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  “Okay, fine,” Aiden agreed. “We’re just looking for a taxi so we can get to our new place.”

  “You’re leaving?” Zapp queried.

  “Yeah,” Meg jumped in. “We said good-bye to Viv and Bo and the others this morning.”

  “I’ll give you a ride,” Zapp decided.

  “Oh, that’s no problem — ” Aiden began. The last thing he wanted was for anybody from the IC to know where to find them.

  “Forget it. You’re coming with me. It’s not a favor, genius. I just want to see you off my turf.”

  Zapp drove a brand-new Infiniti G-35. He loaded up his passengers and headed south to the La Quinta Inn, Marina del Rey.

  He was amazed when he heard the destination. “A hotel? Who are you guys? You’re not tourists!”

  Aiden and Meg made no reply. Soon they’d be out of Zapp’s unwanted company.

  The ride to Marina del Rey took ten stony, awkward minutes. Zapp drove aggressively, pouncing from tailgate to tailgate, until they reached the circular drive of the La Quinta. He pulled over before turning in.

  “Why are we stopping?” asked Meg.

  “Who are you — really?” Zapp asked again. “Why do the police want you?”

  Meg answered with another question. “What makes you think that?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Aiden. “We can walk from here.”

  “Suit yourself,” Zapp shrugged. “I hear the cops are nice to kids. You might get ice cream.”

  Aiden stared. “There’s no police in there!” But with growing dread he realized that a criminal like Zapp would probably have a nose for the law.

  “You don’t see a whole lot of full-size domestic sedans in this part of town,” Zapp explained. “There are five of them parked in that driveway.”

  Meg exploded. “That doesn’t mean — ”

  And then a familiar larger-than-life figure stepped out of the lobby. Even from a distance, Aiden could see he was a head taller than the other people moving in and out of the front door of the hotel.

  The star of the Falconers’ nightmares, past, present, and future.

  Agent Emmanuel Harris of the FBI.

  “What did I tell you?” Zapp commented. “That’s king-size heat.”

  Meg dropped to the floor of the backseat.

  Aiden folded his long legs and tried to burrow into the space under the glove compartment. “Get us out of here!” he rasped.

  “Can’t. That Explorer’s blocking the way. Uh-oh — ”

  “What?” hissed Aiden. “What’s going on?”

  “The big cop’s coming this way.” Zapp honked at the SUV and rolled down the window. “Hey, move out!”

  “Shhhh!” pleaded Meg, pulling a rain shell off the seat to cover herself.

  Pressed in between the floor mat and the glove box, Aiden began to tremble. Sure, he was hidden from normal view. But not if Harris walked right up to the Infiniti. “Listen — that guy’s an FBI agent. If he finds us, you think he isn’t going to search this car? Drive on the sidewalk if you have to!”

  Zapp’s voice was tense. “Don’t you think that might attract a little attention at a hotel full of cops?”

  “Yeah, but — ”

  “Shut up!” breathed Zapp. “He’s right here!”

  Aiden and Meg cowered in terror. Not since their parents’ trial had they been this close to the man who had destroyed the Falconer family. His presence still had the power to paralyze them.

  So this is how it ends, Aiden thought numbly. Caught hiding like scared rabbits. And another promotion for J. Edgar Giraffe.

  Zapp had a death grip on the steering wheel. He sat frozen, staring straight ahead.

  And then Harris was looming over them. He was so big that he actually blocked out the sun, his bulk casting a shadow over the interior of the car.

  The earth seemed to stop on its axis. No one spoke.

  The sun came out again.

  “He walked right past us!” Zapp whispered. He craned his neck. “He’s going into the Starbucks down the block!”

  In one fluid instant, the SUV drove away, and the Infiniti leaped back into traffic. Zapp stomped on the accelerator, and the La Quinta was soon half a mile behind them.

  The Falconers crept from their hiding places. No sooner had Aiden resumed his seat than Zapp’s fist snapped out and caught him on the side of the head. Aiden saw stars.

  “Hey!” Meg practically climbed over the center console, but a straight-arm from the driver pushed her back again.

  “You bring the feds down on me? Knowing what I’ve got in this car?”

  “We were going to take a cab!” Meg raged. “You made us come with you!”

  “That’s the only reason you won’t be washing up on the beach tomorrow morning!” Zapp growled. “You tell me, and tell me now, what the FBI wants with a couple of snots like you!”

  Aiden’s head was still ringing from the blow — the gang member had a jab like a pile driver. He clung to one thought through the pain: A busted face is still better than capture.

  Meg was angry enough to go toe-to-toe with Zapp. “We’re not telling you squat! If you lay a hand on either of us, I’ll rat you out to Bo, you and your little side job!”

  Aiden could see Zapp’s knuckles whitening on the steering wheel, could feel red-hot anger bubbling just below the surface. His little sister was the bravest person he knew, but she was playing with fire. Danger from Zapp could be a whole lot worse than danger from Harris.

  Aiden had a horrible suspicion that washing up on the beach was more than just a colorful figure of speech.

  It took the driver a long time to calm down. When he finally spoke, his voice was merely a snarl. “You think Bo is like a big purple dinosaur who loves everybody. You don’t have a clue.”

  “Bo likes us,” Meg shot back.

  “He won’t be running things forever.”

  * * *

  By unspoken agreement, Zapp drove the Falconers back to the little house owned by the Department of Veterans Affairs.

  When Viv asked about the nasty and fresh-looking bruise on the side of Aiden’s head, he replied, “I hit myself with the car door. Clumsy.”

  This earned an approving nod from Zapp.

  Aiden climbed the stairs with an ice bag for his head, and Meg went with him. When the door closed behind them, Meg posed the one question that had gone unspoken during the roller-coaster ride of the day’s events: “How did J. Edgar Giraffe know what hotel we’d be going to?”

  “Easy,” Aiden concluded wearily. “He must have figured out what we’ve been doing with Mom’s frequent-flier miles. No more free hotels, Meg.”

  She nodded. “Good thing we’ve got this place.”

  “Yeah, great,” Aiden told her. “We’ve got front row seats at an autonomous collective of psychos.”

  “Not true,” she told him angrily. “Most of them are really nice people who made some bad choices because they weren’t as lucky as us.”

  “Right,” Aiden said sarcastically. “I thank my lucky stars every night.”

  “We grew up in a real home with fantastic parents who loved us. The IC kids — they went totally apewire over instant pancakes! How pathetic is that?”

  “Don’t shed any tears for Zapp. That guy’s all the way bad. We didn’t escape Hairless Joe just to get mixed up with someone who’s even worse. I don’t think we’re safe here.”

  “Maybe,” said his sister. “But I know we’re not safe anywhere else.”

  Aiden had no choice but to agree. With Mom’s SkyPoints now out of reach forever, even the cheapest hotel would dry up their money in a heartbeat. They’d be out on the street in this big, tough, strange city, where their mug shots were pinned to the bulletin boards of every police station in town.

  We’d be totally exposed.

  The memory of quaking in the shadow of Agent Emmanuel Harris was something that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  The Santa Monica Racquet Club had it
s own building — a modern, ultrahip glass and gunmetal structure in the middle of a long street of glass and gunmetal.

  This was the high-rent district. Meg felt self-conscious in the thrift shop clothing she and Aiden had bought that morning. At least she was allowed to be a girl again. But with denim shorts, a white T-shirt, and hair that was only beginning to grow back, she looked like a plain kid, gender unspecified.

  Aiden gazed bleakly at the front desk and its members only sign, plainly visible from the street. “How am I ever going to get to the locker room? A snooty place like this has a dozen personal trainers per square foot. They kick you out if you’re not at least a movie producer.”

  Meg was disgusted. “After all we’ve been through, you’re afraid to sneak past a couple of muscle heads? Watch me. You’ll know what to do.”

  She marched into the building and up to the granite counter. A barrel-chested man in a tank top and a badge that declared him to be Chad fixed her with a dubious stare. “Is there something I can do for you, kid?”

  Meg looked wan and worried, and swayed a little. “I don’t feel so good….”

  * * *

  Aiden watched in amazement as Meg’s legs gave way under her and she started to crumple. Three weight lifters were out from behind the desk to catch her before she hit the floor.

  The performance was so mesmerizing that he almost forgot to act. At the last second, he scooted past the drama and down the sumptuously carpeted corridor. He dashed between a double row of glassed-in squash courts and came to the men’s locker room. With a sigh of relief, he slipped inside.

  It was tough to make a sweaty change room posh, but the club had managed it with elegant tile work, marble shower stalls, and framed sports art on the walls. The lockers were a burnished bronze and glowed, unscuffed and perfect.

  Aiden followed the numbers: 345 … 346 … 347.

  An ordinary padlock hung there. Fingers trembling, he took Frank Lindenauer’s key from his pocket and reached for the lock.

  “No fooling!” came a voice behind him. “We’ve been taking bets on when somebody was actually going to crack that thing.”

  Aiden wheeled around to face the speaker, who regarded him in surprise. “That’s your locker?” the man said. “When’s the last time you came in here? Kindergarten?”

  “It’s — my dad’s,” Aiden stammered, wishing he had his sister’s gift of gab. “I haven’t had the guts to empty it since the accident.” Not bad — eat your heart out, Meg.

  The man looked embarrassed and escaped to the showers.

  The moment of truth. Aiden inserted the gold-colored key.

  A perfect fit!

  He turned it and felt the tumblers fall into place. The lock clicked open and the door swung wide.

  In that instant, he knew a different kind of fear — not fear of capture or of harm. The contents of this locker were their last clue, their only lead.

  What if it turns out to be a dead end?

  There was only a single item on the bottom shelf — a thick manila envelope, unsealed but fastened with the metal clip. Aiden scooped it up and headed for the exit.

  As he strode through the lobby, he caught a glimpse of his sister, propped up against the counter, being tended to by a whole lot of muscle.

  She nibbled at a power bar while Chad lectured her: “In the warmer weather, it’s important to guard against dehydration and replenish electrolytes.”

  As Aiden hustled by, she leaped to her feet. “I feel better now. Thanks, guys.” She was hot on his heels.

  The instinct to flee was so much a part of them now that they had sprinted three blocks before it occurred to both of them that Chad and his army of personal trainers were not going to put out an APB over a couple of nuisance kids.

  They found a small park and sat down under a tree. Aiden undid the clip and pulled out the documents they hoped could save their parents.

  They stared in dismay. The envelope held a stack of printed leaflets, meant to be folded in three. They advertised an organization called the East Asian Children’s Charitable Fund.

  “I don’t get it,” Meg mused. “He’s a CIA agent, not a charity worker.”

  “There’s an address,” Aiden noted, “and a phone number.”

  But further investigation shed no light on what Lindenauer was doing with pamphlets from an overseas charity. At a pay phone, Aiden learned that the number had been disconnected. Information had no current listing for the East Asian Children’s Charitable Fund. They bought an LA city map only to find that there was no such street as Dersingham Road.

  Meg was grasping at straws. “Maybe Frank Lindenauer is a nice guy. Mom and Dad liked him, right? Maybe he donates money to East Asian children.”

  “Not through this charity,” Aiden retorted. “It doesn’t exist.”

  Meg frowned. “Can a charity go out of business?”

  Aiden didn’t answer. He was staring across the park, his face white as a ghost.

  Meg was alarmed. “What is it?” She followed his gaze, fully expecting to see Emmanuel Harris and a team of officers advancing on them. But her brother’s gaze was fixed on the plywood fence around a storefront that was under renovation. Its surface was completely covered with ads and handbills.

  As if in a daze, Aiden got up and began to cross the park toward it.

  No, he thought. Impossible. I’m hallucinating.

  Meg followed, still nagging. “What’s going on? What do you see?”

  Then she spotted it, too. At the center of the collage of posters and bills was a large close-up picture of a man with thick red hair and a heavy beard.

  “It can’t be!” Meg whispered, awestruck.

  Aiden took the nine-year-old photograph out of his pocket. There could be no doubt that this was the same person.

  Why was there a picture of Frank Lindenauer right out there on the street?

  The Falconers goggled at the poster of the one man who could prove their parents’ innocence. Over the orange-brown of his beard, bold letters asked:

  DO YOU KNOW THIS MAN?

  Call (310) 555-2120

  “I can’t believe it!” Aiden breathed. “We’ve been hunting this guy across the country and back again! And now he’s looking out at us from a wall? It’s — it’s like the Twilight Zone!”

  Meg was jubilant. “Well, what are we waiting for? We know this man! Call the number!”

  They tore down the poster and headed back to the pay phone.

  Meg had to do the dialing. Aiden was so keyed up, he required both hands just to hang on to the receiver.

  Could this be the end of our quest? And not just ours — a team of lawyers couldn’t find Frank Lindenauer! Could it really happen this way — with Frank Lindenauer finding us?

  A man’s voice answered on the first ring: “West Hollywood Rehab Center.”

  “Uh — hello,” Aiden stammered. “I saw your poster. I — I think that’s my — uh — uncle. Where is he? What happened to him?”

  “The John Doe on our flyers is suffering from severe amnesia,” was the reply. “Our doctors feel that the familiar faces of family and friends might jog his memory. I’m not permitted to give out any more information over the phone.”

  Meg, who was huddled up to the receiver to hear what was being said, began to jump up and down with excitement. “That’s why he didn’t come forward!” she hissed. “That’s why he couldn’t testify at the trial!”

  Aiden shoved her away. “Well — uh — can I see him? He might recognize me.” Better not to mention that the last time I met Uncle Frank, I was six.

  “Not without the doctor. He begins his rounds at ten o’clock. Would you like to make an appointment for tomorrow?”

  “No!” Aiden exclaimed suddenly. “No appointment!” He juggled the receiver back into its cradle.

  “Are you nuts?” cried Meg. “Yes, we want an appointment! This is what we’ve been praying for!”

  Aiden grabbed her by the shoulders. “Calm down. Of cour
se we’re going. But I don’t want to make an appointment in case it’s a trap.”

  “A trap?” Meg was shocked. “How could it be a trap? That’s the guy — the same one in our picture!”

  “Stop hollering and think!” Aiden urged. “The cops were in Aunt Jane’s apartment in Boston. She used to be Lindenauer’s girlfriend. They could have gotten a picture from her.”

  Meg was horrified. “You think J. Edgar Giraffe is behind this?”

  “Probably not. At least, I hope not. But just to be on the safe side, let’s not let anybody know where we’re going to be, and when we’re going to be there.”

  “We can’t turn our backs on this!” Meg protested. “This is the closest we’ve ever been!”

  “We’re not turning our backs on anything,” he soothed. “We’ll sneak in and make sure Lindenauer is really there. If he is, then we can start talking to doctors.”

  Meg looked haunted. “I can’t handle this, Aiden. Maybe it’s the answer to everything, and maybe we’re right back to square one. I can get used to the running; I can even get used to being scared all the time. But I can’t wait till tomorrow to know about this!”

  “Shhh,” her brother cautioned. “People are looking at us. Let’s walk.” He folded the Lindenauer poster together with one of the flyers from locker 347 and jammed them into his back pocket. He tossed the manila envelope with the rest of its contents into a trash bin.

  “I know it’s hard, Meg, but we need to think this one out. If Lindenauer’s been there since before the trial, he’s not going to recover, be released, and disappear before tomorrow.”

  Meg had another concern. “What if it’s the right guy, but his amnesia’s so bad that he’ll never remember Mom and Dad?”

  “That’s a chance we’ll have to take. He’s our only hope — if it’s really him.”

  * * *

  Meg hated riding the bus, which was slow, hot, and smelly. But Aiden insisted that they had to save their taxi money. If West Hollywood Rehab turned out to be a trap, a quick, unplanned departure might be the difference between freedom and capture.