by Eileen Wilks
“Not anytime soon,” Rule said grimly. “Cullen is missing, too. She’s gone to look for him.”
José let out a low whistle. “Who could do all this?”
That was the question, wasn’t it? Rule scowled and wished he had more coffee. Absently he reached for the paper bag José still held and took out a hamburger. As he ate, he thought.
He could see Congress going on a witch hunt. Give them one whiff of the existence of the Shadow Unit, and half of that distinguished body would be howling for blood—the administration’s blood, preferably. Nothing else added up. If the Shadow Unit was the enemy’s target, why had Rule been framed for an entirely different offense? The cops hadn’t asked him anything even vaguely connected to the Shadow Unit while they had him in custody. Miriam Stockard had suggested that he might have been framed for one thing because they couldn’t prove his guilt about the other. That seemed a stretch, but not impossible. Could his arrest have been intended to soften him up so he’d accept some kind of deal to testify against Ruben?
But Miriam had also said the case against him was both rushed and flimsy. Why the rush, if they were about to launch a major takedown of Unit 12? If they waited, they could have hoped to get evidence against him for what they’d consider his real offense—being second-in-command of the Shadows.
And none of that gave him a hint why Lily had been kidnapped. Look at the outcome, Lily often said when she was investigating. What happened because of the crime? Who benefited?
Two things had happened because of Lily’s disappearance. HSI had assumed control of the investigation into the death of the man they claimed was their agent . . . and Rule had become a fugitive.
Which of those had their enemy wanted? Both? Or something else? Automatically Rule finished the second hamburger, thinking hard. He looked at José. “What about Abel? Has he or any of the Unit agents been charged with anything?”
José shook his head. “No, but I only know what’s on the news. I’m sure they’re being questioned, but Ruben’s the only one the reporters have named.”
He needed to talk to Abel, but he had to make sure that conversation couldn’t be overheard. Right now, he wasn’t sure how to arrange that. “Do you know what kind of evidence they have against Ruben?”
“He’s been tied to some kind of covert operation at a house in West Virginia, though if anyone knows what went on there, they aren’t saying. That doesn’t stop everyone from speculating—and God, you should hear some of it. It’s like the Internet exploded, and its stupidest bits rained down on the regular news. They’re talking about everything from aliens to horrible medical experiments to that old favorite, the UN plan to take over the country. But it sounds like the only solid evidence is the financial trail this one reporter found.”
Rule’s eyebrows drew down. “I handle the Shadow Unit’s funds.”
“This wouldn’t be anything you did,” José assured him. “Apparently Ruben diverted federal funds to finance whatever you had going on at that house.”
“No. He didn’t. The Shadow Unit has no connection to a house in West Virginia. And the last thing Ruben would do is draw attention to the Shadow Unit through the misuse of federal funds.”
“Then what the hell is going on?”
“I have no idea. But,” he said with a grim smile, “I know what we need to do.”
TWENTY
DEMI hated lying. Sure, some people someone might say she’d been doing that for months and months, living under other names, but she didn’t see it that way. Pretending wasn’t the same as lying, and she’d always liked role-playing.
One reason she hated lying was that she was so bad at it. Sound feeble, she reminded herself as she picked up her phone. Not panicked. Panicked talked fast. Feeble talked slow.
She stared at her computer monitor, where a news program was playing, while the phone rang. And rang. Finally Mr. Burgenstein picked up. “This is . . . it’s Danny,” she said, working hard not to pant into the phone. She didn’t want him to think she was dying. “I’m . . . really sorry. I’m sick.”
“Sick?” he said suspiciously. “What kind of sick?”
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I keep throwing up.” That was almost true, though so far she’d swallowed the bile that tried to come up.
“Why are you calling me? If you think I’m gonna come over there and hold your hand at fucking eleven o’clock at night—”
“No! No, I just . . . I won’t be able to come to work tomorrow.”
She wasn’t sure Mr. Burgenstein believed her. He thought it was odd that she’d called in sick ahead of time—“How d’you know you won’t be just fine in the morning?”—but finally he agreed that if she was still throwing up tomorrow, she didn’t have to come in. By then her stomach really was aching. Panic plus a huge heaping helping of sad were not good for the digestive track.
Her eyes filled as she looked around her little trailer. Maybe it wasn’t much, but she liked it here. She liked the way she’d fixed the shower. She still had most of a batch of black beans in the refrigerator. They were in the cast iron pot she’d bought at the Driscolls’ garage sale, and she wished she could at least take the pot with her. She really liked that pot. But even if she could’ve fit it in the backpack, which she couldn’t, it was way too heavy.
Properly speaking, she ought not leave a pot of beans in the refrigerator. She ought to empty and clean the refrigerator and the bathroom and everything else. But filling up the trash can with so much of her stuff would surely tip off her landlady and spoil her getaway. With luck, now that she’d called in sick for tomorrow, no one would realize she was gone for at least another day.
She was leaving things behind that wouldn’t fit in the trash can. People. She liked a lot of the people in Whistle. One had even become a friend, and she didn’t make friends easily. She hated not being able to say good-bye. Not in person anyway. She’d written Jamie a letter saying she’d had bad news and had to leave right away, which had the benefit of being true. She hoped Jamie wouldn’t be too mad at her.
“. . . admitted that talks between the countries have stalled,” the news anchor said, “but said that it is too early to give up on negotiations. Here at home, Senator Webster renewed his call for a special prosecutor to investigate the growing scandal connected to the FBI’s powerful Unit Twelve and its chief—”
Demi flinched.
“—Ruben Brooks. Brooks has not spoken to the press, but . . .”
How could it all have gone so wrong?
She’d spent the whole day trying to figure out what had happened so she could fix things. She’d even snuck her laptop into the gas station when she went to work so she could keep looking in spite of Mr. Burgenstein’s ban. He didn’t mind if she read a book when there weren’t any customers, but he refused to let her bring her laptop. He was convinced she’d use it to look at porn. He seemed to think that was all anyone did with a computer, which had made her wonder if that was all he did with his computer, and then wish she hadn’t. Mr. Burgenstein was sixty years old and fat and smelled like old socks. The image she got in her head of him getting hot and bothered over pictures of naked young women had stuck with her way too long.
It would’ve been hard to look at Internet porn while at work even if she’d wanted to. There wasn’t any Wi-Fi at the station. To get online today she’d created a hotspot with her phone, which was expensive when you used a prepaid phone. But this was an emergency, so she’d gritted her teeth and used up a lot of minutes.
Not that it had helped. What she found didn’t make sense. Nothing made sense.
“. . . still no word on the whereabouts of Rule Turner,” the news anchor said. “In a statement earlier today, his attorney appealed to him to return, claiming that the charges against him were absurd and would be quickly disproven. In a related story, the search continues for Mr. Turner’s wife, Lily Yu. The missing FBI agent had been due to receive the Presidential Citizen’s Medal this fall for her actions—”
Why was she listening to this? It hurt. It hurt a lot. It wasn’t as if she could help anyone by staying here and getting caught. Quickly Demi shut down her computer. There were federal agents all over the place. Mostly FBI, but Mrs. Hawkins had talked to two men from Homeland Security. It was Homeland Security who’d nearly caught her before. They wouldn’t be fooled by her disguise. She had to run again.
The reporters said the Refuge was empty. Abandoned. What had Mr. Smith done with the kids? With Nicky?
Demi swallowed and unplugged her laptop and slid it into the padded pocket in her backpack. The backpack had cost nearly a week’s wages, but it was worth it. She was experienced at running now and knew what was important. The first time she’d run, she’d had nothing except the ten dollars Mr. Smith left her. That had been terrible. The second time she’d still been pretty broke, but she’d been able to plan ahead some. She’d bought a cheap backpack at the Salvation Army Store and kept a change of clothes, some trail mix, and a toothbrush in it. All she’d had to do was stick in her computer, zip it, and go, which had sure helped because she’d been in a major panic. But when she got caught in a rainstorm later while walking along the highway, her spare clothes had gotten wet. If the rain had lasted longer, her computer could’ve been damaged.
So “highly weather resistant” had topped her list for a new backpack once she’d saved up the money, along with decent ergonomics to distribute the weight properly. Even when correctly packed, a backpack got heavy after the first couple hours. She went for weather resistant instead of waterproof because truly waterproof bags cost a fortune and were heavy and awkward. Research suggested that adding an additional nylon cover in case of heavy rain should work. She’d found one that folded up real small for only $4.99; the same place had sold her a rain poncho for herself, too, for the same price. Both were tucked into pockets in the backpack.
At least she hadn’t had to use her “get the hell out” list, she thought as she carefully checked list number four.
Demi kept four lists in her wallet telling her what to do if she had to run. They were titled: (1) get the hell out; (2) fifteen minutes when NOT at home; (3) fifteen minutes when at home; (4) thirty minutes or more. Experience had taught her that if she had to run, she’d likely be panicked and not thinking straight, so having the lists helped. “Get the hell out” meant leave with only what she had on her. That always included a fifty-dollar bill and a prepaid Visa with the last of her savings, but it might mean abandoning her computer, so it was a list of situations when it wouldn’t be safe to go home. The “fifteen minutes when NOT at home” list told her which places were within fifteen minutes of her little trailer. Whistle was small, but when you were on foot, some spots were more than fifteen minutes away. Lists three and four told her what to add to her backpack, which always held a change of clothes, extra socks and underwear, and a box of vegetarian protein bars. Those lists were identical, except that number four included things she’d like to do if there was time, like writing the letter to Jamie.
She’d had time. Demi checked her list now, making sure she hadn’t missed anything. Her backpack bulged. Briefly panic tried to make her go back and rethink everything. Maybe she’d made it too heavy. Maybe . . . follow the list, she told herself. She could always dump something along the way, but she couldn’t come back and retrieve anything. What she left behind now was gone forever.
Quickly she added the one thing not yet packed: the power cord for her laptop. Drawing a deep, shaky breath, she slid her arms through the straps and headed for the door. Stopped. Turned around and went to the cupboard she used as a pantry.
There were five little bags of M&Ms left. Tears filled her eyes when she grabbed them. She’d hoped that somehow Harry would figure out she was leaving and show up so she could tell him bye. Maybe she’d even hoped a little bit that he’d be able to help her again, but the little brownie hadn’t come. She hadn’t really thought he would. She’d just hoped . . .
Demi sniffed and stuck one bag in her jeans pocket. The rest would be her farewell present to Harry. She stepped out on her tiny porch and locked the door for the last time at 11:17 P.M. She sighed and wiped her leaky eyes and tucked the bags of candy behind the dead plant, straightened, and looked up.
One advantage of being a night owl was seeing the stars more often than a lot of people did. Admittedly, she was mostly messing around on her computer instead of stargazing, but on warm nights she liked to take a break now and then and go sit outside and just look up. Mrs. MacGruder went to bed at ten o’clock every night and she was too cheap to leave the porch light on, so the stretch of ground between her house and Demi’s trailer was dark.
The moon was high overhead and three-quarters full. Its light would make walking easier. But it wasn’t the moon she needed to see.
The best thing about the stars was that she always had them. No matter where she went, the stars would be there, too. She gazed up for several moments before sighing again and stepping off her little porch. She had her route all mapped out. If it had been daytime she’d have headed for the woods that lined the west half of Mrs. MacGruder’s half acre, but in the dark she was apt to get turned around. She had a small flashlight, but she didn’t want anyone to see its glow bobbing around. The whole idea was to leave without anyone knowing she was gone. So she’d take Elm Street for a couple blocks to get to that big field just past the Pattersons’ house. Cut across that and she’d hit the dirt road that led to—
One second she was walking along all alone. The next she’d been slammed up against a man’s hard body—one arm clamped around her waist, one hand over her mouth. The bulge of the backpack between them left her bent slightly over.
Terror shot through her, slick and cold. She didn’t think. She was way too scared to think, her mind whited out in the fear-blizzard, but her body didn’t need any help from her mind. Her arms lifted as her feet shifted into base stance. Her knees flexed and her hip swung to the right. She stepped back and in with her left leg, staying low, slapped her hands behind his knees and straightened, lifting and releasing—
He went down just like he was supposed to. Only somehow she went down, too, landing on top of him in a discombobulated tangle of knees and elbows and backpack. He rolled so fast she barely registered the motion. And then she was on the bottom, ungainly as an overturned turtle, the lumpy backpack her shell, with him straddling her. One of his hands gripped both of hers. When had he gotten hold of them? His other hand covered her mouth—again? Still? Her lips tingled. Everywhere his skin touched hers tingled with magic. It wasn’t a type of magic she’d ever felt before, but . . .
Moonlight fell across his lips and jaws, but shadow made mysteries of the rest of his face. “Good takedown,” he breathed.
Terror somersaulted into anger. It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t fair at all! It had been a good takedown. She’d executed it just right. He should be on the ground, not on top of her. She should be running away as fast as she could. And her laptop—if her laptop was damaged—gods, what would she do without it?
His voice was a silky thread of sound in the darkness. “We need to talk. We’re going to get up and go back inside where you can tell me—no?”
She’d shaken her head frantically. Or tried to. The hand that covered the bottom half of her face hadn’t let her head move, but apparently he’d gotten the idea.
“You don’t want to go back inside? Perhaps you’d rather stroll off into the woods with me.”
She tried to nod.
He stared down at her. “You’d rather go into the woods with a man who’s assaulted you than go back in your trailer.”
She almost-nodded again.
“Did you plant a bomb in there, perhaps?”
She stared at him. Was that supposed to be a joke? It wasn’t funny.
“Come along, then.”
But he didn’t let her get up and stroll off into the woods. He pulled a scarf from his pocket and gagged her, then lifted her easily to her feet. H
e leaned in close. “No tricks,” he whispered. “I’m bigger than you, faster than you, and so much stronger. You haven’t a chance.”
She glared at him, but tears stung her eyes.
Neither the glare nor the tears affected him one bit. He tossed her over his shoulders like a bag of laundry and set off at an easy run. It was horrible. Her head bobbled with each step. He held both of her legs and one arm, so she hit him in the back with the other. He ignored that. She thought she should try to wiggle free, but what would happen if she did? She’d fall to the ground. She knew how to fall without hurting herself, but her computer was in her backpack. She couldn’t risk hurting it.
At least he ran toward the woods, not back to the trailer. It was creepy dark under the trees. He hardly slowed at all, dodging around things she couldn’t see. He ran for a long time. Finally he slowed and stopped and set her on her feet. She wobbled, so dizzy she hardly knew how to stand up. His face was a pale blur in the darkness. She couldn’t see his features, much less his expression.
When he spoke, he didn’t bother to keep his voice down. It was so silky it seemed to be made out of shivers. “Let’s have that little chat. No one will hear you but me . . . no matter how much noise you make.” With one hand he pulled down the gag.
“This,” she said in a voice that wobbled even worse than her legs, “is a huge disappointment.”
TWENTY-ONE
RULE blinked. That was not the reaction he’d been expecting. He’d decided to handle this encounter himself because he didn’t think his men would be good at threatening a woman. Apparently he wasn’t, either. “Disappointing?”
“I don’t suppose you fantasize much,” she said bitterly. “I don’t suppose you need to, so maybe you don’t understand how awful it is to have one of your favorite fantasies ruined. Fantasies aren’t reality, but they still require verisimilitude.” When he didn’t respond right away, she added, “‘Verisimilitude’ means—”
