By the time police and the FBI descended on the place, Cameron was calmly on his way back to Malibu.

If Everett had harmed those children, he thought, he just might give him a remarkable appearance, too.

46

Malibu, California

Thursday, May 22, 4:50 P.M.

Gabriel Taggert drank a cup of good, strong coffee while he watched the news at low volume. His sister slept in her room upstairs. Although the drive to Blue Jay and back had been tiring, she was exhausted, he thought, more by worry than anything. She worried about Spooky, this kid Kit was raising. She worried about Moriarty. She worried about Kit.

But Gabe also knew she worried most about her ne’er-do-well brother.

Guilt had come with his sobriety. He hated to think of all the concern he had caused her over the years. Being around her, seeing that concern on her face, had only heightened his shame.

He stood and walked over to a shelf that had a picture of Spooky on it. She was cute, Gabe thought, but he wondered why she dressed as a boy and cut her hair so short. And what was up with that name?

He was distracted from these thoughts when he realized that on the television, the newscasters were talking about the surrender of Wesley Macon Sloan.

Perhaps he should turn himself in, just as Kit had been urging him to do. If it could be managed, it would certainly defeat Everett.

Then he saw Sloan, standing one moment, looking up at the sky, the next minute collapsing as a series of shots rang out.

Over his own sickening fear came the sound of the reporter’s screams. The camera moved unsteadily, capturing oddly angled images of brick walls and pavement for a few seconds as the camera operator tried to move to safety. The reporter was saying, “Oh my God! Oh my God!” over and over.

Gabriel heard a rattling sound and looked down at the cup and saucer in his hands. Trembling, he had sloshed coffee over the rim of the cup. He set the cup and saucer on a nearby table and pressed his palms to his eyes. He felt as though he could not get air into his lungs. He turned off the television and went outside, by the pool.

As he calmed a little, he began to wonder if he should leave the house and find a new hiding place.

But what was the use of hiding? Everett would be sure to come directly after Meghan then. And what would become of Kit and the kid?

He thought about the files Kit had left for him. Law enforcement couldn’t help him, he decided. They were always one step behind Everett.

Someone in the FBI must have tipped off Everett about Sloan. The problem, he decided, was that Everett was forcing everyone to play his game, his way. He had been the same way in high school. Kit had been the one to change all that.

Gabe decided that if he surrendered, what happened to Sloan would undoubtedly happen to him. The detective Kit wanted to approach would have to let the FBI know Gabe was giving himself up, and Everett’s buddy in the FBI would immediately be telling Cameron where to set up for a clear shot at Gabe’s head.

He needed a way to draw Everett out into the open without endangering Meghan or Kit. He needed to be somewhere that would cause Everett to play the game Gabe’s way. He needed surprise on his side.

He looked down into the canyon and glimpsed a tall gray structure.

The bell tower at Sedgewick.

He began to make a plan. Did he have the courage, he wondered, to carry it out?

He wrote a long note to Meghan, just in case things didn’t work out as he hoped they would, and then crept into her room. He looked down at her as she slept and resisted a sudden, strong temptation to wake her and tell her how afraid he was.

He left the note propped up on the dresser and tiptoed out.

One of Moriarty’s staff stopped him once. The guard politely apologized, and said that Mr. Logan had asked him to keep Gabe safe, and that meant keeping him here. Gabe said he understood perfectly and went back inside. After a few minutes, he went into the wing of the house occupied by the guards and borrowed some clothing. A little big, but the camouflage fabric would be helpful.

He was still afraid but found it felt surprisingly good to be doing something, to be acting on his own behalf.

If Moriarty had not been gone, if the guard had not been reduced by men looking for the child, he might not have made it outside the grounds. Even then, anyone else might have had difficulty slipping past the guard that remained. But as a teenager Gabe had spent more time here than he did at home.

Twenty minutes after taking the clothing, he was on his way down the winding canyon, wondering, as he recalled many a morning when he had overslept during high school, if he would still be able to find the shortcut into the grounds of Sedgewick.

47

Malibu, California

Thursday, May 22, 5:04 P.M.

“Don’t move,” a voice whispered.

Chase felt confused. Some moments passed before he realized he was lying on a bare wooden floor, his wrists and ankles bound. His muscles felt stiff, and he was scraped and bruised. Gradually, he remembered the accident on the road, although the details of that were unclear to him.

He tried to turn toward the voice, but again it said, not unkindly, “Don’t move, it will only hurt.” He heard the sound of someone scooting along the floor behind him, then a little whimper of pain, quickly suppressed.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

A low, short laugh-then, again in a whisper, “No. I’m as okay as you are. Hold still, and if you have to talk, keep your voice down. I’m going to try to get your hands free.”

A girl, he decided.

He felt cool hands touch his own, moving near his wrists. After a moment, she said, “It’s no use, my fingers are too numb. Wait a minute.”

He heard her moving again. Some moments later, her face was near his hands.

There was the odd sensation of her lips against his wrists, her face and hair touching his lower arms, her breath against his hands, and, in a little while, moisture-her tears? She was using her teeth, he realized, to work at the bindings around his wrists.

It took a long time, but he felt them loosen, and then, seemingly all at once, he was able to pull free. He heard her roll away. He moved his arms, feeling relief in his shoulders and back, and rolled toward her, his feet still bound. The room swam for a moment, and he waited for his double vision to clear. As it did, he got his first look at her.

She had really short hair, which suited her, he thought. He liked her eyes. They were big and brown beneath dark brows, and there was nothing coy in the way she studied him with them. She looked bold, as if she’d as soon hit him as look at him, and somehow that made him feel less afraid. She hadn’t cried after all, he realized, and glancing at his own hands and then back at her face, saw that the moisture he had felt was her blood-her lips were bleeding where the wire that had been around his wrists had cut into them.

If a girl-a girl who looked younger than he was-could go through that without shedding a tear, then he wasn’t going to feel sorry for himself, either.

He hurriedly moved his hands-which felt numb, then quickly needle-pricked by returning circulation-and began fumbling with her bonds. He rubbed at her hands to help get the blood flowing to them again, then freed her ankles before freeing his own.

“I’m Chase,” he said. “What’s your name?”

She hesitated, then said, “Emily. Some people call me Spooky.”

He didn’t get that weird nickname at all. “Thanks for freeing me, Emily.” He frowned as he looked for a clean corner of his ragged T-shirt, then tore off a strip of it and offered it to her. “Your lips-I’m sorry-it looks as if that really hurt.”