night.”
Heron didn’t bat an eye—there was no reaction in his hard face at all. Which was a tell in and of itself, wasn’t it.
“I don’t know, maybe I was dreaming.”
Bullshit. It had been Heron. As soon as Veck had walked into his kitchen, he’d had exactly the same sense of being watched by the eyes that were meeting his now.
The question was, why would the FBI be tracking him?
Then again, file that one under
And although law enforcement wasn’t allowed to officially single out and suspend people just because of what they looked like or who they were related to, they sure as shit could work the back angles.
Then again, they could be protecting him. From his father, or his father’s followers. In that case, though, they’d just come forward and tell him, wouldn’t they.
“So what did you think of Bob Greenway,” Veck murmured. “The manager from the Hannaford where Cecilia Barten was last seen.”
“As you said, not much to go on.”
“You aren’t here for the Barten case, are you.”
Heron took a drag on his Marlboro. “The hell I’m not.”
“The manager’s name is George Strauss. Have you even read the file?”
The agent didn’t blink. Didn’t seem to care in the slightest that he’d been caught in at best a lapse of memory, at worst a lie. He remained utterly self-contained, as if he had seen and done things so much worse than a mere bending of the truth, he couldn’t give a fuck.
“You want to tell me why you were in my house last night?” Veck said, tapping his cigarette into the air.
“It is not inaccurate to say I’ve taken a special interest in you. And it is very accurate to say that Sissy Barten’s disappearance is a big fucking deal to me.”
Veck frowned. “So what the hell is going on? Does it have anything to do with my father? Because in case you’re not aware of it, I don’t really know the guy, and I hope they do the world a favor and off the bastard.”
Heron leaned down, lifted one boot, and stubbed out the tip of his coffin nail on the heavy tread of his combat. After he put the butt in his back pocket, he tapped out a fresh stick from his soft pack.
He lit the thing with the efficiency of a long-term smoker. “Lemme ask you something.”
“You could try answering some of my shit first, thank you very much.”
“Nah. I’m more interested in you.” The guy took a suck and exhaled. “You ever feel like there’s another side to you? Something that follows you around, lurking under the surface. Maybe every once in a while it comes out, taking you in a direction you don’t want to go in.”
Veck narrowed his eyes as his heart kicked once in his chest and then stopped dead. “Why the hell would you ask me that?”
“Just curious. It would be the kind of thing you don’t want to see in a mirror, for example.”
Veck took a step back and pointed at the guy with his coffin nail. “Stay the fuck out of my house and away from me.”
Heron just hung where he was, feet planted in the middle of the sidewalk. “It would be the kind of thing that makes you wonder what you’re capable of. Reminds you of your old man so much, you don’t like thinking about it.”
“You’re fucking crazy.”
“Not in the slightest. And neither are you.”
“You should know I’m good with a gun. And I don’t care if you’re a federal agent—assuming you didn’t lie about that, too.”
Veck pivoted away and started walking, fast.
“Look down at your feet, Thomas Delant to hio,” Heron shouted out. “Take a good look at what’s doing. And then you call me when you get scared enough. I’m the only one who can help you.”
Fucking loony-ass motherfucker.
Motherfucking loony-ass bitch.
It took him no time at all to get back to HQ, and he blasted up that front stairwell, gunning for his computer. As he blew into the Homicide department, all he got for a greeting was a lot of ringing phones—everyone was out to lunch or working a case somewhere in town. Which was good news for his colleagues.
Sitting down at his desk, he got the number of the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s local field office, and dialed in.
“Yeah, hello—this is Detective DelVecchio over at Caldwell Homicide. I want to speak with Personnel. Yup. Thanks.” He picked up a pen and began twirling it in and out of his fingertips. “Yeah, DelVecchio at the CPD—I want to see if you have an Agent Jim Heron anywhere in your system, including out of state. I have my badge number if you want it.” He recited the numbers. “Uh-huh, that’s right. The guy I’m looking for is Agent Jim Heron. Yeah, that’s how you spell it, like the bird. A man approached me yesterday with what looked like bona fide credentials, identified himself as an agent working on a missing persons case, and came with me to interview the family. I just met with him again and I want to verify who he is. Yup. Just call me, I’m at my desk.”
He hung up.
One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four Miss—
His phone rang. “DelVecchio. Hey, thanks—really. Go fig, no one at all by that name. Yup, he’s six-four, maybe -five. Blondish hair. Blue eyed. Looks like soldier. He had two other men with him, one with a braid, another with a lot of metal on his face. The credentials were legit, though, right down to the hologram. Thanks—yeah, please, I’d like to know if you find anything—and I’ll let you know if he shows up again.”
As he hung up the phone, he thought he should have known. He should have fucking known—and he should have apprehended the guy right there by the river. That talk about shadows, though, had thrown him—
“Are you okay?”
He glanced up. Reilly was standing next to his desk, a little McDonald’s bag in one hand and a short soda in the other.
“No, I’m really fucking not.” He shifted his eyes to the computer screen, because he knew he was glaring. “Remember that FBI agent from yesterday?”
“Heron?”
“He’s a fake.”
“A fake?” She sat down beside him. “What do you mean—”
“Someone broke into my house last night.” As she gasped, he kept going. “It was him. Probably his two buddies, too—”
“Why didn’t you tell me? And why the hell didn’t you report it?”
He started rubbing his temples, and thought, Well, at least this headache was the normal stress kind. Nothing but tension—
Abruptly, he jacked around.
Except there was nothing behind him, no one staring at the back of his head or lining up a gun muzzle with his skull. It was just an empty room cut up by cubicles that were filled with computers and phones and empty office chairs.
Unfortunately, his instincts told him there was another layer to it all, one that, although his eyes couldn’t measure it, was as real as anything he could touch and feel.
Just like last night in his kitchen. Just as it had been down by the river ten minutes ago.
Just as it had been his whole life.
“What is it?” Reilly asked.
“Nothing.”
“Your head hurts?”
“No, it’s fine.”
Veck casually got up and walked all the way across the department to the banks of windows that looked out over the street below. Making like he was just glancing outside at the sky, he focused his eyes on the glass and
