Deliver Us from Evil (26 page)

Lincoln nudged her shoulder. “You okay?”

“I'm fine.”

Although the flight time was only thirteen minutes, the heli- copter seemed to hover over Knoxville much sooner. Brannon's stomach contorted. She ran her slick palms over her slacks as Jefferson piloted the helicopter to the landing pad Roark had instructed them to use. He would be waiting with a car to take them to the federal courthouse.

The landing wasn't as smooth as Brannon's, but all in all, Jefferson had done a good job. She pressed down her competitive streak, letting her nerves at seeing Roark again overcome her.

They shut down the helicopter and ducked out the doors. As promised, Roark stood at the rooftop's door, waiting.

Her heart hammered faster than rotors at maximum speed.

Wednesday, 4:20 p.m.

Market Street

Knoxville, Tennessee

AS IF SHE'D STEPPED straight out of his dreams, Brannon stood before him.

Roark checked his pulse and tightened gut. He shouldn't be having such a physical reaction to seeing her again.

Shouldn't, but did.

“Hi.” She appeared as breathless as he felt, her face flushed and her mismatched eyes as animated as ever.

But she was real and right in front of him. He clenched his fists not to touch her. “Hi, yourself. How was the flight?” Why did his tongue feel like a twisted pretzel?

“Good.”

Lincoln joined her. Roark extended his hand. “How're you?”

“We're doing well.” Lincoln shook his hand firmly.

Roark glanced at Brannon again. “How's your ankle?”

“Healing. Should be back to flying this weekend.” She offered a shaky smile.

“No need to rush it. I can handle any flights.” The tall blond hovering behind them looked familiar to Roark, but he couldn't place from where.

Brannon's jaw tightened. Most people wouldn't have noticed, but Roark caught it. “Oh, this is the NPS's new pilot, Jefferson Montgomery.” She gestured to the man. “Jefferson, this is Marshal Roark Holland.”

No way. Jefferson Montgomery? Couldn't be the same one. That'd be too much of a coincidence. But Roark's muscles bunched. “Jefferson Montgomery, huh? You wouldn't happen to know a Jonathan Wilks would you?”

The young man's face scrunched. “He's my stepfather. Why?”

Brannon gave a quick gasp.

Roark smiled. “We've been looking for you. Tried your listed number but got the recording it was no longer in service.”

“I just use my cell. Why are you looking for me?”

“It's about your mother and Wilks—a long story. Can you join us at the courthouse?”

Jefferson shrugged and glanced at Brannon and Lincoln. “I guess.”

Brannon nodded. “I'll help you secure the helicopter.”

“What a lucky coincidence,” Roark said as Brannon and Jefferson moved to the aircraft.

Lincoln chuckled.

Roark glanced at the rugged ranger. “What?”

“Coincidence?”

“Yeah.” What else could it be?

“I don't believe in coincidences.” Lincoln's features were somber.

“Then what would you call it?”

“Divine intervention.”

God again. Okay, okay . . . Roark got it. “You really think so?”

“I know so.” Lincoln looked confident. Not smug, just assured. “Nothing on this earth is by mere coincidence.”

When Brannon and Jefferson had secured the helicopter, the three rangers followed Roark into the elevator and out to the parking garage of the building. Surprisingly Roark didn't even breathe heavy in the confined space of the elevator with four people inside. The ride to the courthouse was short, with a minimum of small talk.

Roark's mind raced. They were on the brink of blowing this case wide open—he could feel it.

And then there was Brannon—the clean smell of her hair as she flipped the length over her shoulder . . . the fire in her different-colored eyes . . . the way her smile did strange things to his gut.

All too soon they arrived at the courthouse and scrambled inside. Roark couldn't wait to see Demott's face when he introduced Jefferson. He didn't have to wait long.

Demott was in the conference room, Brannon and Lincoln's typed statements resting on the table. He greeted Brannon and Lincoln, then stared at Jefferson before shooting a quizzical glance at Roark.

“You'll need to call the FBI and Mr. Markinson. Allow me to introduce Jefferson Montgomery.” Roark paused, waiting for the name recognition to flash across his boss's face. When it did, he grinned. “Jonathan Wilks's stepson.”

Wednesday, 4:30 p.m.

Suburb South of Townsend, Tennessee

“I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHY we've had to cease operations.” Madam Nancy's shrill voice pierced Mai's afternoon nap. She rose and moved closer to the wall, pushing her ear against the paneling.

“All I know is Zimp said the boss sent down the order to stop everything right now.” Poppy Fred's deep voice caused Mai to shudder.

“Strange, don't ya think? They've never stopped everything before. Wonder what's going on.”

“Heard Tom Hurst's been killed. And nobody's heard from Milt.”

Madam Nancy gasped. “Are the cops moving in? Should I send all the girls to Colorado and get out of Dodge?”

“Don't know. All I know is what Zimp tells me the boss says.”

“Hmm.”

“Zimp even changed his phone number again, but he might just be paranoid.”

What was going on? Mai could make out the stress in both her captors' voices. Who were Zimp and Tom Hurst? And Milton—was that Uncle Milt? Was she in Dodge? She thought they were in Tennessee. Mai pressed closer to the wall.

“I think I need to go see Zimp. Find out what's going on.” Madam Nancy's tone wavered.

“Can ya do that? Is it smart?”

Madam Nancy huffed. “What isn't smart is staying here if heat's coming down. No way am I gonna be a sitting duck and take the rap if everything goes south. No siree, Bob. I'm not gonna be a fall guy.”

Heat? Duck? Go south? Fall guy? Mai shook her head, but the confusion stayed. Were Madam Nancy and Poppy Fred talking in code?

“Ya think that's what's happening?” Now Poppy Fred sounded worried.

“What else could it be? They haven't been in contact with me in days. Has Betty heard anything?”

“Nope. She's been sitting by that cell for days, too. Not a single call.”

“Something's going on, Fred. I intend to find out what. They aren't gonna leave us holding the bag.”

“Whatcha wanna do?”

Mai held her breath, waiting. Although she did not understand what Madam Nancy and Poppy Fred talked about, she knew they were scared. She could pick out fear in anybody's voice. She should—she had lived with it ever since boarding the plane to America.

“I'm going to see Zimp and get some answers.”

“When?”

“Now. Can you stay and watch the girls?”

The echo of drawers slamming vibrated against Mai's ear, and she jerked away from the wall. She did not need to be so close to hear Poppy Fred's reply.

“Yep. I'll call Betty and let her know. You be sure to keep us in the loop.”

“You got it.”

The office door creaked open, followed by the front door. It slammed shut, then the revving of Madam Nancy's car filled the silence.

Mai pressed her lips together, pushing back the thudding of her heart. She needed to find Kanya.

The door to escape had just swung open.

TWENTY-THREE

Wednesday, 5:15 p.m.

US Marshals Office, Howard Baker Federal Courthouse

Knoxville, Tennessee

“YOU MEAN TO TELL me you had no idea your stepfather was here, in a drug-induced coma?” The Special Agent in Charge, Greg Daly, circled Jefferson in the conference room.

Pity for the ranger crawled over Roark. Jefferson had recounted finding his mother's body and calling the authorities, sticking to the account in his report. To the letter. Roark didn't think Jefferson was lying, but the FBI agent seemed relentless in his interrogation. For a brief moment Roark regretted waiting on the agents to say anything to Jefferson.

But the case needed a break. Desperately. The US attorney hovered in the corner, taking notes. Noah Markinson would try the case if they ever got enough evidence to charge anyone.

“I've told you just as I told the police when I found my mother's body—I didn't know where Jonathan had gone. No clue. We weren't close at all.”

“But he raised you from a boy,” Daly all but spit out.

Jefferson sighed. “Yes, but he wasn't a man to show emotion. At least not to anyone other than my mother.”

“Tell us about her cancer cocktail,” the other agent interrupted.

“I don't know what it was. All I know is my stepfather had hooked her up with some new medications several years ago, and they seemed to work. She hadn't undergone chemo or radiation in years.”

“And you didn't find that strange?”

Jefferson glared at the agents. “I didn't care. All I knew was my mother was alive and not in pain.”

“So you don't know where he got the drugs?”

Jefferson shrugged. “I assume from a doctor.”

“Those drugs aren't available. There's no FDA approval on them. And the combination of the three has never been documented before.”

Jefferson's eyes narrowed. “What are you saying? How do you know what drugs she took?”

Daly tossed a file onto the conference table. “We got a copy of the autopsy report. Didn't you find the toxicology report a little interesting?”

Jefferson shook his head. “I wouldn't know what those numbers were. Are you saying my mother took black-market drugs?”

“That's exactly what we're telling you. Think—can you recall anything your mother or Mr. Wilks said about the medications?”

The ranger closed his eyes. Roark could almost see the wheels in his mind turning. Jefferson shook his head again. “Nothing that I haven't already told you.”

One of the FBI agents paced the small conference room. “We're looking for a set of books or some documents with a lot of numbers. Can you recall seeing anything like that at your mother's house?”

“No, but I hadn't visited Mom and Jonathan in several months.”

“Mr. Montgomery, this is critical to the child-trafficking case. We've searched their house and their holdings and found nothing. Can you think of any special place they would've put important documents?”

Jefferson ran a hand through his sandy hair. “The safety deposit boxes?”

“We've looked. Only passports, birth certificates, and life insurance policies.”

Eyes alight, Jefferson sat forward. “Not their joint one. My mom's.”

Daly stopped pacing and bore down on the poor ranger. “Your mom's?”

“Yeah. She kept one in her maiden name.”

“Do you know which bank?”

Jefferson nodded. “Keystone.”

One of the other agents wrote on a legal pad. “What's your mother's maiden name?”

“Daniels.”

Daly returned to walking a hole in the floor. “What about money? Mr. Wilks ever mention anything to you about offshore accounts?”

Jefferson let out a caustic snort. “Are you kidding? Jonathan wouldn't ever discuss finances with me. He thought of me as nothing but a kid, even when I earned my wings.”

“What about your mother? She ever say anything?”

“My mother and I didn't discuss money. She'd have no idea how much money was in their account. Jonathan handled all their finances. Always has ever since I can remember.”

The agent stopped pacing and dropped into the chair across from Jefferson. Even from the corner, Roark could tell the FBI made the ranger nervous. “What can you tell me about Mr. Wilks? His personality?”

“He adored my mother, I'll give him that much.”

“What about the two of you?”

Jefferson shrugged. “Like I said, he wasn't exactly a man of many emotions. He tolerated me. Appreciated that I didn't get into trouble as a teen.”

“What about his friends? People who visited or he spent time with.”

“I don't know. I never knew him to have friends. He and Mom used to go dancing now and again at the American Legion Hall, but that was before she got sick. He pretty much kept to the house, even before he retired. Didn't golf or anything if that's what you're asking.”

Roark could feel the frustration from the FBI agents.

Jefferson stood. “Look, is there a restroom I can use?”

“Sure.” Demott pushed off the wall and pointed at the door. “Down the hall and to the left.”

“Thanks.” The ranger rushed to the door. It creaked shut behind him.

“Maybe you should follow him,” one of the agents said to Roark.

“Why? Does he need to be guarded?” Roark had about enough of the man's attitude.

Daly glared. “He's being evasive if you ask me.”

“I don't think so. I think he's been up-front and honest.”

Daly shook his head and shot Roark a condescending glance. “Good thing you aren't the one in charge of this investigation then.”

The hairs on the back of Roark's neck stood at attention. “What could he possibly be hiding?”

Daly fisted his hands on the table. “Did it ever occur to you that he might be in the ring with Wilks? That maybe, just maybe, he knows about the records, understands them?”

Roark laughed. “Are you kidding? That guy's as clueless as they come. If he was involved, why'd he volunteer about his mother's safety deposit box?”

“A wild goose chase? Maybe he's already cleaned it out and knows nothing's in there. Knows we have nothing to implicate him.”

“Please. You heard him—doesn't sound like he and his step- father even got along.”

“A perfect ploy to make us believe he isn't involved.”