He opened the door and stepped inside, activating the pistol’s laser sight, pointing the beam of red light at the pillow. He fired twice, advancing toward his target. The bed was empty, sheets and covers pulled back.
Briggs turned on a heel, wary. He decided that it made sense that the girl wasn’t in her bed. She was a frightened lamb. She needed her mother. He moved rapidly to the end of the hall. A check of the knob confirmed that the door was unlocked. He drew a breath, pushed it open, and walked toward the bed, arm outstretched. This time he did not fire. The room was empty.
He pushed his commo mike to his mouth and spoke to the Mole. “No one’s here.”
“I saw her drive home. I’m still showing her phone on the premises.”
“She’s smarter than we thought.”
Briggs lowered the weapon. Mary Grant had done a runner on them. If she was really smart, she’d get as far away as possible. Not likely. Not her.
Back downstairs, he noted a light burning in a room off the front entry. Had it been on before, or had he missed it?
“Just checking one more thing,” he said, starting down the hall. “Keep the channel open.”
–
Tank stood at the curtain inside the Kramers’ living room, keeping an eye on Mary’s driveway. Five minutes had passed since she’d left-three more than he would have liked. He didn’t see a reason to worry. No cars had driven past. He hadn’t spotted any figures in the shadows, no silhouettes slipping toward the Grants’ front door. Still, he was unable to dispel his butterflies. It wasn’t Mary’s delayed return that worried him so much as the larger, hopeless predicament they found themselves in. They were in over their heads, and they had no one to turn to. Not the paper. Not the police. Certainly not the FBI. It was down to him and Mary. Alamo odds.
“Tank?”
The timid voice made him jump. “Can’t sleep?” he asked.
Grace stood in the doorway, clutching her stuffed animal. “Where’s my mom?”
“She’ll be right back. She had to get something from your house.”
“I already have Pink Pony.”
“Something else.”
Grace remained where she was, pale and fragile as Meissen china.
“You okay?” he asked.
Grace shook her head.
“Don’t worry about your sister. Jessie’s going to be just fine.”
“It isn’t that.”
“Oh? Would you like to tell me, or do you want to sit down and wait for your mom?”
“My leg hurts.”
“Your leg? Did you sleep on it funny?”
Grace shook her head again. Tank took another look at the Grants’ driveway. Nothing had changed. He had the window cracked a few inches. The neighborhood was silent as a grave.
“Show me.”
Carefully she peeled back the hem of her nightgown to reveal a bruise covering her lower thigh.
“Where did you get this?”
“I fell on the trampoline.”
“Looks like you were hit by a Mack truck.” Tank saw her eyes well up. “I’m sorry, sweetie, I was just joshing. I mean, it looks kind of bad.”
“Jessie said it looked like grackle poo.”
“One mighty big grackle.”
For a moment a smile broke through the pain. “I’m scared.”
“It’s just a bruise.”
“You don’t understand. I might be getting sick again.”
“The flu?”
“ALL. It’s when your body doesn’t make enough white blood cells. The doctors are pretty sure I’ll be okay. Eight out of ten children under the age of fifteen who have it survive.”
“That’s good.” Tank nodded understandingly, hoping that a smile would hide his shock. He knew what ALL was. “I’m sure you’re okay. Let’s go get some ice for that.”
Tank took the child’s hand and together they walked into the kitchen. On the way he checked his watch.
Eight minutes.
Something was wrong.
–
Mary huddled at the rear of the desk’s kneehole, pasting her body to the wall as the man pounded down the stairs. Footsteps crossed the foyer. She’d had no choice but to leave the lamp burning. Anyone watching the house would surely catch the study going dark.
A pair of boots appeared in the doorway, stopped for exactly three heartbeats, then came toward the desk.
“What’s this, then?” the intruder said in a hushed voice.
In her hurry, she’d left the flash drives on the desktop.
The man sat down in Joe’s chair. His boot shot forward, cleaving the gap between her knees and her head. She sucked in a breath, her face inches from the man’s trousers.
Something thudded onto the desk. For the second time that night she smelled gunpowder, and she knew that it came from the intruder’s pistol and that yes, those were shots she’d heard. He had come to kill her and the girls.
“You check Stark for cached thumb drives?” This time the voice was stronger, and she waited for someone to respond, horrified that a second person might be in her home.
“He must have had something,” the man continued after a pause. “He didn’t drive all the way out to Dripping Springs just to talk to Grant.”
The accent was South African, and she knew he was speaking to someone over a phone or, more likely, a closed-circuit communications net.
“Keefe didn’t know how Stark was bringing out the evidence. That bugger Grant didn’t tell anyone. He knew that Mason was with us. He was a cagey one.”
At the mention of Fergus Keefe’s name, Mary nearly gasped. Now it made sense why she hadn’t seen him at the hospital. Keefe had betrayed Joe.
“You’d better have checked the bodies.”
The South African began swinging his boot like a pendulum, the laces brushing against Mary’s cheeks.
“If any evidence does surface, your name is at the top of the list…I wouldn’t be surprised if Ian thought you sold him out. I might think it, too…I’m glad you’re sure. Then you have nothing to worry about. Because here’s what I’m sure about: Stark had the evidence on him and you rank amateurs missed it.”
Just then Mary’s phone began to ring in the kitchen.
The chair slid back. The boot swung past her nose one last time. “Hold on.”
The South African hurried out of the room as the phone continued to ring.
Jessie.
Mary looked at her watch. It was two-thirty. Suppose Jessie was on her way home. Suppose she was coming down Pickfair right this instant. Even if she wasn’t, suppose the intruder managed to learn her location. He was a killer. Mary wouldn’t allow her daughter to fall into harm’s way.
She scrambled out from beneath the desk. She didn’t try to move quietly. There wasn’t time. She felt for Joe’s pistol, but it was at Carrie’s with her jacket and her purse.
“Hello,” said the South African into the phone. He’d flattened his accent and sounded like the admiral. Annapolis aristocracy.
Mary picked up the bowl on the entry table. It was an iron cooking bowl from Thailand, heavy, with sloped sides and sharp edges, employed since their return to hold the family’s keys. She entered the kitchen. The intruder was tall and lean, dressed in black, his back to her. One hand held her phone, the other a pistol. If he turned, he could shoot her dead. By all rights he should have heard her approaching, but she knew he was more intent on listening to Jessie, and anyway, he didn’t think anyone else was in the house.
Using both hands, she lifted the bowl high and brought it down on the crown of his skull. She grunted as it struck his cranium, like she grunted when she hit a double in softball, her wrists and forearms aching with the contact. The man buckled at the knee as she lost hold of the bowl and it clattered to the floor. He turned and she saw camouflage on his face, pale blue eyes that shone even in the dark. He blinked rapidly, raising the gun as he collapsed. It was a reflex. He was not trying to shoot but reaching for a handhold even as he lost consciousness. Mary jumped back. He landed hard, leading with his cheek, and lay still.