Hunting the Hunter Page 6

  “Glad to see one of us has some earthly purpose for that idiot box.”

  At the sound of the farmer’s voice, Aiden hurriedly exited the e-mail program.

  Turnbull thumped up behind him on the crutches. “That’s all there is to it? Fiddling with that little arrow thingamajig?”

  Aiden tried to size up his employer. Had the man seen too much? There was no suspicion in the farmer’s eyes — only the usual scorn he reserved for all things “newfangled.”

  “It’s really easy, Mr. Turnbull. You just double-click on your browser” — he selected the Internet Explorer icon — “and choose where you’d like to go. You want to check the weather?”

  “If I need to know the weather, I can stick my head out the window.” The farmer raked him with gray, piercing eyes. “Is there something you want to tell me, Gary?”

  Aiden stared back, trying to appear innocent, waiting for the ax to fall.

  “I looked in the milk canister. Cows on strike or something?”

  Aiden flushed deep red. With Meg gone, he was the milker again. “I guess I have my good days and bad days,” he offered lamely.

  “Make sure tomorrow’s a good day,” the farmer said pointedly. “It’s not healthy for the cows to be left like that.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Aiden promised, reflecting that if a message came in from Hairless Frank to meet him somewhere, the cows might have to milk themselves in the morning.

  He stepped out onto the porch, nearly tripping over Turnbull’s nail gun for the umpteenth time. He hugged himself against the chill. The nights had been growing cooler, but this was just plain cold. And — were those snow flurries?

  Winter’s coming.

  It was a lame observation for most people. But for a fugitive, winter made survival impossibly more complicated. Shelter and warmth would no longer be for comfort; they would become absolute necessities. Coats, boots, hats, and gloves had to be considered. Walking, running, driving — everything would be harder on snow and ice.

  There’s no way Meg and I could have made it this far in January.

  Meg. Her absence was a gaping hole in his heart. It seemed to Aiden that everything was falling apart — their growing notoriety, Meg’s betrayal, Hairless Frank’s disappearance, the worsening weather …

  Mom — Dad — what more can I do?

  The hoofbeats were familiar now — a swelling drumroll coming from the direction of the pigsty. This would be the cherry on the bitter ice cream sundae: to be trampled by a prehistoric swine.

  “No, Bernard!” he hissed. “It’s just me — Gary! Stop!”

  Into the cocoon of light surrounding the house exploded three hundred pounds of charging pig. Aiden held up his arms in a feeble attempt to fend off the attack. But this time, Bernard didn’t run into him. Instead, he sped around Aiden in tight circles, grunting and breathing hard. Even Aiden, who was clueless about animals, could tell that the monster was jittery about something.

  “What’s the matter, Bernard? What’s got you spooked?”

  And then he saw it. Across the compound in the farmhand’s apartment, a beam of light suddenly swept across the darkened window.

  A flashlight.

  Somebody was in there.

  Frank Lindenauer! He must have followed us here.

  The discovery was an adrenaline blast, radiating outward from Aiden’s core. Somehow, the assassin had found him.

  Aiden was astounded at the courage of his reaction. A professional killer was half a football field away, searching for him. Yet the rush he felt was not entirely one of terror. This was good news — Hairless Frank hadn’t disappeared. He had just changed his strategy — setting a trap for Aiden instead of the other way around.

  I should have expected it, Aiden told himself. He’s evil, not stupid.

  He struggled for calm. This was it — his chance to tape the confession that would clear his parents. The problem was that the recorder was on the nightstand inside the apartment — with Hairless Frank. By hook or by crook, he had to get to that machine. That meant entering the apartment — with an armed murderer inside.

  I won’t last three seconds!

  He needed an equalizer. The pig? Bernard was every bit as dangerous as any assassin, and twice the size. Hairless Frank wouldn’t be expecting an animal attack. Chances were, he’d be bowled over. By the time he figured out what had happened to him, Aiden would be in there with the tape recorder running.

  “Come on, Bernard — let’s get that guy!” He began to jog across the barnyard, the pig trotting by his side, still snorting his agitation. Soon they were standing just outside the closed door. He picked up a pitchfork that was leaning against the wall of the barn. It was no match for a nine-millimeter pistol. But with any luck, Hairless Frank’s gun would soon be buried under three hundred pounds of pork.

  A silent countdown: Three, two, one … He reached in, swung the door wide, and stepped back to let Bernard loose.

  Bernard leaned his massive head inside, withdrew it just as quickly, and stampeded off into the night, leaving Aiden in front of the open doorway —

  A perfect target!

  Fear jolted him into action, and he dropped to the floor out of the line of fire. He couldn’t see Hairless Frank, but that didn’t mean the assassin wasn’t there, hiding behind a chair, a table, waiting to start shooting. He crawled through the gloom, navigating by memory to the nightstand and the tape recorder.

  Suddenly, a dark shape exploded out of the bathroom and made a beeline for the door. Aiden was caught off guard. He had expected an assault. Why was Hairless Frank running away?

  Wildly, he swung his pitchfork at the shadowy figure. The assassin hurdled it and kept on going, fleeing out of the apartment into the barnyard.

  “Come back — ” Aiden croaked.

  Wham!

  The collision could be felt inside the apartment. One minute, Hairless Frank was sprinting across the lawn; the next, he was flying through the air. A second shape appeared, built like a Volkswagen. The squealing and grunting told the story. Bernard pounced on his prey, rooting and biting about the man’s head and shoulders.

  Aiden leaped to his feet in alarm. “Bernard — no! Back off! Don’t hurt him!” If the huge animal accidentally killed Hairless Frank, then the evidence that would clear John and Louise Falconer would be lost forever.

  Brandishing his pitchfork, he rushed over to the fallen intruder. The wave of bewildered disappointment almost took his breath away.

  It was not Frank Lindenauer. The battered man beneath the pig’s bulk was a lot thinner than the stocky assassin, with a full shock of blond hair.

  “Who are you?” Aiden demanded.

  “I’m Mike Delancey!” the victim panted as Bernard punished his face with a snout like a pile driver. “Call off your — what is this thing?”

  “What were you doing in my apartment?” Aiden persisted, determined not to help until his questions had been answered.

  “I’m a private investigator!”

  “For who?”

  “I work for Elias Holyfield.”

  All at once, Aiden understood. How many times had Mr. Turnbull talked about an army of snoops employed by the landlord? Who knew it would turn out to be true?

  “Come on,” Delancey quavered. “The pig’s going to kill me!”

  In spite of everything, Aiden felt a stab of compassion. He knew as well as anybody what it was like to be at this monster’s mercy. “Back off, Bernard,” he ordered. And when the animal didn’t respond, he gave the snout a firm tap with the wooden handle of the pitchfork. The pig reversed a few paces, keeping its enraged eyes riveted on Delancey as the investigator got gingerly to his feet. The tight space of the apartment may not have been to Bernard’s liking, but out here in the open, he was king of the barnyard.

  “What does Holyfield want with me?” Aiden snapped.

  “If you’re gone, the farm isn’t being worked,” Delancey explained. “That’s grounds for breaking the lease.�
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  “Well, I’m not leaving,” Aiden insisted. “Not for Holyfield, not for anybody!”

  “Oh, yeah? I don’t know who you are, kid, but something’s not right with you.” The investigator kept a nervous eye on the snarling Bernard as he challenged Aiden. “Where’s the girl?”

  “What girl?”

  “I saw her,” Delancey retorted. “You keep her under wraps, I’ll give you that. She only comes out when Turnbull’s not around. Who is she — your girlfriend?”

  “I don’t have to talk to you!” Aiden seethed. “You broke into my apartment. I could call the cops!”

  The PI shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’d love to hear you explain yourself to the police. You’re not from around here, but you’ve got no luggage and barely any clothes. It’s like you’re a homeless person. Or a runaway, more likely.”

  Aiden felt the fire of his upset frosting into icy panic. This man was a private investigator, trained in the art of seeking information. He was treading dangerously close to the truth about Aiden’s identity.

  “How’d you like me to sic Bernard on you again?” he threatened. “And this time, I won’t call him off!”

  Hearing its name, the pig emitted an unfriendly snort and advanced menacingly.

  “Wait a minute — ” The prospect of tangling with Bernard again was not appealing to Mike Delancey. “Listen, Mr. Holyfield’s a reasonable man. He’s got no beef with you. He just wants the right to sell his own land. That’s why I’m authorized to offer you a thousand dollars cash to move on.”

  “And throw Mr. Turnbull to the sharks,” Aiden added sourly.

  “Growing season’s over in a couple of weeks. A grand is more than Turnbull’s paying you from now till then. Think of what you could do with that money — you and your lady friend.”

  Lady friend. The thought of Meg activated a heat source in Aiden’s gut. There had once been a time when a thousand dollars would have made all the difference to the Falconers in their quest to exonerate their parents. It would have fed them, put a roof over their heads, bought them train and bus tickets. It would have kept them from risking their freedom, and sometimes their very lives, trespassing, stealing, and stowing away.

  Money could never have changed the reality of their plight. But it might have made things a little easier, downgrading the 100 percent impossible to merely 98 percent. And that was no small difference with the entire family on the line. It might even have made it worth betraying Mr. Turnbull who, despite his oddness, was turning out to be a pretty nice guy.

  But now, with Meg gone and Hairless Frank dropped from sight, their quest was in ruins. A thousand dollars wouldn’t change that. Neither would a million.

  Aiden tried out a nasty look copied from the face of Hairless Frank himself. “You’ve got thirty seconds to get off Zephraim Turnbull’s farm. Then I’m sending Bernard after you.”

  Delancey raised his arms in a gesture of surrender. “Okay, okay, I’m gone. I’m just asking you to think about it, that’s all. Let me talk to Mr. Holyfield. What if we double it? Two thousand bucks?”

  “Twenty seconds,” said Aiden evenly.

  The private investigator turned and ran.

  It was not until Aiden heard the sound of the car door and the motor starting up that he allowed himself to breathe again.

  The hotel room was standard economy-class drab. But to Meg, after months on the run, it screamed of luxury. She had slept in a hayloft, a boxcar, and a steel drum. Real beds had been few and far between.

  The only feature not to her liking was the connecting door to the next room. That, she knew, was home to all six feet seven inches of Emmanuel Harris. He was staying close by to keep an eye on her — like ten straight hours of interrogation hadn’t been enough!

  The agent couldn’t seem to get it through his thick skull that she had nothing to tell him. Not until she knew the details of Aiden’s one-on-one with Hairless Frank. Only then would she inform Harris so the FBI could crash the meeting and rescue her brother.

  Such split-second timing in a life-and-death matter was nerve-racking, but there was no other way. If she spilled the beans about Aiden’s location now, Harris would head straight to the farm to arrest him. Risky as it was, Aiden had to have the chance to trick a confession out of Hairless Frank before the FBI swooped down on the whole thing.

  She frowned. Getting in touch with Aiden wasn’t going to be easy. There was no phone in the hired hand’s apartment — which left her two options. She could either call Mr. Turnbull’s house and ask the farmer if she could speak to Gary Graham … or, if she could somehow get her hands on a computer, she could e-mail falx@zipnet.usa.

  She sighed heavily. Not much chance of doing either, not with her roommate standing guard.

  Agent Lucy Batista, FBI Denver, had been assigned by Harris to stick to Meg like glue, never letting the girl out of her sight. Meg remembered overhearing Harris’s instructions to his agent: “She’s got a face like an angel, but don’t you believe it. This kid has made monkeys out of more cops than you could fit in the Rose Bowl, starting with me. Don’t leave her alone for a second. If she talks in her sleep, I want to know what she says.”

  “You don’t have to worry,” Meg told her jailer. “I’m not going anywhere. I wouldn’t have given myself up if I wasn’t ready to be in custody.”

  Agent Batista looked at her sympathetically. “I know, sweetie, but — ”

  “I’m not your sweetie!” Meg cut her off, bristling over every inch of her body. “What do you think this is — a slumber party? Do you have any idea what’s happened to me and my family?”

  Batista was apologetic. “Of course I know. Everybody knows. I was just trying to explain why I can’t leave you alone. It’s not that I don’t trust you. It’s FBI policy.”

  Yet an hour later, after the two had watched American Idol on TV, Lucy Batista yawned her way into the bathroom to take a shower.

  Meg couldn’t believe it. Had FBI policy changed during American Idol? What had happened to I can’t leave you alone?

  Of course she knew there was a guard outside the door. So she would be stopped if she tried to run out. But here she was, by herself in the room, with the total run of the place!

  She made a beeline for the phone on the nightstand, but froze partway there. Her eyes fell on Agent Batista’s laptop computer. It sat on the desk, fully booted up, the power light flashing in standby mode.

  Meg pounced on it. E-mail was the only way to get straight through to Aiden. She opened Outlook Express and typed in the address falx@zipnet.usa.

  Aiden — Don’t freak out. I haven’t deserted you. Just tell me where and when the meeting is going to happen. I’ll be there.

  She paused. Communicating with Aiden had proved to be possible. Having him reply was another matter altogether.

  But, she reasoned, when the meeting with Hairless Frank is all set, it won’t matter if the FBI intercepts the message. Then it’ll be time to tell Harris anyway.

  She turned back to the keyboard and added:

  URGENT! Don’t reply until you have all the details! Can’t explain now. You’ll have to trust me.

  She sat back. How to sign off? It was a dumb thing to get hung up on at a time like this. And yet —

  If Aiden’s plan didn’t go well, if the cavalry was half a minute late getting to the scene — well, then, these might be the last sentences she would ever direct toward her brother.

  All at once, the pressure of finding the right words, the perfect words, caught in her throat, and she sat there, paralyzed.

  With a clunk of the plumbing, the shower was shut off, and the curtain swished back on its rings. In a few seconds, Agent Batista would be upon her.

  Fingers flying, Meg sent the e-mail and removed any record of it from both the sent items and the deleted file. She shut down the program and closed the lid, putting the laptop back in standby mode. She was on her bed when Batista emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in a terry-cloth robe.


  “Everything okay here, Meg?”

  Meg didn’t answer, and it was not out of rudeness. Her mind still reeled with the things she could have written to her brother. And the fact that the right words, whatever they were, might now remain forever unsaid.

  * * *

  At the Hash House, a tiny roadside luncheonette seven miles east of the Turnbull farm, the lone customer was tying into a big feed of pork chops.

  The counterman was looking pointedly at his watch. It was already half an hour past usual closing. “Pretty late for a heavy meal,” he commented.

  “A pig almost ate me tonight,” said private investigator Mike Delancey, mouth full, “and I’m returning the favor.”

  “Fair enough,” said the cook without much interest. He began sponging the counter, hoping that his customer would finish up and go home.

  Delancey just sat there, chewing and savoring. He wondered how many pork chops would come off a creature like Bernard. Enough to feed a battalion, probably. What an experience! He was still feeling shaky. And the embarrassment of running away like a scared rabbit really rankled.

  That lousy kid, that Gary — it would be nice to get even with him. Something was not quite right about him anyway. For starters, no way was he eighteen years old. Sixteen would be a stretch. And he was definitely lying about the girl. Delancey had seen her with his own eyes. Runaways, probably — a couple of rich kids who thought it was cool to hide out on the Turnbull farm.

  Mr. Holyfield would be very grateful if Gary Graham was removed from the scene. But going to the police again wasn’t an option — at least not until Delancey knew more about the kid. The cops wouldn’t arrest somebody for not having luggage.

  What else did he know about Gary Graham? His accent was hard to place, but it was definitely East Coast — that would support the runaway theory. And the truth was his face looked kind of familiar. Maybe that was just because he’d been watching the kid for days. After all, how would a Colorado PI recognize an East Coast runaway and his girlfriend — or at least, some girl. Who else could she be? His sister?