“I’m not saying don’t worry. But I’m saying that this behavior is probably to be expected after the shooting. In fact, his natural reaction to events is rather encouraging.”
Encouraging? Really?
“Because he’s processing what happened exactly the way I’d expect a ‘neurotypical’ child to process it.”
His patient smile was starting to annoy her. Almost as much as when he’d explained using very small words how not all people with prodigious talents—i.e. Michael’s drawing ability—were savants. And people with a true savant syndrome always had some underlying developmental or physical disability, and the good doctor wasn’t sure whether Michael’s lack of speech fit that criteria. The paradox of genius being intertwined with disability, he said. She’d argued that Michael’s artistic ability combined with his incredible memory for detail—he only had to see something once to recreate it perfectly—was conclusive proof. Apparently not.
Some people were just gifted, the doctor had explained. And some people were mute. As far as he knew Michael was the only child who was both. He was reluctant to put a label on Michael without more tests.
It wasn’t like she wanted Michael to be autistic or suffer from Asperger’s. What she wanted was answers to questions that had hounded her for four long years, and a way of helping her son be everything he could be in life.
She took a deep breath. Hinkle was the expert and the human brain was still largely a mystery, but if anyone could reach Michael it was someone who specialized in this sort of condition. “Not that he has a recognized condition,” she muttered under her breath.
“Pardon?” The man’s eyes twinkled.
“Nothing. Sorry.” She swallowed the knot of frustration stuck in her throat. She had asked him here. It was only fair to listen to what the man had to say.
“I’ll go talk to him now.” He removed his overcoat and handed it to her. “Coffee would be wonderful, milk and two sugars.”
The doctor walked away as her mouth dropped open. Rogers waggled his finger at her as if he could read her mind. A reluctant laugh popped out. The marshals were amazing, combining duty with a sense of humor that stopped her from choking to death on the terror of it all.
She put on the coffee.
Hinkle sat on the chair beside Michael and started talking to him softly. Her son turned away, but the doctor kept talking. She stood in the kitchen watching from a distance. It was overcast outside. The snow had finally stopped falling, but winter was just starting. She tapped her nails on the granite counter as she strained to hear what was being said. Maybe one day she’d stop being a control freak when it came to her son, but today wasn’t that day. She edged closer but the doctor gave a hefty sigh, closed his folder and stood up. He walked over to where she was pouring out his coffee.
He took the mug, stirring in his own sugar. Three spoonfuls. “I think Michael needs a little more time to come to terms with what happened. I don’t want to push him. His brain is simply overwhelmed and over-stimulated and he’s withdrawn to protect himself.”
“What can I do for him?” she asked.
“Peace. Quiet. Space to just be for a little time.”
That’s it? That was his expert advice? “O-kaay.”
“Do you want to talk about what happened?” He eyed her kindly.
She flinched. The image of blood smeared across the mall floor flashed through her brain. The sounds of terrified screams and gunfire. She crossed her arms. “No. I don’t want to talk about it. Not yet.”
He smiled, patiently.
Maybe he was right. Maybe her son just needed time that she was too impatient to give him. The doctor had come here for nothing. “I’m sorry I wasted your time, Doctor.”
“Not at all, Ms. Vincent. Not at all. I think even the reintroduction of a familiar face from before the shooting is proof to Michael that the world didn’t end yesterday. Under ordinary circumstances I’d say to go home and recover in his usual surroundings but with this threat to his life you’ll need to improvise. Try and recreate all the things that are most important to him. The food he eats. Your daily routines.”
Vivi thought about Michael’s routine. School, friends, and home were unavailable. But she could paint his room and put some of the posters he had at home on the wall. She knew where to buy them online. “Thank you for your help, Doctor.”
“I’m glad I could do something during our city’s period of need.”
Vivi looked toward Michael but he wasn’t there anymore. She blinked in surprise.
“He’s probably just in the bathroom,” the doctor assured her with a squeeze of her arm. “Give him some space.” Every inch of his crinkled brow screamed ‘over-protective mother.’
Relax. Calm down. He’ll be fine. All mantras from her marriage. Her divorce a testament to her inability to do any of those things when it came to her son.
She gave the doctor a pinched smile. “Of course.”
Rogers asked the doc a question about how heavy the traffic had been on the drive out and Vivi edged away and went into the living room. She searched behind the curtains and behind the arm chair. She even checked a small cupboard beneath a shelving unit but there was nothing there except a chess set. Good to know. Michael liked chess.
She went through the other door from the lounge to the corridor that ran to the back door. Nothing. She walked into the laundry room, opening cupboards and bending to look under the sink.
“Michael?” she called. There was a sound from inside the attached garage where the marshals parked their cars. She pulled the door open and was hit by a blast of cold air. She shut the door behind her so the house didn’t get more frigid than it already was. Vivi’s teeth chattered. “Michael, come on, it’s too cold for you to stay in here. She’d discovered the heating was kept low so no one looking at electricity consumption would red flag the property as newly occupied. While she appreciated the thoroughness of the operation she would appreciate a little more heat. The cold penetrated her thick woolen socks. Her cuts were tender but healing fast. She searched around the whole double garage but there was no place to hide. Where was he? She peered inside both vehicles. Then she noticed the trunk of Roger’s silver sedan was open just an inch. There. She released a long, hard breath.
Small dark places.
She opened the lid and found him wrapped in a thick wool blanket, next to a snow shovel. “Oh, Michael.” The sadness in his gaze begged her to leave him alone, but she couldn’t do it.
Instead, she carefully climbed into the trunk with him. The carpet was clean and it had that new car smell. She sighed, remembering her own car was still at the hotel. She needed to ask Brennan to take care of it for her. She pulled the lid down just enough to plunge them into shadow, then she wrapped herself tight around her son’s shivering frame, burrowing beneath the blanket with him. She kissed the top of his head. “I love you, Michael.”
He squeezed her arm. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. They lay there quietly listening to the sounds of the wind whistling outside. There was no spare flesh on his bones. He shook against her with cold but obviously would rather be here than warmer somewhere else. Right now she had to give him what he needed. After a few minutes their body heat warmed them enough that they both stopped shivering. Her thoughts calmed. Who knew the trunk of a car would prove so relaxing? They both started to drift off to sleep.
The sound of glass shattering broke her reverie. All her muscles tensed. What was that? Had someone dropped a glass?
“Stay here.” She edged out of the trunk, carefully opened the door and peered through into the house. She slipped through the laundry room and across the hallway into the lounge. What was happening? Dr. Hinkle crouched behind the kitchen counter. Then the unmistakable pop of gunfire made her want to flee, but she was frozen in place. The front door opened, Marshal Rogers in a firing stance as he shot at something outside. A bullet cut through the drywall above her head and she ducked. A man cried out in pain. Oh, no! T
hat was Rogers. Had he been hit?
She hugged a wall and almost sobbed in terror. She needed a gun. A weapon. Anything to help protect themselves. Footsteps hammered as someone ran up the stairs, toward where she and Michael slept.
The terrorists had found them. They’d tracked them down and the bad guys truly wanted them dead. She scurried into the kitchen on her knees to try and get Dr. Hinkle to come hide with them. But before she could reach him his body jolted and fell.
A masked stranger stood in front of her. Not dark skinned or swarthy; the skin around his blue eyes was pale. She sucked in a breath to scream but the sound of a shot and the red bloom of blood on the front of the man’s shirt stopped her. The bad guy crashed to the floor and Rogers caught her eye.
“Run,” he mouthed. The light in his eyes dimmed and he slumped to the side. Right in front of her eyes the man who’d sworn to protect them, died.
Gunshots rang out upstairs. The marshals would have called for back-up but how long before it arrived? Fight or flight? Neither option was going to save them today. Nor did she have the car keys or the skills to hot-wire a vehicle. She had to protect Michael and stealth and guile were their best chance. She grabbed the pistol out of the gunman’s hand, then ran silently back to the garage, closing the door quietly behind her, listening to more gunfire being exchanged upstairs—Patton must be up there. Oh, please let the troops arrive before he was hurt. She got into the trunk, thankful Michael was still there, unharmed. The sound of sirens started quietly filling the air. Thank you.
“Help is coming.”
Michael shook in renewed fear.
“I won’t let them hurt you.” She shielded her son with her body, spread the blanket over them, trying to make sure it covered their entire form from head to toe. Quickly, she reached up and pulled the trunk shut. The metallic click sounded like a prison door clanging shut. If the bad guys caught them here there was nowhere to run.
It was the best she could do. She pointed the gun toward where anyone who opened the trunk was most likely to stand, more than willing to pull the trigger. The metal hull muted the noise outside, muffled the sounds of feet pounding, men shouting, and more gunfire. All she could do was defend her son and hope the bad guys didn’t find them before the cops did.
They’d fallen into a nightmare that seemed to be never-ending. Michael’s small fingers gripped her shirt, pinching her skin. Vivi relished the sensation with every atom in her being. She would die to protect Michael; she just prayed she didn’t have to.
***
Jed found himself drifting off as he read the thousandth account of where someone had been when the shooting started. Many had barricaded themselves into storerooms or hid inside clothing racks. One guy was found in a deep freeze and had almost suffocated. Frankly it was a miracle more people hadn’t died. It was horrific. But he was working on no sleep, his brain was fried and he needed rest.
So far no one mentioned the woman that he knew had been part of the attack. Her DNA was back, no usable prints. No matches in any of their databases. Press photos hadn’t revealed anything either. She’d deliberately avoided the cameras.
His cell rang and he saw it was his boss, ASAC Lincoln Frazer. For a moment he was tempted not to answer but, crap… “Brennan.”
“I just got a call from the head of US Marshal Service in Minnesota. Safe house was attacked,” Frazer said without preamble.
Even as Jed climbed to his feet he saw other agents lunging for flak jackets and running out of HQ. “Any casualties?”
“It looks bad, Jed.”
Jed’s vision tunneled. He couldn’t even force out the words to ask about Vivi and Michael, especially not to a man who kept telling him not to get involved. If anything happened to them, so help him…
They shouldn’t mean so much to him. He shouldn’t have let them. He raced to his car and heard a shout. Patrick Killion ran out beside him. “I just heard. Both marshals are down. So is the shrink. No word on Vivi or Michael.”
“Hinkle was there?” No one had told him the meeting had been arranged already. Jed got in the car, started her up and peeled away from the curb before Killion pulled the door fully closed.
“Yup. I got a call earlier but I was in chatting with our pal Abdullah. He’s in it up to his neck, but he thinks he’s stringing me along like I’m some rookie.” Killion checked the bullets in his SIG. Intelligence officers didn’t usually carry guns but Jed wasn’t surprised to see this one did. “The doctor must have led the bad guys straight to the safe house. Fucking smart to keep tabs on the guy.”
“Or they have an inside man.” Jed didn’t look at the spook but it was obvious what he was thinking.
“Not very smart to accuse the guy riding shotgun of being in league with terrorists,” Killion replied coolly. “Especially when he just checked his weapon.”
Jed tensed.
“Lucky for you I don’t hold grudges and I don’t collude with mad fuckers who stage shootouts in packed malls. I may be an asshole but I’m a patriotic asshole.”
“Good to know.” Not that he necessarily believed the guy but for now he didn’t care. Someone somewhere had leaked information, or these guys had eyes and ears in way more places than they should. That suggested powerful allies and oodles of cash, something these organizations never seemed to lack.
“We didn’t catch them all,” Jed said.
“No fucking kidding.”
“They have more attacks planned,” Jed continued.
“Because otherwise they’d have scattered like roaches and not worried about the boy.”
Exactly. They were worried Michael had overheard their plans.
The roads were icy. He’d thankfully put on snow tires ahead of his trip to Wisconsin. They still skidded like a hockey player going in for a tackle. Jed was forced to slow down. Just this morning he’d promised on his life Vivi would be safe. What the fuck did his promises mean if terrorists could infiltrate law enforcement enough to figure out the location of a US Marshal Service safe house? Why did they even pretend they could combat this?
He was on the highway, tucked in behind an ambulance, all sirens blazing, forging their way through stacked up traffic on the 77. He didn’t let himself think about Vivi or Michael. It wouldn’t bring them back if they were dead. It wouldn’t track them down if they were missing. He shoved the guilt deeper, along with the rage, and pulled out the cold, hard version of himself that got the job done. He would catch these guys. He would shut them down.
He and Killion didn’t speak for the next five minutes as Jed concentrated on driving at high speed in difficult conditions. A uniform tried to stop him at the end of the drive but Jed showed him his badge and drove on regardless. Two other ambulances were pulled up in front of the house, but the medics weren’t treating anyone. Fuck. Squad cars, sheriff’s deputies, city cops were everywhere. Law enforcement swirled around trying to figure out who was in charge and who had jurisdiction. With two marshals dead and a safe house compromised it was going to be between Marshals, DOJ, the FBI and the task force. Jed pulled up around the side of the house, in front of the garage, out of the way of any emergency vehicles. Killion jumped out but waited for him. Jed was probably the most senior FBI agent on the scene right now, that’s why the guy stuck close. It wasn’t for his winning personality or fragrant cologne.
The front door stood wide open. Wood splintered, glass broken. One marshal lay in the hallway covered in blood. An unfamiliar male, clasping an AK-47, lay on his back at the bottom of the steps. He had three holes in his chest.
They stepped inside, avoiding blood spatter. Hinkle was in a heap on the kitchen floor, brains blown out. Another terrorist lay beside him with a hole in his back. Jed would bet money the marshal had taken him down, even as he’d lain dying.
Good for them. Good for fucking them. He shoved down the heartache for his fellow law enforcement officers and concentrated on his job.
Find Vivi and Michael.
“How many tangos
?” Jed asked, taking the stairs two at a time.
“One marshal reported four armed gunmen.”
“They have search parties in place?”
“McKenzie instigated roadblocks and put the city back on high alert.”
Jed skidded into Vivi’s room, bracing himself for what he was about to find. One of the marshals lay on the floor in a pool of blood. A medic stepped away and shook his head. Another tango lay dead with a hole in his face. Ugh. The saliva in Jed’s mouth dried up. The marshal had defended mother and child to the death. The wardrobe doors were all ajar as if someone had been searching for something. Jed checked the bathroom as Killion scoured the other bedrooms.
They met in the hallway.
“No sign?” Jed asked.
“Nothing,” Killion confirmed.
Jed walked back down the stairs. “Find any more bodies on this level?” he asked a deputy.
“No. And there’s no basement. I checked.”
Despair hit him, and he turned to the spook. “Call McKenzie and tell him we think one of the attackers took Vivi and Michael with them. Hey,” he gestured a group of cops toward him. “I want you to search the woods toward the river. Parallel with any tracks—mark them and photograph them to try and preserve evidence. Be careful, there is at least one suspect at large and two witnesses missing. A kid and his mother. Both are redheads.”
The cops nodded and organized the search party, glad of something useful to do.
In the kitchen, Killion crouched and checked the psychiatrist’s neck for a pulse. “He’s still warm. They can’t be far away. We’ll find them.”
Sure they’d find them. Riddled with bullets and dumped on the side of the road.
Jed didn’t want useless words. “Call your people. Find out who is orchestrating this shit.” He frowned at all the shell casings littering the floor. “The task force needs detailed intel so we can stop this—even if it points to someone above your pay grade.” Syria. He didn’t say it out loud. He wasn’t going to be the security leak responsible for causing a war. But he would push for answers, regardless of how difficult those answers might be.
Cold Pursuit (Cold Justice) (Volume 2) Page 12
