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(Seattle, Washington, early Wednesday morning, Oct. 1, 2013)
"Mac, wake up," Lindy said urgently.
Mac rolled out of bed into a crouch. His aunt wisely stood back when she called his name.
"What's wrong?" Mac asked, glancing at the clock near his bed that read 5 a.m.
"There's a policeman at the door, asking for you," she said. "Lt. Rodriguez sent him. Said he couldn't get you to pick up his call."
Mac pulled on jeans and a shirt while he listened to her. "Did he say why?"
Lindy shook her head. "Something about Janet."
Mac nodded, laced up his shoes, and grabbed his bag. It had everything in it he could need for a story—computer, camera, pens, paper and a 9mm in the bottom. He found his phone, glanced at it. "Shit," he said. He'd muted it at the radio station and forgotten. He truly hated cell phones. There was a call from Janet about two hours ago, and then repeated calls from Rodriguez's cell.
He took the stairs two at a time and went out the front door in a rush. "Should I follow you?" he asked the officer who was waiting on the front porch.
"Faster if you just come with me," the officer replied. "Rodriguez said he wants you now."
Mac followed him to his patrol car and got in the passenger seat when the officer gestured. Not often he got to ride in the front seat of a cop car, Mac thought, amused.
"You know what's going on?" he asked.
"Not really," the officer replied. "Lieutenant said to get you and bring you to Janet Andrew's place. Said to break down the door if I had to."
Dread built in Mac's stomach. He tried not to think about what he might find when he got to Janet's place, but it couldn't be good. Rodriguez wouldn't send a cop car for him at 5 a.m. because he wanted to have a picnic.
With almost no traffic, the officer didn't turn on his lights or siren, but he wasn't sticking to the speed limit either as he navigated down Queen Anne hill to Westlake and over the Ballard bridge. He did hit the siren as he ran a red light and sped up the street to Janet's. Mac's jaw tightened as he spotted the fire blocks away. "Shit," he said.
The officer glanced at him as he parked behind a TV van. Two police cars blocked the street from a few blocks away. Two fire trucks were running hose. Mac spotted an Examiner reporter and the ME. He closed his eyes briefly.
"Thanks, man," he said as he leveraged himself out of the patrol car and headed up the street at a run.
The first thing he always noticed about a fire was how noisy it was. The fire trucks had their engines running, fire fighters called out to each other. An ambulance idled nearby. Probably a dozen police tried to maintain order and keep people out of the way of the firefighters. Some of the people were obviously neighbors. An older man was holding his wife’s hand, a raincoat thrown over both of them. A woman stared at the flames, while two small kids clutched her legs and hid behind her.
Others were firebugs. Attracted to the flames, they followed the dispatcher on police scanners, radios, and on the Internet. They’d show up to watch. Most of them men. Mostly older. Some had been volunteer-firefighters when they were younger, he thought. He’d seen them at enough fires now, some faces looked familiar. He knew cops kept a wary eye on them. They seemed harmless, attracted by the adrenaline rush, but it wasn’t a big leap in logic to believe one of the onlookers started the fire, although that type of behavior usually presented itself when the men were young. Mac shook his head. If someone wasn’t paying him to chase firetrucks he wouldn’t get within miles of a fire. He hated fire.
The media were boxed in one area. PIOs from the fire department and from the police were there to answer questions—with non-committal answers. It was too soon to know anything. The reporters knew that. The PIOs knew it. But it gave them sound bites to go with the fire story itself. A young woman with the long blonde hair that seemed to be the trademark of Fox News was doing a live report, standing with her back to the fire, so her camera man could catch her and the fire in the same frame. Max saw Examiner reporters and photogs working. He ignored them all as he moved purposefully toward the trucks.
The fire itself created noise. The house was crashing in on itself; in spite of the brick exterior, as much of the interior walls, flooring, attic was wood. Firefighters were spraying water on neighboring buildings as well as Janet's house to keep flames from spreading.
The smoke made him choke a bit, and he used the tail of his shirt to cover his mouth. A house fire didn’t smell like a campfire—it smelled like old shoes, mold and sheetrock burning. Foul. At least this one didn’t smell like burning flesh. And there were no screams. He hated fire. Hated the memories this called up of firefights and death. He shut all that down. He was here in Seattle, not Afghanistan. It was 2013, not 2006.
Mac wanted his war memories to stay in Afghanistan. This was home. This was safety. But his subconscious wasn’t buying it. His muscles bunched, he breathed deeply, pushing oxygen through his system. His body was preparing for battle and there was fuck-all he could do about it.
In some ways this was worse, he thought grimly, as he searched for Rodriguez. This was Janet’s home. And he knew damn well this was a deliberate attack.
Mac barely spared a glance at the house. He could hear the beams supporting the roof as they burned through and crashed below. It was a brick structure, but there was still plenty to burn. It was bad, he didn’t need to stand and gawk to know that.
It took a while to find Rodriguez. He was in between the two trucks talking to the fire captain. Mac pushed through the police line with a curt "Rodriguez sent for me," and dodged around a couple of firefighters who were bent over trying to hack up inhaled smoke.
"Rodriguez!" he called out. "Where's Janet?"
Rodriguez turned at the sound of his voice but waited until Mac got up close before trying to talk over the noise.
"I was hoping you could tell us," he said. "Tell me she went somewhere else after the broadcast. Friends? Family?"
Mac shook his head. "Not that I know of," he said. "I brought her here about 11 p.m. She was pretty wiped out. I walked her inside. Checked out the premises. She was in bed before I got back out to my car. Everything was locked tight when I left."
Rodriguez grunted. “We can’t find her.”
Mac took a step back in shock. Looked at the house, calculating how best to get inside.
The fire captain rightly interpreted his look. "Two of my guys went in as soon as we got here," he said. "It was a hot fire, went up all at once. They made it inside, calling out. No one answered. They couldn't make it all the way to the bedroom even then, and that was two hours ago. If there was anyone in there, smoke had already gotten to them. We'll have to put the fire out before anyone else can go in."
Mac let out a long breath. "Arson."
Rodriguez nodded. "Threw incendiary devices through the windows. You can smell accelerant—diesel Molotov Cocktail I'd guess—up close. They wanted the whole house engulfed in flames as quickly as possible."
Mac nodded. He gestured toward his editor. "Does my editor know?"
Rodriguez shook his head. "We haven't released anything to the media. Not even yours. Need to notify family first. And, quite frankly, I don't want to count her down until we find...her...remains."
"The Examiner staff is as much family as she has," he said. He thought briefly of Eli Andrews. And Timothy Brandt. The Rev. Brandt. He wondered if any of them already knew. "There are others, but...."
Mac turned away; his jaw set hard. "They need to pay."
"We'll do everything we can to make sure they do," Rodriguez said grimly.
Mac wandered the edges of the scene, in part avoiding the ME and the other cop reporter. He didn't want to be the one to tell them Janet was dead. Didn't want to deal with the exclamations and speculation. But the hunter that lived in his hindbrain said those who had done this would be here watching. They wouldn't be able to just walk away. They'd have someone posted here. He wanted that person.
Rodriguez might promise justice, but Mac wanted revenge.
As he stalked through the crowd, no one stood out. But then, this was a different type of predator from what Mac was used to. A wolf that blended in among the sheep so well that even Mac couldn't sniff him out. He thought of the protestors whose pictures he took, but he didn't see any of them here. The neighbors who gathered along the street looked no different than those who had carried picket signs. He moved through the TV vans and cameras, listening, picking up snatches of conversations and interviews. He didn't stop until he heard Mark Ryan's voice. He turned quickly, then realized that Ryan was being interviewed on a monitor, not in person.
"Certainly, we don't condone the firebombing that happened tonight," Ryan said in measured tones. "We don't condone violence of any kind. But Janet Andrews preached violence against the unborn, the most helpless of all humanity. God's wrath is swift and just."
Mac clenched his fists. In spite of what Janet had told that asshole on Eric's show, despite what she'd written in her column, Ryan continued to insist that she was some crusader murdering babies. What's in it for him? Mac wondered. How does he benefit from all this? Something to ask Steve Whitaker at some point.
He continued pacing until he ended back in front where Rodriguez still stood. "You think she's dead," he said to the police lieutenant.
Rodriguez hesitated. "If she was in there when the IDs crashed through the window, she didn't make it, Mac. I'm sorry. I know what she meant to you."
Mac turned away. No, he thought, you don't have a clue.
Janet had been his champion from his first day on the job. On day three, when he'd kicked a man in the head because he was shadow boxing while Mac was flirting with a girl, she'd taken him out for a walk and a cup of coffee. When he'd been jailed last year while pursuing a story, she posted his $100,000 bail. She'd backed him, mentored him, and never asked anything in return except for a good story.
She'd believed in him. And because she did, he’d begun to believe in himself as a reporter, as someone who could be a part of society, not outside it. And in return? He’d failed her, and now she was dead.
He tried to picture the Examiner without her. It wouldn't be the same place. She was the life force that kept the news flowing, that drove reporters to be better. The Examiner didn't pay as well as the Seattle Times, but its reporters were fiercely loyal. And that was because of Janet. Her passion for good journalism was contagious, and her leadership made them a unified team. And in spite of the cutbacks all newspapers had endured in recent years, the Examiner was still a strong paper.
Could he go back in that newsroom without her? He didn't think so. If he did, he wouldn't last long anyway. He knew the other editors were wary of him. At first, they tolerated him because Janet did. And then because he'd broken a big story. But you were only as good as your last story, and the Homeland Security story was almost a year old. And he'd fucked up, and now Janet was dead. Would they blame him? Didn’t matter. He blamed himself.
"Shit," he said out loud. He sat on the curb observing the crowd, still watching for someone suspicious. He watched the ambulance pull away, empty. The firefighters were mopping up. Investigators were carefully sifting through smoldering debris, looking for any indication of Janet's remains. He frowned. The fire wasn't so fast and hot that remains would be hard to find. Something wasn't right. Something is missing in this picture. He watched them for a few minutes then turned away. It could be hours, even days, before they'd know what had happened.
Mac looked at his phone. It was 9 a.m. Four hours had gone by. Rodriguez was gone, although two of his detectives remained. Two more were canvassing the neighborhood, hoping someone saw something. At least in this neighborhood, neighbors would be willing to talk to the police.
The Examiner's ME, reporters, and photographer were gone. They had a newspaper to get out. Janet's death would make page one. Others could write the story. They could attend the staff meeting, hear offers of counseling to help them deal with her death. The other media had cleared out. There were deadlines and other stories.
He looked at his missed calls. A couple from the newspaper. One from Kate. He smiled a bit at that one. One from Shorty. He listened to Shorty's voice message first.
"I heard about Janet on the news this morning, bro," he said. "I'm so sorry. You may not want this info any longer, but I figured I'd let you know. You're right about the money flow in and out of Jehovah's Valley. I did some projections, ran it all as if I were looking to invest in them. They are living better than they should be able to. Even with the 50 percent tithes and such. They've got another source of money that they're not telling anyone about. And because they're technically a church, no one can get at the real numbers. Could be drugs. Could be something else."
Mac couldn't make himself care.
He listened to Kate's message. "I'm sorry Mac," she said softly. "I know she meant a lot to you. Call if you want to talk. Or come by." He might do that, he thought. The Fairchild house was a soothing place.
He looked up, frowned at a familiar figure walking toward him. It took him a moment to place the man, and then he stood up.
"Agent Warren," Mac said. "Aren't you a day late and a dollar short?"
"I work on the other coast," Stan Warren said. "What was your excuse?"
Mac shook his head. "I fucked up."
Stan Warren wasn't dealing well with the idea of Janet's death. He was furious with the FBI for shelving the task force, irate that no one had told him. He was agitated with himself for delaying his trip out here. If he'd left Tuesday after he and Rebecca talked instead of waiting 24 hours for a better flight, he might have been able to stop this. But he hadn't. He'd gotten into Seattle at 6 a.m.—six hours too fucking late.
But what he was going through was nothing compared to the pain and defeat he saw in Mac's eyes. Janet meant the world to him, Stan knew. Mac had turned down all kinds of offers last year out of loyalty to her because she'd backed him. He'd turned down the FBI, even. Well, that rejection might not have been because of loyalty to Janet—Mac had been truly appalled at the thought of working for the FBI.
Stan sighed. "Let me start this conversation over," he said quietly. "This isn't your fault. It isn't mine. Janet's death is the responsibility of the Army of God. And we will find them and take them down for this."
Mac frowned. "Army of God? The guys who bomb abortion clinics?"
Stan looked at the curb, decided it was too dirty for him to sit on. "Let's go sit in my car. I've got some things to tell you. And you need to catch me up as well."
"You're not going to tell me to stay out of it? Let the cops do their work?" Mac said, not moving from his curbside seat.
"I'm on personal leave, myself," Stan Warren said. "So... no. I'm not going to try and stop you from investigating."
Mac got up slowly and looked around. Something white flashed among the bushes across the street. Mac squinted, realized what it was. "Pulitzer!" he called. "Come here, boy."
The shaggy white dog bounded across the street and came up to Mac whining. He was shaking. Terrified, Mac thought. He knelt down beside the dog, soothing him. He didn't appear to be injured. In fact, he didn't even appear to be dirty or smoky.
"Janet's dog?" Stan asked puzzled. "How did he make it out OK and Janet didn't?"
"Exactly," Mac said, as a huge load lifted off his shoulders. "Exactly.”
He considered what it meant to see the dog. It was as if everything in the last six hours had to be reviewed and reconsidered.
“Janet's not dead,” he said slowly. “Or at least she's not dead in that house. They should have found some sign of her if she were. It's been bugging me.
"Also, no one was watching. I searched the crowd all morning. And I've been watching for a drive-by ever since. Nothing."
Stan nodded. "They wouldn't have been able to resist. But you could have missed them. They would blend in well in this neighborhood. Better than you or I do."
Mac snorted. "But the missing piece that's been eating at me, that I couldn't get at—was Pulitzer. We forgot to look for him. And while Janet might have died from smoke inhalation? The neighbors would have heard him howling."
"OK, keep talking," Stan said.
Mac looked around for a minute, gathering up his thoughts. He kept his hand buried in Pulitzer's ruff. He didn't want the dog to take off on him. "Try this on for size. They used the fire to flush Janet out. Janet runs, taking the dog with her, and they're waiting for her outside the back gate. They don't grab the dog, just her. They take off before the firefighters even get here. Rodriguez said the house went up in flames fast. So, the arson’s got the perfect cover for a kidnapping. It might be days before cops rule out Janet’s death. And by that time the trail is cold."
Stan nodded.
"That fits," said Rodriguez from behind the two men. They both flinched, hands reaching for weapons before they recognized the voice. Rodriguez sighed. "Well if I didn't know you would be carrying, I'd know it now," he said drily. "I figured I'd find you here, Mac. You didn't answer your phone, so I came down. The investigators are pretty sure no one died in the fire."
Rodriguez turned to the FBI agent. "Agent Warren," he said. "This is outside your jurisdiction, isn't it? Or is there something the FBI isn't telling us local cops? Again?"
Mac rolled his eyes. Turf war, again. Law enforcement was as bad as the gangs, he thought. Well, almost. No one died in a cop war. At least, he didn't think so. He started to intervene, but motion caught his eye. He dropped into a defensive crouch just in time to deflect an attack.
"You promised to protect her," the man screamed. "You said you would protect her, and you didn't and now she's dead."
Rodriguez started to pull his service revolver. Mac shook him off. And then glared at Warren when he continued to reach for his own weapon. Both men stopped.
Mac focused on the angry man in front of him. He was still dressed in the same fatigue jacket and jeans he'd been wearing when Mac met him a week ago. But now he held a knife, wielding it as if he knew how to use it.
Mac circled with him warily. Crazed with anger wasn't a good thing, especially when the man was half-crazed to begin with, he thought grimly. "Eli," he said forcefully. "Eli, listen to me. She isn't dead. Janet isn't dead, you hear me?"
"You lie," Eli Andrews said, with a sob. "I heard it on the radio. They said she's dead!"
He rushed Mac, going in low and slicing up with his knife as he got in close, going for Mac's guts. Mac dropped to the ground and kicked Eli’s legs out from under him. They grappled, Eli trying to kill, Mac trying to control him. It gave Eli the advantage. But Mac was almost 20 years younger, and unlike his opponent, he'd been eating healthy in recent years. Still, it was a tough struggle before Mac was able to get a knee on Eli's chest, and wrench the knife away.
"The radio is wrong," Mac said, meeting Eli's eyes. "They're wrong. Someone firebombed her house, but she got out first. And then they kidnapped her."
Eli hesitated, glanced at the house.
"You have to trust me. Janet's missing, but she's not dead."
Eli cried. He laid there, not moving in Mac's grip, tears running down his cheeks. "I thought she was dead. I thought they killed her."
"I know. I know," Mac soothed. "I thought so, too. And you're right, I promised to protect her, and I failed. I misjudged how far they'd go with this vendetta.” He waited a moment until the older man got his emotions under control. "You OK, now? Can I let you go?"
Eli nodded. Mac stood up, stepping away from him. He watched Eli warily, but the man showed no energy to continue to fight.
"We were just talking about getting some pancakes," Mac said. "You need to come with us."
"Why?" Eli asked suspiciously. He looked at the other two men and frowned. "Cops."
Mac nodded. "They're OK," he said. He didn't take his eyes off the man. "We're going to figure out how to get Janet back."
"What do you want with me?" Eli said, following Mac toward the other two men.
Mac's grin was fierce. "Because you're good in a fight. And because I think Jehovah's Valley is involved in all this."
Eli nodded slowly. "Intelligence. Infiltration."
"Exactly," Mac said. He turned to Warren and Rodriguez. "There's a Denny's just down the road on Aurora."
"Mac," Rodriguez said in a low voice. "Who is this man? He just tried to kill you, and now we're taking him to breakfast?"
"Eli, meet Lieutenant Rodriguez and Agent Warren. Gentlemen, this is Eli Andrews, Janet's husband. They grew up together in Jehovah's Valley."
"Husband?" Warren blurted.
Eli smiled shyly. "She still uses my name," he said proudly.
"Let's go," Mac said, trying not to smirk at the shell-shocked look on the other men's faces. He whistled for Pulitzer, who came bounding up.
As he walked toward Stan Warren's rental car, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, saw that it was Kate, and answered.
"Hey," he said.
"Where are you? Can you come here?"
He stopped. "What's wrong?"
Kate took a deep breath. "I think I have something that can help you figure out what happened to Janet."
"She didn't die in the fire," he said slowly. "Are you OK?"
"I'm fine. I came home during my prep period to get a book I'd forgotten. And...," she hesitated. "Just come over. Can you?"
"Sure, babe," he said reassuringly. "I'll be bringing some friends. Okay if we use your place for a strategy session?"
"Yes, whatever. I just need you to come here now," she said. He wasn't even sure she'd heard what he'd said.
"We're on our way," he said as he hung up. "Change in plans, gentlemen," he said. "We're going to a friend's house. She says she can help us."
"Help us how?" Stan Warren said suspiciously. Mac stood by the driver's door and snapped his fingers.
"My car, I drive," Warren said.
"My city, my directions," Mac returned.
"Oh, for God's sake," Rodriguez muttered. "Agent Warren, I suggest you let Mac drive, since he knows where we're going."
Warren hesitated, then tossed the keys to Mac who caught them one-handed.
Eli Andrews stood looking a bit lost. "You're coming with us," Mac said kindly, opening the rear car door.
"And the dog?" Eli said, looking down at Pulitzer who hugged his legs.
"The dog, too," Mac said. Stan Warren looked at Mac but didn't say a word as he got in the front seat. Mac suspected cleaning a deposit—for dog and/or man—had to be running through his mind, but he gave the Agent credit for not saying anything.
And in the back of his mind, the phrase “Janet is alive” was running through his brain. As long as she was alive, he hadn't fucked up too badly. As long as she was alive, he could make it right.