Minneapolis, MN—Monday 5:00 p.m. CST
Amarok wasn’t going to give up. He’d flown three thousand miles to speak to Terry Lovett’s widow. As soon as she realized he was with law enforcement, she’d refused to let him in or even give him an audience, but he planned to approach her friends, neighbors and family members. If the man he was looking for was involved with Terry, they had to know each other from somewhere, and Lewis had already established that it wasn’t from work.
Although the afternoon sun glinted off the glass, so he couldn’t actually see her, he sensed Bridget watching him from her front window as he crossed the street instead of getting into the rental car he’d parked at the curb in front of her house.
It took a moment for him to rouse someone, but eventually an obese man, using a cane, answered his knock.
Amarok identified himself as a police officer and took out the photo he’d brought with him. “Do you recognize this man?”
The gentleman scratched his thick beard growth as he considered the image. “Don’t think so. I mean … he looks vaguely familiar, but the picture is so blurry…”
“I believe he was a friend of Terry Lovett’s. Could that be where you’ve seen him? At your neighbor’s house?”
“Naw. It’s difficult for me to get out.” He indicated his feet, which were so swollen it was a miracle he could still walk. “I pretty much keep to myself.”
“You live alone, then?”
“It’s just me and my mom.”
“Where’s your mom? Is there any chance I could speak with her?”
“Not right now. She’s still at work.”
Amarok made a note of their address. “When will she be home?”
“You’re coming back?” He sounded surprised.
“If you don’t mind…” Amarok planned to return regardless, but he was trying to be polite.
The skin hanging under the man’s chin wagged as he shook his head. “No, of course not. I don’t think she’ll be able to help you, though. It’s not like we have block parties in this crummy neighborhood. There was another officer going through here, so we heard that the neighbor’s husband was murdered. Saw it on the news, too. And we feel bad about it. But we don’t know her very well.”
“Still, I’d like your mother to take a look at this photo. It’s my job to be thorough.”
“Okay,” he said in a suit yourself voice.
After he left, Amarok went up the entire street, knocking on each and every door. Not everyone was home, but he made notes to indicate which houses required a second visit. By the time he’d made it back down to Bridget’s, she was standing in her yard, glaring at him with her hands on her hips.
“What are you doing?” she snapped as he continued past.
“I told you. My fiancée has been kidnapped. I don’t know if she’s still alive, but even if she isn’t I’m going to track down whoever took her, and this man”—he lifted the photo he’d tried to show her before—“could be him. I’m guessing he was involved with your late husband in some way. So until I find what I’m looking for, I’ll talk to everyone you know.”
“That’s harassment! My husband just died. Why are you trying to make my life more difficult?”
Her husband had been murdered. He hadn’t “just died,” and yet her statement was passive, almost innocuous, as if no one were to blame. Inserting that kind of emotional distance was something he’d always associated with deception. Wouldn’t an innocent person say, My husband’s just been killed?
“I’m not harassing you or anyone else,” Amarok said. “Just trying to save the life of the woman who’s supposed to become my wife—and the life of our child. Evelyn’s six months pregnant.”
Bridget flinched at his mention of the baby but lifted her chin to a defiant angle only a second after. “Another detective already came by. He asked me and everyone else about the man in that blurry picture.”
Some of the people Amarok had talked to so far had indicated the same thing, but others seemed totally unaware of the case, which just went to prove that Lewis hadn’t been as dogged as Amarok. “If you know something, and you can save me the time and trouble of tracking down all your friends and relatives, I’d be extremely grateful.”
With a dramatic sigh that suggested she was irritated by his persistence, she grabbed the photo and stared at it. “I’ve never seen this man before in my life,” she said, and handed it back.
Amarok made no reply. He simply accepted the photograph, pivoted and moved on to the house beyond hers.
“No one around here is going to recognize him!” she called out. “If he was a friend of my husband’s, I’m the only one who would know that, and I’m telling you he wasn’t.”
“Then you won’t mind me double-checking.”
“You’re wasting your time. That’s all. What about your fiancée? She needs you to be doing more productive things.”
“I’ll decide what my fiancée needs from me. But thanks for the advice.”
She started jogging to catch up with him and grabbed his arm to stop him. But when he shook her off, she threw up her hands and went back in her own house.
After another two hours spent canvassing the neighborhood, however, Amarok was afraid she was right. No one recognized the man.
He was standing on the corner, staring at the vehicle he’d parked in front of her house, wondering if there wasn’t something better he could be doing with his time, after all, when he got a call on the mobile phone he’d purchased from Walmart as soon as he hit town. It was Detective Lewis.
“Who gave you this number?” he asked as soon as he answered. He hadn’t done it; he’d thought it better if Lewis didn’t know he was in town.
“Phil did. I just tried to call you at your trooper post.”
If Phil had provided him with a way to contact Amarok, there had to be a compelling reason. “Do you have something?”
“I do, and I’d tell you what if I wasn’t so pissed off,” he said. “What are you doing in Minneapolis?”
“I’m tracking down the man who kidnapped my fiancée.”
“Nothing I’ve said or done has convinced you that I’m doing my job?”
Lewis sounded put out, but Amarok didn’t care. The detective wasn’t as driven as Amarok was, wasn’t as desperate to bring Evelyn home, and Amarok never completely trusted anyone else to do the things that were most important to him. “Don’t be offended. I wouldn’t trust anyone. This is Evelyn we’re talking about.”
“But you’re wasting your time doing my work when you could be in Alaska doing yours.”
Amarok covered a yawn. His body seemed to have adjusted somewhat to “emergency” mode, and yet he couldn’t seem to quit yawning. “Phil’s got my back in Hilltop. He’ll call if anything turns up.”
“And if that happens, you’ll be hours and hours away. You’re okay with that?”
“I have to go where the investigation leads me. I don’t have any choice.”
“No choice? You could trust me, couldn’t you? I’m doing my job! Maybe you’ll believe me when I tell you I’ve found a possible connection between Terry Lovett and the man in the Quick Stop video.”
Amarok gripped his phone that much tighter. “What is it?”
“You mentioned the guy who came to town was likely an ex-con, right?”
“That’s what the tattoo on his hand signifies.”
“I agree. Well, Terry Lovett also served time—eight years to be exact.”
“Where?”
“Faribault—the biggest state prison in Minnesota. I’m heading there now to talk to the warden and other staff. If he was incarcerated there, and it was for any length of time, someone will remember him.”
“How long will that take you?”
“It’s an hour’s drive. Depending on what I find, how many people I have to talk to, it could take most of the day.”
Amarok had just opened his mouth to respond when he saw a blue Ford Focus stop in front of Terry Lovett’s house. A young girl, about ten years old, climbed out. She was saying good-bye to the people still in the vehicle when Amarok told Lewis he’d call him back and hurried over.
“Hi there.” He smiled at the woman behind the wheel as he flashed his badge. “I’m Sergeant Benjamin Murphy—”
“I haven’t done anything wrong, have I?” she interrupted.
“No, of course not.” He shifted so that the girl, who was watching him curiously, remained between him and the vehicle. “I’m working with Detective Lewis with the Minneapolis Police Department on an important case involving this man.” He showed the woman the photograph. “You wouldn’t happen to have seen him.…”
“No. I’ve never seen him before,” she replied. “But I don’t live in this neighborhood.” She gestured at the girl who stood only a foot or so away from him. “Maybe Estelle will recognize him. I just picked her up after soccer practice. She lives here. Her mother and I carpool.”
“Can I look?” Estelle asked.
He handed her the photo. “You bet.”
She pushed her glasses up to the bridge of her nose, but she didn’t have to study the photograph for any length of time. Her face brightened immediately. “I thought I recognized him. That’s my uncle Emmett,” she said proudly.
Amarok’s heart began to race. “Your father’s brother?”
“No, my mother’s.”
She’d barely gotten the words out when a shrill voice cried, “Estelle! Get in this house! Right now!”
They both turned to see Bridget Lovett standing on the stoop.
“I have to go,” Estelle mumbled. Obviously frightened by her mother’s reaction, she grabbed her backpack and hurried to do what she’d been told.
“Get off my property,” Bridget said to Amarok, stabbing her pointing finger at the street. “She’s a kid. I could sue you and the whole Minneapolis PD for talking to her without my permission.”
“You go right ahead and do that,” he said.
He wasn’t worried. He now knew why Bridget had refused to cooperate: she was protecting her brother.
Anchorage—Monday, 5:30 p.m. AKDT
Lyman Bishop frowned at the laptop Emmett had left behind. Old and battered, with gym stickers all over the lid, it wasn’t much to look at, but Emmett had brought it to Alaska so that he’d be able to watch movies on Netflix while he waited for Lyman. Emmett’s life had been that simple. He couldn’t go without entertainment for three or four days.
Nothing was simple for Lyman. It never had been but especially not now. After being unable to get out of bed for the past twenty-four hours, thanks to the physical exertion of escaping from Beacon Point, he’d finally fed his two captives (for the first time today, but he didn’t think they deserved better treatment; he was very unhappy with them) and bellied up to the small breakfast bar in the staff room. He’d been so busy since he’d become a free man, taking care of one situation only to move on to the next, he hadn’t had a chance to even think about what he’d left behind in Minnesota. After tossing his landlady in with Evelyn last night, he’d dragged himself over to the couch, where he’d curled into a ball to be able to endure the pain throbbing through his legs. Every muscle was protesting. But he was feeling a bit better, and he needed to know what was going on, what might be coming up from behind.
As soon as he entered Terry’s name into Google, he learned that the police had ordered an autopsy on Terry’s body and determined his death wasn’t a suicide. That was unfortunate. He’d been hoping for a bit of luck, but he’d never been one to catch a break. And the more he dug, the worse the picture became. The authorities also knew he’d escaped from Beacon Point and were looking for him.
He shook his head. Now everything was messed up.
Lyman wished he had the energy to pace. There was so much anger pouring through him. He needed an outlet. But he wasn’t about to stand up. He hadn’t bounced back completely, was still having trouble controlling his left side. A second ago, he’d caught himself drooling like a baby—and groaned to think how he’d feel if Evelyn ever witnessed that. As if he didn’t have enough going against him with the loss of his hair. He didn’t want to look totally unappealing to her. He knew he’d enjoy having sex with her much more if he could verify she found him at least slightly attractive. Not to mention, at some point he’d need others to believe she was with him voluntarily.
Of course, her beauty would fade quickly enough. After the operation, Beth’s looks had gone downhill almost right away. There was something about that loss of vitality and intelligence; it took a physical toll, too.
He scratched his head. What was he thinking? He couldn’t worry about stuff like that right now. He had too many other things to deal with.
“How do I counteract it all?” he muttered, over and over again as he glared at the computer screen and the last article he’d pulled up. Edna Southwick had said three of her four children lived in the Lower 48, which was good. Being so far away, they were less likely to notice she was missing right away.
But the fourth child …
The fourth child could be a problem. It’d already been twenty-four hours.
Removing his glasses, he rubbed his eyes as he sagged against the back of the barstool and pictured the various scenarios he could potentially face. If the daughter who lived in Alaska came snooping around, looking for her mother, he could kill her. But that would only start her husband searching for her, and if Lyman killed him the chain would go on. Eventually, the police would show up with a search warrant and find the bodies.
He couldn’t handle the problem of Edna Southwick in that way. Initially, he’d thought he’d just keep her with Evelyn until the baby came. Edna had had four kids; he figured she could help Evelyn when it came time for the delivery, which would improve the odds of the child surviving.
But he hadn’t really been thinking critically. Physical capacity wasn’t the only thing he’d lost with the damn hemorrhage. He’d lost a lot of mental acuity, too.
He had to take Evelyn and leave this place, he decided. As much as he’d hoped to stay right here until the baby was born—in so many ways it was ideal—he couldn’t. Law enforcement would eventually piece the whole thing together, would probably even realize that he was the one who’d kidnapped Evelyn and, for a time, kept her here. But with how easy it was to find work as a science editor or textbook ghostwriter, or even doing medical transcription, over the Internet, he could work from home, where it wouldn’t be difficult to lay low. He could even have groceries and other supplies delivered to his house, wouldn’t have to see anyone.
Which meant they wouldn’t know where he’d gone. And they wouldn’t be able to find him.
The only problem? Scouting out the perfect situation and getting set up again could take days.
He could only hope there’d be enough time.
Hilltop, AK—Tuesday, 8:00 a.m. AKDT
Jasper was afraid to go into the showers. He’d been waiting for an ambush and, after what Roland said in the yard on Sunday afternoon, he knew that was where such a thing would most likely occur. There weren’t enough hours in the day to allow all the inmates to shower separately—the government wasn’t keen on spending the extra money on the number of showers that would require; it wasn’t as though they were going to put one in every cell like some kind of motel—which left him vulnerable, especially because Roland was in the same cellblock. They’d been showering at the same time, three days a week, ever since Roland came to Hanover House, but Jasper had never been uneasy about it, not like this.
Although it would’ve been smarter for Roland to jump him when he wasn’t expecting it, that wasn’t Roland’s style. He had that weird code of ethics, which he was always rattling on about to the other inmates—what he called a sense of fair play. He felt it only right to inform his intended target that there would be trouble. He chose only his equals for opponents. And he never “sucker punched someone from behind,” as he put it.
Jasper had none of those scruples. He’d launch a sneak attack on Roland in a heartbeat—would do much worse—if he ever got the chance. He knew, in the minds of the other inmates, that made him inferior to Roland in some way, but he didn’t understand why. Roland was a fool to sacrifice the element of surprise. Why allow an opponent to get prepared?
Jasper saw no reason to give up any advantage. Ordinarily, advance notice would be enough to make it possible to prevail in any confrontation, since he now knew to keep his eyes open. But it wasn’t that easy with Roland. The man had many watching out for him in this place. The other inmates seemed to see him as some kind of folk hero, and the guards liked him, too, which was the weird part. Jasper had never seen such broad-based support, especially because, unlike most of the other inmates, Roland hadn’t cliqued up with any particular gang or group of friends. He remained aloof, his own man always, and measured everything according to that odd code of his.
“Getting nervous?”
Jasper didn’t need to look over to know who’d asked the question. He could tell by the voice and couldn’t help bristling at the taunt.
Turning, in his own sweet time, he looked over as casually as possible.
Sure enough, Roland was leaning up against the bars of his cell, watching Jasper. Roland had barely taken his eyes off Jasper since their encounter in the yard, had given him no privacy at all. Roland was trying to intimidate him, and Jasper understood that, hated that it was working, especially because Roland’s interest drew so much attention. Not only were the other prisoners urging Roland to make his move, they also were rooting for him to succeed.
“Shut your mouth, or as soon as I get the chance, I’ll shut it for you,” Jasper growled. But he couldn’t help watching the clock as it ticked inexorably toward eight thirty, when he’d be led to the showers along with everyone else in Cellblock D.
He could refuse to go. He was only forced to shower twice a week; the third was optional. But feigning sickness or lack of interest wouldn’t ring true. He seized any opportunity to get out of his cell and had never begged off.
Besides, not heading to the showers like usual would only delay the inevitable. Such a move wouldn’t be worth losing face over—a constant concern in prison, since falling to the bottom of the power pyramid could have even more dire consequences. He couldn’t behave like the stupid kid in elementary school who tattled if someone was picking on him. He had to stand up and fight.
“You want to have sex with me that badly?” Jasper returned Roland’s smile as if he wasn’t concerned in the least.
Roland laughed softly. “Not me, no. If it were up to me, I’d beat you to a pulp and be done with it. I don’t swing that way. But I have a friend who’s expressed interest, and I don’t see why I should deny him. After all, it’s exactly what you deserve, and seeing you get what you deserve is the only reason I’m in this.”
Jasper knew the man Roland was referring to. Rufus Moreno had created a small gang he called his family. He had a regular partner. Jasper had seen them making out in the yard many times. But Rufus was by no means exclusive. He loved to check out what he called fresh meat. “So what’s your role? You’re just gonna watch?”
His teeth flashed as his smile widened. “I’m the one who’s going to hold you down.”
“You’re an animal.”
At this Roland’s laugh grew loud enough to echo through the cavernous building, which started all the men around them laughing, too. “You can dish it out, but you can’t take it? Is that it?”
Jasper began to pace. It wasn’t a wise reaction. No doubt Roland could read his anxiety, but Roland already knew he had Jasper running scared, or he would’ve backed off by now. Nothing slipped past the man. And he didn’t care about his own life, so that gave him an advantage over everyone who did. “I’ll fight back,” Jasper warned.
“You can try,” he responded with a shrug.
“What, are you going to let all your friends pile on? Is that why you’re so damn confident?”
“I’m not asking for any help. I won’t need it.”
“You think this is what Evelyn would want?” Jasper asked.
He bit off a hangnail and spat it on the floor. “I certainly don’t think she’d mind. Do you?”
“She’s not out for revenge. There’s something different about my brain. She’s hoping to study it.”
“Then I’ll save it for her—in a jar. It’ll probably be a moot point, anyway. I doubt Evelyn’s coming back, and if she doesn’t, it’s because of men like you.”
So that was it. He was angry that Evelyn was gone, and he was taking it out on Jasper.
Jasper stopped pacing and grabbed hold of the bars of his cell. “You’re a convicted murderer! You’re not some defender of the innocent.”
His eyebrows slid up at the outburst. “I’ve never killed anyone who didn’t deserve it. Can you say the same?”
Jasper couldn’t hold his temper any longer. He’d never been good at it in the first place. “I’m going to kill you!” he cried. “I’m going to kill you if it’s the last thing I do!”
“You’ll have the chance in a few minutes,” Roland said.
The mail cart arrived. Jasper was breathing so hard he could feel his chest rising and falling as he jerked the mail from the hand of the inmate who came around to deliver it.
As usual, he had a stack of letters from women. He was too worked up to read them right now, figured he’d wait until he could enjoy them—if that time ever came. It was entirely possible he’d never return from the shower.
“Hey!” Roland called, and grinned as he showed Jasper a handmade shiv, which he quickly put behind his back when the inmate pushing the mail cart stopped to look, too.
Jasper wished he had a weapon. He was feeling more and more at a disadvantage when it came to Roland. The most maddening part was that he couldn’t figure out how Roland had managed to gain so much power and popularity in such a short time.
Intending to get to work sharpening his toothbrush—it was the only weapon he might have time to create in the few minutes he had left—he tossed his mail on the bed.
And that was when he saw it. He’d received a letter from Chastity.
Finally! At least now he’d get to learn, in her own words, what she’d found when she went to Beacon Point. Or maybe she’d tell him something Amarok had shared with her about the investigation he hadn’t yet heard. He was and always had been the most interested in Evelyn, and this was as close to Evelyn as he could currently get.
But Chastity’s letter said quite a bit more.