The Black List (19 page)

And of course Mrs. Watson from across the street kept a close eye from her parlor window. He waved at her and she dropped the curtain, stepping out of sight. He supposed that was a vast improvement, considering that the entire six months he’d lived with his sister and Emmie after he was sacked, Mrs. Watson continually frowned at him as though he were a usurper for Bea’s husband, Marty. What he didn’t expect was for the white-haired woman to come out and talk to him. She never had before, and he half suspected she would inform him that she’d phoned the police.

“Beatrice isn’t there,” she called out.

He decided to ignore her, since really this was none of her business, and he knew where his sister hid the spare key. But then he realized what a good source she might be, living her life staring out that front window, so he crossed the street, asking, “Do you know where she is?”

“Not sure. A car came ’round for her and little Emmie late yesterday afternoon.”

“What sort of car?”

Mrs. Watson’s eyes brightened at the memory. “Posh. Waiting out front for her, they were. Two chaps in suits. Unfortunately, Beatrice and Emmie weren’t home, so I walked over there and told them she’d already left.”

He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat at the thought that Mrs. Watson had actually spoken to their kidnappers. “Already left? Did you tell them where she was going?”

“I have no idea where she was going. I say, you’re looking a bit off-color.”

He felt that way too, and tried to smile. “Something I ate, maybe. I’ll just go in, have a kip, then. Cheerio, Mrs. Watson.”

He started to walk off, and she said, “Will you be feeding Emmie’s cat, then? Someone’s got to feed it.”

“I won’t be staying that long, Mrs. Watson. Would you mind terribly? Until they get home?”

“Any idea how long that will be?”

“A few days at the most.” He prayed that’s all it was, and he returned to the house, fished the key out of the loose stone on the porch, then unlocked the door.

When he stepped inside, he froze at the sight in front of him. They’d already been here. He hoped Bea hadn’t seen it, or Emmie. She would have been scared to death. Furniture was tossed, cupboards and drawers opened and emptied. There was a musty odor, as though milk had soured, and he roused himself, stepped over the broken china from the cabinet on his way to the kitchen. Sure enough, a bright pink plastic cup on the counter was the culprit, and he dumped the sour milk in the sink, then rinsed the cup out. Emmie’s toys were scattered about the floor throughout the room, mixed in with the appliances and kitchen linens someone had pulled from the cupboard. Yesterday morning’s newspaper was on the floor, and he picked it up, saw the article about Byron’s so-called murder/suicide. A wave of nausea swept through him and he had to sit. This had all gone so horribly wrong.

Byron, Marty, and now Bea and Emmie . . .

What if those men had followed Bea? Somehow found her? The thought of his sister and niece being held somewhere was enough to get Trip to his feet once more. Searching this place wouldn’t be so easy, but he knew he needed to be methodical, thorough, even if the first searchers hadn’t been. Start with the attic, he thought. Work his way down. He was halfway through the house, his job mainly consisting of replacing things, since most of it had been pulled out, when it occurred to him what a monumental waste of time this was. They couldn’t have found it here, because Marty would never have hidden it here to begin with. He didn’t even live here anymore. And surely he wouldn’t have put his wife and kid in danger that way?

Forget Marty’s frame of mind, he told himself. Time was running out, and he returned downstairs, looking around at the overwhelming mess, wondering if he even dared leave without finishing the search. What if he was wrong? What if Marty had hidden it here and they just hadn’t found it?

The doorbell rang, and he stilled, hoping whoever was there would leave if they thought no one was home. The grandfather clock ticked away in the parlor, but other than that, the house was quiet. Not quiet enough, apparently. Whoever it was rang the bell again, then knocked sharply, calling out, “Trip? I know you’re in there. Your neighbor told me.”

It couldn’t be . . .

He ran to the front room, looked out the peephole, opened the door and stared in disbelief.

Sheila stood on the porch, a suitcase in her hand, smiling. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

31

“Good God, Sheila. What
the bloody hell are you doing here?”

“I was worried about you. I didn’t want you to be by yourself.”

“Oh my God. You’ve got to leave.”

“Fine. I’ll leave.”

She started to turn toward the door, and he grabbed her arm. “Are you crazy? What if they’re out there? Oh my God. I can’t believe this. Not now. I don’t have time.”

“Time for what? Is everything we had together a lie?”

He wasn’t sure how to answer that. It was and it wasn’t. He’d chosen her specifically because her husband was FBI, which he hoped would offer protection. And it had, until now.

“I never wanted to hurt you.”

Her eyes welled up with tears. “It was a lie, wasn’t it?”

“At first maybe . . . but I’ve grown very fond of you.”

“Fond? I can’t believe what an idiot I’ve been.”

“It’s not like that, Sheila. I’m in trouble. Big trouble. They killed Marty and they’re going to kill my sister and my niece if I don’t find this damned book they’re after and I don’t even know where to look.”

“Then I’ll help you.” Hands on her hips, she surveyed the mess. It looked as though someone had stood in that same exact spot in front of the TV and knocked the shelf from the wall, sending Emmie’s collection of children’s DVDs flying. They covered the floor from the TV stand all the way into the kitchen. Sheila turned an accusing eye toward him. “Did you do this?”

“No. Someone else was here first.”

“I’d ask you if they found it, but it looks like they were mad and just started throwing things around.”

“They let me go to try to find it myself. That’s how I found out they had Bea and Emmie.”

“How do you know they
really
have them?”

“Because they told me.”

“It’s not like they’re going to tell you the truth, is it?”

“No, but the neighbor saw a strange car here. I think they probably followed them. And if Bea and Emmie are not here, where are they?”

She couldn’t even begin to answer, and moved into the room, started picking up the DVDs. “Your niece must own every Disney movie ever made.”

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Cleaning.” She scooped a handful of DVDs from the floor, placing them in a neat stack on the TV. “You don’t want them to have to come back to this mess, do you?”

“I don’t think they’re coming back.”

“Trip . . .” She looked at him with such sadness and caring.

But when she tried to hug him, he said, “I need to find this book they’re looking for. It’s the only chance I have of surviving this.”

“You need to call someone.”

“I’m not calling the police.”

“Then I’ll call Tony,” she said, taking out her cell phone. He lunged for it, and she backed up, saying, “He’s probably tracked my cell and is on his way here right now. God knows he’d never trust me to do anything by myself.”

“Don’t. Please . . .”

“You can’t do this on your own.”

“They’ll kill them,” he said, a last attempt to dissuade her from calling, because God help him, he didn’t have the strength to stop her.

“They’re going to kill them anyway, no matter what,” she said, and he knew it was true. “If they have half a chance, Tony will know what to do. I promise you.”

He sank to the floor, all energy and hope leaving him. He couldn’t help the tears that came, and this time when Sheila started to dial, he didn’t stop her.

When Carillo heard
the beep, then heard his cell ring and saw Sheila’s number show up on the caller ID, he nearly dropped his phone in his haste to connect. “Where the hell are you?” he asked.

“If you’re going to swear at me, I’m hanging up.”

“I’m not swearing.”

“You are—”

“Sheila, this is important.”

“I’m with Trip. We’re okay. But he’s scared. And I think we need help.”

“You’re damned straight—”

“Knock it off or I’m hanging up.”

And she would. So he told himself to take a breath, calm down, and start over. “I’ve tried calling you. I was worried.”

“I had my phone off. I forgot the charger at Sydney’s, so I didn’t want to waste my power.”

That answered that question. “Do you know what the address is?”

“His sister’s house.”

He saw the cursor blinking on the monitor, the map showing it right where Tex and Donovan had been earlier in the afternoon. “Okay. Stay there, don’t move. If something happens, call 999.”

“Why?”

“It’s the British equivalent of 911.”

“They should just keep them all the same.”

God love her, he thought, because some days it was harder than others. “I’m sending Tex over.”

“I gotta go. My phone’s dying.”

“See if Trip has a charger. And if you go anywhere or anything changes,
call
.”

“I get it already.”

He bit back his retort, because he sincerely doubted she got it at all, or she’d never have followed Trip out here. As soon as he disconnected, he called Tex from the landline, not wanting to tie up his phone in case she tried to call him again. “She just contacted me. They’re at his sister’s place.”

“As in the place we were two hours ago?”

“The same.”

“En route. Shouldn’t take us longer than twenty minutes to get there.”

Carillo hung up the phone, then stared at the computer screen, watching the cursor blink away. It seemed strong and steady, and as time passed he figured she must have found a charger. About ten minutes in, his phone beeped, and he saw a text message from her. As he opened it, the signal dropped off the screen. Probably her letting him know she was powering down. He opened it and his heart seemed to skip then start up double time when he read:
Have to go. Someone at house. NOT Tex.

“Christ . . .” He grabbed the landline phone, called Tex. “Something’s wrong. Sheila says they had to go. Someone’s in the house. At the house. ”

“We’re almost there. We’ll call you back.”

Five minutes later, Carillo pacing the entire time, he lost patience and called Tex. “What’s happening?”

“Hold on, Carillo. Donnie boy’s getting a report from one of the local bobbies on the house . . . Not sure what’s going on . . .”

Carillo’s gut twisted at the sound of the sirens he heard in the background. “Please quantify that statement with something that makes me think you’re not talking about Sheila’s safety.”

“How’s her signal coming in?”

“It’s not. Why?”

“The house. It’s on fire.”

32

It took a couple
phone calls, but Tex was finally able to get them past the perimeter that the local constabulary set up around the house while the firemen worked—once Alice Finch, their MI6 counterpart, arrived.

“I was in the middle of a lovely cup of tea when you rang,” she told Tex. She glanced at Donovan. “Donnie. Good to see you again.”

“You, too.”

“We’d like to get into the house,” Tex told her. “Meeting a bit of resistance from the bobbies.”

“Let’s at least wait until the fire’s out, shall we?”

“Minor technicalities, Alice.”

“Your accommodations are suitable? I sent someone over to air the place out before you got there.”

“The safe house is fine,” Tex said. “I need to get into
this
one.”

“Shall I see if they can spray the water any faster, then?”

“If that’s what it takes.”

She walked off, and Donovan said, “She
used
to be fun, before her promotion turned her into Miss Stoic and Staid.”

They watched as she approached a fireman, who then directed her to another. Eventually she returned, saying, “It shouldn’t be long. The fire had been contained mostly in the kitchen. Apparently the neighbor across the street called when she saw the smoke.”

Tex looked over. Saw the woman watching from her front yard. “Might as well have a chat.”

“I’ll go,” Donovan said.

He walked off, and Alice said, “Not too keen on my company, is he?”

“Donovan? Itching at the bit to get this case wrapped up. So what’s new with you these days?”

“I’m engaged. We—my fiancé and I—are having a baby.” He looked down, saw she wasn’t even showing yet. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” She smiled when she saw the fireman wave them over. “Looks like we can get in now.”

“Hate to say it, Alice, but toxic smoke and babies, born or not, don’t mix. Maybe wait out here.”

“Good point.”

Tex glanced back, saw Donovan talking to the neighbor. “Let Donnie know I’ve gone in, okay?”

He walked to the house. The front door was open and he entered, saw a red suitcase against the wall, and leaning over, saw Sheila’s name on the luggage tag. Good sign, he figured, continuing in, the smell of smoke and wet burnt wood growing stronger as he walked down the entry hall to the front room. The damage was just as Alice said, mostly in the kitchen, and two firemen were still there, working. The place was a mess. Not from the fire, but as though someone had gone through and systematically dumped every drawer and cupboard in search of something, undoubtedly this elusive book.

“The whole house has been gone through,” the fireman said, noticing him looking around.

“Anything besides the mess that, uh, isn’t from a normal fire?”

“Not sure yet. Bloody hot, though. It started here in the kitchen. Fortunate that we were so close.”

Tex thanked him, then continued his hunt for . . . what, he didn’t know. He had to imagine that if Sheila or Trip were here, they’d have been found by the firemen. Still, there might be something that stood out, and he took it room by room. There were shelves filled with books, or rather, had been, as they were now all over the floor, and he kneeled, examined each one, hoping for a volume by Kipling. Most were paperbacks, a few hardcovers and a few children’s books, not a Kipling among them. Even so, he flipped through several, but found nothing that stood out. Beside the bookcase was a small television on a stand, with a few DVDs stacked neatly atop the player. Disney animated movies. Tex let them be, instead walking up to the answering machine, wondering if there were any phone messages on it.