now what?”
Eve gave him an exasperated look. “There’s an intercom. Press the button. I’ll do the talking.”
Mark grunted and pressed the button. A tinny voice blasted through the little speaker. “Hello!”
“Hello, Mr. Bowen?” Eve said, leaning over Mark so that she could speak into the console.
“What can I do you for?”
“Mr. Bowen, we’re from the FBI and we’d like to speak with you about your grandson, Tate Taylor.”
“My grandson is dead.” The old man’s voice turned to gravel.
“Yes, sir. We have questions about his death,” Eve said.
Bowen’s answer was a buzzing sound and the gate swinging open.
* * *
The house was nice, Eve decided. Unusual, with lots of art—mostly charcoal drawings of gigantic, shaggy dogs like the one that was shadowing Bowen and glaring at them with distrustful yellow eyes. And the location was better than Eve could have hoped for. The old man had already told them that he owned a two-hundred-acre parcel, and he was the only inhabitant. Perfect.
“Now, are you sure none of you would like some pie to go with that coffee? I have cherry and apple—just brought them fresh from my favorite café. Only take a sec to heat up. I like to be sure our law enforcement folks are fed and watered,” said Bowen.
“No, sir. This is perfect,” Eve said. After they’d produced (fake) identification the old man had welcomed them into his home and promptly poured them each a cup of freshly brewed coffee. Eve had tried not to be too obvious, but the books that were scattered around the coffee table and corner desk in the living room already had her curiosity buzzing.
“Looks like you enjoy science,” Matthew said, pointing at a thick textbook on human genetics that rested in the center of the coffee table.
“Taught high school biology for more years than I want to admit,” said Bowen. “I like to keep my mind sharp, so I keep studying. You know, we stop learning—we die.” He motioned to the huge wolfhound at his side and muttered, “Lie down, Bugsy old girl. They aren’t gonna bite you, and if they do feel free to bite ’em back.” Then, with his coffee mug that said DOGS—BECAUSE PEOPLE SUCK in his hand, he sat in the reclining chair across from the couch where Eve, Matthew, Mark, and Luke were sitting. “So, what information do you need about my Tate?”
“Well, sir,” Eve began, speaking earnestly and looking directly into Bowen’s surprisingly clear blue eyes. “We have reason to believe that your grandson might still be alive.”
Bowen jerked like someone had slapped him. “Why would you say something like that?”
“Because we found evidence that there could have been a mix-up at the dentist’s office. The records that were used to identify Tate’s body might have been inaccurate,” Eve said.
“Sounds like a bunch of hogwash to me!” Bowen said.
“Mr. Bowen, there’s something else. At the football field we found the body of a woman who has been the ringleader in a conspiracy theory involving weather and teenagers. She’s the widow of a famous geneticist—Dr. Rick Stewart. With your background in the sciences you might have heard of him. He died in a tragic boating accident five years ago,” Eve explained.
“Nope, nope. Can’t say that I’ve heard of him. What’s all that nonsense have to do with my Tate?”
“Well, it seems this woman, Cora Stewart, has involved her adopted daughter, Foster, in her conspiracy theory. Both of them were seen at the football game before the tornadoes struck. Cora’s body has been positively identified, but Foster was spotted afterward. She was driving a stolen truck and she had a passenger who she might have forced to go with her. We believe that passenger was Tate.”
Bowen didn’t say anything for several long moments. He simply studied Eve. Still silent, he turned his wise gaze to Matthew, Mark, and Luke. Then he shook his head, put his coffee cup on the end table beside his well-worn recliner, and stood.
When he spoke his words were sharp, cut off by anger and grief. “I buried Tate beside his parents—my daughter, my only child, my son-in-law, and my
beautiful wife. They’re dead. And that’s the end of it. Now I’m going to have to ask you to leave my home.” The big dog stirred, growling deep in her wide chest.
The four of them stood, too.
“Sir, we do apologize and know that this is a difficult subject. We are extremely sorry for your loss. But we need to be very clear. You are saying that you have not heard from Tate. At all?” Eve said.
“Was I not clear enough when I said I’d buried the boy beside his mama and daddy?”
“Yes, sir. You were,” Mark spoke up. He took a card from his pocket and held it out to Bowen. When the old man didn’t take it, Mark placed it on the coffee table. “But if you think of anything—anything at all you’d like to talk with us about—don’t hesitate to call. We won’t judge you. And you won’t be in any trouble.”
“My partner is correct, Mr. Bowen,” Eve said. “You aren’t in any trouble. Nor would Tate be if he came to us. Actually, if Tate is alive and somehow mixed up with this Foster girl, well, sir, I’m sorry to say that he’s in trouble right now. Big trouble.”
“I like to be helpful to you law enforcement types unless you’re up to tomfoolery. Well, young woman, I believe you and your partners are up to some serious tomfoolery. And this time I’m not asking. Leave my property. Now.” The big dog stood, her back easily reaching Bowen’s hip. Her yellow eyes were trained on the four interlopers as her growl deepened.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Bowen,” Eve said as the four of them filed from the living room and headed to the entry foyer. Eve was directly beside an ancient-looking rotary dial phone when it began to ring. She’d been watching Bowen as he murmured in low tones to the dog, so she saw the fear and guilt that flashed across his face when the phone rang. Without looking at the old man she lifted the phone and didn’t say a word.
“G-pa! I’m so glad you’re home. Okay, I finally told Foster that we’ve been talking and she’s totally freaked. So, she’s here with me now. Would you please tell her everything’s okay?”
Eve looked up to see Linus Bowen standing directly in front of her. Her smile was feline as she said, “Oh, hello, Tate. This is Eve. I’m sure you know who I am.”
“Tate!” Bowen shouted and lunged forward, trying to grab the receiver from her, but Matthew and Luke rushed him, knocking him to the ground and wrestling roughly with him, pinning his arms behind his back as the giant dog went into high gear, barking and growling menacingly while she slowly approached them.
“Bowen! Tell your dog to back down if you ever want to talk to your grandson again!” Eve snapped at him.
“G-pa! G-pa!” Tate’s panicked voice echoed through the phone.
“Bugs, down!” Bowen commanded. The dog obeyed, hitting the ground where she stood, but she kept her yellow-eyed gaze on Matthew and Luke, and her growl was a rolling symphony of anger.
Eve smiled. “That’s better.” She spoke in the phone again. “Tate, your grandpa is right here, but—”
“This is Foster. Let Tate’s grandpa go.”
Eve’s smile widened. “Foster! How good to hear your voice!”
“Cut the crap, Eve. What do you want?”
“Why, only you and Tate. That’s all.”
“Don’t come here!” Bowen shouted as he began to stand up.
“Shut him up,” Eve snapped. Matthew and Luke knocked the old man off his feet again and dragged him into the kitchen.
“Eve! Let Tate’s grandpa go, and Tate and I will meet you wherever you want.”
“No. That’s not how we’re playing this. Mark, Matthew, Luke, and I are going to stay here—at Tate’s grandpa’s home—and keep an eye on him. So sad he’s way out here by himself on this lonely peninsula, isn’t it? It’s simply not safe. So, we’ll be here. Alone with the old man. Until you and Tate arrive. Oh, and the sooner the better. I get the idea Mr. Bowen doesn’t like visitors. Good-bye, Foster. See you soon.”
Eve hung up.
24
TATE
“Don’t worry!” Sabine hugged Tate and then Foster. “Finn and I will take care of everything while you’re gone. Just get on that plane and save Tate’s g-pa.”
“Remember our plan B,” Foster spoke low and quickly as she and Tate backed toward the security line at PDX airport. “If you don’t hear from us by this time next week—”
“Take the stuff from the Batcave to the FBI and tell them everything we’ve figured out. We know—we know,” Finn said.
“No, it’s not going to come to that,” Sabine said sternly. “You’ll be back to our Fortress of Sauvietude soon. With G-pa. Don’t get all dark and twisted and negative on me. Again.”
“We’ll be back. With my g-pa. I believe it, and so does Foster,” Tate said. But he didn’t take Foster’s hand. Actually, he hadn’t said much to her or touched her since he’d told her about G-pa. Then they’d all rushed to the pay phone, and …
Tate shuddered, remembering Eve’s hard, cold voice and G-pa’s panicked shouts. And after Foster had let loose a stream of curses that had even impressed Finn, whose father was a Marine, she’d hardly spoken to him.
They moved quickly through the security line with their pristine fake IDs, and hurried to their gate. Tate and Foster paused to check the flight on the monitor: Southwest Airlines red-eye flight 255 to Houston’s George Bush International was departing on time at 12:10 a.m.—arriving at 6:20 a.m. Texas time—and it was now boarding.
“This is going to be perfect,” Tate talked at Foster as if they were actually conversing. “We’ll get a rental and be on the highway by seven. It takes about an hour and a half to get to G-pa’s place on the Bolivar Peninsula. G-pa is practically free already.”
Foster didn’t speak. Instead she picked up the pace and they almost jogged to the gate. Tate was silently thanking the elusive airline gods for still having seats on this late-night flight. When they arrived at the gate, the Southwest agent was announcing that the flight was open seating and open boarding, and they shuffled onto the plane with the rest of the half-asleep sheep.
“No.” Foster spoke suddenly as Tate continued to move toward the back of the plane.
He looked over his shoulder at her. “Sorry? Did you say something?”
“I said no. I won’t sit in the back of a plane. Right here is fine.” She slid into the window seat she’d stopped beside, which was four rows back from the front of the plane, and the only seat that had the companion on the aisle open.
“Oh, okay. No problem.” He took the seat beside her, happy that she’d at least made room for him.
To Tate it seemed like only a few minutes had passed—the plane was definitely not full—when the flight attendant was making the announcement that the cabin door was closed and all electronic devices needed to be powered off.
“We have a lot of room on this flight, I mean, imagine that! Only us crazies want to fly toward a hurricane warning in the middle of the night. So odd,” the attendant said sarcastically to a smattering of nervous laughter in the cabin. “Once we’re in the air and the captain has turned off the ‘fasten seat belt’ light, feel free to spread out and move around. Make yourselves comfortable and get some sleep. Although when we get close to Houston prepare for a very bumpy descent!”
The plane began taxiing and Foster sighed. She was staring at the boring in-flight magazine and picking her fingernails.
“Hey, are you okay?” he asked.
She didn’t look at him. “No. I hate flying. Actually, hate isn’t a strong enough word. I loathe it. Despise it. I would rather try to corral those giant evil monster dinosaur horses and get stomped to death than fly.”
“You think our horses are evil monsters?”
She did look at him then and he saw a world of misery in her emerald eyes. “They’re a lot smarter than we think. Do you realize how much they talk? Clearly, they’re planning something. Maybe a Percheron revolt.”
“But you’d rather deal with that than fly?”
“Exactly.”
; “That’s why you won’t sit in the back of the plane?”
“That’s something Cora taught me. She used to tell me that it’s impossible to crash if you fly first class.” Foster shrugged. “I know it’s not logical, but it stuck. Southwest doesn’t have a first class, but still.”
“Front of the plane?” he said.
“Front of the plane,” she agreed.
The captain said something incomprehensible through the loudspeaker, and within a few minutes they were accelerating down the runway. Tate watched Foster. She’d stopped picking her fingernails, but her hands were gripping the armrests so hard her knuckles turned white. She was breathing in short little pants, staring at the back of the seat in front of them.
Tate decided a distraction was in order. He turned his body to face her, and said, “Can we please talk?”
He was relieved when she gave him an annoyed look. “No.”
“I said please.”
“And I said no.”
“Okay, I’ll talk and you listen. I’m sorry.”
When he didn’t say anything else, Foster glared at him. “That’s it? That’s your ‘talk’?” She air quoted.
“No, but it’s the basis of my talk. I am sorry, Foster. I should have told you about me calling G-pa. At first I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d just disagree with me and be a pain in the ass.” When she started to puff up, he hurried on. “But then I actually got to know you, and I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to lose your trust.”
“So you just kept lying.”
“Foster, I didn’t technically lie to you.”
“Tate, an omission of the truth, when you actually know the truth, is a lie.”
“Yeah, that was G-pa’s point, too.” Tate ran a hand through his hair. “I was going to tell you when I came up to find you before our date. But, uh, then you were so pretty and sweet and you asked me to go out with you, and I was selfish. I didn’t want to mess it up. My mom would be real pissed with me about that. So, I apologize. You were right. I was wrong. I shouldn’t have called G-pa, and since I did, I shouldn’t have kept that from you.”
