Nick went back to the front of the plane and got settled in his seat. He was in first class today, and though the seat was wider, it still felt cramped. His legs were too long to properly stretch out. After shoving his briefcase under the seat in front of him, he leaned back, clipped his seat belt together, and partially closed his eyes. It would have been nice if he could have at least tried to get comfortable, but that was out of the question because he knew that if he took his suit jacket off, he’d freak out the other passengers when they saw his holstered gun. They wouldn’t know it wasn’t loaded, and Nick wasn’t in the mood to calm anyone else down. Hell, he was hovering on the edge of a panic attack now, and he knew he’d stay that way until the plane had taken off. He’d be all right, sort of, anyway, until they began their descent into Logan Airport. Then the anxiety would start all over again. In his present, claustrophobic, neurotic state, he thought it was damned ironic that O’Leary wanted him to join the crisis management team.
Mind over matter, he told himself, and in a panic or not, he was determined to catch up on his paperwork while he was in the air. He’d already checked and knew that no one was going to be sitting in the window seat. Nick always took the aisle, even if it meant moving another passenger, so that he could see the face of every single person who came on board the plane. After takeoff he would be able to spread his folders out while he deciphered his notes and fed the information into his laptop.
Damn, he wished he weren’t such a control freak. Morganstern had told him he’d taught him relaxation techniques while he was on retreat with the other team members during their isolated training period, but Nick didn’t have any memory of anything that had happened during those two weeks, and he knew the others didn’t remember anything either. They had all agreed to Pete’s terms. He had sat them down, explained what he wanted to do, but not how, and then asked them to trust him. Nick had the most difficult time making up his mind because it meant he would have to give up his control. In the end, he finally agreed. Pete had warned them they wouldn’t remember, and he’d been right about that. None of them did.
Sometimes a scent or a sound would trigger a thought about the retreat and he’d tense in reaction, but just as suddenly as it came into his mind, it vanished. He knew he’d been in a forest somewhere in the United States—he had the scars to prove it. There was one the shape of a crescent moon on his left shoulder and a smaller scar directly above his right eye. He’d left the retreat with cuts and abrasions on his hands and legs, and God only knows how many mosquito bites to prove he’d been stomping through the wilderness. Did the other Apostles have scars? He didn’t know, and he could never seem to hold on to the question in his mind long enough to ask.
Once during a private meeting Pete had brought up the topic of the retreat and Nick had asked him if he’d been brainwashed. His boss had flinched at the word. “Good Lord, no,” he said. “I simply tried to teach you how to maximize what God gave you.”
In other words, Pete’s mind games trained them to hone their naturally acute instincts, to focus or, like the army slogan said, to be all they could be.
The plane was moving. They taxied to the end of the runway and then stopped. Nick assumed they were waiting for their turn to get in line with the other planes for takeoff—Cincinnati was a national hub and was always glutted with traffic—but fifteen minutes passed, and they still weren’t inching forward. When he leaned over the empty seat and looked out the window, he saw two planes taxiing at a hell of a fast clip in the opposite direction.
A young blond woman smiled at him from across the aisle and tried to engage him in conversation by asking him if he was a nervous flyer. His white-knuckle grip on the armrests had to have been a dead giveaway. He nodded in answer, then turned to look out the windowagain to discourage further chitchat. She wasn’t bad-looking, and the spandex skirt and top she wore proved, without a doubt, that she had a fine body, but he didn’t want to work at small talk, and he certainly wasn’t in the mood to flirt. He must be more tired than he’d thought. He was becoming more and more like Theo. These days his brother wasn’t in the mood for anything but work.
Nick spotted the fire truck and two police cars racing toward the plane at the same time that Captain Sorensky’s voice came over the intercom. It was strained with good cheer.
“Ladies and gentlemen, there will be a slight delay while we wait our turn for takeoff. We should be in the air soon, so sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the door to the cockpit opened and Sorensky, oozing confidence with his smile, stepped out into the galley. He hesitated for the barest of seconds, his gaze fully directed on Nick, and then started down the aisle. Following on his heels was the young, pasty-faced airline crewman. The man was tailing the captain so closely he looked like he was holding on to the back of his jacket.
Nick slowly unfastened his seat belt.
“Captain, shouldn’t you be flying this plane?” the leggy blond asked, smiling.
Sorensky didn’t look at the woman when he answered. “I just want to check something in back.”
The captain’s hands were fisted at his sides, but as he passed Nick’s seat, his right hand unfolded and he dropped the gun’s magazine into Nick’s lap.
In one fluid motion, Nick sprang out of his seat, grabbed theyoung crewman’s arm, and pinned it to the back of the headrest behind him. The element of surprise was on his side. The man didn’t even have time to blink before his gun was snatched out of his hand and he was facedown on the floor with Nick’s foot pressed against his neck. The magazine was back in the Sig Sauer and the gleaming barrel was pointed at the man before the captain had fully turned around.
It all happened so fast, the other passengers were too stunned to scream. Sorensky raised his hands and called out, “Everything’s okay, folks.” Turning to Nick, he said, “Man, do you move fast.”
“I’ve had some practice,” Nick replied as he reholstered his gun and then knelt down and began to go through the man’s pockets.
“He told me he’s the prisoner’s cousin, and he was going to get him off this plane.”
“Didn’t put a whole lot of thought into the plan, did he?” He flipped open the man’s wallet and read the name on his Kentucky driver’s license. “William Robert Hendricks.” Nudging the man he asked, “Your friends call you Billy Bob?”
In response Billy Bob started squirming like a fish in a canoe and screaming at the top of his lungs for a lawyer. Nick ignored him and asked the captain to see if Marshal Downing happened to have an extra pair of cuffs he could borrow.
As the initial moment of shock wore off, the passengers began to react. A murmur went through the crowd, and like a snowball, gathered momentum as it rolled down the aisle. Captain Sorensky, sensing the panic that was spreading, took control. In a voice as smooth as good whiskey, he called out, “Settle down, settle down. It’s all over now. Everyone sit back down and relax. As soon as this law officer takes care of this little matter, we’ll be on our way again. No one’s been hurt.” The captain then asked one of the attendants to please fetch Marshal Downing from the back row.
The marshal, with prisoner in tow, strode down the aisle and handed Nick a pair of handcuffs. After Nick had snapped the cuffs in place behind the prisoner’s back, he hauled him to his feet. He noticed that Marshal Downing was shaking his head and frowning.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“You know what this means, don’t you?” Downing muttered in a slow Texas drawl.
“What does it mean?” Captain Sorensky asked.
“More damned paperwork.”
After stopping by his Boston office to drop off a couple of folders, tie up some loose ends, and take a little ribbing about the possibility that he had only squelched the hijacking to delay having to fly—everyone in the department seemed to think his fear of flying was hilarious—Nick finally headed home. Traffic was a bitch, but then it always was. He was tempte
d to head his ’84 Porsche toward the highway and open her up just to see how the reconditioned motor would manage but decided against it. He was too tired. Instead, he maneuvered her through the familiar side streets. She handled like a dream. What did he care if his sisters, Jordan and Sidney, had nicknamed her “Compensation,” implying that a man who drove such a sexy sports car was merely compensating for what was lacking in his love life.
He pulled into the basement garage of his brick town house, hit the remote control to close the door, and felt his entire body begin to relax. He was finally home. He climbed the steps to the main floor, dumped his Hartmann bag in the back hallway outside the laundry room door—his housekeeper, Rosie, had trained him well—and had his suit jacket and tie off before he reached the newly remodeled kitchen. He dropped his briefcase and his sunglasses on the shiny brown granite island, grabbed a beer from the Sub-Zero refrigerator that always made a weird sucking sound whenever he closed the door, and headed for his sanctuary, dodging the pyramid of unpacked boxes Rosie had stacked in the center of his living room with hostile notes Scotch taped to them.
The library was his favorite room in the house and the only one he’d bothered to furnish since he’d lived there. It was located in the back on the first floor. When he opened the door, the scent of lemon furniture polish, leather, and musty old books wafted about him, the scent not unpleasant. The room was large and spacious, yet still felt warm and cozy on harsh winter nights when a blizzard was raging outside his windows and there was a fire blazing in the hearth. The walls were a dark walnut that stretched twelve feet up to the ornately carved eighteenth-century moldings bracketing the ceiling. Two of the four walls bore shelves slightly bowed from the weight of the heavy texts. A ladder rolled back and forth along a brass pole across the bookcase so the volumes on the top shelves could be easily reached. His mahogany desk, a gift from his uncle, faced the fireplace, the mantel a clutter of photos his mother and his sisters had placed there after he’d moved in. Double French doors with a Palladian arch above them were straight ahead. When he pulled the draperies back and opened the doors to the walled garden with the old cherub fountain and paver-brick patio, that had been laid down God only knows how long ago, sunlight and scent filled the library. In the spring it was lilac first, then honeysuckle, but now the heavy smell of heliotrope was prominent.
He stood there surveying his peaceful haven for several minutes until the heat began to press in on him and he heard the central air conditioner kick on. He closed the doors, yawned loudly, and took a long swallow of his beer. Then he removed his gun, took the magazine out, and put it all inside his wall safe. He sat down at his desk in his soft leather swivel chair, rolled up his sleeves, and flipped on his computer. The tension in his shoulders was easing, but he let out a loud groan when he saw the number of E-mails waiting for him. There were also twenty-eight logged calls on his answering machine as well. With a sigh, he kicked off his shoes, leaned back in his chair, and began scrolling through his E-mail while he listened to his phone messages.
Five of the calls were from his brother Zachary, the youngest in the family, who desperately wanted to borrow the Porsche for the Fourth of July weekend and vehemently promised to take good care of the car. The seventh message was from his mother, who was just as vehement when she told him that Zachary was not to be given the Porsche under any circumstances. His brainy sister Jordan also called to tell him that their stock had just hit $150 per share, which meant that Nick could retire now and live the high life had he been so inclined. Thinking about it made him smile. His father, with his work ethic, would have heart failure if any of his children weren’t productive. According to the judge, their purpose in life was to make the world a little better. Some days Nick was sure he was going to die trying.
The twenty-fourth message stopped him cold.
“Nick, it’s me, Tommy. I’m in real trouble, Cutter. It’s five-thirty my time, Saturday. Call me as soon as you get this message. I’m in Kansas City at Our Lady of Mercy rectory. You know where it is. I’m going to call Morganstern too. Maybe he can get hold of you. The police are here now, but they don’t know what to do, and no one can find Laurant. Look, I know I’m rambling. Just call, no matter what time.”
CHAPTER 3
Someone killed Daddy, and Bessie Jean Vanderman meant to find out who the culprit was. Everyone said it was old age and not poison that had done him in, but Bessie Jean knew better. Daddy was as fine as could be until he just up and keeled over. It was poison all right, and she was going to prove it.
One way or another, she would get justice. She owed it to Daddy to ferret out the criminal and have him arrested. There had to be proof somewhere, maybe even in her own front yard, where she kept Daddy chained on sunny days so he could take in some fresh air. If there was any evidence around, by God, she’d find it. The investigation was on her shoulders and hers alone. Sister had cut short her vacation in Des Moines and had made her cousin drive her home when she heard the news. She was trying to help, but she wasn’t much use, not with her bad eyesight and her vanity making it impossible for her to put on the tortoiseshell bifocals Bessie Jean now regretted she’d ever told her made her look plumb bug-eyed. Certainly no one else was going to help look for evidence of foul play because no one else cared a hoot, not even that no-good Sheriff Lloyd MacGovern. He hadn’t liked Daddy much, not since he’d gotten away from her and taken a bite out of Sheriff Lloyd’s ample ass. But, even so, you’d think he would have had the decency to stop by her house and offer his condolences on Daddy’s passing when there she and Sister were, sitting just one short block away from the town square where his office was located. Shame on him, Bessie Jean told Sister. It didn’t matter if he liked Daddy or not, he should still do his duty and find out who murdered him.
Not everyone in Holy Oaks was being callous, Sister reminded her. Others living in the valley were being very thoughtful and sensitive. They knew how much Daddy meant to Bessie Jean. That uppity next door neighbor of theirs with her fancy French name, Laurant, had turned out to be the most thoughtful and sensitive of all. Why, what would they have done if she hadn’t heard Bessie Jean wailing and come running lickety-split to help? Bessie Jean had been down on her knees, leaning over poor dead Daddy, and Laurant had helped her to her feet and put her and Sister in her car, then had run back, unchained Daddy and scooped him up in her arms, real gentlelike, and put him in the trunk. Daddy was already stiff and as cold as a stone, but Laurant still had sped all the way to Doctor Basham’s offices and had run Daddy inside as quick as she could on the hope that maybe the doctor could perform a miracle.
Since there weren’t any miracles being dispensed that dark day, the doctor had put Daddy in the freezer to await the autopsy Bessie Jean insisted on. Then Laurant had driven her and Sister over to Doctor Sweeney’s office to get their blood pressure checked because Bessie Jean was still terribly distraught, and Sister was feeling light-headed.
Laurant turned out not to be so uppity after all. In all her eighty-two years, Bessie Jean wasn’t one to ever change her mind after she’d made it up, but in this instance she did just that. After she’d gotten past her initial shock and hysterics over losing Daddy, she realized what a kind-hearted soul Laurant was. She was still a foreigner, of course. She came to Holy Oaks from that city of sin and debauchery, Chicago, but that was all right. The city hadn’t rubbed off on her. She was still a good girl. The nuns who had raised her at that fancy boarding school in Switzerland had instilled strong values. Bessie Jean, as rigid and set in her ways as she liked to think she was, decided that she could stand to have one or two foreigners for friends. She surely could.
Sister suggested they stop mourning Daddy’s passing long enough to bake a tart apple pie for Laurant—it was the neighborly thing to do—but Bessie Jean chided her for having such a poor memory and forgetting that the Winston twins were looking after Laurant’s corner drugstore while she drove all the way down to Kansas City. She’d said she wanted to surpr
ise her brother, that good-looking priest with such nice thick hair that the young girls at Holy Oaks College were always drooling over. They would have to wait until Monday to bake because that was the day Laurant was expected home.
Once both sisters had decided that Laurant was no longer an outsider, they naturally felt it was their business to interfere in her life whenever possible and to worry about her, just like they would if they had married and had had daughters of their own. Bessie Jean hoped Laurant remembered to lock her car doors. She was young, and in their estimation, that meant she was also naive, whereas they were older and wiser and knew all about the sorry ways of the world. Granted, neither one of them had been any farther away from Holy Oaks than Des Moines to visit their cousins, Ida and James Perkins, but that didn’t mean they didn’t know all about the terrible things happening today. They weren’t ignorant. They read the papers and knew there were serial killers out there waiting at all the rest stops to prey on beautiful young women who were foolish enough to stop, or who had unfortunate car troubles that put them in harm’s way. As lovely as Laurant was, she would certainly catch any man’s eye. Why, just look at all the high school boys hanging around that store that wasn’t even open yet in hopes she’d come outside to have a word with them. Still, Bessie Jean reminded Sister, Laurant was every bit as smart as she was pretty.