It belonged to Frank Matson.
Chapter Sixteen
He didn’t know how much time had passed.
It could have been hours or minutes. There was no real way to tell. He never wore a watch, and when he reached into his pocket for his cell phone, he found that the impact had crushed it.
So all he knew was that he’d been out cold and now he was awake and his head felt as if it had been worked over by a jackhammer.
On steroids.
Considering the speed he’d been traveling, he figured it was a miracle he was alive. The mud and grass had softened the blow some, but moving didn’t come without a cost.
Was anything broken?
He didn’t think so.
But he knew that he was battered and bruised, and getting to his feet would not be an easy task. Shifting his weight to his left side, he put an arm out and pushed himself upright, staring out at the street.
There were no cars around. The stretch of road was as vacant as a high school parking lot on a summer night, and he didn’t expect anyone to be coming by anytime soon. Not in this weather.
The rain had subsided some but not quite enough, and from his vantage point here in the mud, he saw his overturned bike across the street, lying in the gutter, rainwater rushing past it. He couldn’t tell the extent of the damage.
Had that really been Frank’s car behind him?
He didn’t know for sure.
The car had been similar, no doubt about it, but maybe he was projecting his own prejudice onto the situation. He’d never cared for the guy, but he’d never really thought of him as a violent man.
What reason would Frank have to try to kill him?
Because of Anna?
Out of jealousy?
That didn’t seem likely. Yet here he lay, and the only decent glimpse of the car he’d managed to get had conjured up visions of Frank Matson behind the wheel. That didn’t make it true, but he couldn’t shake the feeling and something told him he could well be right.
Shifting his weight again, he rested both hands against the ground and climbed to his feet, wobbling slightly as his head began to spin.
The helmet had surely prevented his brain from winding up like his cell phone, but the pounding in his skull and the hollow light-headedness told him that some damage had been done.
He stood there a moment, the world swirling around him, and tried to maintain his balance.
His bike was only a few yards away, yet traveling that distance seemed like an insurmountable task. Pulling the thing upright and driving it away—even if he was lucky enough to find it still functioning—was not something he relished.
But what choice did he have?
Something in his gut told him that he needed to get moving. Whoever had mowed him down had obviously been following Anna and him, which meant she could be in danger.
Grave danger.
He needed to get to her house.
Praying for the world to stop spinning, he took a tentative step forward, his shoe sucking mud as he moved. He felt weak and helpless, like an invalid who had just fallen out of bed and was trying to figure a way to crawl back in.
Get a grip, Brody. You’ve been hurt before, so just shake it off and move.
Right, he thought.
Easier said than done.
Headlights appeared at the far end of the street, coming from the direction his attacker had gone. As they approached, Brody wondered for a moment if it was the same guy, checking to make sure the job was done. But as they drew closer, he realized it was a pickup truck.
The truck slowed and the driver rolled his window down. He was an elderly man with a deeply lined face and a kind of cornfield vibe to him.
“You okay, fella?”
It took Brody a moment to form a sentence. “Yeah…I think so.”
The driver glanced across at Brody’s bike. “Looks like you took a pretty bad spill there.”
Brody nodded, and the effort made his brain slosh loosely inside his skull, sending a wave of nausea through him.
“The rain…” he managed. “I lost control.”
The driver set his brake and put the truck in Park, then he climbed out and crossed to where Brody was standing. “I think I need to get you to a hospital.”
“No,” Brody said. “Just help me with my bike. I have to get home.”
The driver glanced at the Harley again. “That thing ain’t goin’ nowhere anytime soon. And neither are you, from the looks of you.”
“I’ll be fine,” Brody insisted, and he was already starting to feel a little better. His head wasn’t pounding so hard, and the nausea had passed.
Now if only he could get the world to stop spinning.
“You’re one of them stubborn fellas, aren’t you? I’ve had a coupla farmhands like you. Think you’re big and invulnerable, and you’re too darn stupid to know when to lie down.”
“No choice,” Brody said.
“Man’s always got a choice. But you’re free to make the wrong one, whether I like it or not. Tell me where you wanna go and I’ll take you there.”
“I don’t want to trouble you.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” the driver told him. “I could use a little trouble in my life.” He gestured to the truck. “Come on, let’s get you in.”
Putting an arm around Brody, the driver escorted him to the passenger side, pulled open the door and helped him into the cab.
Sitting down was the remedy Brody needed and he started to feel even better now, the world around him finally leveling off.
He felt his strength returning. A slow but steady recharging of the batteries.
The driver climbed in next to him and released the brake. “You sure you won’t change your mind? Cedarwood General’s only a few miles from here.”
“I’m invulnerable, remember? Don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”
The driver grinned. “Okay, Superman, where we headed?”
THE DRIVER DROPPED BRODY off a little more than a block from Anna’s house. If his instincts were right and Anna was in danger, there was no point in announcing his arrival.
His only source of comfort was that Frank had posted a couple of deputies to watch over the place. But if his concerns about the man turned out to be true—if the car that had knocked him off the road had indeed been Frank’s—then there was no telling what he might find when he got there.
The short drive seemed to have done him wonders. He felt almost whole again, his brain no longer banging around inside his skull. His body still ached, but he knew he could easily push past that pain, as long as he was fully cognizant.
“What time is it?” he asked the driver.
The old guy glanced at his watch. “Closing in on 7:00 p.m.”
Brody nodded. He had lost more than an hour out there and was amazed that no one had come along before the driver had to scrape him up off the side of the road.
“Thanks for this,” he said quietly.
“I’m a darn fool for doing it, I’ll tell you that. I still think you belong in a hospital.”
Brody popped his door open. “I hate hospitals.”
“I guess you do,” the driver said, then tipped an imaginary hat. “You stay dry out there.”
Brody nodded again and climbed out, happy to find that he was able to stand now without wobbling. He closed his door then patted the side of the truck and watched it pull away, mentally sending up thanks for the kindness of strangers.
Pulling his collar up to help protect him from the rain, he pointed himself toward Anna’s house and headed up the block.
When he got there, he knew his instincts hadn’t been wrong.
There was a dead deputy on her doorstep.
Chapter Seventeen
The guy had a hole in his chest about the size of a cannonball, and his eyes were glassy and lifeless.
Brody tried for a pulse anyway.
Nothing.
He knew he should call this in, but not before checking t
he rest of the house. This guy needed a meat wagon, not an ambulance.
The front door was ajar. Brody reached to his waistband for his gun and discovered that he had lost it in the attack. It was probably lying in the mud somewhere along the roadside.
Glancing at the body, he noted that the deputy’s gun was also gone, so he’d be doing this the hard way.
He stood very still, listening to the rain fall on the roof, trying to read the house, to get a sense of what he might be facing when he stepped inside. He inched up to the door and flattened against it, peeking in through the opening.
Nothing but darkness in there.
Except for the rain, the night was still and silent.
If he had to guess, he’d say that no one was home, and the thought of this both comforted and terrified him. It meant that there weren’t any bad guys inside, but it also meant that Anna, Sylvia and Adam were gone, too.
And how they may have gotten gone was the terrifying part.
He could only hope that they’d somehow managed to run away or were hiding in an upstairs closet again, Anna nervously clutching the gun she’d pulled out of the shoe box, ready to blow the head off anyone who opened that closet door.
Not wanting to waste any more time, Brody brought a foot back, nudged the front door open then slipped inside and flattened against the wall in the foyer.
He felt vulnerable without a weapon, but what choice did he have?
He scanned the darkness. Saw no sign of movement. He had no idea how long ago the deputy was shot, but the body had still been warm to the touch—even with the chill in the air—so he knew it couldn’t have been long.
Which gave him hope.
Not much, but it was something.
The only way to do this, he thought, was one room at a time.
Pushing away from the wall, he stepped cautiously into the living room and looked off toward the kitchen. Keeping to the shadows, he crossed through the dining room and stopped just short of the kitchen doorway.
He stood still again.
Listening.
Waiting.
He heard only the faint ticking of a clock mounted on the wall above the kitchen table. He chanced a peek inside and saw that this room was also empty, everything in place, no evidence of a disturbance.
Except for one thing:
There was a half-eaten sandwich on a plate on the table, with a glass beside it, three-quarters full of milk.
A meal interrupted, Brody thought.
Adam’s meal.
Not a good sign.
Stepping past the doorway, he quickly worked his way down the hall, hugging the wall as he went. After checking the family room and the downstairs bathroom, he moved on to a windowed door that led to a patio at the side of the house.
It was dark out there, but there was enough light from a nearby street lamp that he could see the body of the second deputy lying in a pool of blood.
His stomach roiled.
This was yet another bad sign.
He had hoped the second deputy had heard the gunshot out front and managed to spirit the Sanfords away before the bad guys could get to them.
But that had only been wishful thinking.
His guess was that the deputies had been attacked simultaneously—probably by the same two men who had been here last night—and the chances that Anna and her family had gotten away were, at best, slim.
A wave of dread rolled through Brody as he left the door, moved back down the hall and circled around to the living room again.
He’d been inside the house a total of about two minutes, yet he felt as if he’d already lost too much time.
Moving past the Christmas tree, he started up the stairway to the second floor, hoping the Sanfords were hiding up there somewhere.
Please be in that closet, he thought.
Please just be there.
But as he reached the top of the stairs, the air up here was as quiet and undisturbed as the rest of the house, and the hope died inside him.
They weren’t here.
He knew this. Sensed it.
But he had to try anyway.
He picked up speed now, crashing through the hallway from room to room, first Anna’s—where the closet was dark and empty—then Sylvia’s, and Owen’s, and finally Adam’s room—
—none of which showed any signs of life.
He looked across at Adam’s bed, at the spot where he had sat the night before, reading the boy to sleep. The thought that Adam might be in harm’s way was like a kick to the gut. But it was what was on that bed—what had been left behind—that really tore Brody apart.
The toy sheriff’s car.
Sitting on the pillow.
He remembered Adam standing in the hallway, the car tucked under one arm.
My daddy drives a sheriff’s car, he’d told Brody. Uncle Owen says he’s one of the best deputies ever.
At the time, Brody had assumed that Uncle Owen had been talking about Frank Matson. But he realized now, with sudden clarity, that Owen had actually been talking about him. Had been trying to tell a son about his father.
A father who was missing in action.
Tears stung Brody’s eyes, but he fought them back. This was no time for sentimentality or recriminations. The people he loved were out there somewhere, and he had to figure out how to get them back.
Still, that sheriff’s car seemed to call to him. He felt the need to touch something that Adam had touched—something that meant so much to the boy—because he was suddenly afraid he might not get the chance to hold him again.
To know him.
He wanted to push that fear off as irrational, but he knew that the men they were dealing with were not shrinking violets, and they’d do what had to be done to get their hands on the thing they sought.
He couldn’t let that happen.
Wouldn’t let it.
Stepping forward, he moved to the bed and reached for the car, knowing that when he found the boy, Adam would want it with him. But as he got close, he was surprised by a sudden sound: A steady beep, beep, beep filled the room.
Brody froze then jerked his gaze to his jacket pocket.
Shoving a hand inside, he pulled out the modified RFID reader that Coffey had given him and discovered that he’d forgotten to turn it off. It was a small miracle that the battery hadn’t gone dead.
Holding it out in front of him, he waved it over the sheriff’s car and the beeping sound grew in intensity, like a Geiger counter discovering a radioactive mine.
Turning it off, he tossed it aside and grabbed hold of the toy, then he moved to Adam’s bed lamp and flicked it on.
Putting the car under the light, he carefully inspected it, looking for evidence of tampering—a gap in the metal or a loose screw. It was a clever hiding place. One that no one would ever think to check.
Staring at the wheels, he noticed that they were about the same diameter as the security tag he’d found in the garment factory. Pulling each one from its axle, he pried them open, one by one.
He found what he was looking for on his third try: another RFID button.
The button.
This one worth the kind of money that men were willing to kill for.
Dropping it into his pocket, he haphazardly replaced the wheels and returned the car to the pillow. He had to strategize now. Figure a way to let the bad guys know what he had in his possession and bargain for the Sanfords’ release.
Assuming, of course, they were still alive.
Please let them be alive.
Flicking off the bed lamp, he moved toward the door, but the moment he stepped past the threshold, the cold muzzle of a gun touched his temple.
“I want you to stand very still,” Frank Matson said. “Or you won’t be standing at all.”
Chapter Eighteen
Frank pushed him face-first against the wall and patted him down. “You just bit off a whole chunka hurt, Carpenter.”
“Cut the cop routine, Frank, I’m not
buying it.”
“What you’ve bought is a nice long stay at the state penitentiary. I’ve got two dead deputies downstairs, and it looks to me like I just caught me a killer. Where’s Anna?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
Frank spun him around and pushed the gun in his face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t even bother, Matson. I know you’re the one.”
“The one what?”
“You made a mistake not making sure I was dead. I saw your car. I saw you drive away.”
Frank scowled at him. “What’re you, high on something? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Go ahead. Play dumb. But if you hurt Anna or Adam, I’ll kill you. Plain and simple.”
Frank stared at him then lowered the gun, a puzzled look on his face. “Maybe you’d better back up a little. What are you trying to tell me?”
“I’m not an idiot. I know you’re behind all this—Owen, the attacks on Anna, the break-in last night. All because you want to get your hands on Owen’s little souvenir.”
Frank snorted. “And here I was thinking the same thing about you.”
“I know Owen didn’t like you much,” Brody said. “So how’d you talk him into cloning his security card? You threaten him? Tell him you’d hurt Anna and Adam? Northboard must be holding some pretty valuable property for you to be going to all this trouble.”
“You got it wrong, my friend.”
“Do I? Are you saying that wasn’t you out on the road tonight?”
“Out on what road? You’re not making any sense.”
“Somebody ran me down out there,” Brody said. “And the last thing I saw was your car.”
“What car? The unmarked? The patrol unit?”
Brody nodded.
“Come on, Carpenter, you know as well as I do that those units are standard-issue. They all look the same. So whoever mowed you down was either an imposter or one of our deputies gone rogue. But it sure as heck wasn’t me.”
“Why should I believe you?”
Frank shook his head in disgust. “I don’t think you’re in the position to be deciding who you should or shouldn’t believe. The way I look at it, you’re the one who set up Owen. And you’re the one who knows where Anna and Adam are.”
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