Dark Sky (23 page)

Tatro had an assault knife, exactly like the one in New York. Wendy didn't know which was worse, looking at the knife or at his eyes. “Where's Ham?” she asked.

“See that barn?” Tatro pointed with the tip of his knife. “Your new pal is locked inside. He's tied up. Gagged. He has no food and no water. If you want him to live, little girl, you'll bring me to my emeralds.”

Wendy felt herself going very still inside. These men wanted the emeralds in Ham Carhill's maroon suede bag. She knew where they were.

That was her leverage, she thought.

She remembered her note, her locked bedroom door, Teddy's ashes—and knew she'd been away too long. Matt hadn't lied. Her family
was
looking for her.

All she had to do was stay alive until someone found her.

J
oshua nearly ran over a damn pumpkin when he pulled into the driveway. He couldn't see straight. He had no business being behind the wheel of his cruiser, but he'd turned down another trooper's offer to drive him. When he'd asked her what his daughter could possibly have been thinking to sneak out through the attic, she'd just smiled. “Thinking? She's seventeen, Trooper Josh. I've heard stories about you at seventeen.”

When he'd left the house that morning, he thought Wendy was asleep in her room. It had never occurred to him she'd taken off. He'd stopped back at his place, checked on Barry, who'd rolled off his couch at some point and was out on the porch having coffee as if it were summer. Joshua had headed out to the barracks to get an update on Tatro's escape and the search for him.

Joshua scratched Spaceshot's head. “Where's your girl Wendy, hmm?” With one foot, he shoved the pumpkin out of the middle of the driveway. “Quiet around here.”

He saw that Brooker's rented car was still in the driveway. He didn't know if that was a good sign or a bad sign—or no sign at all. His sister's problems had infected the rest of the family, that was for sure. If his head knew not to blame her, his emotions didn't.

But Joshua tried to get control of his thinking, as well as his feelings. Wendy loved her grandparents' place and felt safe there, and she'd always been one to take off on her own. She'd led a sheltered life, at least until this past week.

Sam joined him out on the driveway. “I checked the apple orchard,” he said, not bothering with any preamble since Joshua knew his brother meant Wendy. “No sign of her. Matt Kelleher's gone to look for her. Juliet and that guy, Brooker, are out looking. Rest of the gang's on the way here.”

“I'm sorry,” Joshua said tightly.

“What for? You didn't climb out the window. Wendy's got a lot on her mind. Juliet showing up yesterday asking more questions didn't help. Then Brooker turning up in the middle of the night.” Sam obviously didn't like any of the recent developments. “Anything on Tatro?”

“Nothing new.”

“The marshals must have her place in New York staked out, but you'd think he wouldn't be dumb enough to show up there. Or here.”

Paul drove up in his town police car and jumped out. “I just got a call from Eddie Sherman.” Eddie ran a popular local outfitters that catered to tourists. “He said a skinny guy asked about the lake, said he heard it was up near Longstreet Landscaping. He made small talk about Juliet.”

“Not Tatro—”

“He rented a kayak and gave the name of Ham Carhill.”

“Carhill?”

“He's from Texas. He was at breakfast this morning. He's damn skinny, Eddie's got that right. He looked like death warmed over.”

Joshua felt a stab of pure, primal fear. “If Wendy's on the lake—”

Paul looked at his oldest brother. “Want to take my car out to the lake or yours? We need to find this guy.”

“Go,” Sam said. “I'll fill in the gang when they get here.”

Not trusting himself behind the wheel, Joshua climbed into his brother's cruiser. Paul glanced at him but said nothing, just backed out and headed for the lake.

 

Fifteen emeralds in all.

Juliet had dumped them out of their little suede bag onto the table and liberated one of them from its bubble wrap.

Although she knew nothing about precious gems, the polished stone she held in her palm was stunning.

She'd pulled over when she saw the broken window in her neighbors' door. The wet, muddy footprints on the steps told her the break-in was recent, and she'd slipped inside to check it out, following more prints into the kitchen. The hip-pack definitely looked out of place on the kitchen table, and she'd unceremoniously dumped out its contents. Granola bars, protein bars, matches, a free Vermont guidebook, a local map.

And emeralds.

No wallet, no passport—but she found a checkout receipt from a local motel in the name of Ham Carhill.

Ethan's friend, Mia O'Farrell's covert agent, Bobby Tatro's former kidnap victim.

George O'Hara's Texan and purported traitor.

Juliet returned the emeralds to their drawstring bag, not bothering to rewrap the one she'd liberated. She squatted down, examining a perfect footprint.

A running shoe for a foot smaller—way smaller—than her own. Unless Ham Carhill was a tiny man, it wasn't his print.

Wendy.

Clutching the suede bag, Juliet followed the footprints out the back door onto the porch, then down the steps, where they disappeared into the lawn.

She heard ducks down by the lake.

And she saw a kayak bobbing in the lake, scraping on rocks.

Whose kayak?

She walked down to the lake. The paddle was half in the water, half in the mud, as if whoever had dropped it there didn't care if it floated away. She leaped onto a flat rock about four feet into the water, but there was nothing in the kayak—no hint that her niece had been there.

“Aunt Juliet!”

Wendy.
But the tone of her voice, laced with terror, chilled Juliet.

Bobby Tatro pushed Wendy out of the woods, onto the lawn near the lake. He had one arm around Wendy's waist and the other around her neck, a knife held to her throat. “My turn, blondie. Hands up where I can see them. If you move a single muscle toward your gun, I'll slit her throat. You know I will.”

Juliet raised her hands above her head, and she noticed his gaze follow the one that held the drawstring bag. “Let Wendy go, Bobby. I've got your emeralds. I'll trade them for my niece's safety.”

“Your gun, blondie. Toss it into the lake. Then we'll deal.” He brought the knife even closer to Wendy's throat. “Try anything, and you watch little Wendy die.”

“Okay. Just stay cool. I'll use my left hand—”

“Do it.”

Juliet took her gun by its handle and dropped it into the lake.

“Very good, blondie.”

“It's a muddy bottom here,” she said. “I'll dump the emeralds out and all fifteen of them will disappear into the muck. It'll take you forever to find them. You don't have that kind of time. It's a dead-end road, Bobby. Cops are on the way. You need to get your ass moving.”

He obviously didn't like the idea of the emeralds disappearing.

“All you have to do is let Wendy go. Then you get the emeralds.”

Wendy's eyes widened, but she didn't say a word.

Juliet focused on her niece. “When you're free, Wendy, run into the house. Barricade yourself in and wait for your dad to get here. Don't run away. I don't know who else is around here.”

“Matt,” she whispered. “Matt's around.”

So, she knew her friend wasn't who he'd claimed to be.

“The emeralds first,” Tatro said. “Then the girl.”

Juliet shook her head. “Not a chance. Let Wendy go.”

With a sudden burst, he shoved Wendy, so hard that she fell onto her hands and knees, but she got up, scrambling for the house as Juliet had instructed.

“Toss the bag on the ground,” he ordered. “I know you're a black belt. But I'm good with a knife.”

That Juliet knew. She'd wait for the right moment to get it away from him. Not only didn't she want to get killed, she didn't want to get killed in front of Wendy. She flipped the suede bag onto the lawn. “If I were you, I'd take your emeralds and get moving. Never mind me.”

“What makes you think I won't cut your throat?”

“No fun for you in that, Bobby.”

“Where are the keys to your truck?”

“Left coat pocket.”

“Jump over here. Do anything, and I'll kill you, then I'll kill the girl.”

Juliet jumped lightly from her position on the rock, landing in the soft, wet sand. “Where's your friend, Kelleher? Any other accomplices trying to blend in around here and take advantage of people's good nature?”

Tatro ignored her. “Get your keys.”

Juliet dipped her hand into her pocket.

Without any warning, Ethan leaped out of the woods, and Tatro, distracted, turned, giving her the opening she needed. She went for the arm with the knife, latching on to it, immobilizing it, as Ethan got Tatro around the neck with one arm and, at the same time, reached around with his other arm and latched on to the same forearm she had. But he snapped it, breaking the bone. Tatro yelled out in pain, and the knife dropped out of his hand.

Moving fast, Juliet picked up the knife. “You're under arrest, Bobby.”

He rolled on the ground, holding his broken arm.

Ethan, breathing hard, stood up and dusted himself off.

“Nice distraction,” Juliet said, barely aware of her words. “I had him, one way or the other. I have another gun and pepper spray in my truck, and a black belt in karate—”

“You have another gun? I could have broken into your truck instead of sneaking through the woods. The ducks are pissed at me. I've got pine pitch all over me.” But he took the knife from her and touched her shoulder. “Juliet.”

She nodded. “I'm okay.”

“Go to your niece.”

But Wendy ran out of the house, the porch door banging shut behind her. “He's got Ham! He locked him in the barn! He'll
die!
” She stopped dead in her tracks before she got too close to Tatro. “Please. Juliet. Do something.”

“Go, Brooker.” Juliet took the knife back, keeping her eyes on Tatro. “I'll be there as soon as I can. You can take my backup gun—”

“What kind?”

“Snub-nosed revolver. My Glock's in the lake.”

He made a face. “Keep it. You might need it.” He withdrew a steak knife from his jacket. “But I'll switch knives with you. I think you can handle this creep with a steak knife, don't you?”

“Ethan, I think you were right.” She tried to smile. “I am in love with you.”

He winked. “I knew it,” he said, and trotted off with the K-bar.

 

By the time he reached the barn, Ethan had a new appreciation for the cool Vermont breeze. Trekking back and forth along the lake had him sweating. But concentrating on his breathing, on not tripping on a root or slipping on a mushroom and stabbing himself, kept him from worrying about Ham.

The two doors—one wide, one regular—on the front of the barn were boarded shut. He went around back, finding a mirror image of the doors on the lake side. The regular door was padlocked. He noticed the trampled brush and grass.

At least he knew he had the right barn.

Since it was Vermont, he had no trouble finding a rock, and the cheap padlock broke with two good whacks.

When the door opened, Ham Carhill was in the doorway, on his back, poised to kick whoever came through, never mind that he had his feet and hands bound.

“Twice now,” Ethan said, pulling off Ham's gag, a red bandanna soaked in drool. “Next time, you get to rescue me.”

Ham grinned weakly. “Always so humble.” But his eyes flattened with pain and fear. “Wendy?”

“She's with her aunt. They're fine.”

“Tatro—”

“Under arrest.”

“The other guy, the one with the shaved head?”

“Don't know.”

“That's not good.”

Ethan quickly cut the ropes, first on Ham's hands, then on his feet. The rope had dug into his wrists and ankles, opening up insect bites still healing from his Colombian ordeal. “Ham. Jesus.” Ethan felt his throat constrict. “You're skin and bones. You've got to learn to pick better friends.”

“Me?” Clutching Ethan's shoulder, Ham got to his feet. “Mia—we need to help her. She's in a bad way.”

Hell.

With energy that surprised Ethan, Ham darted back into the barn. Ethan glanced out at the pretty, idyllic landscape. There was no way he could cover his tracks with the broken padlock. He tried closing the door, but it popped back open. Well, he thought, he could use the light. He followed Ham inside.

Mia O'Farrell's situation wasn't just bad. It was dire.

She was blindfolded, gagged and tied to a chair, and even in the semidarkness, Ethan could see she was deathly pale, barely conscious. But, worse, she was sitting on a bomb. He could see the wires wrapped around the legs of the chair.

“It's a tumbler switch,” Ham said.

Ethan nodded. The switch was suspended by the wires, a single line attaching it to her.

Ham brushed his mouth with the back of his hand. “If she moves—”

“I know.” And from her stillness, so did Mia. She didn't need reminding. If she moved, she'd set off the device. Ethan moved toward her. “Mia? It's Ethan Brooker. Ham Carhill's here, too. We're going to get you out of this contraption, okay?”

She let out a sound, too weak to be a groan, but an acknowledgment of her understanding, nonetheless.

“The tumbler's a plastic pipe,” Ham said. “There's a lantern battery under the chair. You've got wires running from the positive lead into the tumbler. The negative runs into the igniter—”

“Ham.”

The igniter was inserted into a roll of detonator cord. The cord was wrapped around a thick metal pipe, undoubtedly filled with some kind of shrapnel—nails, BBs, metal shavings. Any of them would prove lethal.

A plastic ball inside the pipe, if rolled to either end by any movement, would set off the bomb.

Ham squatted next to Ethan, his breathing ragged, his eyes dark and puffy. “I could disarm it, but I don't trust myself.” He opened and shut his hands, working his stiff fingers. “I'm shaking.”

“Mia,” Ethan said, “Ham's not touching you. I'm going to disarm the bomb. I've done it before.” He turned to Ham. “I want you out of here. Understood?”

From his expression, Ham definitely understood. If Ethan had miscalculated, or the bomb was improperly constructed and went off, he didn't want Ham to get blown up, too. But Ham shook his head. “I'll stay. I can talk you through what to do if—you know, if it gets complicated.”