Deliver Us from Evil (35 page)

Brannon sighed and faced the young agent. If only she didn't have to give this statement, if only she could stay with Roark . . .

God, have You sent another man into my life? Roark? I'm feeling all these emotions toward him and am so confused. If being with him isn't what You want, I pray You'll remove these feelings I have for him. I don't think my heart can take being broken again. I'm so scared, God. Scared of being hurt. Scared of being alone. Oh, Lord, I'm a mess. Please, help me—give me wisdom of what to do.

Thursday, 1:05 a.m.

Howard Baker Federal Courthouse

Knoxville, Tennessee

THE FBI UNITS ALREADY in the area left for the location, sirens wailing and lights strobing. The FBI had men in a helicopter heading there as well. Roark wandered around the conference room, waiting to hear that someone had arrived on-site. He should be there. He'd worked the case, followed the leads.

He couldn't even be with Brannon, who sat across the hall, giving her statement. He'd shocked her with his words—he'd seen the expression on her face. But how did she feel about it?

How did she feel about
him?

“Stop pacing. You're making me dizzy.” Demott stood and stretched his arms over his head.

“I hate the waiting.”

His boss chuckled. “Then you're in the wrong profession, Holland. You should know better.”

“I do. I got filled in on the hurry-up-and-wait method of government years ago.”

“Then why so antsy now?”

Good question. “Guess this case is important. The kids. And seeing Mai and Kanya . . . well, it made the horrors real. Personal.” He let out a heavy sigh. “After losing Mindy . . . I don't think I could take it if more innocents were hurt.”

“I understand.”

“And so many have paid a high price because of this case.” Roark shook his head. “So useless.”

“Marshal Demott and Holland, come see.” An agent motioned from across the room.

Maybe there was word already.

They hustled to the agent's desk in the corner. He gestured to the fax machine the US Attorney's office had brought in for them. “Our office got a call from a Blount County sheriff's deputy. Said a guy brought in a letter addressed to the FBI. He's gonna fax it right over.”

Letter? Roark leaned against the wall beside the fax machine, willing it to come to life. “From who?”

“Buddy Zimp.”

Every nerve in Roark's body jumped on alert. What a break this could be. “What else did the deputy say?”

“The guy dropped it off and mentioned the person who wrote it would be boarding a plane to Jamaica soon, then left.”

The fax machine rang, then a sequence of modem tones pierced the room. Roark held his breath as the machine spit out a sheet of paper. A second piece fell before the disconnect click sounded.

The agent grabbed the sheets and scanned them. He passed them to Roark, his eyes wide. Roark grabbed the papers and read. The reason for writing the letter? Fear of being killed. Within the letter Buddy Zimp named everyone involved in the child-trafficking ring:

Jonathan Wilks, moneyman

Tom Hurst, heat

Milton Anderson, heat and transporter

Betty and Frederick Noslen, couriers

Nancy Blackship, overseer of prostitutes

Buddy Zimp, go-between man from boss to others

Congressman Warren McGovern, boss

Roark's heart paused. He lifted his gaze to Demott's. “Bet we can get that warrant for McGovern now.”

Demott nodded. “I'll call Noah Markinson. He'll find a judge to sign.” He glanced at the FBI agent. “We need to call NSA. They should be able to link the accounts now that we have the names. And get Daly in here.”

Proof the congressman
was
involved sat in his hands. Roark had known it. Now he'd get to arrest the scum of the earth. He looked at the FBI agent. “Get your agents watching the congressman on the phone, please.”

Thursday, 1:26 a.m.

McGhee Tyson Airport

Alcoa, Tennessee—Fifteen Miles South of Knoxville

THE AIRPORT WAS AS dead as Zimp.

Warren sat in a borrowed car in the parking lot, monitoring activity. Even the airline representatives were missing from the front counters. Only a couple of TSA employees wandered about inside. Good. If Bucky showed up, Warren would handle the loose end.

If Bucky showed up.

Warren had been careful. He'd snuck to his next-door neighbors' who were out of town, used the key they'd left with him, and borrowed their car. No sense having his car seen out in the area if he could take care of Bucky. And if he didn't . . . He glanced at his E-ticket. A 5:10 flight to Atlanta. From Atlanta he'd head to Montego Bay.

If Bucky didn't show. That would be the only reason Warren would leave. Because if the character came to the airport, Warren would eliminate the threat he posed. Get the letter, contain the risk. Then back to business as usual.

Surely Bucky would come. What half-wit wouldn't want a free trip to the Caribbean? Sure, he'd sounded suspicious on the phone, but Warren had little doubt the man wasn't rocket scientist material. After all, he'd been close to Zimp, so how smart could he be? He'd come.

Warren pulled the houndstooth bowler hat lower over his forehead. No one would recognize him unless they saw him up close and under lights. In the shadows of the parking lot, that wouldn't happen.

He glanced at his watch—1:45. If this Bucky showed, it would be in the next fifteen minutes. Warren reached into his coat pocket, his gloved fingers grazing the handle of his mother's handgun. How different his life would've been had his mother lived. He still missed her so much.

Growing up with the Colonel had made him strong, independent. The traits men were made of. Superior to women in all ways.

Yet Warren couldn't help but remember his mother. The softness of her skin. Her feathery kisses on his brow before bed. The warmth of her hugs.

He shook his head. No, he wouldn't allow himself to remember. His father had taught him not to live in the past. Not to show weakness—not then, not now, not ever.

To distract himself, Warren flipped on the car's radio. He scanned through stations, most with annoyingly loud guitars and screaming or twangy whining. Finally a newscast flowed from the speakers. A weather report. Cold, but no prediction of precipitation. That was good news. At least if he had to leave, the weather wouldn't delay his flight.

A commercial replaced the droning of the weatherman's voice. Warren flexed his fingers, keeping them limber. He stared out the windshield. Watching for any sign of a vehicle.

Another commercial followed the two previous. This one more stupid advertising for a useless product. Was the general public really that ignorant to fall prey to such ploys? Warren smiled. They were.

“Here's late-breaking news. Following the death of the witness in an alleged child-trafficking ring here in Tennessee, joint efforts between the FBI and US Marshals have led investigators to a location outside of Townsend. Ten minutes ago, units arrived and discovered underage Asian girls. Stay tuned for further information as it develops.”

Warren froze. The blood rushed to his head, his pulse drowning out the radio. His hands trembled as an automobile's headlights pierced the darkness of the airport parking lot. No, he was still safe. Nancy had run, and besides, she didn't know him, had never seen him. He'd certainly never gone to the house. Why would he? Those girls were dirty—reminded him too much of his father's mistress. And her daughters. But Warren couldn't be connected to the ring. No one knew about his involvement. No one but Wilks and Zimp, and they'd been eliminated.

That left just Bucky and the stupid letter Zimp had written. Sever the last two threads and he'd be home free. The authorities finding the girls meant nothing. Not to him.

He concentrated on the car parking down the row from him, under the harsh security lights. His mind already turned to the press conference he'd hold later this morning, regaling the success of the FBI's raid.

Once again he'd come out on top. Just like he always did.

THIRTY-THREE

Thursday, 1:55 a.m.

Howard Baker Federal Courthouse

Knoxville, Tennessee

“WE'VE GOT THE WARRANT for Congressman McGovern. Judge Lewis signed it even though he wasn't thrilled about us waking him at this hour.” Samuel Harper, a new member of the Marshal team, rushed into the room waving his fist. He grinned at Roark. “Mr. Demott said you get to do the honors.”

Roark's muscles tensed. This was it. He nodded to the FBI agent. “Get in touch with the agents watching McGovern. Find out if he's still at the house. Tell them to knock on the door and tell McGovern we have new information.” He winked at Brannon, who'd only just rejoined him.

The agent nodded and lifted his phone as Gerald Demott entered.

“You don't want to just show up and arrest him?” Demott stared at him as if he'd lost his mind.

As much as he wanted that gratification . . . “If he gets wind we're on our way, he'll flee. I'd rather be positive he's there.”

“Marshal Holland?”

Roark faced the FBI agent.

“The agents on the McGovern detail report there are no lights on in the house and no one answered the door.”

Stomach knotting, Roark clenched his fists. “He's gone. How'd he get out without your agents seeing him?”

“They report his car is still in the garage.”

“Let me talk to him.” Roark held out his hand. The agent spoke into the phone before passing it to Roark. “Hello.”

“Agent Watson, sir.”

“Agent Watson, how close to his residence are you?”

“Three driveways down. But they're pretty long driveways.”

Roark ignored the heavy sigh rising in his chest. “How long ago did he have a visitor?”

“Car arrived around nine thirty. Left about thirty minutes later.”

“How many people were in the car when it arrived? When it left?”

“Sir, it's dark out and we're supposed to keep a low profile.”

“Are you telling me you don't know?”

“No, sir. We don't.”

“Please tell me you at least got a license plate.”

“Yes, sir. It's, uh . . .” The rustling of paper grated against Roark's ear. “Tennessee 986 PDQ. Knox County.”

Roark wrote it on a scrap piece of paper and passed it to the agent. “Trace it.”

“Sir?” Agent Watson asked.

“And no other vehicle has come or gone since then?”

“His next-door neighbor left around twelve thirty. Hasn't returned.”

“Did you get that plate?”

“Um, no, sir.”

This time Roark released the sigh. “And you're positive McGovern's not in the house? Maybe upstairs or where he can't hear you knocking?”

“No lights are on, sir, and he didn't answer the door. We banged pretty hard. There's nothing—no television, radio, or anything.”

Yep, he'd run. And the FBI let him.

“Keep watching. We're sending marshals there with a warrant.” Although they wouldn't have anyone to take into custody.

“Yes, sir.”

Roark passed the phone back to the agent in the room and turned to his boss. “He's gone.”

Brannon's face went blank. “Gone? People don't just disappear.”

“I know. He had a friend visit around nine thirty, stayed for about half an hour, then left.” Roark nodded at the agent on another phone. “He's running a trace on the plate.”

“You think he left with his friend?” Demott asked.

“Probably. But the agents also said his next-door neighbor left around twelve thirty and hasn't returned.”

“So, he could have left with his neighbor?” Brannon chewed on the skin beside her fingernail again. Why did he find that nervous trait so endearing? She dropped her hand and flipped her hair over her shoulder.

He caught a whiff of her spicy shampoo. His stomach twisted. He stiffened, willing himself to concentrate. “He could have. He might have.” Roark sat on the edge of the conference table and stabbed a hand through his hair. “The question is—where did he go?”

Thursday, 2:00 a.m.

McGhee Tyson Airport

Alcoa, Tennessee

THE YOUNG MAN EASED out of his older car, glancing about the parking lot.

Warren turned off the radio and gauged the man's every step. Bucky? Had to be. Warren flashed the headlights on, then off again.

The man stared at the car, hesitating.

“Come on, Bucky. Come on over,” Warren whispered in the darkness. He flashed the lights again.

Moving as slow as Christmas, the man ambled to the passenger side of the car and ducked down.

Warren adjusted his hat even further over his eyebrows and lowered the window. “Bucky?”

“Yeah. Who are you? Where's Zimp?”

“Zimp's inside.” Warren delivered the lie he'd carefully constructed. “Had to check his luggage. He'll be right back.”

Bucky glanced toward the front counters inside. “I don't see him.”

Warren lifted what he hoped looked like a casual shoulder. “Guess he went to the men's room. Left me out in the cold to wait for you.”

The suggestion worked as Warren had hoped. Bucky ran his hands up and down his arms. “Is mighty chilly.”

Oh, the guy definitely had Zimp's intellect level. “Hop in and get out of the wind. Zimp said he'd return with our tickets.” He pressed the button, unlocking the door with an echoing click.

“You going, too?” Bucky's eyes narrowed.

Warren nodded and gruffed his voice. “Yeah. Zimp better not stiff me.”

Bucky chuckled and reached for the door handle. “Me either.” He eased into the front seat, blowing into his cupped, bare hands. “You know who I am. Who are you?”

“The moneyman of the operation.”

Bucky peered into Warren's face. “What operation?”