CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Phil Lagrudo had aged since Josh last saw him. His hair, once salt and pepper, was wispy and white. His chest was smaller than Josh remembered, his midsection rounder.
“Hey, boss,” Josh said, and watched the former sheriff do a double take.
“Holy shit on a shingle. Metcalf?”
They went through the typical male greeting, ending with a manly clap on the back.
“Son, you look like hell.”
Josh could feel the grin spread across his face. “Can we come in?”
“Of course!” He shuffled back from the doorway to let Josh and Ryanne pass. “Damn, it’s good to see you! What’s it been, five years?”
“Five or six,” Josh replied. “It’s good to see you too, boss.”
“Is this your lady?” Lagrudo extended his hand. “Phil Lagrudo, ma’am.”
Ryanne blushed but shook his hand.
“This is Dr. Rowan Wilson,” Josh said.
“Doctor?” He winked at Josh. “Well done. Would you like some coffee?”
“Oh, yes please,” Ryanne said.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” Josh agreed.
“No trouble at all.” Lagrudo was already moving into the kitchen, and they followed. He filled the pot with water, ground some fresh beans, and set the machine to brew. “Please, have a seat. Have you had breakfast?”
“We didn’t come here to be a bother,” Josh said.
“It’s no bother! It’s not every day I get a visit from one of my favorite officers and a beautiful young doctor. Speaking of which, you probably get this all the time, but I’ve got this thing on my foot—”
Josh coughed.
“I’m a doctor of astronomy, actually,” Ryanne said. “And I’m starving, thank you.”
“Have we met before?” The former sheriff asked. Ryanne looked stricken by the question, and Josh jumped in.
“It’s a long story, boss. One best told on a full stomach.”
“I’m intrigued,” Lagrudo said as he pulled open the fridge door. “I’m sure you remember Marcy O’Donell?”
Josh could feel his cheeks warm.
“She’s Marcy Johnson now,” Lagrudo continued. “Married Matt Johnson about fifteen years back.”
“I heard,” Josh said, and the tone of his voice caused Ryanne to look at him curiously.
“Had themselves a few kids, too. Anyway, this is her quiche. She’s taken it as her mission to keep me fed since Aileen passed last year.”
“I’m sorry, boss. I didn’t know.”
Lagrudo shrugged. “How would you? She lived a good life, and didn’t suffer at the end. Just went to sleep one night and didn’t wake up the next morning. I hope I’m that lucky when my time comes.”
As the quiche was warming, he washed some grapes to go with it. He poured the coffee into mismatched mugs and set down the cream and sugar so they could doctor their coffee as they wished.
Lagrudo served up three wedges and handed over forks and napkins. Josh and Ryanne dug in with enthusiasm. The quiche disappeared quickly, and they polished off the grapes as well.
When they all had a second cup of coffee in hand, Lagrudo sat back and, with a tone that said “Let’s get down to brass tacks,” said “So what’s the deal, Metcalf? You in some kind of trouble?”
Josh gave him a wry smile of acknowledgment. “You could say that.”
“I figured as much. What I’m wondering, though, is what kind of trouble would lead you away from that fancy office in DC and land you on my doorstep instead.”
“If you saw my office . . .” Josh joked, but then turned serious. “The truth is, we’re in some serious danger, and you’re the only person I know for sure I can trust.”
“Well, I’m flattered.”
Josh knew what he was thinking. If he couldn’t trust the Bureau Boys, as Lagrudo called them, then whatever danger they were in was serious indeed.
“What’s this about, Josh?”
They had worked together for nine years, and Josh could only remember a handful of occasions when the sheriff had called him by his first name. One was at Josh’s dad’s funeral.
“The case. It’s always been the case. All those missing kids. Almost eight hundred of them now.”
“You’re still just as obsessed as you’ve always been.” It was a statement, not a question. His old boss knew, perhaps better than anyone, how that blood-covered backpack had changed the course of Josh’s life.
“I’m much worse, actually,” Josh said. “But I’ve finally had the break in the case I’ve been waiting for all these years.”
“No kidding?” The sheriff’s eyes settled on Ryanne with newfound interest.
Ryanne’s skin had turned ghostly save for two spots of color high up on each cheekbone, like stoplights. She looked so much like Sherry, it made Josh’s heart squeeze painfully in his chest. Another moment and Lagrudo would put the pieces together, but Josh beat him to it.
“Boss, say hello to Ryanne Jervis.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Sheriff Lagrudo was looking at me across the table as if I’d sprouted a nose in the middle of my forehead. He’d gone gray around the mouth, and I silently wished for a doctorate of medicine. My ability to calculate the speed of a main-belt asteroid would be of little use if he had a heart attack.
An older man, he had the bony shoulders and thick paunch of someone no longer in the best of health. I watched him nervously for signs of medical distress, only half listening as Josh brought him up to date on the investigation, explaining how he had figured out the kidnappers were using the PSST to find kids with ESP potential.
Josh told him about Jack Barbetti and Leora Wylie. The former sheriff settled into Josh’s story; there was clearly a sharp mind ticking behind those faded-blue eyes.
“And that’s how I found Ryanne,” he said. “She tried to stop Leora Wylie’s kidnapping, and got herself run over in the process.”
“Then you know who the kidnappers are!” Lagrudo exclaimed.
I shook my head. “I don’t.”
“Then how did you know this girl was going to be snatched?”
“She has ESP, boss. She had a dream . . . or a vision, or whatever you want to call it. And you’re right, I think she does know who the kidnappers are, but she doesn’t remember.”
“I don’t understand.” Lagrudo frowned.
“Her head’s been seriously messed with. She doesn’t remember anything before the age of eighteen, when she started at MIT. Obviously, she must have been well educated wherever she was, because she was able to get a degree in . . .” He stopped, embarrassed, and looked at me.
“I got a master’s from MIT in aeronautics and astronautics, with a minor in astronomy, and I just completed my doctorate at NMSU.” Phil Lagrudo whistled in admiration and Josh nodded in agreement, which made me squirm.
Clearing my throat, I told him about my loss of memory, my visit to Kahina, and Leora’s kidnapping. Josh jumped in and explained how he found me in the hospital, and described the hypnosis session with Kahina. It was the first time I had heard in detail what had happened while I was in the black. When he finished, I described the hit man Josh had subdued. Lagrudo’s bushy eyebrows became one with his hairline at that little nugget of information.
Josh finished with the details of Kahina’s death, squeezing my hand under the table. He mapped out his plan to head back to Washington, and his desire to find Sumner Macey, the missing director of the PSST Division.
“I really want to find him; I suspect he holds a huge piece of the puzzle. I also want to pay Deputy Director Warner a visit.”
“I’d imagine you do,” Lagrudo said with a grim smile. “I’m guessing this is where I come in. Do you want me to watch over Ms. Jervis while you head back to DC?”
“I’m going
with Josh!” I chimed in, afraid this had been Josh’s plan all along. If he thought he was going to stick me out of the way with a retired sheriff as a babysitter, he had another think coming, and to hell with following his orders!
Thankfully, Josh shook his head. “No, I need Ryanne with me.” He squeezed my hand again—a gentle promise that we were in this together—and I relaxed marginally.
Lagrudo seemed to think poorly of the idea. “You’re putting her in danger by bringing her with you, Metcalf.”
Josh shrugged. “She’s in danger no matter where she is. Don’t worry, boss, I’d lay down my life to protect her.”
Lagrudo looked at him strangely. “I’m sure you would, but . . .”
“I need her with me. She knows things, and at any time she might remember something crucial.”
Lagrudo looked like he was going to continue arguing, but he nodded instead. “All right. So what do you need?”
“I need a vehicle, something untraceable. And I need you to get rid of that Ford Fusion out there. I also need a couple of bulletproof vests, some more ammo, and at least one more gun. Really, any kind of weaponry would be great.” As he spoke, his jaw tightened and his eyes became hard.
“I also need any kind of surveillance gear you can get your hands on, and some untraceable cell phones. I’ve got the money to pay for most of it. Well, maybe not the car.”
“I’ve got deep pockets,” Lagrudo said with a dismissive wave. “You know what they say about old dogs and new tricks? It ain’t true. I’ve been sharpening my teeth on PI work since retirement. It keeps me up on all the latest and greatest. Let me see what I can do.” With that, Lagrudo eased himself up from the kitchen table, purpose straightening his spine, and left the room.
I looked at Josh. “Are we supposed to follow him?”
He shrugged, and then smiled at me. “Why don’t you finish your coffee first? You look like you need it.”
“You’re one to talk.” But I did as he suggested.
The former sheriff of Elkhorn proved to be an excellent source for semilegal and contraband stuff. By lunchtime, he had amassed an arsenal of surveillance and countersurveillance equipment, most of which looked like weird doohickeys attached to tangles of wire.
He laid it all out on the coffee table in his living room, along with several guns of varying sizes. Josh seemed pleased with what he saw, and they began an in-depth discussion about the benefits of one caliber versus another.
“Have you seen this one before?” Lagrudo was stroking the barrel of a big black handgun.
“Oh, look at that.” I could hear the reverence in Josh’s voice.
“This beauty is a Fabrique Nationale Five-SeveN semiautomatic. It works on delayed blowback, and it’s got a twenty-round detachable box magazine and sound suppressor. It uses a five-point-seven by twenty-eight-millimeter cartridge, so it’s got less recoil and better accuracy. It’s designed to have excellent penetration and range, so it’s ideal against Kevlar protection.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means it can better penetrate a bulletproof vest,” Josh answered, sighting down the length of the barrel.
“Oh. Great,” I said faintly.
“This one’s for you.” Lagrudo picked up a smaller pistol from the table. “It’s a Glock twenty-seven Gen-four, in forty caliber. It’s lightweight and easy to use, and it has a grip that can be adjusted to your hand. Many people in law enforcement use it as a backup weapon. This one is brand-new, courtesy of the Elkhorn Sheriff’s Department.”
“Great. Thanks,” I said, but made no move to take it from him.
He smiled. “It’s not loaded, but I’ll let Josh teach you how to use it.” Josh nodded in agreement.
“Here, try this on.” Josh approached me with a dark-blue vest. He helped me to take off the sling before securing my vest, tightening the Velcro straps until it was snug against my chest.
“Sexy,” I commented, and he smiled.
“Alive is always sexy.” He eased my arm back into the sling. “It’s better worn underneath your shirt, but I figured you might not want my help with that.” He returned to the table with the excitement of a kid at Christmas.
I tuned them out as they continued to work their way through the contents of the table, and snapped to attention only when they left the living room.
“Hey! Where are you going?” I jumped up and hobbled after them.
Apparently, they were going to the garage, which was off the kitchen. I found them standing in the doorway, admiring whatever was in there. Josh turned, overcome, and hugged his former boss. The two men disappeared into the dimness, and I followed, stopping in the doorway.
It was a black Chevy Suburban with tinted windows, a bit dinged up but still in decent shape. It was a nice vehicle, but I couldn’t quite understand Josh’s extreme reaction.
“Are you absolutely sure?” he was saying.
“Of course I’m sure. It’s a 2005, but it runs well. I bought it a few years ago; it’s just been sitting here collecting dust.”
“But it must have cost you a small fortune!” Josh was protesting.
“I got a good deal on it. I cashed in on a favor. It only cost me twenty grand.”
“Twenty grand for a 2005 Suburban?” I couldn’t help but chime in. “You got ripped off.”
“It’s not just a Suburban,” Josh corrected. “It’s an armored vehicle.”
“With all the gadgets,” Phil Lagrudo added, and I got the feeling he hadn’t enjoyed himself quite this much in years. “It’s got a navigation system, front and rear cameras, an outside listening device, hidden strobe lights in all four corners, front and rear stealth buttons, and a remote starter. It’s also got a pretty good stereo.”
“Seriously boss, this is too much. I can’t take it.”
“You can and you will. What good is it going to do me sitting in the garage, when it could be saving your life, and that of Ms. Jervis here? You said you’d do anything to protect her,” he pointed out.
Josh met my gaze. “You’re right, I did.”
“Well then, discussion over. Let’s get your gear loaded in.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Before they left Elkhorn, Josh took Ryanne on a tour of the area, hoping to spark her memory. He drove slowly down Main Street, pointing out the businesses that would have been around in 1988. They wove their way to Westridge Elementary School and parked in front of a “Children Crossing” sign.
Ryanne got out of the vehicle and made her way toward the school grounds, her hair aflame in the afternoon sun. He caught up with her at the chain-link fence and gently placed her new coat over her shoulders, hiding the Kevlar vest underneath.
Her fingers were curled around the chain link, and she was gazing at the playground, her expression distant and unreadable. The image struck a chord deep within him. The girl on the outside, forever looking in.
The bell rang and kids swarmed down the steps, laughing and chattering. They made their way to the bike racks, or wandered in small clusters to the sidewalk for a short walk home, or made their way to a waiting parent parked at the curb.
Had any of those parents been Ryanne’s classmates, once upon a time? Did they pick up their children out of convenience, or because they remembered the girl with the red hair? Were they haunted by her, as he was? Ryanne watched them, and Josh watched her.
Finally, he had to ask. “Do you remember anything?”
At first she didn’t answer, and he wondered if she had heard him. He followed her gaze until he saw what had transfixed her. A lone girl, sitting on a bench, knees pulled up to her chest. Her hair was blond instead of red, but even from a distance, Josh could see the knots in her hair and the dirt that smudged her sleeves.
“I remember being alone.” She pulled away from the fence, turning her back on Westridge Elementary Schoo
l and the childhood she’d never had.
The house where Ryanne had spent the first seven years of her life had been torn down, leaving nothing but overgrowth in its place. He pulled to a stop, remembering the day he had bounced across the side yard in his 1978 Ford Fairmont, kicking dirt up into the hot summer air. He had been so young then, about to take that first step along a path filled with twists and turns that would eventually circle him back to this very same spot.
“Keep going,” she hissed.
He turned to look at her, pulling himself back to the present. “What?”
She wasn’t looking at the property where her childhood home had once stood, but rather across the street to Mt. Calvary Cemetery.
“Get me out of here!” Her voice caught in her throat. Her breath was coming in ragged gasps, her skin bathed in sweat.
Whatever was going on, she was terrified. A healthy dose of adrenaline thundered through his veins, and he slammed the Suburban into gear. They shot forward and spun the wheels, angling back onto Skyline Road.
“What’s going on?” he asked once he had the Suburban under control and they were barreling away from the cemetery. His heart was roaring inside his chest, a beast trying to escape.
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Wheezing, she rolled herself into a ball, her face on her knees, her back trembling.
“You’re going to hyperventilate! Ryanne, calm down and tell me what’s going on!” He realized the irony of shouting at her to calm down, but he couldn’t help it.
With concentrated effort, she slowed her breathing and eventually sat back up, eyes closed and head leaning against the headrest. Her skin had a faint gray tinge to it, and was shiny with sweat.
“I’m sorry,” she managed. “I can’t believe that’s where I lived! I hate cemeteries.”
“Why?” he asked, although he could feel the back of his neck prickling.
“Do you really want to know?” she asked.
His laugh was strangled, strange to his ears. “No. I don’t.”
The Faithful Page 24
