Unless something shook loose there, they were pretty much back where they started. And Madison was running out of time.
Randall sipped nervously at his cappuccino, trying not to look as terrified as he felt. He had left work shortly after arriving, complaining of a stomach bug. Barry, no stranger to intestinal distress, agreed to cover for him. And the truth was he’d been nauseous ever since that awful video last night. He clenched his fists at the memory. Randall wished again that he was someone different, the kind of guy who would find the people responsible and wring their necks. Unfortunately, he had to rely on Syd and Jake to do that for him. And so far, they hadn’t really helped.
He was sitting in a park on the outskirts of Concord, a patch of green etched out between office buildings. Like most of the East Bay, the town was a mix of strip malls, office parks and suburban neighborhoods wound around cul-de-sacs. To his immediate right a bronze memorial to 9/11 read, “Through blurred eyes we find the strength and courage to soar beyond the moment.” Under the current circumstances, it struck him as particularly ironic.
Randall glanced at his watch again: 11:00 a.m. He’d arrived late, there was construction on the 680 and traffic had slowed to a crawl. A shadow blocked the light, and he squinted up. A man stood over him, head cocked to the side. He was white, medium-build, wiry-looking; not the same guy who first approached him. Dressed in jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt despite the weather, his features masked by aviator sunglasses and a Giants baseball cap. Randall’s throat closed up with rage at the sight of him. He gripped the bench’s armrest to prevent himself from doing something stupid.
“Dr. Grant, right?” His voice was a chain smoker’s rasp. “You got something for me?”
Randall reached into his jacket pocket for the flash drive. The guy’s hand clamped down on his wrist, stopping him. “Don’t get cute, Grant.”
“You tell that son of a bitch he fucked up by hurting my daughter,” Randall said. “I told him I’d get it, I just needed more time…”
“You give us what we want when we ask for it. You knew that was part of the deal. Can’t stall and expect nothing to happen.”
“I want my daughter back.”
“Behave yourself and we’ll cut her loose this afternoon.”
A woman approached with a stroller, the only other person to enter the park since Randall had arrived. The guy clasped his shoulder, guffawing as if Randall had said something hilarious. As he exerted pressure, Randall fought not to cry out.
Once the woman passed them, the guy said in a low voice, “We had a deal, Grant. And that deal included delivery dates.” He released his grip.
Randall watched the young mother wheel the stroller away. Funny, sometimes it seemed like yesterday he was pushing the girls around in one of those. His mind flashed back to a day at the zoo when they were still tiny, the two of them hanging off the metal fence around the penguin compound, laughing, and his stomach seized up. Without a word, he dropped the flash drive in the man’s hand.
“Good. Now get back to work, we need you there in case anything goes wrong.”
“You said she’d be free this afternoon!” Randall protested.
The guy laughed. “Just fucking with you, Grant. Don’t screw with us and we’ll return her safe and sound.”
Randall snorted. “I’ll be lucky if there isn’t an armed detail waiting at my desk.”
“Yeah, that would be unlucky. For both of you.” The guy drew a pack of gum from his pocket, peeled off a piece, and stuck it in his cheek. “Remember, we’re watching you.”
“Fuck you.”
The guy grinned and sauntered away. Randall watched as he slid into the passenger seat of an SUV with tinted windows. As soon as it turned the corner he slumped and buried his head in his hands. He’d royally screwed everything up again.
Jackson Burke leveled the barrel. He nodded once, and the trainer released the dogs. They surged toward the cattails lining the pond. A dozen mallards exploded from the reeds, necks straining upward as their wings beat the air. He got one in his sights, led it, then squeezed the trigger. He lowered the rifle and watched, satisfied, as the mallard stopped dead before spiraling back down. Tails wagging, the dogs dove into the water to retrieve it.
Jackson tugged his hat brim up an inch.
“Not bad for an old man,” his companion remarked.
Jackson grinned at him. “Not too old to whip your ass.”
“Not in a fair fight.”
“I always thought that was an oxymoron. A fight’s a fight, the goal is to win.” Jackson leaned against the bumper of their 4x4.
“Sorry to hear about Duke. He was one of a kind.” The young man propped a rifle against his shoulder. They were both dressed in matching camouflage and waders.
“He surely was.” Jackson nodded. “Terrible shame. But maybe some good will come of it. Woke some people up, made them realize the enemy is already inside our gates.”
“Absolutely.” The young man nodded and spit a long stream of tobacco juice out the corner of his mouth. “If they stay this angry, we might finally push that bill through in the next session.”
“Oh, I believe you will.” Jackson watched the trainers drop the lifeless birds into a cooler before loading the dogs back in their crates. “More trouble coming, you can bet on that.”
“You think?” The young man squinted toward the setting sun. “Speaking of which, I heard a rumor the governor is naming you Morris’s replacement. That true?”
Jackson smirked. “Little birdie tell you that?”
The other man laughed. “Fine, Jack, don’t tell me. But we need more people like you up on the Hill. It’d help keep some focus on this border problem.”
“Change is coming, boy. Trust me on that.” Jackson settled back into the passenger seat with a grunt.
“Always an optimist.”
“Hardly. An optimist hopes for the best. A pragmatist makes sure it happens.” Jackson pulled the brim of his hat low over his eyes again and nudged the driver. “Let’s get going. I’m fit to eat a horse.”
“Celia, I’m so sorry.”
Celia eyed her through the screen door. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Kelly had been standing on this exact spot asking for Emilio. And now the boy was dead.
“What you want?”
Kelly shifted awkwardly. It was a fair question, and one she wasn’t sure she could answer. Rodriguez didn’t know where she was-she’d slipped out of the task force room, figuring she’d come up with an excuse on her drive back. If McLarty knew she was here, he’d already be filing her termination papers. But she didn’t care. A kid had been hurt on one of her cases last fall, and still hadn’t fully recovered. Now she’d have Emilio’s death weighing on her conscience as well.
“I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
Celia glared at her. “Mi Emilito is dead.”
“I know. Like I said, I-”
“You sorry.” Celia snorted, then turned and shuffled away. Kelly took that as an invitation to follow and hesitantly opened the screen door. She glanced around. Yesterday she’d been so focused on Emilio, she hadn’t taken note of the interior. It was small, two bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room. Shabby and filled with secondhand furniture, but clean.
Kelly followed Celia into the living room. On top of a bookshelf sat a small shrine. Votive candles burned in front of framed family photographs: sepia-toned ancestors, a school portrait of Emilio with his hair slicked back, a younger shot of him kneeling beside a soccer ball. A dime-store painting of the Virgin Mary hovered watchfully above. In one corner an ancient television perched on wooden legs, bunny ears askew. Celia dropped into an easy chair that released an anguished gasp. She gestured to the seat opposite her. “Sientate.”
Kelly perched on the edge of a love seat that bore the faded remains of a floral print. She crossed her hands
