As dawn broke, an executive jet belonging to an unnamed branch of the federal government sped toward Albuquerque. It touched down at 7:23 a.m. on a little-used Kirtland Air Force Base runway. Seven plainclothesmen deplaned and entered the two black SUVs waiting for them on the tarmac; two passenger vans, empty except for their drivers, also waited.
A mere seventeen minutes later, the line of vehicles drew up in front of the Albuquerque FBI field office. The drivers did not park in the designated lot far back from the entrance; they pulled their respective vehicles alongside the barriers and braked, leaving their engines idling.
Two of the men from the plane emerged and stationed themselves outside the vehicles. The other five men strode up the walkway to the FBI’s front entrance. The man leading the way carried a thick briefcase and walked with a brisk, authoritative step.
The formation of stone-faced men glanced at workers sweeping up broken glass outside the building. The lobby windows and doors had shattered and spewed bits of thick safety glass everywhere. Although a worker was carefully knocking the last glass shards from the front doors, the five visitors did not pause. One of them nudged the worker aside and opened the door for the leader of the group.
The inside of the lobby could have been the aftermath of a terrorist attack. No part of it was unscathed: Every window had been broken, every piece of furniture, potted plant, and wall hanging damaged. The security turnstile hung crooked and useless.
The five men cut a swath through the debris and the workers who were piling it to the side.
Even the security guard’s station was out of commission, although he stood his post nearby. He eyed the newcomers and produced his prepared greeting.
“Good morning, gentlemen. As you can see, the Albuquerque field office is closed for repairs today. Please return next Monday when we expect to be open again or call our general number to make an appointment if your business is of an urgent nature.”
The lead visitor spoke as if he had not heard the guard. “Inform the senior agent on premises that we are here to take a prisoner into custody.”
The guard studied them in silence, nodded, and placed the call. When SAC Terry Wallace picked up, the guard repeated carefully, “Sir, I have a delegation in the lobby asking to see the senior agent on premises.”
“I see. Tell them I will join them shortly. Thank you.”
Wallace logged into the building’s camera system and viewed the five waiting men. Then he buzzed Gamble. “I think we’ve got trouble waiting downstairs.”
“This about Bickel?”
“I would think so. Cushing, too, I expect.”
“Well, that didn’t take long. Look, sir, you saw what happened yesterday. If we let Bickel out of our custody, the world will never hear from him again.”
“Noted. Meet me at the elevator.”
Minutes later, the five visitors, their expressions impassive, watched Wallace and Gamble approach.
“Gentlemen, I’m Special Agent in Charge Terry Wallace. This is Special Agent Gamble. What can I do for you?”
Their leader offered no card or introduction. He did produce a sheaf of official-looking paperwork.
“Agent Wallace, I have here an order from the United States District Court for the District of Columbia. It requires you to immediately transfer into our custody General Imogene Cushing, the eighteen men in her company last evening, and one Daniel Bickel.”
“By ‘eighteen men,’ you are referring to the armed soldiers who attacked this facility last night? We have declared their assault to be an act of domestic terrorism.”
“I am hardly in a position to adjudicate what occurred here yesterday, Mr. Wallace; I am simply the messenger.” He offered Wallace the stack of papers.
Wallace took the stack, glanced at a few pages, handed the paperwork to Gamble, and smiled with tight lips. “This is most unusual. I will, of course, need to have our counsel review the request.”
“It is not a request. It is an order for immediate transfer; it states that you are to comply without delay.”
“So you said.” Wallace added nothing for a long moment. When he did speak, his words were measured. Polite but firm. “I comprehend the urgency of the order. Nevertheless, it will take a few hours to process General Cushing and the, er, others. However, I can tell you now that Daniel Bickel is not our prisoner.”
“The order includes him.”
“I can read. As I said, I will call in our counsel to examine the court’s directive. Now, in view of our lobby’s state of disrepair—” Wallace swept his hand to indicate the disorder, “—I suggest that you find a comfortable place to wait. Elsewhere. I will contact you when we’ve processed the prisoners, most likely by close of business today.”
The man’s expression hardened. “This order reads ‘immediate transfer.’ Your lack of cooperation is unacceptable, Agent Wallace.”
“And your lack of due process is concerning.” Wallace did not shift his gaze or blink. “As I said, we will call you when we’ve reviewed the order and prepared the prisoners for transport.”
“Dr. Bickel, also.”
Wallace shrugged. “I’m sorry to disappoint you. Although Dr. Bickel was present here last evening, when the press conference ended, he was free to go. We had no warrants or cause to hold him. And he was, as you’ll recall, declared dead last March.”
The man’s jaw clenched and unclenched. “Are you saying he is not here?”
“I’m saying—again—that we had no cause to detain him. Now, I suggest you leave your contact information with Agent Gamble who will then escort you to your vehicles. As I’m assured you were told, this facility is closed today. We will make arrangements for you to return when the prisoners have been duly processed.”
The air crackled with tension as the two men engaged in a stare-off. Gamble kept his attention on the visitor’s four companions: The level of aggression charging the room was far beyond the norm of acceptable FBI behavior.
When Wallace did not cave, the lead visitor slipped his hand into his suit’s breast pocket. Gamble’s alert status jumped another notch—until the hand slid out holding a business card. The man offered the card to Wallace.
Wallace took it without comment and without glancing at it. He turned to Gamble.
“Please escort our visitors to their vehicles.”
“Yes, sir.” Gamble gestured toward the doorway.
When their leader headed for the front entrance, his companions turned and followed. Gamble took up the rear and stayed with them until they entered the two SUVs and the line of vehicles sped away. Gamble jotted down the plate numbers and returned to the lobby.
Wallace was waiting for him. “We need to get Bickel out of here, out of our facility to somewhere safer—without him being seen as he departs.”
Gamble gave a curt nod. Gemma could get Bickel out without being seen, but Gamble had no means of contacting her. He knew of only one person who might have such a means.
“Leave it to me.” He hesitated. “If you don’t mind me asking, who were those guys?”
“You tell me.”
Wallace showed him the card the lead man had handed him. It was pure white; the only text on the card was a phone number.
“I’d say we’re in deep waters, sir, but my estimation may prove to be an understatement.”
Gamble took the elevator upstairs, entered his office, and locked the door behind him. He dialed Zander Cruz’s number and waited for him to pick up. And waited.
When no one answered, the call went to voice mail.
Gamble growled into his phone, “Cruz. Call me ASAP. It’s important.”
He hung up and ran a hand across his neck. “Dang it, Gemma. We need you.”
***
Across town, Zander knocked at Abe’s door and listened as Abe shuffled toward him, unlocked the deadbolt, and let him in.
“I’m glad to see that you’re doing much better, Abe.” Actually, while Abe’s physical condition seemed improved, his face was drawn down into saddened lines.
“Yep. Getting around on my own pretty good. Ribs still a mite tender, is all.” He studied Zander. “Huh. You look like you got yourself dragged through a knothole.”
“I’m short on sleep is all. I was out late.”
“Well, come sit down. Made us breakfast burritos.”
Zander rubbed his tired eyes, picked up the handheld burrito, and took a bite. He sighed with pleasure.
“The bacon and diced potatoes are crisp, the eggs fluffy, the chile and melted cheese just right. You could make a fortune with these, Abe.”
“Got all I need, thanks. I only cook for those I love, Pastor.”
Zander grinned around another bite. “Love you, too, Abe. So, tell me again about Genie?”
“Been thinking on that, and keep coming back to the same thing: Gemma’s the only one can boot Genie from her house, and Gemma’s not going to be filing any complaints, what with APD, the State Police, the FBI, and whoever else still looking for her.”
“I suppose not, but I’ll walk over and talk to Genie anyway.”
Zander’s phone rang. He wiped his fingers with a napkin and fished the phone from his pocket. The Caller I.D. read ‘McFee, Aaron.’
Wincing, Zander said to Abe, “My boss. I need to take this.” He pressed the green “answer” button. “Hello?”
“Pastor Cruz? This is Pastor McFee.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Son, we’ve been very concerned about you. Are you all right?”
“Yes, sir, I am. Thank you.”
“Then, where in the dickens have you been, and why have you not returned our calls and messages?” Now that he was assured of Zander’s wellbeing, Pastor McFee’s relief shifted to indignation.
“I apologize, sir. As you know, I was called out on a chaplain’s run late Sunday evening. When the call came in, I was sound asleep; I awoke in a fog. The call was urgent and, in my haste and muddled mental state, I sent you a text—then set my cell phone down and left it behind.”
“But you’ve been missing for days!”
A second call clicked in Zander’s ear. He ignored it and let it go to voice mail.
“Yes, sir, I have. Again, I apologize. The situation became quite serious, and the LEO I was riding with requested that I remain with him as long as the issue was critical. I only returned home late yesterday afternoon. As you may deduce, I was pretty wiped out, and did not check my messages right away.”
“And you couldn’t have used someone else’s phone to at least call in?”
“In hindsight, sir, I should have. Again, I apologize. It was thoughtless.”
“What it was, Pastor Cruz, was irresponsible. We’ll talk about this further in person. I expect you to be in the office shortly.”
“Uh, about that, sir?”
“Yes?”
“While I was gone, a . . . family emergency came up. It cannot wait, so I need to tend to it before I come in. I’m not certain how long it will take. Of course, I’ll take personal time for it.”
The man on the other end exhaled a longsuffering sigh. “Very well, but I expect you to be in the office no later than tomorrow morning.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
When Zander hung up, Abe lifted a quizzical brow. “You in trouble, Pastor Cruz?”
Zander stared with longing at his half-eaten burrito. “I have a lot to tell you, Abe. Then I need to talk to Genie. Figure out why she’s here.”
“Well, take your time. I’ve got makings for another burrito, so eat up. What you have to say can wait.”
When Zander was full, he took his dishes to the kitchen while Abe poured him another cup of coffee. They sat at Abe’s table and Zander rehearsed all that had happened since Gamble called him Sunday night.
The tale took an hour and left Abe slowly moving his head back and forth.
“This is near unbelievable. You’re saying Gemma can . . . shoot electricity from her hands?”
“And more, Abe. Much more.”
***
It was midmorning, but Genie had just gotten up for the day. She had laundered Gemma’s sheets and blankets late the night before, but she hadn’t slept well in her sister’s bed. The sense that her perfectly ordered life was spiraling out of her control had been difficult to discount, to suppress.
Dark, discomfiting questions had plagued her well into the night before she fell asleep—as had the rebuke of a brash, impudent Hispanic man—a *blanking* pastor of all things. Yes, she’d invaded his office and his personal space, thinking to use and manipulate him, but it hadn’t gone the way she’d planned. Not at all.
“Spiritually, you are defeated, Genie. You are subject to the master of this world—to Satan himself. He controls you and this fallen world. You are just his puppet. Whatever he tells you to do, you do it.
“I do what I like, what I choose!”
“No, you do what you are told.”
Later, he’d added, “The devil owns you, Genie. He owns you lock, stock, and barrel. You think you don’t submit to anyone? You say you are free? You are not. You’re driven and compelled . . . bound over to commit evil—as he directs, not as you choose.”
His statements, delivered with flat-footed, frank conviction, had struck an ominous chord in Genie’s gut, a terrifying trifecta of implications. What he’d said had ripped skin from her inner eyes and—for just an instant—she’d caught a glimpse of . . . truth?
Genie shook her head. She refused to entertain the possibility that she had ever been deceived as he suggested, let alone in an ongoing manner. But last night? The rest of their “conversation” had flooded back into her mind, repeating itself over and over, dispelling any possibility of sleep. She’d remembered—no; she hadn’t been able to stop reliving—the moment when he’d gotten up from behind his desk and, with infuriating gall, had “seen” her to the door.
Genie snarled in the back of her throat. He treated me like an errant child. That didn’t stop the scene from playing on a continuous loop—the worst bit hammering her again and again.
“When you leave my office, I want you to see God differently than you do now—in fact, I want you to see yourself differently. The first step in coming to terms with God is acknowledging who and what we are. That’s good news for you, Genie, because he isn’t asking for your ‘feelings.’ Rather, he is asking that you acknowledge your brokenness.”
Genie paged through local news on her cellphone while she drank her morning coffee. She was unaccustomed to brewing coffee with a drip coffee maker, and the result was worse than disappointing.
It was disgusting. Unacceptable.
She swallowed, made a face, and recalled her Gaggia Classic with longing. Why didn’t I ship my espresso maker? The expensive machine, along with her other belongings, languished in a storage unit back in Virginia.
Forcing herself to take another sip, Genie laughed at what the hick New Mexico media services considered newsworthy. She skimmed an article about a dead scientist having been found alive and read with interest another report, this one concerning a thwarted assault on the local FBI office during a press conference with the same “dead” scientist. The man’s name nagged at her. It seemed to ring a bell, but the attack on the FBI office was too entertaining and distracted her.
Who would dare try something so absurd in D.C.? No one in their right mind would attack the J. Edgar Hoover Building, Genie scoffed. The fortress-like, raw-concrete “brutalist” architecture of D.C.’s FBI headquarters was intimidating in itself; additional fortifications and security measures made the FBI office building an uninviting and unrewarding target for terrorists.
Only in Albuquerque, she sneered. Middle of Nowhere, U.S.A.
She put the cup to her lips and drank.
“Ugh! This is utterly gross.” Genie slammed her coffee mug onto the table and drummed her fingers in frustration. “I need a car. And the location of the nearest decent coffee shop.”
Car.
Genie’s eyes went wide. Didn’t Gemma have a car? Was it parked in the garage?
She was at the side door in a flash; the wood door’s frame was splintered, as was the doorpost where the deadbolt had been ripped out when Cushing’s people had burst in. She managed to yank open the door—and came up against a sheet of plywood fastened to the outside of the house.
“What a *bleeping* mess.”
She strode out the front door, around to the side, and stared at the ruin Cushing’s soldiers had left. The outside security door hung open, but it was bent out of square, and it leaned like a crazed drunk against the house’s stucco siding. Cushing’s people had wrecked the metal door while breaching the house. It would never close correctly again, let alone latch and lock.
Genie’s anger toward Cushing found another grievance. “Like I can afford to replace two doors right now!”
The piece of plywood nailed over the doorway was surprisingly easy to remove; the nails had gone into stucco rather than wood. She grabbed an edge and pulled. Nails screed and came free; the plywood sheet fell to the steps revealing the open doorway behind it.
Hands on her hips, Genie surveyed the damage. “Maybe I’ll take the old man up on his offer after all.” It would be easier sucking up to him than squeezing hundreds of dollars out of her checking account.
Genie turned to the garage. Its side doors, too, were locked. With her face tipped up and pressed against the tiny, dusty window, she could just make out Gemma’s old Toyota.
If I can’t find the keys to her car, maybe I can sweet-talk a locksmith into making me a new set, she schemed. Gemma Keyes/Genie Keyes—no big difference. I could convince the right man to be “understanding” enough to help me out.
“May I help you?”
Genie’s head came down so fast, she struck her chin on the window’s edge and bit her tongue. “Ow!”
“I’m sorry, Genie. I didn’t mean to startle you.” Zander shrugged. “Seems like this is how you and I met the first time.”
“You!”
All his accusations ran in her head. Had her nightmare come to life?
Zander chuckled. “Yeah, me. Again. And, like that first time, I’m wondering what you’re doing in Gemma’s house?”
Genie’s eyes blazed. “That old man called you, didn’t he? Well, it’s none of his business and, I might add, it’s none of your business, either.”
“Actually, I have friends in Albuquerque law enforcement. I could make it my business to report you for trespassing. Then you could explain it to them.”
Genie’s mouth thinned into a tight smile. “Yes, you do that. The answer is simple: This is my sister’s house, and she’s away at present, so I’m housesitting for her. Want to prove me wrong? Just have Gemma call you. Better still, have her call the police—or is she too busy hiding from Cushing?”
Her cold stare challenged Zander, her words a dare they both knew he couldn’t take on.
All he could think to say was, “I hope you’re taking care of her home.”
She sniffed. “I would have to trash the place to make it any worse.”
Zander choked off a hot retort. Instead, he pulled on grace from a well deep within.
“Those doors and the doorframe need to be replaced. The stucco patched.”
“No kidding.”
“I’ll take care of it, Genie.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Why would you do that? What do you want?”
“Not everything in life is tit for tat. People can be kind without expecting a favor in return. But, let’s just say I’m doing it for Gemma.”
Genie’s mouth bunched up. “The old man said he’d help if I had anything that needed fixing.”
Zander shook his head. “That ‘old man’ is still recovering from a beating that almost killed him. He can help later. With simpler stuff. I’ll be over late tomorrow to take measurements.”
Genie didn’t answer, but Zander thought he sensed relief in her demeanor.
“Genie, have you thought anymore about what we talked about the last time we met?”
“Certainly not.”
He smiled. “If you hadn’t been thinking about it, I doubt you would have responded so quickly.”
Something rubbed up alongside his leg and twined itself between his feet. Zander flinched and looked down. Jake. Jake had his ugly, flat, tom-cat mug pressed into Zander’s slacks, rubbing first one whiskered jowl, then the other, against him. The burnt-orange tabby tipped his head over and pushed his mangled ear against Zander’s leg—giving every indication of cat affection.
“Hey, Jake. How ya doing?” Zander, as glad as he was to see Jake looking well, was smart enough not to touch him or (even dumber) try to pick him up.
Genie took a step back. “Yuck! That is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. Don’t touch it—it’s probably infested with fleas and worms.”
“Really? No, I don’t think so. See, this is Jake. Jake was your Aunt Lucy’s cat. He kept her company while she was dying. Now he’s Gemma’s cat.”
An impulsive, wicked idea struck Zander—and he immediately put it into play. “Hey, that’s right! You don’t know Jake. Well, let me introduce you. Genie, this is Jake; Jake, this is Genie, Gemma’s sister. Jake, Genie will be taking care of you while Gemma’s away.”
“No! No, I will not! I’m not taking care of that-that-that-that mangy monstrosity.”
“Really? Because if you were housesitting for Gemma, that would imply that you were also caring for her beloved Jake.” It was all Zander could do to use the words “Gemma” and “her beloved Jake” in the same sentence without adding a snarky laugh.
Zander leveled his own challenge at Genie. “Isn’t that right? I mean, well, goodness—I’d sure hate for some vigilante animal rights group to hear that you’re neglecting a helpless cat left in your care. Some of those people can be . . . unreasonable. Some might say they are irrational.”
Jake meowed deep in his throat and stretched up Zander’s leg and nosed his fingers. Taking his life in his hands, Zander scratched the top of Jake’s head. Jake pushed his head into Zander’s hand, purred—then sank his teeth into the meaty side of Zander’s hand.
Zander jerked his hand away, and Genie pounced. “Ha! Beloved cat, my *blank*!”
Wrapping a handkerchief around his hand to staunch the welling blood, Zander studied Genie. “I admit that Jake is an acquired taste, but I’m warning you: You’d better not take advantage of Gemma while you ‘housesit.’ And I’m serious about Jake. If I see or hear that you’ve in any way abused or neglected him, I’ll find someone who takes animal cruelty seriously, and I’ll sic them on you.”
Jake, as though he’d done nothing inordinate, gave one last rub against Zander’s slacks and pushed off from his leg. Tail in the air, he pranced away. And before Genie could react, Jake bounded up the steps of the back porch and into the house.
“No! No! No! Get him out! Get him out!” Genie screeched.
Zander grinned. “Uh, don’t think so. It’s his home, after all. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He disregarded Genie’s protests and chuckled all the way across the cul-de-sac to his car. While he walked, Zander checked his phone and found voice mail. The he remembered that another call had come in while he was speaking to Pastor McFee.
He listened to Gamble’s terse message and pressed “Return Call.”
“Ross Gamble.”
“It’s Zander. Sorry I missed your call. What’s up?”
“What’s up is that we had visitors first thing this morning with a federal court order to turn over Cushing, her men, and Dr. Bickel to them. Wallace is stalling for time. He even made it sound like we didn’t have Bickel, that he’d left after all the action last night. You need to get in touch with Gemma and have her whisk Dr. Bickel out of here.”
He lowered his voice. “You know, invisible-like.”
“I’ll call her, but you need to know that I have no idea if she is near the phone we use.”
“Do your best. We don’t have much time.”
Zander raced home and pulled the burner phone from its hiding place under his dresser.
***
The nanomites woke me.
Gemma Keyes. Zander Cruz is calling you.
Gemma Keyes. Zander Cruz is calling you.
“Okay. I’m up.”
I picked up the phone and yawned. “Hey.”
He didn’t mince words. “Gemma, we’ve got a situation. Gamble needs you to get Dr. Bickel out of the FBI office as soon as you can. Apparently, people showed up first thing this morning with a court order for him and for Cushing.”
I wiped sleep from my face. “I’m on my way.”
“I’ll let Gamble know.”
On my way toward the FBI’s offices, it dawned on me that I had but one place to hide my friend, and that was in his safe house. With me.
The little basement hiding place was about to get crowded.
~~**~~