of creatures.'
Gregor frowned at the abrasion Litt's fingers had caused on his scalp. It looked ready to bleed. He patted the pockets of his camo outfit, looking for a cigarette. 'Atropos is a Balinese tiger,' he said. 'Is that it?'
Litt shrugged. 'Him, you, me. The desire for revenge is common to man. The harder the payback the better. But for an animal . . . That's what makes the Balinese so fascinating.'
Gregor found a nearly empty pack of cigarettes in a pocket by his knee. He fiddled with it, anxious to leave the smoke-free warehouse. 'You think Atropos is playing with Parker?'
'Of course. It's what I would do.' He looked at his fingers and wiped them on his lab coat, leaving faint red streaks.
'Will we be ready for him?'
'What do you have on Parker?'
Sticking the crumpled pack of cigarettes in his breast pocket, Gregor pulled out his BlackBerry. He tapped the screen and used his thumbs to key something in, then handed it to Litt. Litt looked at it, and together they walked to the woman at the monitor. Litt showed her the screen. She squinted at it, typed, squinted, typed. She waited, then nodded.
'Get it,' Litt instructed. To Gregor, he said, 'Like ordering up a chocolate malt.'
Gregor patted him on the back. 'Years of hard work, my friend.'
'Who'd have thought, huh?'
'I never doubted.'
'Never?'
'Why do you think I gave you my shoes?' He winked and started for the exit, patting his pockets again. Halfway there, he stopped. 'Karl . . . why past tense? What became of the Balinese tiger?'
'The last one was shot in 1937.'
Gregor was thinking about that when Litt added, 'I didn't do it.'
sixty-eight
Julia climbed into the back of the van to set up the
satellite-tracking device, and Stephen drove slowly away from the airport. At her direction, he maneuvered the van erratically from lane to lane, down alleyways and in looping patterns around blocks. She called it dry cleaning, designed to spot and shake any tails they may have picked up at the airport.
She let out a heavy groan, and his stomach tightened. 'What is it?'
'I was able to tap into a satellite, no problem. But the plane's altitude is throwing everything off. Maps are scrolling into place, but I can't get a lock on the device itself.'
'You can't track it?'
'I can, but I'll have only a general idea of where it is until it lands again. My laptop is only loaded with software for land-based operations.'
'Is there software for tracking planes? Can you get it?'
'I don't dare try, after what Kendrick Reynolds did. Accessing the Bureau's system might bring half the force down on us.'
She made it sound as certain as skipping into the FBI's headquarters in Quantico. It was a different world, when you had to be as cautious electronically as you were physically. Crossing the road without looking could get you killed in either world.
'But you can tell they're moving? What direction?'
'South. Over Florida right now.'
Stephen nodded, picturing the plane cutting through the night sky, Allen inside, hurt, scared. The gravity in the van grew heavier, pulling his face down, adding weight to his internal organs. His insides hurt.
After an hour of aimless wandering, he began feeling the weight of Allen's absence. It radiated from the blackness beside him, where Allen should have been sitting: a nothingness so great it threatened to swallow him whole and leave nothing but an aching heart as a testament to his inability to protect his brother . . .
'Julia?' he said, making his voice sound strong.
'Hmmm?'
'Could you come sit up here? For a few minutes?'
'I really want to keep my eye on this.'
'I'd appreciate it.'
The briefest pause.
'Sure,' she said pleasantly, as if it had been her idea.
He heard what he imagined were the sounds of a woman extricating herself from a tangle of wires. Then she slipped under the table and popped up next to him. She placed a hand on his forearm, squeezed it, then slid back into the other captain's chair.
Stephen didn't look at her but stared straight ahead, trying to gauge the void. It was still there, but weaker. Like smoke, it had swirled away when her body had moved into its space. He felt that none of it had actually dissipated; it was simply less threatening, not all gathered in one spot.
He also felt foolish. He supposed she was used to working with professional investigators who didn't need hand-holding, who didn't let things like despair and regret interfere with getting the job done, who'd rather hear the ratcheting lock of handcuffs than a comforting word. But that wasn't him. His practical side insisted that she continue setting up the equipment needed to find Allen. But he also had to contend with his emotional side, which still felt the warmth of her hand on his arm and felt as good about that as an investigator would about a break in a case. He could not erect a wall between these sides.
Yes, they would find Allen and rescue him. His determination to do so was solid and big, a mountain that could not be moved. But they would have to do it as themselves, with only the gifts God had given each of them. With her technical brilliance, knowledge of the criminal mind, and prowess at executing covert operations and tracking people, Julia obviously held the greater advantage to accomplish their goal. They'd simply have to find a way to utilize his skills as well. Which were what, precisely? Physical strength.
'Something else?' she said, startling him.
'Just thinking out loud, I guess. Thanks for coming up front.'
They traveled in silence awhile, Stephen taking comfort from the splashes of light against Julia's face in his peripheral vision. He kept expecting her to suggest finding a motel or at least a place where they could park the van for the night, but she never did. She seemed to be thinking, working things out, and the impermanence of the view outside helped her do that. Finally he said, 'How about a restaurant?' A glowing orange sign was approaching on the right.
She hesitated. 'I really should get back to . . .'
Her voice trailed off, and he felt her gaze. He wondered how much of his urgency to get away from the van, from its muted shadows and its smell of Allen's cigarettes, showed.
'You know, I could eat,' she said.
They rejected the first table to which the waitress led them, a cramped two-top, and settled for a big round booth in the corner. The fluorescent lights that cast the place in an unnatural, sterile luminance were bright in Stephen's eyes, a welcome change from the gloom of the van. Something about the artificiality of the place—its orange Formica tabletops, brick veneer wall, plastic plants, Naugahyde seat covers—made the harsh reality of life seem very far away.
Julia scanned the decor, examined her hands, rearranged the napkin dispenser, salt and pepper shakers, sugar packets, and small decanter of maple syrup.
'I'll be right back,' she said.
For twenty minutes, he turned away an ancient waitress trying to take his order, her lipsticked smile failing to hide her boredom. Finally Julia returned, an extra wrinkle or two around her eyes.
'Trouble?' he asked. 'Or should I say, what now?'
'My mother. She has MS. Most times, she's fine; I mean it hasn't gotten really bad yet. But you never know when she'll get an attack. They can be debilitating and pretty scary. She gets trigeminal neuralgia, these stabbing
