“Change of plan,” Morgan told Micah. “You’re going to make the approach.”
“Really?” An edge of excitement colored his voice.
She handed him the car keys. “Really.” She didn’t tell him that while he kept Adam and his mother busy, she hoped to be circling back unseen to find whoever was watching them—hopefully the bomber. Which meant this might all be over in time for Micah to get home to his mothers for dinner.
“What do I say?”
“Just tell them you’re an art student from Pittsburgh. You’re taking a film class, and you heard about a historic railroad that ran through here and you thought it might make a good subject. It’s called the East Broad Top. Tell them you’re lost, and ask for directions to it.” Pretty much all the truth, but that was how the best lies were built—and Micah was one of the worst liars she’d ever met, so it was best to keep things simple.
“I can do that. Where will you be?”
She gestured with the monocular. “Watching. Out of sight so I don’t scare them. All you have to do is keep them talking.”
“What will you be doing?”
Now it was her turn to lie. “I’ll sneak into the house and leave a message for Adam, warning him and asking him to come meet me. That way it’s his choice; I’m not forcing him to do anything.”
Micah nodded. “So I just need to distract them long enough for you to leave a message? That shouldn’t be too hard.”
“Exactly. Give me a few minutes to get into position and then circle around the block to Adam’s house.” She left the car, not bothering to hide the movement. After all, the whole idea was to get the attention of whoever was out there. Besides, there was no way they wouldn’t notice Micah moving over to the driver’s seat.
The trick would be spotting the watcher and finding his blind spot, so she could turn the tables.
Morgan began by circling around the garage they’d parked behind, hoping that the watcher would need to move to try to follow her. She kept low, moving fast along a decrepit privacy fence, leaping over a ratty evergreen hedge into Adam’s neighbor’s backyard, sprinting across it, then pushing through a row of arborvitae twice her height into Adam’s side yard. She squatted down between his deck and garage, squinting through the window in the door that led into the garage. The garage was empty, the two cars still out in the driveway, but Adam and his foster mother had vanished.
She opened the garage door, sidled inside, and crept to the main opening, her back against the wall as she listened. A silver SUV, too expensive and new to be local, pulled up to the front curb and idled. The house’s front door banged open, and she heard footsteps. “Have to go, Mom. I’m late.”
“Have fun, honey,” his foster mother called from the front porch, not six feet away from where Morgan stood. Adam rushed down the driveway without looking back and opened the passenger door.
The SUV—it had to be the bomber. But why was Adam getting into it, as if he knew the driver? This was wrong, all wrong.
She wanted to hit pause, stop time, do something to buy her some breathing room while she asked questions, examined the answers, analyzed every option. But there was no time. The SUV was pulling away from the curb, and every fiber of Morgan’s being was shrieking at her to stop it.
She ran past the parked cars in the drive and hit the street just as the SUV pulled away. “Stop! Adam, come back!” she shouted, not even sure if he could hear her.
The driver saw her, though, honking his horn with a jaunty, quick double tap. Then he sped up.
Desperate, Morgan drew her pistol, a compact 9mm, and aimed at the SUV. Her first shot hit a taillight—at least it would be easy to follow with one light out—and the second dinged off the rear fender.
“No!” Adam’s foster mom reappeared at the door. “Stop it!” Then she disappeared back inside.
Morgan took aim. The growl of an engine roared behind her, and she glanced back to see Micah speeding toward her in the Forester.
What the hell was he thinking? she wondered as the Subaru raced right at her. She threw herself onto the lawn. At the last moment it swerved, screeching to a halt in front of her and blocking her aim.
Morgan rolled upright, aiming once more for the bomber’s SUV. A woman’s scream came from behind her as the foster mom rushed back outside, now holding a phone. “Stop! I’m calling the police!”
Micah opened the passenger window. “Morgan, what the hell? You could have shot someone!”
Her attention divided, Morgan was torn between defending her shooting skills, evading Adam’s foster mom now striding across the lawn, the phone pressed to her ear, and tracking the SUV. She holstered her weapon and opened the Forester’s door—better to get the hell out of here and tail the SUV the best she could.
Movement came from down the road. Instead of escaping, the SUV had stopped; and then began actually reversing toward them. Why? Why come closer to the girl who’d just been shooting at them?
Then it stopped a few doors down the street. She swiveled to where Adam’s foster mother had made her stand on the other side of the Pathfinder, using it as cover between Morgan and her as she talked to the police. “There’s some madwoman shooting at my son. No, he just left. Who are you?” she shouted at Morgan. “Why are you here? The police are on their way!”
Too late, Morgan realized what was happening. “Get back!” she yelled to the woman. “Get away from the car! There’s a bomb!”
The woman’s face went wide with surprise and confusion. She opened her mouth as if to argue with Morgan.
But the only sound was the blast of the explosion.