The Fugitive Factor Page 7

  * * *

  The flashlight was propped up on its base, casting a beam of yellowish light onto the corrugated aluminum ceiling of the tool shed. Aiden reclined amid the shovels and coiled hoses, chest still aching from his bruising run.

  This prefab shed in the backyard of a split-level house was probably the only reason he wasn’t in custody right now. Yesterday — was it truly only yesterday? — he had been part of the crew that was cutting this lawn. It had been pure luck that his flight had brought him onto Acorn Street and the unlocked garden shed he’d so recently trimmed around with the weed whacker.

  He checked his watch. It was almost one A.M. He was pretty sure he was safe — for now. Realistically, the police wouldn’t tear Brookline apart all night just to find him. That was the good news. And the bad news? He was nowhere, and that wasn’t just a comment on his location. He had no place to go, nothing to do, no next move. Aunt Jane had been their only lead.

  The betrayal stung almost as much as the cuts and scrapes that his mad dash through bushes and over fences had left on him. He didn’t even blame Aunt Jane so much. All she had done was give in to the emotional TV plea from Mom and Dad. He had very nearly gone for it himself.

  No, the worst part was this: Jane Macintosh had genuinely wanted to help them. If she could be convinced to turn them in, then he could never trust anyone, anywhere.

  A chilling thought.

  The reality that he was the only Falconer not in jail pressed down on him like the weight of the whole world. Meg had said it at her capture: “It’s all on you now!” The future of this battered family rested on his narrow shoulders.

  Well, he didn’t want it. It was too much for him. No single person was strong enough to carry that burden.

  Oh, come on! he thought in disgust. Where’s your backbone?

  The answer came to him in a moment of perfect clarity: His backbone was being held at the twelfth precinct.

  That was his next move — to rescue Meg before they broke her spirit.

  Or before she breaks their police station, he thought with a twisted smile.

  No, not funny, he reminded himself, shifting his weight on a sack of Weed-B-Gone. Sure, Meg was strong. But she was an eleven-year-old girl. Big city cops were used to handling murderers and thugs. Poor Meg didn’t stand a chance.

  You don’t stand a chance, either.

  It was true. Breaking someone out of a police station was the kind of thing Mac Mulvey did in Dad’s books. But fiction wasn’t real life. More than likely, he would not be Meg’s rescuer. He would be her cell mate. This plan, he recalled, was exactly what she didn’t want him to do.

  Tough darts, Meg. I’m coming after you.

  The flashlight burned out with a pop, and darkness fell all around him. He snuggled down into the sack of Weed-B-Gone and shut his eyes, hoping for the sleep he knew would never come.

  The twelfth precinct had its own rush hour. It was the time each morning after the sun rose, revealing a whole new rash of overnight crimes. These always seemed to be reported around the eight A.M. shift change. That was when the main entrance to the station house became a churning sea of people — cops and civilians, victims and suspects, clerical and cleaning staff.

  This probably explained why the desk sergeant took no notice of one young citizen who might have stood out at a less busy time of day. His khakis and polo shirt had come directly from the store; their packaging creases attested to that fact. His Red Sox baseball cap still bore the Major League Baseball holographic sticker. Most suspicious of all, his mustache did not quite match the color of the hair that stuck out from beneath the cap. Judging from the lack of beard shadow on his fair cheeks, it was an unlikely mustache altogether. In fact, if Aiden hadn’t been so scared, he probably would have been blushing with embarrassment to be seen in a cheap joke-shop mustache he wouldn’t have worn on April Fools’ Day at school.

  He looked like a dork, he admitted to himself. But you don’t wave your face around a police station when you’re the kid they’ve been combing the whole city for. A lousy disguise was better than no disguise at all.

  He mumbled something about a stolen motorcycle and was directed to take a number and wait to file his report.

  He found a seat in the last row of benches and hunkered down, making himself small. A few minutes later, he got up and edged his way to the men’s room, which was located partway down an office-lined corridor.

  As he scouted his surroundings, the enormity of the task he had set himself began to sink in. The precinct house was a big place, with winding halls and dead ends. If a noncop got caught wandering in the wrong section, that would arouse suspicion — especially a noncop with an eighty-nine-cent mustache. And there were three floors. How was he ever going to find Meg?

  Instead of going into the bathroom, he turned left down another hall. It was a decision he regretted instantly. For there, walking toward him, was the very same policeman who had chased him in Aunt Jane’s apartment building fourteen hours before.

  He felt the hair on the back of his neck bristling, and a paralyzing cold seized him. He could run, but to where? The anteroom was full of cops. He was caught! Caught before he’d ever really started.

  The officer was ten feet away. Then five. Aiden felt the man’s eyes on him, like twin lasers, searing through his skin. He was laid bare, fully exposed. He waited for the look of recognition that would signify the end of this foolhardy plan, Aiden’s freedom, and any slim chance the Falconers may have had to reclaim their lives.

  It didn’t come. Instead, the officer gave him a disinterested glance and said, “Looking for Motor Vehicle Records? Down the hall on your left, room 110.”

  “Thanks,” he managed in his deepest voice. His heart pounding as if he’d just completed a marathon, he continued along the corridor, past 104, 106 … anything to put some distance between him and this officer who, at any moment, might have a flash of memory.

  Room 110. The sign read: ARCHIVES — MOTOR VEHICLES.

  What are you doing here? he berated himself. They aren’t going to be holding Meg in a file room! That’s all this is — records on fender benders and crazy drivers.

  He froze. An odd feeling came over him, one that told him there was something he should be paying attention to. Why did that sound so familiar?

  Crazy drivers …

  And then it came to him. According to Jane Macintosh, Frank Lindenauer was a crazy driver, addicted to fast cars and high speeds. That had been part of the reason for their breakup.

  He stared at the endless rows of tall file cabinets that stretched practically to infinity. The idea was bouncing around his head with such velocity that he had to wait for it to slow down before he could process it. If Lindenauer was half the driving maniac Aunt Jane said he was, then surely he’d gotten some speeding tickets. Which meant he had a file right here in this room.

  That file would have other information, too — like addresses and phone numbers that might hold the key to finding the guy!

  The service counter was deserted, but Aiden could hear the voices of two clerks somewhere in the stacks. His feet barely touching the floor, he advanced cautiously into the room. MOVING VIOLATIONS, the sign read. That would cover speeding. He took in the vast array of labeled drawers.

  Driving in Brookline must be like playing bumper cars, he thought, scanning for the L’s.

  The rolling sound as he pulled the drawer open was like thunder in his ears. But the clerks, wherever they were in the labyrinth, took no notice.

  Landau — Lennon — Linden — the name blazed out at him like a neon sign: Lindenauer, Francis X.

  He removed the manila folder. And froze.

  His peripheral vision detected distant motion at the far end of the aisle created by the ranks of cabinets. He flattened himself against the drawers.

  Had they seen him?

  No. They’re just passing back and forth as they work.

  Not daring to breathe, he darted around to the cover provi
ded by the end of the row. He took the sheaf of papers out of the file, folded it once, and jammed it under his shirt and into the waistband of his pants.

  A sudden voice from the left, much closer than he expected, nearly propelled him out of his skin. The two clerks were in the very next aisle, moving his way. The muscles tensed in Aiden’s calves as he prepared to spring for the exit.

  Then he heard a word that froze him in his tracks: Falconer.

  “ … they’ve got her up in the crash pad till Juvie can come and get her.”

  “Why should she get the royal treatment?” said the second voice.

  “She’s a little kid. Where do you want to put her — in the lockup?”

  “Lousy terrorists! It’s no more than she deserves!”

  Aiden heard the sound of drawers sliding open and shut. He would never get a better chance than this. He was off like a shot, swooping out of room 110. He sprinted up the hall and blasted through the door of the men’s room, sucking air.

  With sheer relief came a wave of nausea, and he stood over the sink, dry-heaving.

  The crash pad! That was where they were holding Meg!

  What the heck is a crash pad?

  The Constables’ Dayroom was a small office on the third floor, equipped with a folding cot and a tiny bathroom. It was normally used for minor first aid and for police personnel to grab a short nap between shifts. For this reason, it was seldom called by its real name. The staff of the twelfth precinct referred to it as the crash pad.

  Today, however, the crash pad was serving as a holding cell for Meg Falconer. She’d been brought here, half asleep, in the middle of the night, and tucked in by somebody nice. This morning, she had woken up to find a toothbrush, toothpaste, washcloth, soap, and towel all neatly laid out in the bathroom.

  But make no mistake about it, she thought darkly, the door’s locked from the outside, there’s a steel security gate on the window, and I’m surrounded by cops. This is a jail.

  At least Aiden got away. She comforted herself with the thought of her brother far from this place, maybe even en route to another city. In her mental picture, he was carrying on the crusade to prove their parents’ innocence. He was Mom and Dad’s only hope now.

  And mine, too, she realized.

  But in her heart she knew Aiden was almost as helpless as she was. Jane Macintosh had been their only clue. Sure, he was free to go on searching. But where?

  Aiden’s a smart guy. He’ll figure it out.

  Yes, but he could also be a pretty big wimp. Meg was reasonably sure her brother had toyed with the idea of turning them both in after their parents’ plea on television. True, he could show real guts sometimes. But that usually came when he was doing something straight out of one of Dad’s cheese-ball detective novels.

  Oh, God, Aiden, please don’t blow this!

  Restless, she wandered to the window and peered down through the steel mesh into the parking lot. The feds were coming to get her this morning. The next car that pulled up to the station could very well have that jerk, Agent Harris, at the wheel. She snickered when a tiny subcompact putt-putted up the ramp. Well, this one wasn’t him. A seven-foot ox like Harris couldn’t fit his pinky toe into that motorized roller skate.

  She watched the comings and goings for a while, sinking herself into a deep despair. As games went, Where’s Harris? was not likely to put her into a good mood.

  And then she saw him. Not Emmanuel Harris. That would have been bad enough. But this —

  Out of a fire-engine-red Hummer H-2 stepped a large, muscular man with a bull neck and a completely bald head.

  Meg turned to stone at the window, recalling where she had seen this person before. A deserted lake house in Vermont; a desperate struggle in near darkness; shots ringing out in the night; a terrified flight from a madman with a gun …

  This madman.

  The light had been bad at their first meeting, but there was no question in her mind.

  You never forget the face of someone who wants you dead.

  She was looking at Hairless Joe.

  She watched the assassin cross the parking lot to the station entrance, her mind working at lightning speed.

  Hairless Joe here? Why?

  It couldn’t be a coincidence.

  When someone tries to kill you in Colchester, Vermont, and tracks you down six days later in Brookline, Massachusetts, it’s because he’s hunting you.

  Hairless Joe was here for her. Somehow he must have found out that she was in custody at the twelfth precinct. And he had come to finish the job.

  I can’t even run away! I’m a sitting duck!

  She raced to the door and rattled the handle. “Hey!” she bellowed at top volume. “Help me! It’s an emergency! You’ve got to let me out of here!”

  No one answered.

  With a sinking heart, she remembered from sleepy impressions of last night that her bedroom/prison was tucked away in a corner of the third floor, surrounded by storerooms and equipment closets.

  “He’s going to kill me!” she screamed, pounding on the door with her fists. “I’m not kidding around! I need protection!”

  She hacked and kicked at the doorknob, to no avail. She pulled an old framed photograph off the wall and bashed the lock with it. The glass shattered, and the frame fell to pieces, but it had no effect on the handle. She was still trapped.

  “Help! Help!”

  Another thought came to her: If Hairless Joe had learned where she was, maybe he had friends here, or some kind of fake police ID. Then he’d have the run of the place. All her cries for help might only serve to lead him to her.

  I’m completely out of options.

  No. There was one more.

  If she couldn’t run away, she had to stand and fight.

  It took everything Aiden had to work up the courage to leave the men’s room. He had Meg’s location — the crash pad, whatever that was. But there was also time pressure. The feds were coming for her that morning. Aiden had to reach her first.

  This place is a rabbit warren, he thought in rising panic. All the hallways look the same.

  He spied a stairwell up ahead. Should he go to the upper floors? Down to the basement?

  It was risky. The farther he got from the main squad room, the harder it would be to explain why he was wandering through the precinct house.

  And then he saw it: At the base of the stairs was a fire department map of the layout of the building, floor by floor, room by room.

  Aiden ran to it, reading every caption, taking in every detail. Crash pad … crash pad …

  Oh, come on, where’s the crash pad?

  He remembered from Dad’s books that cops had nicknames for everything. The precinct was the “house,” the criminal was the “perp,” an arrest was a “collar.” So what on this diagram could be a crash pad?

  His eyes fell upon a small room in the east corner of the third floor. The icon that identified it was a stick figure lying on a small bed.

  Crash pad! A place to crash!

  A bedroom!

  He took the stairs three at a time. Each step, he knew, drew him farther away from any believable explanation of what he was doing there.

  No cops … so far, so good.

  He rounded the second-floor landing to see an older woman on the way down. Not an officer — probably just a secretary. Aiden lowered his head and brushed right past her.

  Third floor. According to the map, the crash pad was in the far corner of the building. He scouted the long hall. The coast was clear.

  But if anybody sees me …

  This was hostile territory, and he was a wanted man.

  Left turn. Or was Meg being held off to the right? All at once, he wasn’t sure. Uncertainty swelled inside him, and with it came an icy panic.

  Calm down. This is too important!

  Mentally, he rotated the firefighter’s map until the layout lined up with the array of corridors and doorways in front of him.

  Left. Defini
tely left.

  His heart was pounding in his ears. The crash pad was at the end of this hall. As he walked lightly past closed storerooms and deserted offices, he allowed himself to feel a faint surge of hope. The third floor had none of the buzz of activity and conversation that filled the rest of the building.

  Maybe — just maybe — he was going to reach his sister.

  Aiden stopped in front of the last door. CONSTABLES’ DAYROOM, it was marked. Aiden tried the knob.

  Locked — oh, no! Wait, it was locked from this side! He twisted the bolt until there was a click, and the door swung wide.

  In an instant, Aiden took in the small room with the folding cot. It was deserted. He peered into the bathroom. Empty.

  Desperately, he looked around. Have they already come to get her? Am I too late?

  And then his eyes fell on the closet.

  * * *

  Meg crouched behind some hanging uniforms. Fear had sharpened her ears into precision instruments. Someone was in the crash pad — his clumsy, hurried movements rattled around her hypersensitive brain.

  Hairless Joe.

  He was only a few feet away from her.

  She heard the jiggle of a hand on the doorknob.

  This is it!

  Channeling years of gymnastics training into a single move, Meg grabbed hold of the hanging bar, swung back, and slammed both feet into the closet door with battering-ram force. It jolted open, smacking Aiden right in the nose. He staggered back and crumpled to the ground, whacking his head on the metal side of the cot.

  Meg was on him in an instant, brandishing a spike of broken glass from the picture frame. With a battle cry, she brought it to the throat of her enemy, her stalker, her …

  … brother?

  “Aiden, you idiot!” she hissed, dropping the shard. “What are you doing here?”

  “Rescuing you!” He sat up woozily, his shaky hand alternately rubbing his bleeding nose and his throbbing crown.

  Meg’s face flamed bright red. “You’re not supposed to be rescuing me! You’re supposed to be hundreds of miles from here, looking for a way to help Mom and Dad!”