Randall’s voice: “I was just getting ready to—”
“I have a lead on Crane.” She jerked the steering wheel left and right a block later to zip around a car entering traffic on her right.
A horn honked.
“That’s great.”
“He’s got a new name, and,” she stretched her seatbelt across her body and jammed the tongue into the latch, “he’s changed his appearance.”
“That’s not so great.”
“Don’t worry.” She settled into her seat. “I have both his new name and look. He’s chartered a jet that’s taking off from a private airstrip. I’m on my way there now.”
“Where’s he heading to?”
“My informant arranged a few destinations for him. But that won’t matter if I can cut Crane off at the airstrip. How are you coming along?”
Randall updated his partner, relaying what Thorn had told him and that he was driving to Deputy Marshal Mason’s place.
“I really do wish I was there with you, Noah.”
“Sounds like you have your hands full where you are.”
“You have no idea how much this is tearing me up inside. Please let me know the minute you have her.”
“You know I will. Be safe.”
“You too.” She disconnected the call and smacked her palm on the steering wheel before gripping it tighter and letting her foot get heavier on the accelerator. Zipping in and out of traffic, she recalled the last time she had seen Faith. The two were waving goodbye to each other while the younger woman drove away from Devlin’s house. A minute later, Devlin’s thoughts turned to the Divine.
Oh, God...I haven’t called on You very much, lately. I’m sorry. I’m trying to change that. But right now, I need You. Faith needs You. Please help Noah get to her in time. And help me catch the son-of-a-bit— she stopped herself and shot a look toward the ceiling. Sorry. She quickly touched her forehead, heart, left and right shoulder, making the sign of the cross. Have patience with me, Lord. I’m just getting back into this prayer thing again.
*******
11:24 A.M. (LOCAL TIME)
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
Randall parked Harker’s Charger a few houses down from Deputy Marshal Mason’s small, single-story home that was located on a quiet street. He strolled by the target house while using his peripheral vision to scan for signs of life inside. He saw none.
After rounding the next street corner, he jogged a block over, hopped a fence, and slipped into Mason’s backyard. After peeking through a garage window, and not seeing a vehicle, he tried the back door. It was locked.
He hurried down an empty driveway on the north side of the dwelling, the side that faced away from the nearest neighbor, the side that gave him the most concealment. Glimpsing the other homes, searching for anyone taking extra interest in him—and spotting no one—he crept onto the front porch.
Randall swung out a screen door, held it open with the toe of his shoe, gripped the main door’s knob, and applied pressure.
The knob never moved.
Knowing his lock picks were back in New Orleans, he spied the doorbell. If he has Faith in there, he won’t be too receptive to visitors.
His gaze shifted to a glass pane halfway up the door. Go in hard and fast and, he peeled back the right half of his suit coat, exposing a Walther PPQ45 in a hip holster, take him by surprise. He freed the 45 ACP. Then again...if he’s innocent, he won’t appreciate the rude interruption. Randall half shrugged. I’ll ask for forgiveness.
He smashed the window with his left elbow, quickly undid a deadbolt, pushed open the door, and charged into a tidy living room while swinging the Walther left and right. His nose picked up a hint of potpourri coming from somewhere. His eyes adjusted to the low light, and he saw an empty kitchen on the opposite side of the dwelling.
After a speedy search of two bedrooms and a bathroom, he searched for a basement door. Finding none, he holstered his weapon and began a thorough inspection of the whole place, beginning with the bedrooms.
Coming to the kitchen, he peeked inside cupboards, drawers, and a trash can before spotting black flakes in the sink. He touched one, and the speck disintegrated. Spreading apart the garbage disposer’s rubber flaps, he saw more flakes.
Snatching a small pair of tongs, he worked carefully to remove all the scraps he could see and place them on the kitchen table.
Ten minutes into putting his puzzle together, he growled under his breath and made a call, connecting with another party on the third ring.
“Deputy Director Thorn speaking.”
“It’s Randall, ma’am. I’m at Mason’s, and I’ve found something. It looks like burned pieces of paper.” He shook his head. “But I can’t make heads or tails of what’s written on them. You’ll have to get the lab people out here to work their magic on this. It’s beyond my capabilities.” He looked up from the table. “Do you have the next property for me to check out?”
“It turns out there are several people in the Marshals Service with ties to Mason...as well as many, many properties. We’re going to have to enlist the aid of local police.”
“Understood, ma’am. Just,” he rotated a white shred with irregularly shaped, charred edges, “give me,” before squinting at some numbers. “Ma’am, do you have a list of addresses for these properties in front of you?”
“I do.”
“Do any of them start with the numbers one-one-zero-one?”
“Hold on.”
Swaying to the left to view the white snippet without the sun glaring off it, he tried to make out a letter to the right of the numbers.
“I have one here that’s eleven-oh-one Christy Way. Why do you ask?”
Randall leaned closer to the table, closer to the letter. That could be a ‘C.’ Or an ‘O.’ “Dispatch agents and officers to the other addresses, ma’am, but,” he ran out of the kitchen and through the front door, “send me directions
