2

Ellen, North Carolina—Present Day

AS JACK TOOK THE LAST FEW STEPS down to one of the sidewalks of Evanston University, leaving the venerable ivy-covered edifice of Whittenborough Hall behind, it occurred to him that he might be getting old. And that estimation had nothing to do with his physical state, which was better than average, despite a knee that had given him trouble for the better part of twenty years. Rather, it was the fact that the last ten minutes of the Archaeology Ethics class he’d just finished teaching were some of the most intellectually stimulating he’d spent in the classroom in a long while—and yet he could already feel the subject matter slipping away in favor of the cigar and porch that awaited him at home.

It hadn’t been too long ago when a question like the one raised by one of his students—about the disposition of plundered artifacts during wartime—would have kept him in the lecture hall for an after-hours debate. Such a question might even have spurred him to hours of research later, toiling away, a half-eaten bowl of cornflakes at his elbow. But Jack knew that was unlikely to happen today. Instead he would file the topic away somewhere in his brain, in a nice secluded spot from where it would occasionally raise its hand in an attempt to get his attention. And at some point, maybe years down the road, he would pull it out, dust it off, and start a new book.

He released a sigh just as a student walked past, heading toward the building he’d just left.

“Hey, Dr. Hawthorne,” the young man said.

The Evanston University campus wasn’t large, and the student body barely topped four thousand, which meant just about every face was familiar, even if the names were not. That was the case here, so instead of saying anything, Jack nodded and gave him a little wave.

Once the student was gone, Jack slowed his steps, finding himself taking deep draws of the spring air, picking out the strong scent of Bradford pear blooms on the breeze. There was something about Evanston that made him appreciate the spring in a way he might not have in some other place. The perfectly manicured grass, the obsessively cultivated flower beds, the way Evanston was nestled within the confines of picturesque Ellen, North Carolina—the season seemed to grant the university and its faculty and students a unique energy that sent ripples across the beautiful campus.

Even though Jack had to cross the entirety of the campus, it took him less than ten minutes to reach his home. The Colonial Revival–style structure, which was much too large for his tastes, sat amid a handful of similar gambrel-roofed faculty homes around the perimeter of the university. During his first teaching stint at Evanston, he lived in a small third-floor apartment closer to downtown—an apartment with spotty hot water and carpet that smelled of old cheese. The only times Jack would venture this way were those occasions when Duckey invited him to dinner. Looking back on those years, he was reminded of how often his friend, and dean of his department, would extend that invitation. In retrospect, it was just possible Duckey was worried about Jack’s diet, which at the time consisted mostly of pancakes and breakfast cereal.

Today, after years of living in the house, Jack still found it strange that he and Espy and the boys lived barely a stone’s throw from Duckey’s place, even though his friend’s house was located well back from the road with mature trees surrounding it, allowing him at least the illusion of isolation.

The street was quiet as he reached the driveway. He could hear the barest strains of music floating through an open window, something with a Spanish flavor, he thought. He stooped to pick up a small plastic bag next to the mailbox, a rock and a piece of paper inside—a solicitation for baby-sitting, or pressure-washing, or lawn care. As he straightened, his knee let him know that it was going to be one of those nights when the dull pain that normally made an appearance during his walk home would linger longer than usual. What cheered him, though, was the thought that the knee gave him a good excuse to spend the evening relaxing on the porch.

When he entered the house, the music he could only just make out from the driveway assailed him with renewed vigor, and although he’d suffered through countless iterations of South American pop bands during nearly ten years of marriage to his Venezuelan bride, he never seemed to develop an appreciation for the music of her homeland.

He could hear Esperanza in the kitchen, a series of sounds that told him she was able to shed her classroom responsibilities early. Heavy class loads, as well as late classes for both of them, made those times when one of them could get into the kitchen to prepare a proper meal relatively rare.

He proceeded down the hallway, glancing into the family room on his way to the kitchen. The former was unoccupied, and when he reached the latter, he found something that made him smile. Espy was making arepas. It wasn’t specifically the menu, though, that amused him. It was that she was dancing to a Franco DeVita number, dancing a salsa between the kitchen’s island and the stove, where she dropped spoonfuls of cornmeal batter into a frying pan. The batter sizzled in the pan, and Espy used a spoon to corral it into a perfect circle before turning back to the island. It was at that moment that she saw Jack. After adopting an embarrassed look for the briefest of moments, she winked at him and then turned off the music.

“You didn’t have to turn off Franco,” he said, only half joking.

She answered with an insincere scowl as Jack crossed to the island, where she’d already arranged steak, feta cheese, tomato slices, and avocado.

“Arepa llanera,” he said with appreciation. “What’s the occasion?”

Jack was familiar with all the ways one could make arepas, most of them having to do with the items that were ultimately stuffed into the cooked dough. For the sake of convenience, their family usually opted for ham and cheese. The fact that Espy had taken the time to marinate steak and pick up avocado suggested at least a minor celebration. But as soon as he asked the question, he remembered Jim’s appointment earlier that day.

Espy could see that he’d made the connection, and she offered the same sad yet hopeful smile that was seldom far from her.

“His lungs look okay,” she said. She lifted a cutting board from the island and dropped it into the sink. “But his weight is still low.”

Hence the arepas, Jack said to himself. Steak arepas were Jim’s favorite, and the boy could usually be counted on to eat more than one.

“Clear lungs, that’s good news,” he said, though he realized she already knew that. So instead of saying anything else, he made his way around the island and wrapped her in an embrace. When he let her go, his wife’s eyes were moist.

“He’s in his room,” Espy said, anticipating the question. Then she turned away to tend to the frying dough. Jack lingered for just a moment, pondering how strange all of it still seemed, but then he turned to go find his son.

He took the creaky wooden stairs to the second floor, a hand on the curved railing. He paused at the door to Jim’s room, his mind forming a picture of what he was doing inside. And when he gave a single knock and opened the door, he found the image an accurate one. His son was at the desk that Duckey had bought for his last birthday. It was an antique, large, made of walnut, and more than three hundred years old. Jack had resisted doing the research to find out how much the thing cost, but he knew it was an extravagant purchase, and he suspected that Duckey had bought it for the same reason all of them did many of the things they did for Jim. That thought was one he didn’t want to consider at the moment, so he pushed it away and entered the room.

Jack paused after taking a single step, studying his son’s profile. It had always amused him that Jim looked more like Espy’s brother than he did Jim Duckett, the man in whose honor he was named. Of his two sons, Jim was the one with the more pronounced Latin features, and he could see hints of Romero in him, especially as he grew older. Even so, there were bits of Duckey he could see in his younger son too—most notably his sense of humor, which was more ribald for an eight-year-old than Jack was often comfortable with. Yet it was a character trait that had served Jim well, considering the lot he’d been dealt.

Over the last few years, Jack had learned more than he ever thought possible about cystic fibrosis, and about all the progress doctors had made in the treatment and management of the disease. Early on, he’d been encouraged by the knowledge that many CF patients lived reasonably healthy lives into their forties. That initial encouragement, though, was what had made Jim’s situation harder for Jack to handle—the fact that the disease was progressing with unusual speed through the boy’s body. And so the doctors who’d examined him had tried to prepare Jack and Espy for the strong possibility of losing him before he reached his eighteenth birthday.

Jim hadn’t yet looked up from whatever he was reading. Jack supposed he was used to his father wordlessly watching him, as if he were some phantom that would disappear if Jack looked away. It was something Jack tried to keep to a minimum; a father should do his best to avoid passing his own fears on to his children.

As if in silent agreement with that thought, Jim finally looked up and flashed Jack a smile.

“Hey, Dad,” he said, and as always, Jack found himself listening for anything in the sound of the boy’s voice that would signify fluid gathering in his lungs. But the fact that he wasn’t coughing, that Jack couldn’t hear him wheezing even when silent, told him that Jim was still riding the relatively healthy wave he’d been on for the last few months.

“Hey, pal.” Jack crossed to the desk to see what he was reading, and Jim turned it so his father could see the cover of a Batman comic.

“Nice,” Jack said. “‘Arkham Asylum’ is a good one.” Then he frowned, considering that he was supposed to do something parental here. “Aren’t you a little young for that?”

Jim’s answer was a shrug and a crooked grin, as if he knew he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t, yet also understanding that the one who’d caught him was a co-conspirator.

“I got it from Alex’s room,” Jim said. “And he’s only ten.”

While Jack wasn’t sure the logic worked, he decided not to press the issue, recalling his own stash of comic books when he was his son’s age. Admittedly they were a bit campier than the current darker fare, but he was well acquainted with the one Jim was reading and couldn’t think of anything that might give the boy nightmares.

“Does Alex know you borrowed it?”

Jim returned the same shrug and smile, a twinkle in his eye, and Jack couldn’t help but smirk in return. While he and Espy had kept much of their past from the kids, both boys knew some of the broad strokes. And since Jim was his son, Jack could imagine the path the boy took to rationalize taking the comic book from his brother’s room. Something about it not being stealing if he planned on putting it back, eventually. Jack thought that, of his two sons, Jim—the more intuitive—could see a glimpse of the treasure-hunting mentality behind the practice of archaeology.

When Jack left Jim’s room, he felt better than he had when he’d gone in. And the smell of steak cooking downstairs ensured that his mood would see no further decline that evening.

Although it was the sort of quiet that made a man think he could hear his own heartbeat if he listened attentively enough, Jack almost didn’t hear his phone ringing. But at some point the intrusive chirp made its way through his defenses, pulling him back from a thousand miles away. When the ring came again, he found that he had a choice to make—either answer it and lose the atmosphere he’d conjured over the last few minutes, or ignore it and hope whoever was on the other end would content himself with leaving a message. He was leaning toward the latter as the last ring died off. He waited to see if another would follow it, but as the seconds ticked by, it seemed the caller had opted for voice mail.

He resettled in the chair and took a puff from his cigar, only now noticing the built-up ash that told him he’d been lost in thought for a while. Through the screen door, Jack could hear Espy moving about in the kitchen. He smiled and adjusted his feet on the rail.

He was just about to lose himself back into relaxed mode when his phone started ringing again. Jack sighed and, shifting the cigar to his other hand, fished around in his pocket until he found the phone. He didn’t recognize the number, except that it had a local area code.

“Hello?”

“Jack, I need you to listen and not ask any questions. Got it?”

It was the tone of Duckey’s voice, more than what he was saying, that brought Jack’s feet off the porch rail.

“Ducks?”

“That counts as a question,” Duckey said. “And we don’t have time for many more of those, so just shut up and listen.”

He waited a second, perhaps to make sure the admonition stuck, before speaking again.

“Alright. I need you to go inside, grab your family, and get them out to your car.”

Jack was on his feet and heading toward the door, his friend’s words still ringing in his ear, which was a testament to their shared experience. Jack also thought it said something about Duckey’s ability to infuse urgency into what was otherwise a calm, measured statement.

“What’s going on?” Jack asked as he opened the screen door.

“That’s question number two,” Duckey said. “And I promise I’ll answer it, and any others you might have, but later. Right now the only thing you should be concentrating on is getting that family of yours out of the house. Understood?”

A great deal of history existed between the two of them, a history that included Duckey saving Jack’s life more than once. He knew he owed Jim Duckett more than he could possibly repay. And he trusted him completely.

“Understood.”

“Good,” Duckey said. “You don’t have time to grab anything but yourselves. Cash if you have any handy. Passports if you don’t have to go hunting for them. You may not be able to use them anyway, but they’re good to have just in case.”

Jack had entered the house, the screen door swinging shut behind him, when Esperanza looked up from the book she was reading, a cup of tea on the breakfast-nook table. Whatever she saw on Jack’s face provoked an immediate response. She closed the book and stood, staring at him.

“Once you’re out of the house, you need to pick up a new phone,” Duckey said. “And make sure you pay cash for it.”

“Got it,” Jack answered, even as he tried to think of any cash they had in the house. He looked at Espy, who was clearly waiting for an explanation, one he couldn’t give her. “I need you to find any cash we have handy,” he told her. “And our passports.”

“Only if they’re handy,” he heard Duckey say.

“Only if they’re handy,” Jack repeated to Espy.

Jack could see Espy processing the information. He suspected there were a number of ways this could go, most of which would cut into the time that Duckey seemed to think was so precious. One of the things he knew about his wife, though, was that she had shared in most of those experiences that had necessitated Duckey’s help in years past. It was that history that caused her to nod and begin the task of gathering their meager funds.

“How much time do we have, Ducks?”

“My guess is no more than ten minutes. When you get your new phone, find a way to get the number to that person you used to work with—the one who lived in your old apartment building.”

Jack was on the verge of saying Angie’s name when it occurred to him that Duckey never forgot anything. If his friend hadn’t said the name, there was a reason he didn’t want it said out loud. That told Jack that Duckey thought the call was compromised, and that suggested his friend had willingly put himself at risk.

“Understood,” Jack said.

“All we can hope for right now is that we stay ahead of them. It can take a while for them to get a track in place. So if we forward phones enough times, we can probably end up with a secure connection.”

Jack knew that Duckey wouldn’t have him do this unless there was real danger. Yet he couldn’t end the call without asking the question. It was a question he’d hoped he would never have to ask, and one that the passage of time had convinced him he wouldn’t have to—so much so that he and Espy had gotten rid of the tactical ready bags years ago.

“It’s about the bones, isn’t it?”

Even as the question left his lips, he knew it was the only answer. There were few episodes in his past that would warrant a flight from his home, and only one with enough open ends to make it a good candidate. When one was hired by a billionaire to locate the bones of a biblical prophet, and when locating those relics meant stealing them from an ancient society organized to keep them safe, and instead of giving them to the man who hired you, you buried them in the desert and let the billionaire die rather than allowing him to play God, you spent a long while afterward looking over your shoulder.

Jack knew that Duckey would be anticipating the question. Still, the silence that greeted him was weighty. He could almost see his friend running a hand through his hair.

“Yes,” Duckey said after what seemed a long time. “Now get your family out of there. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

The phone in Jack’s hand went dead. He kept it at his ear for a few seconds, as if that could help him absorb how drastically his life had changed in such a short span of time. When he pulled the phone away, he started to put it in his pocket but then hesitated. Instead he set it on the kitchen island and headed toward the family room, where Jim and Alex, oblivious to what had just happened, were engaged in electronic sibling rivalry.

He met Espy in the hallway. She had a decent collection of cash in her hand, but Jack’s eyes were drawn to the other thing she held. Without a word she extended the handgun toward him. He paused for only a second before reaching for the Glock and tucking it into his waistband. He then took Espy’s hand and gave it a squeeze.

Less than three minutes later, the family was gathered at the front door, the boys in light jackets and clutching the few items they couldn’t leave without. As Jack looked at them, the one thing that really struck him was that none of them appeared to be frightened, even with him running around like a lunatic. That alone told him there was a lot of Espy in both of the boys, a realization that made him smile.

“Let’s go for a ride, boys,” he said.

Espy opened the door and the boys started after her, but then Jack remembered something.

“Give me a minute,” he said to Espy before turning and bounding up the stairs. In Jim’s room he found the boy’s nebulizer and medications, and he suffered a pang of guilt that he and Espy had almost walked out the door without them. Wherever they ended up, Jim was going to need his medical supplies.

When he rejoined the family, he saw Espy eyeing what he’d gathered up, and Jack could almost read her thoughts. It wasn’t the first time the two of them had been forced to run; it was just the first time they’d had to do so with so many other considerations.

Soon they were all in the car and pulling out of the driveway. Jack deliberately avoided wondering if it was the last time he would see this house that he’d grown so used to. He glanced over at Espy, who more than anyone in the world could understand what he was thinking, but her face was a blank slate.

It wasn’t until they were a few hundred yards down the street that he saw the black SUV behind them, running without lights. He wouldn’t have noticed it had he not been looking. It stopped in front of Jack’s house, and then the distance made it impossible to see anything more. But he knew that people dressed in black would exit the vehicle and take the house apart, looking for something he hadn’t seen in a very long time, something he never wanted to see again.

He looked at the clock on the dash: 9:30. Duckey was wrong. It was seven minutes.

It was because he was looking at the clock that he didn’t see the other SUV slip in behind them. It wasn’t until he glanced at the rearview mirror that he noticed he could no longer see the road. Then something hit them from behind.

There was a crunch of metal. The impact threw Jack back against his seat and then his body came forward, his head coming down hard on the steering wheel. When he straightened, he couldn’t see the road for the stars swimming in front of him. What cut through the confusion, though, were the cries coming from the back seat. Jim and Alex were buckled in; they shouldn’t have been hurt. But they were scared now.

Jack willed his vision to clear and looked over at Espy, who was holding her head. His wife gave him a pained nod to tell him she was okay. Only then did he look back, just in time to see the SUV closing in for another strike.

“Hold on, boys,” he said. He shifted gears and punched the accelerator, allowing the V8 of their aged-but-still-dependable BMW to do its work. They took off like a shot, right before the SUV would have hit them a second time. Jack shifted again, and in short order put some distance between them.

They were racing down a narrow residential street. Jack knew that if they were going to get away on speed alone, he would have to find a wider, open road. As if to validate that thought, he saw the SUV begin to close the distance again. It occurred to him that if this was some organized team, then they probably had rides with a bit more power than normal.

The faculty homes were behind them now, the university campus receding. And then they were in Ellen proper, entering an area with more traffic, with businesses to attract college students popping up on either side of the street. He had to downshift as the BMW came up fast behind a pickup. After a glance past the truck, he swerved into the oncoming lane and accelerated. Yet the SUV followed suit and seconds later was close behind them again. Until Jack could get through town and out onto the state highway, he doubted he would be able to lose the SUV.

It didn’t help that he was operating blind. He didn’t know anything about the people who were trying to run him off the road, or what their objectives were—not beyond what Duckey had already confirmed. The only solid piece of information he had was that Duckey considered them dangerous enough to instruct him to leave his house on a moment’s notice. And for now, that was all he needed to know.

They were heading deeper into Ellen, and Jack thought he was driving too fast for the increasing number of people on the streets and sidewalks, many of them Evanston students patronizing the restaurants, movie theater, and coffee shops.

There were cars parked along each side of the road, and as Jack approached an intersection, the signal light flipped to yellow while he was still a good ways off. He didn’t even look to Espy before depressing the clutch and shifting to fourth, praying to God that someone didn’t step out from between the parked cars. The signal went to red well before the BMW shot through the intersection. Behind him, Jack heard a screech of tires but no sound of impact. He looked in the rearview and saw that the SUV had been forced to slow down to avoid cross traffic, but the driver had proceeded through the intersection, ignoring the red light.

“It may be safer to stop,” he said to Espy. “We’re in the middle of town. I don’t think whoever it is can just load us into their truck and drive off.”

His wife seemed to consider that, her eyes moving to the side mirror. She turned back to him. “Can we take that chance?” Jack knew she was referring to Jim and Alex. When he didn’t answer right away, she added, “It’s Duckey. We both know he wouldn’t tell us to run if there was any other option.”

Jack knew she was right. Duckey’s counsel had never once led him astray. He nodded silent thanks to Espy, whose own counsel had saved his life a time or two.

“Check their seat belts,” he said. He looked in the rearview. The SUV was less than fifty yards back. Without asking why, Espy swiveled to view the boys’ belts, reaching back to make sure they were fastened.

They were now nearing the center of Ellen, the SUV almost on top of them. They hit another intersection, the light green this time, and shot through it, weathered brick buildings speeding by on either side. Jack’s hands were tight on the wheel, and his pulse raced as he imagined any one of the people on the sidewalks darting in front of the car.

“Jack,” Espy yelled.

He saw it a second later. A minivan, parked in front of a line of restaurants sharing a single façade, had started to pull out. The BMW was much too close, and moving too fast, to avoid hitting it. Jack slammed on the brakes and heard the tires shriek in protest. He spun the wheel to the left, trying to will the car into the oncoming lane, praying there was no one coming. The next few seconds were a blur, the clearest thing about them the moment of impact. It was a blow that nearly took him from his seat, throwing him in Espy’s direction, but the seat belt held, momentarily pinning him between the two front seats. Somewhere along the way he’d lost the wheel, but it didn’t matter. The car was now in the hands of greater forces.

It seemed like an eternity, those two seconds of violence, the rear passenger quarter panel crumpling. But then it was over and, somehow, they were on the other side of it. The steering wheel was spinning back to the right, and by instinct, Jack grabbed for it. The BMW was still moving, though the engine was threatening to stall. It was instinct again that depressed the clutch, downshifted, and corrected the car’s momentum, bringing the BMW back to the proper lane.

Jack’s heart was racing again as he picked up speed, and he couldn’t help but glance in the rearview mirror to see how the minivan fared. Which was when he witnessed the black SUV run headlong into the stalled minivan. Wide-eyed, Jack watched the minivan driven forward, going sideways under the bull rush of the other vehicle. There was a metal-on-metal scream, and then the minivan completed its turn, its back end snapping into the line of parked cars on the other side of the road. The driver of the SUV, with the way now clear, tried to stop his counterclockwise spin but overcorrected. The front tires broke to the right at a sickening angle and the truck began rolling, its windshield shattering.

Jack kept the BMW moving forward, his eyes scanning the wreckage behind them, watching as the mangled SUV disappeared from sight. The sudden silence that settled over them felt strange. He shifted his eyes down to find Jim and Alex, both of them frightened but holding it together. Next to Jack, Espy turned to make sure the boys were okay—giving them a good once-over, taking their hands, forcing eye contact. Jack heard words of motherly assurance. It was only after she’d satisfied herself the boys were fine that she turned back to him.

He spared her a short look, his adrenaline keeping him focused on the road ahead. But in that brief exchange, Jack saw a hundred questions, hardly any of them he had answers for. This was a place he and Espy had been before, which was why she swallowed every one of those questions for the time being. And that left him free to do what was necessary, to concentrate on staying one step ahead of whoever was after them.

For that, though, Jack knew he needed help. And there was no one better positioned to provide that than Duckey. With that thought in mind, Jack set off in search of somewhere to purchase a few cheap disposable phones.