asset was her ability to process information and reach a well-considered conclusion in just a few seconds.
She continued, “I have a hard time believing that agents of the government of the United States are going to apply such resources to the kidnapping and murder of children. It just doesn’t make sense.”
“The government connection to Sean O’Brian is clear,” Jonathan said. “And frankly, the fact that there’s no information on the other shooter is also damned convincing evidence of Uncle Sam’s handiwork.”
Gail wasn’t buying. “Tell me organized crime, and I’m with you. Tell me government, and it just makes no sense.”
Jonathan loved the way her ears reddened when she became passionate about a topic. “Maybe the mob happened to hire the same shooters Uncle Sam uses from time to time. Wouldn’t that explain the link?”
Bingo. At least it was plausible.
Jonathan shifted his gaze. “Ven,” he said. “Catch us up on what you found about the parents involved.”
Venice pulled a file folder from her stack of meeting-prep materials and opened it. “Let’s talk about Frank Schuler first,” she said, spreading the papers out in front of her. She held up a mug shot labeled with the man’s name. “This is Jeremy’s father. He’s on death row here in Virginia for murdering his wife, Jeremy’s mother.”
Boxers made a noise like air escaping from a canister.
“She was cheating on him with a guy named Aaron Hastings. Schuler shot her. He maintained his innocence all the way through the trial, but the jury didn’t buy it. Unless a miracle happens, he gets the needle in nine days.”
She slid the Schuler papers back into their folder and opened another. She displayed another mug shot. No one would doubt the relationship between Evan and his father. They had the same light hair and blue eyes, the same angular features. “This is Arthur Guinn,” Venice said, “and here is your connection to the mob. He was an enforcer.”
“Hit man,” Gail said.
Venice tossed off a shrug. “If you’d prefer. He killed people for money and got caught.” She looked at her notes again. “He murdered an aide to then-Congressman Mark Levy from New York. Guinn said he was bent out of shape because of the congressman’s politics, but according to the record, the feds always suspected a connection to the Slater mob.”
Jonathan noted her satisfied smile as she delivered that last line. “Where do he and Schuler intersect?”
The smile went away. “They don’t,” Venice said. “At least not so far as I can tell. I don’t see where they’ve ever occupied the same state, let alone town.”
“There’s got to be a link,” Boxers said.
“No kidding?” Venice returned. “Golly, I wish I’d thought of that.”
Boxers reared back in his seat. “What the hell did I do?”
“You implied that Venice didn’t know how to do her job,” Gail said.
“I did not! All I said-”
Jonathan held out both hands, like a cop stopping traffic in both directions. “Nobody start,” he said. “Gail, I want you to interview both of these fathers. With their kids missing, maybe they’ll be willing to open up a little. Work with Doug Kramer if you get push-back from the prison guys.”
Gail jotted something in the speckled composition notebook that was as attached to her as her arm. “You bet.”
“That’ll get a little frustrating when you go to talk to Arthur Guinn,” Venice said. “I called the Illinois Department of Corrections to see what I could find out, and I learned that Mr. Arthur Guinn is no longer in the system.”
Jonathan stopped in mid-stride and turned. “What does that mean?”
“You tell me.”
Jonathan looked to Boxers and Gail, and saw no indication of a theory. “What did they say?”
Venice consulted her notes. “They said that there’s no immediate disposition of the case against him, but that he is no longer part of the Illinois system. When I asked him if that was double-talk for him being moved to someone else’s system, I got ‘I can neither confirm nor deny.’”
Jonathan saw where Venice was leading him. “You’re thinking witness protection,” he said.
She smirked.
“The feds want him to testify,” Gail said. “They must be going after Sammy Bell, and to get him to talk, they made him a deal.”
Jonathan liked it. He pointed to Venice and said, “I know Dom is swamped right now, but I need him to contact-”
Venice beamed. “I already talked to him,” she said. “You’re meeting Wolverine at one.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Evan Guinn followed every direction to the letter. They’d led him from the tiny hut, flanked by the two guards who had nearly shot him, to a spot about twenty yards away that looked like it had been turned into a movie set. They’d cut a swath out of the dense green foliage to expose a large rock, which had been painted with stripes of white. The ground all around the rock had been painted white, too, and sprinkled with what appeared to be that fake plastic snow stuff that you put around Christmas decorations.
Through words and gestures, they directed him to stand in front of the rock. They handed him a copy of The Washington Post and told him to hold it just so under his chin, and pantomimed for him to smile. The squat man from the shack did all of the communicating while taking direction from a darker skinned man dressed in black slacks and a long white shirt who held a cell phone camera at arm’s length, composing his shot, Evan assumed. Clearly, they wanted to make the picture look like he was somewhere cold, but he was sweating like a pig and barefoot. Who was going to believe it?
He’d seen this trick with the newspaper before in movies about kidnapping victims. They used the headline on the paper as proof that the victim was still alive so that they would pay the ransom. He felt a sudden flash of fear. Who was going to pay ransom for him? Mom was dead, Dad was in jail, and there wasn’t anyone else. Nobody had anything of value to trade for him. There wasn’t a reason in the world to keep him alive.
But apparently there was. They’d gone to a lot of trouble to get him here to wherever the hell he was. And where was that, exactly? Mexico? South America?
Jesus, how long had he been asleep? South America and Mexico were both a long way from Virginia. Geography was one of his worst subjects, but he knew that much.
What were they going to do with him? Another jolt of fear. He’d been alone in the company of sweaty men before, with the last foster family before moving to RezHouse. He knew what they were capable of, and the fact that he saw no women around made his stomach churn. Evan had meant what he’d said to Father Dom during one of his counseling sessions: He’d never allow himself to be used that way again. The last time, he was little and didn’t have the strength to break their bear hugs.
He was nearly fourteen now, though, and he knew a thing or two that he hadn’t before. He knew what was worth killing for, and what was worth dying for. More to the point, he knew what wasn’t worth living after.
The whole picture-taking process took less than ten minutes.
Apparently satisfied with the results, Shack Man beckoned Evan away from the rock and handed him a pair of well-worn short pants of an indefinable color. Somewhere between gray and black. Evan wondered if they’d once been white.
“You…wear,” Shack Man said, and he pointed to the shack. Then he prattled about something while he made a sweeping motion in the air up and down the length of the boy’s body.
“Huh?”
Shack Man pinched the shoulder of his sweater and tugged lightly. “ Esto… sweetshirt?”
Evan processed it. “Sweater?” he guessed.
Shack Man nodded and pointed to Evan’s jeans. He searched for a word. “Give back.”
Evan didn’t hesitate for a moment to shed the sweater and turtleneck. He pulled them over his head, and handed them over, leaving him bare-chested. He got that he was supposed to return the pants, too, and for that he
