Critical Vulnerability (An Aroostine Higgins Novel Book 1)

by Melissa F. Miller

Franklin took several deep breaths, readying himself for the confrontation ahead, then killed the ignition and stepped out of the car. He wrestled with the bags from the hardware store and the takeout containers from the Salvadoran joint. Out of hands, he leaned on the doorbell with his elbow and hoped Aroostine would answer.

  He heard footsteps approaching along the hallway. A moment later, the door swung open.

  As he hurried inside, he swiveled his head to make sure no one was watching from the Joneses’ home, but their blinds were drawn.

  “Something smells good,” Aroostine remarked. She took one of the plastic bags from him and slammed the door shut all in one motion.

  He engaged the deadbolt and then turned to face her.

  “Pupusas. And empanadas.”

  “Pupusas and empanadas? Seems like overkill.”

  He shook his head and started toward the kitchen. “Salvadoran empanadas are totally different from Mexican ones. They’re not savory; they’re sweet. For dessert.”

  She started unpacking the food. “Even better. Were you able to get everything on the list?”

  “Yep.” He inhaled deeply and plunged ahead while she opened the cabinet to take out some dishes. “Two of everything.”

  “Two?”

  “I’m coming with you.” He tensed his jaw and prepared for an argument.

  She looked at him for a long moment. He didn’t blink.

  Then she shrugged. “Okay. She’s your mother. You should probably be there.”

  “Just like that?”

  He couldn’t believe she was just going to agree to let him tag along.

  She reached into the silverware drawer for forks and knifes.

  “Just like that.” Then she smiled at him. “Also, I don’t know how to drive, so I need a chauffeur. So, are we just going to smell this, or can we eat? Because it smells amazing. I’m ravenous.”

  She didn’t wait for an answer. She carried her plate over to the table, pushed his laptop out of the way, and had a seat.

  He followed her, still processing what she’d just said.

  “You can’t drive?”

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  She shrugged and rested her fork on the side of her plate while she answered. “I don’t know. I just never learned. Back home, I walked pretty much everywhere in town. If I had to get somewhere that wasn’t walkable, Joe was happy to drive me. And there’s no real need for a car in a city like this, right? You have the Metro system, buses, cabs. It’s not a big deal.”

  “I guess not.”

  They ate in silence for several minutes. She was going to let him come with her. The nauseating fear and worry that had taken hold of him since his mother’s disappearance faded and an unfamiliar feeling of anticipation gripped him.

  Either his face gave him away or she read his mind, because Aroostine put down her fork and fixed him with a serious look.

  “We need to be on the same page here. I need a driver, not a partner.”

  “But—”

  She shook her head. “No. You’re going to drop me off in the woods and then check into a motel.”

  “What? No,” he protested. “I want to be there.”

  “I understand that. Believe me, I do. But it’s better if you aren’t with me—for a lot of reasons.”

  He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Are you going to kill him?”

  She paused just a fraction of a second too long before she answered.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course not. I’m a prosecutor, not an assassin.”

  He eyed her head-to-toe black ensemble pointedly but didn’t press the point.

  Instead he took a different tack. “It’s not safe for you to be out there alone all night.”

  She threw back her head and laughed, a genuine, full-throated sound of amusement.

  “Listen, you don’t need to worry about me. I grew up in the woods.”

  “What, were you raised by wolves or something?”

  “No. Indians.”

  Franklin felt his eyes widen but just nodded.

  She went on. “I was born in my grandfather’s cabin, in a small community made up of other members of the Eastern Lenape Nation. I lived there with my tribe until my grandfather died when I was seven. He was a master tracker. As soon as I could walk, he started teaching me how to track animals. I spent my first night alone in the woods when I was five. And trust me—it was way more remote than small-town Maryland.”

  “Oh. Wow.”

  “You didn’t know? About my background?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “That means he probably doesn’t know either, right?”

  “Everything he knows about you, he learned from me.”

  She smiled.

  “Perfect.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Only if I have to.

  As Franklin focused on the dark road, Aroostine replayed the uncensored thought that had gone through her mind when he’d asked if she planned to kill the man holding Joe hostage.

  She’d never killed anyone. She’d hunted animals with a bow and a quiver of arrows, a lifetime ago, because that was how she and her grandfather got the food they ate. But after she moved into the Higginses’ home, she never picked up her bow again.

  She had, quite recently in fact, stabbed someone in the gut with a pair of scissors, but that was sort of a one-off situation where she was a guest at a destination-wedding that had been stormed by armed bandits. Did she really think she could kill another human being? She shivered at having to explore the darkest corners of her imagination.

  Just be smart about things, and you won’t ever have to find out, she told herself.

  “So, let’s go over this one more time,” she said, more to distract herself than out of any desire to rehearse the plan, yet again, with Franklin. She’d walked him through everything twice before they’d left his house.

  “Okay,” he said, glancing away from the road long enough to throw her a quizzical look.

  “You’re going to drop me off in the woods and then circle back and check into the Wayside Motel.”

  “I’m going to pay cash for a room and use a fake name,” he added dutifully.

  “Right.”

  “Then I’m going to make sure my phone and laptop are fully charged. In the morning, I’m going to tap into the stenographer’s feed and monitor the court proceedings.”

  “Yes. You’ll be listening for the judge to get very irritated when no one from the Department of Justice shows up,” she confirmed, ignoring the singsong note in his voice. She didn’t care if he was annoyed. Practice and preparedness were her watchwords.

  “And the other side will ask for a mistrial.”

  “Right. And because the judge hates my boss, he’s going to grant the mistrial.”

  “And I’m going to contact the man and tell him about it.”

  “Right again.”

  “What if the judge doesn’t? What if he reschedules the trial?”

  She shook her head. “He won’t. But if he does, just lie to the man. He won’t have time to find out the truth.”

  “Because you’re going to knock on the cabin door and say you kept your end of the bargain then politely ask for the release of your husband and my mother while I contact the local police and then let your friend Mitchell know what’s going on.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Mmm-hmm. The end of this plan is a little . . . weak.”

  She shot him a dark look. “Do you have a better one?”

  He fell silent for a moment.

  “No, but I do have something for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “You’ll see.”

  He returned his attention to the road as they approached a sign welcoming t
hem to Long’s Gap. They passed a roadside vegetable stand, shuttered for the season, then a metal diner. A few moments later, a neon light announced the presence of a bar that made the Hole in the Wall look swank. Just beyond the bar, she saw a modern gas station, enormous and well lit, with cafe seating.

  He checked the fuel gauge and turned on his blinker. He parked at a pump and hopped out to fill the tank. She eyed the surveillance camera mounted above the pump, then slumped low in her seat. She knew she was being paranoid, because the only person in the world who could hack the security system—if it were even hackable—was currently wrestling with the nozzle for the lowest grade gasoline. Nonetheless, she reached up and pulled the hood of her borrowed sweatshirt up over her head.

  Franklin stamped his feet and breathed into his bare hands to warm them. She checked the temperature readout on his dashboard. It read 34 degrees. She rolled her eyes. He was definitely better suited to bunking down in a motel than roughing it with her in the woods.

  He hurried back into the car, bringing a blast of bracing air with him. She turned to stare at him as he slammed the door.

  “Did you just pay at the pump?”

  He blinked at her.

  “Relax, Aroostine, I used a prepaid Visa gift card that I bought at the hardware store—with cash.”

  She breathed out in relief, but then asked, “What’s the point of that?”

  “Even though he’s not tracking us, there’s no reason not to be cautious. Every time I hand over cash to a clerk, it’s an opportunity for that person to remember me—or us. So I grabbed a card to use for gas and stuff.”

  She sat back, satisfied and surprised. He was proving to be a useful partner. What he did next upped his value even further.

  “Excuse my reach.” He leaned across the front seat and pulled open the glove compartment. He withdrew a small, black case and popped it open to reveal two earpieces and a set of cheap-looking cell phones.

  He handed her one of each.

  “What’s this? I have a phone.”

  He powered on its mate before answering.

  “Not like this, you don’t.”

  She turned the phone in her palm, examining it. It looked like a perfectly ordinary phone.

  “Okay?”

  He bounced in his seat like an excited kid and angled his phone’s display toward her.

  “See, there’s no guarantee that you’ll have a signal way out in the woods, right?”

  “I guess not. That’s not good. What if he tries to reach you and you don’t—”

  He waved off that worry. “Realistically, I’ll be reachable in the motel. If you’re right, and he’s nearby, he has cell service. But he’s presumably not skulking around in the trees or whatever it is you plan to spend the night doing.”

  “So this phone will have service no matter what?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She shifted in her seat and tried to mask her irritation. She didn’t have time to play these games with Franklin.

  “Then what’s the point, exactly?”

  “The point is I modified these phones to act as two-way radios that operate on a whole bunch of frequencies. I’m using the eXRS frequency-hopping spread spectrum so we should have a guaranteed communications range of several miles—at least five, probably more.”

  She had no idea what an eXRS frequency whatever-whatever was, but it sounded impressive. “Wow, you just did that today?”

  “Sure. I had a bunch of old phones and some equipment just lying around the house. It was easy to play with.” He shrugged with forced nonchalance, but his pride was palpable.

  “Wow,” she repeated, staring down at the hard plastic in her hand. “Great. And this frequency thingy is secure?”

  “Pretty secure. Our communications will be less susceptible to interference or interception, but the important thing is that we’ll be able to communicate regardless of mobile coverage. And, um, technically, we probably should have an FCC license to use these . . .” he trailed off.

  Compliance with federal licensing requirements was quite possibly the least of her current worries.

  “Whatever. How do they work?”

  “Okay, so I made them voice activated. There’s no touch-to-talk or anything. Just start talking and I’ll hear you. We’re fully charged, so you should be good until morning.”

  “And the earpiece?”

  His face pinkened. “The earpieces aren’t really necessary. I just thought they seemed cool—like for spies or something.”

  She swallowed her laugh.

  “This is fantastic. I mean it.”

  He shrugged again and turned the key in the ignition. “It was seriously no problem. Child’s play, really. We should get going, I guess.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Joe glanced at Mrs. Chang. She didn’t look too steady on her feet, but most of a bottle of whiskey could have that effect. He felt a little bit on the wobbly side himself.

  “You ready to eat, Eunice?” he asked as he opened the cabinet and retrieved the last two cans of soup. He turned them so she could see the labels. “Beef stew and minestrone. Pick your poison. Or do you wanna go out in style? I’ll make both, and we can have a real feast for our last supper.”

  “Don’t.”

  He cocked his head. Was the gallows humor upsetting her all of a sudden?

  The boozy slur was gone from her voice. She crossed the room, tripping a little, and gripped him by the arm.

  “Don’t open the soup,” she repeated.

  He rested the cans on the counter and examined her lined face.

  “Why not?”

  “Because we don’t have to go to the slaughter like lambs, Joe.” She stared back at him with a hard look.

  “Mrs. Ch—Eunice, we’ve been over this. He has a shotgun. We have nothing.” He swept his arms wide in a frustrated gesture to include the entire small space.

  It was true. They’d spent hours scouring the cabin in search of something—anything—that would serve as a weapon, but the man had taken care to remove every blunt, sharp, or otherwise useful object; there were no knives in the silverware drawer, no scissors, no razors, no matches, and no hatchet, hammer, or wrench. The sole pot was a cheap, lightweight thing. There was no skillet. There wasn’t even a can opener. The man provided them with soup that came in pop-top cans.

  “We have soup,” she answered.

  He bit down hard on his lip. Even half in the bag, he’d been raised better than to call one of his elders a stupid cow, but he desperately wanted to.

  Finally, when he was sure he could answer calmly, he said, “Exactly. We have soup.”

  He turned back to the counter, snagged the can of beef stew with his right hand, and reached for the pot with his left.

  “No. Joe, we have soup.” She grabbed the can from his hand and hefted it in her bony palm. “And we have socks.”

  She mimed dropping the can inside an invisible sock and winding it up to take a swing.

  He stared dumbly at her for at least ten seconds. Of course. Any playground bully knew that a sock full of quarters made for a dangerously effective improvised weapon.

  He flung himself into the rickety chair and started pulling off his black socks. His trembling fingers made it a harder task than it should have been. His heart thumped in his chest as he wrestled the socks off first one foot, then the other.

  He jammed a can down deep into the toe of each sock, suddenly grateful for his oversized feet—or flippers, as Aroostine used to call them, teasing him—and then stood and twisted the leg material. He handed one to Mrs. Chang.

  “Sorry about the smell. I’ve been wearing them awhile.”

  She waved away the apology and gave the sock a test swing.

  “If memory serves,” she began, “you’ll want to hold this close to the heel, near the ca
n to keep the weight stabilized.”

  He didn’t ask what memory that would be, although the curiosity ate at him. There’d be time for that later—assuming this plan worked.

  “So what’s the plan?”

  She blinked at him, surprised that he was looking to follow her lead. But she was the one who’d hit on the idea of using the cans. He assumed she had a plan.

  He assumed right.

  “Well, I was thinking that he usually comes in gun first, real fast, and shouts for us to get in the back room, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “And he’s always focused on you. He thinks you’re the bigger threat.”

  He nodded. It was true—that was what the man seemed to think. Judging by Mrs. Chang’s recent behavior, he suspected the man was wrong.

  “When we hear him coming, I’ll get behind the door. As soon as he steps into the room, you stop in the doorway of the back room but don’t go in like we usually do. He’ll have his eyes on you, and I’ll crack him from behind. Then you can rush him from the front.”

  If he doesn’t blow my head off first, Joe thought.

  He saw the thought mirrored in her eyes, and uncertainty clouded her face.

  He hurriedly said, “Let’s do it. What’s the worst that could happen?”

  “He could kill us,” she answered instantly.

  “He’s going to kill us anyway.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Aroostine patted the last of the twigs and dead leaves into place and rocked back on her haunches to admire her handiwork. She’d made better shelters, but this one would suffice for one night. It was located just one hundred paces north of the spot where she’d had Franklin drop her off, so finding her way back to their meeting point would theoretically be simple. It was situated due west of the stream she hoped would lead her to the cabin. And, considering how rusty her wilderness survival skills were, it wasn’t half-bad.

  She had dug out the vegetation from under a canopy of low-hanging boughs and insulated the ground with the leaf and twig debris. It was likely more comfortable than whatever cheap bodily-fluid-and-germ-encrusted mattress Franklin would be bunking down on at the motel.