by W. L. Dyson
Cutter glanced up at the clock on the wall. “We got twenty more minutes.”
“I said time's up. That means you move now.”
Cutter stood up and glanced back at the woman. “I'll see you later.”
“Count on it,” she replied softly.
Monday, 8:55 p.m.
Towson, Maryland
The house was dark when Nick pulled up into the driveway and killed the engine. Even after three years, it still jarred him to come home to his parents’ house instead of his own, and for no one to be there waiting for him when he arrived. His father had died, his mother was in a nursing home with Alzheimer's, and his wife had divorced him. He still wasn't sure which of the three hurt him the most.
In the kitchen he grabbed a Mountain Dew out of the fridge and settled in the guest room to eat.
At one time the room had been the bedroom he and his brother, Steven, had shared growing up. When Nick had married and Steven had gone off to college, Mom turned it into a sitting room where she could watch television, sew, or work on her scrapbooks while Dad watched golf and basketball out in the living room.
Nick hadn't changed a thing when he'd moved back in. His mother's sewing machine was tucked in the corner, covered with dust and stacks of fabrics. Her scrapbook supplies were stored in little plastic bins on top of a short bookcase across from the daybed. There was a small television on a stand in the corner, and he turned it to a news channel but didn't pay much attention to it. It was background noise and nothing more. Something to fill the silence and make him feel less alone.
Pulling the tab on his Dew, he glanced over at the family pictures his mother had hung on the wall above the bookcase. Steven in his cap and gown, grinning; he'd just earned his second degree. Marti, his sister, at sixteen, dressed up in her first formal gown and standing next to Nick's friend, Michael, who had offered to take her when her boyfriend dumped her three days before the prom. Nick with Jessica in front of their first home, holding two-year-old Krystal in his arms.
Back then, he had believed that his life would end up just like his father's—happily married until death with a loving family and a fulfilling career.
So much for those dreams.
When the phone rang, he pulled it out, tucked it under his chin, and reached down to untie his boots. “Shepherd.”
“O'Shea.” Michael laughed. “Where are you?”
“Home, why?”
“Color me surprised. You're in early tonight.”
Nick looked over at the clock on the wall, the one with the little ducks that he and his siblings had given their mother on some Mother's Day. According to the ducks, it was just after ten. “Well, not everyone can keep banker's hours.”
“That's because not everyone was smart enough to become a banker. Hey, the reason I'm calling is that the loan department is meeting in the morning about your business loan. I should know something by nine.”
Nick felt relief stir. He toed off his boots and then set them aside. “You'll call me and let me know?”
“You might as well come on in. If it's approved, I'll need you to sign the papers so we can set up the credit line.”
“Works for me. I'll be there around nine.”
“I'll be waiting. See you in the morning.”
Nick closed the phone and set it down on the tray table next to his food. Wonder what Carver will try next, now that money isn't going to be a problem.
It was amazing how fast good news could change a mood. He turned up the television and listened to a talking head explain why the president's plan couldn't work, regardless of how good it sounded.
“That's just because your party didn't think of it,” Nick muttered as he stabbed a piece of chicken.
When his stomach was full, he turned off the television and headed out through the kitchen and into the garage. Flipping on the lights, he stood and stared at his pet project. It was exactly as he'd left it. Mostly in pieces.
He had first laid eyes on it not long after he had graduated from the police academy, and recognized it about three seconds later. There was a picture on his father's desk of his father and his father's best friend leaning against the hood of a car and grinning like monkeys with a crate of bananas. This was that car.
It was a blue 1958 Impala two-door convertible with a 348 and triple-turbine Turbo-glide and white-walled tires. His father would tell stories about him and his friend, Jack, racing that car and rarely losing against other street racers in the area. They had been a legend in their time. Nick purchased it for next to nothing in hopes of surprising his father with a restoration project they could do together. Ros Shepherd had taken one look at it and asked, “What did you buy that piece of junk for?”
“To restore. It's just like the one you and Jack had.
“Son, it was the good times with Jack that I treasured. Not the car he owned.”
As he realized his father wasn't the least bit interested, Nick's hopes fell into as many pieces as the car.
His father had set a hand on Nick's shoulder. “Son, it was the scene I enjoyed. Not the car. I don't know the first thing about putting a car together. You and Steven can work on it together.”
Leaving the box of parts in the backseat, Nick had covered the car and let it sit. It was only after the divorce that Nick had ordered a copy of the mechanic's manual for the car and started tinkering with it in his spare time.
Shaking off the bad memory, he walked over to the worktable where he'd been rebuilding the carburetor and perched on the high stool. He reached up and flicked on the overhead light. Within minutes he was lost in the task. I may never learn to play the guitar, but maybe one of these days I'll make this car sing.
His cell phone rang, startling him. He dropped his wrench and reached for the phone. “Shepherd.”
“Nick, I need to talk to you.”
His heart lurched. Every time he thought he was over her, she would call or stop by the office and the pain would hit him hard, reminding him that nothing had changed. She was still a bitter, angry woman, and he was still in love with her. Not a healthy combination. Closing his eyes, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “What is it now, Jess?”
“There's a drip in the master bath faucet. It needs to be fixed.”
“Then fix it. It's not my house anymore, remember?”
“And maybe I could afford to do that if you'd send money on time, but you're two months late.”
Nick stood up and started pacing, trying to burn off the frustration. And the hurt. “And I explained to you that things have been tight lately. I'm sending you what I can when I can, but I have to try and save the business too.”
He heard her snort in disgust. “It's always the business first with you, isn't it? Nothing has changed at all.”
“Look, you make good money at your job. Please don't try and tell me that you're not able to put food on the table. This whole money thing is just a way to smack me around. What? You didn't do enough of that during the divorce?”
“I don't know how we stayed married as long as we did. Oh, wait. Yes, I do. You were never there!”
A loud click. He flipped the phone closed and set it on the workbench. When was this going to be over? All he asked for was a little cooperation. Was that so hard for her?
The phone rang again. He snatched it up without glancing at the screen. “Look, Jess. I'll send you more money when I can. In the meantime, if the faucet is driving you that crazy, maybe I can stop by next week and look at it.”
“Hey, I appreciate that, Nick, but this isn't Jess.”
“Rafe.” Nick felt the tension in his muscles ease up. “What's up?”
“You remember that gangbanger from DC that we got a paper on about two weeks ago?”
“Yeah?”
“I got him. But I'm alone and I need backup.”
Nick snapped off the workbench light and headed for the house. “Grabbing my coat and on my way. Tell me where you are.”
Monday, 9:30 p.m.
&nbs
p; Baltimore
Annie kicked the refrigerator as she snapped on the kitchen light. The rattle immediately stopped. “Thank you,” she muttered at it as she opened the door and pulled out the carton of orange juice.
A year after graduating from college, she moved into a sweet little apartment in Columbia, a suburb of Baltimore filled with the up-and-coming. Columbia had been the brainchild of James Rouse, a commercial real estate developer. About forty years ago, he had purchased thousands of acres from many different owners and revealed his overly ambitious plans to build a city. At the center of the project was Columbia Mall, surrounded by a dozen villages. The village streets took their names from famous works of art and literature: streets in the Village of Hobbit's Glen would come from the work of J.R.R. Tolkien, Running Brook from the poetry of Robert Frost, and Clemens Crossing from the work of Mark Twain. For Annie, living in Columbia had been a small way of proving to herself that she was on her way to becoming a success. She loved every inch of the villages—the people, the feel, the convenience.
But after being diagnosed with cancer, she'd given up the apartment and moved to a smaller one in an old brick building just north of Baltimore's downtown, close to both Sinai, where she would be receiving treatment, and her parents’ house. They had pressured her to move back home, where they could take care of her. The apartment was a compromise she second-guessed every time she walked into the boring square box she now called home.
As she reached up into the cabinet for a glass, the phone rang. She picked it up. “Hello?”
“Annie McNamara?”
“Yes?” Annie finished pouring the orange juice into a glass. Her medicine was lined up on the counter like a battalion headed off to battle. She scooped up a pill and tossed it in her mouth.
“You called about Barbara?”
As she swallowed the pill, the voice suddenly jogged her memory. It was Karen Lewis. An old friend of Barbara's. Annie didn't know if Barb had stayed in touch with her or not, but Annie had spent the whole day leaving messages and voice mail with everyone she could think of who might point her in the right direction.
“Karen? I'm so glad you called me back. I wasn't sure you were still at this number.”
“I don't know what I can tell you, Annie. I haven't talked to Barb in almost a year.”
“Anything that would help me find her would be great. Any friends she might have mentioned? Or a favorite hangout? Or where she is or was living?”
“Oh Annie, I don't know. I think she was living in a rooming-house motel near the interstate, but don't ask me the name of it. She was still working the streets, and she'd taken up with some guy named Richie. He and his brother owned a couple of bars in the area.”
Annie wrote it all down in the little notebook on the counter. It wasn't much, but it was a start. “I really appreciate this.”
“Oh, you know what I just thought of? She had a friend she talked about. Some street person named Charlie. She said he was a Vietnam vet and not quite all there anymore, but she would hang with him when she needed to hide out. I remember because I asked her why she needed to disappear, and she wouldn't talk about it.”
It wasn't hard to figure out. Barb had done the same thing with her family—steal money, jewelry, or anything else of value to buy drugs. Then she'd disappear for a week or two until she figured everyone was over it. Then she'd come dragging back in, crying for help, begging everyone to still love her. And then the cycle would start all over again.
Until Mom and Dad put their foot down and told her either go into rehab or don't come back.
In spite of being twins, they were nothing alike. Barb had been wild, adventurous, full of spark and fire and big dreams. Annie had been the studious one, the quiet one, content to watch life go by before deciding how to proceed.
Until the cancer. Now she couldn't afford to watch life go by. There wasn't enough time. She had to step out and be adventurous, courageous, and aggressive. If she didn't grab what she wanted, she wouldn't have anything.
“Annie?”
“Oh, sorry, Karen. Lost in thought for a minute. Look, I appreciate this. You've been a big help. If you think of anything else, I'd appreciate it if you'd call me. And if you happen to hear from her, please tell her to call.”
“I can do that, but I doubt she'll get in touch. I was pretty hard on her the last time we talked.”
“I understand. But you never know.”
The pause was so long that Annie almost thought that Karen had hung up. But then she heard the heavy sigh. “Annie, listen to me. Be careful. Barbara has gone too far. She's not the same person…that's not right either. She was always selfish and self-centered, but she's way worse now. She cares about only one thing in her life. Drugs. Don't trust her.”
“I know she's into drugs.”
“No, she's not just into drugs. She is controlled by them. And they're killing her soul. I know that sounds harsh, but it's the truth.”
“I'm her sister. She's not going to hurt me, for pete's sake.”
“Don't be so sure.”
2
Tuesday, 3:15 a.m.
Baltimore City Correctional Center
Richie Carver shuffled along, the jangling of his leg irons echoing down the narrow concrete and metal hallway. He kept his hands clasped in front of him, holding the chains that connected to his feet, trying not to trip as the guards hurried him along.
“Why are you transferring me in the middle of the night?” he asked for the third time.
“Safer,” one of the guards told him for the third time. “Move.”
He knew, after he was sentenced to life in prison—thanks to the good old bounty hunter he'd not soon forget—that he'd eventually be moved from Baltimore out to the Maryland Correctional Institution in Hagerstown, but he didn't expect to be moved so soon, and he needed to let Jon know. How was that supposed to happen? “I thought I'd be here at least another week.”
“You thought wrong,” the larger of the guards replied, stopping at the door and buzzing to be let through.
Richie was nervous. Something was up. He could smell it.
Outside, he realized that he wasn't the only prisoner being transferred, and his nerves started to calm down. A guard opened the back of the transport van while another stood, shotgun loaded and draped across his arm, watching carefully from a safe distance. The other prisoner was loaded first—the guards shoved him into the van and then secured his chains to a metal bench. Then Richie felt a guard push him forward. He shuffled up to the edge of the van, climbed up, and took his seat. He glanced over at the other prisoner while the guard secured his chains.
His fellow inmate was enough to make him sit up a little straighter, look a little tougher. He was tall, broad, with white-blond hair and ice blue eyes that stared at him as if toying with the idea of breaking his neck.
The transport van pulled out and headed west through the city and then onto I-70 west. Richie kept his eyes on his hands, trying to figure out what to do. He had to let Jon know about the transfer as soon as possible. Twenty minutes into the drive and he started getting antsy. “Whatta you in for?”
The other prisoner glanced over at him, giving him a blatant, appraising look that told Richie he was being weighed and measured but never revealed the verdict. “Murder,” the man finally replied in a voice that was as rough and grating as his penetrating stare.
Well, he could hold his own with that. He grinned. “Yeah? How many?”
“What do you care?” The man gave Richie a cold stare.
Dropping his gaze again, Richie gripped the metal bench as the truck hit a pothole.
A few minutes later, Richie tried again. “Any idea why they're taking us in the middle of the night?”
“I didn't get the memo.”
The man was clearly not in the mood for conversation. He seemed focused. He remained tense, alert, as if expecting something.
Finally, Richie understood. “What are you planning?”
“None of your business.”
Rolling his eyes, Richie looked over at the man, but the amusement died as he stared into the stranger's eyes. Something was up. He sat there for a minute and then it gradually made sense. “You're going to try and make a break, aren't you? Are you crazy?” he whispered. “There are two guards, and they're both armed. You'll get us killed.”
“Just shut up.”
“Listen. If you make it, I'm going with you.”
There was a frown, and Richie could almost hear the mental doors closing and locking. “I don't know you, man. And I don't want to.”
Richie licked his lips. No way was he going to get left behind or worse…killed. If there was a way off this transport, he was going to take it. “I'll make it worth your while.”
The man stared, those ice blue eyes pinning Richie. “Make it worth my while, how?”
Richie swallowed hard. “What do you want?”
The man dismissed Richie, turning his head to listen to the sounds outside the transport—the road, the tires, the guards murmuring up front.
“Look,” Richie pressed. “I have access to anything you need. Money, guns, a job, a place to hide, food, clothing. Whatever you want.”
“You got a place no one knows about?”
“You serious?”
“As these chains.” He lifted his hands, jangling the constraints.
“I can do that. Yeah.”
“How private?”
“Doesn't get any more private. Farmhouse, out in the country, back in the woods. Can't be seen from the road. Work for you?”
The man studied Richie, as if trying to determine whether he was telling the truth or just making up something to impress. “Fine. Stick with me and be ready.”
“Sure. Okay.”
When the time for the escape came, Richie was totally unprepared for it, even though he'd been expecting it. A fake car accident in the middle of the road. The transport forced to stop. Shots fired. The guards going down. The back door opened and someone in a mask jumped in. He held up a key. “Someone call for a breakout?”
