Her fourth credit card? She’d held back on using the high-interest plastic, saving it for the direst of emergencies. Did her present circumstances constitute such an emergency? Should she charge upwards of $300 a day for hotel and meals, adding to the already untenable payments?
No.
She’d run the numbers multiple times over the past several days while packing up her belongings. Each time, regardless of the scenario she employed, she’d arrived at the same conclusion: She was as good as broke. One or two months without a paycheck and she would default on her bills.
Despite her usual inclination to indulge herself, Genie was a realist. Even if an Albuquerque or Santa Fe law firm extended her a job offer and she began working within the next two weeks, her first paychecks would not arrive fast enough to balance first and last month’s rent on an apartment and payments on her credit card debt—and as an attorney seeking employment, she could not afford any black marks on her credit report.
Another realization hit her. I will need a car. She hadn’t needed a car to commute to work in the D.C. Metro area. She blew out a frustrated breath and shook her head: Another unforeseen expense.
The cab driver interrupted Genie’s thoughts. “Where to, miss?”
Genie lifted her chin and gave the driver Gemma’s address. As the cab pulled away from the curb, Genie fingered her key ring and the single key hanging from it—the key to her sister’s house. When Genie had visited Albuquerque in early November—in response to Mrs. Calderón’s paranoid phone calls—Genie had retrieved Gemma’s spare key from under a flower pot on the side of the house and used it to enter her sister’s house to snoop around.
Then Gemma’s nosy friend had confronted Genie and threatened to have her arrested for trespassing! Of all the nerve . . .
Genie’s eyes narrowed. The young man’s unyielding attitude had surprised and unnerved Genie—as had his immunity to Genie’s flirtatious wiles. Instead of pressing the argument, Genie had stalked to her rental car and driven away—with the house key in her pocket.
Yes, the handsome man’s intensity had momentarily stunned her. Something in his eyes. Or perhaps it was the shock of him saying he was Gemma’s pastor.
Pastor? Genie mouthed the word and sneered. Ah, Gemma. I always knew you were a weak, emotionally needy brat.
Zander Cruz. Pastor Zander Cruz. His name reminded Genie of her latest visit to Albuquerque.
Was I really here less than two weeks ago? And now I’m jobless and stuck in this town?
Genie inhaled a long, deep breath to calm herself, but the resentful thoughts refused to be pacified. First Cushing had tried to recruit Genie to return to Albuquerque and assist Cushing in her search for Gemma; when Genie refused Cushing’s “invitation,” the woman had threatened and manipulated the senior partners of Genie’s law firm—and the partners, to placate Cushing, had forced Genie to assist Cushing.
In turn, that woman had used Genie in an absurd scheme—an attempt to entrap some FBI agent. When Cushing’s ridiculous plan had miscarried, she had tossed Genie away like so much trash. Not content with dismissing Genie without ceremony, Cushing had arranged for Genie to lose her job. The senior partners of her law firm had added to her punishment by blacklisting her everywhere but in New Mexico.
Genie Keyes did not appreciate being made a scapegoat. She rarely suffered an insult without repayment in kind—or better.
Payback. Yes.
Genie itched to repay Cushing, which is why, before she’d left Albuquerque two weeks past, she’d lowered herself to visit Pastor Zander Cruz in his dingy church office. She’d gone to Cruz with the intention of picking his brain and had even suggested that they shared a common enemy and could be of help to each other.
The exchange had not gone well.
Genie was still smarting from Cruz’s dressing down. Or were his so-called “spiritual insights” what bothered her so much?
She shook off the disquieting memory of their meeting.
As the cab neared the house where Gemma and Genie had grown up with their aunt, Genie’s stomach roiled. She knew that the side doorway between the house and garage had been boarded up: The SWAT team that had raided the place looking for her sister had destroyed the two doors. Genie’s plan rode on whether the front doors were intact, the locks unchanged.
“Pull into the driveway, please.”
The cabbie eased into the driveway, and Genie studied the front entrance. The security door and wooden door behind the heavy metal mesh seemed undamaged, unchanged.
Genie took another deep breath. “Wait for me while I open the door.” She squelched her nerves, got out, and walked up the porch steps. She slipped the key into the first deadbolt. The key turned with ease, and Genie’s mouth tightened into a small smile.
She waved to the driver to bring her bags before she entered the house.
***
On the other side of the cul-de-sac, Abe Pickering bit off a groan as he eased himself down to the floor, onto his knees. He leaned his elbows on the bed and sighed. “Don’t mind me, Lord. I’m fine once I get down here. The ‘getting down here’ part is a little rough, but I don’t mind none. I just want to spend some time with you and bring you my heart. Again.”
As had been his three- and often four-times-daily practice since the police had informed him of Emilio’s kidnapping, Abe bowed his head. He sighed and rubbed his hand across his skull, his fingers massaging what had been a wide gash and, under the gash, a cracked skull. The hospital had shaved his head down to the scalp and stitched the split skin together. Now that the swelling had subsided some, the healing wound itched like the dickens. His hair was coming back in, too, a coarse, white stubble that pricked and tickled his scalp.
He yanked his attention back to Emilio, and his heart thudded.
“You know I didn’t ask for that boy, Lord. Thought Gemma was crazy, askin’ me to keep and foster him! Still, you saw fit to give that child to me. Like you did with the Good Samaritan, you put that boy right in my path for me to tend to.
“You don’t make mistakes, so I guess you knew I needed Emilio as much as he needed me. Anyways, I learned to care about that boy, Lord. I care about him a lot!”
Abe licked his lips. The police had called earlier in the day with additional information—and it was not good news. Abe’s natural, human tendency was to blurt out something along the lines of, “If you were gonna take that child from me, why did you give him to me in the first place?” but he knew better than to blame God for the actions of a depraved sinner.
“Lord God, you are greater than any heartless, drug-dealin’ criminal like this Soto fellow. You are greater than any gang, greater than any devil or demon. I call on you, Almighty God, to rescue my Emilio from this evil man’s grasp. I’m asking in the name of Jesus that you come to Emilio’s rescue and deliver him back to me, safe and sound, so’s I can raise him right, Lord.
“I’ve never raised a child before, Father, but I’m willin’ to try, willin’ to do my best with him. When you bring him home to me, I will love that boy and give you all the glory. Amen.”
Getting up from his knees was harder than getting down. His arms, ribs, and chest were still tender from the beating Emilio’s uncle and two of his crew had laid on Abe and DCC’s young associate pastor, Zander Cruz.
Abe leaned his arms on the bed, got one foot under him, and levered himself up until he could drag his other foot onto the floor and push himself to standing. He was panting when he stood upright, a little wobbly, but relieved.
“Thank you, Jesus! You are my Strength, Lord, even when I’m as weak as a baby.”
He steadied himself, shuffled out to the kitchen, and poured himself a mug of coffee. Before he picked up the mug, he slipped his snub-nosed revolver into the pocket of his sweater. It was a longstanding habit, one he would not give up any time soon. Then he unlocked the door and shuffled to the swing on his front porch.
Abe lowered himself into the seat and set the swing moving at a
slow, sedate pace. While he took his first sip of coffee, he scanned the neighborhood around the cul-de-sac as he always did, starting with Emilio’s uncle’s house on his left. According to what Arnaldo Soto had told Gemma, Mateo wouldn’t be coming back: Soto had confessed to burying Mateo’s body somewhere on Albuquerque’s west mesa. Gemma had passed the word on to Abe through Zander about a week ago.
Gemma. Just about the whole state was looking for her. Oh, the news hadn’t specified who exactly was being hunted—or why—but since that General Cushing woman was running the show, Abe knew it had to be Gemma.
“Lord, I’m reminding you about my girl, too. Please keep her safe? Thank you.”
On several levels, Abe was grateful for the news about Mateo. He whispered, mostly to himself, partly in prayer. “I’m too old to take a beatin’ like that again. In fact, if Gemma’s nano-thingies hadn’t helped me out, I might, right now, be havin’ closer communion with you, Lord, than I’d planned.”
Abe nodded at Mateo’s house, its windows dark as the afternoon wore on toward twilight. “Glad that boy doesn’t need to worry none about his gang-banger uncle, either. Mateo can’t hurt Emilio ever again.”
He sipped from his mug, his thoughts returning to Emilio. “Now that I’ve been approved as a foster parent, Lord, I can give that boy the stability he’s never had. I’m grateful for the opportunity—long as I don’t up and die any time soon, Lord.”
He gave the swing another push with his toe. “Not that you need a reminder, Father,” he added.
Abe turned his watchful gaze from Mateo’s house onto the next one over, noting with pleasure how the Flores’ shrubs, trees, and eaves were twined with Christmas lights. As the twilight deepened, the lights shone like brilliant stars.
Abe blinked. “Well! Gonna have me a boy for Christmas? Never had a child at Christmas—just might be fun! Guess I’d better get a move on and get my lights and tree up soon, hey, Lord? Got to be ready when you bring that boy home to me.”
Abe was pondering what Emilio might like to find under the Christmas tree as he gave the Flores’ yard a last look and shifted his eyes toward Gemma’s home. Like Mateo’s house, Gemma’s place would be abandoned, cold and dark, the side door boarded up, and—
Abe jerked upright. Gemma’s place was lit up, every window glowing.
“God bless America!”
He dropped his mug on the porch railing and stumbled down the steps. On his way across the cul-de-sac, he touched his pocket several times to ensure that the revolver was within easy reach. By the time he reached Gemma’s front door, he was breathless; his heart pounded against his tender, aching ribs.
He rang the bell and stood to the side of the door. Just in case. Abe didn’t know what “just in case” might be, but after the events of the last few weeks, he was taking no chances.
“Who is it?”
The voice was similar to Gemma’s but strident. Higher pitched.
“It’s Abe Pickering, Genie.”
She didn’t answer, but after he had waited fifteen or twenty seconds, she opened the inside door.
“Yes?”
“Surprised to see you here, Miss Genie.”
“I’m house sitting for Gemma. Until she comes home.”
“Are you, now? House sitting? Hmm. And does Gemma know you’re ‘house sitting’ for her?”
Genie was prepared for any objections her presence might produce. “Why do you ask, Mr. Pickering? I understand Homeland Security is looking for her. Have you seen her? Been in contact with her? Should I call General Cushing and let her know that you’ve heard from Gemma?”
Abe stared through the security door’s metal mesh. Genie stared back, daring him to object to her presence in Gemma’s house. She had him over a barrel and knew it.
“I was just surprised to see lights on, is all, and you bein’ here just a couple weeks back.”
“Oh. Well, as it turns out, I’ve, um, relocated to Albuquerque. I’ll be house sitting for Gemma for the foreseeable future or until . . . she returns.”
The way she said it, said “until she returns”—like she knew Gemma was never coming back—bristled the hair on the back of Abe’s neck. Bristled his temper, too. He had to talk himself out of the few choice words that sprang to his lips.
Lord, you better help me here. I don’t want to say something I’ll regret.
After a moment, he swallowed and tried to smile, the effort akin to cracking a cement slab. “Well, I’m sure Gemma would be glad to hear you are taking care of the place, Miss Genie.”
He paused, then added, “If you need anything, let me know. Been fixin’ little things over here for nigh on thirty years now, first for Lucy, then for Gemma. The furnace . . .” he took a breath, “the furnace can be contrary now and again, so you let me know if it gives you any problems, hear?”
Genie, backlit by the lamp in the living room, studied him. “All right.” She seemed ready to close the door but hesitated. “I may do that. Thank you.”
The “I may do that” seemed forced to Abe’s ears, but no more odd than Genie thanking him. “Well, then. Good night, Miss Genie.”
He turned and hobbled down the steps, and Genie closed the door behind him without another word.
He whispered as he crossed the cul-de-sac, “Lord? Whatever that girl is doing, it can’t be good. House sitting? My left foot!”
He was still puzzling over the unexpected turn of events when he reached his own porch. “And she almost accepted my offer of help. Not like our Genie, Lord. Not at all.”
He slowly climbed his porch, retrieved his coffee mug, and headed inside, a bit worried, his mind in a muddle. “Gemma won’t like that Genie is in her house, Lord, but don’t know what she can do about it—’specially as she’s in hiding. But why, why would Genie want to stay over there? Not nearly as highfalutin’ as she likes her digs. Surprised she’d even want to sleep there.”
As he closed the door, Abe stopped, an inkling of a possibility coming to him. “And why would she ‘relocate’ here, anyway? She dislikes New Mexico, so why move here? Unless. Unless she had to, unless she was forced to.”
He frowned. “Did that girl lose her job? Is she in financial straits?” Nodding his head, he answered himself. “Yep. Dollars t’ donuts, I’ve hit on it. Only thing that explains why she would show up and take over Gemma’s house. If she’s flat busted, she’s gotta have a roof over her head, and Gemma’s place bein’ empty is mighty convenient.”
Abe knew whom he needed to tell—and right away. He reached his phone and dialed Zander’s number. Zander had a way to reach Gemma. He could tell her. Warn her.
The phone rang and rang and went to voice mail. Again. Abe hung up without leaving a message. He’d already left several.
“Been doin’ that for days now. Where are you, Pastor?” Abe didn’t want to admit it, but his concern was growing, and he felt a little faint. “Emilio’s been gone since Monday and, far as I know, neither Zander nor Gemma know ’bout it.”
Holding the wall for balance, Abe made his way back to his bedroom. He leaned on his bed, but conceded that if he made it down to his knees, he might not make it back up. Instead, he sat on the bed’s edge, and the comfortable, well-worn mattress embraced him.
He settled into the cushioned seat and bowed his head. “Lord, you know everything. You know everything ’cause you made everything. You know all the stars, all the planets, all the moons—and you know all this earth. You know every sparrow and you count every hair on our heads. Mind you, I ain’t got as many hairs as I used to and some are mighty short, but m’ point being’, you know, Lord. You see, you hear, you know.
“You know where my boy Emilio is. You know where Zander is. You know where Gemma is. I need t’ talk to Zander, Lord, if for no other reason than to ease my mind. Please have him call me, Lord? And I thank you.”
Abe’s stomach growled. He glanced at a clock and was surprised to see that it was past seven o’clock. “Well, hey there, Lord. Guess I l
ost track of the time.” He felt better for having prayed again, and hobbled toward the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and viewed his options.
“Got everything here for that spaghetti dinner I promised Emilio. Said I’d fix it t’ celebrate when he came home to me.” He stared at the vegetables in the crisper and the hamburger thawing in the meat drawer. The vision of a plate of pasta covered in good, meaty sauce made his mouth water.
But he shook his head. “No. No, sir.” He closed the fridge and opened a cupboard, taking down a tall can of clam chowder. He snagged the ring on the lid and pulled up. Dumped the contents into a bowl. A moment later he was watching the bowl revolve on the microwave’s turntable. “I might be actin’ foolish, Lord, but I refuse to make spaghetti again until my boy comes home.”
~~**~~
Chapter 7
Across town, hours later, Zander got up from his knees. He’d spent the afternoon and evening in prayer for Gemma, Gamble, and Dr. Bickel. After Gemma had called him from Dr. Bickel’s safe house to report their success, Zander had gone right back to his knees, giving thanks for Dr. Bickel’s safe harbor at the FBI offices and for Gemma and Gamble’s victory over Cushing’s bald-faced attempt to snatch Dr. Bickel out of the FBI’s care. He also offered thanks for—God willing—a return to some semblance of normalcy soon.
He glanced at the burner phone resting on the arm of his chair and sighed. “Lord, will there ever be a ‘normal’ for Gemma? For us? She seems so convinced that there can’t be, but I’m not ready to throw in the towel—not by a long shot.”
Gemma had declared that the nanomites’ changes to her body meant she was no longer (not technically) human. She’d said, “It means we can’t be together, Zander.”
“But that can’t be true, Lord! Gemma has a soul. No matter what the nanomites have done to her, you love her, and you reached down and saved her. And she said that you told her not to be afraid of what the nanomites would do. You even told her that you had plans for her—so I refuse to give up on her or on us.”
Stealth Retribution Page 7
