Chasing the Falconers Page 7

  The lumberjack brothers took off after him. But Aiden was flying, his high-stepping feet splashing in the puddled gas.

  One thing I’ve gotten good at — running for my life.

  Soon he was halfway across the parking lot. The question remained: Where was he running to? What could he do — hide in the woods outside some interstate truck stop? Miguel and Meg were gone, and he had no way to find them.

  Then he saw it. Down the service area’s exit ramp, the Tahoe was backing up at fifty miles an hour. He could see his sister’s white face in the window and Miguel peering over his shoulder as he reversed at top speed.

  Aiden waved his arms. “Over here!”

  They came perilously close to flattening him. Meg threw open the rear door and he leaped inside.

  Miguel put the SUV in drive and they squealed off toward the highway. “I thought I was bugging, but you Eagles are loony tunes.”

  Meg lashed out at Miguel, pummeling his arm and shoulder.

  He deflected the blows into the dashboard. The windshield wipers jumped to life and the radio came on. “I went back, didn’t I?”

  Meg was out of control, spluttering tears of rage. “He was going to leave you!”

  “I was caught — ” Aiden reasoned.

  “Traitor!” she roared at Miguel.

  And then a newscaster’s voice spoke a very familiar name, “Sunnydale.”

  “Quiet!” ordered Aiden.

  Silence fell in the SUV.

  “… all but three of the missing residents are once again in custody,” the woman was saying. “Still at large are fifteen-year-old Miguel Reyes, and a brother and sister registered under the name Eagleson. The Department of Juvenile Corrections has just confirmed that the Eaglesons are, in fact, Aiden and Margaret Falconer, ages fifteen and eleven, children of convicted traitors John and Louise Falconer.”

  Miguel pulled the Tahoe onto the shoulder in a screech of burning rubber. He turned on his passengers, eyes wide. “That’s you?” he asked in horror. “Your parents are terrorists?”

  “No — ” Aiden began.

  “But they helped terrorists. And you’re calling me a traitor?”

  “They’re innocent!” Meg stormed.

  “Innocent?” Miguel spat. “What does that mean? Remember Sunnydale? We were all innocent. Every place I’ve been — you can’t find anybody guilty. If you go by the people doing time, crime is nothing but an ugly rumor started by a bunch of cops.”

  Meg was becoming belligerent. “Our parents were framed, and we’re going to prove it!”

  Understanding struck Miguel. “So that’s the plan. You’re going to ride in on white horses and rescue Mommy and Daddy.”

  “No,” Aiden said patiently. “We’re going to find evidence to clear their names.”

  “You’re dreaming.”

  “Maybe,” Aiden agreed. “But what else can we do? You know of another way to get justice?”

  “Justice!” Miguel practically snarled the word. “You rich kids are all the same. Why are you entitled to justice? Where’s my justice?”

  “It’s not the same thing,” Aiden argued. “Maybe you had a good reason for what you did, but you still did it.”

  Miguel pulled out into traffic. When he spoke, his eyes were riveted to the horizon. He wouldn’t so much as glance at Aiden or Meg.

  “Yeah, I’m a real cold-blooded killer. Know what I’m guilty of? Shoving. Felony shoving. Aggravated shoving. First-degree shoving. If you lived with my stepfather, you’d be sick of being his punching bag, too. How was I supposed to know the jerk was going to fall down the stairs? Cops said he broke his neck — killed instantly.”

  “That’s what happened?” Meg exclaimed in amazement. “You just defended yourself? You’re innocent!”

  “Don’t you get it?” Miguel asked bitterly. “There’s no innocent and guilty, just lucky and unlucky. Think my old lady’s going to blow her savings on a lawyer for the kid who put her husband in the cemetery? Unlucky — same as your folks.”

  Aiden was thunderstruck. “Miguel — I don’t know what to say. Being in jail for something you didn’t even do — we both know what that’s like.”

  Miguel twisted the radio dial, searching for music. “Listen, Eagle — Falcon — whoever you are. This car’s rolling to my brother’s place. Come, don’t come — it makes no difference to me. But if New Jersey isn’t in your travel plans, now’s the time to do something about it.”

  Aiden and Meg said nothing. But as the Tahoe continued its long journey east, neither made any move to get out.

  At the Department of Juvenile Corrections in Washington, DC, Agent Emmanuel Harris strode past the secretary without stopping.

  “Sir!” she shrilled. “Deputy Director Adler can’t be disturbed — ”

  Harris threw open the door, ducking so his head would clear the frame. “You knew,” he accused, pointing a missile-like index finger at the thirty-something bureaucrat behind the desk. “You knew the Falconers were at Sunnydale. And you knew they were missing five minutes after that place went up in smoke.”

  “Sure, I did.” In an attempt to look older, Adler sported a patchy mustache that almost — but not quite — filled in the space above his upper lip. “I also knew that information was classified for the kids’ own good.”

  The famous sarcasm. “Yeah, we did them a real favor, throwing them in jail — ”

  “It’s not a jail,” the deputy director interrupted.

  “No,” Harris agreed. “From what I hear, it’s a pile of charcoal.”

  “Aiden and Margaret Falconer were never in the system. They were at Sunnydale for their own protection.”

  “Surrounded by lowlifes,” Harris added. “Like this Reyes kid with manslaughter on his rap sheet.”

  “They’re not the little angels you think they are. They escaped from federal custody — ”

  “I thought they were never in the system.”

  “— and we’re charging the boy with arson. We have an eyewitness who says he deliberately started the fire with a kerosene lamp.”

  “A kerosene lamp?” the agent exploded. “What is this, the dark ages?”

  “Hard work and a simple life is a proven approach in dealing with young offenders,” the deputy director said stoutly. “Don’t tell me my job.”

  “You’re not doing your job,” Harris insisted. “You need to find these kids before they get hurt.”

  “We’ll track them down,” Adler said confidently. “We traced them from a couple of stolen bikes to the train station in Gibbon, Nebraska. The next day, they were spotted outside Chicago. The local cops set up roadblocks, but somehow the kids dropped off the radar. They had hooked up with Reyes by then.”

  Harris took a deep breath. “Suppose I can bring them in before they get into any more trouble. Could you look the other way on the fire? It was probably an accident anyway. What kid today knows how to use a kerosene lamp? You might as well hand him a flamethrower.”

  The deputy director regarded his lofty visitor with genuine interest. “You knocked off the biggest treason case in half a century. You’re a hero in the FBI with a big future. Why can’t you let go of these two kids?”

  “Because I created them, that’s why!” Harris snapped. “I made them what they are today — motherless, fatherless, homeless fugitives. Can’t you get it through your head? Everything that happens to Aiden and Margaret Falconer — it’s on me!”

  * * *

  Aiden had never been to New York City, but he recognized the skyline instantly from pictures and TV. As the tops of the gleaming towers sprouted from New Jersey’s horizon, he allowed himself the tiniest breath of relief.

  The East. We made it.

  The nightmare of their near miss in Chicago was over. From here, the country’s busiest hub, trains and buses connected passengers to every conceivable destination. Including Vermont.

  Miguel had become bubbly the minute they’d crossed over from Pennsylvania. “Wait till you see
the sweet setup Freddy’s got — flat-screen TV, surround sound, quicksand couch — you sink into those pillows!”

  Now the Falconers were his best buddies. The bullying and intimidation evaporated the closer they got to his brother’s house. For Aiden, the picture of Miguel holding a scissors to Meg’s throat wasn’t likely to fade anytime soon. But he had to admit that life in the Tahoe was certainly more pleasant when Miguel was in a good mood.

  Union City, New Jersey, reminded Aiden of The King of Queens — endless tracts of long, narrow houses stacked close together like dominoes. Miguel pulled into the driveway of one of a row of identical cracker boxes.

  “A millionth of a tank of gas to spare!” he declared triumphantly. He was positively beaming.

  This was it — the end of the line for Miguel. Aiden was surprised at the lump in his throat. As nasty and unpredictable as Miguel was, it was comforting to have a partner who knew the ropes. Without him, the Falconers would be totally on their own.

  So they allowed themselves to be coaxed up the front walk. “You guys kick back, maybe watch a movie, while I talk to Freddy. He’s a smart guy. He can help you get where you’re going.”

  A young dark woman who was very pregnant answered the door. “Angie!” cried Miguel, enfolding her in a big bear hug. “Look at you, girl! Why didn’t Freddy tell me?”

  Aiden couldn’t help noticing that Angie did not seem happy at the sight of the newcomers. “Come in, come in,” she said furtively, rushing to shut the door behind them. “Freddy, we got company!”

  Miguel didn’t pick up on her discomfort. “So, when’s the baby due?”

  “Uh — three weeks. Freddy!”

  The house was small and shabby, with cracked plaster walls dividing the space into tiny rooms. At the end of the hall, Aiden could see an enormous TV screen — the subject of Miguel’s endless bragging at Sunnydale.

  “You idiot!”

  Coming down the stairs was a man in his early twenties — an older version of Miguel on a sturdier, more muscular frame. Despite the similarities in appearance, their expressions could not have been more different. Freddy Reyes was an unhealthy shade of purple.

  “Are you crazy, coming here? Bringing them” — pointing at the Falconers. “Did anybody tell you who their parents are?”

  “They’re my friends,” Miguel said defensively. “You know how it is when you’re with people on the inside.”

  “Didn’t you think the cops would come to me when you went on the lam?” Freddy demanded. “They’ve been here three times already, and that’s just when they’ve knocked on the door! Angie and me — we see them cruising by, keeping an eye on the place.”

  Aiden felt his heart lurch. Any passing police officer would find a stolen SUV parked in plain sight on the driveway.

  “I’ll move the car,” Miguel promised. “Park it on another street. I’ll be careful.”

  “You’ll be more than careful!” Freddy thundered. “You’ll be gone!”

  “What are you talking about, Fred?”

  “You can’t stay here, man! I’m still on parole. If they catch me with you, I’m back in the can. I can’t risk that — not with a kid coming!”

  The blow was so hard, so unexpected, that even Aiden felt the sting. For Miguel, coming to New Jersey to live with his brother had always been the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. He had contemplated it, fantasized about it, obsessed over it — in custody, and on every mile of their long flight from Nebraska. And now the dream was in ashes, just like the juvenile detention facility that had once held him.

  Miguel was shattered. “That’s crazy, Freddy!” He searched his brother’s face for some sign of softening. There was none. “Well, what about Ma? Could I stay with her?”

  “Ma’s on antidepressants — like she has been ever since you whacked her husband. I swear, Miguel — you go over there, and I’ll beat your lousy head in. Leave us all alone — you’re not part of this family anymore!”

  “But — ” It was barely a whisper. “What am I going to do? I’ve got nowhere to go. No money — ”

  Freddy pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket, peeled off a couple of bills for himself, and pressed the rest into his brother’s palm. “I wish it could be different, kid, but you gotta get lost. If anybody asks, you never saw me.”

  Miguel stared blankly down at the bills in his hand. It would have been impossible to tell he was crying, if not for the trembling of his shoulders. One time at Sunnydale, Gary Donovan had smacked him with a planting spade hard enough to open a four-inch gash on his head — sixty stitches. Miguel never uttered a peep. Aiden remembered thinking that no amount of pain would ever get tears out of this guy.

  I was wrong.

  Miguel might have stood rooted to the spot forever if Meg hadn’t taken his arm and led him out of the house. He followed meekly, without protest.

  Aiden brought up the rear, but at the door, he turned angry eyes on the elder Reyes. It was stupid, he knew. He always criticized Meg for speaking up out of pure brash emotion, when no good could possibly come of it. But this had to be said.

  “Ever heard of self-defense?” he challenged. “Big family man — why didn’t you get a decent lawyer for your own brother? Better yet, why didn’t you keep your stepfather off him before it came to that?”

  Freddy’s eyes bulged. “I should turn you in right now!”

  But Aiden was already on the cement path back to the car.

  * * *

  Miguel slumped in the Tahoe’s passenger seat, his head lolling against its rest. He reminded Aiden of an old Far Side cartoon of a boneless chicken ranch, with formless poultry flopping limply around a farmyard.

  But there’s nothing funny about Miguel’s life right now.

  Meg was trying to urge him behind the wheel. “We’ve got to get out of here. You heard Freddy. The cops could come around any minute.”

  “I got nowhere to go,” mumbled Miguel. “Back into the system — that’s as good a place as anywhere else.”

  Aiden would not have believed he’d ever be capable of such sympathy toward the bully who had once made a career of tormenting him. Yet he recognized Miguel’s despair almost instantly. It was the combination of misery and hopelessness Aiden and Meg had felt during the trial, in the foster homes, and at Sunnydale. He knew from bitter experience that nothing he could do would cheer Miguel up. The best he could hope for was to show the boy he wasn’t completely alone.

  “There’s a lake house in Colchester, Vermont,” he said slowly. “Our old summer cottage. We think there might be a clue there — a picture of a guy who can prove our parents are innocent.”

  It felt good to say it out loud — almost as if discussing it made it real.

  Not just the distant memory of a six-year-old.

  “What’s your point, Falcon?” Miguel groaned. “It’s been a rough day.”

  Meg supplied the answer. “Are you up for a road trip?”

  Aiden Falconer had never driven a car in his life. Now he had no choice. Miguel was utterly defeated and deflated. Once the terror of kids who were terrors themselves, he now couldn’t muster the will to haul himself out of the Tahoe’s passenger seat. So Aiden took over the wheel.

  He had no license, of course — he was only fifteen. But that was minor compared with the stack of crimes he and Meg had committed so far. Even that seemed small in the face of their larger mission. Vermont was just a few hundred miles away. Vermont, Colchester, the house on the lake. And the secret hiding place.

  He backed out of the driveway with agonizing slowness, still managing to knock over a garbage can. A half mile down the street, he pulled into an abandoned strip mall. There, he drove the huge SUV in circles, building his confidence and skill.

  Before getting on the turnpike, they stopped for gas. Aiden couldn’t believe how easy this was when you had actual money to pay for it. Miguel still hadn’t moved from the seat, but he had no problem buying their fuel. “Take it all,” he mumbled, tossing wadd
ed up bills at Aiden. “I don’t want anything from Freddy.”

  While Aiden watched the attendant fill the tank, Meg invested in a road map at the mini-mart. They found Colchester near the top of Vermont, about three hundred fifty miles away.

  “Six hours’ drive,” Meg estimated. “If you don’t wrap us around a telephone pole.”

  “Or get pulled over,” Aiden added nervously.

  It took them almost nine. Aiden missed a couple of exits, and his inexperience made it difficult to navigate back to the right road. A steady soaking rain began to fall, slowing them down further.

  It was night by the time they reached the outskirts of Colchester. A 7-Eleven served as their pit stop for hot dogs and directions — a simple left toward the eastern shore of Lake Champlain. It was too dark to begin the search for the vacation house, so they pulled into a cheap motel for the night.

  The desk clerk regarded Meg suspiciously. “I’ll need your dad to come in and sign for the key.”

  “Oh, that’s okay,” she told him. “He gave me the money.”

  The old man shook his head. “State law. Got to be eighteen to check into a hotel, dear.”

  Meg thought fast. “Okay, but if the baby wakes up, Dad’s going to be mad. She’s been crying since Yonkers, and we finally got her to sleep.”

  The clerk peered out the window at the Tahoe, which was being buffeted by sheets of blowing rain. He took a key from the drawer and placed it on the counter in front of Meg. “Room twenty-two,” he said kindly. “There’s a canopy by the soda machine so the baby won’t get wet.”

  “Thanks, mister.” Meg’s big mouth had never let her down.

  She hoped Aiden’s memory was just as reliable.

  * * *

  The rain continued all night, playing a soft but persistent drumroll on the roof of the Olympia Motel. It did nothing to disturb the exhausted fugitives. This was their first night in real beds since Sunnydale. They slept like the dead.

  But in the morning, Miguel began to examine their surroundings with a more critical eye. “This place is a hole, yo. You took me out of Jersey to come to this dump?”