The anchorman thanked her. Another photo appeared, this one of a young man. Kit was about to turn off the television when he realized this was a related story.

“Sources close to the investigation tell Channel Three that law enforcement officials believe one of the suspects may be using the identification of Eric Grady, a young man who died under mysterious circumstances in Malibu last year…”

Eric Grady. Spooky had said that name yesterday-that was the name on one of the licenses in the wallet she had stolen from Freddy. Kit waited, but the newscaster didn’t give much more information.

He thought about Freddy pursuing Meghan at the hotel and on Sandia Peak. And the wallet. The way the bodies of the fugitives were left, hanging upside down.

If he had any remaining doubts, they were gone now. Everett and his friends were involved in hunting down the fugitives, and they had plans for Kit, Gabe, and Meghan.

Simply calling the FBI or the sheriff’s department was not an option-not only was Gabe’s life at risk, someone with his own background would be a suspect. If Kit came forward, connections would be made. Everett had taken steps to remind the investigators of the crimes committed by Kit’s stepfather, Jerome Naughton. Kit knew there were those who believed he had participated in those crimes.

He believed it himself. Was he any less guilty of murder than Gabe?

The memories, always ready to torment him, came back to him in sickening, stark, snapshot images.

Think of lucky things, he told himself. Think of numbers. He clutched the rabbit’s foot and began to recite the multiples of seven. He reached one hundred eighty-two before he felt his heart rate slow. No time for this. You have to keep Spooky and Meghan and Gabe safe. Avoiding thoughts of those he failed to protect from his stepfather, he focused on the problem of Eric Grady’s license.

Spooky had lost interest in the wallet and left it in the car. Kit put on a pair of gloves and retrieved the wallet from the backseat. Moriarty, watching him bring it into the house, said, “Spooky told me about the guy at the restaurant. Sounds as if Ms. Taggert knows some self-defense.”

“I talked her and her brother into taking lessons in high school,” Kit said absently. He spread the contents of the wallet on the kitchen table. There was a driver’s license and three credit cards for Eric Grady, among other identification for other names-including the true one for Frederick Whitfield IV.

“I assume this isn’t the wallet of a guy with a multiple personality disorder,” Moriarty said.

“No. Moriarty, I need your help. Can you find out where the sheriff’s department and FBI are going to hold their joint press conference today?”

“Piece of cake. I’ll just pretend to be a member of the media when I call.”

“Thanks. Can you get rid of Spooky’s fingerprints on these?”

“With the processes they have now, maybe not. I can wipe off most of them, anyway. But you know it will take the other guy’s fingerprints off, too?”

“Yes. That’s not important.” He pointed to the real license. “His DMV thumbprint won’t come off.”

Moriarty smiled. “That’s true.”

“I’ll be in the study.”

“Okay, I’ll call about the press conference. Then maybe you can get some sleep?”

“Maybe.”

In the study, he glanced at a copy of the Los Angeles Times. A reporter had written a story claiming that experts were speculating that the Exterminators were a national network of rogue law enforcement agents based in Los Angeles. No law enforcement agency would be able to stop them, because none really wanted to. Kit knew better but wondered how much inside help Everett was getting.

He set the paper aside and opened a packet that had been forwarded to him overnight. It was a short stack of mail. Unopened bills. While many of his bills were paid by his accountant, these were forwarded to him by a private mailbox company without the knowledge of any of the team of financial experts who worked for him, and paid for out of an account that would have been extremely difficult to trace back to him. They were small bills-one for water, one for a telephone, one for gas, another for electricity. As he opened them, he smiled in relief. There had been low usage of all of these services, except for the phone. No calls, just the basic service fee. The accounts had all been at the same level until January-when the electricity, water, and gas had increased.

Anyone could be living in the cabin near Arrowhead.

He knew, somehow, that it was Gabe.

He put the bills in his desk drawer and locked it.

Moriarty came upstairs, told Kit that the press conference would be held at the sheriff’s department headquarters, and gave Kit directions. Kit asked for a small number of items, including some electronic equipment, and told him which ones he needed most immediately. Moriarty assured Kit that he could provide them, and that he would keep Spooky and Meghan safe while he was gone. The calm exchange of information was typical of countless conversations held over the ten years they had known each other. When they finished, Moriarty stood and went to the door, then turned back to him. “Kit…I’d rather go with you, if you want to know the truth, especially if you’re going to do what I think you want to do. Someone should be watching your back.”

Kit hesitated. It was the first time in memory that Moriarty expressed worry. “Keeping Spooky and Meghan safe is the most important thing you can do for me.” When Moriarty didn’t argue, Kit said, “Thanks-besides, it’s better if you’re here to bail me out if I do get in trouble.”

“Let’s hope that it’s no more than a matter of finding you a lawyer.”

“I’ll need to leave here at about noon,” Kit said. “I’m going to try to catch some sleep until then.”

“Well, at least you’re doing one sensible thing.”

Kit looked in on Spooky, resisted the temptation to do the same with Meghan, and in his own bed, fell quickly into a blessedly dreamless sleep.

27

Malibu, California

Wednesday, May 21, 11:07 A.M.

Frederick worried that he might do something embarrassing-might cry, or something worse. And there was really no reason to, he told himself. Not yet, anyway.

Everett sat at the head of a long mahogany table in a room he set aside for meetings of their group. The four core members of Project Nine were present now, all back from their journeys. Frederick hadn’t managed to get much sleep last night, but he had been on time with the van at the Long Beach Airport.

As far as anyone at the airport knew, the small plane had arrived from a trip to Sacramento. The corporate jet would arrive later. This plane, which had been able to skirt radar, was still big enough to carry the cargo they had in it. It hadn’t been anywhere near Sacramento, of course.

Morgan had already told Everett that Frederick had been to New Mexico. He figured that out the moment he picked them up, from the way Cameron smiled at him. But Everett hadn’t said anything to him about it yet. The only comment he had made was “What have you done to your hair?”

“Now, let me understand,” Everett said, calmly surveying the others seated around the table. His hands were clasped before him. Nothing in his posture, his face, or his voice gave any hint of his feelings. “The sheriff’s department has found four bodies, correct?”

“Yes,” Morgan said.

“Nine, eight, seven, and six,” Frederick added. No use sitting there cringing, he told himself.

Cameron smiled again.

“Five and four are ready to go,” Everett said. “Three?”

“Three is at his safe house,” Morgan said. “He’s been loaded up with morphine for the last two days. His guard said he’s been completely out of it.”

“Excellent. And the others?”

“No problems.”