by Mg Gardiner
“DHL Attorney Services is owned by Danisha Helms. Zingasearch got me her address and phone number. Also her mother’s address,” she said.
Grissom stretched and stood up. He was tan, his physique cut from working construction. “Good. You make coffee. I’m gonna shower. Reavy?”
The angel’s wings were sworn and dedicated. They were skilled and merciless. But they were also federal fugitives. And here on the road, they outnumbered Grissom. He liked to keep one of them within arm’s reach, hostage against the possibility that the other would bolt or turn on him. The trio was a team, but in math, two out of three was a satanic ratio—two-thirds, .666, number of the Beast.
Reavy headed sleepily to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Grissom followed her. Fell got dressed, watching them through the open door. Grissom didn’t worry about Reavy running, even though he had no chattel hostage against her. Reavy loved this.
He got the soap and scrubbed. He liked to be clean before he embarked on a blooding.
21
The fire in the fireplace had dwindled to a red glow. It was four-thirty A.M. in Oregon, the sky velvet-black and shotgunned with stars. Lawless stood at the plate-glass windows. The mountains loomed above the forest, sentinels, so old, and only sleeping. Sisters.
Michael.
Her voice had sounded strong. Smooth, and fierce, and urgent. She had said his name and trusted that he would know who was calling.
It had been five years. Yet when he heard her voice he exhaled as if he’d taken a punch in the gut. Sarah Keller. It couldn’t have been anybody else. On the phone, her voice sounded exactly like her sister’s. But Beth Keller’s voice could only be heard in memory now. Sarah was still out there.
With each passing year, he had tried to convince himself that silence from Sarah meant she was safe, and safer, and out of reach. That silence meant everybody else had forgotten what happened at the cabin in the mountains, and had gone on with their lives, unmindful of her and the baby she had rescued.
He chided himself. Is that what they taught you when you put on the star? No.
He turned from the windows. The banked red glow of the fire cast devilish shadows across the room. He got his phone.
The number he looked up wasn’t in his U.S. Marshals’s official directory. It was part of his informal network. In the five years since Beth Keller’s house turned into a torch in the snow, he had built a silent second roster of people he could rely on, separate from his colleagues and paid informants. Fugitive apprehension was the Marshals’s long-standing mission, and sometimes catching fugitives meant searching the gullies and backwaters where people stayed out of sight.
He would have to hold off until a civilized hour to call his superiors in San Francisco. But this couldn’t wait.
He punched the number. Sarah’s words ran through his mind, clear as glass and just as cutting. I’m blown. And running.
Those were words no U.S. marshal wanted to hear, much less from a woman with a five-year-old child. If he’d been quicker back then, everything might have been different. If he’d paid closer attention, he might have seen what was unfolding. He might have gotten there in time. He might have kept the whole fire from erupting. Beth Keller and Nolan Worthe might today be living their granola-sprinkled dreams.
Sarah might be living in California, sunny and free.
The call connected. It rang twice before a woman answered. “Good morning.”
“Is the sun actually rising?” Lawless said.
Teresa Gavilan laughed. “Lauds, yes.”
Lawless smiled. “It’s good to hear your voice.”
“Yours as well. But you didn’t call to check that the sun still comes up in the east in New Mexico. What do you need, Michael?”
“A backstop. For a woman with a five-year-old child.”
“You’d better tell me. Let me put the coffee on.”
The prairie slowly brightened from gray to green. Sarah quietly packed up. The sky was clear. Glassy puddles from the thunderstorm were silver in the dawn.
Zoe lay asleep on her back, arms flung overhead. Sarah sat on the edge of the bed and stroked her hair.
“Time to get up, munchkin.” She rubbed her daughter’s arm until Zoe stretched and opened her eyes. “Gotta grab breakfast and run an errand, then pack up and hit the road.”
Nobody was out. They hit a twenty-four-hour Walmart, got coffee and doughnuts and milk, and were back in the room twenty minutes later.
While Zoe covered her fingers and face with powdered sugar, Sarah laid out the clothes she’d chosen for her. Orange Texas Longhorns T-shirt, brown kids’ cargo pants, and little lace-up hiking boots.
“I don’t like that shirt,” Zoe said.
“Put your sweatshirt over it.”
“I want my daisies.”
Sarah set her hands on Zoe’s shoulders. “Not today. Today you need to do what Mommy asks. You can be mad, but you still have to do what I say. Got it?”
Zoe nodded. She looked up from beneath her long lashes. “Are we in trouble?”
“Yes.” She’d learned early on that lying to this child always came back to bite her in the ass. “I’m afraid we are. We have to stay out of sight.”
“Is this because of your job?”
“No.”
“Is it because of the bus crash?”
“Absolutely not.” She sat on the bed. “It has nothing to do with the bus accident. Why would you think so?”
“Because I saw the woman in the van talking on the phone and I knew she was going to run into the bus and I didn’t tell anybody.”
It sometimes felt as though Zoe saw everything. In crowd photos, more often than seemed accidental, Zoe was the only one looking at the camera. As if she’d been watching, anticipating the photographer’s shot when nobody else did. Her eyes were always guarded and searching.
Sarah pulled Zoe against her side. “You did nothing wrong. The bus driver is the one who was supposed to look out for other cars.”
“You mean nobody would believe me.”
Sarah leaned her cheek against the top of Zoe’s head. “I believe you. Always.”
“But you’re not always with me.”
It felt like a blade through her ribs. “Then you have to tell me whatever you can, whenever you can. You have to pay attention to the people around you. You’re good at noticing things about people. You can usually tell when they’re honest.”
“What’s honest?”
“It means they tell the truth.”
Zoe looked up. “I don’t like it when people lie. Why do they do that?”
“Because they want to get away with something. Or they want to confuse you. Or because …”
“They’re bad.”
“Sometimes.”
Zoe snuggled against her. Sarah said, “And we need to stay out of the sight of some people we don’t want to talk to.”
Sarah got the bag from Walmart. Took out the scissors and the hair dye.
“Are we going in disguise?” Zoe said.
“Kind of.”
“Is that like lying?”
“No. It’s keeping bad guys from seeing us.”
“But we can see them.”
“That’s the idea.”
Kid should be a spy, Sarah thought. Or a sorcerer.
When Sarah finished, they stared at themselves in the mirror, a couple of changelings. Zoe looked like an imp. Sarah’s hair matched: cut spiky short and dyed Sith Black.
Welcome to the show.
Outside, not even the wind was moving. If Lawless had phoned the FBI or local police, they would already have raided the room. She’d be in custody. But he hadn’t betrayed her yet. Five years, and he had never sent anybody after her. She was counting on that.
Zoe zipped her backpack. “Ready.”
Sarah said, “Good. Now I need to get something straight with you. For today, and until I tell you otherwise, I’m going to call you Skye.”
“Why?”
&nbs
p; “Because it’s important.”
“Like a game?”
“Yes.”
“Like a code name?” Zoe said.
“Exactly.”
Sarah’s phone rang. She rested a hand on Zoe’s shoulder. “What’s your name?”
“Zoe. But you call me Skye.”
“Cool.”
She smiled and it hardly felt forced. The phone continued to ring. A 505 Area Code—New Mexico. She picked up the call.
A woman said, “This is Teresa Gavilan.”
Her voice was rich and round. She didn’t sound young. “Michael Lawless asked me to phone. To whom am I speaking?”
“Michael asked you to phone?” Sarah said.
“Dark-haired guy, mid-thirties, quiet. Like Gary Cooper going, ‘Yup.’ You know him, I think.”
That was both sufficient and amusing. “Sarah Keller.”
“I understand you’re on the move and need a place to bunk. My door’s open.”
“Where? And for how long? Is this a safe house you’re talking about?”
“Let’s call it that. It’ll be safe. Who’s after you?”
Sarah turned her back to Zoe and spoke in a murmur. “Cops and intensely motivated criminals.”
“Does your ride have a full tank and a good engine?” Gavilan said.
“Yes.”
“Can you get to New Mexico?”
Sarah took a breath. “It’ll take most of the day.”
“There’s a music festival that starts this afternoon. Meet me there.” Gavilan gave her the details. “Do you have another phone in case the one you’re using is compromised?”
Sarah gave her a number. “How will I recognize you?”
Gavilan laughed. “You’ll know me. Don’t worry.”
Sarah ended the call, bemused. “Saddle up, kiddo.”
“Where are we going?” Zoe said.
Somewhat baffled, Sarah said, “Roswell.”
22
The morning was turning breezy. Noise from the highway gusted across the motel parking lot as Sarah loaded their things and buckled Zoe in the back seat.
“Where’s Mousie?” Zoe said.
“In your backpack.”
Zoe unbuckled the latch. “I want him.”
“Hey, I’ll get him.” Sarah nudged Zoe back.
From the motel lobby, the high school band poured out. The kids chattered and laughed, nearly stumbling over all their gear, and headed toward their bus. Sarah pulled her ball cap lower on her head, climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. The kids were flirting, texting, sparking with energy. She edged across the parking lot. Her hands tingled on the wheel.
Nobody noticed her new haircut. The band director didn’t wave her down to ask why, when she’d registered at the motel, under Purpose of stay she had written, “Teacher chaperone for Bowie High School Marching Band.” She eased the truck onto the street.
Ninety miles west they hit Amarillo and she drove to a big box mall. Inside, she headed to Sweetheart Dolls. The walls and tables were a fluff of pink and porcelain.
Sarah asked a clerk, “Reborns?”
Toy stores rarely carried reborn dolls, but she hoped a specialty doll outlet might. Even if they kept them under the counter, like contraband. The clerk smiled knowingly and crooked a finger. Sarah followed her to a nook in the back of the store.
The reborns were nestled on the shelf, wrapped in blankets, like a retail nursery. They were sized and painstakingly painted to seem wrinkly and fresh, just like actual newborns. They had realistic hair, short and silky and swirling around cowlicks. They had mottled skin and eyelashes and veins drawn along their temples. They reminded Sarah for a moment of the magical way Zoe had felt in her arms, the first time she ever saw her. The clerk picked one up delicately, supporting its head as though it were actually human. Its eyes clicked open. Sarah tried not to grimace.
Quietly, as though not to wake the creatures in the vinyl creche, the clerk said, “Are you looking to adopt a particular baby? Someone to go with your little boy?” She glanced at Zoe.
“Birthday gift,” Sarah said.
The clerk rocked the unlifelike thing in her arms. It had thick brown hair and wore a pink onesie. Its limbs flopped as the clerk bounced it.
“She comes with a birth certificate,” the clerk said. “Of course, you’ll get to name her before we print it.”
Little Weirdo, Sarah thought.
The clerk smiled at Zoe. “What do you think, young man? What would you like to call your new friend?”
Zoe glared at it, and acid rose in Sarah’s throat. Then Zoe said, “Her name is Sparky.”
The clerk looked nonplussed, before laughing. “I’ll ring you up.”
Sarah bought the doll clothes and accessories. At the counter, she opened her wallet. And saw a photo of Zoe—wearing a dress and a hair band with a giant plastic sunflower. She handed over her prepaid card and flipped the wallet shut.
As soon as they left the store, she pulled out the photo and stuck it in her back pocket.
Zoe said, “She called me young man.”
“Play along, honey.”
“Why?” Zoe looked up at her. “Is this one of those things I’ll understand when I’m a grown-up?”
“Definitely.” Sarah checked her watch. It was nine forty-five. More than two hundred miles to go.
Harker walked into the Will Rogers OKCPD station at 9:50 A.M. The place was busy, but at a suburban pace—bustling and serious, but not on emergency footing. He flashed his credentials and headed to the detectives’ pen. He didn’t see Dos Santos or Bukin. He approached a young man who was on the phone.
“Hang up,” he said.
The detective frowned at him. Harker pointed at the phone.
“Now.”
Recalcitrantly, the detective told the caller good-bye and set the phone in the cradle. “Yes?”
“I need updates on the hunt for Sarah Keller,” Harker said.
“I don’t know—”
Harker leaned on the desk. “Then find out. Get Dos Santos.”
The detective headed back into the building. Harker waited. He could outwait anybody, even the most obstinate. He held his fists at his sides and cracked his knuckles. When Dos Santos appeared, fresh and pressed and smelling of aftershave, Harker didn’t let him speak.
“I see you got Keller’s photo on the news. What else?”
“We’ve put out an APB. Keller’s running. Her cell phone turned up in a diaper bag in some family’s car in Kansas, and her satnav on an eighteen-wheeler near Little Rock.”
Harker hid his surprise. “So she’s an escape artist. She must have been planning to burrow underground for years.”
“We contacted parents in Zoe’s class and found Keller’s house. Her Nissan pickup’s in the garage. We think she’s driving a vehicle registered to her employer.”
“What else?”
“We have an issue with the Santa Cruz Sheriff’s Department,” Dos Santos said. “They have no record of Zoe Keller being reported missing, much less kidnapped.”
“Ignore them.”
“Not possible.”
Harker leaned on the desk with his fists. “What are you going to believe, a California sheriff’s department that overlooked a major crime or the evidence in front of your face?”
Dos Santos considered it. He crossed his arms. “The people Keller stuck with her phone and GPS—they both bought gas at a Love’s Travel Stop on I-40 in southwest Oklahoma City.”
“You got the surveillance video, interviewed the clerks at that Love’s, right?”
“They may be back by now. Let me check.”
He crossed the room and spoke to a colleague. The conversation seemed animated. They glanced at Harker and away again.
Harker waited. Let them speculate, and even gossip. As long as they kept investigating, kept the pressure on, kept the news loud. As long as they didn’t contact any other federal agencies tasked with fugitive apprehension, such as the U
.S. Marshals.
This was his.
For a moment he felt a ghostly arm around his shoulder, a hand clenching the back of his neck. He seemed to hear a friend’s voice, torn and reproachful, whisper in his ear. This has gone too far. Let it go, Curt.
He shook the haunted visitation away.
Let it go? Not while the Shattering Angel ran loose, and Eldrick Worthe could sneer, She’s still dead. She’ll stay dead.
Harker had learned the hard way: He couldn’t count on friends to understand. He could only count on the power of the law. The people who would be coming out of the wind weren’t ordinary humans. They would mutilate cattle and dump infected carcasses in reservoirs to punish people who hadn’t paid their protection money to the Worthes. They thought that killing the families of apostate gang members was commanded by God. They were trash below all trash.
And he was there to get rid of it.
Dos Santos returned and handed him a thumb drive. “Video from the Love’s Travel Stop. It shows Keller in the store, paying at the register. The child is with her.”
“Vehicle?”
“Dodge Ram pickup, half-hidden behind a big rig. The rig blocks the view of Keller placing the satnav on the axle of another tractor-trailer.”
“And you have the slightest doubt that this woman is attempting to evade arrest? She knew, detective. She planned this. She’s been planning her escape for five years.” Harker’s blood beat hard in his temples. “You need to broadcast, as loud as possible, Sarah Keller’s name and photo, and Zoe’s, and let the world know they were last spotted here. You need to do that now.”
Dos Santos’s gaze ran from Harker’s clenched jaw to his clenched fists. “We’re on it.”
“Don’t wait to talk to the Santa Cruz Sheriff’s Department. They botched the investigation of Beth Keller’s murder. Be bold, detective. Get the word out,” he said. “Zoe Keller’s life is at stake.”
Back in his car, he headed downtown through sunshine and Saturday morning traffic to the Bureau’s office in the Federal Building. He touched his wallet. He kept it in the pocket of his jacket, near his heart. Inside it were photos of Eldrick Worthe’s victims. They were a reminder: The Worthes killed women. And it was his job to bring them to justice.
