by Peg Herring
Mink had warned that being outside the law wouldn’t be easy. Never again could she assume no one was watching her. Never again would she be an innocent bystander. Any infraction of the law could bring discovery. Standing in a crowd that was being filmed or near a group posing for a photograph meant her image could be searched out and analyzed. She had to learn to hide her identity while disguising the fact that she was doing so.
Em patted Robin’s arm with cool fingers. “You’ve probably never played a role before, but now you have to, every single day.”
Though Robin didn’t argue, she had played a role for years. In public, she and Chris always pretended their home life was okay. They’d both been ashamed to tell anyone their father beat their mother whenever it pleased him and turned on Chris if he tried to stop him. They’d kept quiet about the cons, too, embarrassed by their participation in the duping of innocent victims. Only Robin’s best friend Shelly knew anything about Mark’s evil side, and she had never pressed for details. She’d just been there when Robin needed her, no matter how far apart they lived.
If she could pretend her father was a decent man back then, she could pretend to be anything she needed to now.
Unaware that Robin’s thoughts had wandered, Em went on. “A lot of what we did in the Bureau required the same skills you need now: making people believe what you tell them and hiding the fact that you’re so nervous you might throw up any second.” She paused. “Getting away with things is 90 percent inside your head. If you make yourself believe what you’re projecting, others will believe it too.”
“Okay,” Robin said. “What else?”
“You have to control your emotions. You can’t operate from anger—or from fear, for that matter.” She tapped her forehead. “Cultivate a cool head and an analytical mind.”
“But it makes me angry that there are so many jerks in the world.”
Em frowned. “Every two-bit crazy with a gun claims he just couldn’t take anymore. If you’re the girl I think you are, you don’t want to just react to evil. You want to make things better, which means you can’t go off half-cocked, like you did with the commissioner.”
Robin turned defensive. “It turned out okay.”
“Which was mostly luck,” Em responded. “There were a hundred times you might have been caught, and you still might, if Wyman has his way. Take my word for it, fear and anger aren’t your friends. You have to play it cool. That comes from knowing you’re doing the right thing and you’re prepared to do it right.”
“I’m not much for playing it cool.” She tried for a joke. “I’m usually more like stressed and self-doubting.”
Taking the empty glass from her hand, Em rose and set it in the sink. “With a little practice, I think you can.” She patted Robin’s shoulder, adding, “The possibility of prison time is great for motivation.”
Chapter Seven
Tearing off the top sheet of her notepad, Robin read through her new list.
Disguise kit
No capes or tights (Cam had suggested it, though she thought he’d been joking.)
Dark, shapeless clothing
Wigs, beards, mustaches?
Eyeglasses?
She’d made a dozen lists, trying to think of anything—everything—that might happen if they went after Senator Charles T. Buckram. She’d looked at Buckram’s recent votes, which were all over the place with no apparent belief system behind them. Though he had detractors who pointed out his inconsistencies, “Buck” Buckram’s folksy, brash manner resonated with voters. “He listens to his conscience,” one interviewee gushed.
His voting record told a different story. Anti-smoking bill? Yes. Continued tobacco subsidies? Yes. Encourage the establishment of new banks? Yes. Allow existing banks to buy up smaller ones? Of course. Buckram didn’t listen to his conscience. He listened to whoever offered the most money.
Watching video clips of Buckram’s public statements, Robin thought she detected the look of want seen in addicts’ eyes, although her perception might have been colored by what her brother had said. His vague resemblance to her father made her prone to dislike him. Even taking those things into account, Buckram needed to face his dishonesty and do something about it.
The rattle of cereal into a bowl alerted Robin to Cam’s presence in the kitchen. They’d fallen into a routine. He got up early, used the bathroom (which he left so neat she was amazed), and made himself breakfast. Robin remained in her bedroom until she heard him rummaging in the refrigerator and then took her turn in the bath. By the time she was ready for the day, Cam was on the couch with a breakfast Pepsi, in his mind the ultimate indulgence. His mother had been adamantly in favor of grapefruit juice for growing young men.
Though their time was spent mostly in companionable silence, they had discussed what they would do, could do, and should do. Robin now understood that Cameron’s dull aspect was largely due to a need for a second or two to process what was said to him. While information percolated through his unique brain, Cam’s expression went blank, causing the appearance of no thought at all. Once she learned to wait a few seconds after each utterance, she found him more capable of logical thought than she’d imagined. He even had an odd but enjoyable sense of humor.
Robin suspected Cam’s development was limited by overprotective parents as much as by his disability. His mother had decided when he was very young that since he was “different,” he should avoid the very things that might have helped him adapt and grow. Cam had never been to a museum, live theater, or a sporting event—beyond a few weeks in Little League where he’d failed miserably due to his slow reaction time. His idea of a family outing was a trip to a mall that had an arcade and a food court.
The idea of a KNP, as she’d begun thinking of it, appealed to Cam, who viewed kidnapping “bad guys” as a big adventure with a noble purpose. While Robin agreed their purpose in capturing Buckram was noble and would undoubtedly be adventurous, she had a hard time picturing success. It was great to fantasize about teaching the crooked, druggie senator a lesson, but that fantasy lived in her dreams, not in the realm of possibility. It had been a mistake to tell Cameron how she thought it might be done, because now he was so thrilled with the idea of striking a blow for Truth, Justice, and the American Way that he paid no attention to counterarguments.
She set her list aside. “Maybe we should forget this and find you a new place to live, Cam.”
“We can do it,” he insisted. “I’ll catch the guy, and you’ll talk to him, like you did Mr. Abrams.”
“We’re not even sure we got away with that,” she argued. “The guy who’s looking for you, Wyman—”
Cam dispatched an on-screen zombie with a squishy thud. “Em told him I moved, and he went away.”
“But it has to be Abrams who hired him.”
He shrugged it off. “He didn’t find me, so he gave up.”
“I hope so, Cam. I really hope so.”
Robin’s efforts to dissuade Cameron were weak because despite her doubts and fears, she wanted to go ahead with a second “KNP.” They’d bested one crook in a spur-of-the-moment, sloppily-planned event. This time, with advice from a lawyer and an ex-FBI agent, she dared to hope they might do it again. She’d already asked Andy, Mink’s forger client, to make a new identity for her. When the KNP was over—if she decided to go through with it, she and Cam could relocate together, maybe as sister and brother, and start new lives. She could tell Chris his hard work had paid off, and he’d be inspired to continue the work he was so passionate about.
Could they really do it? At times the answer was a resounding yes. Who’d suspect two people from Cedar, Georgia, of attacking a politician in a state they had no connection to? If they acted boldly, as they’d done with Abrams, it would be over in a couple of hours.
On the other hand, they were amateurs who’d been lucky once. That didn’t mean luck would be with them a second time. Someone might witness the abduction and call the police. Buckram might fight them o
ff and escape. One of them might lose the nerve the job required and freeze when the moment to act arrived. The task sounded noble and worthwhile. It might end up pitifully comedic.
Picking up her pen again, Robin added another note: Cheek & jaw pads. To cope with alternating excitement and dread, she’d begun making list after list. Items they might need. Possible scenarios. Escape plans. She did research on Chris’ research. She read everything she could find about the area where Buckram lived and his habits. Following Mink’s advice, she tried to think of everything that might go wrong and what their reaction should be in each instance. She tried to look at the task as a mathematical problem, requiring certain steps to achieve a final, correct answer. That meant setting aside her anger at the senator and even her pity for her brother. After looking at it from every angle, she concluded the KNP was doable. With the evidence she had compiled, it was also likely, though not certain, that the result would be worth the effort.
At the slightest hitch, she promised herself they’d abort the plan. If it was early in the process, they’d simply leave Richmond. If they were compromised, she and Cam would drive to Mexico, cross the border, and from there head to a country where they could disappear forever. She looked up from her notes. “Cam, if we have to run, would you like to go somewhere with a tropical climate?”
An on-screen ammo dump blew with an echoing boom. “Probably not. I hate snakes.”
“My sister-in-law says Bahrain is nice.”
“Okay.”
She studied his serene profile. “Could you really leave the States and never come back?”
He shrugged. “They got grocery stores there?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“And Wi-Fi?”
“I suppose so.”
“Then, sure.”
Robin wished for a moment she could adopt Cam’s linear way of thinking and shut out the “what ifs?” Of course she was the one who would actually make the decision, so she had to ask those questions. Before attempting a KNP on Buckram, she needed first-hand knowledge of the situation. She had to go to Richmond, scout the location, and gather evidence that would convince Buckram he was vulnerable to exposure. The most likely source of help there was the person who had backed out of talking to Chris.
Picking up her phone, she made a call. “Hey, Elder Brother. How are things in Indy?”
“Good,” Chris replied.
She wanted to make her call seem casual, so it took a while to work around to the senator with the drug problem. “That guy you told me about at dinner. Is it true he carries a concealed weapon?”
“That’s what I’ve read.” Chris’ tone changed. “What are you up to, Rob?”
“I’ve been thinking a lot about Mark lately.”
That brought a disgusted grunt. “Why would you waste your thoughts on our worthless old man?”
“That guy you told me about, Buckram. He seems to have a lot of the same qualities.”
“If you mean an inflated ego, a lack of compassion, and a talent for manipulating others, I agree.”
“The night he left for good, Chris. What were you and he fighting about?” The lack of answer told her what she’d long suspected. “About using us in his schemes?”
Chris sighed before replying. “I told Mom everything, all the stuff she didn’t want to know about how he made us help him scam people. She hated it. I thought she was going to put her hands over her ears and go “NANANANANA!” A grim chuckle, and then he added, “She was as mad at me as she was at him.”
“She had to face what he was. We had to be free of him.”
“Mom wouldn’t agree with you. She’d have put up with all of it: the lies, the petty crime, even the infidelity. When I laid it all out she was forced to face what he was, but she really didn’t want to.” His voice went wobbly. “And look what it got her.”
“A beating, but it was the last one. Once we all stood up to him together, he was done.”
“I just always knew some part of Mom resented it. She had to move. She had to get a job. She had to live without a man.”
“She was better off, even if she didn’t see it. And as for me—Brother, you saved my life.”
He bowed, acknowledging her candid statement. “What’s brought all this thinking about?”
“Like I said, this Buckram reminds me of Dear Old Dad. I’d like to do something to stop him.”
“Like what, Robin? I’ve put the info I have on the net, but no one seems to care.”
“I need to know the name of the source who changed her mind about telling you Buckram’s secrets, and don’t ask why, okay?”
He thought about that for a long time. “She won’t talk to you.”
“If she doesn’t, she doesn’t,” she said. “But I’m going to try.”
***
Em Kane stopped by most afternoons, and Robin got the sense the older woman was both lonely and bored. She claimed she knew no one in Cedar except doctors, and any mention of the usual socialization opportunities offered to senior citizens brought disparaging comments. “Bingo, for crying out loud!” Em snorted. “Every mark some old codger makes on a card gets him one square closer to the funeral parlor.”
Em sat in the most comfortable chair, in deference to her hip. She had taught herself to knit in retirement, so she usually arrived with her bag of yarn, needles, and some half-done project. Her needles clicked softly as she talked, manufacturing colorful clothing that would seldom, if ever, be worn.
It wasn’t that the things Em knitted were badly done. She made fine, even stitches in complicated patterns and worked with amazing speed. The problem was the color combinations she chose, which were nothing short of hideous. A muddy-looking scarf in purple and brown was followed by a red, yellow, and green vest that seemed unable to decide if it was celebrating Easter or Psychedelic Tuesday. Robin had received the vest and Cam the scarf, and for once Cam hadn’t spoken his mind. He’d thanked Em politely, and when she was gone told Robin, “Mom said just say thanks. The only explanation she could think was Ms. Kane is color-blind.”
Em became their instructor on how law enforcement operates. Cam played Dragon’s Revenge as she talked on and on, but Robin listened eagerly, determined to learn everything she could about real police procedure. Em said to ignore the fanciful stuff of TV drama. “There’s a lot less DNA testing and CODIS searching than most people think, due to cost, volume, and the lack of sophisticated equipment in most police departments. You’d have to come to the attention of someone with the resources and the determination to track you down.” Em sipped at the coffee Cam had made for her. “Your best protection is that your targets don’t want to bring in those resources, since their own dirty tricks might come to light.”
Thomas Wyman’s face appeared in Robin’s mind. He seemed pretty determined. If he located her or Cam, what then? Would he report to Abrams and walk away? Turn them in to the police? Or was he more sinister than she’d imagined? Was Wyman’s job to eliminate her and Cam for Abrams and erase the chance that his crimes would ever be exposed? Em dismissed her fears with a puff of air. “Finding Cam is just a job for him. When it’s clear he’s left Georgia, Wyman will lose interest and move on to other cases.”
Robin and Cam began closing their affairs in Cedar. She took her decrepit car to a local garage that reconditioned vehicles and sold them at discount prices. The man gave her the best price he could, which wasn’t much with all that was wrong with it. When Em offered the use of her car whenever they needed it, Cam also sold his mother’s Pontiac, letting Robin handle the deal when a couple arrived ready to buy.
Working quietly after midnight, Cam had gradually taken his clothes and the few other things he wanted from his apartment. They discussed what to do with what remained, and Robin warned gently that the plaid recliner, floral couch, and mismatched pressed-wood tables wouldn’t bring much if he offered them for sale. “Call the Salvation Army,” he suggested. “They say on TV they’ll come with a truck and take everything.”
>
He was right, and Robin was able to drop his keys in the landlord’s mailbox with a note severing Cam’s ties with Munson Apartments.
Em picked details about the second KNP—which Robin still insisted on referring to as tentative—out of Cam every time she got him alone. If Robin went to the grocery store, a frequent necessity due to Cam’s healthy appetite, she’d come home to find Em sitting at her kitchen table. The coffee pot now sat on the countertop full time, and the smell of freshly-made no-bakes, apparently Em’s only culinary accomplishment, accompanied the smell of percolating coffee. Cam waited on Em the way Robin imagined he’d waited on his mother. He always glanced helplessly at her when she came in, as if to say he didn’t know how to deny Em’s visits or refuse her brusque commands.
Em had no intention of telling anyone they’d kidnapped Commissioner Abrams. In fact, she seemed to see it as an achievement. “When I was at the Bureau,” she told them, “too many got away with stuff because we couldn’t prove what we knew they were up to.” Setting her knitting in her lap, she sipped at her coffee. “If I were twenty years younger, I’d jump into your scheme with both feet.”
“I bet you put plenty of criminals behind bars in your day.”
“And then it was over. You don’t miss the water till the well runs dry, Kiddo.” Picking up her knitting, Em started work again. “This bum hip stuck me behind a desk, and I didn’t feel like I was really on the job anymore. I decided to get out before they tossed me in the trash like a used sheet of Bounty.”
Robin wondered if Em’s limp was due to an on-the-job injury, like a bullet wound or a fall from a roof while chasing a bad guy. While she often told stories of old cases, Em never gave specifics about her own exploits. She also never mentioned a husband, kids, or family.
“Have you considered a hip replacement?” Robin asked.
Her smile was bitter. “Baby-doll, this is what I get after a hip replacement. There’s no more they can do.”
