Hunting the Hunter Page 4

  “But what if that night watchman — ”

  “He heard the noise when we tested the security gate,” he cut her off impatiently. “We don’t have to do that tonight. Come on, Meg. We can’t go around changing the plan every five minutes. This isn’t a game!”

  “Okay, okay, don’t get so touchy. We’re on the same side, remember?”

  As they made their way to the fence, Meg regarded her brother uneasily. What was up with Aiden these last few days? For weeks, he had held it together under the most desperate of circumstances, when their chances of helping their parents had seemed like a trillion to one. Yet now, with capturing Hairless Frank actually within reach, he was freaking out.

  It’s almost as if he’s afraid of the opportunity to finally get it done. He’s petrified that he’ll blow the marathon in the home stretch.

  Being close was bothering Aiden. Instead of celebrating it, he was letting it drive him crazy.

  They slipped under the fence and made their way over to the abandoned section, giving the administration building a wide berth.

  Fatso and his mutt aren’t invited to this party. There was only one name on the guest list — Frank Lindenauer.

  The moon provided no more than a dim glow behind cloud cover, so the area around Unit 129 was completely unlit. They paused about fifty feet away, gazing into the blackness of the garage-sized storage locker. It looked empty, but —

  “What if he came early, and he’s in there waiting for us?” Meg whispered.

  Aiden picked up a rock the size of a baseball and hurled it. It struck the gravel a few feet in front of the opening and skittered inside the unit, skipping across the concrete floor.

  They ducked. If Hairless Frank was in there, the response would probably come in a hail of gunfire. But there was no sound from the storage locker, and none from the surrounding area, either.

  They had beaten him here. The trap was baited.

  They hid themselves in the blackness of the unit directly across from 129 and waited for their quarry to arrive.

  In their nervousness, they had left themselves more than an hour to wait. The tension of those sixty minutes was as tight as the cable of a suspension bridge. Time slowed to a near standstill. In the suffocating silence, Meg found herself concentrating on the sound of distant trucks gearing up and down on some unseen interstate. It was the perfect symbol for what it had come to mean to be a Falconer. Somewhere out there, life went on as normal for everybody else.

  But here we are, trapped in amber, waiting for the next flame-up, wondering if this will be the one that incinerates us.

  The childish phrase almost came to her lips: It isn’t fair. Yet this nightmare had gone so far beyond fair that the word had ceased to have meaning. There was no fair, and there hadn’t been for more than a year. Not since the FBI battering ram had reduced their front door to toothpicks.

  Lost in sad thoughts, she almost missed the moment when it came. Only the stiffening of her brother’s lean frame alerted her. She saw the flashlight first, then the shadowy figure carrying it. The diffused beam caused the man to appear in silhouette — the bald head, bull neck, stocky, powerful build. It was him, no question about it.

  Hairless Frank.

  Meg felt an arctic blast of pure fright. Yet, in a strangely detached way, she couldn’t help thinking of that moment in every shark movie when the great white makes its first leisurely pass, lethal and un-hurried. Their predator was every bit as deadly. He moved at a measured pace, confident, and sure of the ultimate kill.

  He didn’t walk straight into Unit 129. To their dismay, he began to pace the area around it, shining his flashlight in doorways and down alleyways. They crouched, frozen with fear as the beam played ever closer to their hiding spot, even lighting up the empty locker behind them.

  Meg bit her lip to keep from screaming. In another few seconds, they would be discovered. What then? Fight? Run?

  Miraculously, the circle of light skipped them. Meg allowed herself to start breathing again. Eventually, the shadowy figure was satisfied that he was alone. The blinding torch turned away from them, and Hairless Frank stepped inside Unit 129.

  The rat had entered the trap.

  The Falconers watched, tensing for action, waiting for the right moment. Hairless Frank moved farther back in the storage locker, sweeping the interior with his flashlight beam. Four steps — five steps — then six.

  Aiden breathed a single word. “Now.”

  Like phantom figures, the Falconers bounded across the lane, their feet barely touching the ground, their approach soundless. Aiden reached up, grabbed the gate, and began hauling it down in a screech of metal. Meg added her strength, and they rolled the heavy barrier until it crashed against the cement floor.

  The howl of outrage that came from Unit 129 was barely human. A huge impact rocked the gate from inside.

  Meg pressed down on the handholds with all her might. “The lock, Aiden! The lock!”

  His fingers fluttering with panic, Aiden fumbled the padlock and very nearly dropped it. Eyes bulging with equal parts concentration and terror, he rattled the staple through the double ring of the gate and slammed the lock shut.

  Hairless Frank hit the metal again, then grabbed hold and tried to lift it. It wouldn’t budge.

  “I’m going to kill you!” he roared. “Just like I should have killed your parents before the feds got them!”

  “You did kill them!” The words poured out of Meg, bubbling up by the force of her emotion. “You killed our whole family when you framed them!”

  Aiden pulled her back from the door and held her tightly. “It’s over, Meg! We got him!”

  Was it possible? Could the endless nightmare actually be coming to an end?

  “Harris!” she gasped. “We have to call Harris and the FBI!”

  The response came in the form of a gunshot. The bullet tore a hole in the gate and sang past Meg’s ear.

  Aiden threw her to the ground and covered her body with his own. More shots followed, ricocheting all around them.

  “We’ve got to get away from here!” Aiden rasped. “He’s trying to kill us from inside!”

  Meg peered past her brother’s shoulders at the gated Unit 129. An orderly line of bullet holes marched down the side of the corrugated metal. As she watched, another shot burst through, taking off a corner of the padlock.

  It came to her in a rush of horror. “Aiden — he’s not shooting at us! He’s shooting at the lock!”

  Another blast — this one ripping into the actual mechanism of the padlock. Small parts scattered, raining down on the gravel. The Falconers stared in disbelief. The lock was disintegrating before their very eyes.

  Unbelievable! Meg thought in rising hysteria. We’ve got him in a concrete bunker, behind a steel door, and we’re still not safe!

  The next shot struck the lock dead center, sending a shower of metal fragments spraying in all directions. Unbelievably, the staple was still threaded through the rings. But most of the body was gone. It would not survive another bullet.

  Hairless Frank would soon be free.

  Meg looked around wildly, as if she actually expected to find a weapon powerful enough to stand up to this assassin and his gun.

  It took Aiden to haul her to her feet. “Run!”

  She was too flustered to think straight. “But he’ll get away!”

  “How are we supposed to stop him?”

  The depth of their peril was rammed home with the last pistol discharge. They heard the lock drop to the ground, but they weren’t around to see it.

  They flew, pounding through the food terminal with no thought for being quiet or avoiding the night watchman and his dog. It was flight at its most primitive and basic. They heard the screech and crash of the metal gate being torn open.

  The beast was loose.

  Meg tried to estimate their head start. Fifty feet? A hundred?

  Not enough, she thought grimly. The first shot was just a crack. But the second
came closer, whining past her ear like a rocket-powered mosquito.

  They sprinted for the fence, dropping to the ground and rolling through the gap. They gained a little time when their pursuer wouldn’t fit through the opening and had to clamber over the top. But if Hairless Frank lagged behind, his weapon made up the difference.

  Nobody can outrun bullets.

  In a hail of gunfire, they barreled across the road to the thicket where their pickup was parked. Keys already in hand, Aiden raced for the cab. But Meg, whose legs were shorter, was lagging behind. With Hairless Frank gaining on her, she took the fastest route to cover. She vaulted over the tailgate and landed in the flatbed amid bushel baskets of turnips.

  There was a crack, and a bullet slammed into the basket in front of her. She shut her eyes and waited for the impact that would mean she’d been hit. It never came.

  Unbelievable! A turnip is dense enough to stop bullets!

  A horrible thought struck her — Aiden! He was at the wheel, totally exposed. She peered over the top of the basket and saw Hairless Frank, gun arm raised, taking careful aim at her brother in the cab.

  The turnip materialized in her hand before she realized what she had in mind. She flung it without aiming — there was no time. Yet the aim was true. The spiraling vegetable struck their attacker on the side of the head, sending him staggering backward.

  The truck’s engine roared to life.

  Her voice bordered on dementia. “Go! Go! Go!”

  The vehicle blasted forward, battering her with spilled turnips. Meg didn’t mind the rough ride. She was grateful to be out of there.

  Farmer Turnbull’s grocery lists were short and always the same: canned goods, Ovaltine, English muffins, and peanut butter, extra-crunchy. Since Aiden had signed on as hired hand two weeks before, the farmer had already gone through four jars of the stuff. Aiden could only assume it was his breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

  He was coming out of the supermarket with the usual provisions when a uniformed sheriff’s deputy stepped in front of him, blocking his path. “I think you’d better come with me.”

  Aiden was completely flummoxed. In the past weeks, he had eluded hundreds of police officers, government agents, and juvenile corrections officials. He had beaten mass manhunts and wiggled out of tight spots that would have overwhelmed Houdini. Yet here, carrying Zephraim Turnbull’s peanut butter in Aberdeen, Colorado, this sad excuse for a town, both mind and body shut down. One of the most notorious fugitives in America made no attempt to flee, or even resist. He allowed himself and his grocery bag to be loaded into the backseat of a squad car without lifting a finger in his own defense.

  It was during the short drive to the sheriff’s office that he finally offered a feeble protest. “What’s this about? I have to pick up Mr. Turnbull from his doctor’s appointment.”

  The deputy grimaced. “I’ll phone over there and let them know you’re not coming.”

  The sheriff’s office was located in a tiny strip mall that also hosted a dry cleaner and a veterinary clinic. It was a strange place, Aiden decided, for the quest to save the Falconer family to come to an end. Of course, Meg would try to fight on by herself. His gallant little sister would never give up. But she had no chance alone. Aiden was the one who could pass for older, who could get a job or drive a car. Meg wouldn’t even have an answer to the question, Why aren’t you in school?

  God, what was he going to do about her? Rat her out? Never! Yet how could he leave her all alone, hiding on the Turnbull farm, wondering what had happened to her brother?

  Our quest is dead.

  But had it ever really been alive? Last night’s showdown in the produce terminal had answered that question. The road to clearing their parents had always gone through Frank Lindenauer. And Frank Lindenauer had always been unbeatable.

  The deputy ushered him inside and sat him down by a desk. Aiden braced himself for the worst: You’re Aiden Falconer, wanted in fifty states and the District of Columbia. You have the right to remain silent …

  Instead, the man said, “Name?”

  “Graham. Gary Graham.” Was this some kind of trap?

  “I’ll need to see your driver’s license, or some other form of identification.”

  “I — I left my wallet back at the farm.”

  “How’d you pay for those groceries, then?”

  “Mr. Turnbull has an account with the store.” Aiden was beginning to take heart. Was it possible that the guy had no idea who he had arrested? And if not, what did they want with him?

  “Listen,” he ventured, “Mr. Turnbull has a broken leg. He needs me. Please tell me what’s going on.”

  In answer, the deputy reached into a drawer, pulled out a huge turnip, and slapped it onto the desk blotter between them. Lodged in the depth of the turnip’s solid flesh was a nine-millimeter bullet.

  “How do you explain this?” the officer demanded.

  “I didn’t shoot that thing!” Aiden defended himself. “Who shoots a turnip? I don’t even own a gun.”

  Why were these small-town cops searching a local truck farmer’s basket of vegetables? They couldn’t know about the encounter with Hairless Frank last night — could they?

  The man sneered in his face. “And I suppose you can’t explain the bullet hole in the tailgate of your truck, either?”

  “That’s right, I can’t!” Aiden exclaimed. “Because I know nothing about it!” He wasn’t sure just how outraged he should act. His confidence was back because, apparently, he hadn’t been identified as one of the fugitive Falconers. He had to use that to bluster his way out of here. Sooner or later, it would dawn on this officer that he had every right to arrest Aiden for driving without a license.

  Then they’ll take my fingerprints. And when they run them through the computer …

  He couldn’t let that happen, but he was unsure of what to say. Meg was the expert when it came to situations like this.

  The office door opened, and there stood Zephraim Turnbull, his weathered face a thundercloud. He planted his crutches and swung himself into the room, landing with a plop beside Aiden.

  Aiden jumped up to give the farmer his chair, but Turnbull barked, “I don’t need to sit! We’re not staying!”

  The deputy looked uneasy. “Zeph, stay out of this. This is a police investigation. It’s for your protection.”

  Turnbull laughed mirthlessly. “You think I need protection from him? How long have you known me?”

  The deputy held up the turnip so the farmer could see the bullet hole. “See this? There’s a hole just like it in the tailgate of your truck.”

  “And you think Gary put it there?” Turnbull was outraged. “That’d be a neat trick — driving and shooting out your own tailgate at the same time!”

  “Look, people are worried about you, Zeph,” the man tried to explain. “We had a call from a concerned citizen —”

  “Who just happened to be snooping in my truck?” the farmer exploded. “It’s Holyfield, right? He brought you this vegetable to make trouble for me!”

  The deputy was tight-lipped. “I’m not at liberty to discuss — ”

  “I knew it! He’s been harassing me for months and here’s the proof. He sent one of his goons into my vehicle to steal this turnip!”

  “It still doesn’t explain the bullet.”

  “Oh, that’s rich.” Turnbull’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “My hired man can shoot a turnip, but not Holyfield. I’ve already told you about his private investigators trespassing on my property, interfering with my livestock!”

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, Zeph. There’s another complaint — about a vicious pig.”

  “You know what’s happening here!” Turnbull accused. “They want to get rid of Gary because they know I can’t work the farm and they can break my lease! What kind of police protection are you providing when my landlord can shoot up my truck just to intimidate me? Why aren’t you questioning Holyfield instead of my hired hand?” He pic
ked his grocery bag up off the desk and handed it to Aiden. “Come on, Gary. We’re going home.”

  And they left the police station, Aiden holding the door for the old man thumping along on his crutches.

  “Sorry about this, Mr. Turnbull,” Aiden mumbled once they were outside.

  His employer looked at him sharply. “What have you got to be sorry about? I should be apologizing to you. Didn’t mean to get you mixed up in this brouhaha between Holyfield and me.”

  “That’s okay,” Aiden assured him, eyes averted. He felt a twinge of guilt over the fact that he was forced to mislead the farmer. A plan was beginning to take shape in his mind. One way or another, he knew he would not be Mr. Turnbull’s hired man for very much longer.

  The hired hand’s apartment was an extension of the barn — a neat studio with a living room/bedroom combination, a tiny kitchen, and an even tinier bathroom. The walls would have closed in on anybody. But Meg was going stir-crazy.

  Ever since they’d heard that Holyfield’s people had spotted a girl around the farm, the rules had changed for Meg. She couldn’t risk being seen again. Mr. Turnbull had dismissed the first accusation. But if the landlord came up with real proof, like a photograph, the farmer would have to take notice. So except for milking times, she didn’t dare set foot out the door. The blinds were drawn, so she never felt the sun. It was like she was back at Sunnydale Farm, the juvenile prison. Worse — she couldn’t even risk flushing the toilet if Aiden wasn’t at home.

  Where was Aiden? His days were busy, but he usually popped in just often enough to keep her from melting down through sheer boredom. She knew he’d had to drive the farmer into town for a doctor’s appointment, but they were definitely back. She could tell by the relentless blam-blam-blam of Turnbull working on his porch. The nail gun sounded just like Hairless Frank using them for target practice. It was enough to give her a nervous breakdown.

  She checked the clock on the stove. Soon it would be time to bring in the cows for the late-afternoon milking. Aiden had to do that. Plus he was the one who made sure the coast was clear so she could come out into the barn.