in the air.
He was sitting there sipping his tea when he heard his receptionist squeal, “They, they're… the FBI!”
“What?” he said. “What the devil?” He felt his heart race, then the icy grip of real fear. He thought about the photographs that had been delivered to his office. Did the feds know about them? Was it possible they had already seen them? He heard fists pounding at the door.
“What should I do, Mr. Stern?” the receptionist shrieked from her desk, in full view of the people demanding to come inside.
“Give me a few seconds.”
Bertran bolted into his office and slammed the door. Johnny was gone. He grabbed up the shredder and looked in at the confetti before he opened the bookcase and set the machine in the secret passageway. He pushed the bookcase closed until it clicked into place, then sat at his desk. Sweat poured from every pore in his body. He mopped his brow with his handkerchief and gulped down a glass of water.
The agents didn't bother to knock. The door flew open and the room filled up with blue jackets and hard eyes set in determined faces.
“You people have a legal emergency?” Bertran Stern joked.
One of them handed him a search warrant. He made a show of looking for his glasses, then read the warrant, summoning whatever courage he could pull together into a wall of bluff to hide behind. There is no evidence. It doesn't exist. Even the scraps are not on my property. I never touched those pictures. No evidence equals no arrest. How did the FBI know about the pictures?
The warrant, issued by a federal judge named Horn, sought evidence of conspiracy between Sam Manelli and other unidentified parties to commit murder. The warrant didn't specify which murders had taken place, but Bertran knew good and well from the images what murders the warrant referred to. The smug expressions on the feds' faces said they knew that he knew. A “John Doe” informant was credited with furnishing the information.
“This warrant seems a bit vague,” Bertran pointed out. “A fishing expedition. But there is nothing here that could possibly help you.”
“That right?” an FBI agent said.
“Search away, ladies and gentlemen,” he said graciously. “If you have no objections, I have paperwork to catch up on.”
“Would you open your safe?” The man in command was short and not particularly threatening in either his speech or manner.
Bertran pointed his finger at the safe. “It isn't locked. I never keep much of anything in it. I don't deal with cash or dark secrets.”
He didn't keep any records of anything incriminating in his office. There was nothing like that within miles. Russo certainly had books on what came and went on the dark side of Manelli's empire, but Bertran had never even seen the “dirty” books. He envisioned thick leather-bound volumes, but they could be computer diskettes or images carved into wax tablets, for that matter.
The agents opened the safe door and started removing the items and laying them on the coffee table.
“Just put it all back in when you are done,” Bertan said.
“We'll be taking them,” the agent in charge told him.
Bertran felt their eyes on him, felt the hate, the anger. But he knew the agents were going to be a lot madder when they left. He lifted a stack of papers from beside his blotter and placed it tidily before him.
The agent in charge stared down at something that had been under the papers Bertran had moved and was now exposed.
When the lawyer realized what he had just unwittingly uncovered, a vise tightened on his left arm near the shoulder and his eyes felt like they were being vacuumed out of his skull. Something took his heart in its jaws and crunched it.
The rectangular image of three obliterated heads stayed with him until he was swallowed up by absolute darkness.
56
Richmond, Virginia
Sean left the hotel Saturday afternoon to walk around the neighborhood. She had located a coffee shop where Max had told her that most of the residents and guests ate. The restaurant was closed on Sunday, so Sean went to the convenience store and stocked up on bottled water and enough food so she wouldn't have to go out until Monday, when business demanded she must.
She also replaced some of the things she had abandoned in Washington-undergarments and necessary toiletries.
She wasn't sure yet where she would go when she left Richmond. She needed to decide on somewhere she could lay low and let the search cool down without attracting any attention.
She was aware of Sam Manelli's reach and what he was capable of doing to anyone he felt had betrayed him. She knew he was single-minded when he perceived a threat to what was his, and the lengths he would go to in order to make sure everybody knew there was no such thing as a safe place for an enemy to hide. Her best chance was to hide and wait and hope that his desire for revenge would ebb to the point where other things occupied his attention. It was possible that Sam could be arrested for sending the killers after Dylan and decide that she was no longer worth pursuing.
She thought about Winter Massey. Of all the people who could and would protect her, he was the only one she could trust, but she couldn't bring herself to drag him back into danger. He didn't owe her anything. Their relationship had ended when he left Ward Field. She was on her own, and it had to remain that way.
She found herself fantasizing about the deputy, wondering whether, if she had met him under other circumstances, things might have been different. She told herself that her attraction to him was probably due more to their circumstances than anything else. Maybe someday she would see him. But for the time being, she decided, it was best for both of them if she forgot all about him.
When she went to sleep Saturday night, it was after a long, heartfelt prayer and with the loaded. 38 under her pillow.
57
Concord, North Carolina
Sunday
Winter sat at the table, watching his son fight to contain his growing excitement. Winter had stayed busy around the house all weekend. There were plenty of minor repairs to take care of. While he worked, Rush stayed close and they talked and laughed. It helped to keep his mind off Greg and the other thoughts that stalked him. He and Lydia decided to celebrate Rush's birthday on Sunday afternoon. Winter didn't know what Monday would bring his way.
The handicap had taken its social toll on Rush. Most of the friends he had made before the accident hadn't remained close for long. After the novelty wore off, most sighted children found it difficult to maintain a relationship with someone so radically different. Friendship with Rush meant the loss of things that were important to children that age: video games, basketball, baseball, movies, bicycles. Since the accident, Rush had become more and more comfortable with children like him. Angus McGill, a neighbor Rush's age, was the only one of Rush's old pals who still visited, but he was out of town with his parents.
“Well,” Winter said. “What should we do now?”
“We could sit on the porch,” Lydia said.
“Aren't you guys forgetting something?” Rush asked, fighting back a smile.
“I don't think so,” Winter said, trying to sound sincerely confused. “Mama, what's that?” Winter got up, lifted
