Bonnie was still staring at the sheet of paper in her hand when the hum of an engine rose in the driveway. Reflexively she tightened her grip on the Glock before identifying it as the sound of Des’s van.
She left the house and met the van as it pulled into the garage. Des was at the wheel. Alan rode shotgun, his eyes staring, his face empty. The kid was in the backseat, sound asleep.
She yanked open Alan’s door and said, “You didn’t find her.”
It wasn’t a question.
He shook his head. “No. But we found this.”
He handed over his cell phone, wet with rain.
“We figure he made her drop it,” he added lifelessly. “He probably assumed we could track it. Which we could, with GPS. We used Desmond’s netbook.”
“Where was it?”
“Two blocks east. On the sidewalk.”
Alan climbed out of his seat, then reached into the back and lifted his son in his arms. He carried the boy into the house. Bonnie followed. Behind them came the whir of the ramp that would allow Des to get out on the driver’s side.
“He hasn’t had her long,” Bonnie said as they went down the hall to the guest room. “She called him less than twenty minutes ago.”
“That’s long enough,” Alan breathed. He placed the boy in bed and tucked him under the covers. “She must have placed the call from outside the house so we wouldn’t hear. That’s why she took the phone.”
“Right. And it had to be your phone, because it had my number in its memory. She knew he had my cell. She was just waiting for the chance to get hold of the phone and make contact.” Bonnie hesitated. “In the note she said there’d been too many deaths.”
Alan nodded. “It’s what she was saying all along. She argued with me about it after you left. She said Pascal wouldn’t stop until he had her. She had to give herself up. Sacrifice herself for us. Because she was the one he really wanted.” He looked at her. “You saw the note. How she signed it.”
“Yes.” She had seen the graceful looping signature at the bottom of the page: Mariana.
“She never did like the name Cynthia.” Alan managed a sad little laugh.
Bonnie remembered her first impressions of Cynthia Kirby. Fashionably thin—only it wasn’t fashion; it was the ravages of cancer. Blonde hair—a dye job, she’d thought, and it was, but not for cosmetic purposes. For disguise. Her clipped style of speech—because she was educated abroad. Her stubborn refusal to take orders—because she was accustomed to fending for herself in dangerous places. Places like the farmlands of Colombia, and the women’s prison in Bogotá.
“So the rescue mission was a success,” she said, easing him away from the sleeping child.
“A partial success. They got her out. But Hector Bezos and two of his men were captured during the raid. The others got Mariana to safety. Most of what I told you was true,” he added almost apologetically.
“Most doesn’t cut it, buddy boy. Pascal was after her all along. Not you.”
“I don’t know if I was a target or not. He did kill Herb and Amy, after all.”
“But only because he was tracking Mariana. He went to Maine first in the hope that she was hiding out there. When that didn’t pan out, he interrogated Amy and used the emails to trace Mariana’s location. By then he would have known she was with you.”
“Herb told him, I’m sure. Or Amy did. They didn’t know what names we were using now, but they knew we were together.”
She led him out of the bedroom, down the hall to the living room. “What about Caroline? A.J.’s mom?”
“She died before all this happened. Before I ever heard of Mariana. Died of cancer.”
He said it simply, but there were volumes of meaning tucked into the words. He had buried his wife, then learned of another woman with cancer, a woman he’d never met, a woman wasting away in a prison cell. He hadn’t saved Caroline, but he could save this other woman, if he pulled out all the stops.
And sometime during the events that followed, he’d fallen in love with Mariana Ortiz. Fallen in love from afar, romanticizing her, idealizing her. She was the symbolic substitute for the wife he’d lost, and when she arrived in the US, he made his feelings known, and won her.
“And now I’ve lost her,” he whispered, as if reading her thoughts.
“Not yet.”
“What the hell does that mean? Are you crazy? He has her. Fuck, he’s probably killed her already!”
In the guest room, A.J., startled awake, began to cry. “Mommy …”
It occurred to Bonnie that when he called for his mother, it was Caroline Walker he really wanted, not the dye-job stand-in.
She rested her hands on Alan’s shoulders. “Keep your voice down. Get a grip, okay?”
He stared dumbly at her.
“Look, Alan—or Jeffrey, whatever—you’ve gotta focus. This son of a bitch has your lady, but if he wanted to kill her, he would have done it right there on the street. He took her alive for a reason. She’s worth more to him that way.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yeah, I do. In your house he had a clear shot at me, but hesitated. Now I know why. He saw a woman at the top of the stairs, but he couldn’t be sure which woman it was. I’d changed my clothes. I wasn’t wearing a hat. For a second he thought it might be Mariana in his sights. And he held his fire.”
“Okay, but … why would he want her alive? Why …?” Alan shut his eyes, answering his own question. “Oh, Christ. You think he’s taking her back. Back to the Colombians. To prison and torture—”
“He’ll have to get her out of the country first. He can’t have left yet. He’s on his way to Millstone Airport right now.”
Des spoke up, surprising her. He had rolled in so quietly she’d been unaware of his presence. “That airfield’s been closed for years.”
“Which makes it perfect for a clandestine takeoff. I’m not guessing about this. I heard him make the arrangements. I just didn’t know he was planning to bring a guest.”
“You heard him? He said Millstone Airport?” Alan’s eyes were wild. “We have to go there.”
“Nuh-uh, chum. We aren’t going anywhere. This is a solo mission.”
“She’s my wife—”
“Yeah, and that’s your kid crying in there. You go play daddy. I’ll deal with Pascal.”
“But—”
She pressed a finger to his lips. “No backtalk. This has been kind of a bumpy night, and I’m in no mood.”
His shoulders slumped. “All right. Just get her back. Please.”
“Will do. Now go comfort the little shaver. That goddamn bawling is getting on my nerves.”
He retreated down the hall. She and Des watched him go.
“Parker,” Des said, “you sure you can handle this?”
“Not really. But it looks like I’m committed.”
She moved past him to the front door. His voice stopped her. “Did you see it?”
She looked back. “Yeah, Des. I saw it.”
He wheeled up to her. “And you’re still going?”
“You bet I’m going.” Impulsively she stooped and kissed his cheek. “Leave a light on. This won’t take long.”
She left the house and plunged back into the storm.