had faith and God had seen him through. He’d used a fake license, not a very good fake, that he’d made on his computer, and then laminated it at a Kinko’s. And the credit card…he’d actually changed his name to Vince A. Gemiennes with the social security office. He got a new credit card with that name but gave a false address, 124 Black Canyon Road. But he’d never stopped using his old name, never got a new driver’s license. He’d remembered how his wife had changed her name when they were first married but how it was ages before she changed things like her driver’s license, how her paychecks still came in her maiden name. There was never any problem.
But in the end, he’d been scared. He asked the girl if he could see his file, said he wanted to make sure he had given her the right credit card. She just handed the folder to him because she was busy and he slipped the copies out. She hadn’t seemed especially bright, so he wasn’t worried that she would notice later. Then, when he was done with the Jeep, he just dropped it off and left in his minivan that he had parked in the airport long-term parking lot.
Then, without his even realizing, God had led him to Greg Matthew’s garage. It was the closest to his home, so he’d stopped in there because he couldn’t have the ignition being hateful that way. He had a lot to do and a long way to go and he couldn’t risk another rental. So he’d brought the minivan to be fixed. It wasn’t until Greg had come out and seen him that he realized who Greg was, the boyfriend of Shawna Fox. He didn’t know what to do; he had been very scared. He was sure that God had led him there for a purpose, but he couldn’t see why. Then God showed him the way again. When he saw Greg writing down his license-plate number, he reached for an old piece of pipe he saw leaning against the garage and neutralized the threat to his plan.
The time was almost here. He fairly quivered with the rapture of doing God’s work. Though everything had been taken from him, in the place of all that was lost he had become God’s avenger, His warrior, His angel of death.
Standing in his son’s room, he said his farewell to the place where his son had dwelled in life. A feeling of power coursed through him. He remembered the feeling from his surgery rotation as a second-year intern. The ability to save a life, the knowledge that one mistake could end a life. To have a human body sliced open, vulnerable before him, was a thrill that heightened all his senses, made him feel infallible, omnipotent. All that had been taken away from him was being returned to him now.
The room really was a masterpiece – a shrine, in a way, to his son. The cool wind blew in through the window, billowing the baby-blue curtains and ruffling his sandy-blond hair. The air was never cool like that in rural South Carolina where he grew up. The heat was like a live thing wrapped around him, raising sweat from his brow and entering his lungs, expanding there like wet gauze. He pushed the hair back from his face. It was ugly to remember his childhood, horrible to remember what he felt like when he was ten, always angry, always afraid. He stared at his hand. It was his father’s hand, white, roped with thick blue veins, big hard knuckles like stones buried beneath thin, dry skin. He remembered his father’s touch so well, dirty and violent, but something craved nonetheless.
He rose and walked over to the tray of surgical instruments by the metal table and picked up a scalpel. Its sharp edge and what it could do made him think again of Lydia Strong. She was in his thoughts more and more. He needed her to complete his mission. Without her, all that he had done for God would mean nothing. He would let her know her role soon and she would be powerless to deny him. Because that was God’s will. He knew just the bait to draw her to him.
He walked from the room and moved slowly down the hall to the living room, where the flickering blue light from the muted television set cast an ugly strobe on the nearly empty room. There was a vague odor of beer and garbage.
He looked at his watch. It was almost eight. He slammed the door behind him as he left the house, but he didn’t lock it. After all, he wouldn’t be back.
Twenty One
“Okay, we’ll be there as soon as we can,’’ Jeffrey said to the cop he was speaking with on Lydia’s cell phone.
“What happened?’’ Lydia asked when he hung up.
“Looks like Juno wound up calling 911 to report his uncle missing like you told him to. The squad car that was supposed to be there was not. Morrow wants us to go to the church.’’
“Where’s Morrow?’’
“I didn’t ask.’’
“We’ll go as soon as I talk to Greg. I don’t want him to find this out from someone else. I need to be the one to tell him,’’ she said, anxious now for Juno, as well.
They were pulling up to Greg and Joe’s Auto Repair and as soon as she saw the building, she knew something was wrong. There was an air of desertion to it. When she had come the first time, there was an aura of activity. She’d been able to hear music playing from an old radio, see lights on inside the garage, smell paint and gasoline. Today the door was closed, the lights were off, there was an unnatural quiet.
“Busy place,’’ said Jeffrey. “I hope he has time to see us.’’
Lydia pulled her Glock from the glove compartment.
“What are you doing?’’
“There’s something wrong. It’s the middle of the morning and the garage isn’t open.’’
“So maybe he took the day off.’’
“Maybe. But I don’t think so.’’
Jeffrey unsnapped the holster on the.38 special at his waist as they stepped out of the car. Ever since things had started to heat up, he’d regretted leaving his own Glock in New York, wanting to avoid the hassle of getting it on the airplane. They walked to the garage door, which, as they got closer, Lydia could see, was ajar.
“Greg,’’ she called, “it’s Lydia Strong.’’
When there was no answer, she pushed the door open. Stepping inside, Lydia felt the walls for a light switch, which she couldn’t find. So they made their way in the dim light coming in from a high, dirty window above the door. They felt their way along the empty shell of a car up on cinderblocks, toward the office where a desk lamp glowed, Lydia in front and Jeffrey at her back.
“Greg,’’ she called again. This time she was answered by a low moan.
They moved faster toward the sound and found Greg on the floor of the office semiconscious, his head lying in a pool of blood. She bent down to him as Jeffrey dialed 911.
Lydia grabbed his wrist to check for a pulse and as she did, saw a number written on his arm. “What is this?’’
“What?’’ asked Jeff, as he hung up with the operator. He bent down and inspected Greg’s arm. “It’s a VIN number.’’
“Why would he have written this on his arm?’’
“Maybe he didn’t have any paper?’’
She shot him a look, putting her hand to Greg’s forehead. “Call the number in to Jacob Hanley in New York. You’ll probably get it faster.’’
Jeffrey looked at his watch. “Jacob’s probably not even in yet. I think I’ll call Craig.’’
Lydia always called Craig Keaton “the Brain’’ behind his back. He stood a full head taller than Jeffrey but looked as thin as one of Jeffrey’s thighs. Clad forever in huge baggy jeans, a white T-shirt under a flannel shirt, and a pair of Doc Martens, his pockets were always full of electronic devices…cell phone, pager, Palm Pilot, all manner of thin black beeping, ringing toys. A pair of round wire spectacles, nearly hidden by a shock of bleached-blond hair, framed blue-green eyes. Craig called himself a cybernavigator, though his title at Jeffrey’s firm was Information Specialist. He specialized in knowledge of all computer research tools and was, before being recruited for Mark, Hanley and Striker, an infamous hacker wanted by the FBI. He was eighteen when he was arrested and could have faced more than a little time in federal prison, but luckily for him, Jacob Hanley was his uncle. All former FBI agents with more connections between them than a motherboard, Mark, Hanley and Striker were able to get Craig a deal. He worked for them, he kept his act together, and he reported to a probation officer for the next three
