Breaking Cover Page 8

  The door to his left was jerked open. He turned his head slowly. The face of the person standing there was familiar, but Arrington couldn’t quite place it. The name was on the tip of his tongue, but his tongue seemed as uncooperative as his arms. Then the name came to him, and a blast of cold fear set him shaking.

  “Don’t kill me, man,” he whispered. “Please.”

  “I’m not going to kill you,” the man Arrington knew as Sanders said. He reached over and turned the key. The engine died, leaving only the sound of escaping steam in the quiet. Arrington looked down. There was something white lying in his lap like a huge deflated balloon. The airbag, he thought. It was the airbag knocked me silly. A sudden thought came to him, and he reached for his weapon. It was gone. He looked back at Sanders and saw with a sinking feeling that his pistol was tucked in the other man’s waistband.

  “Don’t kill me,” Arrington said again. Sanders didn’t answer this time. Instead, he reached out and gently pried Arrington’s left eyelid up. He was too terrified to resist. Sanders repeated the process with the other eye. “Can you walk?” he said. He reached across and unbuckled the seat belt.

  “I think so,” Arrington said. He wiggled his feet experimentally. “Then you’d better haul ass,” Sanders said. He stepped back. “The gas tank’s ruptured, and this thing could go up in a second.”

  The words sent a blast of adrenaline through Arrington that blew the last of the cobwebs away. He leaped out of the seat, lost his balance on the slope, and fell back against the car. Sanders drew the pistol from his waistband. Arrington put a hand up. “No,” he said weakly.

  “Run,” Sanders said.

  Arrington ran, back the way the car had come. He ran blindly, waiting for the shot that would kill him. This is it, he thought. Please, Jesus, he prayed, please have mercy . . . but there was no pain, no blackness. He kept running. There was a giant whoomph as the gas ignited. He didn’t look back.

  SON OF a bitch,” Buckthorn said. He stood over the hostage, still bound to the chair. The black man’s eyes glared furiously at him. The doctor knelt by him and began to cut gently at the duct tape wrapped around the man’s head and covering his mouth. Buckthorn looked at the deadly little claymore mine sitting in front of the chair. His eye followed the string that reached from the mine’s trigger. It ran from the back of the device to the wall next to the door. It was secured there with a hastily applied piece of the same duct tape that covered the hostage’s mouth. “Son of a bitch,” Buckthorn said again. “It wasn’t wired to the door at all.”

  “It wasn’t even armed,” the hostage said as the doctor pulled the last strip of tape away from his mouth. “He told me before he took Gaby away.”

  “That asshole,” Buckthorn said.

  “Hey,” the hostage said. “You’d be happier if he’d set the motherfucker up for real?” He worked his jaw as if trying to get feeling back in it. “Man,” he said. “That hurt.” He looked at the doctor. “You mind cuttin’ me loose the rest of the way, Doc?” he said. “I gotta piss like a racehorse.” The doctor got back to work with his scissors.

  The door opened. A man and a woman entered. Buckthorn turned, savagely grateful for the opportunity to vent his frustration. Before he could speak, however, they both produced badges from inside pockets.

  Great, Buckthorn thought. All I need is more Feds in my life right now.

  “I’m Agent Steadman,” the man said. He nodded, indicating the woman. “This is Agent Wolf.”

  It was the woman who stepped forward, extending a hand. “Sorry to barge in on you like this, Sheriff,” she said, “but I think we have a bit of a situation here.”

  Buckthorn looked her up and down. She was a good-looking woman, he thought. Tall, slender, with short blond hair framing an angular face. The only things marring the first impression were the dark circles under the striking gray eyes. She looked like she hadn’t slept in a while.

  “You could say that,” he answered her, but not as irritably as he’d first intended. “Are you two the ones authorized to tell me what’s going on?”

  Steadman avoided the question. “I understand the subject got away.”

  Buckhorn nodded, trying to keep the bitterness out of his face. “Yeah,” he said shortly. “Distracted us by a fake threat to the hostage here.” He nodded toward Howard, who was getting up from the chair and rubbing the circulation back into his wrists. “Then he got out through some kind of old tunnel under the house. Took his car and went through the perimeter.”

  Steadman nodded. He reached into an interior pocket and took out a snapshot. He showed it to Buckthorn. “Is this the man?” Buckthorn took a brief look and nodded. “Don’t feel too bad, then,” Steadman said. He smiled wryly. “Surprising people is sort of a specialty of his.” He glanced at the woman, who looked away. “Come outside,” Steadman told Buckthorn. “We need to talk in private. Agent Wolf, you debrief the hostage.” She nodded, still not looking at him.

  “What’s her problem?” Buckthorn asked as they walked outside. He saw other men in suits talking to his officers. His boys stood with slumped shoulders, looking at the ground and giving short answers. Ollie Arrington was sitting in the open door of a patrol car, his arms wrapped tightly around himself as if he were freezing, staring at nothing.

  “Let’s sit in your car,” Steadman said.

  “Hang on,” Buckthorn said. He walked over and stood by the car.

  Arrington looked up at him miserably. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said in a low voice. “I lost him. He just flat outdrove me.”

  Buckthorn put a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry, son,” he said, “we’ll get him.”

  “He coulda kilt me,” Arrington said. “But he didn’t. He coulda just left me behind, but he didn’t do that, either. He come and got me out of the car before it blew up. Who is this guy, sir?”

  “I’m about to find out,” Buckthorn said grimly. “And I’m also going to kick someone’s ass for not letting us know sooner. If we’d known what we were up against, none of this might have happened.”

  I DON’T get it,” the reporter said from the backseat. Her voice was still shaky, but she had stopped crying. It was the first time she had spoken to him since they had left the farm. “I don’t get you. You killed Howard, but you let that deputy—”

  “I didn’t kill Howard,” Wolf said. “But—”

  “I’d wired up a bunch of fireworks, rigged them to go off by remote control. The mine wasn’t even armed.”

  “It was a trick?” she whispered. “He’s okay?”

  Wolf shrugged. “Unless your friend had a bad heart or he got popped by a deputy by mistake,” he said. “But I did everything I could. I didn’t want anyone dead.”

  “You had all that stuff wired up? For how long?”

  “Pretty much since I moved in,” he said. “I tweak it now and then. Try to improve it. Work on the plan.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged again. “Man’s gotta have a hobby.”

  “Some hobby,” she said. “Wiring up your own house like that, clearing out secret tunnels . . . you sound like you’d been expecting someone to come after you for a long time.”

  He looked in the rearview mirror at the road behind them. “I have.” “Why?” “Long story.”

  “I’m good with long stories,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me yours?”

  He laughed. “Always the reporter,” he said.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Well, it beats sitting back here being scared.” “Maybe later.”

  “Tell me this much,” she said. “The guy who was killed. The kidnapper. You did that?”

  There was a long pause. “Why should I answer that?”

  “For one thing, the cops think you might have been his partner. The theory is that you guys had a falling-out—‘lovers’ quarrel,’ I believe, is what one of my sources called it.”

  His hands tightened on the wheel until the knuckles turned white. He took a deep breath and relaxed. “We w
eren’t partners,” he said shortly. “I’d never met him before . . .” he trailed off.

  “Before you shot him,” she said.

  “Be quiet now,” he said. “Let me drive.”

  “Look,” she said, “if you killed a man who was kidnapping and raping little boys, there are some people who’d call you a hero. Why not let them know?”

  “Do I have to put you in the trunk to shut you up?” he snarled. She recoiled back against the seat as if he’d struck her. She was silent for a long time. “Are you going to let me go?” she said finally.

  “In a little while.” “Where are we going?”

  “I’ve got to pick some stuff up. It’s in a safe place. I’ll take you to another place and drop you off. I’ll make sure there’s a phone you can use after I’m gone.”

  “Okay.” There was another long silence. “So what happened to the guy who built the tunnel?”

  “Jesus,” he said, “do you ever stop asking questions?”

  “Not really. It’s why I went into this business. Even as a kid, I drove my parents crazy.”

  “I’ll bet,” Wolf said. Then he laughed softly. Despite himself, he was starting to like her. Of course, he thought, that might be just what she was trying to get him to do by talking about her family. Still, he hadn’t had anybody to talk to for a while. It felt good to hear another voice. It worried him a little how good it felt.

  “From what I read in the local library,” he said, “the Union army finally came through. They didn’t go near his house. But one day he and his family went into town. A Union soldier made some remark to the guy’s wife he didn’t like. He knocked the soldier down. The army held a five-minute trial and hanged the guy in front of the courthouse.”

  “Huh,” she said. “After all that work . . .” “Yeah. Best-laid plans.”

  YOU HEARD anything about Gaby?” Howard asked. They were seated at a rough-hewn dining table in a side room.

  “Who?” Kendra replied.

  “Miss Torrijos. You know, the hostage?”

  “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t know the nickname.” She paused. “So?” Howard asked after a few moments.

  She shook her head as if she were just now coming awake. “So . . . oh. Sorry. No news yet. Apparently, the . . . the subject got away with her still in the car. We’ve put out a BOLO on the vehicle.” She looked at him. “Be on the lookout,” she translated. “I know what it means,” Howard said. “You mind if I ask you something, Agent?” “What?”

  “You been doing this long? ’Cause I’ve got to tell you, I been questioned by the cops before, and this ain’t the way it usually goes.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then laughed softly. “Maybe it’s a new and improved technique.”

  He smiled back. “Gettin’ interrogated by a pretty lady beats bein’ put under bright lights and gettin’ called nasty names, I guess. But ain’t you supposed to be asking me questions?”

  Her smile lost a fraction of its warmth. She picked up her legal pad and went down the page with her pen. “You’re sure you didn’t get any footage of the subject?”

  He glanced over to where his camera sat on the hardwood

  floor. “Like I told you,” Howard said. “He ordered me to erase it all. He really didn’t want his picture taken, I guess. Some people are funny that way.”

  There was a bustle of activity and raised voices outside. Kendra got up and opened the door. “You can’t come in here,” a voice was saying. “This is a crime scene—”

  “The First Amendment gives me the right to be here, Officer!” someone said.

  Howard rolled his eyes as he recognized the voice. “Awww, shit,” he said.

  Kendra looked back at him over her shoulder. “What?”

  He looked at her with pity in his eyes. “Lady,” he said, “your day just got way more aggravating.”

  There was a bright light in the hallway that suddenly turned on Kendra. She took a reflexive step back. “Brian Mathers, Channel 12 NewsNow,” the unseen voice barked. “Do you have my cameraman in there?”

  “I ain’t no way your goddamn cameraman, Beav,” Howard muttered.

  “He’s being questioned,” Kendra replied. “We’ll be done in a few more moments—”

  “By what authority are you holding my people incommunicado?” Brian demanded. “Is Mr. . . . Mr. . . .” “Jessup,” another voice volunteered. “Howard Jessup.”

  Howard stood up and waved. “Hey,” he said. He could see

  Brian’s face over Kendra’s shoulder. “I’m good, man. I’m okay.” Brian acted as if he hadn’t noticed. “Is Mr. Jessup a suspect?”

  He tried to push forward.

  Kendra didn’t budge. “Mr. Jessup is a witness. Now, step back, sir.”

  “I have a right to speak with—”

  “One more word, sir, and I’ll have you taken into custody for interfering with a federal investigation.” Brian opened his mouth as if to say something. Kendra leaned forward, pointing at her own right eye. “You think I’m bluffing, sir,” she said in a low deadly voice, “just look right here.”

  Brian’s mouth snapped shut so quickly, it was audible from where Howard stood. The camera light behind him died. Kendra stepped back and slammed the door shut. “I am not in the fucking mood,” she said in a savage whisper at the shut door. When she turned back to face Howard, he was shaking with silent laughter and applauding softly.

  She smiled, a little embarrassed. “Sorry about that.”

  “Oh, no,” he said. “Don’t be apologizin’ to me. That there nearly made this whole day worthwhile.” His voice softened. “But unless I miss my guess,” he said, “somethin’ about this case’s got you on edge. Somethin’ personal about this one?”

  She shook her head. “I really can’t discuss—”

  He held up a hand. “I know, I know. I just want you to know it’s kind of personal for me, too. That girl, Miss Torrijos, is a friend of mine. Find her. Please.”

  “We will, Mr. Jessup,” she said. “And for what it’s worth, and”—she glanced at the door—“totally off the record, if this subject is who I think he is, she’s in no danger.”

  “I don’t s’pose you can tell me—” “No.” She opened the door.

  Howard picked up his camera. “I find out anything else,” he said, “you’ll be the first to know. You got a card?”

  She took one out and scratched a number on it. “My cell phone,” she said. “It’s always on.”

  “Got it,” he said. “I’m gonna need my camera back, by the way.” She looked over at it, frowning uncertainly. “There’s nothing on it, like I said. And if I show up back at the station without it, ma’am, they’ll have my ass in a sling.”

  She nodded. “Okay. But if you find anything . . .”

  “I’ll call. Promise.” He picked up the video camera on his way out.

  When he walked out onto the porch, he saw a man sitting on the steps, smoking a cigarette. He was a thin man, with long hair and a wispy beard. A sturdy video camera case was sitting on the ground next to him with the lid open and the camera nestled in the thick gray foam inside. Howard sat down next to him, setting his own camera on the porch.

  “There he is,” the other cameraman said. He shook a cigarette out of the pack and handed it to Howard.

  Howard took it and the offered book of matches. “Thanks, Spider,” he said.