The Search

Simple truth. “My name is Francis Eckle, and I’m going to kill you now. Because I can. Because I like it.”

So they died with his truth, like a gift.

But this EW? He—or she—was a liar. Extorting his work for money.

No one saw him.

But he thought of the man in line at Starbucks. Of the pimply-faced clerk at the gas mart whose eyes had passed over him with boredom. Of the greasy-haired night clerk at the motel who’d smelled of pot and smirked at him as he handed over the key.

Maybe.

He sat again, studied the e-mail again. He could answer it, demand more information before any discussion of payment. That’s what she’d do.

He poured himself a short glass of whiskey and thought it through.

He composed a response, editing, deleting, refining as carefully as he might a thesis. When his finger hovered over send, he hesitated.

It could be a trap. Maybe the FBI was poking a finger in, trying to trap Kati. Or him. He couldn’t see it clearly, so he rose and paced again, drank again, thought it through again.

Just in case, he decided. Safety first.

He took a shower, brushed his teeth, shaved the faint shadow over his skull, his face. He stowed all his things in his duffel.

Moments after he hit send, he left the room. He bought a Coke at vending for the caffeine jolt, but realized he didn’t need it.

The idea of being seen, the vague possibility of being tricked, energized him. Excited him.

In some secret part of his heart he hoped he had been seen. It made it all the more worthwhile.

He gave the trunk a little pat as he passed it. “Let’s take a drive, shall we, Kati?”

“Jesus, he answered it.” Mantz leaped toward the tech. “He bit. Can you track it to the source?”

“Give me a minute,” the tech told her, tapping keys.

EW,

she and Tawney read:

I’m very interested in good information. However, I can’t negotiate any sort of payment without more data. Ten thousand is a lot of money, and the paper will require a show of good faith on your part. You claim to be an eyewitness. To what? You’ll have to give me some details, of your choosing, before we can go to the next step.

I can meet you, in a public place—again of your choosing—if you don’t want to put those details in writing or on the record at this time.

I’m eager to discuss this.

Kati Starr

“Smart enough to know she wouldn’t jump without having more,” Tawney commented. “But curious enough not to ignore it.”

“And not mobile,” Mantz added. “He has to be holed up somewhere with Internet access. Awake but not moving. It took him less than an hour to answer, and he’d have thought about it first. He was on top of her computer when we sent it.”

“Got him.” The tech gestured to the screen.

They set it up on the move. Agents, snipers, hostage negotiators—all with orders to surround, to go in silent.

“The agent who roused the night clerk said four single men have checked in tonight,” Mantz relayed as they raced through the night. “Two paid in cash. He’s got no holdovers from yesterday, or any day. He can’t make Eckle from the photo, didn’t see any of the cars and can’t say if any of them went into the rooms alone. Basically, he’s stoned and could give a rat’s ass.”

“Let’s get a team in rooms next to the four check-ins. Hold positions. There’s always the chance he took her in with him.”

They parked in the lot of the all-night diner next to the motel, donned their vests. As Tawney assessed the lay of the land, he nodded to an agent.

“Cage, give me the word.”

“We’ve got it down to two rooms. The other two have dual occupancy of the consenting kind. One’s got a couple banging like it’s the Fourth of July, and the other’s got a woman ragging on a guy about leaving his bitch of a wife. Teams said the walls are like paper. It’s like being there.”

“The other two?”

“One’s got somebody snoring loud enough to peel the paint off the walls.” He paused, held up a finger to his earpiece. “Just heard a woman’s voice saying, ‘Shut the fuck up, Harry.’ I’d say that leaves the one. Number four- fourteen. Corner room, back, east side. Team on that says it’s dead quiet. Not a sound.”

“I want the other rooms covered, and the parking lot blocked off. He doesn’t slip through.”

“Affirmative.”

“Desk clerk have a problem with us taking down the door?”

“He’s stoned to the eyeballs. Said do what we got to do—and probably went back to his bong and porn.”

Tawney nodded as they walked. “I want to take it down fast. I want lights in there the second it goes down. Blind his ass. The team’s in there and on him like a wolf on a deer. How about the car?”

“None matching the description or plates on the lot, or in the diner lot.”

“Could’ve switched it,” Mantz put it. “She could be in one of these. Any of them.”

“She won’t be for long.”

He had to hang back, let the take-down team move into position. He wanted to take the door, wanted it like he wanted breath. But he wanted it done clean and fast and safe just a little more.

It went exactly as he’d ordered. With his weapon drawn, he moved forward as the sounds of Clear! Clear! rang out of the room. His stomach dropped. That wasn’t the response he’d wanted. He knew before he reached the door that Eckle had already slipped through their fingers.

Twenty-Nine

Fiona slathered cream over her damp skin and hummed a tune that got stuck in her head in the shower. She couldn’t quite pin down the song, the lyrics, but the cheery melody suited her mood.

She felt she’d turned a corner and closed a door. She liked the philosophy that by closing one she could—and maybe already had—opened another.

Maybe it was naive, but she had every confidence the FBI would track down Francis Xavier Eckle, and quickly, with the new information. Information she’d helped generate.

She’d kicked her way out of the trunk again, she decided.

Still humming, she stepped into the bedroom. Her eyebrows lifted in surprise when she saw the bed empty. Usually she’d find Simon sprawled in it, pillow over his head as he clung to those last minutes of sleep—until she went down and made coffee.

She liked the routine, she thought as she dressed. The easy give and take of it. Liked knowing the dogs were outside for their morning romp, and that Simon would stumble downstairs, with uncanny timing, when the coffee was ready so, in this lovely weather, they’d have it and whatever food came readily to hand on the back deck.

She supposed the siren’s call of coffee had been too loud for him to resist that morning, or she’d taken too long to suit him in the shower.

She pulled on her army green Chucks, then spent a few minutes on her hair, her makeup in anticipation of her morning classes. There was a window in the afternoon, she calculated, just wide enough for a trip to the nursery.