Another cruiser rolled up the street.
When it was gone, Serge poked his head from the bushes and walked to a breaker box…
Chapter Thirty-Three
DAYTONA BEACH
The 911 call came just after dawn from a commercial air-conditioning repairman. He’d been cleaning coils on the pebbled roof of a two-story motel just south of the band shell. Soon, the roof swarmed with detectives and a forensic team, photographing Pedro from every angle. Or what used to be Pedro. Now he was more like Flat Stanley, his clothes a thin package of human jelly in a fly-swarmed stain.
They combed the rest of the roof. No sign of a trail from the maintenance doors-or anywhere else. It was like he just materialized out of the blue at the very spot they’d found him.
How the hell did he get there? And in that condition?
Nobody could figure it.
Until another 911 call. This time from the amusement boardwalk.
Luxury suite number 1563.
Two gentle knocks at the door, followed by two more. Students flinched.
“Who the hell can that be?”
“It’s Serge’s signal.”
“What if it’s someone using Serge’s signal?”
Melvin checked the peephole and undid the chain.
They saw Serge and bent forward as one, anxiously awaiting any news.
He strolled into the room like nothing happened.
“Well?” asked Joey.
“Just boring investigative work. Tedious documents and records.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Can we leave the room?”
“No. You’re okay for now, but I have some more chores until it’s completely safe.”
Speculation shot around the room. “Andy,” said Serge. “Could I have a word?”
“Sure.”
They stepped into the bathroom. Serge placed a paper bag by the sink and combed his hair in the mirror. “Or should I say ‘Billy’?”
Andy crashed into the tub, taking down the plastic curtain.
“I’m sorry.” Serge helped him up. “Have a weakness for the dramatic.”
The student grabbed a towel rod. “How much do you know?”
“Everything. Your father, the flights, yanked out of kindergarten…” Serge poured a cup of water from the faucet and handed it to him. “Why didn’t you tell me at the band shell?”
“Because I’m not supposed to,” said Andy. “That’s the big rule they gave us. Any exposure, and the whole family must relocate and start over. Almost happened a couple times in third grade when there was another Billy. Then we had to move. Michigan to Massachusetts.”
“What happened?”
Andy stared at the floor.
“Can’t be that bad.”
A tear fell. “My mom shot herself.”
“Sorry,” said Serge. “Didn’t mean to pry.”
“That’s okay. Long time ago.”
“Because of the witness program?”
Andy shook his head. “I was just a little kid. Dad told me she’d been very sick and was finally at peace. Went into remission before we left Florida, but it recurred. Because of how she’d… chosen to leave, local authorities had to run a mandatory investigation and officially rule the cause of death. Our witness liaisons thought it was too much attention, and off they shipped us again.”
“You still should have mentioned something,” said Serge. “Didn’t that business back in your Panama City room make any lights go on?”
“I was absolutely certain it couldn’t be the reason. We’re talking over fifteen years ago.”
“These people have been known to hold grudges.”
“Okay, so now we figured it out.” Andy braced an arm against a tiled wall and lowered himself onto the closed toilet lid. “Take me to the FBI.”
“Afraid I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
Serge gave him a penetrating look.
Andy got a different expression, backing up against the wall. “You’re… not…”
“Relax. I ain’t with nobody. It’s something Pedro told me.”
“Who’s Pedro?”
“Better you not know. Especially now.”
“What’d he say?”
“My suspicions were correct,” said Serge. “They have someone on the inside. That’s how they’ve been tracking you. And until I find out who, we can’t contact the authorities.”
“But what about my dad?”
“I can only solve so much. Right now you’re my responsibility. Consider me a guardian angel.”
“You?”
“Couldn’t be in better hands.” Serge reached for a white paper bag by the sink. “Here. Have a taco.”
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
A rented Taurus drove west from the Detroit airport.
Snowdrifts.
“I don’t know if I can get used to the cold,” said Randall.
“You will in time,” said Ramirez. “And thanks to your testimony, we rounded them all up.”
“I’m safe now?”
“As long as you stick to the program.” Ramirez had opted for the rental instead of the obvious government sedan. He handed a thick brown envelope across the front seat. “That’s your kit, everything you’ll need. New Social Security cards, Michigan driver’s licenses, birth certificates, credit cards with phony transaction histories, bank accounts. We made some deposits to get you started.”
Randall looked at the documents in his lap. “But why Patrick McKenna?”
“Because it’s a common name.”
“Couldn’t I have picked something?”
“Flash Gordon was taken.” Randall stared at him.
“Sorry,” said Ramirez. “That was supposed to be a joke. Break the tension.”
An exit sign.
Battle Creek.
They got off the interstate and wound through anonymous neighborhoods.
“Remember what we talked about,” said Ramirez. “It’s critical. Randall Sheets never existed. And Patrick McKenna always has. You need to set aside some quality time rehearsing with your family over the next weeks, calling each other by new names.”
“I think we’re smart enough to-”
“I’m serious. Can’t tell you how many people we’ve had to move again because of slipups in the wrong place, and it usually happens at the beginning. After a while, it’ll come naturally.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“One more thing,” said the agent. “The phone in the living room. Its wire runs through a little tan box. That’s the encrypter. There’s a switch on the side. Don’t call me unless you absolutely have to, but if you have to, flip the switch for a secure line.”
Patrick looked out the windows as they swung onto a sleepy, tree-lined street. “I just want to see my family.”
The car pulled up to the curb. Patrick grabbed the door handle, then stopped and turned. “I never thanked you.”
“Go on, they’re waiting.”
Patrick ran up the walkway and rang the doorbell.
Ramirez watched the tearful reunion on the front steps. He waited until the door closed, then drove back to the airport.
THE PRESENT
Police headquarters.
An evidence bag of hex-head bolts lay on the conference table. Detectives gathered around a TV set. Someone inserted a DVD that had been discovered by the employee who’d made the 911 call from the Daytona Beach boardwalk.
An early-morning glow had just broken over the Atlantic, but not the sun, giving the image a grainy, low-light effect.
On-screen: Pedro, secured in his seat, gagged, eyes of horror.
Offscreen: “… Five… four… three… two… one… liftoff!”
The video camera on the safety bar showed Pedro suddenly accelerate skyward in the open-air ball of the Rocket Launch. The beach and boardwalk receded quickly, tiny buildings and cars like a child’s train set.
Then the ball reached its zenith, and elastic cords jerked hard. The padded, U-shaped restraining bar over Pedro’s chest-minus its bolts-flew off like the pilot’s canopy of an F-16 Falcon during subsonic ejection.