Without hesitation I say, “Yes. Count me in.”

Naomi nods, satisfied. “You’ll accompany Jack to the rendezvous point and remain there, reporting to me as events unfold. I can then take whatever actions I deem necessary.”

“We’re going to help Shane get Joey, right?”

“That’s the plan. You are to remain with the vehicle or nearby, is that understood? Keep your cell off unless you have to use it. It’s a virtual certainty they’ll be attempting to trace our movements.”

“The FBI or Gatling’s people?”

“Probably both.”

“You really think the FBI is assisting in a kidnapping?”

“No, absolutely not. But their security has been compromised. Anything they learn about this case is being passed on to GSG. Monica Bevins said as much, suggesting we’re on our own, and we must take her at her word. Now go, and Godspeed.”

As we hurry down the hallway it’s obvious Jack isn’t really cool with having me along, but orders are orders.

“What’s the problem?” I ask.

“Nothing personal. I’m just not sure it makes sense to expose you to felony charges if the thing goes sideways.”

“You’re concerned for my well-being?”

He shrugs. “Yeah.”

“That’s sweet. So what kind of code did Shane use?”

“Not a code, exactly. Verbal shorthand. We used to use it on open frequencies, in case bad guys had a scanner. You’d be surprised how many do. The call was very brief and to the point. ‘Mind your p’s and q’s.’”

“That’s it?”

“Emphasis on p’s. That would be Pease International Tradeport. He’ll be expecting us within the hour.”

On the way down to the garage Jack opens a gun safe, hands me a Smith & Wesson Airweight that’s identical to the weapon Naomi was wielding for last night’s festivities. Also a box of .38 ammo that feels heavier than the gun itself.

“Fine for me, but what about you?”

He snorts. “I’m already carrying, and that’s for Shane. ‘Q’ is code for a throw down. He was letting me know he needed a weapon.”

We get into his Lincoln Town Car and strap up. Jack’s a pest about seat belts. Before he turns the key he gives me one last out. “By picking up that gun you’re already in the act of aiding and abetting an escaped prisoner. It would be a whole lot safer to stay here and assist Naomi.”

“It wasn’t safer last night.”

“Good point,” he concedes. He thumbs a button on the visor and the garage door lifts.

Standing there, blocking our view, is a big beefy guy in a Massachusetts State Trooper uniform.

“Ah, shit,” says Jack. “You’ve got the gun. Get it to Shane. No delay. No time to clear it with Naomi, understood? I’ll make sure she knows what’s going down. You just make sure that—”

Before he can finish the car door is yanked open and the big trooper “assists” Jack from the vehicle. “Mr. Delancey? You’ll have to come with me.”

“What’s the charge?”

“The charge is, get in the cruiser and don’t speak until spoken to.”

“Like that, huh?”

“Captain Tolliver wants a word.”

As he’s being jammed into the cruiser Jack catches my eye and croaks out, “Don’t hesitate, go!”

And then the cruiser screeches down the public alley, leading our lead investigator away.

Let me tell you, driving a Lincoln Town Car is like piloting a boat. Not that I’ve ever piloted a boat of any kind, but you get the idea. Big and wide and gliding along the highway like a battleship with an uncertain navigator at the wheel. There’d been such urgency in Jack’s request—right away, no delay, don’t hesitate—that I resisted the temptation to return to boss lady for a consultation. She’ll know soon enough and time is of the essence. By the time the cruiser clears the alley I’m headed in the opposite direction, doubling back through a few side streets, and then slipping onto Storrow Drive with fingers crossed, hoping I haven’t picked up a tail.

As to the precise rendezvous location, all I know is that Taylor Gatling’s company is headquartered at the Pease International Tradeport. That’s where Milton Bean had been threatened with torture so it makes sense that Shane would be checking out Pease in his hunt for Joey Keener. And if he’s doing so in the company of the woman who had originally helped kidnap the boy, or at the very least helped care for him, then he—they, Shane and his accomplice—quite possibly have current information on the boy’s whereabouts.

Fortunately for me, Jack’s ride has a built-in GPS. A female-sounding navigator who rather snippily directs me to go north on Route 95, which I do manage, although not as efficiently as Miss Snippy would have liked. Using the cruise control—the boat comes with every option—I keep it to just a teensy bit over the maximum speed limit, so as not to attract attention from the highway patrol, and settle in for the fifty-minute journey.

All the while wondering if I’m doing the right thing. Not so much worried about legal repercussions—there’s always hope that Dane can sort those out—but doing the right thing for Joey. Maybe we’re wrong about the FBI being compromised and we should bring them in, use all that manpower and tactical advantage. Naomi could be wrong about that, we all could, but it’s not my call. So I decide to leave the option to boss lady, who is no doubt already factoring in what happened to Jack, considering all the possibilities. Possibilities I probably can’t even imagine, not being a genius with a brain that recalls every little thing.

It boils down to this. Jack Delancey thinks it’s important that Shane be supplied with a weapon. And that, ultimately, is good enough for me.

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Faith

The birds are going nuts, making so much noise I feel it like a pressure in my ears. All of them shrieking, Over here! There’s a human over here! Or maybe they do this every morning, regardless of intruders. I wouldn’t know. The last time I went camping I was still married—or thought I was—and the experience involved a lovely little bungalow in the Berkshires. Paid for by me, of course, although I didn’t know that at the time. Still, Girl Scout I’m not. Girl Scouts would have bug spray, in addition to nutritious cookies—I’m suffering from a distinct lack of breakfast—and I resent donating blood to the local mosquito swarm, however needy they may be.

The navigator turns out to be useful but limited. It guides me to the Tradeport, no problem, but for whatever reason it can’t seem to come up with Gatling Security Group World Headquarters. Maybe it’s been blocked or shielded, like other high-value security targets. Or maybe I just failed to find the right screen on the smug little GPS. Whatever, in the end all I’ve got to guide me is my recollection of Jack’s description of where he was when he rescued Milton Bean. Something about a nature trail running alongside a huge airfield. The Tradeport is, after all, built around a former U.S. Air Force base with a runway big enough to land the space shuttle—if we still had one, that is.

I located the runway—really, it can’t be missed—and by following the signs found a trail marked, no surprise, Nature Trail. The only trouble, as soon as I ventured away from the paved road I somehow misplaced the trail part. The vast expanse of the airfield is in sight, just beyond the thick leaves, but I’m left thrashing around in the thick underbrush, trying not to panic because the birds, damn their little shrieking beaks, are going to give me away.

And that, of course, is exactly when my cell phone starts twittering. I’d turned it back on when I left the car, hoping Naomi will text me with something useful, but swear to the god of SIM cards that I left it on vibrate. Honestly, the rotten little Nokia seems to have a life of its own. I fumble around in my purse, nearly dumping out the Smith & Wesson, and flip open the phone. It is, as I expected and hoped, Naomi Nantz herself.