toilet lid. “Take me to the FBI.”
“Afraid I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
Serge gave him a penetrating look.
Andy got a different expression, backing up against the wall. “You’re… not…”
“Relax. I ain’t with nobody. It’s something Pedro told me.”
“Who’s Pedro?”
“Better you not know. Especially now.”
“What’d he say?”
“My suspicions were correct,” said Serge. “They have someone on the inside. That’s how they’ve been tracking you. And until I find out who, we can’t contact the authorities.”
“But what about my dad?”
“I can only solve so much. Right now you’re my responsibility. Consider me a guardian angel.”
“
“Couldn’t be in better hands.” Serge reached for a white paper bag by the sink. “Here. Have a taco.”
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
A rented Taurus drove west from the Detroit airport.
Snowdrifts.
“I don’t know if I can get used to the cold,” said Randall.
“You will in time,” said Ramirez. “And thanks to your testimony, we rounded them all up.”
“I’m safe now?”
“As long as you stick to the program.” Ramirez had opted for the rental instead of the obvious government sedan. He handed a thick brown envelope across the front seat. “That’s your kit, everything you’ll need. New Social Security cards, Michigan driver’s licenses, birth certificates, credit cards with phony transaction histories, bank accounts. We made some deposits to get you started.”
Randall looked at the documents in his lap. “But why Patrick McKenna?”
“Because it’s a common name.”
“Couldn’t I have picked something?”
“Flash Gordon was taken.” Randall stared at him.
“Sorry,” said Ramirez. “That was supposed to be a joke. Break the tension.”
An exit sign.
Battle Creek.
They got off the interstate and wound through anonymous neighborhoods.
“Remember what we talked about,” said Ramirez. “It’s critical. Randall Sheets never existed. And Patrick McKenna always has. You need to set aside some quality time rehearsing with your family over the next weeks, calling each other by new names.”
“I think we’re smart enough to-”
“I’m serious. Can’t tell you how many people we’ve had to move again because of slipups in the wrong place, and it usually happens at the beginning. After a while, it’ll come naturally.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“One more thing,” said the agent. “The phone in the living room. Its wire runs through a little tan box. That’s the encrypter. There’s a switch on the side. Don’t call me unless you absolutely have to, but if you
Patrick looked out the windows as they swung onto a sleepy, tree-lined street. “I just want to see my family.”
The car pulled up to the curb. Patrick grabbed the door handle, then stopped and turned. “I never thanked you.”
“Go on, they’re waiting.”
Patrick ran up the walkway and rang the doorbell.
Ramirez watched the tearful reunion on the front steps. He waited until the door closed, then drove back to the airport.
THE PRESENT
Police headquarters.
An evidence bag of hex-head bolts lay on the conference table. Detectives gathered around a TV set. Someone inserted a DVD that had been discovered by the employee who’d made the 911 call from the Daytona Beach boardwalk.
An early-morning glow had just broken over the Atlantic, but not the sun, giving the image a grainy, low-light effect.
On-screen: Pedro, secured in his seat, gagged, eyes of horror.
Offscreen: “
The video camera on the safety bar showed Pedro suddenly accelerate skyward in the open-air ball of the Rocket Launch. The beach and boardwalk receded quickly, tiny buildings and cars like a child’s train set.
Then the ball reached its zenith, and elastic cords jerked hard. The padded, U-shaped restraining bar over Pedro’s chest-minus its bolts-flew off like the pilot’s canopy of an F-16 Falcon during subsonic ejection.
Followed by Pedro.
The now-empty ball continued bouncing on its cords, camera still running.
A detective slowed the DVD to frame-by-frame. On one of its last bounces, the ball caught the background image of a miniature Pedro sailing out over motel row.
Chapter Thirty-Four
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
A late-model Mercedes raced west through Little Havana on Calle Ocho. The road became the Tamiami Trail. A half hour later, they left civilization behind and entered the Everglades.
Hector was driving, Luis riding shotgun. Guillermo sat in the backseat like an only child, arms around a big briefcase.
“No deviating from the plan,” Hector said over his shoulder. “We can’t be in the same place as the payment.”
“Why not?” asked Guillermo. “You raised him like my brother. Don’t we trust him anymore?”
“Yes, but he may be followed. He’s on the inside now.”
“I still don’t understand how we got him there. He had a record, from when Madre first picked him up at the jail.”
“Juvenile. Had it sealed.”
Guillermo looked out the windows. “Where is he?”
“Nearby, but he won’t know the final location until you call him.”
Fifty miles into the ’glades. No shade from the withering swamp heat. People in wide-brimmed straw hats reclined on lawn chairs along the shoulder of the Tamiami, cane-pole fishing an alligator-filled canal. Vultures picked at unrecognizable remains, taking flight when the Mercedes blew by. Hector slowed as they passed one of the water district’s drainage control dams. A quick look around. No other cars. He hit the gas for a dust-slinging left turn onto an unmarked dirt road.
“Where will you be?” asked Guillermo.
Hector jerked a thumb north. “Back on the trail. When we see his car leave and are sure he had no tails, we’ll
