Final Approach (17 page)

“What’s that mean? A day? A week?”

Clement cocked his head. “Hard to say at this point. I’m sorry.”

I made a decision then to tell Clement about everything I knew, but not about everything I had. Right or wrong, I’d keep that sack of money because it was my only path to Annette.

Chapter Thirty-four

Forty minutes into my exchange with Clement, a doctor entered his room and told me in succinct but polite terms to leave. She was marking on his medical chart before I stood up from my chair.

“Wait,” Clement said, as I moved toward the door. “This shouldn’t take long.”

I glanced at his doctor, but she ignored me and paced to a computer monitor, where she studied an ECG trace and some changing numbers.

“It’s fine,” I told Clement. “I need to get my leg fixed anyway, and you should rest.” I opened the door and turned to say goodbye.

“Stop,” he said. “You can’t leave.”

He shifted in his bed to sit up, but his doctor protested with a silent pat on his shoulder.

“You shot someone last night. You have critical information about a time sensitive investigation.”

The doctor turned to appraise me.

Clement continued. “There will be a formal interview, at the very least. Immediately.”

“That’s fine,” I lied. We had two agendas, and we both knew it. “How about I come back as soon as I’m stitched up?”

Clement hesitated. “Technically, I’m on medical leave. And the interview should be video recorded anyway. I’ll arrange for you to be taken to the field office. They can handle it there.”

“Of course.” I checked my watch and frowned. “I’ve been waiting an hour-and-a-half and the E.R. is packed. Would it be easier if I came back when I’m done and waited for the agent here with you? Hate to eat up half his day by making him sit around, waiting.”

Clement didn’t answer, but he didn’t stop looking at me, either. I wondered how well the FBI might have trained him to read signs of deceit.

“Miss?” the doctor said, nodding to the door.

“See you in a while,” I told Clement.

His distrustful expression was cemented on my brain as I walked down the hall. I didn’t want to lie, but Annette was more important. I’d risk anything to find her.

I used a pay phone in a waiting room to dial my cell. It was still in the bag I’d given Jeannie. She’d never been one to worry about answering a phone that wasn’t hers.

“It’s me,” I said. “Is Richard with you?”

“Yep.”

“Go somewhere he can’t hear you. Take the bag.”

“Just a sec,” she said, “I’m in a hospital and we’re not supposed to use cell phones in here. Let me go outside.”

“You’re good,” I told her. “Tell me when you’re there.”

A few moments later she said, “Alright, I’m at the drop-off curb. How’d it go with the Fed?”

“I’ll get to that, but first I need a favor. Dig out Kurt’s phone from that bag and find the number for the call that came in from Trish this morning. Should be two calls back, before the one that came from the apartment.”

She talked me through her search of the bag and navigation of the phone’s menus. Finally, she found the number. I read it back to her.

“Fine. That’s done,” she said. “What are you doing?”

“Baiting Trish.”

She didn’t say anything.

“You can’t tell anyone, especially Richard. If he gets involved and my idea doesn’t work, this could be the second career ruined for him.”

“What should I say if he asks who called?”

“Tell him it was somebody from work.” An ambulance wailed on Jeannie’s end. “Thanks for the number. I’ll be there as soon as I make this call. Plant the seed in Richard’s head that I need to give my statement to the local FBI field office next. Tell him we could drop him at his office first. Work out a way to borrow his car.”

“Roger, wilco,” she said. “Good luck.”

I pressed and released the pay phone’s switch hook. The dial tone sounded ominous. I punched in Trish’s number and waited.

“I want to make a trade,” I said when she answered. I tried to keep my voice down.

“I’m listening.”

“For my daughter and Casey Lyons.”

“When?” she asked. Her voice sounded tinny and distant. I was surprised by her cooperation.

“Today.”

“No. Later.”

I wondered why.

“You’ve done more on less notice, Trish. Let’s get this over with.”

“The answer’s no. I don’t trust you. Your friend’s an ex-cop and the airport’s dirty with Feds.”

“I’m not working with them.”

“I don’t believe you. This conversation’s over.”

“Wait,” I said. “You need that cash. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have bothered to take Jeannie.”

She didn’t answer. But, she didn’t hang up, either.

“You’ll get half when I get the kids, the other half when we’re away, safe. Deliver them, and disappear.”

“It’s a set-up.”

“It’s not.” I paused. “You’ll manage the logistics. I’ll do it however you want, whenever you want.”

I steeled myself.

“How will I get the second half?”

“I’ll put it in a locker somewhere and give you the key. When I’m away safe with the kids, I’ll tell you where the locker is.”

“Maybe you won’t. You could get the kids and then keep the other half.”

“And you could come empty handed, take the first half, and kill me.”

She was silent.

“Are we doing this or not?”

“We’ll see,” she said. “I’ll be in touch.”

I took the elevator to the first floor and walked to the E.R. waiting room, feeling enveloped in a surreal dream. Annette was alive. ALIVE! If I could pull this off, I’d see her soon. Jeannie was in the chairs, squeezed between a nodding sleeper and a stooped old man in an army cap.

“Where’s Richard?” I asked as I walked toward her.

“He left. Said he’d take a cab to work, had plenty to do. He was glad to loan the car so you could go give your statement.”

I was relieved the car had been a non-issue, but also mildly disappointed Richard had left me so easily.

Jeannie seemed to read my mind. “You’re in capable hands, honey. Don’t worry.”

I forced a smile. “Capable if I need a make-over.”

“I wasn’t talking about me.”

“Who, then?”

She leaned to peer around me. I turned and followed her gaze. Vince was feeding a bill to a Coke machine down the hall. Even from a distance, I could tell he was tired. He was no less handsome for it, though.

I spun back to Jeannie.

“What’s he doing here?”

“I might have called him.”

“How? I don’t even know his number.”

“I got that for you at David’s apartment. You’re welcome.”

“I should kill you.”

The old man next to her chuckled. “Don’t do that,” he said. “She tells good jokes. Kind you can’t take home to mama.” He chuckled again.

I leveled a stare at Jeannie.

Vince walked up beside me, open soda can in hand. I was too humiliated to look at him. The desk attendant saved me. She called my name.

“About damn time,” Jeannie said, loud enough for all to hear. “You want some moral support back there, hon’?”

Despite my irritation, her offer sounded good. I nodded.

She looked from me to Vince. “Take good care of my girl.”

The old man smacked his knee and laughed again.

***

“Jeannie told me what Trish did to your family,” Vince said quietly. We’d been left in my examination area—basically a curtain-lined cubicle with a paper-covered table. “Nothing I’ve thought to say could possibly be appropriate.”

He sat on a stool and let his hands fall loosely into his lap. The grief in his eyes spoke volumes. He understood what Trish had taken. Whether he was sorrier for my loss or for his cousin’s part in it, I couldn’t guess, but I wanted to collapse in his arms.

I dropped my head. “I’m sorry I thought you could have been part of that.”

He stood and crossed the narrow space between the stool and my spot on the exam table. He was wearing the same cologne I remembered from our walk on the beach, something nautical and fresh. I almost trembled when he placed a hand over mine.

“Thank you for coming here,” I added. “I thought I’d seen the last of you.”

The drape swished open and a nurse pushed in a wheeled cart with assorted, sterile-looking tools on top. Vince gave my hand a press and leaned in so only I could hear.

“You haven’t seen the last of me.” He brushed my cheek so softly I thought I might have imagined it, then maneuvered out of the way so the nurse could prep my leg.

Twenty minutes later, I’d been stitched and dosed with painkillers and antibiotics. We were waiting for the nurse to return with my prescription when I heard my name bandied somewhere beyond the curtain. It was Jeannie.

An instant later, she slipped into my exam area and whisked my shoes from the floor.

She shoved one in my lap. “Let’s go.”

“What? Now?” Vince seemed as confused as I was.

“Sorry, cowboy,” she told him, thrusting the other shoe onto my foot. “This wagon train’s movin’ out.”

“Jeannie,” I protested. “What the hell?”

She grabbed my arm and pulled me, half-shoeless, from the table. “Suits!” she hissed. “Come on!”

I leaned to put on my other shoe and Jeannie stuck her head beyond the curtain and looked both ways. Then she grabbed me by the wrist and levered me into the hall.

“Suits?” Vince asked. He followed us from the room.

“Yeah, suits,” she said. “Flashing badges. Get the picture?” She ushered me past him.

I hustled down the hallway with Jeannie on one side and Vince on the other. We struggled to keep up the pace without looking conspicuous. Vince even managed a casual sip from his Coke can.

We turned and followed another hallway until it dead-ended at a bank of elevators. Jeannie scanned the area for a hiding place. I noticed a suited man rounding the corner at the intersection where we’d turned. He paused to check some sort of paper in his hand and then squinted at me. Vince took a step toward the elevators and pushed a button. When the agent looked up, he began walking toward us again, this time faster.

“That’s one of them,” Jeannie said. “Go.”

She pushed me past the elevators, toward a stairwell door, but it was too late. The agent’s footsteps quickened. He was nearly to the elevators when Jeannie and I entered the stairwell. I heard the pronounced
oomph
of two bodies colliding, then a crisp, metallic smack. When I looked back, Vince and the agent were standing over a fizzing puddle on the linoleum floor, the Coke can at their feet. Their shirts and pants were spattered.

Jeannie and I raced up the stairs.

“Sorry, man…” Vince was saying.

The stairwell door thudded closed behind us and we continued. When we were between the second and third floors, I heard it swing open again.

Chapter Thirty-five

Below, footsteps gained on us.

“Emily Locke?” the agent yelled up the stairs. “FBI.”

At the landing to the third floor, Jeannie looked at me, pointed to her feet, and mouthed “shh.” She flung open the door to the third floor, but continued silently up the stairs to the fourth. I followed.

On the next landing, Jeannie eased open the door silently. We stepped into a corridor thick with disinfectant fumes as a nurse eased a gurney into the elevator. I resisted the weight of the closing door, so its sound wouldn’t echo into the stairwell. Jeannie strode purposefully down the corridor and I tried to mimic the confidence she exuded, but I was rattled, listening for the stairwell door behind us. We took the first turn and passed signs for Pediatric Dialysis and MRI.

Behind us, someone called to hold the elevator.

“It’s him,” I whispered. “He’s asking which way we went.”

We made a right.

A cell phone chimed.

Jeannie stripped my bag from her shoulder and pushed it toward me. “Turn off your damn phone!”

I unzipped the bag and felt around for it, still trying to keep up with Jeannie yet remain low-key.

Ahead, double doors were positioned under a sign that said Laundry. Jeannie made her way to the doors and pressed one open as I flipped open my phone.

“How’s it going at the field office?” Richard wanted to know.

No one was in the Laundromat. Commercial dryers, humming and droning as they spun bland linens, made it hard to hear. I walked to the back of the room, next to a series of wheeled, canvas laundry hampers. It was hot and humid in the room and I was already sweating.

“It’s…fine,” I said. “But, this is a bad time. I’ll call you back soon. Promise.”

Jeannie took a post by the swinging doors and peered through their narrow glass panes.

“Emily—” Richard began.

I closed my phone. “Any sign of him?”

Jeannie shook her head.

My phone rang again. I pressed the buttons to ignore the call and silence the ringer.

“Shit!” Jeannie said, in a loud whisper. “He’s coming!” She whirled toward me, her face stretched in panic.

I scanned the room. “Get in a basket!”

I burrowed through dirty linens piled in an oversized canvas hamper and tried to ignore its smells. Jeannie did the same. When my hole was deep enough that I could hide beneath the basket’s rim, I stepped in and pulled dirty hospital gowns and damp towels over myself. Body odor and the musty scent of old moisture made me want to throw up.

Jeannie whimpered. “Eww! I scooped up something wet and chunky!”

“Get
in
.” I hoped she’d do it fast.

Soon, only the rhythmic sound of dryers filled the room. I took shallow breaths, worried the rise and fall of my chest might move the mound of linens covering me.

A moment later, the Laundromat door squeaked. It hesitated in the open position. I imagined the agent surveying the washers and dryers, maybe even the laundry hampers. I held my breath. The door squeaked closed.

I exhaled in relief. Unsure how long to wait, I decided to count to sixty. I’d only gotten to two when the door swung open again.

“Oh!” A woman said. “You startled me.”

Holy Hell, I thought, he’s still in the room. I pictured Jeannie balled up in her neighboring chamber of sweat and vomit and wondered how she was doing.

“Brent Keller,” the agent said. “Looking for a missing patient.”

In my mind, I could see the badge flashing.

“Here’s her picture,” Keller said. “Seen her?”

There was a pause.

“Sorry,” she said. “‘Scuse me, please. Watch your toes.”

Castors rolled over the linoleum. The wheels droned louder until a soft-sided hamper ploughed into my hiding spot and sandwiched me between itself and Jeannie’s basket. A dryer buzzed.

The next time I thought the room was clear, I upped the count to two hundred.

That time, I only made it to thirty-nine. Jeannie extricated herself first and cursed up such a storm I worried she’d be overheard. I climbed out too and tried to think of a safe exit strategy. I searched carts and dryers and found a set of scrubs for each of us. We pulled them over our clothes.

Jeannie said Keller, wherever he was, would expect us to go downstairs, so we should go up. We went to a higher floor and found a restroom where we could—in Jeannie’s words—“clean off this putrid funk.” We crossed the building and made our way downstairs. The hospital’s vastness worked for us. Eventually, its cavernous walls spit us out on the wrong side of the block, but a passing intern directed us back to our garage.

When I checked my phone, I’d missed four calls from Richard.

“You drive,” I told Jeannie. “I need to call him.”

“Call him?” she said. “An hour ago, you told me to keep him in the dark.”

“An hour ago, I wasn’t a fugitive from the law.”

We climbed into the car and closed its doors. Jeannie backed out of the parking space. She braked in the aisle and looked at me. “What happened to ‘it’ll ruin his career’?”

My head fell back onto the headrest. I didn’t know what to do. Jeannie let the car coast down the ramp toward the garage’s exit.

“If it weren’t for you and Vince, I’d be in custody,” I said.

She smiled. “Good thing for you, we kick ass.”

I shook my head. “That was luck. I can’t skirt the FBI forever. I’ll be surprised to make it another hour.”

She paid the attendant and the gate arm rose. Sunlight flooding in from the street was blinding.

“Which way do I turn?” she asked.

“I don’t care,” I said. “I need to find a locker.”

She took a right out of the garage and drove where traffic pushed her.

“Are you suggesting Richard can help you evade the FBI until you get Annette?”

“I don’t think he’d do that. But he’d probably help explain why I ran.”

“You can do that yourself.”

“What if they trace my call and come for me before I get her? If Richard explained to Clement, maybe the FBI would help me.”

“You’ve lost your mind.”

No, I was an amateur—and way over my head. In my panic, I’d evaded any potential backup. Now I could only hope the outcome would be the best for Annette and Casey.

We passed the Museum of Natural Science and the Museum of Fine Arts. Jeannie rounded a corner and we stopped an intersection with the Health Museum on one side and the Children’s Museum on another.

At the crosswalk, mothers and youngsters held hands and checked both ways before crossing to the brightly colored building. Some pushed strollers, others pulled wagons. One mom with a baby on her hip bent to recover a dropped bottle.

“Park the car,” I said.

“What?”

“Find a meter and park. Look at all those kids. All their gear.” I felt a pang, remembering what it was like to haul a stroller and diaper bag everywhere I went. “They’ve got to have lockers in there.”

For a quarter, I rented a small, wall-mounted metal cube. When we were alone, Jeannie stood watch as I pulled $125,000 of thick, cash bricks from my backpack and stacked them inside. The door snapped shut and I removed a key with a cheap plastic handle from the slot and shoved it into the pocket of my Capris.

Outside, we waited to cross the street and Jeannie turned to me and wrinkled her nose.

“We’re sending Trish to a children’s museum?”