Rick Mofina

Whirlwind

The first book in the Kate Page series, 2014

To the memory of John Gradon

The clouds poured out water; The skies sent out a sound; Your arrows also flashed about. The voice of Your thunder was in the whirlwind;

The lightnings lit up the world; The earth trembled and shook.

– Psalms 77:17-18

1

Wildhorse Heights, Texas

Death was near but Jenna Cooper was not aware.

No one was.

Like the thousands of other people at the Old Southern Glory Flea Market, in the southeastern part of the Dallas- Fort Worth Metroplex, she was hunting for bargains.

Jenna liked coming here. With more than nine hundred vendors in buildings and open-air sections spread over forty acres at the Hawn and LBJ freeways, Old Southern was one of the biggest flea markets in Texas.

Whatever Jenna needed, she could always find a deal on it.

“Can I make you an offer on these?”

Jenna touched the folded baby clothes she’d selected and piled on the vendor’s table. The fleece hoodie, the footed pajamas, a romper, T-shirts, bibs, the lace tops and the skorts, which were so cute.

The vendor was wearing a Cowboys ball cap, rose-tinted sunglasses and a T-shirt that read: Verna’s Clothes for Kids. Jenna guessed her to be in her late sixties.

“What’s your offer, dear?”

Jenna figured the clothes would cost fifty to sixty dollars if she were to buy them new. But the items, as tagged on the table, would run about thirty-five dollars. She was not very good at negotiating, but these days she had no choice. For her, Blake and the kids, money was an issue.

“Would you take twenty-five for all of them?”

The woman took stock of Jenna’s daughter, who was holding on to the stroller where her baby brother was waking up from a nap.

“How old are your little ones?” she asked, weighing Jenna’s offer.

“Cassie’s four, almost five, and her baby brother Caleb’s five months.”

“I bet they’re a handful.”

“They are.”

“All right, dear, for you and your angels, twenty-five.”

“Thank you.” Jenna handed her the cash from her wallet.

While the vendor rummaged under the table for a bag, the old transistor radio hanging from her wooden sign that also read Verna’s Clothes for Kids, crackled faintly with an updated weather report.

But few people were listening about the possible tornado watch.

The sky was overcast with flashes of lightning on the horizon. It was hot and humid. Jenna pressed the back of her hand to her moist forehead then checked on Caleb. He was going to be hungry and she’d have to find a place to feed him. She gave Cassie a sip of bottled water, intending to finish shopping and get home before it rained.

“Your little girl’s beautiful.”

Jenna’s attention shifted to the end of the table, where another woman had stopped browsing to pay her the compliment. She was about Jenna’s age, mid-twenties, with short spiky red hair and a nice smile.

“Thank you,” Jenna said.

“And-” the stranger nodded to the stroller “-I overheard, your baby boy’s five months old?”

“Yes.” Jenna beamed.

“May I?” The woman stepped closer, lowering herself to Caleb’s stroller. “Oh, he’s brand-new! What a sweetheart!”

“Here’s your bag,” the vendor said to Jenna.

“Thanks.” She reached out for it.

“Who does he take after?” The stranger stood.

“His dad. He’s got his father’s eyes.”

For the first time, Jenna noticed a man at the other end of the table. He seemed about the same age as the woman and by the way he was watching, appeared to be with her.

“You’re so blessed. They’re beautiful children,” the woman said.

“Thank you.” Jenna stowed the clothes in the stroller’s basket.

That woman was right, Jenna thought, while making her way through the bustling market. Jenna was blessed, but this past year had been hard for her family. A week after she’d learned that she was pregnant, Blake was laid off from his ground-crew job at DFW International Airport. As weeks and months passed, Blake took any work he could find. He’d come home, hands callused from a long day on a construction site, or he’d fall asleep in front of the TV after a day making dozens of deliveries as a courier. But that was all low-paying, temporary work.

Blake couldn’t find a good, steady job.

Jenna was a part-time teller and worked as many hours as she could before she was due. They were burning through the little savings they had, and she feared they would lose their home, right up until six weeks ago. That’s when Blake was hired by American Journey Movers. It was full-time, and luckily there were health benefits, which helped when she had Caleb.

The downside was that Blake was always on the road. He started in Florida one week then was in Minnesota the next. Thankfully, Jenna’s sister, Holly, came in from Atlanta for two weeks when Caleb was born, because the day after Jenna brought him home from the hospital, Blake was on the road again to Kentucky and Virginia.

Now he was in Alaska.

Jenna missed him.

“You’ll tough it out, Jen,” Blake would tell her. “You’re not a quitter. We’ll get through this. Look at all we’ve faced so far.”

He was right, and she was grateful. Things were turning around for them. She had a healthy baby boy and a beautiful daughter. Blake had found a good job. It was true, she was blessed. They’d kept their house and were clearing their debts.

To help with their finances, Jenna was trying to get a data-processing job that would let her do extra work at home. She was also careful with money, never spending beyond their budget. That’s why she had buckled Cassie and Caleb into the family’s ten-year-old Ford Focus and come here.

But before heading out this morning, she’d hesitated. The forecast had called for a slight risk of severe weather later this afternoon. Standing in her driveway, she thought the sky looked fine, and she planned to be home by early afternoon. Besides, she needed to get some things now, and this was the best time for her to go.

They’d had good luck so far, Jenna thought, as she maneuvered through the crowded market lanes. Along with the baby clothes, she’d bought towels and bedsheets for a steal. They had factory flaws that weren’t even noticeable. Now she needed a desk lamp. She’d spotted one priced at two dollars. The same one in the store was going for fifteen.

Caleb was starting to fuss. Jenna needed to feed him but wanted to get the lamp first. She was trying to recall the row where the lamp was when she felt the first raindrop.

Then a wind kicked up some papers and dirt. Vendors began throwing tarps and plastic sheets over their wares, others unrolled canvas walls. Jenna unfolded the canopy on Caleb’s stroller, got Cassie into her rain jacket and opened her umbrella just as the downpour started.

Hunched against the rain they hurried to take cover under the tent roof of a large picnic area. They crammed in with other shoppers just as hail in golf-ball-sized chunks smashed into the ground, pelting the roof with such ferocity Jenna feared it would tear through.

“Mommy I’m scared!” Cassie slid her arms around her.

Jenna pulled her closer and tightened her grip on her stroller. She bit her lip watching the storm and lightning, regretting not leaving earlier.

“Mommy, I want to go home!”

“Me, too, honey. It’ll stop soon. Then we’ll get you a cookie, I’ll feed Caleb and we’ll go home, okay?”

Jenna felt Cassie’s little face nodding against her as the hail relented.

“What! Baby, I can’t hear you!”

Jenna’s head snapped to a man in the gathered crowd with his cell phone pressed to his ear. “Baby!”

Others under the canopy turned to a woman as she said, “For real?” into her cell phone.

“Baby.” The man was staring helplessly at the sky, then at his phone. “I can’t hear you!” Then to the rest of the group he said, “My wife’s east of Lancaster. She said a tornado hit, then her phone died.” He flipped up his hood. “I gotta find her. Y’all better take cover!”

As if on cue, a siren wailed. Jenna knew that sound. The city had about a hundred warning sirens throughout Dallas and tested them once a month.

Only this one was not a test.

The steady signal was an alert to seek immediate shelter.

“Mommy!”

Jenna was transfixed.

A massive wall of black cloud in the shape of a wedge had suddenly risen in the west where the sky had turned an otherworldly shade of green. All the saliva in Jenna’s mouth suddenly evaporated as she fought to contain the wave of panic rising in her gut.

“My God!” an old man said, adjusting his glasses as he pointed to the sky. “That’s a school bus spinning up there, hundreds of feet in the air!”

Crushing Cassie to her, Jenna whispered a prayer.

2

Wildhorse Heights, Texas

Jenna’s heart was racing.

Numbed by disbelief, she stared through the rain at the towering wall of black cloud swirling toward the market.

Vendors were scrambling to protect their goods; people hurried in all directions. The siren’s cry underscored the panic vibrating among those huddled under the tent; some ran off to the nearest building. Horns blared.

Beyond the rows of tables, Jenna saw the cars gridlocked in a futile struggle to leave. She calculated her chances of getting her children to their car in the distant parking lot before the storm hit.

We won’t make it in time.

“Mommy!” Cassie covered her ears with her hands. “I want to go, Mommy! I’m scared!”

Caleb was crying.

We have to find a safe place, now!

The nearest building was their best hope. She’d keep Caleb in his stroller; that way she could move faster with the kids. Quickly, she tightened the straps holding him, then she hoisted Cassie onto her hip, carrying her with one arm while steering Caleb’s stroller with her free hand.

As they headed into the rain, the tent canopy blew away behind them.

“Hang on to me, Cassie!”

Jenna bent against the wind, determined to make it to the building some forty yards off. She saw the scores of people clogging the entrance and prayed that she could get her children inside.

There’s no turning back, nowhere else to go.

Items from the market started shooting through the air around them, a lawn chair, a bookcase and a folding table, ricocheting off the ground, trees and structures.

Above the siren and all the noise Jenna heard a scream, turned and saw an older man knocked down by a flying piece of lumber. People who’d stopped to help him were suddenly in the path of a large Dumpster, tumbling at top speed before it hit them like they were bowling pins.

Jenna agonized over stopping to help when Caleb’s stroller began shaking and lifting slightly as gusts tried to wrench him from her grip. She fought to hold on to Caleb and Cassie and kept moving to the building, praying with each yard she covered until she made it to the entrance where she joined the others inching their way inside.

“Please hurry, please!” Jenna pleaded over the rushing winds.

Known as the Saddle Up Center, the large square building had been constructed decades ago in a pole barn design with a concrete floor, wooden frame, metal walls and a metal roof. It housed rows of vendors’ tables displaying clothes, furniture and collectables. Hundreds of worried shoppers were jamming into it.

Foreboding filled the air. The warning siren was accompanied by the furious, staccato bombardment of debris striking the walls and roof. The building shook as if under artillery attack.

People with working cell phones shouted out reports.

“A lot of injuries in Lancaster!”

“Transformers are blowing, fires everywhere!”

“A tornado is heading this way!”

There was a loud bang; a streetlight pierced the roof, its large arm swaying perilously above the crowd.

The center’s lights began flickering as debris hammered the building and the wind howled.

“She ain’t gonna hold much longer!” a man shouted.

As Caleb cried, Jenna stared at the roof. The wooden trusses supporting the roof began bending and cracking. She craned her neck, searching for someplace, anyplace, to go.

“Mommy!” Cassie was sobbing.

She was heavy in Jenna’s arm and she had to put her down.

“Mommy, please, no! I’m scared. Hold me!”

“Sweetie, we have to find someplace safe.”

Jenna’s heart was pounding as she looked for a stairway to a basement, a cellar, a grandstand, anything to protect her children.

There was nothing.

Oh God, please help us!

The roof began shifting. A steel trash drum punctured it like a bullet, smashing into a vendor’s stall. Then a small car with terrified people inside hurled through the top of one wall, crashing down onto the sea of helpless shoppers. People screamed while others tried to lift it from the victims.

The building’s walls began to ripple from the pulverizing wind. Jenna’s breathing quickened, the blood rush in her ears keeping time with her heart. She got down on her knees and pulled Cassie and Caleb’s stroller closer to her.

We’re not going to die here.

Someone grabbed her shoulder.

“This way!” a woman shouted into her ear. “Come with me! It’s safer this way!”

Jenna recognized the red-haired woman she’d met earlier, who’d fussed over Caleb.

“You look like you need a hand! Let me take him for you-we need to cut across the floor!”

Jenna had no time to think. She let the woman take control of Caleb’s stroller. Jenna carried Cassie while the man accompanying the woman cleared the way for them. Her pulse galloping, Jenna still savored a degree of relief.

Amid the noise and confusion they found a corner where four huge concrete planters were stored against a wall. Keep us safe here! Please keep us safe! The planters were about three feet tall and three feet square with a narrow gap between them that no one was using.

The roar grew so intense Jenna felt vibrations in her rib cage as the earth began trembling.

The woman pushed Caleb’s stroller into the gap between the planters; Jenna followed, holding Cassie. They hunkered down as chunks of wood began raining from the roof.

Adrenaline pumping, Jenna’s body quaked and she begged Heaven to keep her family safe.

As the man tried to pull a canvas over them, Jenna saw the winds suck the doors from the building, then some people.

The roof began twisting as trusses gave way and large beams fell on helpless people. Chunks of the building’s wall started ripping away, then the roof was gone, people vanished up into black swirling clouds. Metal, wood and debris rained down on Jenna and the others.

Tears streamed down Jenna’s face.

Please help us! Keep my children safe! Don’t let us die!

The heavy planters began shifting.

During horrible chaos Jenna held Cassie tight and held the stroller’s frame as the wind tried to tear it away. The kind stranger was holding on, too.

Lord, please help me!

The last thing Jenna remembered was hanging on to her children and praying before something struck her head. She saw stars before everything went black.

* * *

Jenna Cooper was floating.

She was adrift under a brilliant sun as diamond waves of warm water lapped on a white-sand beach. Blake was beside her, Caleb was napping between them, shaded by their towels. Cassie was making sand castles.

Totally content, Jenna watched the gulls gliding above them, circling, shrieking, inviting her…

…the shrieking…pulling her up from the beach…taking her higher, farther and farther from Blake and the children…no…she can’t leave them…the shrieking…no…she’s not ready to leave them…she’s rising faster…this can’t be happening…

Jenna’s eyes flicked open, squinting and adjusting to shafts of light piercing the latticework above. Where am I? A million muddled thoughts streaked across her mind as she blazed through an inventory of sensations. She was on her back. She wiggled her toes, her fingers, took a deep breath. No discomfort. Where’s Blake, the children? She thought she heard the clamor of radios in the distance. She coughed, twisted grit from her eyes, feeling warmth next to her and a familiar snuggle.

“Mommy!”

“Cassie!” Jenna moved to check her in the weak light. Cassie had cuts on her little cheeks. “Are you hurt, sweetie? Are you okay?”

“I think so. You got a big ouchy on your head.”

Jenna felt some swelling on her forehead and touched her fingers just at the hairline. It was tender, sticky and her fingertips glistened with blood.

“I guess I got a little bump, honey.”

Cassie’s chin crumpled and she cried. “I’m scared. What happened, Mommy?”

Images flashed before Jenna: The market, the storm, seeking shelter, a red-haired woman helping with Caleb, taking cover by the planters, everything going dark, the building breaking apart, Jenna’s hand holding the stroller.

Now her hand was empty.

She searched the area around her.

Where’s my baby?

“Caleb?” she said. Then, the scream ripped from her throat: “Caleb!”

3

Dallas, Texas

In the hour before the storm, Kate Page, an intern reporter at the Dallas bureau of the global news service, Newslead, was at her desk on the phone.

She’d taken a cold call from Cody Warren, a sixteen-year-old high school student whose father had been killed last week in a hit-and-run case just south of Dallas.

“Can you help us find my dad’s killer, please, ma’am?”

Kate adjusted her grip on her handset as he continued.

“We got to get the word out. Police say they have no leads, nothing.” Cody’s voice broke. “We buried him yesterday.”

Over the years, Kate had kept an emotional distance from the people she’d faced while reporting on tragedies. But she never lost her compassion and her heart went out to this teenager who’d been calling every newsroom in Dallas-Fort Worth.

He deserved kindness and the truth.

“Cody, I am so sorry for what’s happened. You have my condolences.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

“I can’t guarantee that we’ll do a story, but I give you my word I’ll look into it, okay?”

There was a pause.

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Okay, thank you, ma’am.”

After hanging up, Kate took a moment then took a breath. Her attention shifted briefly when the chatter of the bureau’s emergency radio scanners blared from across the floor where Tommy Koop, a news assistant, was monitoring the stream of coded transmissions.

Kate thought she’d heard the word, tornadoes, until Tommy lowered the volume, and she guessed it was just a spurt of firefighter cross talk about weather forecasts.

Ten people worked at the bureau; most of the reporters were out. Kate had an hour before her next assignment, enough time to keep the promise she had made to her caller. She did a quick online search of the suburban news outlets for the last reports on the hit-and-run. Not much had surfaced. She made a round of quick calls to the highway patrol, the sheriffs for Ellis and Dallas counties, and Cedar Hill PD, which had jurisdiction. Kate got through to a sergeant, who updated her.

“Cody’s father had stopped to help a driver, an elderly woman, change a flat on Bear Creek Road when he was hit by a car,” the sergeant said.

“He was being a Good Samaritan.” Kate was taking notes.

“That’s correct.”

Investigators had a blurred image of the suspect car from a store security camera but were counting on people who knew about the case to step forward. The sergeant gave Kate details on time and location.

After the call she looked out the bureau’s twenty-second-floor windows. The sky had darkened. It was raining with flashes of lightning.

She called Cody back for more background on his father. Then, pen clamped in her teeth, she crafted a tight three-hundred-word news story on the search for the car tied to the death of a Good Samaritan motorist. She sent it to the news desk, hoping Chuck Laneer, the bureau chief, would see it before Dorothea Pick, the bureau’s news editor.

The scanners grew louder again with dispatches on a storm, and Tommy paced between his desk and the window, then began making calls. A severe weather warning had been issued earlier in the day indicating a slim chance of tornado conditions. Kate considered it for a moment, wondering about the odds of a tornado touching down and thinking that it was a good thing she’d brought her rain jacket. She still had some time before her assignment, a city meeting on parks that Dorothea had given her.

Kate glanced at Tommy. He was a good-hearted, hardworking kid, she thought, before her concern shifted to whether Chuck and Dorothea had assigned a reporter to monitor the possible storm.

She took stock of her temporary “squatter’s” desk, at the artifacts left by the previous occupant; the torn city map pinned to the fabric half wall, alongside the calendar and the fading list of contact numbers.

She had worked at a newspaper in Ohio before she was laid off. Now she was a week into a three-week “internship” at Newslead’s Dallas bureau. Internship? It’s an all-out job competition.

Kate was one of three reporters in the program. The other two candidates were experienced and they were Texans.

Roy Webster, 42, had been with the Houston Chronicle for twenty years before he was laid off. His team had been a finalist for a Pulitzer for its coverage of Hurricane Ike.

When they had all first met, Webster had extended his hand. “You’re not from Texas, are you, Kate?”

“No, I’m not.”

“You chose a helluva way to get to know the state.” He winked.

The other candidate, Mandy Lee, 33, was a general assignment reporter and former teen beauty queen, who’d won two state news awards before she’d taken a buyout from the Dallas Morning News.

She was cool to Kate when they’d met.

“Canton, Ohio? I didn’t know they even had a paper in that itty-bitty town.” Mandy showed Kate her pageant-winning smile.

Kate knew she was at a disadvantage. She’d also sensed that Dorothea Pick had disapproved of her being on the short list.

“You’re fortunate to be here,” Dorothea had said. “There were so many strong candidates right here in Dallas.”

For his part, Chuck Laneer, impressed by Kate’s doggedness when she’d worked in Ohio, had been firm but fair.

“Just show us your best,” he’d told her.

Oh, she’d do more than that.

Roy and Mandy may be better qualified but Kate was a never-say-die fighter. At the end of the internship, one of them would have a job. The others would go home unemployed.

Losing out was not an option for Kate. These days most newsrooms across the country were cutting staff. Few were hiring. This was Kate’s best shot at a full-time job, maybe her only shot, and so far it was not looking good.

So far, her work had received little play, or had resulted in inserts in other peoples’ stories. She’d had her name on only one item that had been picked up nationally. She’d put a lot on the line to be here.

She could not fail.

Kate met the eyes of Grace smiling from her screen saver, and a wave of guilt rolled over her.

Did I make the right decision, doing this?

Grace, Kate’s six-year-old daughter, was back home in Canton, staying with friends. Lord, how Kate missed her; she hated being away from her but she needed a full-time job. She was laid off from the Repository six months ago and this Dallas internship was her best shot at a new start.

But so far, it was not going well. She needed to deliver stronger stories.

Kate’s phone rang. It was Dorothea.

“Got your story. Come see me.”

When Kate got to Dorothea’s desk, the news editor patted a chair she’d rolled next to hers. Kate’s story was up on her monitor.

“Have a seat,” Dorothea said. “I want you to see what I’m going to do.”

Dorothea Pick, second in command at the bureau, was in her late forties. Kate thought she wore a little too much makeup and with her overarching eyebrows, appeared to be in a state of perpetual surprise, or anger. She had a lovely voice that dripped with Southern charm that bordered on condescension whenever she addressed Kate about her work.

“This is well written but it’s not a national news item.” Dorothea’s extension rang. She glanced at the number. “Hang on, I need to take this.” Into the phone, she said, “Where are you? Okay, what do you have? Yes, yes…but did it touch down?” After waiting for the answer, Dorothea glanced to Chuck Laneer’s glass-walled office. They could see him on the phone, standing at his desk, shirtsleeves rolled up, bifocals pushed atop his forehead and pointing a remote at his flat-screen TV. “I’m going to pass you to Chuck.”

Dorothea transferred the call and resumed her work with Kate’s story. Her mouse and keyboard clicked as she removed line after line.

“As you know, this tragedy was reported regionally, so at best this is an updated regional brief and regional briefs are one hundred words, maximum.” With surgical precision, she’d reduced Kate’s story to ninety-five words. “And, as we know, briefs don’t run with bylines.”

Kate watched Dorothea delete her name.

“There we go,” Dorothea said. “How’s that?”

“I don’t understand why this is not a story,” Kate said. “This man was a volunteer firefighter, an ex-Marine who’d done duty in Afghanistan. He stopped to help a woman who’d been visiting her dying husband in the hospital and paid for it with his life. The person responsible for killing him has so far gotten away with it.”

Dorothea nodded and smiled. “Sorry, it’s a traffic accident. Now you should get moving to the assignment I gave you.”

“The one about the meeting on city parks?”

“It concerns Dealey Plaza.”

“But there’s a severe storm approaching, possibly with tornadoes. Maybe I could help cover the outcome? The meeting doesn’t sound like hard news. I could pick it up later.”

“We’re fine with the storm. We need someone at the parks meeting.”

“But-” Kate shot glances at the news assistant monitoring the scanners and Chuck Laneer in his office on the phone “-I really think-”

“Are you refusing an assignment, Kate?”

“No, not at all.”

“Did you read the report on Dealey Plaza that I gave you?”

“Yes. But all it suggests is planting some trees.”

“You’re not from Texas, so you can be forgiven for not understanding that Dealey’s a national historic landmark. Anything concerning the plaza interests editors across the country. You’d better hurry along.”

Kate returned to her desk for her things.

Biting back her frustration, she pulled on her raincoat, unable to dismiss the niggling feeling that Dorothea was attempting to thwart her. In the past week she’d given the two other interns bigger stories that got major national play. It seemed Dorothea went out of her way to feed Kate scraps and soft news.

“Everybody stop what you’re doing!” Chuck’s voice boomed.

He stood in the doorway of his office holding a notebook in one hand and his glasses in the other. Thirty-nine hard years in news were written in the lines that creased his rugged face.

“We have confirmation that tornadoes are cutting across the metropolitan area. We have casualties and destruction.” Laneer glanced at his notebook. “We’ve got people going to Arlington, Grand Prairie and Lancaster.”

Laneer pointed his glasses at Kate.

“I want you to get to Wildhorse Heights, to the Old Southern Glory Flea Market, south of LBJ and Hawn. It got hit. New York wants everything we’ve got and they want it fast, people. Stand down from all other assignments. There is only one story today. Let’s get on it.”

4

Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

Kate took the elevator down to the building’s parking garage.

She hurried to her car, a 2007 Chevy Cobalt that started with a rattle, reminding her that she had to get it to the shop one of these days. She reset her mileage counter then keyed the flea market address into the GPS on her dash.

Newslead’s bureau was in Bryan Tower. The flea market was about twelve miles southeast.

She switched on her hands-free speakerphone and wheeled out of the garage. Her wipers swept at the rain as Chuck’s orders echoed in her head.

“Get us the facts, the heartbreak and the heroes.”

Kate got onto the expressway with her stomach tightening, as it always did whenever she’d rushed off to a breaking story. No matter how many tragedies or disasters she’d covered, Kate never got used to it.

No reporter did.

You never knew what you were heading into. But it was up to you to pull a story out of the chaos, to make sense of whatever was unfolding and to do it as a clock ticked down on you. And if that wasn’t enough pressure, Kate knew that she and her two competitors would be judged by their performance on this story.

The prize was a full-time job.

She adjusted her grip on the wheel as she worked through traffic.

I’ll do whatever it takes, she vowed to her daughter’s snapshot on the visor as the radio news broadcasted tornado updates, confirming: “A large number of fatalities,” shifting Kate’s thoughts to the victims and their families. She did not want to land a story, or a job, at the expense of someone else’s pain.

I didn’t mean it that way. Forgive me.

She glanced at the few sparkles Grace had shed from her homemade card onto the passenger seat when she’d taken her to her friend Courtney’s birthday party, a few days before she’d left for Texas.

It was nearly two weeks ago but it seemed like a year.

In her rearview mirror Kate saw Dallas’s skyline, the Bank of America Plaza, the Renaissance and Comerica towers and the Fountain Place prism, all blurring in her rain-streaked rear window.

Would Dallas be her new home?

As the wet road rushed under her car, she considered her life and where she was headed with it. She was a twenty-nine-year-old single mother with a six-year-old daughter. From the beginning, Kate and Grace had been on their own. Grace’s father had never been in the picture. Kate had been a loner most of her life. Her mother and father died in a hotel fire when she was seven years old. After the tragedy, Kate and her little sister, Vanessa, lived with relatives then bounced through foster homes. Two years after her parents’ deaths, she lost Vanessa in a car accident.

Kate’s radio beeped.

“We have confirmation that powerful tornadoes have touched down in Lancaster and Wildhorse Heights. We have reports of fatalities and widespread devastation. This could be one of the worst storms ever…”

Kate took a deep breath and concentrated on her driving when her phone rang with a call from Chuck Laneer.

“Where are you now?”

“A little over halfway.”

“Do you see any pockets of damage?”

“No, nothing but black clouds and rain where I am.”

“We need to move on this.”

Kate passed a line of slower vehicles. As neighborhood after neighborhood rolled by she checked her GPS constantly. She was somewhere at the southern point of Kleberg when the squeak of wipers on the windshield signaled that the rain was letting up.

The sky was clearing.

The area was flat, nearly treeless, but it appeared undisturbed. She saw an aging roller-skating rink, an auto auction yard, an ice-cream stand-but no indication of damage.

None.

Fearing she’d missed a turnoff, she consulted her GPS again. Where was the flea market? It should be here.

Her phone rang. Chuck again.

“Kate, where are you…what’ve you got?”

“Nothing so far.”

“You should be-”

“Chuck, you’re breaking up!”

“-we’re hearing that the Saddle Up Center in the market got-”

When the call died, she tried calling Chuck back, but she’d lost the connection.

Traffic ahead was slowing into a stream of brake lights as troopers and sheriff’s deputies were merging two lanes of southbound traffic into one to keep a clear path for emergency vehicles. Kate got into the single slow lane, which soon crawled to a stop.

In the expressway’s grassy median she saw a large upside-down neon sign for Sanchez Restaurant-Fajita Special Today; she saw a partial splintered wooden structure that may have been a roof, then a crumpled van on its side. Cars had pulled over to aid the van’s passengers. Two solid lanes of traffic flowed in the opposite direction. Kate had to do a double take on several pickup trucks. They were loaded with bleeding people being tended to by others.

Oh, my God…

Then her rearview mirror flashed with wig-wagging emergency lights as she heard the siren of an ambulance, no, three ambulances, coming fast behind her in the emergency lane, followed by an SUV painted with the colorful logo of a radio news station.

Kate’s traffic line was inching along. She had to get to the scene.

She bit her bottom lip and made a decision.

When the radio news truck passed, she wheeled her car into the emergency lane and followed it. She traveled for about a quarter mile before reaching a roadblock at a U-turn. Several marked police cars were parked there. Officers were turning traffic around to the lanes moving northbound.

Sheriff’s deputies waived the ambulances and news truck through southbound, but a big trooper in a raincoat stepped in front of Kate’s car, pointed at her, commanding her to stop. Then he leaned into her window.

“You can’t go any farther, miss. This lane is for emergency vehicles only. We need you to go through the U-turn and head back.”

“I know, but I’m with the press and you just let that radio news guy through.”

As the trooper hesitated Kate noticed officers at the patrol cars nearby contending with six or seven anguished people. They were demanding to be allowed through the roadblock. “My father and mother are there…but we can’t reach them on their phone…please let us by-”

Kate’s trooper glanced at the group, then, as he returned his gaze to her, she said, “I have a job to do, too.”

“Who are you with? Do you have some ID?”

“Newslead.” Kate fumbled for her plastic photo ID and chain, showing it to him. “Our stories go across the country and around the world.”

He studied her ID long enough for her to notice he had blue eyes and rainwater webbing down his jawline.

“All right.” He nodded. “I’ll let you through, but when you get to the next point, park to the side. We need the lanes clear for emergency crews.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve seen a lot in my time, but nothing like what happened down there. Brace yourself.”

5

Wildhorse Heights, Texas

Tense from the trooper’s warning, Kate drove beyond the roadblock.

Her knuckles whitened on the wheel as she navigated around the chunks of plastic, metal and garbage scattered over the two empty southbound lanes. About a hundred yards in, the freeway dipped with a gentle slope, giving her a sweeping view of what used to be the Old Southern Glory Flea Market.

“Oh my God!”

For as far as she could see, the landscape was a graveyard of crushed cars and trucks, punctuated with the ghostly pronglike remnants of trees jutting from a sea of debris.

Small fires flickered amid the destruction.

It looks like a gate to hell.

Ahead, Kate saw the long line of ambulances, fire trucks, police cars and emergency crew vehicles, their lights flashing. She parked between a fire truck and a TV news van. The rain had stopped. She was dressed in fitted jeans and a belted top, but her flat leather shoes wouldn’t do. Metal, wood and glass covered the ground. She got a pair of old hiking boots and woolen socks she kept in the trunk, put them on quickly and tied the laces tight. She pulled on her rain jacket, grabbed her phone and tried to call Chuck. Nothing happened. She tried texting. It didn’t work. No service. The cell towers must be down. Damn. She tested her phone’s camera. It worked. She tested the keyboard, created a file called Storm-1. Okay, she could still write and take pictures.

She gathered her spare phone battery, notebook and pens, slipped the chain with her press ID over her neck and recalled Chuck’s orders.

Get us the facts, the heartbreak and the heroes.

Her pulse quickened as she rushed into the chaos. Rounding a heap of splintered lumber and smashed Sheetrock, she stopped in her tracks at the scene before her.

With a funereal air, two firefighters were placing a yellow tarp over the bodies of four dead people: two adult men and two adult women, side by side on the ground, in a neat row. Nearly stripped of their clothes, their battered bodies were blood soaked. One of the women was missing a foot. One of the men had a shard of glass sticking out of his stomach. Not far off, she saw another yellow tarp on the ground with three more pairs of feet extending from it. Two of the pairs belonged to children.

Kate steadied herself on a picnic table until she found her composure.

She offered a silent prayer for the dead, then thought of her daughter in Ohio, wishing she could be with her now. After blinking back her tears, Kate opened her notebook, made notes and moved on.

I have to do this.

Everywhere, people staggered in wide-eyed shock, shouting names of loved ones at the debris.

Kate came upon an overturned car with a metal signpost rammed through the windshield. The car had a large white X sprayed on it. Two women sat on the ground next to it draped in a tattered blanket. They were on the road but much of the asphalt near them had been peeled away.

She lowered herself and sat with them.

“Hi, I’m Kate Page, a reporter with Newslead. May I talk to you?”

The women were in their twenties, their faces were scraped and their eyes were tearful. One of them gave a little nod.

“Can you tell me where you were when the storm hit and what happened?” Kate asked.

The first woman had short blond hair. She looked at the horizon as if the tragedy were replaying there and trembled as she spoke.

“My sister and I were stuck in the traffic, trying to get out, when we saw it coming-the hail, everything going black. Things started hitting the car.”

“Lawn chairs, tables, steel poles,” the second woman added.

“I thought we were going to die,” the blonde woman said. “We heard this roaring, like ten freight trains. The ground shook and this pressure came, this huge pressure, like something trying to crush us. Our windows shattered. We could hear the metal of our car literally crumpling.”

“We just hugged each other and prayed,” the second woman said.

The blonde woman said: “Then the car rocked back and forth and the tornado picked it up. We spun and flew for about fifteen seconds then it dropped us and the air bags popped. We were upside down… I screamed for my sister. But we were alive, thank God. People pulled us out. Our legs and shoulders hurt but we’re all right…but other folks-” The woman stared at the sky like she no longer trusted it. “Others weren’t so lucky.”

Kate steeled herself, offered words of empathy, moved on and talked to more survivors. All the while her deadline was ticking down. She needed to find the Saddle Up Center, get official comment from the scene, write up what she had and find a way to get her story to the bureau.

Everywhere people were calling for help.

Rescuers worked to pull people out of the rubble. They used their hands, pipes, pieces of wood, whatever they could as emergency radios blared. The air smelled of churned earth, fresh-cut lumber and desperation.

Helicopters thumped far off overhead, paramedics moved out the injured on gurneys, others used doors or sheets of plywood as makeshift stretchers while volunteers held IV bags.

Kate saw several firefighters huddled at a table, talking on radios, poring over rolled-out maps. She identified herself and asked for a status report from the most senior member of the group, Station 9 Captain Vern Hamby.

“We don’t have a lot to report right now.”

“Can you give me what you know, please, Captain?”

His weary face creased with experience and concern when he yielded and gave Kate an on-the-record summary.

“We’ve got a significant number of casualties. The dead could be in the hundreds, or higher.”

Kate wrote as he spoke.

“We’ve been told it was an EF5 tornado. That’s the strongest on the scale, with winds in the 260 to 300 miles per hour range. On a day like today, there might be upward of three thousand visitors to the market. The grounds offer little shelter.”

Kate absorbed the information.

“Our priority is to rescue people in the rubble,” the captain said. “We’ve got spot fires from ruptured gas lines, blown transformers. It’s treacherous. We’ve got apparatus coming in from all over the region. We’re setting up triage units, shelters, missing-persons centers and morgues, some on-site. See the flags? Others will be near schools and community halls. We’ve got reports that a number of tornadoes touched down in the Metroplex, across Texas and in other states.”

Hamby’s radio burst with cross talk. He had to go. Kate walked with him, posing her last questions.

“The Xs on the vehicles?” She nodded to a van with X3 sprayed on the side. “It means you looked at them, right?”

“An X means no one inside, an X with a number, tells you how many confirmed dead inside and that you should move on to help those you can help.”

Kate cast a sad glance at the van. A hand was protruding from a door frame.

“Which way to the Saddle Up Center?” she asked.

“The Saddle Up?” Hamby shook his head slowly. “A lot of casualties there.” He spoke into his radio’s shoulder microphone. After a static-filled response, the captain stopped and pointed Kate’s attention to a distant landmark. “See that car that looks like it’s standing on its rear bumper against that pole down there, like a rocket ready to launch?”

Kate nodded.

“It’s way down there.”

Making her way to the center took time.

Kate stepped slowly through the remains of a destroyed building, taking care because pink insulation hid the jagged sections of the broken wooden walls. Midway, a hand seized her ankle.

“Help me!”

Kate had almost stepped on a woman entangled in the ruins. Dirt and glass fragments were embedded in the woman’s face. Kate got her free and into a sitting position. The woman was holding a cloth to the blood oozing from her leg.

“Let me have a look.” Kate lifted the blood-drenched rag.

The woman’s lower left calf had a twelve-inch gash to the bone. The woman was losing blood. Kate’s first aid was rusty, but she knew they had to clean that wound and get pressure on it to stem the bleeding. She pressed the woman’s hand back on the cloth.

“Hold it down firm.”

Kate looked around, called for paramedics, for firefighters, but none were near. Nothing that looked clean, no fabric, nothing was at hand. Kate removed her shirt’s belt, then cut the bottom of her shirt against a broken window and tore long strips from it. She used her shirt to treat the wound then wrapped the clean strips around it and used her belt for pressure.

“Please don’t leave me,” the woman said.

Kate took her hand and sat with her while calling for help.

“I was in the office,” the woman said. “Everything outside went black. The whole office twisted off the ground, the windows exploded, the walls started wobbling like rubber. I was hurled around like a doll in a blender. The desk, the chair, smashed into me. Broken glass flew like bullets. I was going to die.” Tears were streaming down the woman’s face. “Bless you for helping me.”

Kate consoled her until paramedics arrived.

As Kate continued to the Saddle Up Center she spotted a satellite truck for WFGG-TV News, reminding her that she needed to get a story to Chuck at the bureau.

I need to file now, before I get to the center.

She sat near two crushed cars with Xs, paged through her notes and began writing on her cell phone. She had the story structured in her head and her fingers moved fast. The screen smeared with blood as she typed, finishing at the five-hundred word mark.

There’s no cell service. How will I get this to the bureau?

The answer was in the distance.

She hurried to the WFGG-TV satellite truck with its dish extended on the pole above. Satellite phones didn’t need cell phone networks, they worked anywhere. No one was around. She pounded on the doors. A man in his mid-twenties with a stubbled face opened a side door. Jaw clenched, he stared at Kate.

“What is it?”

“I’m Kate Page, a reporter with Newslead.”

“Yeah, so? I’m busy.”

“What’s your name?”

“Fitch, but I’m busy.”

She saw the array of small monitors, computers and equipment.

“You guys have a satellite phone, right, Fitch?”

“We’ve got satellite everything.”

“There’s no cell service. I need your help now. I need you to take a file off my phone and send it to my desk over your sat system.”

“Sorry, I’m busy.”

“Fitch, please, I’ll give you twenty bucks.”

He looked at her, considered the deal.

“Thirty.”

“Come on, where’s the professional camaraderie?”

“Thirty.”

“Okay, thirty. Deal.”

“Let me see your phone.”

Kate gave it to him. He examined the ports.

“I should have a transfer cable for that. What is it you need to move?”

Kate took the phone, showed him her file named “Storm-1”.

“Just text?” He turned to his workstation, rummaged through a box of wires and adapters, fished out a cable, connected one end to Kate’s phone, the other to a laptop.

“Yes, no images.”

He typed a few commands, and seconds later Kate’s story appeared on his laptop.

“Where’s it going?” he asked. “You can email it.”

Kate gave him the newsroom email address for filing stories.

“Type ‘Urgent from Kate Page’ in the subject line.”

Fitch angled the laptop to Kate.

“You go ahead, write what you need. Keep it short.”

She stepped inside, set her things down and typed:

No phone service at the flea market. WFGG let me use their satellite. Will file more soon, Kate Page.

After sending her story, Kate typed another email to her friend Heather in Ohio.

“Hey, what’s that?”

“Just letting my daughter know I’m okay.”

Kate was fast, hit Send then went through her wallet. All she could find were twenties. She checked her pockets. No cash there. She passed Fitch forty dollars.

“I need the change, buddy.”

He slid his hand into his jeans and pulled out a five.

“That’s the best I can do. Sorry.”

“Whatever. Thanks for helping me, Fitch.”

“Otherwise you would’ve hurt me. I sensed that about you.”

“Ha-ha.”

Kate collected her things then took several steps from the truck.

“Hold on!” Fitch called. “You’ve got a reply here. Take a look.”

Kate returned and read the email.

Kate: You should’ve tried to reach us sooner. Can you find anything stronger? Your story has no reference to the Saddle Up Center, which you were told to focus on. Benny Lopez, one of our photogs, is on scene, you should find him fast. AP has already filed.-DP.

“What a hard-ass,” Fitch said. “AP has satellite phones.”

Kate’s face flushed at Dorothea’s remarks.

“Want to respond?” Fitch asked.

“No.”

Kate slammed the door like a gunshot when she rushed out of the truck.

6

Wildhorse Heights, Texas

“Help! Somebody help!”

What?

Jenna’s ears pricked to the sound of a faded response.

Someone was out there, far off.

She looked and felt around, clawed at the debris. The stroller was gone. The red-haired woman was gone. The man with her was gone.

No, this isn’t real!

“Caleb! Anybody? Help!”

This can’t be!

“Help! Somebody, over here! Help!”

“Hello!”

Someone was out there and getting closer. Jenna thrust her hands up to the wooden beams that were sealing their tiny cell like pickup sticks. She couldn’t budge them.

Her mind reeled; her head spun.

“Help! Somebody help!”

Something tugged at her shirt.

“Mommy, that lady’s scaring me,” Cassie said.

“What lady?”

“In there.”

Jenna repositioned herself to go as far as she could behind Cassie. She stopped at a bushy mass of white hair belonging to an old woman.

Jenna shot back. Bile gushed along the back of her throat as she battled nausea. A corpse! Oh, God! Jenna touched the back of her hand to her mouth, fought to regain her composure. All the while her scalp tingled.

I’m sorry.

The woman was in her seventies. Her head, shoulders and arms were sticking out from debris as if she’d attempted to swim out. One side of her face was torn off, revealing tissue, her teeth and skull. She was not moving, or breathing.

“Oh God, don’t look, honey.”

Jenna took the woman’s hand to feel for a pulse.

Nothing.

“Is she dead, Mommy?”

“Shh-shh,” Jenna took Cassie into her arms.

“Where’s Caleb? Are we going to be dead, too?”

“Don’t worry, honey. Somebody’s going to help us. We’ll find Caleb.”

“Will Daddy come?”

“We’ll call Daddy.”

Adrenaline-driven fear vibrated through every part of Jenna’s body.

“You’re shaking, Mommy.”

“I know, everything’s going to be o-”

“Can anybody hear us?”

A man’s voice, very close.

“Yes!” Jenna shouted. “Over here! Please help us! My baby’s missing! We have to find him! Please!”

“Can you move something to signal your position?”

Jenna found a length of pipe, shoved it straight up and wiggled it while shouting.

“Here! Over here!”

“We see it. Hold tight.”

More voices and muted radio talk filled the air along with the noise of debris being moved piece by piece. It took time before searchers, about six in all from a Dallas rapid-rescue squad, cleared their way to Jenna and Cassie and lifted them from the ruins.

“Please help me find my baby boy!” Jenna sobbed, pulling Cassie to her. “He’s five months old, he’s in his stroller. A lady was helping me hold him in the storm. I can’t find him! I can’t find her!” Jenna scanned the area, hysterical. “Help me!”

Jenna suddenly lunged toward the area where she and Cassie had been trapped, grabbing, kicking at pieces of wood, metal, plastic, tossing them wildly, causing small sections to shift then collapse, forcing new jagged spearlike sections to dangerously jut from the ocean of debris.

“Caleb! My baby!”

Members of the rescue team pulled her back.

“Ma’am,” said the thirtysomething man who held her shoulders. “Ma’am, my name is Steve Pawson, the squad leader. Try to take it easy. It’s not safe. We’re here to help. Your head’s bleeding. How badly are you two hurt?”

“My daughter’s got cuts on her face. I got bumped, but I’m okay.”

“Anybody else in there with you?”

“A woman. I think she’s dead. I have to find my baby!”

Pawson nodded to other members of the rescue party, who were still searching the area where they’d found Jenna and Cassie, while a female team member studied Jenna with calm concern.

“Ma’am, I’d like to take care of your wound.”

The woman took a pressure bandage from her backpack, wrapped Jenna’s head. “Let me help you and your little girl. My name’s Nancy. Can you tell me your names?” she asked while assessing their conditions.

“Jenna, Jenna Cooper and this is my daughter, Cassie. My baby son is Caleb. He’s missing.” Jenna looked frantically in every direction. “We have to find him now! Please!”

“All right, Jenna,” Pawson said. “We’re going to search everywhere for him. Nancy here will take you and your daughter to the first aid station.”

“No, I need to stay and look for my baby!”

“Jenna…” Pawson was firm and looked directly at her. “It’s not safe. You’re in shock. I give you my word we’ll keep searching everywhere. We have dogs coming to help us find people.”

Jenna stood there, numbed, not moving, not speaking.

“Go with Nancy, Jenna.” Pawson softened his voice. “There’s more help at the first aid station, people to take more information about your son.”

“But I have to look for him.” Her voice trailed. “I’m his mother. He needs me.”

“I know this is hard,” he said. “But you have to trust us.”

Tears rolled down Jenna’s blood-streaked face as she, Cassie and Nancy moved through the debris. With every step, Jenna concentrated, searching intensely for any trace of Caleb, but it was futile as the horror of the Saddle Up Center unfolded around them.

7

Wildhorse Heights, Texas

It was slow going for Jenna, Cassie and Nancy, trying to step through the wreckage of the Saddle Up Center without stumbling.

In every direction, more rescue teams sifted through endless heaps of smashed walls, remnants of vendor stalls, chunks of the building’s roof. The voices of those still buried and hurt called out as search-and-rescue dogs led their handlers, probing the destruction to pinpoint pockets of life. Workers carefully disentangled debris to extricate survivors.

Nancy led Jenna and Cassie to a canvas canopy erected at the edge of where the center had stood. Dozens of bleeding victims were being treated at the busy first aid station. Paramedics loaded those suffering the most serious injuries onto gurneys, hurried them to ambulances and on to hospitals. Victims in critical condition were being rushed to a landing site nearby to be transported by helicopter to hospitals.

Where is my baby?

Jenna scoured the activity for any sign of her son, all the while thinking how this couldn’t be real, this couldn’t be happening.

“Maybe they found Caleb and took him to a hospital?” she said to Nancy.

“That’s possible. Let’s get you both checked more thoroughly.” Nancy took them to a table where a patient had just been cleared by the nurse there.

“Jenna, this is Margot Tuttle.” Nancy then advised Margot about her initial assessment. “Be right back,” Nancy said. “I’m going to see someone to help with your son.”

Margot, a soft-spoken woman in her mid-thirties, checked Cassie and Jenna’s vital signs, shone a light in their eyes for any indication of brain or nerve injury, then treated Cassie’s face, gently dabbing it with cotton swabs.

“I’m just cleaning your cuts, sweetheart.”

Jenna continued scanning the area and other aid tables where medical people were helping the injured before asking Margot, “Has anyone seen a baby, a five-month-old boy?”

“No, not that young. Not yet. I’m sorry.” Margot glanced to a clipboard. “So far at our station, our youngest patients have been a two-year-old girl and a three-year-old boy. But we’re finding survivors, so we’re hopeful.”

Her heart racing, Jenna continued scanning the area surrounding the station while battling a rising tide of guilt and worry over Caleb.

How could I lose him? Why didn’t I hold him?

When Margot finished with Cassie, she reached under her table into a bag, took out a stuffed teddy bear and gave it to her.

“This guy’s for you. He needs someone to take care of him. Can you do that for me?”

Cassie hugged the bear and nodded. Margot then changed Jenna’s dressing. “Looks like you took a nasty bang to your head,” she said as she cleaned her wound and put on a new bandage.

Afterward, Nancy returned and took Jenna and Cassie to another smaller post nearby where a woman and a younger man were at a table working on laptops. The woman took Jenna’s hands in hers.

“Hi, Jenna. Nancy told us about you. I’m Belle Walker. This is Denton Reeves, my partner. We’re here to help.”

Belle offered Jenna a folding plastic chair next to her so she could see her laptop’s screen. Cassie was given a chair nearby but could not see the screen. She hugged her bear in silence while staring at the ongoing rescue efforts around them.

“We’re working with the Dallas PD, county and state on a preliminary list of missing and people unaccounted for.”

“What does that mean exactly?” Jenna’s voice quivered.

“In these kinds of situations there’s a lot of confusion and chaos. People are hurt, they’re taken to a hospital without loved ones knowing, or they go to a first aid station or an aid post-we’ve got several here. Or they just go home, or to their hotel, or somewhere.”

“Or they’re still trapped?”

“Yes. Or-” Belle lowered her voice “-the storm-”

Jenna revisited images of the tornado tearing the center to pieces, seeing some people sucked up into the winds.

Belle didn’t finish her sentence, but Jenna understood.

“So we’re working on the list,” Belle said. “It will feed into a bigger database that will be shared with fire, police, paramedics, hospital, aid agencies, to help reunite people, okay?”

Jenna nodded, then said, “I’d like to call my husband…I can’t find my cell phone. Can you help me call him?”

“We can. After we’re done here we have buses taking people to the community hall near here-that’s our closest emergency shelter.” Again, Belle took Jenna’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “They’ll have working phones there for you to use, and there will be counselors there if you feel like talking to someone, okay?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Let’s get started,” Belle said.

They took down vital information, names, dates of birth, addresses.

“It’s usually a good idea to give us contact information for relatives in case we can’t reach you. We’ll put it into the system-it’s all confidential,” Belle said.

Jenna gave her the cell number for Blake and her sister, Holly, in Atlanta. Then Belle asked for more details on Caleb, everything she could think of that would identify him.

“He was, is, sorry-” Jenna wiped her tears. “He is wearing a blue-and-white-striped romper with a little elephant crest on it that’s lifting a bit on the right. The bottom snap is loose. He’s got a rocket-shaped birthmark on the back of his left calf. He’s in a folding umbrella stroller, navy with green, red-and-blue polka dots on a white seat. The left front wheel had some white paint on it that I’d spilled when I put a paint can away.”

As Belle entered the information quickly into her laptop the concern on her face deepened.

“You live in Lancaster.”

“Yes.”

“From our information it looks like it was hit hard. I’m sorry.”

Jenna closed her eyes tight.

“I’ll deal with that after I find my son.”

Denton Reeves then gave Jenna a photocopy of a floor plan of the Saddle Up Center.

“Please mark the area you were in when the storm hit.” He gave her a pencil. “As best as you can.”

Jenna marked the spot, recounting how the red-haired woman and her friend helped her, leading up to the time the tornado hit.

“The woman is in her mid-twenties, with short, spiky red hair. I know she had nice teeth, a nice smile,” Jenna said. “I don’t remember much about the man. Same age, wearing a T-shirt with a dog on it, I think. My bag with the clothes I’d bought for the kids was in the stroller’s basket.”

After Belle submitted the details, Denton said to Jenna: “Would you recognize the woman who helped you if you saw her again?”

Belle threw Denton a look of concern.

“I think so, why?” Jenna said.

Belle drew up close to Jenna and dropped her voice so Cassie wouldn’t hear. “We can show you video of the deceased recovered so far from the Saddle Up Center and the area nearby.”

Jenna stared at Belle, who continued in a near whisper.

“You’ve already been through so much and this won’t be easy. Would you be willing to look?”

“What is this? Is this your way of telling me my son’s among the dead?”

“No.”

“You tell me right now if he is because I want to see him. I have a right to see him!”

“No, we’re sorry…we don’t know,” Denton said. “Police made the video. They’re updating it as they recover more fatalities, and they’re requesting we show it to people who’re reporting missing persons. It’s a first step before allowing people into the area where the deceased are before they’re moved. It’s nearby.”

Belle placed her hand on Jenna’s.

Jenna took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “I’ll look at it.”

Jenna glanced protectively at Cassie. She couldn’t see Denton’s screen. He made a few keystrokes and a video played. The camera showed bodies arranged on the ground in a neat line, maybe twenty corpses. They were not covered and had varying degrees of damage.

Jenna held her breath and covered her mouth with her hand as her focus went to the smallest victims, seven little children. None looked any younger than two or three. No babies.

Oh God, it’s real! Those dead children! Their poor parents! Please, please don’t take Caleb from me! Please!

As the camera tightened and panned over each one, Jenna looked for any women with red hair, gasping when the camera found one. Instantly she thought of the spiky-haired stranger who’d complimented her on Caleb and Cassie at the clothing table; her smile and how she’d led them to safety in the center, holding Caleb’s stroller.

A kind woman who tried to help me.

But the dead red-haired woman, whose bruised face filled the screen, appeared larger and older. She couldn’t be the woman who’d helped her.

The camera continued its grisly display, evocative of documentary and news footage Jenna had seen of concentration camp and earthquake victims. In this one, many of the bodies looked as if they’d been broken and awkwardly reassembled. Her eyes blurred with tears. Not long ago, these people were living their lives, shopping, just shopping like me, but now-now…

“Oh, no!”

Jenna saw one dead older woman, her neck and face bloodied, still wearing a Dallas Cowboys ball cap and a T-shirt with the words: Verna’s Clothes for Kids.

“That’s the woman I bought my children’s clothes from just before the storm hit.”

“She’s been identified by a relative,” Belle said. “She’s a vendor.”

Jenna was overcome.

As the video played out to the end, the image flowed into Denton’s screen saver: a mountain vista with snowcapped peaks. Jenna stared at it then at the devastation around them, aching for her baby.

I should’ve been holding him. I’m his mother.

Jenna needed Blake, needed his arms around her, to hold her together because she was coming apart. It started with a small cry in a far corner of her mind and grew to a keening as the blood rush hammered in her ears-“Jenna, are you all right?” Bella asked-creating a deafening roar, and the beginning of a colossal scream rose from deep in her stomach when-

Cassie suddenly got up from her chair and stepped away from the table. Her eyes sharpened on heaps of debris in the distance. Clutching her teddy bear with one hand, she raised the other, extending a little finger to point.

“Mommy, I can see Caleb’s stroller!”

8

Wildhorse Heights, Texas

Kate painstakingly picked her way through the debris to the Saddle Up Center.

It had been more than fifteen minutes since she’d left the news truck and the curt email from Dorothea.

Her criticism still burned.

You should’ve tried to reach us sooner.

How? Cell phones aren’t working here and no one at the bureau was handing out satellite phones.

Can you find anything stronger?

What the hell does that mean? Chuck wanted the facts, the heartbreak and the heroes, and that’s what Kate got. She could only interpret Dorothea’s comments to mean the people in her story were “not suffering enough.”

In her years as a reporter, Kate had encountered hard-case editors and unbalanced fools for editors, but Dorothea was in a class of her own. What is it with that woman, making those brainless comments on her work from her downtown office on the twenty-second floor of Bryan Tower? No doubt she was watching TV-news footage and convinced she was tuned in to reality while Kate was here, on the ground, stepping through it.

Feeling the crunch of debris under her boots, Kate looked at the wasteland around her; the air was filled with cries for help, the chaos of rescues, radios and helicopters; the smells of upturned earth, broken timbers and small fires.

As she got closer to the Saddle Up Center it became clear to Kate that for some unknown reason Dorothea did not like her. But Kate would be damned if she’d let that slow her down. If anything, she thought, tapping her notebook to her leg, taking in the destruction, it made her stronger.

“CALEB!!!”

A child’s voice cut through the clamor, yanking Kate’s attention to the scene ahead: a little girl, no older than five or six, with a woman in her twenties, presumably her mother. An empty, twisted stroller stood near them, the mother savagely tearing away debris, tossing pieces as she and the child repeatedly called out: “CALEB!!!”

Even the little girl was lifting smaller pieces and peering under them. Two aid workers in orange fluorescent vests appeared to be helping on the opposite side of the debris pile. The woman was contending with a large section of plywood by herself when she saw Kate at the end of it.

“Please help me move this!”

The panic in the woman’s eyes telegraphed her agony-she was in the fight of her life.

“Please!”

Once more, Kate was being asked to cross a journalistic line. She was well aware that her job was to observe the news, not take part in it, but her conscience would not allow her to ignore another plea for help. She gripped her side of the wood, heaved and helped toss it aside.

“CALEB!”

The woman got on her knees, her hands and fingers were laced with blood as she tugged at scraps and hunks of metal, glass and wood while combing every opening in the ruins.

“Is Caleb your child?” Kate asked.

“He’s my baby boy.”

The woman pulled at a large chunk of wood causing the entire heap to shift precariously toward her daughter. Kate reached to steady it.

“Stop, miss!” A relief worker shouted at Jenna. “Get back! It’s not safe!”

“My baby could be in there!”

“Yes, we’ve got help coming!”

“Hurry, please hurry!”

As Jenna continued searching the debris without touching it, Kate acted.

“I’m Kate Page, a reporter with Newslead. Would you tell me what happened to you when the storm hit?”

Without taking her eyes from the debris to look at Kate, the woman quickly related her story. She held nothing back. “It’s my fault. I should’ve held him to me. I had him, but I let him go. Oh God, it’s my fault!”

I had him, but I let him go.

The words detonated an emotional charge within Kate.

An image flashed.

A tiny hand slipping away from hers in the icy river…

It’s my fault.

Jenna’s words jolted Kate because they were words she’d lived with. She’d known this anguish in her own life long ago. It was why she’d become a reporter. She was haunted.

“I understand,” she said.

Suddenly Jenna met Kate’s eyes and something between the two women fused. In that intense emotional instant Jenna searched Kate’s face for deception. Finding none, she started nodding with the belief that Kate did understand, just as they were overtaken by the arrival of rescuers.

For the next twenty minutes the team worked in the area, searching and moving wreckage with great care, but found no trace of the baby, or anyone else. They were still searching when two TV-news crews hurried by them. An anxious cameraman was saying that a helicopter ambulance had just crashed nearby.

“I have to go,” Kate told Jenna, quickly exchanging contact info with her. “I promise I’ll follow up with you. Where will you be later?”

“An emergency shelter, where they have phones. I need to reach my husband.”

Jenna sobbed as she stood there watching the search team, while holding her daughter and the bent and twisted stroller, struggling not to lose hope of finding her baby.

A portrait of heartbreak.

With Jenna’s permission, Kate used her phone to take a picture before she rushed off after the TV news crews.

Cutting across the market took time. When Kate’s group arrived they found that the helicopter was upright in the temporary medical landing zone. The chopper showed no obvious signs of damage. Kate spotted Barry Lopez, the Newslead photographer, among a knot of journalists. They’d encircled an EMS official, who someone called Dave Wills and who was facing questions under the glare of lights. Some of the arriving TV crews wanted him to “start over.”

“Look, this was not a crash,” Wills said. “It was a hard landing due to a mechanical issue. No one was hurt.”

Wills took questions for another fifteen minutes before wrapping up. News crews dispersed and disappeared into the chaos. Kate hooked up with Lopez. They picked their way back toward the Saddle Up Center but were unable to find Jenna Cooper.

For the rest of the day Kate went flat out, writing the stories of the victims and getting updates on the toll. Heartbreak after heartbreak, there seemed to be no end to the tragedies emerging from the flea market. Fitch at the WFGG satellite truck helped her free of charge when he had time.

At one point in the day, Kate realized that she’d not eaten for at least eight hours. She accepted an egg salad sandwich and cup of water from a church group that had set up a table, “for anyone who needs it,” one of the white-haired ladies said with a smile.

By late afternoon, Kate had lost count of how many times she’d filed to the bureau but the last one ended with a new order from Chuck.

We need you at the bureau to help with the day’s wrap-up piece. Come in now, Kate.

9

The bureau’s staff had doubled by the time Kate returned.

People she didn’t recognize were working side by side at every desk, including hers. Others were sitting on the floor, typing on phones, laptops, tablets, consulting notes, or talking to Dorothea.

One wall was papered with a massive map showing the paths of the tornadoes. Twenty had touched down in the Metroplex. They were confirmed for Arlington, Mesquite, Irving, Kennedale, Wildhorse Heights, Grand Prairie, Lancaster and several other locations. Each one was numbered on the map with notes on their length, width and ratings. The tracks they left looked like a huge claw had gouged the metro area.

Another wall showed dozens of photos, twisted cars in trees, destroyed homes, a roof on a highway, and there was Kate’s photo of Jenna Cooper, searching for her baby while holding his warped stroller and her daughter.

Every TV in the bureau was locked on live storm coverage. The coffee table from reception was brought in and buried with take-out pizza, salads, wings, chips and sodas.

Phones were ringing.

Roy Webster and Mandy Lee, who’d returned from Arlington and Irving, left a huddle at Dorothea’s desk and turned to Kate. Mandy’s eyes went to Kate’s hiking boots.

“Where did you get those?”

“I had them in my trunk.”

“Well, aren’t you prepared?”

“I saw what you filed from the flea market,” Roy said. “Not bad, Kate.”

Chuck, who’d been moving from desk to desk, guiding the bureau’s coverage, spotted Kate.

“Get yourself some food. It might be hard finding a place to work. We’ve brought in help from our other bureaus.” He stared over his bifocals. “You’ve got thirty minutes to give Dorothea and me whatever unused stuff you still have from today, then we’re meeting on next steps for coverage.”

Kate found a clear spot on the floor against a far wall. She passed on food. Her insides were still churning. She zoned out the activity as she wrote amid the room’s tension. When she finished, she glanced at the skyline, glittering in the early evening. She got a soda, kept an eye on the TVs and read Newslead’s wire stories online to get the full picture and the latest developments.

Today, several tornadoes had ripped through Texas, Alabama, Arkansas and Mississippi. So far the death toll was estimated at two hundred, with most in Texas around the Dallas area. Counting all the states that were hit, more than three thousand people were believed to be injured. Some six hundred were listed as missing, most around Dallas. At least twelve thousand homes, businesses and properties were destroyed. Power outages were widespread. Damage was pegged to surpass three billion dollars. All numbers were expected to climb in what was one of the worst storms on record.

The Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex was hardest hit, particularly in Arlington, Lancaster, Wildhorse Heights, Irving and several other communities. The bureau’s phones continued ringing. In the worst areas roads were torn up, cell towers were down. People needed specific information but couldn’t get through to the Dallas Morning News, or the local TV and radio stations, so they called news bureaus in Dallas.

As reporters worked, Kate overheard snatches of conversations.

“My cousin in Irving lost his house.”

“You were in your bedroom when the entire wall disappeared?”

“But they found your dog, and he’s okay? That’s a miracle.”

Then someone shouted, “Here we go!” All eyes went to the TVs and live coverage of the President at a microphone in Ottawa, Canada, where he was at a global summit. He was making a live statement on the storm.

“We send our profound condolences to the loved ones of those who lost their lives today in the tornadoes and severe weather that struck the Dallas-Fort Worth area and communities in Alabama, Arkansas and Mississippi. We commend all the people who are helping their friends and neighbors during this terrible time. I have spoken with the governors of the affected states and have directed all available federal resources to respond. The nation stands ready to help our fellow Americans in this time of need. You are all in our thoughts and prayers.”

The networks then showed a moving montage of the devastation, giving pause to the bureau reporters who lived there. Most knew someone who’d been hit, underscoring to Kate that she was an outsider. In that moment she ached to be back in Canton, holding Grace.

But she had a job to do, with a lot riding on it.

“Okay, people, meeting time. Squeeze in here.” Chuck and Dorothea herded the staff into the bureau’s boardroom. Seats around the table filled and others stood against the wall.

“First, thanks, everyone, all of you from our other bureaus,” Chuck said. “Thanks for making the long drives from Oklahoma City, Houston, Austin and San Antonio. We appreciate the help.”

“And, if I may, Chuck,” Dorothea said, “I want to applaud our bureau, Moe, Harley, Tilda, Annalee, Tommy, Eduardo, Maria and Sue for outstanding work on the breaking coverage. So far, with updates, we filed more than one hundred stories, and two hundred photos. Some of our bureau people are still out in the field. One way or another, most us at the bureau are connected to the storm. I also want to thank our interns, Roy Webster and Mandy Lee, for their fine work.” Dorothea nodded to both of them just as a ringing cell phone interrupted her.

The reporter with the phone took the call while leaving the room.

The meeting resumed without mention of Kate.

She swallowed the slight of being overlooked.

Other people were facing worse, she thought, like the young mother she’d found searching for her missing baby.

Chuck flipped pages of his notebook as he gave an overview of coverage requirements for the next morning, ticking off search and rescue of the missing, updating the lists of the dead, injured and missing; relief and recovery. Coverage had to include the economic and psychological toll. He said the governor would be visiting the worst areas.

“Our Washington bureau confirms that the White House is arranging for the President to visit.”

Chuck noted that he had people on overnight shifts covering rescue efforts. Then he began assigning reporters from the other bureaus to specific tasks for the next day and then advised his people to return to the same areas early in the morning and continue covering the storm.

“Headquarters in New York is telling us what we already know. This is the top story in the country and a lead story around the world. Our copy is in demand. You’re all pros-you all know what to do,” he said. “Give us the facts and the human drama, the heartbreak and the heroes.”

The meeting broke up with people leaving, or wrapping up work, making calls, or talking with Dorothea or Chuck.

When Chuck was clear, Kate approached him.

“I think I’ve got a strong dramatic story coming out of the flea market. I’d like to follow it tomorrow.”

“What is it?”

Kate’s glance shifted to Dorothea, who’d overheard and joined them.

“A young mother, Jenna Cooper,” Kate said. “She’s searching for her five-month-old son, Caleb. She lost him when the tornado hit the Saddle Up Center. He vanished.”

“Right, she was in the copy you filed today,” Chuck said. “Sounds like a good one to follow. But first check with Dorothea on what she’ll need from you tomorrow.”

Chuck checked his phone for messages then left to talk to another reporter.

“Yes, that’s a sad one,” Dorothea said, “but there are a hundred others like it out there. I’ve got something else in mind for you tomorrow, Kate.”

“But I’d really like to follow up on Jenna Cooper. My gut tells me this story could be strong. A stranger was helping with the baby and the stranger’s missing, too. It’s very tragic and I think-”

Kate was now staring at Dorothea’s forefinger, held up to silence her.

“Roy and Mandy will go back out to cover the flea market. I need you here for an evening shift starting at three tomorrow afternoon. Please and thank you.” Dorothea’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me, I have to take this.” She turned away.

Kate stood there dumbfounded for several moments. Then she collected her things.

Before leaving, she glanced at the wall of photos, returning to the image of Jenna Cooper, holding her daughter and her baby’s contorted stroller, and gazing into the end of the world.

10

Dallas, Texas

The wire service had put Kate up at the Marriott City Center.

In the elevator to her twelfth-floor room she texted her friend Heather, who was watching her daughter in Ohio.

Hi Heather, I’ll be online in 5 min if Grace is still up.

Heather responded:

She and Aubrey are up. Saw the news, it looks horrible. How are you doing?

Hanging in there.

Moments later, Kate was in her room making the connection and her tablet’s screen blossomed with her daughter’s bright face.

“Hi, Mom! I miss you!”

“Miss you, too, honey. What’re you doing up so late?”

“Aubrey and I are putting sparkly stuff on our fingernails, see?”

Grace wiggled ten little fingers in front of her face.

“I see, very pretty.”

“Mom, were there really tornadoes where you are?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Was it like the Wizard of Oz and was there a flying witch?”

“No, not like the movie. It was real. It was very bad… People got hurt.”

“But you’re okay, right?”

“I’m okay, sweetie.” Kate smiled for her. “So tell me, what’s new today?”

“Aubrey and I got invited to Kayla’s birthday party. Can I go and can I wear my new flower dress? Please say yes, pull-ease!”

“I’ll talk to Aubrey’s mom. Are you being a good girl for me?”

“Uh-huh.”

They talked for the next thirty minutes until Grace began yawning and Kate wound things down.

“I miss you and I love you, kiddo.”

“Miss you too and love you more.” Grace puckered and kissed the screen to meet Kate’s kiss.

Talking with her daughter was balm for Kate’s heart, but the strain of the day had turned her neck and shoulders to stone. After her call with Grace, Heather told her that a woman from a collection agency had called that morning looking for a Ms. or Mrs. Kate Page.

Kate thanked her for the warning. She’d follow up on the partial payment she’d already sent electronically from Dallas.

After the call, she took a shower.

Needles of hot water soothed her tired muscles but couldn’t wash away the day’s images of walking among the dead, the dying, the injured and all that devastation.

Kate let go.

She sobbed as steam clouds rose around her, letting them pull her back through her life, back to that night when she and Vanessa, her little sister, were together with her babysitter, Mrs. Kawolski, when she’d answered the door of their creaky old house.

Mrs. Kawolski’s hand covering her mouth. The police officers filling the small kitchen, their utility belts making leathery squeaks as they cleared their throats. The policewoman giving Kate and Vanessa little stuffed bears to hold, a teddy for her, a polar bear for Vanessa. I’m so sorry, she said. There was a terrible fire, I’m so very sorry, your mommy and daddy won’t be coming home. They’re with the angels now. Mrs. Kawolski taking them both in her arms, rocking them, whispering a prayer over and over.

In the aftermath, Kate and Vanessa pinballed through a succession of homes belonging to increasingly distant relatives. Ultimately, they lived with strangers. Pretty much all Kate remembered from that part of her childhood was how she and Vanessa were forever moving.

Until the accident.

Kate and Vanessa were in the backseat of a car, driving in the mountains. Suddenly their car was flying, rolling upside down before it crashed in a river. The water rushed in. It was so cold, so dark, except for the dome light in the car as it banged against the rocky riverbed.

Everything moved in slow motion.

The windows had broken open. Kate had Vanessa’s hand; she got them both out of the car and tried to pull Vanessa to the surface with her but felt the cold numbing her fingers, felt them loosening. She was unable to hang on.

Vanessa slipped away.

Why couldn’t I hold her?

Kate was the only one who survived. She was nine years old; Vanessa was six. They never found Vanessa’s body. It may have gotten wedged in rocks, they said. Vanessa’s little white polar bear was still in the car. When they found it they gave it to Kate.

After the accident, Kate was sent to live in a never-ending chain of foster homes. Some were good, some weren’t.

As soon as she was old enough, she ran away.

She did what she could to survive. She panhandled, lied about her age and took any job she could get. She cleaned toilets, washed cars, washed dishes, landscaped, waitressed, did night shifts in an office sending out spam, she even worked as a phone sex operator. She learned about life the hard way, but she never stole, never used drugs or got drunk. She never prostituted herself.

Somehow Kate managed to follow an internal moral compass, which she believed-no, hoped-she’d inherited from her parents. Relatives had told her that they were honest, hardworking people. Her mom was a supermarket cashier who loved to read and kept a journal; her dad worked in a factory that made military truck parts. They were living near Washington, D.C., at the time they died in the hotel fire.

Kate never really knew them.

She had vague memories of her mother’s voice and how she smelled like roses. How the month before she died she gave Kate and Vanessa each a tiny guardian angel necklace with their names engraved. How Vanessa wanted to trade them so she wore the one with her big sister’s name on it and Kate had the angel bearing Vanessa’s name.

She still had it.

Whenever she looked at it, she’d remember how happy they all were, and how she felt so safe in her father’s big, strong hands whenever he lifted her up, and she could not forget how Vanessa’s eyes shone like stars when she laughed.

They were all ghosts to her now.

But at times, Kate would stare at the few photos she had of her with Vanessa, hugging her little polar bear she had named “Chilly,” dreaming that Vanessa might be alive somewhere. She knew it was impossible but she couldn’t help it. She kept reading news stories about people finding long-lost relatives after enduring years of pain. Those stories and the reporters who wrote them gave Kate hope and direction.

She knew deep in her heart that she needed to become a journalist, someone who helped people find the answers to the most important questions in their lives.

At age nineteen she was living on her own in Chicago, where she took night classes to finish high school.

She wrote an essay about how in her heart her sister would always be alive and that she would never stop yearning to know what really happened the night Vanessa’s little hand slipped from hers.

Did she die that night in the mountains? Or did she survive and wander off miraculously into another life?

Kate’s teacher showed it to David Yardley, an editor at the Tribune, telling him of Kate’s desire to be a reporter. A meeting was arranged. Astounded by Kate’s natural writing talent, and her life, David helped her with a part-time news job. She remembered him saying, “You’re like something out of a Dickens novel.”

She was forever grateful for his help.

Kate graduated from high school and worked her way through community college, which led to news reporter jobs in Syracuse, New York, for a short time before she went to California. She was still pretty green working on the crime desk at the San Francisco Star when she fell for a cop. It was after she got pregnant that she learned he was married.

Kate was crushed.

How could he lie to her? How could she be so stupid?

She’d confided to a reporter friend that she wanted to keep her baby but needed to leave the city. She got a job with the Repository in Canton, where she had Grace at age twenty-three.

Kate thrived on the paper’s crime beat where she was honored for tracking down a fugitive killer. While her work was shut out for a Pulitzer and other national prizes, she did win a regional award for journalistic investigative excellence. But the glory didn’t last.

One day after several years, Kate was called into the office of Ed Brant, her managing editor. He removed his glasses and said her job, along with a dozen others, was gone. It was a dark time for her but Kate did the best she could. She searched everywhere but news jobs were drying up.

Weeks then months passed. She waitressed while applying for public relations positions with corporations. She got one in Canton that lasted three weeks. Kate just did not fit in.

She was a reporter. Period.

Things got dire. Kate was juggling bills when she learned that Newslead, the worldwide wire service, had an opening in its Dallas bureau.

Kate’s application got her a teleconference phone interview with Chuck Laneer and Dorothea Pick in Dallas, and a human resources woman in New York. A week later, Chuck called Kate back. She’d made the short list. He invited her to a three-week internship at the bureau with two other candidates. The strongest candidate would get the full-time job at the bureau. It paid nearly double what she’d earned at the Repository, and came with great benefits.

Kate arranged for Grace to stay with her friend Heather Baines, whose daughter, Aubrey, went to school with Grace. It tore at Kate to leave Grace for three weeks, but she had to do it for both of them. She’d promised they’d talk on Skype every day. Kate loaded up her Chevy then made the twelve-hundred-mile drive to Dallas in just over two days. She stayed in cheap motels and ate fast food to save money.

The trip was a lonely one, and at this moment, in the shower, Kate longed to be in Ohio. She ached to be home watching a movie on the sofa with Grace, something funny, something happy, because the day’s tragedies were overwhelming.

Kate stepped from the shower, toweled off then brushed her teeth and her hair. She put on her pajamas, killed the lights then got into bed, exhausted. She reached for her phone. The screen glowed in the dark as she studied her favorite picture of Grace.

I’d die if I lost you.

Then she cued up her photo of Jenna Cooper amid the horror, searching for her baby, her words replaying, “I had him but I let him go. Oh God, it’s my fault!”

Kate knew this anguish, this guilt. She’d felt it throughout her whole life, after she’d let Vanessa slip away in the river.

As she looked out her hotel window at the buildings and the highways twinkling in the night, she was overwhelmed with self-reproach, for Vanessa, for leaving Grace, for being in this room while people out there were enduring so much loss and pain.

Kate stared hard at her photo of Jenna Cooper.

Like you, I can only imagine what’s going through your mind.

Was her baby dead? Was he hurt, buried under debris? Did someone find him and take him to a hospital?

Kate continued looking at Jenna’s picture.

I’ll help you find the truth.

11

Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

The next morning, across the city, in Room 16 of the Dreamaway Motor Inn, the TV glowed in the predawn darkness.

The window shades were drawn, blocking the neon sign flashing Vacancy out front. The room’s air reeked of cigarettes and stale beer as Remy Toxton sat at the edge of the bed teasing her spiky red hair while watching coverage of the disaster.

Dallas stations showed the storm’s aftermath and interviews with shell-shocked survivors in neighborhoods that had been hit hard. When the report went to the flea market, Remy, still a little shaky, concentrated on it until she was satisfied that no threat had surfaced from what she’d done.

“This is going to work out for us, babe,” she said.

Mason Varno, Remy’s boyfriend, was standing shirtless in his sweatpants at the window. He’d gently moved the shade to watch the parking lot while rubbing his lips and constantly checking his cell phone for messages. They had service here. Remy threw him a look over her shoulder, loving how his muscles rippled under his prison tattoos, loving that he was her man, flaws and all.

No one was perfect. Mason didn’t talk much. He had a lot on his mind.

So did Remy.

They’d been through hell lately, but now their dreams were within their grasp. They were going to get enough money to get a place along the Oregon coast and start their new life, the real life they both deserved. It was going to happen. They were beating the odds, and now Remy believed that they could overcome anything.

Even a dead baby?

Yes. No. I don’t know.

An alarm bell went off in her skull, her brain convulsed. She held her head to keep it from splitting open and took deep breaths.

Stop thinking about that! It’s in the past! Leave it there!

Her jaw tensed as she counted backward from one hundred until she recovered.

Okay, okay.

She was all right.

Just one of her little spells.

She turned back to the TV.

We were so lucky to get out with nothing but a few scrapes.

It’s all meant to be.

The newswoman was talking about the number of dead, missing, injured, homeless, and where tornado victims could get help. The screen showed a graphic with information and websites on locations across the Metroplex for emergency shelters providing medical services, food, water, clothing, trauma support and other aid.

This was important. Remy took notes, got her laptop and resumed checking the locations for shelters and medical help. Then she searched online news sites focusing on reports about the flea market, scanning them for one thing.

Nothing surfaced in the stream of stories until a certain picture blurred past. Remy went back to a photograph of a woman holding an empty, beat-up stroller and a child standing with her before the devastation. The cutline read: “Jenna Cooper holds her daughter, Cassie, and the empty stroller of her five-month-old son, Caleb, who is missing after a tornado destroyed the Saddle Up Center where scores of people were killed.”

The article with the picture was by Newslead, the wire service. The section on Jenna Cooper was only a few short paragraphs. Remy scrutinized every word.

Among the tragic stories emerging from the Saddle Up Center is that of Jenna Cooper, who lost her five-month-old baby, Caleb, when the tornado hit.

“I had him, but I couldn’t hold on.”

Cooper’s baby vanished in the fury along with a man and a woman, the two strangers who’d helped Cooper, her son, and daughter, Cassie, to what they believed was a safe corner of the center.

Officials have listed Caleb as missing, acknowledging that the baby could’ve been located and taken to a hospital. There is also fear that Caleb, along with the people who’d helped his mother, could be among the injured or dead still buried under debris.

“I’ll keep searching for him until I find him,” Cooper said.

Remy glared at Jenna Cooper’s picture.

That’s right, keep searching, like the fool you are. I went to that market looking for someone like you. You weren’t fit to be his mother. I’m sending him to a better place.

“Hey, are you going to do something about that?” Mason asked.

Remy had been so absorbed by her work she’d been oblivious to the crying from the far side of the room. She closed her eyes and sighed. Then she looked at her laptop.

“Mason, read this article while I take care of him.”

Massaging her temples Remy went to the area where she’d taken extra blankets, towels and sheets to fashion a crib on the floor where Caleb Cooper was stirring. He was a beautiful baby, she thought, still wearing his blue-and-white-striped romper with the tiny elephant. She blinked at the small bloodstains near the neck of the fabric. Now he was turning his little bandaged head, opening his mouth, bringing his tiny fist to it and making sucking motions.

“Hungry again?”

Remy went to the kitchenette and prepared a fresh bottle of formula. As it warmed, she thought of how things had gone at the market. It was her determination that had led her to the right baby. They’d hunted the previous nights in vain at a mall and the bus depot before Remy had considered a flea market, where right off she’d found a suitable candidate. She’d stalked the mother, talked with her, winning her trust so she could do what she had to do.

And the tornado?

It was scary. But it was a godsend.

As the winds waned after it had destroyed the Saddle Up Center, Remy saw that the mother and daughter weren’t moving. Remy was stiff and pinned under some wood, but she was okay. She took the stroller with the baby. It was hanging upside down but the baby was strapped in. Mason had a cut on his arm and a bruised left leg. She screamed at him to dig them out. The baby was bleeding. She soon tossed the stroller because it was useless in the mess. With Remy carrying the baby in her arms and Mason limping, they hurried through the wreckage, seeing bodies everywhere.

It was gruesome.

Mason stopped to check on a few. “To help,” he said, but he was taking cash and credit cards from dead people. “They ain’t going to need it,” he said. They continued on to the far end of the market and their pickup truck, hoping it was still there and still working. They found it with a broken side window, a spiderweb fracture on the upper right corner of the windshield, and the rear left quarter was crumpled, but otherwise it had survived undamaged.

Now, in the motel room, the baby’s crying was getting louder.

“Shut that kid up!” Mason barked at her from the computer.

“You shut up! What do you think I’m doing? His bottle’s not ready.”

Remy had been prepared for the baby.

Days earlier she’d bought the essentials: formula, the ready-to-use kind, rice cereal, applesauce, diapers, wipes and hair dye. But driving away from the destruction at the flea market she’d worried about the baby’s little wound on his forehead. She got Mason to stop at a drugstore for bandages and disinfectant.

Still, she had a feeling that she’d forgotten something.

Remy tested the temperature of the formula by squirting some on her wrist, then took Caleb in her arms. She had given him a bottle when they arrived yesterday afternoon. He fussed at first when she held him and rooted around for her breast, but eventually took the bottle; then another one in the night. He was a good eater, she thought, watching him suck hard, almost chomping, on the nipple.

As she held him, inhaling his sweet baby scent, a wave of hormonal emotion rolled through her, and she shuddered.

He was such a beautiful baby boy.

My baby was a boy.

Caleb nuzzled against her. Remy was growing increasingly concerned about the bump on his head from the tornado. Was it a scrape, a surface cut or something nastier? After she was done feeding and changing him, she cleaned his cut and put on a fresh bandage.

Mason was still at her laptop, reading news stories and rubbing his lips a little harder. Remy braced for what was coming. She knew his cravings, his mood swings and his irritability.

He’d made her a lot of promises about their future and struggled to keep them. Remy and Mason didn’t always see eye to eye, but deep down they were welded to the same philosophy: whatever life takes from you, you take it back.

“What’re you thinking, babe?” she asked him.

“I never thought you’d do it. You’re seriously going through with this?”

“We have to.”

He blinked hard, the way he did when he was battling not to lose it with her, especially because of all they’d endured lately. He strained to keep his temper and his voice gentle.

“We’ve got a lot at stake here, and this doesn’t help, Remy.”

“We’re running out of money. We’re running out of time. Do you see any other options? I had to do something. Besides, the article says they think we’re likely all dead. It’s perfect for us.”

“This kid is five months old. You think you can pass him off as a one-month old?”

“Yes, because it’s all meant to be. We’ll just say he’s big.”

“All right, are you going to make the call?”

“Not just yet.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve got a plan. We need to keep him a little while longer.”

“What for? If we’re going to do this, let’s move fast, get it done.”

“First, I want to have a doctor look at the bump on his head. To make sure he’s healthy, so nothing will come back on us.”

“What? Where? That could be dangerous. We’ve already got people looking for us, Remy. I think we should just get away from here, now.”

“You gotta trust me, babe. Let me play this my way. We’re going to do this-it’s going to work. Then we’ll be done running. It’ll be over and we’ll get our little place in the sun. We’ll start our new lives, our real lives, and make all of our dreams come true.”

Mason ran his hands over his stubbled face.

“Hey.” She touched his shoulder. “I’m hungry. Why don’t you go get us some breakfast, babe? Then we’ll get rolling.”

He looked at her, internally confronting their situation. Then he washed up, dressed and left.

Remy returned to Caleb, lowered herself to the floor, smiling at him.

“You’re so lucky. Yes, you are. Your mother was weak, unworthy. She couldn’t face up to her responsibilities to protect you. You’ll never have to worry about seeing her again. You’re so lucky I was there to save you from certain death in that storm. Yes, you are. Now, very soon I’m going to put you in a better place. Yes, I am. It’s all meant to be.”

12

Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

Sitting behind the wheel of his battered pickup truck at the traffic light, Mason Varno gritted his teeth.

Everything’s gone to hell. Everything’s closing in.

He looked at the surrounding traffic, checked his mirrors.

Sure as shit more people would be looking for them now.

He hammered his palms against the wheel.

I’m not going down for this. I’m not going back to prison for some whacked-out-

The light changed.

Calm down. Think this through. Take care of first things first.

He looked around. Other than a scattering of branches and trash, he saw no storm damage in this neighborhood. He wheeled into a McDonald’s parking lot, taking a spot out of sight in a far corner, under the shade of a maple tree. He fished out a small glass tube and a stamp-sized square of tinfoil. He unfolded the foil to reveal the small heap of crystals, almost tasting the anticipation as he heated the underside with his disposable lighter. The crystals crackled, liquefied and vaporized. He savored the smell as he inhaled the rising smoke through the pipe.

Sweet Jesus, yes.

In seconds, Mason floated on a euphoric cloud. All his troubles lightened and drifted away as he shut his eyes to embrace the bliss.

That’s what I needed. Now I can think.

Review and assess, as his counselor used to say.

Mason guided his pickup through the back of the long drive-through line.

He’d never expected Remy to kidnap a baby. All this time he’d thought that her odd behavior was a reaction to the stillbirth last month. That these past couple of weeks she’d needed to cozy up to other women and their babies in malls and such because it was a kind of therapy for her.

At the hospital, a few days after it had happened, the doctor had informed Mason that Remy was having trouble dealing with the loss and could experience “borderline postpartum psychosis.” It meant she’d sometimes have “delusions, hallucinations and other thought disturbances.” They gave her medication, but every so often Remy had a spell, a headache accompanied by a lot of crying.

Mason never thought her condition would go beyond her having the blues and ogling other people’s babies then-BAM-she grabbed that kid after the storm, then screamed at him that the mother’s dead and the kid’s bleeding and they have to get out.

But the mother ain’t dead, is she, Remy? She’s on the damn news looking for her baby, and we’re in a world of trouble.

He shook his head as he inched his truck along the drive-through line.

Oh, but Remy had a plan.

She had a way out of their situation, and she wanted him to trust her. Un-freaking-believable. She was an unstable psychotic, and he had to trust her plan?

He struggled to get hold of the situation, which was getting worse by the second. The baby’s got that bump on his head. That can’t be good. What if it dies? He’ll just dump the thing and Remy and run, find his way out of it all. I should do it now. Just hit the gas, he thought. Dump her now and never look back.

But he couldn’t.

He was handcuffed to her by circumstance.

How in hell had he let this happen? He had planned things so carefully while doing his eighteen months in Hightower Unit. His time was for a drug deal that involved a lot of players and went wrong. A lot of money was lost, and Mason took the fall with the understanding that he would be cut loose, left alone. Then word got to Mason inside that a wronged party, a guy by the name of DOA, might seek payback or retribution from Mason. DOA had a lot of associates. Mason knew some of them, and he could trust a few but not all of them. One thing Mason knew about DOA was that he was big on threats, liked to talk them up but didn’t always follow through. Still, as month after month passed, Mason kept his ear to the ground for talk about DOA reaching inside to seek vengeance on him. So far, nothing had come of his threat.

Remy had started writing to him through a social network. Then she’d started visiting. She was a looker, no doubt about it. And he’d decided that of all the women who’d written to him, she was the one he’d use for his plan.

In Hightower he needed to show the system that he had something stable set up on the outside to be eligible for early release and a minimum level of supervised parole. Inside, he stayed out of trouble, enrolled in carpentry school and took several reentry programs dealing with addiction, conflict and confrontation, learning how to “cage your rage.” His clear, stated objective was to settle into a stable life with his new woman, Remy Toxton, and get a carpentry job with the goal of eventually starting his own carpentry business in Oregon, where Remy wanted to get married and begin a family. It was what the Texas Department of Criminal Justice needed to hear from inmate #01286413.

But it was all bullshit.

Sure, once Mason got out, he’d play along with the straight life until he activated his real plan, which he’d kept secret from Remy. In prison, trusted friends told Mason that for $25,000 he could buy into an import-export start-up company run by an American player known only as Garza. This business would be based in Belize, then expand in the Caribbean and Central America. It was going to be huge. With the $25,000 investment Mason was guaranteed $250,000 return in the first two months.

Word got back to Mason that Garza would let him into the enterprise as a favor for a friend. Garza was moving fast so he’d set a deadline for Mason’s delivery of $25,000 cash: within three months of Mason’s release.

Trouble was Mason had lied about having the cash.

He’d said he had it stashed from the deal he was doing time for, just so Garza would hold a place for him in the deal when he got out.

Truth was Mason had no cash.

He’d told no one, but when Mason got out he intended to pull a few quick freelance deals to secure the cash for his investment. It was risky, but it was the best he could do.

Whenever Remy visited Mason at the prison he’d tell her he needed $25,000 to start his carpentry business. Then they could live their dream in Oregon. That’s when she stunned him.

“I can get the cash for us,” she said.

A couple of months after that, she beamed from the other side of the glass, telling him that she was pregnant, how she’d answered an ad online to be a surrogate. When she delivered and signed off she’d get $60,000.

Mason couldn’t believe his ears.

But there Remy was, smiling, saying it was all legal, all handled by international adoption lawyers through a global network. They took care of everything. They’d flown her to one of their clinics overseas for the procedure. Remy would be due around the time of Mason’s release. She said giving up the baby was not a big deal for her. As a teen she’d had a baby and given it up to some couple. This time it was all planned, and again she’d help a childless couple.

“And I’ll be helping us get closer to our dream, too. It’s all meant to be, babe,” Remy told him.

This was a long way from the fifty dollars in gate money and the bus ticket the prison gave Mason when he got out. It left him thinking how now he wouldn’t have to pull off any risky deals. When Remy delivered the baby, he’d take $25,000 and dump her.

Hard.

Let her learn a valuable life lesson.

He had other plans that did not include carpentry, kids or any white picket fences in freaking Oregon.

When Mason was released from Hightower, Remy had things nicely set up. She already had a clean apartment for them in Lufkin where Mason started his first carpentry job, through a prison reentry program with a faith-based outreach group, the Fellowship of the Good Thief Society. They’d already helped him get the low-interest loan on his truck, which he needed for work, and they were very protective of an ex-con’s privacy.

As part of the surrogate deal, Remy’s agency would pay all her medical costs and ensure regular home visits by nurses, and provide a small living allowance. But, if the mother backed out of the deal, or lost the baby, all coverage would cease and the mother could be responsible for repaying the agency fifty percent of what they’d paid out to cover medical costs so far.

“They told me they deal with repayment by the mothers on a case-by-case basis,” Remy said.

Remy and Mason kept the surrogacy secret and kept to themselves. Everything went well until the night he woke to Remy’s screams as she held herself in agony.

“Something’s wrong, Mason! Take me to a hospital!”

His first thought was to alert Remy’s agency nurse.

“No! They can’t know! If I lose it, we lose everything! We’ve got to do this without them knowing at all! Hurry, call the people you work for. I saw in your file papers, the church fellowship that supported you, they’re connected to a medical network. There’s a twenty-four-hour emergency number.”

Mason’s people were helpful and discreet. They’d immediately arranged for an ambulance to rush Remy and Mason to the Beau Soleil West Medical Center, a faith-based nonprofit hospital in Shreveport, a little over one hundred miles away.

That’s where she lost the baby.

The church group quietly covered all the costs and arranged to bring them back to Lufkin, protecting Remy and Mason’s privacy while they mourned their loss. Few people knew what had happened.

Remy said they had to leave before the agency nurse came for her next visit. Once the agency found out what had happened, Remy would not only lose out on all that cash, but the agency would demand she repay them half of the thousands they’d spent on her.

“We have to get away, Mason, so I can decide what to do.”

He told his employer and parole officer what had happened and that they needed time away, for a “spiritual retreat,” to begin to heal.

They pulled together all the cash they had and hit the road. They both tried to find a solution in between Remy’s postpartum bouts of psychosis.

That’s how Mason got here.

The speaker atop the menu board crackled.

“May I take your order?”

He ordered, and as he moved on down the line he wondered if his situation could get any worse. While idling, he reached under his seat and felt his Smith & Wesson.40-caliber pistol and the magazine, taking comfort in the fact it was there if he needed it. Then he licked the residue off of the small square of foil as he always did in a bid to prolong his comedown. There was no shortage of challenges.

He glanced at the letters on the console, one reminding him of his monthly meeting with his parole officer, another from the Parole Division saying he’d been randomly selected for drug and alcohol testing. He had twenty-four hours to report to a District Parole Office to submit a urinalysis. Failure to appear would result in a case conference, which was not a good thing.

Mason stopped at the first window and paid for the food.

While waiting to pick up his order, he saw a new message on his phone. The number was blocked.

Heard you are out and got access to 25k-about what you owe. DOA’s comin for your ass.

13

Dallas, Texas

Stiff from five hours of hard sleep, Kate woke with adrenaline pumping through her. She sat up and switched on the TV news.

Still live with wall-to-wall coverage of the storm.

While watching, she checked her phone for new messages. Nothing. Again, she came to her photo of Jenna Cooper searching for her baby. Could I help her find him? Again, Kate felt like she had been punched in the gut. It had only been a few hours since Dorothea Pick dismissed her desire to follow Jenna’s tragic story.

Why is she sidelining me and not the others? I need this job as much as they do. I can’t sit here until three in the afternoon to work in the bureau when one of the biggest stories in the world is happening all around me.

Kate showered, dressed and bit into a stale bagel for breakfast as she went online and searched the long list of emergency shelters across the Metroplex. After making notes on those located near the flea market, she went to her car, determined to deliver a solid story today.

I’ll prove that I’m as good as the others.

Early-morning traffic was manageable. Thankfully she was familiar with her destination. First, she went to the flea market, where she’d learned that security had been tightened. For safety reasons, access was now limited to officials and media with valid accreditation.

After Kate showed her Newslead ID, she headed across the debris-covered grounds to the Saddle Up Center, concerned that she was not going to find Jenna and Cassie Cooper here.

Amid the barks of dog teams, search-and-rescue efforts were still continuing before the operation evolved into debris removal, Fire Captain J. B. Langston told her.

“We’ve been going all night and we haven’t recovered a baby so far. We’ve extracted more injured survivors and fatalities. Several children and more adult victims, but no baby,” Langston said. “You know that people were swept up into the winds. I heard our guys found one of the center’s vendors in a tree, seven miles from here.”

“Yeah, that was terrible. I read that in an Associated Press story,” Kate said. “Captain, do you have any idea where shelter survivors and their families were taken?”

“Try Rivergreen Community Hall. There are a few others but Rivergreen’s your best bet.”

It was a short drive, some two miles south. The community hall, a square one-story building, had been designated an emergency shelter for the area.

Emergency vehicles, buses, news vans, along with trucks delivering food, water and other aid, filled the parking lot. Clearly, this shelter had been operating nonstop through the night, Kate thought as she entered.

Inside, the hall droned with activity. Banners from a Retirement & Appreciation banquet, planned for last night, waved like a memory over rows of cots and mats occupied by people recovering from the storm. They filled the large central area. Some were sleeping, some were huddled comforting others. Some were reading government application forms or talking on cell phones. Although spotty, there was service.

Tables staffed by emergency workers, aid agencies, church groups and other volunteers lined the walls. They offered medical help, advice on insurance claims and counseling. Signs pointed to showers, extra toilets, laundry facilities, toiletries, towels, clothing and toys. There was a station to donate blood. At one end of the hall, people lined up for hot food. Several large TVs were turned to storm news and there were computers with internet service donated by local companies.

Kate came to a heartbreaking sight in one corner: a Missing/Displaced Persons sign. Under it were a few dozen photographs of women, children and men of all ages hastily taped to the wall like a patchwork quilt of hope. A few had little notes with contact information attached to them.

The effort was run by the Missing Person Emergency Search System-MPESS-a national agency based in Washington, D.C. When Kate arrived, several staff members at three tables were using laptops, maps and cell phones as they took information from anguished people.

A bleary-eyed man in his late forties with salt-and-pepper hair turned to her. He was wearing a navy MPESS polo shirt. The ID tag hanging from his neck said Frank Rivera, Supervisor.

“Sure, I got a minute,” Rivera said after Kate had requested someone with the group speak to the press. “What do you need?”

She asked for a rundown on the search system, how it was helping to find missing people, because she’d thought that the process was already being handled by local relief workers.

“That’s correct,” Rivera said, “we’re helping local groups and the Dallas Police Department and Sheriffs for surrounding counties. We’re coordinating their ‘missing persons’ work and their database. We’re an experienced national nonprofit agency, with expertise in this area of crisis response. We’ve got retired cops, federal agents and investigators. The federal Justice Department and FEMA arranged for us to come. Once they got the airports running, most of our teams flew in overnight from all over the country. We’re set up at emergency shelters at all the hardest-hit communities.”

Rivera sipped from a large cup of coffee and said his group dealt with all types of situations where people are disoriented, lost or still trapped. Families get separated or a member may have been helped by strangers and taken to a facility without their family knowing.

“We list every detail on anyone reported missing, photographs, names, descriptions, clothes and their situation when the storm hit-were they at work, school, church, shopping, visiting from another city, state, that kind of thing. It all goes into the database. Then it’s cross-referenced at hospitals and shelters with descriptions of deceased who are being processed by teams from the various Medical Examiners’ offices.”

Rivera said the database was growing and being constantly updated online. There was also a toll-free twenty-four-hour help number. In cases requiring identification of the deceased, nothing was posted and family members were notified for next steps.

“Our analysts are also hitting the ground, going into hospitals and shelters to collect information on people, children who’ve been displaced, separated, rescued and transferred to a different location. All people reported to the system are considered missing until law enforcement, fire, paramedics and the M.E. confirm them as recovered, reunited, or deceased. And the clock is ticking on those still trapped in the rubble.”

“Can you give me the status of a case I’m reporting on?” Kate asked.

“Certainly, if it helps to clear it. Our goal is to reunite families and we need the press to help us.” Rivera went to a laptop. “What’s the name?”

“Cooper, Caleb Cooper, C-A-L-E-B. Cooper is common spelling.”

“Sounds familiar,” Rivera said.

After entering the name in the database, he took a moment to read the file. Then he summarized for Kate that Caleb’s mother, Jenna Cooper, reported her five-month-old son missing from the Saddle Up Center, along with two unidentified adults.

“It’s still open,” Rivera said. “Nothing has surfaced on this one.”

“What about the adults, anything at all on them?”

“Nothing. We’ve got very few details on them but we’ve been cross-checking the information we have.”

“What about the M.E., anything from the temporary morgues?”

“Nothing.” Rivera shook his head, rubbed his chin then he saw a note in the case file that he’d missed.

“Hang on a sec,” he said, turning to an analyst working near him. “Ellen, take a look at this case. You had this one open not long ago.”

The woman whose ID badge said Ellen White stood and read the screen over Rivera’s shoulder.

“Yes,” Ellen said, “for a reporter with Newslead. That’s the news service which reported this case, right?”

“That’s right. Why, what’s going on?” Kate asked.

“You tell us,” Rivera said. “You’re the second Newslead reporter to ask us about it this morning.”

“The second?”

“That woman was here earlier.” Ellen White indicated a woman walking along the rows of cots, glancing at her cell phone screen and those in the community hall, as if she were looking for someone.

Kate froze when she recognized the woman. Mandy Lee.

14

Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

Kate was at a loss.

Standing in the Rivergreen Community Hall, questions whirled in her head.

Why was Mandy, her competition, looking for Jenna Cooper?

Why was she following Kate’s story after Dorothea rejected the idea?

Kate thanked Rivera and White then made a beeline to Mandy.

“Excuse me,” Kate said. “Hi, I thought you were going to Irving today. What’s up?”

“Oh my Lord, Kate, why are you here? You’re supposed to be on the night shift.”

“Did Dorothea ask you to follow my story on Jenna Cooper?”

“Your story?” Mandy’s high-boned cheeks turned red. “Sweetie, it’s not your story. It’s Newslead’s story. And since we put it out there, it’s really anybody’s story now, isn’t it? All I did was enquire as to whether or not they found the child. By the way, why are you here? Does Dorothea know?” Mandy raised her cell phone. “Would you like me to call her and check for you?”

“I don’t believe this.” Kate rolled her eyes. “I’m here on my own time.”

Mandy tapped a glossed nail on Kate’s laminated ID tag.

“If that’s the case, it would appear you’re using Newslead to advance your own interests, whatever they may be.”

“What? This is bullsh-” Kate pulled back on her rising anger.

As she turned from Mandy she met the eyes of an elderly man and woman, their faces bearing the cuts and scrapes of survivors, looking up from cots near them. They’d witnessed the exchange.

Suddenly Kate was jabbed by a pang of shame for letting newsroom politics play out here, of all places. It was unforgivable, unprofessional. Immediately Kate apologized to the couple, dismissed Mandy with a wave of her hand and walked away.

Seething as she moved through the hall, she tried in vain to comprehend why Dorothea would not only push her off her story, but then steal it from her and give it to Mandy.

Why would I want to work with people who do this?

Because she needed the job, that’s why.

She needed the high pay and benefits. She needed the security for Grace and for herself. Bills were piling up at home. Newslead was a big organization with bureaus everywhere. If she could get through this and land a job, she might have a shot at a better bureau elsewhere.

I can’t give up.

Kate left Mandy and the issue behind her.

Tapping her notebook on her thigh she continued moving through the hall for the next ten minutes until she stopped. Two rows of cots over from where she stood, Jenna Cooper was sitting with Cassie and talking with two other women. Clothes, towels and toiletries were stacked next to them on the pallet.

Reporters?

Kate didn’t think so. One woman had a clipboard and an official-looking ID hanging from her neck. Kate wasn’t sure about the other woman. She had her hand on Jenna’s shoulder. Jenna was dabbing a tissue to her eyes, Cassie was holding a stuffed teddy bear.

A crisis worker and a friend of Jenna’s, maybe?

Kate slowly moved toward them, keeping a respectful distance but close enough to hear parts of their conversation.

“No, you can’t give up hope, but you also have to focus on who needs you now, on the things you can and should do now,” the woman said.

“I’m trying to reach my husband,” Jenna said. “The people here gave me this cell phone. Since last night, I’ve been texting, leaving him messages to call. I got through to his dispatcher who said Blake’s on the return leg of a trip to Alaska. He’s in Washington State, in the mountains, in an area with weak service.”

Jenna looked up, saw Kate and invited her to join them.

“This is the reporter I talked to.” Jenna nodded to the women.

Kate introduced herself, apologizing for interrupting.

“Hello, Kate, I’m Wendy DeBello. I’m with trauma counseling services.” The woman had a folded edition of USA TODAY under her clipboard, which had picked up Newslead’s stories and pictures.

“Holly Lawrence. Jen’s sister. I got in from Atlanta last night.”

“What’ve you heard on Caleb?” Jenna’s voice was raw and quivered. “Have you been to the flea market today? We’ve heard nothing this morning. They’ve restricted access. Now family can’t get in, only officials and media. For safety, they said. We’re going to wait at the line this morning. I need to be as close as possible. Tell me what you know, please!”

“I was just there. I’m sorry, there’s no news. They’re still searching the site, the entire flea market, still getting people out.”

All the pain bubbling under Jenna’s skin was in her eyes. Here was a shell-shocked woman battling to hang on to hope, any hope. And, as sickening as it was, Kate was going to intrude at her most vulnerable time.

It was a part of being a reporter that she hated.

“Forgive me, Jenna,” Kate started, “but I wanted to follow up on your situation. Maybe you could tell me more about the strangers who helped you.”

“Did they find them? Is there new information?”

“No, no, nothing like that, but can you tell me, or remember anything more about them?”

“Okay.”

Kate switched on her small digital recorder. She held it in view as she prepared to take notes, as well. Jenna thought, then with her voice shaking, she gave Kate an inventory of the few details she could recall. The woman was white, had a good figure, a pretty smile and was in her twenties, short spiky red hair, jeans and a low-cut top.

“And wait, maybe a tattoo.” Jenna touched the top of her chest. “Here, a butterfly, or bird, something with wings.”

Kate noted it.

“The man with her was white, the same age, about six feet, muscular build. He had jeans and a T-shirt with a motorcycle or a dog, I think. Lots of tattoos on his arms, maybe flames, I don’t know. He had stubble on his face and he never spoke.”

“Anything else?”

“They’re complete strangers. I never saw them before in my life, but the woman seemed kind of forward, kind of infatuated with Caleb.”

“Infatuated?” Kate noted the word and put an asterisk next to it.

“She got all sweet on him at the table where I bought some clothes. Then we saw them in the center, I mean they were just there in all the craziness, and so quick to help us when the storm hit. I had these terrible feelings that they may have taken Caleb somewhere, got confused and everything, or-oh, God-maybe they just took him!”

“Did you tell anyone about your feelings?”

“Yes. I talked to some officials, and some police officers. They’re so overwhelmed, but they said a kidnapping couldn’t be ruled out as a possibility. But it was highly unlikely because no evidence of a kidnapping has surfaced, and so many people are still missing that anything may have happened. Their theory is that Caleb’s case is related to the storm.”

Kate made a note: Kidnapping a possibility but no evidence.

Kate began weighing the additional details in a new light. The word Jenna had used, infatuated, got her thinking, but her thoughts were cut short when the cell phone Jenna was holding rang.

“Hello?” She repeated it louder. “Hello, Blake?”

Tears rolled down her face.

“Blake, wait, I can’t hear, I need to-” Jenna stared at the phone helplessly. Wendy took it, increased the volume and handed it back. It was now loud enough for their conversation to be heard by everyone.

“What’s going on, Jen? I’ve been out of reach. I saw the news in the motel about the tornadoes in Dallas. Jen, are you and the kids okay?”

“No!” Jenna broke down. “We’re at a shelter. I can’t go home yet.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Caleb’s gone!”

“What? He’s what? I don’t- Jen?”

“The house might be gone, too! Oh, God!”

Great gulping sobs exploded from her. Wendy was rubbing her shoulders. Cassie had buried her little face into her teddy bear and nuzzled against her mother. Jenna was holding her tight.

Kate took a picture with her phone, fighting a surge of guilt.

“We were at the flea market when it happened,” Jenna said, relaying the story to her husband. “We can’t find him! He’s so small and I should’ve been holding him! I should’ve held him with Cassie. It’s my fault. I’m so sorry, Blake. We need you here. Cassie and I need you, Blake!”

Jenna was trembling and a great groan that evolved into a wail erupted from the pit of her stomach and she lost her grip on the phone. Kate stared at it on the floor, lights blinking as Blake’s voice, now tiny, remote, pleaded from it.

“Jen? Jen? I’m coming home. I’ll tell Arnie, I’ll get on a plane. I’m coming home!”

Kate picked up the phone, placed it in Jenna’s hand and gently raised it to her ear.

“He’s coming home,” Kate said softly.

“Hurry!” Jenna wept into the phone. “We need you.”

Kate turned away, blinking back her own tears as images of her own life-losing her sister, Grace’s sparkly little fingers, her fight for a job-burned by at the speed of light. Listening to Jenna’s agony and standing amid the sea of suffering storm survivors, Kate asked one question over and over.

What happened to Caleb Cooper?

15

Moscow, Russia

A world away from the devastation in Texas, Pavel Gromov waited in his black Mercedes on the western side of the megacity.

He was at the edge of Filevsky Park, a glorious stretch of nature along the Moskva River favored by Catherine the Great. Parked across the street from the Palatial Elite Hotel, Gromov held a device with a small screen showing live video of a wedding reception taking place on the top floor. The images flowed from a camera his men had covertly installed in the luxury banquet suite.

He waited with the patience of a predator.

Gromov was in his mid-sixties and had the small, piercing eyes of a king cobra. They never betrayed his sadness at all he’d lost through the disintegration of the Brotherhood, the vory v zakone. They were a special class of Russian criminals who abided by old rules. But over the years the Brotherhood had fractured, the codes were ignored. Gang turned against gang in territorial wars.

Even Gromov, a powerful old vor-or mobster-and respected businessman with enterprises around the world, who’d implored the others to return to the organization’s harmony, had paid an unbearable price.

He opened the image on his cell phone and met the happy faces of three men in their twenties, smiling and shirtless during a holiday at the Black Sea. Two of the three displayed their tattoos with pride.

There was Anton, his firstborn, a rock-hard, smart, calculating warrior, partial to Italian tailored suits. Gromov was eager for Anton to assume his mantle until the night two years ago when his body was found on a meat hook in the cooler of a side street butcher shop in Volkhonka.

Dmitri, the middle son, was tightly wound but fiercely loyal and poised to hurt anyone who failed to show Gromov respect. He sought vengeance on his own. Six months after they’d buried Anton, Dmitri was shot fifty times at a traffic stop in Central Moscow.

Six months later to the day, Gromov received a delivery of a gift cake. When he opened the box in his kitchen he found the head of Fyodor, his youngest. Once more, pain penetrated Gromov to the core of his being.

Why Fyodor?

Fyodor had never been involved in the business. Everyone knew. Fyodor never bore a tattoo, never wanted to be part of the vory life. Fyodor was a librarian, a writer who loved the arts. His “soft son,” who was very secretive and so shy he didn’t even have a girl.

Gromov knew that his enemies murdered his boys, even gentle, innocent Fyodor, to cause him maximum agony, to ensure the end of the Gromov name, to eliminate him completely. Anton and Dmitri had married but had not yet started families. Gromov’s bloodline ended with him. His enemies wanted him to die an anguished old man with no one to assume his throne.

Gromov knew who was responsible. He waited and he planned. Over time he exacted his vengeance, killing his enemies one by one using methods that cast suspicion firmly on other enemies.

Let the jackals devour themselves.

Today, the last and biggest guilty enemy would pay.

Gromov glanced at his wedding surveillance screen. Now they were wheeling out the multitiered wedding cake. Good. There was laughing, drinking. Joy filled the room. Now, his enemy’s daughter and her new husband gripped the knife to cut the cake. All smiles and love everlasting.

Gromov lifted his head casually to peer over his glasses at his cell phone with the care of a veteran surgeon. He pressed numbers on his cell phone, its keypad chiming softly. The photograph of his three dead sons vanished from the screen as the detonation code appeared.

Now.

Gromov pressed Send.

He blinked and glanced up to the hotel’s top floor in time to feel a slight concussion thud wave, hear the full explosion as the fireball streaked from the suite propelling debris and bodies to the street below.

Gromov studied the scene the way a coffin maker studies a fresh cut piece of wood. Satisfied, he tapped his driver’s shoulder.

For a few dying seconds the flames reflected on the car’s gleaming black body as it glided into the night.

* * *

Late the next morning, Gromov sipped tea while reading a newspaper at an outdoor café on Gorky Street.

Screaming across the front page was an article on the deaths of thirty-three people in the bombing of a wedding party. The attack killed the target, Igor Zelin, a feared crime boss.

Gromov could not bear looking at the news picture of Zelin’s daughter. She was a beautiful young bride. Her body was found in the street below. Gromov’s vengeance tasted of bile. It sickened him to realize what he had become, and he mourned it all.

Above everything, he grieved for himself, for his loss of a direct bloodline. For Gromov had dreamed that one day his grandson would establish a legitimate business, one in which Russians did not kill other Russians. Something noble that would endure.

But that dream had been taken from him.

He gazed up at the distant spires of the Kremlin.

What was left for him?

Yes, he had money, he had power, but it meant nothing without his sons, without a legacy. Now, old age and death awaited him. And after Gromov died there would be nothing.

A shadow passed over his table and a huge man sat across from Gromov, revealing familiar gold crowns when he smiled at the headline.

“They say it’s obviously the work of the Chechens.”

“It could be,” Gromov said.

“Zelin had made many enemies.” The big man winked.

“Good to see you, Aleksey. It’s been too long.”

“I am sorry. I’ve been out of touch, taking care of things in Istanbul. I’ve been back for two months now, catching up. I heard about the boys. My condolences, Pavel. No man should have to bury his sons.”

“The price we pay for the lives we’ve lived.”

Gromov knew the sympathy in Aleksey Linevich’s eyes was heartfelt. The two men had been friends since boyhood. They talked for half an hour, until Aleksey’s phone vibrated and he checked the message.

“I must go,” Linevich said, suddenly remembering. “Yes. How stupid of me. The failings of old age, I almost forgot. My wife recently heard a wild rumor about Fyodor.”

“What is it?”

“She belongs to a Pushkin literary group and was at a publisher’s party last week, when she overheard a few women gossiping that, before his death, Fyodor Gromov had a girlfriend and she was pregnant with his child. It’s crazy, I know. Had you heard of this, Pavel?”

Gromov was dazed. He had a grandchild?

“Pavel?”

“No, no, I had not heard this.”

“Well, you know how the hens cluck away. It’s a terrible thing to say and likely untrue.”

As Gromov digested the possibility, hope trickled into his heart.

“Could you possibly find out more for me, Aleksey?”

Gromov’s friend nodded seriously.

“I’ll speak with my wife. I’ll get you more information quickly.”

“Yes, please.” Gromov stood, shaking his friend’s hand, watching him leave before he sat down alone, again. Thinking.

Fyodor, a girlfriend-a pregnant girlfriend? Could it be? No. Most likely, as Aleksey says, it’s bad gossip. But how does such gossip get started? What if it’s true?

I have a grandchild.

16

Moscow, Russia

The Blue River Restaurant was on a narrow side street two blocks from the Arbat pedestrian district. With its few feet of frontage and small shaded windows, it was almost hidden from view.

One could walk by without knowing of its existence.

Its low ceilings and dark paneled walls created a mood of calm privacy for Pavel Gromov, who waited alone for his guest in a far corner in a high-backed booth. After Aleksey Linevich had first told him about the girl that morning, it had taken two hours to provide Gromov details on the young woman and quickly arrange a meeting this afternoon.

A favor for a friend, Aleksey said.

Her name was Yanna Petrova, a twenty-seven-year-old junior editor at Six Mountains Press, a small publisher in Kitai-Gorod. She had the well-scrubbed face of a country girl from the Urals, where she was born. She was attractive with an air of intelligent defiance, Gromov thought, looking into his phone at the image of her driver’s license, a copy of which Aleksey had obtained for him.

When needed, men like Gromov and Aleksey would skillfully play the advantages they’d accrued over the years. Using bribes, fear and grisly acts, they’d purchased favor in every level of the bureaucracy, with police, security and politicians. There was little they couldn’t obtain in the way of goods, documents or information on anyone at any time.

Once Yanna was contacted she was quickly convinced of the wisdom in agreeing to Gromov’s request to meet immediately with him.

A car was sent for her.

While waiting, Gromov considered the idea that he’d been wrong about his son’s sexual leanings. Then he speculated on how far along this Yanna Petrova should be with his grandchild-a child that was his only hope.

Now, as one of his men escorted her through the near-empty restaurant to his booth, Gromov was deflated.

She wore a nicely cut navy blazer, matching pants and a white top.

No signs of pregnancy. Perhaps she’d already had the child?

Gromov stood, they greeted each other formally then he gestured for her to sit in his booth and order something. She requested a glass of orange juice then began twisting the rings on her fingers.

Her face was taut.

“You’re nervous?” he said.

Yanna studied Gromov’s face, only for a moment and said nothing.

“You knew my son, Fyodor.”

“Yes.”

“He kept secrets from me. You’re one of them, so it does not surprise me that we do not know each other.”

“I know who you are and what you are.”

Gromov detected tiny points of disdain prickling at the edges of her eyes. He regarded her for several seconds, deciding if he would tolerate her boldness.

“Why did you bring me here?” she asked. “What do you want from me?”

“I want the truth.”

“About what? I’m not part of your world-neither was Fyodor.”

“I understand that you are, or were, pregnant with his child, my grandchild. I would like to help raise this child.”

Yanna’s face began to crumple with anguish, but she held on, turned away, biting back her tears.

“There is no child. I was never pregnant.”

Disappointment rolled through Gromov, his thoughts taking him away from the restaurant to someplace as cold and dark as a tomb. Several beats of silence passed before he realized that Yanna had started telling him things he did not know about his son.

“I loved Fyodor. I miss him terribly,” she said. “We’d met in a bookstore. We liked each other very much. He was so kind and altruistic. He had a gentle strength about him. He loved hearing about my university years in America. We became good friends and started seeing each other.”

Yanna could clearly read on Gromov’s face that he was misinterpreting things.

“No,” she said. “It was not like you think.”

She looked at him for a long moment.

“Your son was goluboi. He was gay.”

Gromov closed his eyes.

Before she died in the cancer ward all those years ago, his wife had tried to tell him about Fyodor, but he’d refused to listen. Now he found himself nodding at this young woman’s confirmation of what he had long felt to be true. But it had never changed his love for Fyodor, and he was condemned to live with the regret of never having told him that.

“Yes.” Gromov cleared his throat. “I know.”

“You should also know that I am rozovaya, a lesbian.”

Gromov lifted his hand slightly from the table, in a gesture of acceptance, inviting her to continue.

“I wanted a child,” Yanna said.

She then told Gromov how months before Fyodor was killed, she’d asked him to be the donor father of her baby.

“In my eyes, he was the best human being in the world,” she said. “I was over the moon with joy when he agreed.”

Yanna and Fyodor kept the matter secret and went to a clinic in Moscow.

“The procedure failed. I never became pregnant.” She paused. “Then he was killed.”

A long sorrowful moment passed as Gromov sat there absorbing the revelation. With each passing second he grieved what he’d lost, refusing to accept that there was nothing he could do about it. Again and again Gromov told himself that it was impossible to go back in time and erase his sins. He could not undo the past.

No, he thought, but it was still within his power to shape the future.

“Tell me, Yanna, what is the name of this clinic?”

She hesitated, but not for long.

“The Rainbow Clinic, off Leninsky Avenue.”

Gromov reached for his phone and began making a series of calls.

Soon, he would know all he needed to know about the clinic to ensure they would not refuse his request to cooperate.

17

Moscow, Russia

Dr. Irina Aprishko removed her glasses and massaged her eyes after reading lab results at her desk in the Rainbow Clinic.

Looking forward to the weekend and the start of her vacation, she exhaled, replaced her glasses and saw that Olga Kotov, her assistant, was at her doorway, bag in hand, ready to leave.

“The others have gone for the day, Doctor. You’re the last one here.”

“I’m still expecting that late appointment.”

“Ah, yes, Mr. Ryazansky. So insistent when he called. Would you like me to stay?”

“No. I’ll meet him then I’ll close up. Thank you, Olga. Good night.”

After her assistant left, the doctor locked her reports in one of the steel file cabinets against the wall then went to the window. The clinic was in a yellow two-story building on a quiet tree-lined street not far from Leninsky Avenue, a busy artery in Southwest Moscow. As she gazed at the street the doctor grew curious about this Ryazansky.

Why was he so insistent to meet now, simply to discuss the clinic’s services? She’d offered to tell him over the phone, but he rejected that. She’d offered to set up a formal appointment with other staff, but he rejected that too, insisting on meeting now with her, given that she was the only executive member of the clinic at the office today.

Who was this Ryazansky? She’d checked the clinic’s files. He was not a donor or patient. Was he a potential investor? She had to admit, business from the clinic’s operations, had been very good.

Or was he a cop?

She hoped he was not a cop-that would not be good. It could get complicated.

She removed her glasses, tapping one arm to her teeth to help her think, when the front door security bell sounded. She went to the empty reception desk and on the small video monitor saw two men in suits. Using the intercom she asked them to identify themselves.

“Gennady Ryazansky, with my associate, Viktor Zhulov, here to see Dr. Aprishko.”

She buzzed them in. Seconds later, two men were standing in the reception area where the doctor greeted them.

“Thank you for agreeing to see me at the end of the day,” Ryazansky said.

“My pleasure. Let’s talk right here. The sofa’s comfortable, and since the other staff members are gone for the day, our privacy is assured.”

“Certainly, but first, is it possible for Viktor to use your restroom? It was a long drive from downtown.”

“Of course.” The doctor smiled at Viktor. “Down the hall, to the left.”

Watching him leave, she noticed the scar on his cheek and the tentacle of a tattoo creeping above his collar. Then she turned back to Ryazansky, who seemed to regard her with a degree of iciness. Who were these men? Usually she met with young couples, or a young woman, or young man.

“So tell me, again, Mr. Ryazansky,” she said as they sat, “what’s your interest in our clinic? I’m a little unclear about your situation.”

“Before I go into specifics, I’d like to know about your policies and procedures concerning your services.”

“Very well.”

Aprishko gave an overview of how the experts at the clinic treated patients for infertility, using state-of-the-art technology. How the clinic also offered surrogacy arrangements and full services concerning surrogate motherhood with a global network of legal services. The clinic also offered in vitro fertilization and sperm donation services.

“Above all, our most important policy is absolute confidentiality.”

“Thank you.” Gromov reached into his chest pocket and produced a folded sheet of paper for the doctor. It showed the colored copies of driver’s licenses of Fyodor Gromov and Yanna Petrova, along with neatly printed dates.

“My name is Pavel Gromov,” he said.

“I thought it was Ryazansky? I’m not sure I can help you under this-”

“Please, stay seated,” Gromov said. “Let me continue and it will all become evident. The man pictured here is my son…the woman is his girlfriend. You’ll see dates noted-they are the dates they visited this clinic to use his sperm to impregnate her. Unsuccessfully.”

Aprishko looked at the sheet.

“I believe, from my understanding of your procedures,” Gromov said, “that this clinic would have preserved and still possess my son’s sperm. My son is now deceased and I want his sperm to make further attempts at a grandchild.”

The doctor blinked several times. “Mr. Gromov, my condolences for your loss. It is a terrible thing to lose a child. But I’m afraid I cannot help you. First, as I said, patient confidentiality is absolute, so I cannot even confirm that these two people were patients. Second, it is stated in our contracts that, for clinical purposes, sperm becomes the property of the clinic but is not used other than for the purpose intended by the provider.”

Gromov’s face registered nothing. He said nothing. His eyes shifted from the doctor, who suddenly wondered why Gromov’s associate had taken so long. When she turned her head she saw Viktor standing behind her. He’d removed his jacket, revealing a shoulder holster and the grip of a gun. Aprishko’s jaw tightened when he passed her wallet to Gromov. She’d left it in her bag, in the drawer of her desk. This man had gone into her office and stolen it.

“What is he doing? What are you doing?”

Viktor stepped to the doctor and slapped her face once, as Gromov, indifferent to the assault, studied her wallet’s contents.

“This would be your home address?” Gromov held up Aprishko’s license and other cards.

Her heart racing, the doctor tasted blood in the corner of her mouth. Through her tear-filled eyes she saw stars.

“And this would be your daughter?” Gromov held up a photo of a girl about twelve years old beaming for the camera. “And this is your husband?” Gromov held up another photo of a smiling man.

He let several moments pass in silence.

“Listen carefully, Irina Aprishko. Before I came here, I learned where you live and where your family lives. I know from my sources that this clinic is involved in illegal activities. Is that not correct? Do not lie.”

The doctor looked at him, glanced at Viktor, tears rolling down her face. She nodded slowly.

“Good, now everyone here is being truthful. We will not hurt you, or your family, if you help me. Do you want to help me?”

Another nod.

“You are going to tell me if you have preserved or used my son’s sperm.”

They went to Aprishko’s office. Her shaking fingers made several errors as she typed on her keyboard, submitting codes to search the confidential files for Fyodor Gromov and Yanna Petrova.

The doctor confirmed that attempts to impregnate Yanna Petrova with Fyodor Gromov’s sperm had failed, the file was closed and none of Fyodor Gromov’s sperm was preserved at the clinic. However, through the other leg of their business, it had been used without Fyodor’s knowledge or consent to successfully impregnate a woman, a young American woman, by the name of Remy Toxton. The records indicated that she would have been due to deliver about now.

“A boy,” the doctor said. “We have all of her personal information here, including a scanned copy of her passport.”

Gromov stared at the photograph of Remy Toxton, the mother of his grandson.

“Give me all of her information,” he said.

A printer came to life. All documents were collected and passed to Gromov.

“Listen carefully, Doctor. When we leave, you will call police and tell them you were robbed by two men. They took your wallet and struck your face. They have your address and you’re fearful they may harm your family. Make sure they take down a report. If you do this, Irina, and never speak to anyone about our visit, no harm will come to you. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“I’ll have people watch you. Do you understand?”

She understood.

18

Dallas, Texas

“They’re complete strangers. I never saw them before in my life, but the woman seemed kind of forward, kind of infatuated with Caleb… Then we saw them in the center, I mean they were just there in all the craziness…”

Kate pressed the pause button, stopping the interview she’d recorded at the shelter earlier that morning with Jenna Cooper. Her fingers raced over the keyboard as she transcribed quotes for her story.

It was 2:45 p.m. and Kate needed to finish writing before starting her night shift at the bureau, per Dorothea’s instructions. The thought of it made her angry, but Kate had pushed all the crap over the Mandy Lee incident aside and concentrated on Jenna Cooper’s tragedy.

Reviewing the circumstances, she considered the little more she’d learned about the helpful mystery couple, their demeanor, appearance and actions. Kate also considered the general points listed about a missing-persons investigation noted in the brochure from the Missing Person Emergency Search System that Frank Rivera had given her. And she drew on her own experience as a seasoned crime reporter. These facets had fed her growing belief that there might be more to Caleb Cooper’s disappearance than first thought.

What if these people had kidnapped the baby? Or maybe they were disoriented and wandered off? It was all just a little strange.

Kate removed her earbuds and went to Dorothea’s office. The editor stood at her desk.

“There you are. Good,” Dorothea said. “Here’s a list of what I want. Tommy’s working on it, too.”

Kate scanned the items on the page Dorothea gave her, all information, data and stats on tornadoes.

“Graphics? You want me to gather content for graphics?”

“Our subscribers around the world can’t get enough. And once Chuck gets in, we’ll talk about what happened this morning and our concerns.”

“You mean with Mandy?” Kate glanced around the newsroom, saw Tommy Koop, the news assistant, looking at a wall map, pretending not to hear them, but didn’t see Mandy. “Will she be there, too?”

“No. She’s still out on assignment. I’ve already spoken to her.”

“Okay. I have a strong follow-up story coming on Jenna Cooper, the woman still searching for her baby. The possibility of a kidnapping has not been ruled out.”

One of Dorothea’s arching eyebrows arched higher. “Kidnapping? Do you have police on the record saying this?”

“No, not yet. No one’s really investigating a criminal case. At this stage the baby is considered missing in the storm, like so many other storm victims.”

“Well, we already have a lot of heartbreaking stories coming in. Your focus is graphics.”

Kate looked at the sheet and the requirements for a breakdown of the ten biggest tornadoes in U.S. history by death toll, property damage, tracked path and total financial burden. She couldn’t believe she was being tasked to do this kind of junior-level work. She went to the kitchen and fixed herself a large mug of strong coffee. Returning, she saw Dorothea in Chuck’s office doorway, waving for her to enter.

Chuck was standing at his desk, cell phone to his ear, finishing a conversation concerning upcoming visits to the damaged areas by the Governor and the President. Dorothea was sitting on the corner of his desk, her arms folded, pen twirling in the fingers of one hand.

“All right,” Chuck exhaled. “What’s this again, Dorothea? You had concerns about Kate?”

“Kate went to the flea market site and a shelter this morning without telling us and began reporting.”

“Yes, so?”

“It’s unfair to the other candidates.”

“Unfair, how? It shows initiative. The others are free to show it, if they choose.”

“There’s also an aspect of insubordination. I gave Kate explicit instructions that her shift was to start at three in the bureau and she disobeyed.”

Chuck glanced at the time.

“It’s three now and she’s here. Is there another issue, Dorothea? Because we both know Kate’s worked in newsrooms across the country. We can trust she knows what she’s doing.”

“There’s also the issue of liability, her working when not assigned might void insurance coverage for employees, or temporary ones in her case.”

“Not really. News is a 24/7 job, and if a UFO landed at two in the morning we’d expect staff to work without being assigned. She’d be covered. So long as she is not misrepresenting the company in an unlawful or unethical way. Did she do that?”

“No.” Dorothea grudgingly acknowledged the fact. “I wanted to raise these matters to ensure the fairness and safety of the candidacy competition for our reporter position.”

“I agree it must be fair.” Chuck’s phone rang and he answered. “I’ll call you right back.” Then to Dorothea he said, “So what have we got Kate doing this evening?”

“She’s helping Tommy collect content for graphics.”

“Did you call Burt or Sabrina at the J-schools and get students in here to help with that? We need our reporters reporting. We’re going full tilt on the search-and-rescue efforts, recovery efforts, the financial toll, the VIP visits and finding the best human-interest stories. New York’s demanding everything. Kate, did you find any news when you were out this morning?”

“I have a follow on the mother who lost her baby boy in the storm.”

“I like that story. The picture you got before was great. Did we get a new photo?”

“Yes.”

“Write it up now, and starting tomorrow I want you to follow it through to the end, until this young mother finds her baby. What are the chances this baby was abducted?”

“That’s been raised, but nothing’s surfaced to warrant a criminal investigation.”

Chuck shook his head slowly. “Still a terrible story, because if he’s dead, sadly, we have another tragedy reflecting the toll exacted by the storm. If there’s a miracle and he’s found alive, we have a huge story of hope. And we all know that people prefer the latter.”

“I want your story in an hour,” Dorothea said, then left, walking the walk of someone defeated, for now.

Kate returned to her desk, her head spinning with wonder at what had transpired. Why had she been present for what was clearly a knock-down, drag-out battle between her two supervisors? Relieved by the outcome, she struggled to get back into her notes and the flow of the draft she had going on Jenna Cooper.

“Excuse me, Kate.” Tommy Koop stood at her desk.

“Yes?”

He lowered his voice. “I just heard that you’re not helping me with graphics, and that’s cool. I thought it was weird that you were. But anyway, the night crew is ordering pizza tonight-are you in?”

“That would be great, thanks.” She glanced around, thinking. “Tommy, wait. Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“What’s the deal between Dorothea and Chuck?”

“You don’t know?”

Kate shook her head.

Tommy leaned closer and almost whispered. “They hate each other. They fight a lot in front of everyone. Dorothea’s out to get Chuck’s job as bureau chief. By the way, Dorothea and Mandy Lee are BFFs and some of the reporters say that Dorothea’s trying to make sure Mandy gets the job so she can start building her empire here. They say she has her eye on Washington.”

Kate nodded slowly, all the pieces coming together.

“And something’s up with Chuck,” Tommy continued. “There’s a rumor that he’s got some kind of big personal crisis going on. No one really knows what it is, but Dorothea might be exploiting it to get his job.”

“Wow, quite a soap opera. I like Chuck… He’s a good editor.”

“Everybody likes him. I’ll come back to get your order and cash later.”

Now that she’d been enlightened, Kate turned back to her work, somewhat relieved to know that, like most newsrooms where she’d worked, this bureau was a viper pit.

She flipped slowly through her handwritten notes on Jenna Cooper and went back to Frank Rivera’s brochure, noticing the point she’d circled on the investigator’s checklist: “Always ask people close to a case what they think happened.”

Again, Kate went back to the asterisks in her notebook concerning the helpful mystery couple who had so far, to Kate’s knowledge, not been found. Helpful. Kate considered the word and her notes. The woman seemed infatuated with Caleb… Then they were just there in all the craziness…

Kate recalled a story she’d done in San Francisco about a newlywed couple who went hiking in the Rockies. The bride had fallen to her death. Kate had reached a retired Ranger who shared the investigator’s manual concerning fatal wilderness accidents: “First, always assume criminal intent,” it said, something that had stayed with Kate. Grizzled detectives often told her that things are not always what they seem to be at first. It turned out the groom had pushed his bride during an argument about her former lover.

Again, the words in Kate’s notebook almost cried out to her.

Infatuated with Caleb… Then they were just there…

19

Duncanville, Texas

Remy Toxton watched greater Dallas blurr by her window as Mason Varno guided their pickup along the Lyndon B. Johnson Freeway to the emergency shelter in Duncanville.

Far enough away, she thought.

It was at least twenty miles west of the flea market and a good place to get the baby’s condition checked. It was important to do this before Remy took the next step toward exchanging him for the rest of her money, and getting closer to her dream life with Mason.

She looked down at Caleb Cooper sleeping on her lap.

She had thought it all through this morning over the McDonald’s breakfast Mason went out to get for them. A hospital or clinic might ask more questions and have security cameras, whereas a temporary shelter might be less formal and more understanding if tornado survivors didn’t have all the answers.

I just wish to hell that stupid mother in the news would shut up about looking for her baby. She wasn’t fit to care for this baby. I’m taking him to a better place.

They were ready to do this, she thought.

Mason had shaved his stubble, put on a new Cowboys’ ball cap, and a long-sleeved shirt to cover his tattoos.

Remy’s spiked red hair was now cropped short and dyed dark brown. She wore black-framed, knockoff Prada glasses, which she got at the flea market. She also wore a plain cotton top that covered her tattoo. They didn’t look anything like the couple who’d helped that stupid mother.

After making a series of merges, exits and turns, they’d reached the recreation center that served as the area’s emergency shelter.

“All set, babe?” Remy asked.

Mason nodded.

They entered the center with Mason carrying Caleb, looking every bit like young parents as they stopped at the first table, where three women were assisting people.

One of them was wearing a sweatshirt emblazoned with the words World’s Greatest Grandma. She smiled over bifocals at Remy and Mason. “How can we help you folks?”

“We’d like to get medical attention for our baby,” Remy started. “His head got hurt in the storm.” Mason held Caleb so the woman could see the little bandage. “We just want to be sure he’s okay,” Remy said.

“Oh my, yes. Can’t take chances with little babies.” The woman pointed with a pen. “Go to the medical unit down there. See the sign?”

Remy and Mason nodded their thanks.

“Are you sure that’s all you need?”

“Well,” Remy said, thinking, “we may need some clothes for him, and we lost his car seat. But that’s asking too much.”

“Not at all, honey. We’ve got donations of children’s clothes and items over there. Take what you need. We’ve also got groceries and hot food down that way. If you need a place to sleep, let us know. We’ve got volunteers from everywhere to help. Red Cross, Salvation Army, churches, community groups. If you’re missing or looking for anybody, we’ve got people set up with Missing Person Emergency Search System down there to help you. If you’re property owners that were hit, you’ll need a permit to get into your home and see the damage so you can start insurance claims and apply for aid. We’ve got people who can help you with the process.”

“Thank you,” Mason said, “but we were traveling through from out of town and just wanted to get the baby checked.”

“Sure. Mary Jo?” The woman turned to a teenage girl with a T-shirt that read I’m Here to Help. “Mary Jo, can you please take these nice folks and their little angel over to medical?”

“For sure. Follow me.”

Mary Jo’s ponytail swayed in cheery contrast to the air of a recreation center filled with tornado victims as she led them to the medical unit. The six treatment stations had makeshift examination rooms with curtained walls. Each one was in use. Remy and Mason sat among the people in the two dozen folding chairs that constituted the waiting area. They were greeted by a woman in her twenties wearing a T-shirt and jeans and carrying clipboards.

“Hi, who are we helping?”

“Our baby got a scrape on his head in the storm.”

The woman looked at it.

“How old is he?”

“Three months,” Remy lied. If she said his real age, it would raise suspicion by matching the age of the missing baby in the news.

“Okay,” the woman said before passing Remy a clipboard and form. “Fill this out then return it to me. One of our medical team will call you so Dr. Butler can examine him. It won’t be long.”

Mason’s face grew taut looking at the form about names, Social Security Numbers, medical history, allergies. He glanced at Remy, who took her time completing every box with phony information. Fifteen minutes later, she handed the clipboard and form back to the young woman.

“That was smooth,” Mason said.

“This is going to work.”

Remy took stock of Caleb for several moments before she was gripped by the fear that she’d slipped up somewhere, had forgotten some important thing. She racked her brain but nothing came to mind.

“Spiller?” A woman in a flowered smock, her blond hair pulled up in a bun and with a stethoscope around her neck, glanced from the clipboard toward the waiting area. “Isaac Spiller?”

Remy raised her hand.

“That’s us.”

“Hi, I’m Charlene Butler. Let’s go to number three and I’ll take a look at him.”

Remy and Mason entered the curtained cubicle. Charlene directed them to lay Caleb down on the examination table and hold him while she tugged on surgical gloves.

“Let’s see… So he got a little bump in the storm.” She lifted her stethoscope from her neck and bent over Caleb to check him. “Are those little bloodstains from when it happened?”

It hit Remy like a sledgehammer to her stomach. The thing she’d overlooked. She’d forgotten to change the baby out of his bloodied romper. She knew she needed to get him clothes but had completely overlooked the fact he was still wearing his blue-and-white-striped romper with the tiny elephant. The last thing his mother had dressed him in. It was listed as a detail in the last news story Remy had read about Caleb.

“I’m sorry,” Remy said, “can you repeat that?”

Dr. Butler looked directly at Remy, then Mason for a moment, as if she were assessing them.

“I said, did either of you see what happened?” Charlene removed the bandage. “How did he get his little scrape?”

“No.” Remy shook her head, looking at Mason. “It was during the storm… We didn’t see anything hit him. I was holding him and afterward he was just bleeding a little.”

“Well, there’s no bruising. That’s good.”

As the doctor checked the baby’s vital signs, she continued asking questions.

“Since it happened has he seemed overly tired or cranky?”

“No.”

“Have his sleeping patterns changed at all?”

“No.”

Charlene removed the baby’s romper and diaper to continue.

“Has he been fussing at his ears as though irritated?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“What about eating? Has his appetite changed?”

“No. Well, I’m moving him to formula and solids.”

Charlene glanced at the form Remy had completed on the clipboard.

“At three months? Most people wait a bit longer. He’s big for three months.”

“He’s a good eater.”

“Are you breastfeeding?”

“No.”

“Mmm.”

Charlene cleaned his tiny wound and covered it with a new bandage. Then, after several more minutes, she finished up.

“He’s fine.” Her gloves gave elastic snaps as she peeled them off. “Just clean his cut regularly and replace the bandage often. You can put his romper back on.”

“Thank you.”

Charlene smiled, cooed at the baby then left the cubicle.

Remy took Caleb, now clad only in a diaper, into her arms, and touched her cheek to his. Then she grabbed the romper and led Mason out of the medical post. They didn’t speak as they worked their way across the rec center floor to the section with tables and rows of plastic tubs and boxes of donated children’s clothes.

Remy passed Caleb to Mason to hold. She then tossed the baby’s bloodied romper into a pile and began rifling boxes marked, Baby Boy 0-12 Months, building a selection of clothing, diapers, cramming it all into plastic bags. She dressed Caleb in a new green romper. It was a little big on him but it smelled freshly laundered. While she was choosing more clothes, Mason noticed a couple of baby car seats nearby and took the one that appeared the sturdiest, checking the harness system.

Mason then found the food table, grabbed several ham-and-cheese and egg-salad sandwiches that were wrapped in clear plastic. He also took cookies and doughnuts, cramming them into the bags of clothes.

They headed for the lot and their pickup truck, where Mason got out his tools and secured the car seat in the truck’s cab, inspecting the anchor and the tether, ensuring it was secure before Remy strapped Caleb in.

Mason started the truck. Remy fastened her own seat belt then threw her head back into her headrest, letting relief wash over her.

“We did it, Mason! He’s healthy and no one had a clue about us!”

“Damn straight-he’s sixty thousand dollars healthy!”

They drove away, realizing that now they were closer to achieving what they each truly wanted.

* * *

As Mason wheeled the pickup through the neighborhood, he pulled a sandwich from the bag and began devouring it. By the time they’d made it to the freeway on-ramp to head back to their motel, Mason had reached into the bag for a doughnut.

“The kid’s healthy, so let’s call her,” he said between bites. “Let’s set things up to get this done.”

Mason accelerated and they merged with expressway traffic.

“Remy? Are you going to call her?”

“Not just yet. One more thing.”

“What? What one more thing?” Mason turned to face her, disbelieving, when his cell phone vibrated.

Keeping an eye on the road and his mirrors he pulled out his phone to check the text he’d received.

U can run but U can’t hide mfkr.

It was from DOA. Jesus.

Then in a sickening heartbeat Mason suddenly realized that disappearing inches separated their pickup from the rolling wheels of a tractor trailer. At that very moment a flash of sunlight on chrome and a panicked bellow of an air horn sucked the breath from his lungs.

Mason lifted his foot from the gas to stomp the brake as his hand spasmed on the wheel to swerve.

Remy reached for the baby, screamed and shut her eyes, bracing for a collision.

At the last second Mason swerved, coming within a hairbreadth before averting a crash.

Remy sighed with relief.

This was the last straw for Mason. The close call detonated his rage-rage at Remy’s reluctance to get rid of the baby; rage at DOA’s text; rage at everything. Mason roared east on the freeway, his nerves rippling with each car he passed.

“Slow down!” Remy said.

He was catatonic with fury, driving hard.

“Mason, please!”

He drove without speaking as they exited the freeway into some community racing by them in the southeast.

“Mason, for God’s sake, what are you doing?”

He didn’t have a clear destination but rather a burning intention. They came to a deserted field, heaped with broken branches and debris from the storm. He parked the truck, grabbed the baby and got out.

“Mason!” Remy jumped out after him. “What are you doing?”

“I can’t take any more of this bullshit, Remy! I’m going to take care of things once and for all!”

Mason’s jawline pulsed as he marched through the debris with the baby. Remy ran after him, pounding his back and shoulders, tears streaming down her face.

20

Balch Springs, Texas

The morning after her night shift, Kate was in a southeast suburb of Dallas.

She’d halted her Chevy Cobalt in front of a redbrick bungalow, glanced at the trimmed grass and neat low-standing hedges bordering the sidewalk. Well kept, she thought, flipping through her notes to confirm the address.

Bolstered by Chuck Laneer’s support the night before, she’d been going full tilt on the baby story since 6:00 a.m. When she woke, she’d texted Jenna Cooper for any news in the search for Caleb.

Nothing. Praying, Jenna texted back.

Kate then called Frank Rivera for any developments on the case. Had the baby, any baby, been recovered? What about anyone bearing resemblance to the helpful strangers?

“Nothing new to report, Kate, sorry,” Rivera said.

“Hey, Frank, is it possible the baby was taken by this couple?”

A moment passed.

“You’re not going to quote me. We’re just talking, right?”

“Right, just talking.”

“Okay, well, anything’s possible, but I doubt it’s the case here.”

“Why?”

“People try to help people in times of chaos, and the storm has given us many stories like that. I think this one is just a very tragic one, and while I pray for a different outcome, I fear the baby and the Good Samaritans may be found miles from the flea market.”

“Thanks, Frank.”

Kate pondered Rivera’s comments then reasoned that her best bet for learning more about what had happened to Caleb, and the strangers, was to get an account from anyone who was there at the time.

She drove to the flea market.

Search-and-recovery work was ongoing. Access remained restricted. Kate was permitted to enter and returned to the wreckage of the Saddle Up Center, where she located Captain Vern Hamby and search-and-rescue team leader Steve Pawson. She pressed them for any information on the Cooper case.

No babies had been recovered so far from the center’s debris, and they’d found no one fitting the descriptions of the strangers, they said.

“I understand that you have maps,” Kate said, “floor plans that pinpoint where people were situated when the tornado hit, to help identify people.”

“That’s correct,” Hamby said.

“Can you help me locate a spot on the floor plan?” Kate unfolded a page of her notebook with a sketch she’d made based on Jenna Cooper telling her how she’d taken shelter with the strangers by four large concrete planters near a wall.

Hamby and Pawson checked the sketch against the center’s floor plan, which covered a worktable. Pawson touched a dirty, scraped finger to a corner of the plan.

“That would be here,” he said.

Kate looked at the plan.

“Which vendor was closest to that spot when the storm hit?”

Hamby scratched his chin.

“Big Rail World. They would’ve had the clearest view of that area.”

“Who’s the operator for Big Rail?”

“According to the public directory, Burl Heaton,” Pawson said.

“Did Burl Heaton survive?”

Pawson consulted his phone and Hamby opened a three-ring binder.

“Yes, he did,” Hamby said. “Got banged up a bit, but he’s okay.”

“Any idea where he is right now-hospital, shelter, home?”

“I think he went home with his son,” Pawson said.

Kate confirmed the spelling of Heaton’s name and looked up his address.

Now she was parked in front of his house in Balch Springs. She closed her notebook. The address was correct. This was the place.

She gathered her bag, walked up to his door and rang the bell, hoping against hope that Burl Heaton might get her closer to learning what happened to Caleb Cooper.

A white-haired woman in her sixties opened the door.

“Yes?”

“Hello. I’m Kate Page, a reporter with Newslead. I called earlier.”

“Oh yes, come in. Burl! She’s here! Don’t worry about your shoes. This way.”

Thick outdated carpet covered the living room floor. Dark paneling covered the walls, which displayed family photos and a large painting of a freight train in the mountains. The coffee table was covered with paperwork, lists, photos, inventories and forms. Burl Heaton, aged seventy, was a retired brakeman who’d run a model railroad business at the flea market. He was assessing his losses and the toll, he told Kate.

His face was a net of abrasions. “I lost everything. About fifty thousand in product,” he said. “I got my arms skinned to the bone, got some bruised ribs, but I’m alive. Not like some of my friends. Not like- Sorry…”

He turned away and cried as his wife comforted him. In the quiet, Kate heard a man’s voice in the kitchen, talking about insurance on the phone.

Heaton brushed away his tears.

“In forty-nine years of railroading, I thought I’d seen a lot. I was in two derailments and one collision. But I cannot comprehend what I saw at the market. The building was torn apart, bodies flying like rag dolls, like the door to hell had been kicked open.”

Kate’s heart twisted as Heaton shook his head slowly until he found his composure and his way back from the horror to his living room.

“On the phone you said you needed help looking for someone?”

“Yes. I’m following the story of Jenna Cooper, whose baby was lost in the storm.”

Heaton glanced to his wife and said, “We heard a little bit about that on the news. She was at the Saddle Up. Terrible, just terrible.”

Kate cued up the photos she’d taken of Jenna on her phone and showed them to Heaton, to aid his memory.

“We think she passed by Big Rail to take shelter by the planters near your booth. I’m interested in knowing if you saw what happened there, especially with the two people who were helping her, a man and woman in their twenties.”

Kate described the mystery pair as Heaton looked at the pictures for several moments.

“No, she doesn’t look familiar. I don’t recall seeing her or these other people you’re talking about,” he said. “It was so crazy and everything happened so fast. A lot of people just stood there in shock, not believing what was happening. There was no place to go, nothing you could do.”

“What about Lance?” his wife asked and cocked an ear to the kitchen. “He was there with you. I think he’s done on the phone. Lance!”

A slender, unsmiling man in his thirties with bandages on his cheeks stood at the hallway entrance, listening to his mother explain Kate’s request. Without speaking, he took Kate’s phone and looked at the images intensely before shaking his head and passing the phone back to her.

Disappointed that her avenue of searching had dead-ended, she thanked the Heatons and stood to leave.

“Hang on.” Lance was busy with his phone. “I got something else. It came this morning. It may help you. Dolores Valdez runs the booth across from Dad’s, called These Boots. Her teenage son Tony sent me a recording he did of the center when the tornado hit. He wants to sell it to the TV people. Here it is. Watch.” Lance passed his phone to Kate.

She saw shaky video of people crowding inside the center amid the sounds of cracking, creaking and hammering. There, Kate glimpsed Big Rail, the forest of people, a flash of a baby stroller, Jenna’s profile, a fleeting image of Cassie’s head, and two adults with them, barely visible, navigating their way through the pack. The camera’s point of view shifted; some people crouched on the floor, shouting to others to get down. Some cried out as explosion after explosion sounded along with the shredding of metal by unbelievable winds. Debris swirled, a car landed inside, people were pulled into the air and tossed into darkness.

Then the footage went black.

Kate caught her breath and willed her heart to calm.

She asked Lance to replay the video, which ran for nearly five minutes. As she watched the second time, she realized there was no way of telling what had happened to Caleb and the strangers. The video cut away before it offered up any clues.

“Lance, can you give me Tony’s number? I’ll check with my desk, but Newslead might buy this from him and put it up on its website.”

21

Pleasant Grove, Southeast Dallas, Texas

Pam Carraway had started her day before first light.

That morning, Pam, a part-time gym teacher, joined her search-and-rescue team in the parking lot of a Baptist church. Their fluorescent jackets glowed yellow, orange and green in the headlights of arriving vehicles.

You couldn’t tell by looking and talking with her, but Pam was not sure she could make it through another day.

As the sun rose, members of the volunteer group sipped coffee from commuter mugs and checked radios and phones while they were given their new assignment: the fringes of Lincoln Memorial Park Cemetery. Tornadoes had churned through the burial grounds and destroyed surrounding homes and businesses.

“The debris field is substantial,” Kel Zedler, the search manager, said. “It was searched yesterday by Jay Selinger’s group. We’ve been tasked to take one quadrant of the area and search it again. And, guys, it bears repeating that time is running out for survivors. Lives may depend on us.”

Some of the K-9 units yipped as the team climbed onto the school bus that would take them to their command post. As they drove in the twilight Pam adjusted to her muscle aches from yesterday’s marathon search.

She couldn’t shake off the secret overwhelming sense of loss and foreboding dwelling in a far corner of her heart.

Was it posttraumatic stress?

Suck it up, Carraway. This is no time to go to pieces.

Make no mistake, she was dedicated to the work, having started volunteering two years ago after the group had found her seventy-three-year-old father, an Alzheimer’s walk-away.

They’d saved his life, and she felt the best way to thank them was to be a part of the work they did.

Pam was already certified in CPR and advanced first aid. She was in excellent condition. The search team trained her on how to use compasses, maps, GPS, grid search practices, various advanced communications, weather, clue and evidence techniques. She’d learned incident management skills and could quote from four different manuals.

During the time Pam had been with the team, they’d helped search for bodies, missing children and seniors, hikers lost in the wilderness. They’d helped police look for guns or knives tossed after a crime.

As a searcher, Pam had been involved in helping locate twelve bodies. She had experience with making gruesome discoveries; still, she never got over the shock of seeing cadavers in various stages of decomposition. It never, ever got easier. She died a little each time, thinking of the families of the victims.

Yesterday her team searched through a section of Irving that had been hit hard. They’d made sixteen finds. Eight were deceased and Pam had found seven of them, including the man buried in rubble holding his dead wife, whose body had been cut in half by a roof beam.

The group also found eight people who survived. The power of the disaster was overwhelming. Some victims had been found miles from where they were when the storm hit. Some had been in trees, on rooftops, entwined in wrecked cars, enmeshed in debris or they had been torn to pieces.

Hope for finding survivors was ticking down according to medical estimates of the time a person could survive injury, exposure, without water or food. Gas lines were ruptured everywhere. In addition, there were health-and-safety laws outlining a deadline for debris to be removed before areas became vermin infested. There was a real fear that a victim, still alive, could be bulldozed into a dump truck and taken to a landfill.

That wasn’t all.

“You could use a tornado to attempt to get away with murder,” a team member who was a retired detective had told Pam, just as they got off the bus. “Place your victim amid the debris and it would be assumed the cause of death was from the tornado. Unless someone knew otherwise, you might get away with it.”

The possibility gave Pam a chill, but the truth was she was not sure she could survive finding another body, she thought, as they assembled at the command post. There, they were given their assigned zones and set out to process them.

Pam’s zone encompassed a section of the cemetery and a neighboring residential street, or what was left of it.

Police had sealed the area so search-and-rescue efforts could continue. The cemetery was a field of toppled trees and headstones. Huge patches of manicured lawns had been ripped from the earth. Across the street, houses had been flattened or shorn, exposing rooms, wiring and insulation. Topsoil had been hurled onto rooftops and cars overturned.

Pam searched the area as K-9 teams probed nearby. Clothing, toys, appliances and furniture were scattered everywhere. She found a real-estate for sale sign from Duncanville, which was about fifteen miles west. But so far she’d found no bodies, no survivors.

She was grateful.

Jay Selinger’s team was good, she thought. You could always count on them to do a thorough job.

Nearly two hours passed with Pam continuing her work amid the destruction of cars dropped on houses, more branches and tree limbs, and sections of walls hurled into residential streets. She came upon what must have been a day care. A heap of children’s furniture and toys buried beneath trees was all that was left.

She saw a doll, dirty and mud covered.

Pam bent down to grab the leg and froze.

It was not a doll.

22

Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

After disembarking from his connecting flight through Seattle, Blake Cooper met Garrett Keo, his brother-in-law, at the arrivals gate at DFW International Airport.

For the first time ever, Garrett, a six-foot-two mechanic and Falcons fan from Atlanta, hugged Blake, in a tender but awkward moment.

That simple action pushed matters beyond the understated machismo of two blue-collar men who did little more than shake hands at family gatherings and holidays.

It drove home the depth of the tragedy.

“It’s a helluva thing, Blake, a helluva thing. Holly sends her love. We’re going to help you and Jen get through this,” Garrett said after grabbing Blake’s bag and leading him to his rental, a pearl-colored Ford Escape. “You made good time getting back,” he said as they left the airport.

“The airline bumped me ahead when I told them the reason I needed to get home,” Blake said. “My company covered the ticket, sent in a guy from Tacoma to fill in for me. Everyone’s been good…” Blake’s voice trailed. As they got on the expressway and the city rolled by, Blake thought back to that first awful call with Jen. How he couldn’t believe what she was telling him, thinking she had to be wrong.

Caleb vanished in the tornado. It made no sense.

It couldn’t be true, he thought, telling himself as his jet had climbed over the Rockies that really, everything was okay. Jen was just confused by the storm. Caleb was safe somewhere.

He had to be.

Yes, Blake had seen news coverage of the tornadoes on the TVs at the Seattle airport. Yes, there was death and destruction in several states. Yes, Dallas was hit hard. Yes, people were suffering, but this couldn’t be happening, not to his family. Really, everything is okay.

God, please let everything be okay.

Blake suddenly realized that Garrett had passed the exit for his home.

“Aren’t we going to go to my house? Hasn’t Jen moved out of the shelter by now?”

“No. I went out to Lancaster- It’s not good.”

“What?”

“Blake, your house is gone. I’m sorry.” Garrett’s voice was soft, filled with compassion.

Blake’s face paled and he ran his hand over it. Then a sound between a groan and a curse escaped him. “Was-was there anything left?”

Garrett shook his head solemnly. “Your neighborhood was totally destroyed, nothing left but rubble. The area’s restricted, sealed off while they deal with power lines and gas.”

Blake said nothing. He blinked at nothing, as if struggling to comprehend something incomprehensible.

“That’s not all of it, Blake. There’s more about Caleb.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“I’m so damned sorry. I should’ve told you at the airport.” Garrett’s voice began to crack a little. “It happened when you were on the plane, I-” The words wouldn’t come.

“Just tell me, Garrett!”

“They found a body.”

Blake’s eyes widened, his face tightened. “What’re you talking about? Whose body?”

“A baby. A baby boy. That’s all we know.”

Blake smashed his fists into the console. “You better be fucking wrong, Garrett! You better be dead fucking wrong!”

It took about two seconds before the full force of it hit Blake in the gut like a two-by-four.

“Oh Christ, is it Caleb?”

“We don’t know for certain. Jen got a call from some official then two Dallas cops came and took her to this high school in southeast Dallas.” Garrett tapped the rental’s GPS. “I put the address in here. That’s where we’re going.”

“A school?”

“They’ve set up a morgue in the gym.”

“A morgue! Jesus.”

Blake’s knees started bouncing up and down and he held them with his palms. Sensing his anguish was about to detonate, Garrett feared he would smash his way out of the Ford.

“Blake. You got to hang on. Jen’s in a bad way-she needs you. She’s with Holly, waiting for us at the school. Jen said she’s not doing anything without you.”

* * *

Jenna needed to believe that she was dreaming.

Because if I’m dreaming, none of this is true.

She shut her eyes for a long moment then opened them again.

She was not dreaming.

This is really happening.

She was with several people waiting in the administration office of a high school. The school had been closed to students, had become a ghost building. Yet everyone was whispering, like they were in church or something.

Jenna had lost Caleb. It was her fault because she’d failed to hang on to him. But her prayers were answered. Caleb had been found and taken to this high school.

She was going to hold him one last time.

I’m so sorry. I didn’t protect you.

A tiny voice in her heart cried out to her. No. No. It’s not true. My baby boy can’t be dead.

“Would you like another cup of water, Jen?”

Jenna’s sister, Holly, stood by the cooler. It glugged as she filled another paper cup. Jenna tasted the cold water, felt it flowing down her parched throat. Then she looked at the trophy case with medals, statues and framed photos of teachers, coaches, basketball and football teams. She searched the pictures of the players and thought of Caleb. Would he ever be on a team? The faces of these young men screamed life to her while her heart cowered at what was waiting for her in the gym.

The office doors opened. Blake appeared.

She rushed to him, cleaved to him, nearly sank to her knees before he pulled her up so that they stood together, holding each other and sobbing for what seemed an eternity.

Then a woman stood and started the procedure.

“Excuse me- You’re Blake Cooper, Caleb’s father?”

“Yes, I am.”

“I’m Lanna Thomas with the Medical Examiner’s office,” she said.

Others began to introduce themselves: the two officers, Stroud and Dyer, with the Dallas PD; Wendy DeBello, with trauma counseling services; and Frank Rivera with the Missing Person Emergency Search System.

“I’m so sorry,” Thomas said to Blake and Jenna, “but we need one of you to make the identification now.”

Blake nodded to Thomas and cleared his throat.

“I’ll go.”

“No.” Jenna crushed him to her. “We’ll go together.”

“Okay,” Thomas said. “Follow me.”

The officers followed, as well, their utility belts giving soft leathery squeaks and keys jingling as they approached the gym. There was a faint hum in the air, and Jenna squeezed Blake’s hand harder.

“Where-” Blake started again. “Where was he found?”

“A woman with a volunteer search and rescue team found him among some broken tree limbs in a suburb ringing Lincoln Memorial Park Cemetery.”

The hum grew louder when they entered the gym, which had been partitioned in half with a floor-to-ceiling dividing wall. Thomas led them through the door into the closed section.

“The drone is from the generators outside for the portable air conditioners, to keep the room cool,” Thomas said, pulling on latex gloves.

Stepping inside, Jenna stopped.

The room was cold. On the polished gym floor were several rows of body-sized sheets. The odor in the air was a mix of a hospital and a supermarket deli. The surreal scene of the dead juxtaposed with the banners on the wall.

Go Tigers Go!

Jenna imagined basketball games, proms and graduations that had taken place here, as Thomas led them down a row of corpses with the officers following. They stopped at a tiny form. Thomas lowered herself, looked up at Jenna and Blake as she collected the sheet.

This had to be done.

“Ready?” Thomas said.

Blake pulled Jenna tighter but it didn’t stop her trembling.

He nodded and Thomas drew back the sheet.

Jenna’s skin numbed, she gasped and her stomach knotted.

The baby was a few months old and faceup on a plastic mat. It was a boy, wearing only a shirt. Part of his face was shredded into a pulpy stewlike mess. His left hand was gone. Jenna did not recognize his shirt.

She could barely push the words out. “Can you turn him over?”

Exercising utmost care, Thomas turned the tiny body. The little legs were muddied.

“Can you clear the mud from his lower left leg?” Jenna’s voice croaked.

Thomas gently passed her fingers over the section, cleaning it.

Relief pierced Jenna. “That’s not my son. That’s not Caleb.”

“You’re both certain?” Thomas asked.

“Caleb has a small rocket-shaped birthmark on the back of his left calf,” Jenna said. “The mud covered that area, but there’s no birthmark underneath. This baby’s hair is not the same shade as Caleb’s, either.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Blake said. “This is not our son.”

Thomas nodded to the officers and replaced the sheet. Then they all returned to the office where the others were informed that the deceased baby was not Caleb Cooper.

“Thank you. We know this was agonizing,” Thomas said.

Jenna nodded, but despite her relief, she mourned for the tiny dead angel and another mother’s pain.

“There’s some paperwork we need you to sign,” Thomas said.

As Jenna and Blake took care of the paperwork, the officials huddled out of earshot to talk briefly before Thomas addressed the couple again on behalf of the group.

“Jenna, Blake,” Thomas started, “as horrible as this was, and as anguishing as it is facing what you’re facing, you have to keep the facts in mind and prepare yourselves.”

“Prepare ourselves?”

“Rescuers are finding fewer survivors,” Thomas said. “The chances of anyone, let alone a baby, enduring three-hundred-mile-an-hour winds, injury, then more than forty-eight hours of exposure without water or food, are remote.”

“Are you telling me to give up hope?” Jenna said.

“No, no, not at all. We’re only advising you to bear in mind that we’re running out of time.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Jenna snapped. “Please don’t try to tell me my son is dead! Until I see him, Caleb is not dead! In my heart he’ll never be dead!”

“We’re not suggesting that, Jenna.”

“We will find him. I swear we’ll find him.”

23

London

The Boeing 767 departed London’s Heathrow Airport and cut westward across the night sky toward the southern tip of Greenland.

Destination: Lester B. Pearson International Airport, Toronto, Canada.

From his upholstered leather seat in executive class, Pavel Gromov studied the constellations. Like an ancient soldier, he divined purpose from the stars, vowing to his dead wife and sons that he would achieve his goal.

I will return to Russia with my grandson.

Gromov sipped his vodka and glanced at Yanna Petrova next to him in the window seat. Her face was in her eReader, but more often it was turned to the window. Her attempt to flee from him before their departure in Moscow had been bold but thwarted when the airport security people on Gromov’s payroll alerted him.

“Need I remind you of the consequences if you do not cooperate, Yanna,” he’d warned her when they were alone.

“You’re vile!” she’d spat at him.

She’d barely spoken to him on their Aeroflot flight from Moscow to London. It was the same now, bound for Canada before they entered the United States.

Gromov contemplated the ice in his glass, pleased that he’d moved fast on his plan to find his grandchild. He’d used his connections to secure expertly forged travel documents for both of them. Made from stolen official security papers, they were flawless. They’d come at great speed and great expense. He’d used key sources to ensure corresponding information supporting the counterfeit papers would be found in all the necessary databases.

Matters didn’t go as smoothly with Yanna.

She’d been startled then furious to arrive home and find him waiting alone in her apartment.

“Why are you here? Get out!”

“Fyodor fathered a child.”

“It can’t be true.”

“I learned this from the clinic. Without you I never would’ve known I have a grandchild.”

“But how did this happen?”

“My police sources had informed me that the clinic is involved with a black market network. They used his sperm to impregnate an American woman who gave birth to a baby boy in Texas. You are going with me now to get him.”

“Impossible. You’re insane.”

“Call your office and inform your boss that a relative of yours in the Urals has died and you must travel immediately to Yekaterinburg. Say that you will be away for two weeks. Our flight to London leaves in four hours. Make the call and pack now. It’s hot in Texas.”

Yanna stared at him then looked around her apartment, probably for some way to escape her situation. “You’re a criminal and I refuse to help you!”

Gromov showed her photos on his phone of her parents’ home and her little sister’s apartment. “It is not a decision you are free to make.”

He’d made it clear her family would be killed if she didn’t help him. Overwhelmed with rage and fear Yanna had reassessed her situation, bit back on her anger then made the call and packed.

Now she put down her eReader, buried her face in her hands and began to cry.

“Why? Why are you doing this to me?” she asked Gromov in Russian.

Subduing his voice, he ordered her to keep her voice low.

Yanna turned and bristled at him. “I still cannot accept this. I demand to go home, now!”

Gromov did not respond.

“I could go to prison for what you’re forcing me into,” she said.

“Do as I say and you won’t be arrested.”

“You’ve practically abducted me and are threatening my family if I don’t help you steal someone’s child.”

“No,” Gromov growled through gritted teeth. “I am rescuing the baby stolen from me, from Fyodor, and you! You, Yanna, will be the mother of this child.”

“I do not want this child! It’s not mine!”

“It’s Fyodor’s child. You yearned to have his child. Accept that this is fate. I will provide for you. You will be wealthy beyond anything you could imagine. And with the time I have left, I will help raise the baby.”

“To be a soulless criminal like you?” Yanna stared at him, breathing hard with disgust.

Gromov said nothing.

“Fyodor was right to sever his life from yours,” Yanna said.

Gromov clenched his jaw then he sipped vodka. His Adam’s apple lifted then settled and he blinked several times.

“No,” he said. “Not like me. I’m leaving the vory way behind me. Look at all it has cost me. I have paid a price for my sins.”

“So now you seek absolution? You’re an old vor trying to slither his way into Heaven through some desperate criminal act of insanity.”

Gromov felt the beginnings of a smile before he sipped more vodka and decided that he liked Yanna Petrova and her moxie.

“Something like that,” he said.

“Suppose you locate this child,” she said, “and suppose through your methods you take custody of him. How are we going to leave the United States and enter Russia with a baby without raising any suspicions?”

“Don’t worry. I’m arranging everything.”

Yanna turned to the window, withdrew into herself and said nothing for the remainder of the flight.

* * *

After Gromov and Yanna’s plane landed at Toronto’s Pearson International Airport, they proceeded to the checkpoint for passport control and immigration. As Canadian citizens they entered the country easily, collected their bags then proceeded to the ground transportation section where they were met by a driver holding a small cardboard sign bearing the handwritten name Popovich.

Inside the luxury sedan, the driver took all of Gromov’s and Yanna’s counterfeit documents and gave them each a large envelope with new Canadian documents, passports, airline tickets and plastic ID cards under new names.

Reviewing her new Canadian identity, Yanna gave up trying to gauge just how connected Gromov actually was. It frightened her, for he seemed to have friends in very high levels of security around the world.

The city’s skyline, dominated by the needlelike CN Tower, rose before them as their car sped along Toronto’s expressways. They traveled some fourteen miles southeast to the heart of the city and a central airport known as the Toronto Island Airport.

They boarded a twin-engine turboprop operated by a small commercial airline for a ninety-minute direct flight to Newark.

Walking through the terminal, they got in line for U.S. Customs. Yanna went first. For a fleeting moment while standing at the desk, she wanted to divulge everything to the Americans, plead for mercy and a return flight to Moscow. Glancing over her shoulder, she felt the heat of Gromov’s eyes on her and the full force of his threat.

If I make it home, it will be to mourn my family.

Yanna proceeded as normal and was cleared for entry. Upon entering the United States, she resigned herself to enduring her ordeal until the end, praying that she would return home to her ordinary life.

When Gromov got to the desk, the agent took his Canadian passport, cracked the spine and inserted it into the passport reader. He checked the photo to ensure Gromov matched it. Then he looked at Gromov’s customs card.

“Where’re you headed, sir?”

“New York City.”

“What’s the purpose of your visit?”

“I am taking a holiday, to visit the museums, maybe see a show on Broadway.”

“Where were you born?”

“Moscow, Russia.”

“Russia?”

“I moved to Canada as a young man to study and became a citizen.”

“Did you live in Canada’s capital, Toronto?”

Gromov looked at the agent. He was being tested. “Apologies, but I must correct you. Canada’s capital is Ottawa. That is where I live.”

“That’s right, I forgot. And what do you do in Canada?”

“I’m a semiretired professor of eastern European studies at Carleton University.”

The agent stamped Gromov’s passport and returned it with the customs card.

“Welcome to the United States.”

* * *

As was the case in Toronto, a driver holding a sign-this time the name was Budarin-met them at baggage claim at the Newark Airport, collected their luggage and led them to a new Lincoln.

When they pulled away from the airport, Yanna turned to Gromov.

“Where did you learn English?”

He looked at the horizon.

“Here.”

Their car gathered speed and merged into the rivers of traffic flowing along the New Jersey expressways as they headed for New York City. Soon the span of the majestic George Washington Bridge emerged with Manhattan’s glorious skyline, pulling Gromov back in time.

He was seventeen when he’d left home to journey across Europe and found work in Rotterdam on a freighter that sailed the world. When they’d docked in New York Gromov jumped ship. He worked illegally on the waterfront, learning English and every aspect of importing, exporting, smuggling and illicit global trafficking. He stayed for eight years, making lifelong friends and establishing business networks worldwide, before returning to Russia. He ran into some trouble, landed in prison for several years where he enriched members of the Brotherhood with his expertise on America. When he got out, he built his empire in Moscow while he maintained his alliances in the United States.

The Lincoln worked its way through Midtown traffic until it reached the Grand Hyatt next to Grand Central Terminal. They checked into a suite with separate rooms, showered, then met a man for dinner in the hotel’s restaurant.

His name was Yuri Korzun.

He was about the same age as Gromov, a barrel-chested man with short white hair and sharp black eyes. He took Gromov’s hand in both of his and shook it warmly.

“Welcome back to New York, Pavel. It does my soul good to see you, old friend,” Korzun said. “My condolences for your losses.”

“Thank you. Good to see you, Yuri.”

Korzun pulled out a chair for Yanna.

“Yuri,” Gromov said, “this is Yanna Petrova. She was a very good friend of my youngest boy, Fyodor. She’s like a daughter to me and has agreed to help me here in America.”

Barely concealing her animosity, Yanna managed to smile at Korzun.

“Yanna,” Gromov said, “Yuri Korzun and I knew each other as teenagers working here on the docks.”

“Welcome to New York, Yanna. It’s unfortunate you cannot both stay longer and see more of the city.”

“Yes, unfortunate,” she said with a bite in her voice.

Over dinner the men caught up on each other’s lives and those of people they’d known while Yanna took in the view of the Chrysler Building and tried to comprehend her surreal predicament. As the meal wound down over drinks, the men discussed Gromov’s case.

“Your friends in this country would be honored to help you with anything you need at any time. Just contact me,” Korzun said.

Gromov nodded in appreciation.

“We’ve alerted our people in Justice, State, Immigration and other departments,” Korzun said. “We can provide you with the necessary documentation when you’re ready to leave the country with your grandson, Pavel.”

“Thank you, Yuri.”

Korzun reached into his inside jacket pocket, first for bifocals then for a few pages folded together. He reviewed them quickly before passing them to Gromov.

He nodded and looked at them.

“Her name is Remy Toxton,” Korzun said. “Her boyfriend is Mason Varno. He’s an ex-convict and two-bit drug dealer. He drives a pickup truck and works as a carpenter. Here’s their latest information.”

Yanna moved her chair to look over Gromov’s shoulder at photos of Remy and Mason. The woman who’d carried Fyodor’s child looked so young. Gromov studied the pictures and documents the way a grand master contemplates an opening strategy.

“Pavel, I’m curious,” Korzun said. “Why not have us go to these baby sellers and deal with them directly to find the girl? We can be very persuasive.”

“I want to go directly to the mother without warning so there’s no possibility of complications. I’ll make it fast and uncompromising. Nothing will stand in the way of me finding her and my grandson. Like you, I can be persuasive.”

Korzun smiled. “A Delta flight direct to Houston leaves from LaGuardia in the morning.”

24

Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

Caleb Cooper was screaming.

One-hundred-decibel, nerve-shredding wailing.

Remy tried everything to make him stop, but Mason was the one who needed calming. He was causing the upheaval, rampaging through their belongings again, looking for dope or reasons to stay pissed off at her.

His fit of rage was a repeat of yesterday’s explosion after their brush with death on the freeway. Mason had lost his mind, took the baby and stomped into the field to do God knows what. It was all that Remy could do to talk him down, persuade him to give up the baby and get back in the truck.

The incident had not only shaken them, it had intensified Mason’s cravings and inflamed his fears that they were being pursued, to the point that Remy’s brain began throbbing with the onset of a spell.

“Mason, I swear if you don’t stop it my head is going to explode!”

Remy was cradling the baby, but in her agitated state her attempts to rock him turned into rigid bouncing, which worsened matters.

Mason had ransacked her clothes and the baby things. Then he grabbed the bigger suitcase they’d packed from their apartment. Zippers whizzed, he opened it and rifled through it.

“Mason. Mason, listen to me- Shh-shh.” Remy raised her voice over the baby, punctuating her sentences with attempts to stop Caleb’s screeching. “I don’t have your stuff. Shh-shh. Did you check the truck?”

Mason ignored her and went to the window.

Last night, to assuage his suspicions, they’d packed up, with Remy grabbing extra soap and shampoo, then moved from their motel and into this fleabag dump, the Tumbleweed Dreams Motel, on the west side of the Metroplex. Standing at the window taking inventory of the parking lot, Mason rubbed his lips then ran his hands through his hair, tugging at it when he’d reached a decision.

He marched to Remy’s night table and seized her purse.

“What the fu- Mason! What’s wrong with you?” Remy stood, baby in her arms, and shot out one hand to reclaim her bag.

Mason turned, dumped the contents on the second bed, pushing Remy off until he found the card for the surrogate agency with penned names and cell numbers. He held it before Remy’s face.

“Call them now!”

Remy snatched the card back. Mason surrendered her bag and with one hand Remy began scooping her things back into it.

“I told you I will call them when it’s time.”

“What the hell are you waiting for?”

“For the idiot mother to stop searching for her baby.”

“She’s never going to stop. What mother would? We’re running out of time. Call the agency, close the deal and we’re done.”

“I will do this my way. It’s been working so far, hasn’t it?”

“The longer we wait, the riskier it gets. We’re running out of time and money. The agency’s likely got people looking for us ever since we left. You signed a contract with them, took a lot of money then disappeared without delivering a baby. And there’s a chance that police are looking for this baby, too, since it’s been in the news.”

It was all true, but Remy pursed her lips.

“And,” Mason added, “how the hell are you going to pass off this five-month-old baby as a one-month-old? Even the doctor at the shelter thought he was big for three months.”

“Stop being so negative, Mason. It’s all going to work out,” Remy said. “We just need to wait a little bit, then we’ll have our money, then we’ll start the life we’ve been dreaming of, the life we deserve. Trust me, babe.”

“I can’t wait a little bit. Things are slipping away. I just want to get our cash and get the hell out of here.”

“We just need a bit longer.”

“You know what I think, Remy? I think the truth is you don’t want to give this baby up.”

She didn’t say anything.

“I think that after losing your baby, you’re going through something. You’re getting attached to this one and you’re delaying things because deep down you want to keep him.”

“That’s not true.”

Mason got his gun from his bag, pulled the slide back and released it. The gun clicked as it chambered a round from the magazine into the barrel.

“It’s not going to happen.” Mason pointed his gun at the baby.

“Mason, no!”

“We’re not keeping that kid under any circumstances, Remy. Is that clear?”

“Put the gun down, Mason! Stop being an asshole!” Without blinking Remy shoved the gun aside. “If we lose this child, we lose everything.”

Mason stood there for several seconds until he cooled down, then he lowered his hand, removed the magazine and the round, tossing them with the gun on the bed.

The baby’s crying forced Remy to shift her attention. She put him on the bed and started preparing a bottle for him when there was a knock on the motel room door.

The chain was up and the door was bolted. Mason went to the peephole. A fish-eyed view of the manager in his stained T-shirt filled it.

“What is it?” Mason asked.

“You gotta keep it down in there-people are complaining. If I get any more shit, I’m calling the police.”

Mason shook his head.

“Yeah, we got it. Sorry, buddy,” he said.

Mason went to the bed, collected his gun and magazine.

“Mason, wait. What are you going to do?”

“Something I should’ve done a long time ago. I’m taking charge of our situation.”

“Mason!”

“Don’t do anything or call anybody. I’ll be back.”

He waited at the window for the manager to clear the front walk then, ignoring Remy’s pleas, he left her alone with the baby.

25

Chicago, Illinois

Lake Michigan stretched north against a crystal sky, but Hedda Knight was blind to the view from her seventy-fifth-floor law office in the Aon Center.

All she saw was a sea of problems.

One of her mothers had disappeared weeks before she was due to deliver, jeopardizing Hedda’s biggest deal.

Tapping her pen to her desk she pressed her phone to her ear as Ed Bascom, the senior agent with the private investigative agency she’d hired, gave her an update.

“We’ve confirmed that an ambulance was dispatched to Remy Toxton’s residence in Texas and that she was taken to hospital.”

“Where is she?”

“We obtained a new lead that she was transported out of state.”

“Where?”

“Arkansas.”

“Arkansas? What’d you find out in Arkansas?”

“Nothing, our investigation there dead-ended. We don’t know what hospital or which city. We suspect we were fed bad information by the church people supporting her boyfriend, Mason Varno. They’re protective.”

“I don’t care. Did Remy have the baby or not?”

“We haven’t confirmed it.”

“Why not? What’re we paying you for?”

“Did you ever consider that they could’ve been victims of the tornadoes?”

“Yes, but they live in Lufkin and from my read of the news Lufkin was not touched by the storms.”

“What if they happened to take a trip to Dallas the day the storm hit?’

“That’s your job to find out.”

“Can your nurse who was assigned to their case recall anything more?” Bascom asked.

“No! She’s told you everything. She went to the apartment and they were gone. Remy didn’t answer her phone, her emails. They left no forwarding address, no contact information, nothing. We’ve been over this.”

“They’ve covered their tracks,” Bascom said. “We still have no credit card or banking trail on Toxton or Varno.”

“Damn it, Ed, you’re no closer to finding them than when you started looking. Is there anything you can do, or should I hire someone else?”

“We’re working on another lead. Varno’s an ex-con.”

“An ex-con. Oh, that’s great.”

“He’s got a meeting with his parole officer coming up. We’ll surveil the office for him and he’ll lead us to Toxton.”

“Do that. I want that baby. But find Remy quietly. We don’t want anyone going public on this, or to the police. You got that?”

Hedda heard muttering.

“Ed? You got that?”

“Yeah, I got that.”

Hedda hung up, tossed her pen on her desk, turned to her computer screen and studied the file showing the photographs of Remy Toxton and Fyodor Gromov, the biological parents of a Caucasian baby.

Where’s Remy?

Hedda knew the likely scenarios. Remy could’ve lost the baby, grown fearful and fled to pocket the remainder of her fifteen-thousand-dollar signing payment. She could have changed her mind and decided to keep the child. Or she might be working with another agency for more money.

Hedda didn’t care. If that baby was alive, she wanted it. Needed it.

Calm down. Be careful, she told herself.

She had to remember her own rules. Never pressure the girls. Each case was delicate. Each case had its own complications. No two were ever the same. Most ended well but when it was time to deliver, you could not predict how some mothers would react. A few became emotional. But Hedda always worked things out. She kept the mothers happy so that they wouldn’t even consider going to the authorities. Hedda could never let that happen, especially now when she was on the brink of taking her surrogacy and baby adoption enterprise to a mind-blowingly lucrative level.

Thinking back, Hedda remembered a different time when her life was guided by a different dream.

She’d grown up in Virginia, just outside of Washington, D.C. Her parents were both federal lawyers. Hedda, a high achiever, studied law at Yale, where she met her future husband. As young, rising stars they joined firms in New York. When Hedda began talking about starting a family, her husband confessed that he’d fallen in love with another woman.

Hedda’s dream died.

Her marriage over, she quit the firm, left New York and drifted to Los Angeles, where she found work specializing in adoptions. She became an expert in the adoption and surrogacy laws of every U.S. state, and most countries around the world. She knew the nuances, the gaps, the loopholes and the murky zones.

Moreover, Hedda knew that there were more parents seeking healthy babies than babies to meet the demand. Recognizing an opportunity, she set up her own firm in a low-rent strip mall in Long Beach, where she worked tirelessly to build a network of contacts across the country and around the world.

Hedda’s agency advertised a range of adoption and surrogacy services to people desperate for a baby. At the same time, she advertised online for surrogates. Candidates were university grads, supermarket cashiers, hairdressers and stay-at-home moms.

Hedda explained to them how her agency did things a bit differently because of its international connections. After recruits signed a surrogacy agreement, they would undergo an embryo transfer or insemination in Europe because her agency had arrangements with leading specialists there.

Hedda assured the candidates that everything was in accordance with all laws, that all costs were covered and that she would provide a medical team to monitor the pregnancy. The surrogates would never have to meet the parents. Hedda’s policy was unconditional on that front.

Each surrogate would receive a total $60,000-$15,000 on signing then $45,000 upon delivery. The payments were conditional to certain terms, chief among them being delivery of a healthy baby. However, payments would not be made if the pregnancy was unsuccessful, and Hedda always hinted that under certain conditions, the surrogate might be required to return a portion of any advance payment-although Hedda would never dare enforce that aspect out of fear a surrogate would go to authorities. She only hinted at it as psychological leverage for the women who might change their minds.

Again, Hedda would stress that the entire enterprise was all legal.

But it wasn’t.

In order to circumvent various state surrogacy and adoption laws, Hedda would mislead the surrogates and the expectant parents about the circumstances of the parties involved. She would seek out hopeful parents and guarantee them the baby of their dreams, a newborn girl or boy of nearly any race. Then she would create fraudulent documentation that made the arrangements appear to be in accordance with adoption or surrogacy laws. But what Hedda had really done was create an illegal process of making and selling babies. She was hiring women to get pregnant for the sole purpose of selling the baby to those who could afford her price.

She was now getting $200,000 for each baby.

As Hedda’s business grew, she moved to Chicago, to be more central. And she was careful to manage any risk or exposure to scrutiny. At the same time, she was driven by a desire to find wealthier clients, to become the number one, albeit black market, baby broker in the world. Hedda knew that there were people who would give any amount of money for a healthy baby.

And Remy’s baby was the ticket to a client list that would pay more.

So much hinged on this deal.

Normally, Hedda would have another baby available but with this case she’d encountered one problem after another.

So what the hell happened?

It was going well until Remy disappeared. I can’t go to another mother for a baby to fulfill this critical order. It’s already overdue and I have no other suitable babies available. Two of my other surrogates just lost theirs. Two. I’ve got no Caucasian boys coming for over two months. Everything depends on Remy’s baby.

Hedda clicked her mouse and reread the email from her client.

Chelsea Drew-Flynn, forty-nine-year-old heiress to a gold-mining empire who lived in Denver. She wrote:

What’s the status on delivery, Hedda? Did she have the baby? We’ve surpassed the delivery date range.

Now, after consulting Ed Bascom, after absorbing the circumstances and the stakes, Hedda crafted a response.

Some routine medical issues are delaying delivery a little bit. I assure that everything is fine.

Hedda pressed Send then gazed at the lake, weighing all the stakes. Everything was riding on this one. Chelsea Drew-Flynn was going to exceed Hedda’s rate by paying $250,000 for a baby boy. But this deal held an even greater value. Chelsea had indicated to Hedda that she knew women, wealthy women, in her social circles around the world, who would be interested in using a surrogacy agency. Hedda interpreted that to mean that if all went well with Chelsea’s baby boy, she would introduce Hedda to a whole new level of potential clientele.

Hedda’s computer chimed with a response.

Just so we understand each other, Hedda. I trusted you to deliver my baby to me as promised. Heaven knows how I might react if you break that promise.

Hedda cursed to herself and looked out at the vast lake.

I’ve got to find that baby.

26

Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

Kate’s Chevy Cobalt drove westbound on Lyndon B. Johnson Freeway.

There were more shelters she needed to check out.

As the road rolled under her wheels she took stock of the past twenty-four hours, accepting the ebb and flow of a live news story.

Elements were in constant flux. There was little she could do.

While waiting for the many calls she’d made-to Frank Rivera, to Jenna Cooper and her sister, Holly- to be returned, she’d arranged for Newslead to obtain Tony Valdez’s dramatic footage of the tornado destroying the Saddle Up Center. The news agency posted it on its site with a warning about disturbing content. The video went viral, pleasing Chuck and New York.

Late yesterday, Kate had gone to the shelter at the Rivergreen Community Hall to find Jenna Cooper. Volunteers and other tornado survivors had told her that Jenna, Cassie and Holly had left.

No one knew where they’d gone.

Kate ended the day feeling somewhat baffled, and last night she got online and talked with her daughter. Filled with guilt, Kate ached to hold Grace as she showed her pictures of birds that she’d drawn.

“This one’s an owl.”

“I see. It’s very good, honey.”

It was this morning, as Kate stepped from the shower, that her phone rang with an overdue call back from Frank.

She froze, water dripping from her as he brought her up to speed on the horror Jenna and Blake Cooper had endured yesterday in a high school gym.

“Last night, with the help of Dallas police, the deceased baby’s parents were located and they identified him,” Frank said. “They’re tourists from Switzerland. They were in a park when the storm hit.”

Tears stung Kate’s eyes.

“Oh no, that’s so sad.”

“They’re making arrangements to fly home with him and aren’t talking to the press.”

“I’m so sorry for them.” Kate searched for a tissue then used her towel. “What about Jenna and her husband? How are they doing? I’d like to interview them.”

“Not so good. They spent last night in a hotel with Jenna’s sister. I don’t think they’re in a frame of mind to talk to anybody. They were informed that time is running out on the odds of finding their son alive.”

A moment of silence passed.

“Okay. Thanks, Frank.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help, give me a call.”

After Kate dressed, she went online to search for news and ideas to pursue the story. The updated overall figures for the tornadoes that had hit Texas, Alabama, Arkansas and Mississippi, were sobering. The death toll had risen to seven hundred, most still in the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex. The number of reported missing in all the states was now fourteen hundred, most around Dallas. The number of injured had risen to seven thousand people and the estimated number of homes, businesses and properties destroyed was now at least twenty thousand.

“Stay on the missing baby story,” Chuck told her when she’d called the bureau for her assignment. “New York likes it. It represents the human struggle against the storm. A baby ripped from its mother, a hardworking family holding out hope. It doesn’t end until you find out what happened to their son, Kate.”

All right, she would keep digging.

This morning she’d set out determined to continue investigating the chain of events leading up to and after Caleb’s disappearance. Above all, she’d needed to find the people who were closest to Caleb before he vanished.

It all comes down to those mysterious strangers who tried to help.

Paging through her notes Kate again zeroed in on the words Jenna had used to describe her encounters with them.

They’re complete strangers. I never saw them before in my life, but the woman seemed kind of forward, kind of infatuated with Caleb… Then we saw them in the center, I mean they were just there…

The Valdez video was intense, but Tony and his mother, Dolores, didn’t recall seeing Jenna and the strangers. Neither did any of the other vendors Kate had reached for help.

“Most of the people who got out alive just scattered. They left,” Tony Valdez had told Kate. “They went home, or to schools to check on their kids or to other shelters to look for family in other parts of town. It was just chaos.”

So all morning Kate worked on her story the old-fashioned way.

With legwork.

In the back of her mind she continued weighing the possibility that the strangers may have abducted Caleb. But there was no evidence. She’d hit every shelter she could, telling volunteers about Caleb and the woman and man who were last seen near him. She asked them if anything sounded familiar, or whether anything had surfaced that might be linked to them.

She’d checked out shelters in Hutchins, Lancaster and DeSoto.

In each case Kate struck out.

Duncanville was next.

27

Duncanville, Texas

Most of the trees lining James Collins Boulevard had survived the storm.

As Kate drove by them, she took a hit of water from her bottle, parked, then went into the Duncanville Recreation Center, which was serving as an emergency shelter.

One more on the list and I’m getting farther and farther away from the flea market. Don’t expect to learn anything here.

“Hi.” Kate presented her ID to one of the older women at the entrance information table. “Kate Page. I’m a reporter with Newslead.”

“And how can we help you?” The woman smiled over her bifocals.

“I’m doing a story on a family searching for their baby who went missing in the storm.”

“Goodness, there’ve been so many tragedies. Too many.”

“Would you mind if I walked around, talked to people in the shelter to see if anybody might know something connected to this case?”

“By all means, if it’ll help.”

“Thanks. Maybe I could start with you and your people at the table here? I’m guessing you see everybody that comes in for help.”

“We sure do.”

Kate reached into her bag for her notebook, recorder and a flyer Frank Rivera’s people had distributed for the Cooper case. She summarized the circumstances of what happened at the Saddle Up Center in the Old Southern Glory Flea Market. As the older woman studied the flyer, she flagged the attention of other nearby volunteers.

Kate ran through the details on the strangers who’d helped Jenna Cooper. “They were a white couple in their twenties. The woman had short spiky red hair, a low-cut top, jeans and maybe a tattoo below her neck of a butterfly or bird,” she said. “The man was about six feet, muscular build. He had jeans and a T-shirt with a motorcycle or a dog, tattoos on his arms, possibly flames. and stubble. He was kind of soft-spoken.”

The women started shaking their heads.

“They might’ve been traveling with the baby,” Kate added, sensing that it was going to be futile.

“We’ve helped a lot of people with babies,” the woman said, “but I don’t recall anyone fitting those descriptions. But then, my memory isn’t what it used to be.”

“We had that couple with the baby yesterday morning,” a ponytailed teenage girl standing behind the woman said.

“That’s right, Mary Jo, and you helped them.”

“How old was the baby?” Kate asked the teen.

“Six months, a year,” Mary Jo said. “They said it had a bump on the head from the storm, and I took them to the medical unit. But the woman had dark hair and glasses.”

“That’s right,” the older woman said, remembering. “They said they were from out of state. The young fella did.”

Kate bit down on her bottom lip, thinking. “Maybe I’ll talk to the people in the medical unit.”

“It’s down that way,” Mary Jo said.

Heading to the area, Kate cast a glance to the activity in the double gymnasium. The floor was lined with rows of cots for people who’d lost their homes. The medical unit, with its curtained treatment stations and waiting area with folding chairs was not busy when she arrived.

Kate identified herself to a young woman in her twenties named Maggie Prentice. She was holding a clipboard, and Kate figured her to be a coordinating assistant.

Kate explained the situation, reciting details by rote.

“That’s terrible,” Maggie said. “But nothing comes to mind. We’ve treated so many people since we set up here after the storm.”

“I see. Well, the other volunteers up front had mentioned that a couple came to you yesterday with a baby, six months to a year old for treatment for a bump on the head. Can you tell me anything about them?”

Maggie unconsciously moved the clipboard in front of her, hugging it, shielding its contents as if they were a secret.

“We have to respect patient confidentiality, so we really couldn’t tell you anything.”

“What’s this about?”

A woman in her thirties wearing a flowered smock, her hair in a bun, and a stethoscope around her neck, emerged, exuding authority and sipping coffee from a mug.

“I’m Kate Page, a reporter with Newslead.”

“Dr. Charlene Butler. What is it you’re looking for?”

Kate launched into another round of explanation, ending it by giving a flyer to the doctor, who studied it for a long moment, convincing Kate that she was actually absorbing the information.

“We’ve seen nothing that fits this,” Butler said. “Even if we did, we couldn’t disclose patient information. It’s confidential.”

“I respect that,” Kate said. “I also understand that the Missing Person Emergency Search System is working with shelters, hospitals and search-and-rescue efforts.”

“Absolutely. We’ve had several cases of dislocated and disoriented patients brought here from other disaster sites and we’ve alerted the Search System folks. It’s resulted in a couple of happy reunions.”

Kate nodded.

“Did you talk with the Missing Persons team?” Butler asked. “They’re set up across the floor here.”

“I will, but could you tell me in generic terms-no names or addresses, that kind of thing-about the baby you treated yesterday and the couple?”

Butler smiled a warm friendly smile. “You don’t give up, do you?”

“I guess not. I feel pretty connected to this story.”

“Okay, let me see.” Butler exhaled and glanced to the ceiling. “Well, in generic terms, not disclosing names, that baby was three months old. A big three months.”

Kate nodded, taking notes. “And the mother and father?”

“Twenties, but no red hair on the mom. Dark hair and glasses.”

“What about the father-any tattoos?”

“I didn’t see any. Did you, Maggie?”

Maggie shook her head.

“Look,” Butler said. “I think this is futile.”

“Well, I’m just checking,” Kate said. “Are you sure there’s nothing more about them that sticks with you?”

“No. Well, there was-” She started then stopped. “No.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“It has to be something.”

“There was something just a bit off about them.”

“What do you mean?”

“First, the baby was big for three months. I would’ve bet he was older.”

“Like five months?”

“Could be five, yes.”

“Anything else?”

“She said she had him on solids, which I thought odd for a baby that age. And when I asked about how the baby got the little scrape on his head the mother seemed detached, vague, only for a moment.”

“What do you make of that?”

“Could’ve been trauma from the storm. We’ve seen a lot of that.”

Kate thought for a moment. “Do you remember what the baby was wearing when you treated him?”

“A romper. A white one.”

“It had stripes,” the younger woman said.

“Blue?”

“I don’t know.”

Kate stared at Maggie, then the doctor, piecing the details together, processing their potential meaning.

This could be nothing. This could be everything.

“Can you tell me anything more, about where they’re staying or where they went? I understand they were from out of state.”

The two women looked at each other.

“I’m afraid not,” the doctor said. “Confidentiality comes into play. Besides, your case happened in Wildhorse Heights. That’s what, twenty miles from here? What are the odds of the baby coming here with strangers?”

“I think they left the baby’s romper here,” the younger woman said.

“What do you mean, they left it?” Kate asked. “Left it where?”

Maggie nodded to an area across the floor.

“After they were done with us, they went to the section where people had donated clothes. I walked behind them to get a tea on my break.”

“What did they do with the romper?”

“I think they tossed it and took some donated clothes for the baby. It had bloodstains on it, right, Doctor?”

“Bloodstains?” Kate asked.

“Very tiny, from the scrape on the head,” Butler said. “The baby must have touched his head then himself.”

“Show me where they left the romper. I need to find it.”

Maggie led Kate and Butler to the tables against the wall that were topped with heaps of children’s clothes in boxes, plastic baskets and tubs. She took them to the area marked Baby 0-12 Months.

“I’m pretty sure I saw them leave it here yesterday and select some new clothes, but then I walked by fast.”

Kate began sifting through the containers starting with the first one at the end of the row. When she saw that Maggie and Butler had joined her, she repeated the details.

“It would be a white romper with blue stripes and a little elephant on it. The details are in the flyer.”

In all, Kate estimated about twenty containers each the size of a laundry basket. Guided by the romper’s colors they went through them all quickly.

Their search yielded nothing.

Kate absorbed the setback and was in the process of thanking Butler and Maggie for their help when a weary-looking woman hefted a tub from the table.

“Excuse me. Are all the donated clothes kept here?” Kate asked.

“No, we have another table along that wall there for laundry. It takes time but we wash them all first. See that line of baskets?” The woman gestured and Kate saw six hampers.

“Yes.”

“Those have not been washed yet. Did you need to go through them?”

“Yes.” Kate and the others rushed to the table.

Butler saw it first-a blue-and-white pattern bulging from the first basket’s lower ribbing. Carefully, she extracted a balled romper, unfurled it and held it up. It was white with blue stripes and had a little elephant on it. She looked at the tiny browned bloodstains.

“This is it,” she said.

Kate’s pulse quickened. She pulled her phone from her bag.

“I need to make some calls. No, wait. First I need to take a picture of this romper and send it to someone. Could you please hold it up again, Doctor?”

28

Duncanville, Texas

Jenna Cooper pressed the baby’s romper to her cheek and wept.

She ran her fingers tenderly over the soft cotton fabric, studying the blue-and-white stripes before she drew it back to her face and breathed in her baby’s sweet smell.

“This belongs to my son. This is Caleb’s.”

A circle of solemn faces watched her in silence.

Jenna had been shaking since Holly’s phone rang forty-five minutes ago with a call from some official who was helping find people missing in the storm. Jenna and Blake were staying with Holly and Garrett at the Embassy Suites nearest the flea market. Jenna first thought that the call was from Holly’s family in Atlanta but then Holly said, “No, Jenna’s cell phone was lost in the storm. She has a new number and left mine for- Yes, I’m her sister and I’m with her.”

Holly listened then put her hand over the phone and told Jenna, “They found something that might belong to Caleb at a shelter and they need you there to identify it.”

Garrett must’ve set a record getting them to Duncanville, using the GPS and with Blake directing him. As their rental SUV roared across the city, Jenna held Holly’s hand. In the wake of what they’d experienced in the high school gym the previous night, Jenna struggled not to get her hopes up and prayed to heaven for good news.

Now she was standing here in the shelter, grappling with the fact that Caleb may have been here in this spot where she was holding the last thing he’d worn before she lost him. Her mind swirled with questions.

“Where is he? Is he hurt?”

“Jenna?” a man in the circle said.

“How come no one held him for me?” she continued. “Where is he?”

“Jenna, I’m Frank Rivera with the Missing Person Emergency Search System. We’re helping police find people who’re missing or displaced because of the storm.”

Numb, Jenna stared at Rivera as he nodded to two uniformed police officers.

“This is Officer Soria and Officer Burns with the Duncanville Police Department. Dr. Charlene Butler is with the medical unit here at the shelter and I believe you know Kate Page with Newslead?”

Jenna offered Kate a weak smile.

For the next several moments, Rivera gave Jenna and Blake a summary of what had transpired at the shelter-how a couple brought in a baby, how Dr. Butler examined him before the couple left, and how the case led to the discovery of the romper.

“It was Kate who alerted us to the romper,” Rivera said.

Jenna gave Kate a quick look of appreciation.

“Now, we’re just starting to sort things out.” Officer Soria had his notebook open. “Jenna, maybe you can tell us how you’re certain that this is your son’s item of clothing?”

“The color, the style, the elephant crest is lifting a bit on the right,” she said through tears. “And the bottom snap is loose. I told that lady, Belle, at the flea market-she put it all in the computer file when I reported him missing.”

Rivera nodded to the officers. “It’s all there, detail for detail,” he said. “And I believe it was submitted to the Dallas PD and State database for entry into NCIC.”

“What’s that?” Blake asked.

“It’s the FBI’s National Crime Information Center,” Rivera said. “It’s a national database. Given Caleb’s age and the fact he disappeared after a catastrophe, his case is listed as a Missing Person file in the system.”

“Like the thousands of other new ones in the aftermath of the storm,” Officer Soria said. “We’ve alerted the FBI’s Dallas Division. They’ve got people on their way here, but I’m sorry, things have been a little overwhelming for them and everyone.”

“Overwhelming for them?” Blake said. “Do you have any idea of what we’ve been through?”

“I understand,” Soria said. “Nothing was meant by that, sir. It’s just that resources are being stretched to the limit right now-that’s something everyone’s got to appreciate.”

“We’re talking about our son!” Blake shouted.

“Blake, Blake.” Garrett stepped in. “Let’s just take a breath. The good thing is we found a sign that Caleb’s alive and people are working on it.”

“What I can’t understand…” Jenna started shaking her head slowly. “What I cannot accept, is that from what you just told us-” she nodded to Frank “-Caleb was here with strangers and no one did anything about it. They just let them come into the medical unit and leave with our baby. Like it was nothing.”

Dr. Butler swallowed hard then glanced at the officers indicating maybe Kate should leave, but Jenna caught that.

“No, I want Kate to stay,” Jenna said. “I want her to hear how and why this happened.”

Butler cleared her throat. “The couple was from out of state and came to our unit requesting attention for their baby,” she said. “A male they listed as being three months old.”

“Was he hurt?”

“No, he had a minor abrasion on his head, here.” She touched her forehead. “No sign of a concussion. He was in good health.”

Tears rolled down Jenna’s face. “Did you check for a birthmark on his calf?”

“I saw the mark, yes.”

“You had my son! You had my son in your care and you let those people get away with him! Those people who pretended to be helping me while all the while they wanted my baby! They’re evil and you let them walk right out of here! I don’t understand how you could do that!” Jenna clenched her hands into fists, raised both arms to strike Butler when Blake, Garrett, Rivera and the officers stopped her.

“I’m so sorry,” Butler said. “We’ve been going 24/7 here since the storm. There were no telltale signs about that couple. The woman had short dark hair, not red. We’re not police-we’re medical staff. We didn’t really know until this reporter came to us and questioned us. If it hadn’t been for her, no one would’ve known anything. I’m so terribly sorry.”

Jenna said nothing.

She stared at Butler until she didn’t see her anymore. She sobbed and crumpled into Blake’s chest before Rivera took them to a private corner in the Missing Persons station at the shelter. From there, as they waited for the FBI to arrive, Jenna watched the activity across the floor at the donation table.

The Duncanville police officers were unrolling yellow plastic tape, sealing the area where Caleb’s romper had been found.

29

Duncanville, Texas

“Let’s go over everything one more time.”

FBI Agent Nicole Quinn reread the files from NCIC, the Duncanville PD and the Missing Person Search System on Caleb Cooper’s case.

Grogan was at the wheel as they rolled from the FBI’s Dallas Division on Justice Way, southbound to the shelter in Duncanville.

Both agents were focused on their assignment, but it was a challenge. The bureau had lost people in the tornadoes. Grogan and Quinn had lost friends and some FBI staff had their homes destroyed. The bureau’s resources were stretched. But despite the storm, the FBI’s work had to continue. Reinforcement agents were coming in from the division’s jurisdictional territory and surrounding states.

“What do you think, Phil?” Quinn asked when she’d finished reading.

Grogan, who’d worked in the fugitive and violent crimes programs, was analyzing matters.

“The fact that evidence shows up over twenty miles from where the mother last saw the baby raises questions,” he said.

Quinn checked her phone for messages. She was also the division coordinator for the National Center for Analysis of Violent Crime and was trying to keep tabs on her other files.

“What’s your take on it, Nicole?”

“The mother’s initial encounter with the two strangers is a factor. The whole thing could’ve been a planned abduction.”

“Or an unusual set of circumstances and coincidences. I’ve seen it before-a case we swore was a homicide that turned out to be a suicide. Another one was a child abduction that turned out to be a runaway who got trapped in a discarded fridge.”

“We’re talking about a five-month-old baby, here, Phil. We’re duty-bound to exhaust all avenues of investigation.”

“I know. I’m just saying we have to keep an open mind. I mean our baby case happened just when we’re hit with force-five tornadoes, so anything’s possible.”

Upon arriving at the recreation center they held up their IDs to the Duncanville officers, who debriefed them at the sealed area next to the table of donations.

“We’re sorry about the baby’s clothing,” Officer Soria said. “A lot of people handled it, but we needed the mother to identify it. We’ve sealed the area and put it in a paper bag.”

“Can you give us a list of people who’ve handled it?” Quinn asked.

“Sure,” Soria said.

The investigators then went to the corner of the station for the Missing Person Emergency Search System. They made the appropriate cursory introductions. Frank Rivera then took them to Jenna Cooper, who was with her husband, sister and brother-in-law. Jenna was sitting on a chair, twisting a tissue in her fists. After the agents identified themselves, Grogan said, “Jenna, Blake, we’re going to do all we can to locate your baby.”

Jenna’s hair was messy. She looked at Grogan with reddened eyes. “Thank you.”

Grogan and Quinn then separated everyone and took initial statements from the key principals in the case: Jenna, Dr. Butler, other staff and volunteers at the shelter.

The agents asked a lot of questions. Some were obvious, others weren’t.

Why did Jenna think the stranger was infatuated with Caleb? Had she received any strange phone calls or emails prior to the event? Did she know anyone who’d recently lost a baby? Had she received a ransom call, or any hint of demand? Did Jenna ever notice seeing the strangers before the event at the flea market, say at a mall, or some other public venue? Did Jenna or Blake owe anyone any money? Did they have gambling or drug debts?

After assessing what was emerging, the FBI agents made calls to initiate an expedited procedure to secure warrants to seize key items, including any recorded images from the center’s security cameras.

Then Grogan requested the Dallas Division’s Evidence Response Team be dispatched to the shelter to process the romper, the medical form the couple had completed and other items for any trace evidence.

When they were alone, Grogan and Quinn compared notes.

“I think our strangers, the people who brought in the baby here to be examined, are our persons of interest,” Quinn said.

Grogan nodded and started making another call. “We’ll get a forensic artist down here to get descriptions from Jenna on the strangers she saw, and from Dr. Butler on the couple she saw. Then we’ll blast them out with details about the baby.”

* * *

The case had taken a dramatic twist. Of that there was no doubt, as far as Kate was concerned. Throughout much of the investigation she’d kept a respectful distance, watching and waiting patiently for a chance to get a few questions into the FBI agents.

Now, seeing Quinn and Grogan standing off in a quiet area, Kate decided to approach them.

“Excuse me, you’re both with the FBI?”

Poker-faced Quinn and Grogan acknowledged her.

“I’m Kate Page, a reporter with Newslead. I’ve covered this story since the beginning. Have you got time for a few questions?”

“Not really,” Grogan said.

“I’ll make it fast.”

“You really should go through our press office,” Quinn said. “The number’s online.”

“Please don’t brush me off. I’m the reason you’re here. I know how these things go. Sooner or later you’re going to need the press for a public appeal, so how about a little courtesy so we can help each other?”

Quinn and Grogan exchanged a quick glance, didn’t move or change their expressions, their way of inviting Kate to continue.

“After talking to people how would you characterize the case?” Kate asked.

Grogan dragged his fingers over his mouth. “The circumstances in this case are disturbing. We’re uncertain what happened, but we’re not ruling anything out.”

Kate nodded and wrote his comments in her notebook.

“What do you think happened?”

“I’m not going to speculate.”

“Do you have any suspects?”

“We’re not going to comment further.”

Kate didn’t push it, except to get the spelling of Grogan’s name.

“You’re with Newslead-that’s the wire service?” he asked, exchanging business cards with Kate.

“Yes. Our stories go everywhere-in print, radio, TV and online.”

“If you hold tight, say for a couple of hours, we may have something for you to go with your story,” he said.

“Like what, so I can tell my desk?”

“Sketches of the people we may be looking for.”

30

Lufkin, Texas

The ramshackle bungalow sat well back in the shade of the wooded lot on a dead-end street behind a wall of shrubbery that had run wild.

An eviscerated Ford Mustang, hood raised as if it had gasped its last breath, rested on cinder blocks on the side of the earthen driveway.

No sign of any other vehicles, Gromov thought, removing his sunglasses as he and Yanna stepped from the blue Chevy sedan he’d rented at the airport.

It was a long flight from New York to Houston followed by a two-hour drive north on 59, with the air conditioner blasting. With the exception of a stop in Huntsville for a lunch of cheeseburgers and French fries, which Gromov enjoyed, they went straight to the address he had for Remy Toxton.

The neighborhood was tranquil save for birdsong and the barking of a distant dog. Loose boards on the front porch creaked when they stepped on it. Gromov pulled open the screen, knocked hard on the solid wooden door and waited.

Ten seconds, fifteen. Nothing.

He knocked again and pressed his ear to the door. Not a sound of life inside. Several envelopes stuck out of the mailbox. Gromov shuffled through them, taking what appeared to be bills addressed to Remy Toxton.

“I don’t think you should do that,” Yanna said.

Gromov stared at her, ignoring her protest, sliding the mail into his pocket, returning the flyers.

“Let’s try the back,” he said.

An old Coke machine stood guard by the rear door.

Gromov knocked, then scanned the backyard. A rusted steel drum for burning trash and a forgotten pile of rotting scrap lumber conveyed a sense of defeat.

“No one’s home. Let’s go next door,” he said.

On the adjacent property they found a large two-story home. The yard was bordered by an ornate metal fence. The lush lawn was well kept. The flower beds were a riot of color. Gromov pushed open the unlocked gate and they entered, taking the brick walk to the front door.

No one answered the bell.

They heard the clang of metal on stone and went around to the side, where a man in his sixties was on his knees tending a rosebush. He saw their shadows and turned.

“Can I help you?” He stood, brushing dirt from his knees.

“I’m looking for Remy Toxton, the woman who lives next door. No one seems to be home. Do you know where we could find her, or her partner?”

“Ah, no, not really. My wife may know. She’s in the backyard. Martha! Where are you folks from?”

“Canada.”

“Canada? You don’t sound Canadian.”

“I grew up in Europe.”

“Ah.”

A woman wearing a large sun hat and holding a rake appeared from the back.

“Martha, these nice folks come all the way from Canada. They’re looking for our neighbors to the left, who rent the old Madison place.”

“Oh, the pregnant girl and her beau,” Martha said.

“She’s still pregnant?” Gromov asked.

“Oh, I expect not. She was pretty far along a few weeks ago. Then they just left. Maybe they went to see family with the baby?”

“Yes,” the man added, “the boy’s truck’s been gone for a long time.”

“I understand her boyfriend is a carpenter?”

“That’s right,” the man said. “Sometimes I saw a company truck in their driveway, Triple E Carpenters, I think, down past the Walmart. You could ask them there. They might be able to help you.”

* * *

Triple E operated in a light industrial section of Lufkin out of a prefabricated metal building with a corrugated roof. The rear resembled a lumberyard with various types of wood cut in a range of lengths and stored in neat stacks. Employee vehicles were parked at the side of the building.

The reception office, where a couple of people were working at cluttered desks, smelled of fresh-cut wood. The sound of power saws and ringing phones filled the air. Construction supply posters and tool dealer calendars dominated the walls along with a job board with employee names.

Gromov subtly indicated to Yanna to copy down the names. Tightening her jaw in anger, she sat in a vinyl chair in the reception area, snatched up an outdated magazine. She pretended to be interested in the crossword puzzle as she secretly copied names from the board onto a subscription card.

Gromov went to the counter.

“How can we help you folks today?” the man with the name Bobby embroidered on his shirt asked.

“I’d like to speak with Mason Varno.”

“Mace? Afraid he’s not here. He’s off for a few weeks.”

“Didn’t his wife have that baby?” One of the men at a desk spoke up, having overheard.

“I don’t know. I think she was due,” Bobby said. “That must be it. I was away myself last few weeks.”

“Is there any way I can reach him?”

Bobby shrugged. “You try his cell phone?”

“I don’t have the number.”

Bobby stepped back and looked under the counter.

“Why don’t you give me yours, I’ll see if I can reach him and have him call you, if you like. Can you tell me what it’s about?”

Gromov took one of Triple E’s business cards and jotted down the number of one of the disposable cell phones he was using.

“Just some business I needed to discuss with him.”

“Well, is it about a job?” Bobby tapped the card in his palm. “Were you not happy with it, because while he’s away we can follow up.”

“No, nothing about a job.”

“Is it a church matter, because our guy with the fellowship is out right now.”

“No, thank you. I’d rather not say. It’s on the personal side. I don’t mean to make so much trouble.”

“No, no trouble. Okay, I’ll see if I can reach him for you. Oh, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Victor Kashin.”

“Alrighty. Say, where y’all from?”

“Europe. Just visiting on business.”

“Okay, sir, I’ll give Mace a call and pass him the message.”

When they returned to their car, Gromov gave Yanna a small video recorder and instructed her to inconspicuously capture all the license plates of the cars located under the Employee Parking sign. Gromov backed the blue Chevy sedan out and passed by slowly as if he were using that section of the lot to turn around.

No one noticed.

A short time later Gromov and Yanna were in a quiet booth of a restaurant.

“I’ll have a cheeseburger platter and Cherry Coke,” he told the waitress.

“A house salad and a Diet Coke will be fine,” Yanna said.

Waiting for their food, Gromov used his tablet to send a list of license plates and names to Yuri in New York.

“Yuri will help me to get closer to this Mason Varno.”

“Why don’t you try Remy’s relatives? You’re good at that.”

“Yuri tried. It appears she doesn’t have any.”

Their order arrived and Gromov had not yet taken his first bite of his cheeseburger when one of his cell phones rang.

“Mr. Kashin, Bobby Jensen at Triple E. You were looking for Mason?”

“Yes.”

“Bad news. I tried calling his cell phone but his voice mail box is jammed. I couldn’t leave a message. I’m sorry.”

Gromov thought a moment. “I understand. Thank you for trying. Do you have any suggestions on how I could reach him?”

“Naw. I asked around after you left, talked to a guy with the fellowship.” He lowered his voice. “They help guys who were on the inside get straight again. Well, I guess Mason and his girlfriend had complications when they had the baby and he’s taken some time off.”

“What sort of complications?”

“I really can’t say, I don’t know. I asked a couple of his friends-no one knows much. They were pretty private.”

Gromov thanked him, hung up, mulled over the call then explained it to Yanna for her thoughts on what “complications” could mean.

“It could mean anything. She could’ve lost it. Perhaps the baby was born with problems, or she simply had a difficult delivery.” Watching concern and heartbreak cloud his eyes, Yanna proposed another option. “If this Remy Toxton is part of this black market operation, she’s likely a surrogate mother. Complications could be a cover story. She could be having second thoughts about giving up her baby for adoption.”

Gromov’s face began contorting with fear and anger before he regained his self-control. He made a fist of one of his hands, touched it to the table and stared out at the street.

“We will find my grandchild. Wherever he is, we will find him.”

31

Dallas, Texas

MISSING BABY-The FBI is now leading the investigation into the case of a baby boy who vanished in the storm, after his clothing was found 20 miles away under suspicious circumstances.

Kate stopped to proofread what she’d typed at her desk in the bureau then took a sip of fresh coffee.

It had been fifteen minutes since she’d been back from the shelter in Duncanville. It was late in the afternoon and the morning was ancient history. So much had happened on the story: the discovery of the baby’s clothing, the mystery couple with a baby that appeared to have been Caleb Cooper, and now the FBI’s investigation.

During the drive back from Duncanville, her heart raced the way it did whenever she was on to a strong story. Upon returning to the bureau she couldn’t find Chuck Laneer or Dorothea Pick, so she’d settled in and started writing.

Kate unwrapped the remainder of the turkey sandwich she’d brought back from the shelter and bit into it. As she ate, she inserted her earphones to listen to her recorded interviews, checking them against the quotes she’d flagged in her notebook from FBI Special Agent Phil Grogan, Jenna and Blake Cooper, Dr. Butler, Frank Rivera. Then she arranged them, enabling her story to flow.

“Slug lines! Get me your slug lines, everybody!” Tommy Koop called out a looming deadline to get a short description on coming stories to him for the budget list. Tommy would send the Dallas bureau’s budget to Newslead’s headquarters in New York, who would then distribute a revised, shortened version of top stories to subscribers across the country and around the globe. Tommy always made a show of pacing the bureau, which was now nearly full with reporters working at every desk, to get stories on the budget.

“If it’s not on the budget it’s not on the wire, folks. Hey there, Kate, didn’t see you come in. Can I get your slug line ASAP?”

Kate gave hers a last quick read, tweaked it then pressed Send. “You got it. Where’re Chuck and Dorothea?”

“In a meeting about coverage of the President’s upcoming visit.”

Kate finished the last of her sandwich then got back to her item, working from her notes and thoughts of the day. As the minutes swept by, she no longer heard the conversations and other sounds of the newsroom because she was immersed in her writing, pulling things together as fast as she could.

Her line rang.

“Kate Page, Newslead.”

“It’s Chuck. Can we see you in my office now?”

Chuck was at his desk reading his monitor. Dorothea was on the small sofa looking over a few printed pages. Kate remained standing.

“We read your slug line,” Chuck said. “This missing baby story has taken a helluva twist. Is our stuff exclusive?”

“Sort of.”

“What does that mean?” Dorothea asked.

“No one has the detail we have and the interviews, but I strongly suspect that the FBI’s going to issue a news release and a missing-person poster soon.”

“Hell, that’s not exclusive at all,” Dorothea said. “And your slug line said missing. Is this an abduction or one of the hundreds of tragic missing-person cases arising from the storm?”

“No one’s certain. There’s a lot of mystery surrounding the recent developments,” Kate said.

Dorothea rolled her eyes. “So we don’t know what this is, exactly?”

“No. It’s a mystery with a lot of disturbing elements that the FBI is trying to piece together.”

“That’s what I like about it,” Chuck said. “Readers love a mystery and this one is charged with anguish and heartbreak. What about the pictures? Where are they?”

“We have the mom and baby.”

“Those are old,” Dorothea said. “You should’ve flagged them as file pix instead of pix in your slug line. Your submission here implies new art.”

“I’m expecting composites of people of interest from the FBI.”

“Expecting them?” Dorothea’s eyebrows arched. “So they could be issued with the FBI news release? So you really don’t have a lock on this story at all, do you? You seem to have oversold it. We should notify New York and remove it from the budget. This whole thing could fall through.” Dorothea turned to Chuck for agreement.

He had removed his glasses and was tapping them to his chin.

“Chuck,” Dorothea continued, “this could amount to nothing more than a rewrite of a police news release. Mandy has a story coming. A beautiful story about a kindergarten teacher who saved twenty-five little kids by herding them into the basement-”

“Fort Worth TV had that late last night, Dorothea. What Mandy has is a follow. What Kate has here is the result of enterprising. New York already said that they love this.”

Chuck replaced his glasses, sat up and checked his monitor. “Kate,” he said, “how close are you to being done?”

“Minutes.”

“Call your FBI contact. Push them to give us their pictures ASAP and for us to get a thirty-minute jump. Can you do that?”

“I will.”

“That way our story will move out to everyone with the FBI sketches before our competition can write a word. That way we can say Newslead broke the story. Agreed?”

“Fine, if it doesn’t fall through,” Dorothea said, brushing by Kate as she left.

“Kate?” Chuck looked at her.

“Yes?”

“Don’t mind her. The storm’s taking a toll on all of us.”

“I understand.” Kate turned to leave.

“One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Good work.”

32

Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

All day long, after leaving Remy and the screaming brat at the motel, Mason Varno drove.

Rubbing his lips, he battled his craving, which got worse with every mile of the LBJ. Remy’s reluctance to cash in on the kid and his mounting parole issues, like missing his meeting for random drug-and-alcohol testing, didn’t help. His dream was slipping through his fingers. He was coming to the edge of a black hole. He pounded his palms on the dash and cursed.

No damned way was he was giving up without a fight.

I’ve got to come up with a way to get through this! Think!

He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth.

Step one: Don’t let the dream die.

He got off the expressway, pulled into a drugstore, bought a disposable phone and used it to call Garza.

After five rings it went to voice mail.

“It’s Varno. I got a new number. You’re the only one who has it. Call me so we can talk about my buy in.”

Mason then sat in his truck in the parking lot. He grabbed the small pouch with the remainder of their cash. He fanned it with his thumb. Just under nine thousand left from the original fifteen the agency had paid Remy. She’d trusted him to manage the money, believing that he’d saved it. She had no clue that he’d used up much of it to buy dope. What they had left would not last, especially since he hadn’t been working these past few weeks.

Mason tried to think, but his craving evolved into an aching. He used one hand to grip his temples, squeezing hard to keep his skull from splitting open. The tires squealed as he got back onto the freeway and headed to a place he knew at the western fringes of downtown Dallas.

It was a menacing stretch of run-down houses, condemned buildings, fortress liquor stores, hookers and the walking dead. He cruised the area for any police units, marked or unmarked, like the telltale electrician’s van they used for busts.

It looked good.

He wheeled up to the rusted newspaper boxes in front of Bill’s Second Chance Pawnshop. A kid wearing a Mavericks T-shirt, sideways ball cap and saggy pants hanging low to reveal his underwear, leaned into Mason’s window.

“Yo, how you doin’ today, sir?” the kid asked.

“I need a blast.”

The kid’s eyes took in Mason’s prison tattoos. Dealing on the street made him fast and smart. Everything was cool.

“Got nothing but the finest quality. How much you down for?”

Mason rubbed his chin hard; he needed something to sustain him and backup for later.

“Fourteen grams.”

“WE-EE!”

“That a problem?”

“I can do that, I can do that. It’ll cost you one point five large.”

Mason reached into his pocket, counted fifteen hundred dollars and held it out for the kid, letting him see the grip of his gun.

“Don’t think of fucking with me, got that?”

“Nu-uhh. I know where you comin’ from. This a straight-up deal. A good deal for you and a good deal for me.”

The kid passed him a tea-bag-sized pillow of foil. Mason opened it to inspect the crystals, touched a tiny one to his tongue. Satisfied, he drove off for several blocks, stopping at a shaded corner of a vacant parking lot.

Less than ten minutes later, he was riding a cloud of bliss and watching his troubles float around him like helium-filled balloons. He shut his eyes and smiled at the sky.

Now I can think. Review and assess.

Mason’s chief obstacle to achieving his objective was Remy.

He was convinced she was stalling on closing her deal with the surrogacy agency because she was all messed up. It started when she’d lost the baby. The doctor used all that mumbo jumbo about postpartum psychosis, hallucinations and delusions to tell Mason that she could get messed up. Well, she did get messed up, with her headaches, her crying and her spells.

Then she grabbed the new baby.

She was whacked, all right.

Yet Mason started to believe-needed to believe-that Remy’s twisted idea would work. It was the only way they would see the payoff. But now, he was convinced that she didn’t want to give up the baby, that she was forming some kind of attachment to it. He saw it in the way she was holding him, looking at him, the way she was caring for him.

Mothering him.

It was all messed up.

He had to fix it.

That baby was his forty-five-thousand-dollar ticket to the sweet life.

Mason’s new phone rang.

Startled, he tried to figure how much time had passed. Had he fallen asleep? The phone rang again and he answered.

“You called me?” It was Garza.

“I still want in.”

“You got the money?”

“I’m working on it.”

“Goodbye.”

“Hold it, hold it. I’ll get the money.”

“All you give me is talk. There’s an expiry date on this deal. People sponsored you, said you were solid.”

“I’ll get it. I just need more time.”

“The buy-in number goes up. Now it’s thirty-five.”

“What? That’s too high.”

“That’s the number. The clock is ticking.” The line went dead.

Mason ran his hands over his face.

He would work this out. He had no choice.

How? How am I going to do this? he asked himself half an hour later, when he was sitting on a stool at the empty end of The Purple Sage Cantina.

He gazed at the suds sliding to the bottom of his beer glass as he waited for his nachos and a solution on how he would convince Remy to call the agency and get the deal done.

The server set a cheesy plate before him and as Mason bit into his first chip he glanced up at the big TV behind the bar and froze.

What the hell?

The screen was filled with police sketches concerning persons of interest in the mystery surrounding a baby boy who was taken from his mother during the storm at the Old Southern Glory Flea Market in southeastern Dallas.

The TV news was quoting Newslead, the wire service, which had reported that the FBI was now investigating the case and appealing to anyone with information to call in.

Mason’s stomach tightened.

He pulled his ball cap a little tighter and lower on his head.

Oh, Jesus. The FBI.

33

Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

Mason forced himself to relax.

He ate about half of his nachos, paid his bill with cash and left the bar as if he were just another customer.

Squinting in the bright Texas sun, he got into his truck. He was coming down from his high, and the TV report had hit him like a blow to the gut.

The news changes everything-every damned thing. Hang on. Be cool. Be cool. Be cool. We have to pull this off. We have no options.

He took a long, deep breath then exhaled.

He knew exactly what he had to do-the new risks he had to take.

Mason turned the ignition, calculating that he still had time.

Within minutes he was back on the interstate, heading east. But as he navigated through lines of vehicles with brake lights flaring, horns blasting, big rigs grinding, his knuckles whitened on the wheel.

His thread of control started fraying.

Glancing in his rearview mirror, he mentally tripped through the trouble pursuing him. The surrogate agency was surely looking to get their money back, DOA was on his trail, his parole people would soon flag his violations and now the FBI was all over his ass.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

Mason had been running all of his life.

He’d tried running from Jerry, the monster who’d lived with his mother. He would never forget how Jerry’s belt made leathery snaps when he yanked it from his pants and whipped him in front of his drunken loser friends.

“Look what I can make this pup do! Get me a beer from the fridge!”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

The belt would burn across Mason’s arms.

“YES, WHAT?”

“Yes, sir.”

Jerry was not Mason’s father, just the man who stayed with his mother, a junkie whore who’d brought a lot of strange men home. One night when Mason was fifteen and Jerry had passed out on the sofa, he stood over him with a ball-peen hammer determined to splatter his brains.

Instead he left it on Jerry with a note:

I decided to let you live, you piece of shit.

Then Mason left and never looked back, never accepted the blame and beatings for the mistakes his mother and Jerry made in their lives. And he would be damned if he’d go down for Remy’s.

The problem was he and Remy never had a plan.

At first, when she lost the baby, they ran off to get away from the nurse so they wouldn’t have to repay the cash. Then Remy got all whacked out with her postpartum psychosis and grabbed the baby. Hell, maybe she’s bonding with it now while the FBI is looking for them.

I’m not going down for this. I’m not going back to prison. Remy got us into it. I’ll get us out. Then I’ll dump her.

On the east side of Dallas, Mason found his way into the fringes of the Metroplex that were untouched by the storm but were hellish for other reasons. He moved down a strip of taco huts, Big Bobby Jay’s Used Appliances, the Famous Glitter Hair and Nail Boutique.

He pulled into Ray’s Right Fix Auto Repair.

The weatherworn wooden sign above the garage was blistering. The lot was dotted with heaps in various stages of repair. The pavement was a mosaic of oil, grease and fluid stains that fed the film over the two-bay garage.

Mason got out and approached the open service doors.

A Toby Keith song echoed from a radio.

The air reeked of rubber and echoed with compressors and the clank of steel tools dropped on the concrete floor. A man in filthy jeans with a stained bandanna lifted his head from under the hood of an Olds.

“Sorry, mister, we’re closing up for the day. Come back tomorrow.”

“I just need to see Lamont. Is he still here?”

A socket wrench whirred and the man went back to his work before he answered.

“Out back.”

The bay doors opened to the rear of the lot.

A mobile home with vinyl siding sat in one corner, as if it had given up. Across the yard, a high-fenced kennel contained a large dog. The rear area was a graveyard of car parts and equipment, engine hoists, metal drums, chains and batteries. In the middle of it all, a large man was bent over an anvil, hammering on a piece of metal. When the dog snarled at Mason, he’d noticed it was missing its left eye, and fur had been ripped from its hind legs. The dog’s guttural grumbling grew louder until the man stopped pounding and turned.

He stood about three inches over six feet and wore dirty overalls and a welder’s cap. His stubbly beard was flecked with gray; his longish hair was tucked behind his ears, revealing a face that had been carved out of cold stone. He looked at Mason for a long silent moment, his jaw tensing, twirling the hammer in his hand as the dog growled.

As sudden as a cobra’s strike, the man flung the hammer at the kennel fence, making the dog yelp and Mason flinch.

“Shut the hell up!” The man’s black jagged teeth flashed when he turned to Mason. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I need help, Lamont. I’m jammed bad.”

“Why should I give a crap about you?”

Mason indicated the tip of a roll of bills in his hand. Lamont’s eyes rested there for a moment. He was listening.

“When we were inside, you said that if a brother ever needed a place to disappear, a place to lay low if they were hot, that you had one. I need that place, Lamont. I need it now.”

Lamont scratched his chin.

“I don’t know what kinda shit you’re in and I don’t want to get any on me.”

“You won’t, I swear. Me and my old lady need a place.”

“I keep to myself these days.”

“I need this place. This is survival, Lamont. I can’t go back to Hightower. I can’t go back inside.”

Lamont glanced at the roll of bills Mason was showing him and took several long moments to estimate his own vulnerabilities and situation before making the kind of decision that could irrevocably change lives.

“How long you need?”

“Four or five days, a week tops.”

“I want a thousand now.”

“Done.”

“And a thousand when you get there.”

“Yes.”

“And I’ll need an untraceable number. I’ll call you within twenty-four hours with the location.”

Mason shook Lamont’s hand, leaving ten fifties and five one-hundred-dollar bills in it.

* * *

When Mason returned to the hotel, his heart was going fast.

He circled the block a few times for any sign of police sitting on the place. Satisfied there were none, he parked in front of their unit.

He was fortified because he’d found a way for him and Remy to escape, regroup and make a play for the money. But he was still shaky from the aftershock of the news report and it took him two attempts to slide his key into the lock for their room.

He opened the door.

What the hell is this?

Mason stood in the empty room. Remy and the baby were gone. Their luggage was still there. He went to the night table by the phone to see if she’d left a note. Nothing. Nothing on the desk, either.

I told her not to do anything. I told her to wait. Where the hell is she?

Scenarios played in his head as his pulse accelerated.

Maybe police came for her? No, they would’ve been waiting for him. Maybe she called the agency and is closing the deal? No, she wouldn’t do that without him. Or would she? Maybe it was something else? The kid had been wailing. Maybe he was sick and she took a cab to a clinic or hospital? Would she take that risk?

He tried calling her cell but it rang through to her voice mail.

“Where are you? Call me now!”

He hung up and cursed.

He had to find her.

34

Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

What have I done?

Tears rolled down Remy’s face.

She gazed at Caleb, finally asleep on the blanket she’d spread on the soft grass under a tree.

The sun was setting.

He’s so beautiful, she thought, her head throbbing. He’s like an angel. Maybe that’s what he is, a real heaven-sent angel.

Remy lifted her face to the sky.

What should I do?

Images of Mason flashed in her brain: Mason with drugs, then pointing the gun. Yes, he’s got problems but I can help him. We’re building our dream together. But how could he just abandon them at the motel the way he did? Remy was so mad at him she had to leave, had to get away. She took the baby and walked for a few blocks to a park. Not many people were around-a woman with her toddler, a couple of kids tossing a football. It was peaceful and she could-

Oh, my head-my head’s going to explode.

Everything was going too fast, going backward, pulling her back.

Daddy keeps moving us from town to town, trailer to trailer. “Please, Daddy, can’t we just stay put? I never fit in. I’m ugly.” Remy tells him that boys only like her for sex. Then she tells him she’s pregnant. “I’m sorry, Daddy.” He smashes his beer bottle against the wall, beer dripping like venom.

“You’re fifteen! Get rid of it! Tell the father to pay to get rid of it because you ain’t raising it!” Remy is at the clinic; it’s cold and smells bad, like rubbing alcohol. She’s scared and she wants to die. Then it’s over and they move again. At seventeen she’s pregnant.

Again.

Her father’s standing at the doorway hurling her clothes into the street. “Get out of my house! You’re a tramp just like your mother!” The nurse at the Social Services office tells Remy she has options. The agency helps her get an apartment and a part-time job at a burger place. Then she gives birth to a baby girl and gives her up. “You’ve given the new parents such joy,” the nurse tells her. The baby is in a good, loving home.

Now, sitting at the park, Remy wiped the tears away, remembering how she’d drifted from job to job, man to man. She was working as a supermarket cashier in Lufkin and feeling lonely when one of the other girls told her about a prison pen-pal website. That’s how she found Mason Varno. It was fate that brought her to him. His eyes in the picture on the website were the saddest she’d ever seen. They broke her heart, but they told her that she and Mason were meant for each other.

They shared dreams.

Remy would do anything for him. Mason told her of his goal to start a carpentry business, how she could help him, how they could start a family, a real family together. Remy saw the ad to be a surrogate. She’d been pregnant before and hadn’t kept the baby. She could do it. She could handle it. She called the number and took the chance to earn sixty thousand dollars. It would give her and Mason a new life.

Remy would be doing a good thing.

The people at the agency were nice, so professional. They checked her health, explained how they were a global agency, and after she signed the agreement, they flew her to Moscow for the procedure because they had special arrangements with doctors there.

The agency assured her that it was all perfectly legal.

Remy became pregnant and throughout her early months she wondered about who the Russian father was-was he kind, smart, handsome? She wondered about her baby’s future parents.

At night Remy was plagued by nightmares of the baby she’d aborted, memories of the horrible sound of the doctor working inside her, the awful hollow feeling. She also had strange dreams about the daughter she gave up, and her surrogacy.

Am I doing the right thing?

When Mason was released from Hightower he was still pleased about the sixty thousand dollars, but something beneath the surface was wrong. Sex for them was not good because of Mason’s ambivalence about “doing it when you got a baby in there.” Being locked up all this time, he was frustrated. Remy had promised him sex would be better after the baby, but Mason was stressed about his new job, his parole and his old enemies.

He started taking drugs again.

She pleaded with him to stop and tried to help him.

Then something inside her went wrong, something with the baby. It was stillborn. Dead inside her. A boy.

Oh, God.

She roiled with intense shock and pain. At the small hospital they’d gone to, the doctors, the nurses, even Mason, all tried to console her.

She wanted to hold her baby. He was so tiny. He looked like he was asleep. She bathed him, dressed him and took a lock of his hair. The nurses made hand and footprints for Remy to keep.

Then the hospital arranged for a chaplain to help Remy and Mason with a funeral and burial in a small corner of a local cemetery. The funeral home provided a tiny coffin at no cost.

Standing over her baby’s grave at the cemetery, Remy was overcome. Why did this happen? Why am I being punished?

Later, a counselor and doctor at the hospital talked to Remy about the changes her body would go through, how her breasts would fill with milk, about the soreness, about her anguish. They cautioned her about the likelihood of facing acute postpartum depression, even psychosis. They provided her with medication, which she never took.

Remy and Mason went back to their apartment in Lufkin, gathered their things and left. Mason told his boss there were complications and they needed to go away for a while. Mason didn’t breathe a word of the truth to anyone because he and Remy didn’t want the agency to know that she’d lost the baby.

But in the aftermath, Remy became confused and conflicted.

As they moved from one cheap motel to another they struggled with the loss and its consequences. There was little they could do as Remy dealt with her growing sense of isolation. No one could understand what she was going through as feelings of futility and emptiness consumed her.

There were moments, rapturous fleeting moments, when Remy saw her dream come true, moments when she’d be living it with Mason in their little house with their children, their family while he ran his carpentry shop.

Then reality smashed it all to pieces.

Now that she’d lost the baby, she was at risk of losing everything.

Why?

Why was she being punished when there were so many bad mothers out there?

Remy saw them in parks, at public plazas, at malls, neglecting their children, not taking care of them properly.

It’s so unfair. It’s not right. She should make it right. That’s the answer.

That’s the solution-the creed she and Mason followed.

Whatever life takes from you, you take back.

To see her dream come true Remy had to rescue a neglected child to replace the one she’d lost, to give it to the agency so she could start her life, her real life with Mason. They’d searched malls and parks, until she found the right baby at the flea market and bravely set out to rescue him.

The tornado was biblical-a whirlwind-a sign.

Now, looking down at Caleb, she smiled.

You didn’t die. I didn’t steal you. I saved you from a terrible mother who does not deserve you. I deserve you. You’re so beautiful, like an angel. Just having you, holding you these days has filled my emptiness You’re like my son, the son I carried, my sweet, beautiful, lost angel.

She reached into her bag for a special tiny jewelry box, opened it and took out a small folded corner of cloth cut from the blanket her stillborn son was buried in. She touched it to her face.

You need me. I need you. I’m not sure I can give you up.

A shadow fell over Remy and the baby.

Mason was standing over them.

“I was looking everywhere for you. Why did you run off?”

Remy said nothing.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, glancing around, impatient.

She shook her head.

“Have you seen the news? The latest news about the FBI?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Did you have one of your spells?”

“I think so,” Remy said. “Look at him, Mason. He’s so sweet, a sweet little angel. He needs me, doesn’t he?”

Mason paused a moment, assessing Remy. “Yes, he does. He needs you to take care of him, to give to the mom the agency has waiting for him. She’s probably very worried after waiting for such a long time. What do you think, Remy?”

She stared at Caleb, saying nothing.

“Darlin’…” Mason lowered himself to her and softened his voice. It had been a long time since he called her that. She loved it when he did. “Darlin’, the FBI is looking for us. They just put out sketches that look like us on the news.”

Remy blinked at Mason. She was working to understand.

“We have to go now,” he said. “We have to haul it back to the motel, get our stuff and go, now! I’ve got us a place with an old friend from Hightower where we can be safe and make our call to the agency. We can close the baby deal and then start living our dream like you always wanted. Okay?”

Remy looked into his eyes. “No, Mason.”

“No?”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to stay with one of your ex-convict pals. I don’t trust them.”

“Are you hearing me right?”

“You listen to me, Mason Varno. I’m tired of running. I want to go back to the motel and think some more while I tend to my baby.”

“Your baby?”

“Yes, my baby. And we’re not going anywhere. Is that clear?”

He stared at her for several icy seconds before he smiled.

“It sure is, darlin’.”

35

Bel Air, California

Chelsea Drew-Flynn needed a shoulder.

She called Tara Powell, her trusted pal and confidante, and without hesitation Tara invited her out to California. As busy as she was with her new baby girl and her job, Tara always had time for Chelsea.

They’d met aeons ago at a charity gala in San Francisco, and though Tara was ten years younger than Chelsea, they got along as though they’d been lifelong friends.

Chelsea didn’t take her company’s corporate jet out of Denver. She flew commercial, executive-class and hired a car service at LAX.

Tara and her husband, Worthington, headed their own production company. Their last three films had each grossed over a hundred million dollars, and they also had a hit crime drama on HBO.

Chelsea loved their house, how it was tucked deep into a gated community on a winding lush road concealed by foliage.

Their estate offered breathtaking views of Los Angeles. The mansion had eight bedrooms and every room had a sweeping vista. The foyer was made of Italian limestone and they had an infinity pool in the back with a stunning panorama of the city. The property was private, thick with greenery, surrounded by palms, avocado and citrus trees.

The driveway was overflowing with luxury cars. Chelsea’s driver put her bags at the door where Chelsea was met by Tara. They hugged and exchanged kisses over music and the vibrant hum of a party in full swing.

“So great to see you,” Tara said.

“I’ve arrived at a bad time.”

“You’ve arrived at a perfect time. How was your flight?”

“Good.”

Tara was dressed in an elegant yet semiformal turquoise ensemble.

“I love those shoes,” Chelsea said.

“I got these in Venice when we went for the film festival. They’re so comfortable.”

Above the conversations and laughter spilling from the large living room where the glass wall had been retracted to lead to the pool, Chelsea glimpsed a number of world-famous faces.

“Worth’s hosting an investors’ party for our next project. I’ll get Miguel to take your bags up to your room so you can freshen up if you like. Then you can meet some people, get something to eat, and we’ll steal away and talk, okay?”

“Sounds terrific. How’s Cheyenne? Can I see her?”

“Absolutely, she should be waking up soon, and I’m sure she’d love to see Aunt Chelsea.”

“Hey, there she is-my favorite gold digger!” Tanned and smiling, Worthington gave Chelsea a crushing hug.

“Hi, Worth.”

“If you want a break from running your mining empire, I can get you in a picture.”

“You can’t afford me.”

“Everybody’s got a price, Chelsea.” He winked. “Can we get you something, a drink?”

“Maybe later, I’m just going to freshen up a bit.”

Chelsea took a quick shower, fixed her face, changed into a floral print dress then joined the party. Tara escorted her through knots of people scattered about the living room and pool, introducing her to actors, directors, screenwriters and agents as servers moved from circle to circle with trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres.

After some twenty minutes of mingling, Tara received a text on her phone then leaned to Chelsea’s ear.

“Cheyenne is up. Let’s go.”

Tara led Chelsea upstairs to her daughter’s bedroom, where eleven-month-old Cheyenne was standing in her crib with her nanny close by.

“I already changed her, ma’am,” the nanny said.

“Thank you, Aisah.” Tara took the baby into her arms. “We’re going to stay here with her for a while. I’ll let you know when we’re done.”

The nanny left, and Tara passed Cheyenne to Chelsea, who kissed her cheek and inhaled her sweet baby scent.

“Ohhh,” Chelsea said, “can I take her back to Denver with me?”

Tara smiled as her friend coddled and cooed away. Ever since Tara had become pregnant with Cheyenne, her only child so far, Chelsea confided her desperation to have a baby. She couldn’t have children. Her one marriage had ended badly, and now at forty-nine, Chelsea yearned to be a mother. After much consideration she had decided to use a surrogate through an agency.

“How is it going? You sounded worried when you called.” Tara said.

“There’ve been delays.”

“Are you having second thoughts about the agency?”

“Frustration.”

“But you had your lawyers check them out.”

“Yes, Howard did some due diligence for me. The agency had a good reputation. Remember, I told you that Isabel Hardwick had heard about them and assured me that they had a good record of coming through because they have a worldwide network.”

“But the delays worry you?”

“Yes. Hedda Knight, the lawyer who runs the agency in Chicago, had cautioned me that once in a while a surrogate has second thoughts.”

“You still haven’t met yours?”

“No, the agency is somewhat unique that way. That’s their policy. I offered to take care of all her needs, everything, but the agency said it took care of those matters. I’ve seen pictures of the mother and the donor father, their files. I don’t know where they’re from, but their health is perfect. They’re gorgeous young people. She was due to deliver a baby boy, my son.” Chelsea’s voice cracked, her eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay, sweetie.” Tara passed her a tissue.

“Thanks. She was supposed to deliver a few weeks ago, and now things are uncertain.”

“Did you consider going to another agency?”

“Yes, but the waits are long.”

“Why not find your own surrogate and take care of it yourself?”

“I was considering that, but it’ll mean waiting another year when I still don’t know what’s really holding up my case.”

“Did you consider legal action?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to scare the mother off. I just want my son.”

“What do you think is really going on?”

“I don’t know. I think she’s having second thoughts.”

“Could the agency be holding out for a client willing to pay more?”

“That would be illegal. I mean, Howard hinted there were a lot of gray areas, but I don’t care. I just want a child, you know?”

“I do, Chelsea.”

After giving the situation some thought, Tara said, “Offer the agency more money, a gift, a bonus…call it whatever, but offer her more. And remind this Hedda Knight of what you told me earlier about helping her with other clients.”

As Chelsea weighed the suggestion, Tara continued. “That way if Hedda’s holding out for more, or if the surrogate is having second thoughts, you’ll remain in play. And, you can hint, without giving the name, about Sula Bartholomew. Do you know her? Her family owns the potato chip company?”

“Yes.”

“Sula is looking to go with a surrogate, and she’s put it out there that she’ll go into seven figures. You lay that all out for Hedda and see what happens.”

36

Chicago, Illinois

Krystal wore a little too much makeup.

That was to be expected of a twenty-two-year-old cosmetician who worked at a mall in Indianapolis, Hedda Knight thought.

She had agreed to meet Krystal at a downtown Chicago coffee shop after she’d responded to one of Hedda’s online ads.

Krystal was “so intensely serious” about becoming a surrogate because she needed to boost her savings. Her boyfriend, “Dack,” had dumped her. She was going to move to L.A. to study acting. A psychic-a real one-told her she was destined to be famous.

“I was awesome in Pygmalion…my high school drama class staged it,” Krystal said. “One last question-what happens to the baby if the parents change their minds? Like, do I have to keep it?”

“That never happens. We have long lists of parents. So no, you wouldn’t have to keep it.”

Krystal bit her lip. She’d been taking notes in a small pad. Sunlight glinted off of her neon-metallic nails as she doodled while pondering. Hedda made an obvious display of checking the time on her phone, signaling an end to their meeting.

“It’s really sixty thousand?” Krystal asked.

“If all goes smoothly, and it usually does, then yes, that is the amount you receive. Now, you’ll have to excuse me.” Hedda collected her things. “I have to go. It was nice meeting you, Krystal. Think it over and contact me if you have more questions.”

Outside, Hedda ended any further thought of Krystal.

These days she rarely met with potential surrogates, but this had been one way to use her time while she awaited word on her problem case: Chelsea Drew-Flynn and Remy Toxton.

As Hedda walked along Randolph Street she checked her phone.

No news from her investigator, Ed Bascom.

In addition to having Bascom track Remy and her ex-con boyfriend, Hedda had launched other efforts to salvage the case. She’d had several members of her support staff pose as people desperate for a new Caucasian baby boy. She’d instructed them to call her competitors, who ran international adoption agencies, and enquire about deliverability in the shortest time frame, and to hint at a “bonus” payment if they could circumvent any waiting list.

In every case so far, all attempts had been futile. The wait was too long. One agency out of Europe hinted at something in six months. Even if Hedda had succeeded in finding a new baby boy, Chelsea rightfully regarded Remy and Fyodor’s baby as hers. She’d fallen in love with this couple. A substitution would be a challenge, but she’d done it before.

Hedda was growing increasingly fearful of the possibility that Remy may have been among the dead or missing in the wake of the tornadoes that devastated parts of Texas and other states.

It would account for why Bascom had failed to pick up any activity on Remy or Mason’s credit cards, bank cards, or cell phones.

I don’t know, Hedda thought. We have no proof that’s what happened.

If Remy lost the baby, she might have been encouraged by her ex-con boyfriend to flee in order to hang on to the fifteen thousand. Or, she may have decided to keep the baby, a possibility that Hedda doubted, based on her experience with surrogates.

Hedda’s phone vibrated with a message from Chelsea Drew-Flynn.

I want to talk. Can I call now?

Hedda stopped walking and gathered her thoughts. Be careful, you are not going to blow this. She took a moment then responded.

Yes, call me now.

A few seconds later, Hedda’s phone rang.

“Any news?” Chelsea asked.

“Nothing concrete, but we’re very hopeful.”

“You think the mother is having second thoughts?”

“It’s…possible. But as I say, we are hopeful.”

Chelsea sighed heavily on the other end of the line. “All right, you can work out your commission or whatever you do, but I’m prepared to offer seven hundred and fifty thousand to help her change her mind, conditional upon me holding my son within two weeks.”

Hedda steadied herself on a Chicago Tribune news box. She swallowed, her mind assessing it all, as she cleared her throat.

“The agreement is written for two hundred. We’d have to-”

“Yes, yes, you make any changes necessary for me to initial, sign, whatever. Call the increase a gift, call it whatever you like, but I want my son and I’ll do whatever I have to do to make it happen. Is that clear?”

“Understood.”

“Moreover, I had indicated to you that I know of other women very anxious to adopt a new baby, including one, actually two, who will pay over seven figures.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m willing to recommend your agency to them, if you don’t screw this up. My friends have very large networks of affluent people.”

“All right.”

“If you fail to deliver on our agreement, I’ll have to explore all my options. Do I make myself clear?”

“Absolutely.”

The call ended.

For several seconds, Hedda stood there on the busy street staring at her phone in disbelief. The stakes had gone up.

Way up.

37

Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

Shelby Nix scratched his three-days’-growth beard as he reviewed registrations for the Tumbleweed Dreams Motel while watching commercials on the big flat-screen TV in reception.

For the past eight years he had been manager of the two-story inn that sat at the city’s southeast edge. Every now and then the ex-navy cook thought about buying the place from the owners who lived in Florida. The glory of the old motel, like its worn, embroidered towels, was fading and it barely broke even. This week was good, he thought; they were at ninety percent, thanks to the tornadoes, but today they had a lot of departures. Shelby was clicking through the guest log on his computer at the counter when the phone rang.

“Tumbleweed Motel,” he said.

“Shell, I can’t make it in today.”

His hand reflexively tightened on the handset at the sound of Daisy Culpepper’s whiny voice. She was the most senior of his four housekeepers, but even if the good Lord and all his apostles helped her, Daisy could not work a full week. He’d warned her several times.

“It’s my back, again. I’m in pain.”

“Daisy, you’re done. I’ll mail you your final check and pink slip.”

“What?”

“You’re fired.”

“But Shell-my doc-”

Shelby ended the call and started another to his junior housekeeper, Maria Mendosa.

“Hi, Maria, it’s Shelby at the motel,” he said in Spanish.

“Hi, Shelby.”

“If your cousin’s still looking for work, tell her to come with you today.”

“Oh, that’s fantastic! I will tell her! Thank you, thank you very much!”

Maria never missed a day and her work was stellar. He was confident her cousin would be a good hire. Upon hanging up, he dismissed any remorse over firing Daisy. Hell, the woman lived a block from the motel but always had an excuse not to make it into work. For the next several moments he reviewed her attendance record.

It was dreadful.

No, he thought, it had to be done. She’s gone.

Shelby’s eyes then flicked to the TV, where he saw the President’s face. The news was on. He used the remote to increase the volume. The White House was confirming the President’s upcoming visit to the Metroplex and its hardest-hit regions.

The commander-in-chief’s coming to town. How about that, Shelby thought.

That report was followed by one showing sketches of two people sought by police.

“The FBI is investigating the case of a baby boy, five-month-old Caleb Cooper of Dallas, who vanished from his mother’s hold in the storm at the Old Southern Glory Flea Market near Kleberg.

The FBI says the baby’s clothing was found under suspicious circumstances 20 miles away in Duncanville. They are appealing to the public for help locating two persons of interest-a white male and white female, who may be traveling with the baby.”

After providing descriptions of the couple, the TV news displayed two sketches of the woman and two of the man.

Shelby pressed the button on the remote to replay the details.

The woman could have short spiky red hair, or shorter dark hair and dark-framed glasses.

Shelby replayed the details again and again then hit the pause button for the part of the report that displayed all four images at once.

“Damn,” he said aloud.

“Excuse me?”

Two older women were standing at the counter, waiting to check out.

“I’m sorry, ladies, just caught up in the news,” Shelby said. “How was everything?”

“Fine,” the taller one said.

“The bed was lumpy-you need to get a new mattress,” her friend said.

“Our apologies, I’ll take ten percent off your account. And how will you be settling with us today?”

The taller one placed her credit card on the counter. Shelby processed their bill, provided a receipt and thanked them. Then he resumed studying the report.

Hell, I think it’s them, he said to himself. I think they’re here.

Unit 21. That couple with the baby. They were arguing yesterday, disturbing everyone near them, prompting complaints.

Shelby’s fingers clicked on the keyboard and he looked up their account. Luke and Ashley Johnson. They didn’t list the baby’s name, which was fine. They gave their address as Houston, no other details. They paid cash in advance to last five nights.

They haven’t checked out yet.

Shelby scratched his beard.

He looked under the counter at the small TV screen that displayed images from the motel’s security cameras. The insurance company insisted the owners install them, but they went with a cheaper system. Shelby manipulated the images to show the view of the lot and unit doors by the north side, including Unit 21. Their pickup truck was gone.

Blinking, Shelby gave the situation more consideration.

Then he reached under the counter for the little laminated clock sign and set it to read: Be Back in 10 Minutes.

He walked along the north side of the motel, coming to Unit 21. He pressed his ear to the door and heard voices, quickly determining that it was the TV over the drone of the air conditioner.

Someone’s in there.

Walking back to the office, Shelby recalled how the woman definitely had red spiky hair when they checked in and that maybe she changed it, made it darker-he wasn’t sure, but she definitely had a baby that was screaming. She was definitely with a man who had the height, build and tattoos that fit the description. By the time he’d returned to the office he was convinced that the young woman and man wanted by the FBI were in Unit 21.

First, Shelby had to take care of the guests who were at his counter waiting to check out. Once he finished their transactions, he reached for his phone.

His pulse quickened as he pressed 911.

38

Dallas, Texas

The day after Kate Page broke the story on the FBI’s investigation into the baby’s case, she arrived at her desk at 6:45 a.m.

The stream of radio dispatches coming from the emergency scanners echoed in the morning calm of the desolate newsroom. At this hour, the only other person in the bureau was Tommy Koop, the news assistant, who was listening to the scanners.

After settling in, Kate sifted through her notes and the business cards she’d collected. Like a miner panning for gold, she searched for a new lead for her story. Given that the FBI had blitzed the press last night with an appeal for help in Caleb Cooper’s case, the first person she reached out to was FBI Special Agent Phil Grogan. She’d established a good relationship with him at the shelter and emailed him.

Hi, Agent Grogan: Are there any breaks rising from the appeal? I’m willing to discuss trading any data that comes our way.-Kate Page, Newslead

Most investigators, the good ones, wanted to keep all channels of information open.

Kate went online and stared at the sketches of the woman and man wanted by the FBI.

Who are these people? We’ve got to be getting closer to finding out what happened to the baby. Something’s got to break on this.

Dr. Butler at the shelter had given Kate her phone number, so she texted her, as well.

Kate sent messages to Jenna and Blake Cooper, and Jenna’s sister, Holly, asking if there were any developments. As she began checking local news outlets and other news agencies to see if anyone had advanced her story, a large mug of steaming coffee appeared on her desk.

“Congratulations.” Tommy stood before her. “Your item got play everywhere-Boston Globe, Miami Herald, New York Daily News, Denver Post, Los Angeles Times. It was tweeted like crazy. Nice work.”

“Thanks, Tommy. What’s happening on the scanners?”

“Not much, the usual rush-hour traffic problems.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it, so far. You know, Kate, your story blew Roy and Mandy out of the water. I don’t think Dorothea had counted on you being so good.”

“Kind of you to say. But in this business, you’re only as good as your last story. Roy and Mandy are strong reporters.”

“When the internship ends they’d be crazy if they don’t hire you.”

The scanners flared.

“Is something up?” Kate had put in enough years on the police desk to know how to keep an ear cocked for the telltale signs of emotion or urgency seeping into a dispatcher’s voice.

Tommy turned his attention to the scanners.

“Not sure,” he said. “There was a noninjury four-car pileup on LBJ causing a lot of headaches. I’ll check it out.”

He returned to his desk.

Several long minutes passed and all seemed quiet. Tommy continued concentrating on the flow of transmissions.

As Kate resumed working, her screen saver displayed her daughter’s smiling face, and she was struck with a sudden, overwhelming need to hold her. It felt as if they’d been apart for a lifetime. Kate glanced at the time. It was an hour later in Ohio. She checked to see if any of her sources had responded yet. No one had.

She texted her friend Heather in Canton.

Hi, Heather. I’m missing Grace. Is now a good time to call her?

Heather’s response came back within seconds.

Sure is. I’ll give her the phone. You hanging in there?

Doing my best. Calling now.

A moment later, Kate’s heart swelled when she heard her daughter’s voice on her cell phone.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetheart. Did you have a good sleep?”

“Yup.”

“I forgot to ask you last night, did you have fun at the movie with Aubrey and your friends?”

“Uh-hhuhh, and guess what happened?”

Kate’s computer pinged with a message from Chuck:

Good story, Kate. What’ve you got for a follow today?

Kate held her cell phone to her ear with her shoulder and typed:

Working on it. Checking with sources.

“What happened, sweetie?” she asked her daughter.

“Well,” Grace said, “Billy Franklin tried to hold Aubrey’s hand. I think he’s in love with her because he said she was pretty.”

Chuck responded:

Keep digging. We own this story and need to stay in front.

Kate’s focus shifted to Tommy who’d increased the volume of the scanners and was now taking note of some of the dispatches.

“And what did Aubrey do?”

“She told him boys are smelly.”

Tommy was now headed for Kate’s desk with a note in his hand.

“Oh, that’s all so silly. Listen, sweetie, I’m sorry but I have to go now. I miss you and I love you a whole bunch.”

“I miss you and I love you, too.”

Kate hung up. “What’s up, Tommy?”

“Dallas SWAT is rolling on a location in the southeast. It came in through 911. They think the two people are in a motel.”

“Got an address?” Kate stood, collecting her things.

“I’m working on it. I’ve alerted Mark Danson. He was on his way here when he heard it on his scanner. He’ll pick you up downstairs, out front in ten minutes.”

39

Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

The window and door of Unit 21 of the Tumbleweed Dreams Motel filled the viewfinder of Mark Danson’s Canon camera.

With his face clenched behind it, Kate noticed the fan of wrinkles around his eye as he rolled his long lens to focus. They were over a hundred yards from the unit in a small park. Dallas police had sealed the area and were setting up for the SWAT team to make an entry.

Kate’s pulse was still pounding as it had been since the news broke on the scanner.

By the time Danson had picked her up at the bureau, Tommy Koop had sent them the address for the motel in the southeast.

“I know that place,” Danson said as he keyed coordinates into his GPS then adjusted his portable police scanner so they could listen to updates.

Kate had watched the Metroplex blur by her window as Danson’s Jeep Wrangler sailed along the expressways to the scene. Marked Dallas patrol cars had moved into the area without lights or sirens and had set up an outer perimeter a few blocks from the motel. They stopped traffic from entering the hot zone. Danson drove along the boundary before coming to a park, which offered a line of sight on the motel.

He’d tucked his portable scanner into a pocket of his photographer’s vest, connected an earpiece to monitor transmissions. Then he’d crouched at a park bench, where he was now, using the backrest to steady his lock on Unit 21.

“They’re still setting up,” Danson said. “Take a look, Kate.”

He held the camera as Kate drew her eye to the viewfinder. The image of the door and window, with its drawn curtains was powerful; close and crisp, silent and ominous until-

“The curtains moved!” she said.

“Yup,” Danson said. “Someone’s definitely in there.”

Kate kept her face welded to the camera as her pulse continued its steady pumping.

Is that them? Is the baby in there?

* * *

Out of sight a block north of the motel, the Dallas SWAT team set up a command post in the parking lot of the Diamond Lake Flooring Depot. Team leader Mitch Osweiler used the hood of an unmarked Dodge to unfurl a map of the motel property and the floor plan, while outlining the inner perimeter and developing an entry and arrest strategy for Unit 21.

At the same time, plainclothes officers knocked on the doors of all occupied units, then quickly and quietly escorted guests to a safe zone beyond the perimeter.

While preparations got underway, the SWAT team commander Steve Elling and negotiator Andre Kuper joined FBI Agents Phil Grogan and Nicole Quinn in the motel office to talk to the manager, Shelby Nix. After quick introductions, Grogan said, “Where are we at with this?”

“Mr. Nix thinks our targets are guests in his motel,” Elling said.

Grogan glanced at the FBI flyer that Elling had already placed on the counter before Nix.

“You’re certain, Mr. Nix?” Grogan asked.

“I’m pretty sure, yes. They’ve got a baby and they made a heck of a lot of noise yesterday, arguing. People complained. It’s Unit 21, Luke and Ashley Johnson, from Houston. They paid in cash.”

“We ran the names with Houston PD,” Elling said. “No hits, nothing.”

“An alias, likely,” Grogan said. “Got a vehicle and a plate?”

“Mr. Nix here says that he thinks the vehicle’s a Ford pickup, but the plate came up for a 2010 Toyota in Fort Worth. Fort Worth PD confirms the owner reported the plate stolen from a mall parking lot.”

“We see you have a video security system, Mr. Nix. Would you volunteer the recordings for the FBI to analyze?”

“I’d have to check with the owners. But I gotta say, it’s not a good system.”

“We can always get warrants,” Grogan said, turning to Elling. “Okay, we’re ready if you are.”

“Hold it,” Quinn said. “When’s the last time you actually saw this couple, Mr. Nix?”

“Yesterday. I saw the guy get into his truck. Then later I saw the mother on the street like she was taking the baby for a walk.”

“How would you describe the baby’s condition?”

“I don’t know. I heard it crying pretty good the other day. Aside from that-” Nix shrugged “-okay, I guess, but I didn’t get a good look at it.”

“Okay,” Elling said. “But you told the dispatcher you heard activity in the room less than an hour ago. The TV was on?”

“Yes.”

“All right, if we’re good to go, let’s call into the room and our negotiator, Andre, will ask them to step out and we’ll do this peacefully. First, I want to make sure our SWAT folks are in position.”

* * *

Commander Mitch Osweiler directed his SWAT team to establish an inner strike zone by first sending in scouts to determine the line of fire and safety points. Once they were good to go, squad members wearing helmets, armor, headset radios and equipped with rifles and handguns began taking positions. Sharpshooters took key points while the utility man, the breacher and other team members lined up on the unit. The squad pressed against the motel’s blistering walls as they inched toward the room from either side. Across the courtyard, sharpshooter L. C. Stonewood used a concrete planter as cover.

The window and door of Unit 21 filled his scope.

A tense silence hung in the air.

“Good to go,” Osweiler said into his headset.

“Ten-four,” Elling responded into his radio in the motel office. He nodded to Andre Kuper to make the call.

Kuper dialed the room number, but the phone rang unanswered. A minute later he stepped from the office and, using an unmarked police SUV as a shield, spoke through his bullhorn.

“To Luke and Ashley Johnson.” Kuper’s voice cracked across the small courtyard. “To Unit 21. Luke and Ashley Johnson in Unit 21. This is the Dallas Police Department. We want to talk to you. For your own safety, would you exit now with your hands raised and your palms forward, please.”

Several long, silent moments passed.

Kuper tried calling in again, then repeated the police order through the bullhorn.

No response.

After several more minutes had passed, Elling made a decision.

“You’re good to go, Mitch.”

Osweiler spoke into his headset to his team. “Go! Go! Go!”

The entry team popped the door and rushed into the small room, sweeping it with their weapons, checking the closet, tossing the mattresses, the sofa bed.

Nothing.

The room was empty.

The TV was on. The bathroom door was closed.

A soft noise could be heard coming from the bathroom.

“Dallas Police! Exit the room with your hands raised now!” the squad leader shouted.

Movement was heard from the inside but nothing happened.

The order was repeated.

Nothing happened.

The team popped the door and a member with another behind him entered, guns at the ready, finding a woman crouched on the floor of the shower stall crying. Team members searched her for weapons then secured her wrists with handcuffs.

“Room clear. One female in custody,” the squad leader reported.

“Got an ID on her?” Elling asked over the radio.

A few seconds later Osweiler responded: “She says she is Daisy Culpepper. She’s intoxicated.”

Elling repeated the name to those in the motel office.

“Daisy?” Nix, the manager, was surprised. “That’s Daisy, from housekeeping. I fired her for missing too many shifts.”

* * *

In the park, Danson’s camera whirred with rapid-fire speed, clicking as he shot frame after frame of the action. He’d captured dramatic images of a distraught woman with bound wrists being escorted across the complex by the imposing, heavily-armed members of the SWAT team.

“Let’s go, Kate.” Danson yanked his earpiece from his ear, adjusted his camera’s strap and trotted toward the motel.

“Hey! You people, hold it right there!” a uniformed Dallas police officer ordered from his car, some thirty yards away.

Kate froze.

“They just gave the all clear!” Danson shouted to the cop. He held up his press ID and pointed to a TV news crew and a news photographer who’d also emerged from concealed positions and were hurrying to the motel. “Come on, Kate!”

Standing there paralyzed, Kate looked at the cop, then Danson, then the other newspeople who were ignoring the order and running to the motel office where the SWAT team was taking the woman.

I’m not going to be the only one left out on this, Kate thought before running with Danson and the others toward the motel.

They were halfway to the office when Kate noticed several people stepping out to receive the woman. Among them, she’d recognized FBI Agents Grogan and Quinn.

Suddenly Kate heard the loud cry, slurred the way a drunk makes a self-pitied plea, and she realized that the arrested woman was yelling at one of the people in the group.

“Don’t fire me, Shelby! I came in to work! I cleaned that room! I cleaned every damn corner, every damn inch! Twice!”

As Kate got closer, more newspeople had materialized along with police officers who blocked them from getting near the office. Photographers continued shooting pictures. As the growing pack swarmed the area, Kate noticed several new figures who were not press: Jenna and Blake Cooper, along with Jenna’s sister and brother-in-law.

“Where’s Caleb?” Jenna yelled at the woman. “What did you do with my son?”

Jenna then saw Grogan.

“Agent Grogan!” Jenna shouted. “Where’s my son? Did you find him? You knew this was happening- Why didn’t you tell us?”

“It’s the parents,” someone in the pack said.

The news photographers, including Danson, shifted their attention to Jenna and Blake.

“PLEASE!” Jenna shouted. “Somebody tell us something. Where’s our baby! We have a right to know! Why did we have to find out from the TV news? HE’S MY SON!”

Grogan spoke quickly into the ear of one of the senior Dallas cops, who dispatched uniformed officers to shield the Coopers from the press and get them into the office. As that happened, Jenna found Kate.

“You knew, too, and you never told us!” Jenna yelled. “But you want me to tell you everything and I did!”

It was true.

Kate burned with shame at Jenna’s reproach. The call had come in so fast, she’d had to move so quickly, she’d forgotten about her promise to keep the Coopers in the loop. Jenna’s words tore at her as they echoed from under the motel’s canopied reception area and over the courtyard.

40

Fort Worth, Texas

Children’s screams escaped when the glass door opened to the enclosed play area of the fast-food restaurant.

A kid named T.J. had, according to the banner, turned seven years old and a dozen of his friends had his party going full bore. Like competitors in a cage match they attacked the nets, the tunnels, the slides and ball pit in the contained section known as Playworld.

A grandfather of one of the little partygoers watched the action from his booth, occasionally lifting his eyes from the Dallas Morning News to sip his coffee and ensure the action didn’t get out of hand. Thick, silver-white hair accentuated his chiseled face. He wore a navy polo shirt.

Eli Maddick.

That’s him, Pavel Gromov thought after entering the restaurant and scanning the dining room for the man who’d described himself to Gromov over the phone last night.

White hair, sixties, said he’d wear a navy polo shirt. Yes, he’s the man I’m looking for.

Since Gromov and Yanna had arrived in Texas the previous day, Gromov had worked late into the night, talking with Yuri Korzun in New York. Korzun had reached out to his associates, calling in favors to help Gromov find ex-con Mason Varno, his girlfriend, Remy Toxton, and ultimately, his grandchild.

They’d exhausted the list of names of Mason Varno’s coworkers that Gromov and Yanna had gleaned from Triple E Carpenters. Korzun obtained telephone numbers and at Gromov’s demand, Yanna called, claiming to be a distant relative of Remy’s who needed to see her.

Yanna had surprised Gromov with her talent for acting. He listened to her emotional ruses, the way she smoothly played off names of the spouses of coworkers, woman to woman.

“Suzie, Billy’s wife thought you might be able to help me. I need to reach Remy, you know, Mason’s girlfriend? Yes, she was due to deliver a few weeks ago. Remy and I were friends, way back when I lived in America and we lost touch…”

But Yanna’s calls were to no avail.

Gromov had grown to believe that Mason’s coworkers did not know of Mason’s or Remy’s whereabouts. And Gromov had failed on another front. He couldn’t reach the person with the ex-con support group, the Fellowship of the Good Thief. After he’d considered a new approach he went back to Yuri, this time for help finding other ex-cons who’d served time with Varno.

It took several hours before Korzun called Gromov back with a contact.

“His name is Eli Maddick and he’ll be expecting your call.”

Yuri gave Gromov the background on Maddick, how all of Korzun’s associates in Miami, New Orleans, Houston and Dallas, vouched for him as a “consultant.” The speed and quality of his information is unsurpassed.

Korzun said that Maddick was a prison official who had resigned five years ago after allegations surfaced that he had controlled several inmates to make a brutal attack on other inmates. The men who were allegedly beaten at Maddick’s command contacted attorneys, who claimed their clients had had their civil rights violated. The FBI launched an investigation but soon all statements were mysteriously recanted and all complaints were withdrawn.

Maddick agreed to voluntarily resign and take early retirement.

Nothing was ever proven.

Since retiring, Maddick did “a bit of confidential security consulting,” using his expertise and contacts to help clients obtain information on the justice system.

It was late last night when Gromov called him on the cell number Korzun had provided and told him of his situation concerning Mason Varno. Maddick listened and said little. Then he gave Gromov directions, details and the time to meet before quoting his consulting fee, which was to be paid in cash, with nonsequential serial numbers. “I’ll have the information you need.”

Gromov and Yanna rose early to make the estimated four-hour drive from Lufkin to Fort Worth, to make it in time to the suburban fast-food restaurant where Maddick was now waiting.

“Eli?” Gromov said.

Maddick looked up from his newspaper at Gromov and Yanna.

“I’m Sergei, and this is my niece, Tatiana.” Gromov adhered to his practice of using false names. “We spoke on the phone.”

“Yes, have a seat.”

Yanna paused to slide a child’s jacket, ball cap and small sneakers farther along the bench seat that she and Gromov took.

“How was your trip-from Canada, wasn’t it?”

“Uneventful,” Gromov said. “Thank you for agreeing to help us. You were highly recommended.”

“So were you.” Maddick offered the beginnings of a bitter smile. “I was advised rather strongly that I should help you.”

“Good. You have the information?”

Maddick lifted the corner of the folded sports section of the newspaper, showing a glimpse of a large plain brown envelope.

“It’s all there.”

“Thank you.” Gromov nodded to Yanna. “We brought you a box of your favorite chocolates.”

Yanna passed a small cardboard chocolate box to Maddick. He peeked inside. It held five thousand dollars in unmarked fifties and twenties.

“I’ll enjoy these, thank you. I’ll give you some additional background on the information. Would you like to get a coffee first?”

Maddick, Gromov and Yanna looked like any other group of suburbanites socializing at a children’s birthday party. Only the subject was the Texas justice system and Maddick gave them a primer.

“Are you familiar with prisons, Sergei?”

“No, I know very little of prisons.”

Yanna looked away so her face would not betray his lie.

Maddick said that there were some 150,000 offenders in over one hundred fifty prisons, jails and other facilities in Texas, and if needed, he could help get information on just about anything.

“For now, I am interested in locating Mason Varno,” Gromov said.

Before he was paroled, Maddick said, Mason Varno completed a five-year sentence at Hightower Unit for robbery. The prison was near Dayton, northeast of Houston. The unit housed about 1,400 prisoners, give or take. Like prisons everywhere, the institution had its challenges with gangs, beatings and other issues. While Varno was inside, he took part in various programs and also sought the help of the Fellowship of the Good Thief Society, a faith-based support group.

“He kept to himself and managed to stay out of trouble,” Maddick said. “However, I was able to find out that he associated with four prisoners, and maybe not always on the best of terms, but there were four.”

Maddick’s intel indicated that among Varno’s circle, there was talk of plans for various enterprises on the outside and that Varno feared retribution on the inside for a disastrous drug deal prior to his incarceration.

“By the sounds of things, you would think he would’ve been almost happy to be inside, or so it seems,” Maddick said.

“Where are these four associates?” Gromov asked.

“Two are still in prison. One died in a workshop accident. Only one has been paroled. All of their information is in the envelope.”

Gromov began opening it.

“Now, while it would be a parole violation for the inmates to associate with each other while on parole, we all know rules are broken every day.” Maddick smiled.

Gromov looked at the first page of records. The ex-con’s name: Lamont Harley Faulk.

“A little warning about Faulk,” Maddick said. “You’ll see he’s serving time for aggravated assault. In prison he was legendary for knowing everything about everyone. He was drawn to white supremacist gangs. He once put out a man’s eye with his thumb, bit off one of his ears and ate it, then used a nail gun to leave him crucifixion-style against the wall of a barn. This was after a fit of road rage. The man cut Faulk off. Faulk confronted him at a red light, hauled him away to the barn where he nearly killed him. Faulk’s not quite right upstairs. He’s got a temper. He hates most living things, but apparently keeps his word. He’s pathological about that. It’s all there in his psych reports.”

Gromov studied Faulk’s records.

“I don’t know how you’d persuade him to tell you anything about Mason Varno,” Maddick said, nodding to Yanna. “Oh, could you please pass me my grandson’s things on the seat there? I’m afraid it’s time for us to leave.”

Yanna passed him the small sneakers, jacket and ball cap.

“Thanks and good luck,” Maddick said.

* * *

After Maddick left, Yanna moved to the seat across from Gromov.

She sipped her tea while he slipped on his bifocals to study the documents more closely. She thought it a strange juxtaposition how this powerful Russian mobster, no doubt a murderer himself, was sitting here amid the laughter of American children, preparing to hunt down a violent psychopath.

41

Garland, Texas

A lush grove of oak trees gave Remy and Mason cool sanctuary at the edge of the I-30 truck stop southwest of Garland.

They were nearly out of sight, sitting back in the shade on the soft grass. The baby was content lying on their blanket. Remy had just fed him and was engrossed in the news reports she was reading on her laptop. Mason was studying a new map that he’d folded precisely. Take-out wrappers, drink cups and grease-stained bags dotted the blanket.

They’d been driving across the Metroplex for the past few hours.

Their pickup truck was the only vehicle at the far end of the lot. To anyone who saw them, they were a young family enjoying a private picnic.

The hum of freeway traffic rushing along the causeway over Lake Ray Hubbard was punctuated by the growl and grind of rigs wheeling in an out of the Exxon station. Remy lifted her face to the ensuing breezes. It calmed her and she paused, allowing herself to believe that she and Mason were really on their way now. They were really closer to their dream. She reached for Caleb to stroke his cheek lovingly. But touching him underscored her aching emptiness, her overwhelming sadness over the baby she’d lost and all that she’d been through.

Remy battled her painful maternal feelings as she gazed at Caleb.

Your mother does not deserve you. No one deserves you more than me. I saved you. It was all meant to be. You’re MY angel.

Yes, it’s all meant to be.

Just like it was with Mason, the way he knew, absolutely knew that we had to get out of the motel at the right time. Thank God he talked some sense into me. I was not thinking right when I walked to the park. He was so smart to get us out of our motel before the police found us.

Remy went back to the news stories about the SWAT action at the Tumbleweed Motel. It was such a close call. Still, she didn’t think that the police sketches accompanying the reports looked much like her and Mason. He’d let his beard grow, wore sunglasses and long sleeves to cover his tattoos. She touched her short dark hair while considering other ways to ensure that she didn’t resemble the wanted woman in the sketches in any way.

Remy found a new story by the Associated Press, which reported that the FBI was still relying heavily on the public’s help in the tornado baby case. Agents had little information on the two people using the aliases of Luke and Ashley Johnson of Houston. Remy knew that Mason had changed their plate again after they’d pulled away from the motel. He’d been careful, even lining up a place for them to go and, judging by everything that she’d read, she and Mason still had an advantage.

“We were lucky to get out of the motel when we did. It was a good call, babe,” Remy said.

“Damn straight, it was.” Mason lifted his attention from the map, but when he saw her caressing the baby his jaw tensed. “Stop that,” he said.

“Stop what?”

Mason slapped Remy’s hand away from Caleb.

“Hey!” she said.

“You’re not keeping him, so don’t get attached.”

“Don’t you ever, ever hit me!” Remy’s breathing quickened as she glared at Mason. Since they’d left the motel, he was tense, irritable and sweating, which signaled that he needed his drugs. She hated it when he got that way. She glanced at the bulge in the blanket near him where he’d put his gun. She also hated it when he carried that thing around.

He stared at her for a long, cool, moment.

“We’re under a lot of pressure,” he said. “Once we get to my friend’s place we’ll be totally off the grid. That’s when we’ll call the agency, close this deal, get our money and be gone. I know a guy who’ll help us get new identities, good ones with social security, passports, everything. We’ll freakin’ disappear.” Mason looked at his cell phone on the blanket next to his soda then pursed his lips. “Lamont better damn well give up the location. I gave that mother a lot of money.”

Mason glanced around at the tractor trailers and rubbed his lips.

“I don’t know how much longer we can keep this up,” he said. “Sooner or later they’ll get on to us, and if your agency in Chicago finds out, there’s no way they’ll take the kid. We’ve got to get off the grid to keep the heat off.”

“I don’t think those drawings look like us.” Remy was working on her laptop. “Besides, I thought of something I can do to help. It’s a bit risky but if you keep your cool, you can pull it off.”

She turned her screen to him and he approved of what he saw.

“All right, that’s near here. Let’s go,” he said.

* * *

Less than two miles from the truck stop, Mason and Remy turned into the parking lot of a strip mall. Sandwiched between Aunt Marva’s Donuts and On-the-Spot Payday Loans was Flo’s Fabulous Hair Emporium. Remy stayed in the truck with the baby while Mason entered the hair shop.

Bells chimed on the transom.

Scores of blank faces of mannequin heads crowned with every style and color of hair you could think of stared at Mason from displays and shelves.

It was creepy.

The store wasn’t busy. A woman was behind the counter replacing paper in a small credit card terminal. She had long straight black hair, a dark tan and revealed bright white teeth when she smiled.

“How can I help you today, sir?”

“Well, I’d like to get a couple of wigs for my wife.”

“You’ve come to the right place. Is she going to be joining you?”

“No. She told me what to get.”

“Well, what color and style is she looking for? Short, long, curly, straight?”

“She said she wanted a blond, sorta long and wavy and an auburn one about the same and curly, sorta.”

“Hmm.” The woman left the counter and led Mason to a side display. Mason detected a hint of citrus-scented perfume. “Do you know if she prefers synthetic or human hair?”

“What’s the difference?”

“They’re both nice, but with top-of-the-line synthetic the curls keep, even in the rain, while human hair is more natural.”

“I guess it doesn’t matter then.”

The woman reached for a head with a blond wig.

“How about this one? It’s got layered spiral curls, about fourteen inches, that’s shoulder length, and it’s got a stretch skin cap. It’s synthetic fiber.”

“Looks good. I’ll take it.”

“That was easy.” She then moved down the row and picked up a head wearing a dark-colored wig, which was shorter but fuller.

“This one is auburn, synthetic, styled in a layered bob with sweeping bangs and-” she turned the head “-soft curls in the back.”

“I like it. I’ll take that one, too.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to see some others?”

“No, these two are good.”

“All right, let me package this all up for you.”

The woman took the two heads bearing the wigs, set them on the front counter then glanced through her storefront to the parking lot at the pickup truck parked out front.

“Is that your wife in the truck with the baby?”

Mason turned to follow her attention then saw Remy and the baby. “Oh, yes.”

She hesitated as if stopping to address a sudden concern.

“Is there a problem?” Mason asked.

“Um, no.” The woman smiled, shifting her concentration back to the counter. “Most women want to be custom fitted. Are you sure your wife doesn’t want to come in for a custom fit and style? It comes with the wigs at no charge.”

“No, I think we’re good that way.”

Mason watched her closely as she shifted her focus back to the sale.

“Okay. I’ll just get some foam heads and box these up for you. They’re one-fifty each, plus tax. But if you’re military or hit by the tornado, we’ll give you twenty percent off.”

“I’m not military-my dad was. But we did get caught in the storm.”

“Is everybody okay?”

“We’re still a bit shaky, but I need to get going.”

“Of course. And how would you like to pay, sir?”

“Is cash all right?

“It certainly is.”

Mason left with the woman watching him through the window. For an instant, as he reached for the truck’s door, they exchanged a glance.

* * *

As the customer got into the cab of his truck, the clerk bit her lip.

That was very weird, she thought.

Then she reached for her phone and searched for the news story about the baby kidnapped in the storm.

She found the number for the police tip line.

Maybe she should call.

No. She put her phone down. But that was definitely odd.

* * *

Mason returned to the truck, gave the boxes to Remy, who was fussing over the baby in his car seat. Before turning the ignition, Mason checked his phone and cursed it. No messages from Lamont. Mason took a moment to think where they could go then started the truck and pulled away from the strip mall.

Remy opened the boxes with the wigs.

“Oh, these are nice. They’re gonna work fine, babe.”

But Mason wasn’t listening.

He was a little worried about the strange look from the saleswoman at the wig store but shook it off. He had bigger problems, chiefly the fact that Lamont still hadn’t contacted him. Mason speculated on the reason. Did Lamont rip him off? Did he turn him in? Mason ran the back of his hand across his mouth. They had gone about six blocks and turned from a quiet street onto a busy thoroughfare.

That’s when they heard the wail of a siren behind them.

42

Garland, Texas

Red-and-blue police lights blazed in Mason’s rearview mirror.

“Oh God, what’re we going to do?” Remy looked over her shoulder.

Mason tightened his grip on the wheel and he kept an eye on the mirror, on the grill of a marked police unit coming up behind him fast.

“Quit gawking at him,” Mason told Remy. “This can’t be for us. He’ll go around.”

But the patrol car didn’t go around them. It stayed right behind their pickup truck until the cop got close enough to read a plate.

If that’s what he’s doing.

The siren was blaring, shredding Mason’s nerves. His reflex was to take the next turn while his gut was screaming at him to flee. Punch the gas and run because there was no way he was going back inside.

Damn it, why isn’t that guy going around us?

Options blurred through Mason’s mind. He eyed the mirror for any telltale signs the cop had read his plate and called it in. The cop hadn’t reached for his microphone. He was not on a cell phone. His mouth wasn’t moving like he was talking to a dispatcher on a hands-free unit.

Nothing like that.

So why’s he coming up hard on my ass?

“MASON, LOOK OUT!!!”

Standing on the road directly in front of them was another police officer, his arm extended and finger pointed at Mason. His free hand hovered over his holstered sidearm. Eyes fixed on Mason as he braked hard, the cop pointed for him to pull over to the right, up close behind another parked vehicle, a white Toyota, and shut the truck off.

The siren behind him made a last loud yelp before it went silent as the patrol car parked tight behind the pickup truck so that Mason could not drive out. The emergency lights lit up the cab with pulsating intensity.

“Goddamn it,” Mason growled under his breath. “GOD-DAMN-IT!”

It had all gone down so fast.

“This isn’t good.” Remy pulled the baby from his car seat and held him as she craned her neck in both directions. “What the hell’s going on?”

Watching the cop on the road and the cop in the car behind him, Mason dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, assessing what had befallen them. Suddenly he reached under his seat for his gun and tucked it under his left leg.

“Mason, no! Oh Christ, what’re you doing?”

“I’m not going back inside.”

“Mason, don’t! I’m begging you!”

The driver’s door of the car behind them opened and the officer got out quickly. “Please stay in your vehicle!” he said, keeping his hand on the grip of his holstered weapon as he trotted past them while talking into his shoulder microphone.

Surveying the situation Mason saw people in the Toyota in front of them waiting in their vehicle, then realized more people were doing the same in the line of cars and trucks that had been stopped up ahead.

Other police vehicles were blocking the intersection.

This is a choke point. Something’s going on, Mason thought.

The running officer joined the other officer in the street. Then two more cops came from behind, ran alongside Mason’s pickup truck. Their portable radios were turned up loud and crackling with transmissions as they jogged down the line of cars.

Several long moments passed. In all, about fifteen heart-pounding minutes went by before Mason and Remy saw one of the marked police units in the street drive off, its tires squealing.

One officer on the road began directing the line of cars to flow back into traffic, while other officers walked in a relaxed manner by the pickup truck.

“I think it’s over, Mason,” Remy said.

“Excuse me, Officer?” the woman in the Toyota asked one of them.

A cop stopped at the Toyota, close enough for Mason to hear.

“What’s going on?” the Toyota woman asked. “What happened?”

“A bank was robbed,” the young officer said. “The suspect was in the area. They grabbed him about seven blocks from here.”

“Wow, glad to hear it. Good work, thanks.” The woman started her car.

“Wait.” The cop stepped forward and pointed at Mason and his heart skipped.

“You folks should put your baby in the car seat before you drive off,” the officer said.

“Yes, sir.” Remy smiled and secured Caleb Cooper.

43

Lancaster, Texas

I was so close to Caleb at that motel.

Jenna could almost feel her baby boy, almost smell him and taste the sweetness of his cheek. How she ached to hold him in her arms again. She’d been awake most of the night in their room at the Embassy Suites, watching over Cassie and Blake and staring out the window into the night.

Caleb’s out there. Please keep him safe. I need him back. Please.

Yesterday, they’d come so close to catching that sick, scheming red-haired woman and her boyfriend at the motel. Now, in the hour before dawn, Jenna prayed with each passing minute for her phone to ring with news from the FBI, Kate or Frank. From anybody.

She’d lost her mind at the motel to fear, to anger and panic before FBI Agents Grogan and Quinn took her and Blake inside and told them all that they could.

Grogan said that the motel manager had called 911 because he was certain a man and woman with a baby, fitting the descriptions reported in the press, were guests. The Dallas SWAT team took action, but the people remained at large. The FBI’s crime-scene experts were processing the room, which would take time. It was challenging because a motel staffer had cleaned it thoroughly. The FBI was continuing its investigation.

“We know this is difficult for you, but I give you my word we’ll keep you updated,” Grogan said. “But our primary focus is taking immediate action on valid leads in order to find Caleb and return him home safe to you.”

Not long after the sun rose, Jenna was oblivious to the sounds of Holly and Garrett rising in the next room. She barely noticed Blake and Cassie getting up and dressing, then the smell of coffee and scrambled eggs.

“Jen, we got you some breakfast from downstairs,” Holly said.

“You’re not sleeping and you’re not eating,” Blake said. “Come on, hon. Have something.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I can’t.”

“I’m sad, too, Mommy. Just take one bite,” Cassie said, using a line Jenna had used on her when she fussed over food.

“Please, Jen,” Blake said before his cell phone rang and he answered. “Hey, Doug,. Yeah…thanks. We’re doin’ our best. Thanks… No, go ahead… Really? Now, today? Okay, thanks.”

Blake hung up then turned to Jenna as Holly and Garrett joined them.

“What is it?” Jenna asked.

“That was Doug Carlin, our neighbor. We have to go to our house.”

Since the storm and Caleb’s disappearance, Jenna had not been to their home. It was gone, and her attention was on Caleb.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why? Why do we need to go now?

“Doug said there are officials in our neighborhood and there are deadlines this morning for permits and insurance.”

“No,” Jenna said. “I don’t care. Without Caleb we don’t have a home. Our home is here.” Jenna jabbed her thumb to her heart. “Where we are. And we’ll put it back together when we have him.”

“Jen.” Blake got down on one knee before her. “I know. We all want Caleb back more than anything. But we have to go. They need both our signatures and there are things there we’ll want to keep, things belonging to Caleb.”

Tears streamed down Jenna’s face, then she felt the small strong warmth of Cassie’s arms around her.

“Don’t cry, Mommy.”

* * *

Garrett and Blake sat up front in the rented SUV.

Jenna and Holly sat in the back holding Cassie’s hands as they drove to the south end of the Metroplex and into Lancaster.

They lived in One Mile River estates, a family neighborhood of modest bungalows on curving kid-friendly streets sheltered by tall green ash and cottonwoods. But Jenna’s first thought when they neared One Mile was that they’d taken a wrong turn.

This isn’t it.

She couldn’t recognize the community. Everything was flattened.

A Lancaster police car and a couple of city emergency vehicles were posted at a barricade blocking the entrance to the street where Jenna and Blake lived. Beyond it, nothing but a wasteland of rubble.

“Sorry,” a police officer said. “Access is restricted. Only residents with permits can enter, or emergency people or press.”

“My wife and I are residents,” Blake said.

“Okay, then this is what you’ll have to do.”

Blake had to show acceptable proof of residency, such as his driver’s license, to a city official in a truck nearby. The official issued the Coopers a temporary permit for access to their address and advised them to assess and record the damage. Other officials in fluorescent vests emerged and directed them on recovery, noting that most insurance companies had adjusters on-site. There was talk about inspections, the replacement process, applying for living expenses, insurance forms, requirements, deadlines and all available services from groups like the Red Cross and the Salvation Army.

“There’s no gas, no water and no electricity, so make sure you have flashlights and your cell phones are charged,” one official said. “And as you see on the permit, there’s a curfew.”

Garrett had thought to bring a flashlight if they needed it. Blake had ensured they charged phones at night at the hotel. Once they were set, they began walking in but had trouble locating their home.

Their neighborhood was obliterated, street signs and landmarks were gone. The trees had been shredded, stripped, uprooted, leaving jagged pronglike branches spearing the sky, reminiscent of images found in footage of a war zone.

Cars had been flipped and crumpled, like emptied soda cans, roofs had been torn from houses; some homes were severed, exposing bedrooms, living rooms, bathrooms. Furniture had been tossed to lawns that resembled landfill sites with debris everywhere. The air smelled of damp earth, garbage, backed-up sewers and loss.

Jenna, Blake, Cassie, Holly and Garrett walked in silence, reverently observing neighbors picking through the aftermath to the rip-crack of plywood being smashed or moved, punctuated with soft weeping, then the subdued joy as someone recovered a treasure. “I found the box with Mom and Dad’s wedding rings!” or “I found the picture album!”

They came to their address.

Jenna and Blake stared at the heap that had been their home.

Jenna’s chin trembled. Blake pulled her and Cassie close as together they confronted the fact that their home was gone.

Garrett and Holly touched their shoulders in consolation. There was nothing to say and the small group stood in mourning for a long moment until a neighbor greeted them.

“I’m so damn sorry,” Doug Carlin, a seventy-year-old retired U.S. Marine Sergeant, said. “About Caleb, about your house. Bev and I have been asking the good Lord to step up to the plate for you, Blake.”

“Thanks, Doug,” he said, “and thanks for calling me.”

“We lost our place, too, and down the way-” Carlin pointed his wooden walking stick “-the McKinley’s and the Franklins didn’t make it. They were killed in the storm. We found Del and Sam in each other’s arms in the kitchen. The roof came down on them. This place got hit bad, no doubt about it.” Carlin glanced around. “I’ll let you get to it. You got my cell, I got yours. I’ll keep you posted on things here while you do what you gotta do to find your baby. God bless you, now.”

Jenna hugged him, and after Carlin left, Garrett asked Blake the name of their insurance company.

“I’ll head down the street and ask around to get an adjuster to come over and talk to you,” Garrett said.

“I got a card.” Blake reached for his wallet. “We just updated the policy last year, when we knew we- Well, when we knew we were having another child.”

Blake gave the card to Garrett then, after cautioning Cassie to be careful around the debris, Blake and Holly started sifting through it for valuables.

“KAY-leb!” Cassie crouched down and called into the wreckage for her baby brother. “Are you in there, KAY-leb!”

Jenna didn’t move.

This is our old life, she thought, the old life that I lived. The life I loved is gone-it’s never coming back. This life has stopped. It stopped the moment Caleb was taken from me. Our new life won’t start; it can’t start until I’m holding my baby again. I don’t care about the old house, about things. Finding Caleb and putting our family back together is what we have to do.

At that moment, Jenna’s heart skipped for she heard the familiar soft sound of Caleb’s rattle and turned.

“Look, Mommy!” Cassie held up the small yellow plastic ball by its handle. “I found Caleb’s rattle.”

Hearing it was balm for Jenna’s broken heart, and she swept Cassie up in her arms and kissed her. “Good work, sweetheart!”

“I think we should keep it for him for when we fix our home better.”

“I think so, too.”

Jenna turned to see Kate Page standing at the edge of the property.

44

Lancaster, Texas

Holding Cassie in her arms, Jenna remained subdued and took a few steps toward Kate.

“Do you have news about Caleb?”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“How did you know we were here?”

“We didn’t.” Kate turned toward Mark Danson, the photographer who was approaching from shooting pictures across the street. “We came this morning for a feature on your neighborhood. You’d told me that you hadn’t been back here since everything happened.”

Blake’s face hardened at Kate’s presence, then he glanced at Jenna.

Danson arrived and upon reading the situation stood behind Kate, saying and doing nothing as the tension mounted.

It became unbearable until Kate spoke to break it. “We were down the street when I saw you here. Jenna, I’m so sorry about everything, about Caleb, your home, about what you said to me at the motel yesterday-it all went down so fast.”

Blake shook his head in slow disappointment.

“She’s just like the FBI, Jen.” Blake resumed picking through what remained of their house. “They’re not your friends. You can’t expect them to call you with information about our baby because it’s all a one-way street with them. They’re just doing their jobs. It’s what they get paid for.”

“It’s not like that, Blake,” Kate said. “Yes, I’m a reporter but I’m a parent, too. And I’ve lost-I lost someone close to me. I care more than you think, and I’m doing all I can to make sure everyone cares, so you can find Caleb. I don’t expect you to believe it, but it’s true and I want you to know that.”

Jenna stared at her, then set Cassie down. A strand of Jenna’s hair curtained over her face and she pushed it back.

“I know you care,” Jenna said. “I knew it when you found Caleb’s romper at the shelter. Because if you hadn’t done that-” her voice weakened “-we wouldn’t know anything. But I have a right to be angry. You let me down.”

“I’m sorry,” Kate said softly.

Jenna nodded.

After letting a moment pass, Kate said, “Will you talk to me a little bit for a story today?”

Blake looked at Kate then at his wife, who’d mournfully scanned the devastation while holding Caleb’s rattle in her hand.

“I keep thinking how I had his stroller. I was holding him but I let go.”

Blake went to her, took her shoulders. “Don’t do this, Jen. Don’t beat yourself up.” Blake shot an accusatory glance at Kate.

But Jenna maintained her composure and continued. “There’s only one thing I’ll say. Our home can be rebuilt but our lives can’t, not until we find our baby. And I beg the people who have him to please give him back to me.”

Kate wrote it down and, noticing the baby’s rattle, asked, “Is that Caleb’s?”

“Yes. Cassie found it here.”

Jenna looked at it before pressing it to her lips.

At that moment Kate heard Danson’s camera and knew that he had a compelling news picture: Jenna Cooper cherishing her missing baby’s toy while standing among the ruins of her home.

45

Dallas, Texas

“That’s the one.”

Mark Danson was previewing his photos while he and Kate sat in his Jeep before leaving the Coopers’ flattened neighborhood in Lancaster. He angled his camera to show her his favorite frame.

“It’s an emotional image,” he said. “What do you think?”

There was Jenna Cooper standing among the ruins of her home cherishing her missing baby’s toy rattle.

“Yes, it’s strong,” Kate said.

Danson started the motor and, as they made their way to the expressway, he sensed Kate was still shaky from talking with Jenna Cooper.

“You were good back there,” he said.

“What d’you mean?”

“How you got the mother to talk when she was clearly pissed at you over the motel business. It was a good act.”

“‘A good act.’ What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know.”

“No, I don’t know.”

“Come on. In this business we gotta say or do whatever it takes to get what we need. Her husband was right, covering tragedies the way we do is part of our job.”

“Pretending to care isn’t how I do things.”

“It’s the name of the game, come on.”

“God, Mark. Do you really think I’m that callous?”

Danson shrugged and switched on the radio, tuning it to a country station. Kate turned to the window, retreated into her thoughts and confronted the truth.

Danson may be an oaf, but he was partly right. Covering tragedies involved invading and exploiting the privacy of people at the most painful times of their lives, and Kate hated doing it. She always reached inside herself to be as honest, compassionate and professional as possible.

But Jenna Cooper’s case was one of the most agonizing she’d ever reported on. Look at all Jenna had suffered: her baby’s missing, her home’s gone. How much more was that poor woman supposed to endure? And even more heartbreaking was Jenna’s belief that she was to blame.

As the city flowed by, her words echoed: I was holding him but I let him go. It’s my fault that I lost him.

That’s why for Kate this was more than a news story. Not because so much was riding on her internship with Newslead-it cut deeper, forcing her to face her own guilt over her little sister…pulling her back years to the accident when she’d gripped Vanessa’s hand…

…the cold numbing her fingers, felt them loosening, unable to hang on…until Vanessa slipped away…

I let her go.

It also forced Kate to face her guilt about her daughter.

She looked at her phone and traced her fingers over Grace’s sweet face on the screen. Oh God, how she missed her. She was horrible for leaving her. I’m so sorry. But there were no jobs for her in Ohio. They’d run out of money and options.

Kate didn’t know what the future held for them. She was giving this story all she had but it was taking a toll. She was exhausted and filled with remorse for thinking of herself. She accepted something she’d known since her first days as a reporter: when you covered tragedies, a piece of you died inside.

* * *

Not long after Kate had returned to the near-empty newsroom and started working on her story, Tommy Koop materialized at her desk.

“Hey, Tommy, where is everybody?”

He glanced around. “Chuck’s out. Dorothea’s running things for today. Be very careful.”

“Why?”

Tommy leaned in and dropped his voice. “She’s taken a few extra spoons of bitch in her coffee today.”

As Kate nodded her thanks for the warning, Dorothea summoned her to her office.

The news editor was at her desk, eyes on her monitor, eyebrows raised as she stared at the updated news budget list.

“I’m reading your slug line regarding today’s story.” She turned to Kate. “Is this the best you’ve got?”

“Yes. They’ve just discovered they’ve lost their home while they continue to agonize about their missing baby.”

“It’s tragic but a bit soft.”

“It’s not soft. And it’s exclusive. Did you see Mark Danson’s photos? They’re good.”

“Not yet. Couldn’t you find anything newsier, harder?”

“I contacted every source and official connected to the story-there’s nothing new so far.”

“What about the FBI? Any leads after the motel, any more new tips in their search for their persons of interest?”

“Nothing, they’re still processing the motel room. They’ve told me nothing so far.”

Dorothea’s eyebrows climbed a little more and she turned back to her monitor.

“Fine, we’ll have to go with this,” she said. “I don’t really need to remind you that the time on the internship is winding down. In a few more days, Chuck and I will have to make a decision on the successful candidate.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Mandy and Roy will be assigned to help with coverage of the President’s visit. I’m sure we’ll find something for you.”

“But I thought Chuck wanted me to stay on this story to its conclusion?”

“Yes, that’s something I’ll discuss with him when he gets back from his meeting. That’ll be all, Kate, thanks.”

46

Shreveport, Louisiana

Ed Bascom sat on a bench in the park across the street from the Beau Soleil West Medical Center, as his subject had instructed him to do.

Her name was Jan Marie Cross and she was a nurse at the hospital.

Bascom was confident she would tell him what he needed to know for his client Hedda Knight in Chicago.

I sure as hell hope so.

The adoption lawyer had been pathologically demanding with her relentless texts and calls for him to confirm that Remy Toxton had delivered the baby and to locate the child.

“Offer people money, Ed. I don’t care how you do it, just do it!”

Since the earlier information he’d obtained about Arkansas dead-ended, Bascom had gone full tilt on the case. He’d returned to Lufkin, Texas, and Remy’s neighborhood for more door-knocking, finding a neighbor he’d missed the first time.

Ned Weller, a retired electrician, had been walking his dog when he saw paramedics with All Aid Ambulance Service take a young woman from the house in the night. No siren or lights, so few people would’ve noticed. Ned was good with time and dates because he’d always walked Rider, his retriever, after Letterman and that night Clooney was his guest.

As all private investigators know, medical information is confidential and there are laws against obtaining medical history or records. Bascom acknowledged that when he went to All Aid’s office and worked a ruse to find out where their ambulance had taken Remy and about her condition.

He claimed to be her estranged dad; that Remy’s mother had a terminal condition and he needed to learn more about their daughter’s, and possibly their grandchild’s, situation before his wife died, and how he was praying people could find it in their heart to help him.

“Oh no, that is so sad.” The assistant at the office blinked fast when Bascom showed an old picture of himself with his wife and daughter, saying it was Remy.

The assistant had then gone into the database, reviewed the call then put Bascom in touch with the two paramedics who’d transported, his “daughter,” out of state. “You should talk to them,” she said, scrawling numbers on a slip of paper. “Give it a moment. I’ll call them first and explain.”

Bascom’s success with the assistant led him to Don Dunlap, one of the paramedics, who was not as easily moved by Bascom’s story. In fact, Dunlap was reluctant to help. But, after Bascom suggested he would consider compensating him for his time, Dunlap agreed to meet him privately the next evening at his son’s baseball practice.

Dunlap was nervous at the ballpark. “Look,” he said. “How do I know you’re her estranged father? Talking about a patient is risky for me.”

“I understand. She’s got a boyfriend, Mason,” Bascom said. “He may have been with her at the time. He’s an ex-convict. We’re worried. Remy’s mother is terminal and we’ve got a lot of pain in our lives to make up for. And if Remy’s got a baby now, well, maybe my wife can pass knowing that we’ve made a new start, you know?”

Bascom looked off to the laughing children playing on the diamond.

Dunlap looked down, kicking gently at gravel as he thought.

“Okay,” he said. “I won’t tell you much and I’m not giving you any paper.”

“Any help would be appreciated.”

“Before I left work today I looked at my patient chart for that trip. She was having trouble breathing, which can happen in the third trimester. She was not bleeding and the fetal tone was fine. But the mother’s vitals were a little off. She was having some pain. We got her on oxygen, stabilized her. We transported her to hospital-that’s really all I can tell you.”

“Wait, where? What hospital?”

“Out of state. We were advised to take her to Shreveport, to the Beau Soleil West Medical Center. It’s a faith-based nonprofit, might’ve had a connection to her boyfriend’s employer. I think he’s a carpenter.”

Bascom thanked Dunlap and offered him cash, which he rejected.

“I changed my mind about that. My old man walked out on us when I was a kid and never tried to reach me the way you’re doing. It just got me thinking.”

Bascom looked at him, nodded and turned to leave.

“Another thing,” Dunlap said. “I figure you’re going to Louisiana to learn more.”

“I am.”

“One of the names we had for the hospital was Jan Marie Cross. You might want to start with her. She was a nurse with the team treating Remy when we delivered her there.”

“Thank you. May I ask one more favor?”

“Go ahead.”

“Would you mind letting her know, confidentially of course, as a kind of follow-up, about my family concern about Remy? Sort of let her know I’m on my way to Shreveport and need help?”

Bascom gave Dunlap his cell phone number.

“If it helps bring a family together,” Dunlap said, “I’ll consider it.”

Bascom’s work on Dunlap resulted in him having several heartfelt telephone conversations with Jan Marie Cross, a nurse at the Beau Soleil West Medical Center hospital.

With each call Bascom opened up about how things went wrong for him and his wife and their relationship with their daughter, Remy. Eventually Cross opened up about being a single mom and her teenage son’s online gambling problem and how he ran up three thousand dollars in debt on her credit card. Money she did not have. Bascom said he would give her the money for her peace of mind if she could help him with his.

That’s when Cross, who’d been extremely nervous about breaching patient confidentiality, agreed.

“You sound like a kind man,” she said. “There’s a park across the street from the hospital. Meet me there.”

So now here he was, waiting.

Bascom had followed Cross’s instructions to meet her at this time, at this bench, and to be reading a copy of the Shreveport Times.

Five minutes passed, then ten.

He knew how uneasy Cross was and how it was always a roll of the dice dealing with people in these situations. He’d gone to a bank and obtained three thousand dollars in cash from the account Hedda had established for the case.

Still, anything could happen.

While waiting at the bench, Bascom surveyed the area, noticed an older couple in the distance strolling along the grass, then a man with an eReader, before he saw a woman in her mid-forties coming toward him from the hospital. She was wearing blue scrubs, just as Cross described.

She had a plain face that was taut with concern.

“Ed?” she said.

“Yes. Jan?”

“Yes.”

Bascom set his paper aside for her to sit next to him, but she declined.

“I can’t stay long. I debated about coming.”

“I know.”

“It’s become complicated. I felt I had to see you, since you’d come this far.” She cupped her hands over her face. “I’m sorry but I can’t help you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I thought it over and I just can’t do anything to jeopardize my job. I’m sorry.”

“Even after everything I told you about my wife and daughter, don’t you think we have a right to know? We’re family.”

“You’re not listed in her records. I can’t do this. I’m sorry. I don’t want to lose my job.”

Taken aback by her change of heart, Bascom reached into his jacket pocket for the envelope.

“I understand. Still, let me help you, Jan.”

She looked at the envelope, thick with cash.

“No, please,” she said. “I can’t”

Bascom continued holding out the envelope.

“All I can tell you, Ed, is that she was brought to us. She was stable and the baby’s heartbeat was stable, when she first arrived.”

“Then what happened? Did she have the baby? Where did they go? Did they leave any-”

“No. Please. I can’t tell you anything more. And what you’ve got, you got from the paramedics. I have to respect patient confidentiality. I’m so sorry-please forgive me.”

She turned and hurried back to the hospital.

After she was gone from view, Bascom sat there for a long moment before returning the envelope to his pocket in defeat.

He stared at his phone for several minutes as he tried to sort out how he would update Hedda. He’d tell her that Remy came to Shreveport to have the baby and so far, the trail ends here.

Soft breezes tumbled along the park, crackling the pages of his newspaper in an attempt to carry it off. Bascom grabbed it.

His attention went to a story on one of the inside pages.

It was out of Dallas and concerned a baby missing since the tornadoes hit. It highlighted how the FBI was searching for two persons of interest in the case and it was accompanied with sketches of what they might look like. They had no names and few other details.

At first, Bascom thought that the woman resembled Remy.

That couldn’t be, though.

They were from Lufkin and she’d come here to have the baby.

It’s highly unlikely, he thought, before he called Hedda. Still, to be on the safe side, he’d mention it to her.

47

Dallas, Texas

The Dallas County Forensic Sciences building was a three-story complex located northwest of downtown on the Stemmons Freeway.

The state-of-the-art facility contained a spectrum of sections: a ballistics testing unit, DNA, forensic biology, toxicology and autopsy labs, along with a morgue-making it one of the busiest full-service crime labs in the country.

Angela Clark, a senior forensic analyst, was the acting chief of the trace evidence section. She was in charge of leading the processing of evidence from the Tumbleweed Dreams Motel.

The FBI’s Evidence Response Team had worked the scene. They’d seized hair and fibers from Unit 21’s carpet, bathroom floor, curtains, furniture, as well as drains for the sink and tub.

The techs also lifted latents from the TV remote, door handles, the TV, the sink, toilet, mirrors, counter, tabletops, the light switches, the coffeemaker, the phone, the Bible and the Do Not Disturb sign. They’d also collected trash and linen believed to have been from the room.

The evidence had all been collected in envelopes, bags, and packets, and paper and plastic containers. The biological material they’d gathered was saved in breathable containers and allowed to dry to reduce the risk of mold contamination. All the required chain-of-custody documents had been completed with signatures, case and inventory numbers.

The case was a top priority, for the FBI and the Dallas PD.

Work at the lab had been piling up.

Angela’s boss had been seconded to work with the FBI Quantico for a month, leaving her to take on more responsibility. It also meant that, as a mother of two boys, aged ten and eight, she’d missed a few soccer games.

Adjusting her glasses, she studied her monitor and her master inventory log. She’d assigned the evidence to appropriate team members: those who were expert in analyzing hair, fibers, biological evidence, DNA and liquids.

Angela was certified in several areas. She was an expert latent fingerprint examiner. She also had two degrees in forensic science and was a PhD from Caltech. The courts had qualified her to give expert testimony on forensic matters.

Everyone had been going flat out, putting in long days.

On a personal level, many were dealing with the aftermath of the tornadoes. Angela’s neighborhood had been spared, but nearly everyone in the lab knew someone who’d lost relatives, friends or property. And now with the apparent abduction of a baby from its mother during the storm, another layer of stress had fallen on her shoulders.

Producing hard evidence from a motel was challenging at the best of times. Motel rooms were high-traffic areas. Unless you had outside evidence for which you were seeking a match, or comparative analysis, anything could be challenged in court. Still, that was not to say that you couldn’t harvest strong physical evidence to point investigators in the right direction. However, Angela and her team realized that this case also came with other unfortunate aspects. First, the motel’s security camera failed to record surveillance footage. And then, the unbelievable topper: immediately after the subjects left the room, an intoxicated dismissed employee-in an effort to get her job back-had cleaned the room, presenting the FBI’s Evidence Response Team and Angela’s team with a whole new set of problems and circumstances to deal with.

As Angela continued her work analyzing latent fingerprints, some of her colleagues had already submitted their preliminary reports.

She checked her monitor, the latest one was for hair.

The presence of 4-amino-2-hydroxytoluene and m-Aminophenol on strands of hair found in the sink indicated hair dye was used. The blood found in a crumpled tissue under the bed matched the type found on the baby’s romper discovered at the shelter.

Some of the puzzle pieces were coming together, Angela thought, as she worked on the latent prints the FBI’s ERT people had collected. Because of all the circumstances, they all knew the quality of the latents would be weak, yielding only a few good clear partials.

Angela scanned the first two into her computer and submitted them to the automated fingerprint-identification systems, AFIS, for a rapid search through massive local, state and nationwide databanks for a match.

It wasn’t long before she got hits for two licensed drivers in Texas: Arb Winston, a sixty-nine-year-old man from San Antonio and Ella Winston, a sixty-eight-year-old woman from San Antonio. They shared the same address. No arrests, no convictions. Nothing came up for the Winstons in any other databases.

Angela reasoned that the Winstons were not likely involved, but still would pass the data to the FBI.

The third and last usable latent print was taking longer. Angela studied the arches, whorls and loops. It was from the right thumb, which in a standard ten-card is number one. She carefully coded its characteristics then scanned the print into her computer and submitted it to AFIS.

Within a minute, Angela started getting hits as her submission was searched through local and regional information sharing networks and the FBI’s mother of all databanks, the IAFIS, which stored nearly seven hundred million impressions from law enforcement agencies across the country.

As the process continued Angela left her desk to freshen her coffee.

When she returned she had her results: four files closely matched her unidentified submission.

Angela took a sip of coffee then set out to make a visual point-by-point comparison between the motel print and the four on the list. She zeroed in on the critical minutiae points, like the trail of ridges near the tip.

The dissimilarities eliminated the first two candidates right off. For the last two Angela enlarged the samples even more to count the number of ridges, and distinct differences emerged for one of them.

That left only one.

Angela concentrated on her submission with the computer’s remaining suggested match. All the minutiae points matched. The branching of the ridges matched. Her breathing quickened as she began counting up the clear points of comparison where the sample matched.

This is looking good.

In some jurisdictions the courts required ten to fifteen clear point matches. She had fifteen and was still counting, knowing that one divergent point instantly eliminated a print.

We’ve got a match.

Angela then took the identification number of her new subject, and submitted a query into a number of databanks.

She knew that the state’s parole division worked with other agencies to ensure that offenders on parole had their fingerprints on file so their cases could be tracked.

Angela watched as her submission verified parolee history, offender identification, arrest records, convictions, and checked for any holds and commitments for other law enforcement agencies.

Within minutes Angela was staring at the hardened face of a white male on her monitor.

She went to the offender’s central file summary and read quickly through his offences, then reached for her phone to call Special FBI Agent Phil Grogan.

This could be our break.

48

Dallas, Texas

After eating a bowl of warmed-over chili in his trailer behind the garage, Lamont Harley Faulk settled into his sofa with his laptop on his chest.

The garage was closed. Everything was quiet.

He clicked onto his favorite sites, belched, savored another cold beer and the sweet deal he had. He operated Ray’s Right Fix Auto Repair for Ray, an old ex-con now confined to a wheelchair in an old folks’ home. Lamont got a salary and he got to live rent-free in the trailer. He was also making a tidy sum by allowing certain people in need of disappearing, like that idiot Mason Varno and his woman, to hide out at his dead uncle’s place.

The old house was getting crowded.

Lamont was happy here-working on cars, rarely dealing with people and being left alone with his secret pleasures. He clicked on a video from Thailand showing pretty little boys. He liked the young ones.

The younger, the better.

He belched, took a swig of beer and settled back to enjoy the number the two pretty things were doing to the old dude. Lamont was catching a nice buzz and getting aroused when the dog’s yelping killed the mood.

He slammed his laptop shut.

Stupid dipshit. Likely smelled the chili. He’s gonna pay.

Lamont left the trailer, hit the yard lights and seized his baseball bat. He walked to the kennel, opened the gate and let loose on the dog, hammering the bat into its back, its stomach and legs. Panting in agony the animal limped into its shed, casting an angry look back at Lamont.

“Stay in there and shut the hell up!”

Lamont slammed the gate and tossed the bat.

“You’re lucky I let you live, you useless piece of crap!”

He stomped to the garage, opened the bay doors, hit the lights and resumed work restoring the chassis of the Model T. He fired up the grinder to remove rust when he saw a shadow and heard knocking out front.

Now what?

He went to the locked office door and saw an older man and a younger woman standing outside.

“I’m closed!” Lamont shouted through the barred glass.

“You’re Mr. Faulk, Lamont Faulk?” the man shouted back.

Lamont hesitated.

“We just need a moment of your time, sir.”

Lamont looked beyond them for a car, or other people. Who are they? Becoming uneasy he weighed possibilities and options. Was this a surprise visit from the parole people? He hadn’t missed any meetings. But the guy had an accent. European? What’s up with that? Maybe they were religious nuts. But how would they know his name?

“We just need your help-it won’t take long.”

“What is it?”

“May we come in?”

If they were parole people, his reaction would be noted.

Lamont unlocked the door and let them into what passed as a reception area. It had two sofas, with holes patched with duct tape, and two battered chairs.

The man was in his sixties, wearing a polo shirt, jacket and jeans. He was about Lamont’s height and looked to be in good shape. The woman might’ve been in her late twenties. Kinda pretty but in a plain way.

“Who are you? Are you from TDCJ?” Lamont asked.

“No, no. We just need your help, only a moment of your time.”

“Help with what?”

The old man’s eyes scanned the office, the garage bays and work benches. “Are there others here? We’d like to keep this private.”

“We’re all closed up… There’s just me. State your business.”

“What about the trailer we saw in the back with the light on?”

“That’s me. What do you want?”

The man produced some folded pages from his jacket, and for the first time Lamont noticed he was wearing gloves. He unfolded pictures from Hightower prison.

“I understand you know this man, Mason Varno, who’s been known to use various aliases?”

Lamont shook his head. “No, I don’t believe I do.”

The older man’s eyes gleamed, and his skin crinkled around them as he smiled at Lamont.

“Mr. Faulk. Please think again. I understand you know this man and I need to locate him.”

Lamont’s face began to harden. “I answered your question.”

The man’s gaze never left Lamont. “Mr. Faulk, I’ve been polite and it’s unfortunate that you would choose to lie to me.”

“I don’t know you- I don’t need this shit. Get out!”

“Forgive me, but I can’t leave without your help to locate this man. I have business with him.”

“I don’t owe you squat. Where the hell’re you from anyway? You sound like those Russian Commies on TV. Are you a Commie? I hate Commies.”

The man stepped into Lamont’s personal space. “And as much as you hate communists, I detest liars.”

Who the hell did this prick think he was?

Lamont’s jaw twitched, his blood was pumping hard, releasing his hair-trigger temper. He drew his right arm back, closed his hand into a fist, driving it at the bastard’s face, but he hit air. The old guy moved like a snake as he ducked, lowered himself then with blinding speed shot up, smashing the top of his skull into Lamont’s face, breaking his nose and three of his rotting teeth in a brain-numbing explosion of blood and bone. In a heartbeat the man’s huge right hand had seized Lamont’s crotch, introducing him to a new degree of pain.

Still gripping Lamont’s groin, the old man used his other hand to grab Lamont’s mashed face and swiftly back-walk him to a bench, hoisting him so that Lamont was on the bench on his back writhing in pain. The old man drove his fist into Lamont’s groin, and he almost passed out.

With the rapid precision of an expert, the old man opened the jaws of a steel bench vise, seized Lamont’s shoulders and positioned Lamont’s head between the jaws of the vise.

Then he tightened it.

* * *

Before Pavel Gromov took the next step in extracting information from Lamont he turned to Yanna.

Her eyes were still wide at what she’d witnessed. Breathing as though he’d just finished working out, Gromov spoke to her in rapid Russian.

“Put your gloves on and search his trailer quickly for cell phones, small computers, anything that will help us. Move!”

As Yanna headed through the junkyard to the trailer, Gromov rattled in the parts and tools piled in a corner, finding a big steel clamp. He screwed it down on Lamont’s right wrist, locking his hand to the bench. Gromov then found a hammer and held it to Lamont’s face so he could see.

“Now, Mr. Faulk, are you listening to me?”

The bleeding compressed mess of scrunched skin, beard, hair, blood, snot, saliva and teeth that was Lamont’s face indicated a nod within the pressure of the bench vise’s jaws.

“Chyesssh,” Lamont said.

“Good, this is how it will go. You will tell me what I want to know, and suffer no further pain. Or, I will very quickly ensure you will never have use of your right hand again. That will be step one. Understand?”

“Chyesssh.”

“You do know Mason Varno, correct?”

“Chyesssh.”

“Have you seen him recently?”

“Chyesssh.”

“Tell me where he is.”

Lamont’s words were incomprehensible, so Gromov loosened the vise slightly but not enough for him to get free.

“He’s at my uncle’s old house with his woman.” His words were slow, slurred and slobbery. “He came to me and said he needed to hide. I will give you the address.”

“Did the woman have a baby?”

Lamont took huge gurgling breaths. “I don’t know. I only saw Mason when he came to see me.” He groaned. “I need a doctor.”

“Did he say his woman’s name was Remy?”

“No, but it’s the woman who came to Hightower to see him- Please!”

“Why did they have to hide?”

“He didn’t say, but in Hightower we knew that Mason ripped off a drug guy named DOA. I need a doctor-please-I figured Mason was hiding because word was DOA was looking for Mason now that he was released.”

“Do you have an address for DOA?”

“No. Oh God, my head!”

“What else should I know about Mason?”

“I heard he was buying into a big deal with Garza, a big player.”

“Do you have an address for this Garza?”

“In my computer, ohhhh…”

* * *

The trailer smelled of body odor and held the appeal of a restroom in a bus terminal.

As Yanna searched the kitchen and living room she held a gloved hand to her mouth. Was this real? Was she dreaming? Would she wake up and be at her desk in Moscow reading a manuscript? It was as if she was Alice and had fallen down the rabbit hole into a violent underworld.

Unwashed dishes, take-out food bags and empty beer bottles covered the counters and tables. She found a cell phone amid scores of sickening pornography magazines.

Under one of them she found a laptop. The light indicated it was on. She hit Enter and a space bar and the screen lit, coming alive to a video that began to play. Bile erupted in the back of her throat and she steadied herself. The images-My God, children-were revolting. Yanna gagged several times, spit in the sink then closed the laptop, collected it with the phone and turned to leave.

She froze at the door.

A big dog, blood dripping from its snout and teeth, stood at the door, growling as if waiting to settle a score.

Yanna hurried to the fridge, found packaged cold cuts, went to the door, cracked it open so the dog could smell the meat. She tossed a slice over its head. The dog chased it. She tossed another toward the kennel, and the dog trotted to it and devoured it. She continued until she’d lured the hungry dog into his kennel.

She locked the gate.

* * *

Lamont was still lying on the bench with his head locked in the vise when Yanna returned with the computer and cell phone.

Gromov examined Lamont’s personal information; his email accounts, bank account and bills for his uncle’s property.

Unable to reach the vise with his free hand, Lamont moaned and begged for an ambulance.

Ignoring him, Gromov studied Lamont’s situation.

Before they left, Gromov came to the obscene images on Lamont’s laptop. Disgusted, the Russian tightened the vise until he heard Lamont’s skull crack.

49

Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

It was a neglected bungalow that sat back from the street.

A gravel drive cut through a stand of twisted cottonwoods, patches of grass and dirt. A vehicle enshrouded with a tarp sat between the dilapidated carport and wall of shrubbery that bordered the property.

Stones crunched under Mason’s pickup truck as he and Remy eased up to the house. Both of them needed to shower. They were grimy and sore after spending a fitful night sleeping in the truck at a roadside rest area where Mason had pulled deep into the woods.

Mercifully, Lamont gave him directions when he called the other night.

“There’s heat, water, electricity, a fridge, an oven and a washer and dryer. No cable. The satellite dish malfunctions, and oh, you’ll be sharing the place with two other people,” Lamont had said. “You’ll have to deal with them. I’ll be out tomorrow to get what you owe me.”

It pissed Mason off that they were not alone, but they had no other choice. They had to get off the grid. Once they unloaded the truck, Mason would back it into the carport and cover it with something.

Remy unbuckled the baby, grabbed her bag and got out. Mason carried some of their things, and before they got to the door, a man in his late twenties with unruly hair came out to greet them.

“I’m Brice.” He offered a gap-toothed smile, displaying teeth that were in need of brushing.

“I’m Misty,” Remy said. “This is my husband, John, and our baby.”

“I can help you bring your stuff in.” Brice smiled.

“No, thank you,” Mason said. “I’ll take care of it.”

The interior of the house was menacing. The walls were cracked and had holes in them. The hardwood floors were warped and worn. Cigarette smoke and the odors of a locker room and stale beer permeated the house. A huge plastic trash bag, overflowing with pizza boxes, suggested someone had attempted to clean the kitchen.

In the living room, a man in his early thirties sat on a sofa chair that bled stuffing. He had a beer bottle between his legs, a cigarette in his hand and was watching men kick and punch each other on TV.

He turned and sneered.

“Hello, Mason.”

Mason was motionless.

The man had tattoos along his hands, his arm and collared around his neck, and a scowl creased his face.

“Well, isn’t this a surprise, Arlen?”

“Lamont told me to expect you.”

“He never said a word to me about you, or your friend.”

“Be careful, Mason. Young Brice there’s my little brother.”

Brice nodded, happily smiling his gap-toothed smile.

“Don’t mind him smiling all the time. It’s all he does. He fell off a roof when he was six. He’s what you call a savant. He’s an expert at computers and shit like that, and he’s got an incredible memory.”

“I like your baby.” Brice smiled at Remy. “Can I hold him?”

“No.” Remy turned protectively with the baby.

Brice smiled and went to his room. When he opened the door across the hall from the living room, Remy saw that he had two laptops, a tablet and heaps of equipment with wires and cables on his desk. He likely played video games all day long while Arlen dealt drugs or stolen property, or some crap like that, she thought.

“Before you move in here,” Arlen said, “there’s the matter of paying me for agreeing to share. My fee is one large.”

“To hell with that,” Mason said. “I paid Lamont.”

“If I were you, I’d reconsider your situation, son, seein’ what we both know about you.”

Mason felt the heat of Remy’s what the hell did you get us into glare.

“All right,” Mason said. “We’ll take care of it after we settle in.”

Arlen stood. He was two inches taller and about twenty-five pounds heavier than Mason.

“We’ll take care of it now.”

Mason assessed the option of going into battle against Arlen. Under the circumstances the benefits were few. Still, Mason needed to be prepared.

“All right, Arlen, let me go to my truck and get it.”

“You do that.”

While Mason was gone, Arlen’s ice-cold eyes walked all over Remy as he dragged hard on his cigarette.

“I hardly recognized you at first. You changed your hair. I like it. And I see you got your figure back after having that baby.”

Remy said nothing.

“You know, I kept my eye on you whenever you came to Hightower to visit Mason. And later when I was lying in my cot at night I could never understand what a fine woman like you saw in that loser. It hurt me because I thought about how right you’d be for me. Now fate has brought us together. You gotta love that.”

Remy said nothing. Caleb began fussing and she rocked him.

“I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t smoke in front of the baby.”

Arlen took a long pull from his beer, keeping his eyes on Remy until Mason returned and gave him one thousand dollars in cash.

“Lamont said you’d be out of here in a week,” Arlen said.

“I’ll do all I can to make it sooner than that.”

Arlen downed the last of his beer, dragged on his cigarette and dropped the butt into the empty bottle.

“We’ll give you the big bedroom. It’s got its own bathroom,” he said before removing his shirt, revealing a stunningly powerful build laced with prison artwork. “I’m going to take a shower. Just keep your baby quiet, respect our privacy and we’ll all get along fine, like we did inside.”

Arlen closed his door. Upon hearing it, Brice got up and closed his. When they were alone, Remy stepped outside with Mason as he unloaded the truck of their groceries and bags.

“I don’t like them,” she said. “Why did you bring us here, Mason?”

“We don’t have a lot of options right now. We have to do all we can to stay off the grid, even if it means getting help from people I don’t particularly like, or trust.”

“We can’t stay here long.”

“That’s the plan, believe me.”

After they’d settled into their room and Remy fixed a place for the baby, she bathed and fed him. Afterward she and Mason showered. Then she made them a spaghetti dinner and gave the baby a bottle. When she was finished she washed the linen, pillowcases, and all the towels she’d stolen from the motel. They went outside to the backyard and, keeping their voices low, discussed calling the agency and arranging delivery.

“It’s time. We have to do this, Remy. We have to call and give him up.”

“I know, but it’s hard for me.” She gazed at the baby in her arms.

“And it’ll get harder the longer we wait.”

“Okay, okay.” Tears rolled down her face and she turned to the house.

At that moment she heard an explosion of laughter coming from the living room where Arlen and Brice were playing a violent video game.

I pray to God that we’re safe here.

50

Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

The street was deserted as an eerie quiet fell over the neighborhood.

FBI Special Agent Phil Grogan scanned the front door of a ramshackle one-story house through high-powered binoculars.

The Dallas PD had established an outer perimeter, closing off the street, clearing the way for the Dallas FBI’s SWAT team. The SWAT team was part of the Dallas Critical Incident Response Team-an FBI squad that also included crisis negotiators, bomb techs and evidence response agents.

Grogan saw movement as SWAT members clad in military armor quietly took cover points behind shrubs, parked vehicles and against corners of the house. Within moments, FBI sharpshooters settled into concealed, close-range locations and took aim at the doors and windows of the house.

From a secure vantage point behind the hood of a command post truck, among a clutch of other police vehicles down the street, Grogan and his partner, Nicole Quinn, watched the final stages of the setup.

This was the bureau’s strongest investigative lead to date.

A lot of people had moved fast on it.

According to records based on a fingerprint collected at Unit 21 of the Tumbleweed Dreams Motel, the prime subject was a convicted offender paroled from the Texas prison system. After serving time in the Ellis Unit he was transferred to the Hightower Unit and finally the Clemens Unit before his release.

But Grogan and Quinn had been frustrated by the fact that their subject’s parole records were not up to date due to two factors: his parole officer had recently passed away from a heart attack, and a fire in the regional office had destroyed some records. An emergency retrieval operation for all of the destroyed records was ongoing.

At the same time, Grogan and Quinn had run down the only other clear fingerprints obtained from the motel unit-those belonging to Arb and Ella Winston of San Antonio. The FBI in Arizona, working with the Tucson PD, confirmed that the Winstons, who’d recently retired to Tucson, had not left the city for the past four weeks. They volunteered credit card records showing they’d been in the Dallas motel three months earlier while in the city to visit friends.

The investigators had cleared the older couple as potential suspects.

But when Grogan and Quinn showed photos of the ex-convict to motel manager Shelby Nix, he said the man was definitely familiar and definitely resembled the suspect in the sketches.

Based on these factors, and intel supplied by other law enforcement agencies, the FBI had obtained a warrant less than an hour ago on the subject’s most recent address, setting in motion the procedure for arrest of a dangerous suspect.

Now, after FBI SWAT commander Steve Elling pulled his binoculars from his face, he made a number of whispered radio checks.

Everyone was ready. He nodded to agent Andre Kuper, the SWAT negotiator.

“Make the call, Andre.”

Kuper called the landline number for the address and after four rings, a woman answered. Only after Kuper pressed her did she identify herself as Monica Jefferies.

“This is Special Agent Andre Kuper of the FBI. We have a warrant for the arrest of Samuel James Laster.”

“My brother? What? No, no, this is all wrong.”

Muffled anguish passed between them.

“Why are you doing this? Is this some kind of joke?”

“Ma’am, that will be explained to Mr. Laster. Right now, we request that Mr. Laster immediately come to the front door with his hands raised, palms forward, and proceed to the front lawn.”

The request was met by a long silence, then sniffles.

“My brother’s dead, asshole,” Jefferies said.

Sometimes family members say that, or lie in other ways to protect wanted relatives, Kuper thought. He repeated his request.

“Ma’am, please confirm that you will respond.”

“This is crazy! Please, just go away!”

“How many people are in the house, ma’am?”

“Leave me alone!” she sobbed.

“Ma’am, I want you to take a deep breath,” Kuper said. “For your safety, could you please exit now through the front door with your hands outstretched, palms facing forward, and we can talk.”

Monica Jefferies took a long moment to find a measure of composure, then she cooperated. The FBI took her to the command post while the SWAT team did a tactical room-by-room search of her home.

Distraught and trembling in the command-post truck, she angrily told investigators that her brother had died from lung cancer three weeks ago, six months after he’d been paroled.

“He was just getting his life on the right track.”

Based on her new, unverified information, Grogan and Quinn, aided by the Dallas PD, made several urgent enquiries to various government offices and agencies. As they awaited responses, Monica Jefferies explained how her brother had lived in the Tumbleweed motel for about a week after he got a short-term job at a warehouse in the area.

Radios crackled with an update from the FBI SWAT team leader in the home.

“The residence, garage and yard are clear. No one else here.”

Not long after that, Quinn showed Grogan a text, confirming that Samuel James Laster was deceased. His death was not listed due to a computer malfunction, but it happened well before the storms hit Dallas and Caleb Cooper vanished.

Before apologizing to Monica Jefferies and releasing her, the two agents exchanged glances. They were back to square one.

51

Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

That morning as Kate walked from the Marriott City Center to the bureau in Bryan Tower, her phone vibrated with a text from Tommy Koop.

Something’s up on scanners with FBI SWAT on suspects. Where R U?

Her heart skipped.

Be there in 5. More details pls!

Danson near there now. Says it could be arrest. Stand by for address.

Kate’s thoughts raced.

Last night Dorothea had told her to report to the bureau about midmorning for her assignment. The President’s visit was today, and the bureau was going big on it. Faced with a breaking story and her urge to jump on it, Kate texted Chuck and Dorothea.

Possible arrest in baby case. Will head to scene now, OK?

The address from Tommy popped up on her screen with a map highlighting directions. As Kate jogged to the elevator to get to the parking garage and her car, a voice in the back of her mind sounded a reminder.

Jenna Cooper.

Kate had promised her that she would alert her to any breaks in the case. She broke that promise to her once, and she sure as hell was not going to make that mistake again. Not after everything Jenna’s suffered.

She deserves to know. I gave her my word.

Kate immediately texted Jenna and her sister.

May have development happening now. More when I know it.

Before she got on the elevator she was stopped in her tracks by a text from Dorothea.

Kate, please report to the bureau now.

Kate’s heart sank.

What’s going on? Why are we ignoring breaking news? She started a text to Dorothea but stopped when she’d received one from Tommy.

Stand down. It’s over.

Then one came from Mark Danson.

On site. Cop told me they had wrong intel. Disregard the call. I’m going to Arlington.

Kate let out a breath.

A dead end. All part of the news business, she thought, and alerted Jenna Cooper and her sister that the call was a false alarm.

Then she stepped into the elevator.

On the ride up she reviewed what she had to do. She needed to reach agent Grogan or Quinn on the status of the investigation, the evidence, other leads, number of tips called in, anything, she thought as she arrived at the bureau. The newsroom was nearly empty. All the TVs were locked onto live coverage in advance of the President’s visit. She waved to Tommy and went to her workstation. Less than a minute after she’d logged in, a familiar-looking man stood at her desk.

“Hello, Kate, Burt Wilson from the Houston bureau,” he said. “Soon as you’re clear, please come see me in Chuck’s office.”

“Okay, sure.”

In his wake Kate shot a questioning look to Tommy, who came over to her desk with a coffee.

“Wilson’s running the bureau today. Everyone else is on the President’s visit,” he said before leaving to take a call.

After checking her messages and scanning the wires, Kate collected her notebook and pen to meet with Wilson. That’s when Jenna Cooper called.

“Did you find out anything more on the false alarm?” Jenna asked.

“I think they had weak information. I’ll be looking into it.”

A few seconds of silence passed between them.

“Thank you for thinking of us and calling,” Jenna said. “I want to share something. Something confidential for now, okay?”

“Okay.”

“The governor’s office invited us to join the group of storm survivors who’ll be meeting the President at today’s memorial service for the victims at Cowboys Stadium.”

“That’s quite an honor.”

“And they told us that the President might mention Caleb in his speech at the memorial service.”

“Jenna, that kind of attention’s going to help.”

“We’re praying it does.”

“Will you talk to me afterward for a story?”

“Yes, I’ll text with where we can meet in the stadium.”

“Thank you.”

Upon ending the call, Kate went to see Wilson, who updated her. He told her that the President’s visit was the top story in the country, that Newslead was putting extra staff, reporters and photographers at Cowboys Stadium in Arlington to cover the memorial, and at the devastated sites and other areas that the President was going to visit.

“Where do you need me?”

“We need you here.”

“Here? I don’t understand. I thought I was going to the stadium.”

“No, we need you to help the editors assemble the raw copy as it flows in from our people before we go through it and send it to New York.”

“So I’m not directly reporting?”

“No, Dorothea arranged accreditation and assignments for others earlier and told me she’d assigned you to desk duty here.”

“Desk duty? Where is she? And where’s Chuck?”

“They’ll be with groups the Governor and President will thank today, first responders, rescuers, volunteers and believe it or not, news media, for their work when the storm hit. The Governor always said the press was crucial at conveying critical information.”

Kate thought for a moment before revealing Jenna Cooper’s call.

“Listen, Burt. I should be at the stadium to talk to Jenna after she and her husband meet the President. He might mention their baby in his speech. That could be my follow on the story.”

“That’s great, Kate. But you’re not accredited. You can’t get into the media area of the stadium,” Wilson said. “I’m sorry but you’ll have to pass this to Mandy or Roy for them to follow for us at the stadium.”

She stared at Wilson for a moment then nodded.

So she was supposed to hand over what was essentially her work to the people competing with her for a job? Kate struggled to get her mind around the matter.

Still reeling after she’d returned to her desk, Kate was more than deflated at her exclusion from covering the President. She was concerned about the obvious implication of it. It could only mean that she wasn’t being considered for a full-time reporting position.

As they waited for Air Force One to land, Kate scrolled through her phone for messages and paged through her notes for story leads while wrestling with her anger and her conscience.

She shouldn’t be thinking of herself again. She should be thinking of the people who died in the storms and their families. So what if she wasn’t going to get a job with Newslead? People were dealing with far worse.

As Kate lamented not being at the stadium to talk to Jenna, she reflected on images from the story that she’d never forget: meeting Jenna searching for Caleb at the leveled flea market, finding Caleb’s romper in the shelter, the SWAT team at the motel and Jenna holding Caleb’s rattle amid the ruins of her home.

As Kate searched the newswires she came upon the FBI sketches of the man and woman believed to have taken Caleb.

Why did they take him? Where is he? Will the FBI find him?

Kate needed to see this story through. She couldn’t give it up.

“Here we go,” one of the editors said.

The big-screen TVs suspended from the ceilings throughout the newsroom were tuned to different networks. Each one showed Air Force One landing at DFW International, then the President stepping off the plane and being greeted by dignitaries. Then there was the motorcade to Arlington and the packed stadium.

Everything moved smoothly.

The President met more officials, then came speeches, prayers, songs, eulogies and a montage on the stadium’s giant video screen of moving, inspiring still photos and videos from the storm, the devastation, the rescues, the tragedies and the triumphs in tribute to everyone affected.

Watching the events from the near-empty newsroom, Kate had never felt more alone. She ached to be home with her daughter. She touched Grace’s picture on her phone. Kate then thought of her little sister, Vanessa, and that horrible moment in the river all those years ago.

Why couldn’t I hold on?

The President went to the podium. His speech was powerful, honoring the dead, the injured, those still missing and their families. He praised people for coming together when their world was being torn apart. There were no easy answers as to why people were killed and why the survivors were left with so much hurt to bear.

“But the way forward is to stand united in our response to one of the most painful moments of our lives. The way to heal is to draw inspiration from the selfless acts of courage by those who fought hard against the storm under severe and anguishing conditions.

“Ordinary everyday people like Victor Sanchez, the father who shielded Rosario, his blind daughter, in a culvert, or Billy Dean Brooks, the son who threw himself over Agnes, his mother, while their apartment was exploding around them.

“And the heart-wrenching case of a young mother named Jenna Cooper, who did all she could to keep her baby boy, Caleb, safe only to have him taken from her by someone posing as a Good Samaritan.”

Cameras cut to Jenna dabbing her eyes while holding Cassie and being comforted by Blake.

“Let them all be our beacons of hope. And let’s pray that investigators will soon reunite little Caleb Cooper with his mom Jenna, dad Blake and big sister, Cassie.”

Then the giant screen filled with photos of Jenna with Caleb, Cassie and Blake, all laughing during happier times. Pictures Jenna’s church had provided from a family picnic day in a Dallas park.

The President continued commending the heroic spirit and the human will to endure as he concluded his speech.

It was followed by a gospel choir singing a moving hymn, and another montage of the devastation. Even before the ceremony concluded with the President meeting and comforting survivors, raw news copy started flowing into the bureau.

“All right, let’s get to work,” Wilson said.

Kate got busy handling copy from reports on the speech, the reaction and stories from people in the audience. When she got a text from Jenna on where to meet her, Kate responded, telling her that her Newslead colleague, Mandy Lee, would seek her out, then passed the location to Mandy. Kate struggled to drive out of her mind that she’d not only just given away a major story that she’d developed, but probably her last hope at a job, as well.

She resumed helping clean and assemble file after file of raw copy that continued to flow as the President visited the injured storm victims at a hospital, then communities devastated by the storm where he embraced those who were overcome.

Kate was putting the finishing touches on a file when Tommy hurried to her desk.

“I know you’re swamped, but I got a call for you.”

Kate didn’t remove her eyes from her monitor. “Thanks, Tommy. Can you take a message?”

“I think you should take it.”

“Really, I’m kinda busy.”

“The caller says she knows where Caleb Cooper is.”

Kate stopped typing and looked at him.

52

Fate, Texas

Hazel Hill held her cordless phone to her ear and peeked through her curtains at her neighbor’s yard.

That missing baby the President talked about is next door.

Someone has to do something about this.

Hazel had already called the police. As usual, they didn’t come, so this time she’d tried calling the press. If they looked into it, maybe something would get done. The newspeople seemed interested before they’d put her on hold. Patience is a virtue, Hazel told herself as she listened to the music. It was Rhinestone Cowboy. She liked Glen Campbell.

Looking down from her bedroom window and through the trees, Hazel had a good view of the house, the yard, everything.

Holding the phone and watching, she glanced at the water glass by her nightstand and tried to remember. Did she take her green-and-white pills today? Or was it a blue-and-yellow pill day? She’d have to look at her pill organizer and the daily newspaper to be sure what day it was. Hazel read the newspapers every day and watched the TV news-the music stopped and the line clicked.

“This is Kate Page with Newslead. Can I help you?”

“Hello, yes, are you the reporter who’s been writing stories about the missing baby the FBI is looking for? I told the nice young man I wanted to talk to that reporter.”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m the one. Can I get your name and address, please?”

“Hazel Hill, 164 Briscoe Street, Fate, Texas.”

“You’re calling because you think you know where Caleb Cooper is?”

“Yes. He’s in my neighbor’s house.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I watched them arrive.”

“Who is ‘them’? And how do you know they’ve got Caleb?”

“I’ll tell you. I’ve lived next door to the Faulks’ house for forty-five years. Langston Faulk and his wife, Lillian, were our best friends. They took such loving care of it. Lillian’s roses were just beautiful. Then she died and a year later Langston died-”

“Yes. Excuse me, ma’am, but-”

“Then their nephew, a no good lowlife, took over and started renting it to riffraff, always coming and going and turning it into the monstrosity it is today. If my Royce were alive to see this, he’d tell you that it’s just a shame, a pitiful shame and a grave dishonor to Langston and Lillian.”

“I see, Hazel, but how can you be so sure the baby’s there?”

“Because I’ve seen him.”

“How are you certain it’s Caleb Cooper?”

“I’ll tell you. I know Lillian’s place like it was my own. I know when the gravel driveway crunches if someone is coming or going at any time of day or night. For about a month there’ve been two boys living there. They drink a lot of beer and eat a lot of pizza and chicken. I see their empty cans and boxes in the trash. But generally they keep to themselves. Then this pickup truck comes and a young man and woman with a little baby arrive.”

“Really?”

“They carried in bags and groceries like they were moving in.”

“Did you talk to them?”

“No.”

“Can you describe them?”

“Well, the woman had long blond hair.”

“Long and blond?”

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

A long, wordless pause followed.

“Ma’am, did you call the police?”

“Yes, but they never came, and I’m not surprised. It’s like the last time.”

“The last time.”

“I called them yesterday when I saw people in the trees outside my window.”

“People in the trees?”

“Yes, they had big heads and they were looking at me, and the day before that I saw a little man running in my yard and I called police. They said it was the same lawn ornament that I called them about before. But this time I saw it move. They don’t believe me. They never do.”

A few seconds passed.

“Ma’am,” Kate said. “This is a personal question, but do you take medication?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I see.”

“So when’re you coming to knock on their door?”

“I’m not sure. I can’t just yet. I’m helping with our coverage of the President’s visit today.”

“Oh my, yes, that’s important. I was watching him on TV. Oh, it was so beautiful. When he talked about the missing baby, it made me cry and I asked the Lord, what should I do to help?” Hazel looked at the framed poster of Jesus Christ in her bedroom. “He’s here with me and the Lord said, ‘Hazel, I spared you from the storm for a reason. You have to help get that little child back to its mother.’”

“We’re all praying for that, ma’am,” the reporter said. “Why don’t you leave this with me for now and I’ll see what I can do?”

“What’s your name again, dear? I’ll write it down with your phone number?”

“It’s Kate Page,” she said then recited her numbers, slowly, twice, and thanked her for calling.

After hanging up and reviewing the information she’d written down with such attention, Hazel saw that blonde lady in the backyard with Caleb Cooper. She whispered a prayer that someone would come soon.

53

Chicago, Illinois

Hedda Knight’s dream was slipping through her fingers.

Chelsea Drew-Flynn’s $750,000 offer and all that it entailed was getting further out of reach with each passing minute, like the sailboats drifting out of sight on Lake Michigan.

Where’s Remy Toxton? Where’s the baby?

Her worries robbed her of sleep and she’d come to the office early this morning. Sitting with her elbows on her desk in her seventy-fifth-floor law office, Hedda steepled her fingers, touched them to her lips and thought. Ed Bascom’s investigation had followed Remy’s trail to the Beau Soleil West Medical Center in Shreveport, Louisiana. A nurse had suggested to him that Remy had had the baby there. But the nurse-What was her name? It didn’t matter-was nervous. She’d refused money, given him no other details.

They’d hit a brick wall.

Why would Remy travel over one hundred miles to Shreveport to deliver when I was paying for all of her medical bills in Texas?

The most likely reason: she’d decided to keep the baby.

It happened, but rarely. Most of Hedda’s surrogates had children and no desire to raise more. They were motivated by different reasons: the money; the desire to help childless couples; and some liked being pregnant.

At a loss, Hedda glanced at her folded copy of USA TODAY on the edge of her desk. She’d already skimmed the story on yesterday’s visit to Dallas by the President. She’d also watched the live TV news coverage of the President’s speech at the memorial service and now she’d reconsidered the reference to the missing baby. This is the same case Bascom had mentioned to her. Thinking more on it, she flipped through USA TODAY and its related features on the toll of the tornadoes, including a small story on the missing Dallas baby, Caleb Cooper. As she looked at the FBI’s sketches of the persons of interest, an icy sensation began creeping up Hedda’s spine.

The sketch of the woman almost resembled Remy. The age and hair was similar and for a crazy moment Hedda wondered if- No, no, it can’t be them. No, not if Remy already had the baby in Louisiana. Besides, the baby vanished after a tornado destroyed a flea market in Dallas. Remy lives in Lufkin.

Hedda rejected the possibility that Remy was involved.

She searched the lake’s sparkling waves for a solution but was overwhelmed by reality. All she’d worked for, all she’d dreamed of, now rested on the actions of a supermarket cashier and her ex-convict boyfriend.

Ex-convict.

Hedda looked at the FBI sketches again.

But what if they were involved? What would it mean? No, that was insane. Okay, what if they were killed in the tornadoes? That would end it all. But they live in Lufkin, and it was not touched by the storm. But what if they went to Dallas the day the storm hit and were killed? What would that mean, given the situation with Chelsea Drew-Flynn?

She was driving herself crazy with the what-ifs.

Hedda got up from her desk to go to her private bathroom to check her face. She’d reached the door when her cell phone rang. She returned to her desk. The number was not displayed. It rang a second time and Hedda answered.

“This is Remy Toxton.”

Stunned, Hedda kept her phone to her ear and sat down.

“Remy? Oh my God, are you okay? We’ve been watching the news reports on the Texas tornadoes and when we couldn’t reach you- We’ve been so worried. How are you doing?”

“I’m kind of okay.”

“What do you mean? Did you have the baby?”

Several long moments passed.

“Remy?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. That’s good. How’s the baby doing?”

“He’s fine. He’s healthy and he’s so big.”

“I’m happy to hear that. Where are you right now?”

“I don’t want to say.”

Hedda paused.

“Where did you have the baby? Because our nurse lost touch with you.”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Do you want to discuss the next steps? The adoptive mother is extremely anxious to have him, and we need to provide you with full payment.”

“That’s just it. I’m scared.” Remy stopped and began crying.

“Take your time, dear. I understand. Take your time. Why are you scared?”

“Just before I had him I had second thoughts about giving him up. Then when I had him, he was so beautiful and something just happened. I was overcome with these powerful feelings to keep him, so Mason took me away to have him and to think about everything.”

“And what are your thoughts now?”

“I’m ready to honor our agreement and give him to you and sign all the papers I need to sign.”

Hedda looked to the sky and heaved a sigh.

“That’s good. I’m happy to hear that.”

“But there’s a problem. The storm made things hard on everybody. Mason and I are facing a tough situation, real tough.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re going to need more compensation, or whatever it’s called. A lot more.”

Hedda didn’t respond for several seconds. “How much?”

“We need one hundred thousand.”

Hedda never expected that this trailer park girl and her loser boyfriend were going to shake her. She misjudged them being satisfied with sixty. Realizing that she had few options, Hedda was inclined to reach an agreement when Remy continued.

“I’ve been doing some research on the internet and was thinking about the way you recruit surrogates, and use a Russian clinic, then actually sell babies, because that’s what it looks like. I was thinking it might be something the FBI would be interested in hearing about.”

Hedda said nothing.

“So what’s it going to be, Hedda?” Remy asked.

Before Hedda could respond the line was muffled. She heard Remy talking, arguing with someone, before a new voice came on the line.

“This is Mason. All I’m going to say is you got thirty minutes to agree to one hundred. We’ll call you back. If you don’t agree, we go to the FBI.”

54

Fate, Texas

The half-hour wait was excruciating.

Remy and Mason sat at the picnic table in the backyard under the shade of the cottonwoods. Remy had put the baby on a blanket on the table and was gently rubbing his tummy.

“Did we make a mistake demanding a hundred thousand?” she asked.

“Hedda will go for it. She has to. She doesn’t want us telling the FBI.”

“But what if she saw the President’s speech and got suspicious? Or saw the stories with the pictures? Mason, she knows me.”

“Take it easy… She never said a word about it. Besides, she’s implicated. If we go down, she goes down.”

“But what about the two idiots in there?” Remy nodded to the house. “They watched the President’s speech with us. What if they figure it out? Or turn us in? I went online. The FBI’s now offering a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for information.”

“I know. Arlen and Brice are assholes and I don’t trust them.” Mason turned to the house, taking in all the satellite dishes on the roof. They were likely stolen. Hell, they even had a little one poking from Brice’s bedroom window. “Look at that. They sure got the place all tricked out.” Mason looked at his phone. Twenty-four minutes had passed since their call to Hedda. “Close enough.”

He called Hedda Knight.

“Time’s up,” Mason told her. “After I hang up, I’m going to call the FBI unless you give me reason not to.”

“I agree to one hundred thousand,” Hedda said.

Mason nodded to Remy, big nods.

“Cash,” Mason said.

“Cash,” Hedda repeated. “I’ll be on the next available flight to Dallas. I will withdraw the cash there. I’ll have the papers to sign, and I’ll be with an assistant to help me with the baby. Give me a number to call when I arrive so we can arrange a location for the exchange.”

Mason fished in his pockets where he had several prepaid disposable phones. He gave Hedda a number, finished the call and looked at Remy.

“Done,” he said. “We’ll have one hundred thousand in forty-eight hours.”

“That’s good.”

“Damn straight.” Mason was thinking fast before noticing how Remy was nearly in tears again looking at the baby.

“Listen,” he said. “This is more money than we ever dreamed of. It’s what we wanted and it’s going to happen, okay?”

“Okay.”

“First, we’re getting out of here as fast as we can. You take the baby, go inside and start packing while I make some calls to set things up.”

Remy took Caleb into her arms, and once they were both in the house Mason used one of his disposable phones and called a number.

Time to take care of my deal, he thought as it rang to a recorded message.

“This is Varno. I’ve secured the investment for my buy-in. Call me ASAP on this new number.”

Less than two minutes later his phone rang.

“The expiry date on your spot has passed,” Garza said.

“No, wait. I’m solid with the money.”

“As a late entry, your buy-in number is now fifty.”

“Fifty?”

“That’s the number.”

“Yes, yes, I’m good for that. I’ve just secured it. You’ll have it in three days.”

“Three days? It’s a stretch. As a show of good faith I want five up front, nonrefundable, now, today.”

Mason made a panicked calculation. Five thousand was almost all he and Remy had left from the fifteen the agency had given her.

“Okay,” he said. “But I need some help. I can give you the deposit today, but I need a place for a night or two. You’ve got safe houses, right?”

Garza sighed and let a beat pass.

“You have the deposit, Varno?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve secured the buy-in?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to give you an address. Memorize it… Do not write it down. I’m only going to say it once.”

Mason listened and locked onto the address.

After the call he sat alone for a moment and absorbed everything. It was all coming together. Buoyed by how all the pieces had fallen into place, he entered the house.

When he got inside he froze.

Remy was in the kitchen. Her eyes were as large as saucers. Her mouth was sealed with duct tape, her body bound to a chair with tape and ropes. The baby was on the floor.

Brice was bent over him, caressing Caleb’s cheeks with a gun.

Mason reached behind his back for the Smith & Wesson that he’d tucked in his waistband. Before he could get to it, Arlen stepped from behind him, seized it, then pressed a sawed-off shotgun to Mason’s temple.

“Just be cool, Mason, be cool. Don’t move. Don’t try anything.”

Mason raised his hands in cooperation.

“We know everything about your deal with Garza.” Arlen threw a look to his brother. “Amazing what Brice picked up on the parabolic microphone he’s got in his back window. He loves his gadgets. We heard your whole deal.”

Mason said nothing.

“Now, this is how it’s going to go down,” Arlen said. “We’re going to relieve you of your windfall and then guess what we’re going to do? Why, we’re going to hand you to the FBI and collect another fifty thousand. I’d say that’s not bad work for two idiot assholes, wouldn’t you?”

Mason said nothing, and Arlen jabbed the gun harder into his head.

“Get on your knees so Brice can tape you up. Then you can watch what I’m going to do to your little woman. You know she’s always wanted it from me! Ain’t that right, Remy?”

55

Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

Kate’s morning began with two punches to the gut.

They came by way of emails. She’d read the first one on her phone after showering. It had been sent from headquarters.

To All Staff:

We’ve faced trying times in our coverage of the storms that tore through four states and caused overwhelming death and devastation. As events unfolded, each of you, some who’ve suffered personally, went the extra mile to capture what was tragic, what was heroic and what was inspirational. Your work was without parallel.

Testament to your achievement came in the President’s heartfelt reference to the missing baby; Caleb Cooper, a story we broke that was followed with a moving postmemorial interview with his mother by Dallas Bureau intern Mandy Lee. It’s confirmation of a collective job well done. These are truly defining moments for all of us and Newslead has risen to the challenge under extraordinary circumstances while bearing our standard of excellence.

With admiration and gratitude,

Lucien Westmore CEO, Newslead, New York

This reads as if Mandy broke the story.

Kate barely had time to absorb the email when it was followed by one sent directly to her from Dorothea Pick.

Kate:

Thank you for helping Mandy with her story yesterday-

Her story? What the hell? Struggling not to scream Kate resumed reading.

As you know the internships will end soon and Chuck and I will make our decision on the successful candidate. Given that the Caleb Cooper story is unresolved, please provide me all contact information for your sources for our staff to follow. Thank you for your hard work, Kate.

DP

The emails left Kate dumbfounded.

She stood alone in her hotel room staring at her phone, not knowing what to do or think when a chime announced the arrival of a new message. This one was from Chuck Laneer, who’d been copied on the previous two.

Hi Kate:

My apologies for being away so much during the internship. We had a lot going on with the storm and with Newslead. Please don’t read too much into Lucien and Dorothea’s emails. I want to assure you, as I’ve assured Roy and Mandy, no decision has been made yet on the position. My advice to everyone is to keep doing your best until the end.

I hope to be in the bureau as the process wraps up.

Cheers,

Chuck

Don’t read anything into it? Was he serious? This was the kiss of death to her chance at the full-time job. It didn’t surprise her. From the start Dorothea had thwarted her work on the story, first by dismissing it, then putting Mandy on it, before eventually taking it away from her. Dorothea had made it clear from the get-go that she didn’t like Chuck’s decision to give her a shot at competing in the internship.

The thing was, Kate liked working for Newslead. She liked Chuck, whenever he was around. Tommy was sweet, and for the most part she liked all the other people. It was a top-flight newswire service, and she’d wanted to be part of it. For a moment she’d thought that maybe down the road, she’d try landing a posting in the Washington, D.C., or New York City bureaus.

You can toss a rose on the casket of that dream.

Kate swallowed her disappointment, and as she got dressed she tried to look at the upside. Soon she’d be home in Ohio holding Grace in her arms. Yes, bills were mounting and job prospects were grim, but she could regroup and consider her future.

Her phone rang.

She didn’t feel like talking to anyone and considered ignoring it until she changed her mind and answered on the third ring.

“Kate, its Tommy at the bureau.”

“Hey, what’s up?”

“That old woman called back just now. The one you talked to yesterday, who says she knows where the baby is.”

Kate rolled her eyes. “Really?”

“Yeah, she wants to talk to you. Want me to connect her to you?”

Say no, Kate thought. That old girl was likely off her meds again and talking to the Lord.

At least she means well. Kate sighed. “All right.”

The line clicked.

“Hi, this is Kate Page.”

“Hello, this is Hazel Hill. I spoke to you yesterday. I want to know when you’re coming to my neighbor’s house to get the missing baby the President was talking about.”

“Ma’am, how are you feeling today?”

“I’m fine, the Lord is fine. But I’m telling you there’s something going on next door. Please come out.”

“Ma’am, I’m not sure I can make it today, I-”

“You have to come. Did you lose my address? It’s 164 Briscoe Street, Fate, Texas. Go to the white house next to it with the carport and the pickup truck. They’re still there. Something’s going on with the baby and the riffraff and the wig-woman.”

Wig-woman?

Kate halted her dismissal of Hazel.

“Excuse me, what ‘wig-woman’?”

“The woman I was telling you about yesterday. Didn’t I tell you she was wearing a long blond-haired wig?”

“No, I’m sorry, but you didn’t say it was a wig.”

“My Lord, I must’ve forgotten-you know, I’m so forgetful I-”

“Ma’am, you’re sure this woman was wearing a wig?”

“Oh yes, I saw her take it off in their backyard.”

“What’s her hair like under the wig?”

“Short and dark like in the drawings on TV and in the newspapers.”

Kate made a note, repeating the words to Hazel.

“Short and dark?”

“Short and dark, I’d swear on my grandmother’s Bible.”

“And they arrived with a baby?”

“Yes, with groceries, luggage and a baby. They’re the kidnappers the FBI is looking for. I swear to Heaven and all the saints, something’s not right. The couple has been in the backyard talking on their phone a lot. I just know in my heart it has to be them. The Lord has guided me to help. Please come out here and knock on their door and see for yourself.”

Kate made new notes then bit her bottom lip. Admittedly she hadn’t given much weight to Hazel’s earlier call. But the wig aspect changed everything. If you were a female fugitive, would you not alter your appearance?

In a corner of Kate’s mind, an unconscious voice cautioned her to heed Hazel Hill. It spoke of newsroom legends about how great stories were lost because a tipster sounded strange, or a little bit off.

Kate had two hours before she was supposed to report to the bureau.

What harm would it do to check it out?

“Ma’am, could you give me that address again?”

56

Fate, Texas

Eyeing her GPS, Kate guided her Chevy Cobalt east on I-30.

By the time she was over Lake Ray Hubbard, she was still questioning if she should be responding to oddball Hazel Hill’s calls.

During the half-hour drive Kate had hit on the crazy points: Hazel had seen people with big heads in her trees and a little man in her yard who’d turned out to be a lawn gnome. Hazel acknowledged she was medicated, forgetful and that police often ignored her.

But as the miles rolled by Kate came back to how adamant Hazel had been about seeing a baby with a woman using a blond wig to cover short dark hair. That blond wig was a telling point, enough of one for Kate to chase it down.

But come on. This’ll end up being a waste of time, she thought as she entered Fate. It was one of the fastest-growing suburbs in the Metroplex, a sleepy small town that had been devoured by new neighborhoods of malls, schools, fast-food outlets and cookie-cutter homes with two-and three-car garages.

Following directions from her GPS, Kate found Hazel’s address in an older neighborhood. The houses here were on larger lots sheltered by tall trees. Pleasant, she thought.

She’d come to Briscoe Street and Hazel’s two-story home. There, next door, was Kate’s target: a bleak, single-story white house. It was set back deep on the lot at the end of a driveway that wound through the shade of cottonwoods and a sad-looking yard.

Looks like it might’ve been a pretty place once, she thought.

Gravel crunched under Kate’s tires as she rolled up to the house. The carport contained a vehicle that appeared to be a pickup truck backed into the spot. A blanket covered the cab and grill so she couldn’t see the plate. Beside it, outside the carport, was another vehicle that seemed to be wrapped with a tarpaulin.

Kate switched off her engine, stared at the house and wrestled with second thoughts about enquiring. She saw no need to alert police because they’d already ignored Hazel. Besides, Kate was unsure what she had here. In her years as a reporter she’d knocked on more doors than she could count. She trusted in her experience and instinct. She’d simply say she was looking for Hazel Hill and would ask if this was the right address while absorbing any details or vibe she could in the moment she might have.

All right, Page, let’s do this.

Kate steeled herself and walked to the door.

The yard was uncared for, the shrubs had run wild, a couple of rusted wheel rims rested against the house beside several deteriorating cardboard boxes overflowing with beer cans and take-out food containers.

The flags of indifference by the people who lived here.

Before knocking, Kate strained to see, hear, or feel any movement. Breezes hissed through the treetops, birds sang, and way off in the distance she heard a dog. She raised her hand, knocked once on the worn wooden door and was ready to knock again when it cracked open slightly with a creaking sound that invited, or dared, her to enter.

“Hello!” Kate called into the house.

Several moments passed in silence before Kate held the door and knocked hard and loud.

“Hello? Is anybody home?”

No response.

What now? Kate thought.

She glanced to the street. No one was around. She glanced at Hazel’s house, then to the empty lot next door before deciding to stick her head inside the house and call again while knocking.

“Hello! Anybody home?”

No response.

There’s nobody here.

She decided to enter. She’d check the place out. Maybe someone’s hurt, she reasoned for her trespass. Her objective was to look for signs of life and leave. The door squeaked as she opened it wider to a small foyer that flowed into a living room. The air was stale and stank of sweat and cigarettes. Aside from the worn duct-taped sofa and big TV, the decor was contemporary I-don’t-give-a-damn.

“Hello! Is anybody home?”

The quiet was eerie, as if the place were holding its breath.

Every step she took was amplified in the stillness.

Kate turned to enter the hall that appeared to lead to the kitchen but stopped. A towel was on the floor, a white one that appeared to be stained.

As she lowered herself to look at it she froze.

Oh, my God!

The letters were frayed, but the embroidery said Tumbleweed Dreams Motel.

The baby was here!

Kate’s heart was pounding.

Using her phone she took a picture then gasped. Ahead, on the floor, she saw running shoes, then a pair of jean-clad legs that became blocked at thigh level by the door frame.

Someone’s on the floor.

“Hello!”

Who splattered all this paint?

That was Kate’s first thought upon rushing to find a man facedown on his stomach, before realizing that the paint was blood and it was oozing from his head.

“God.” She touched his back, then his neck. He was still warm but she felt no pulse. Blood had webbed everywhere. The kitchen floor was littered with garbage, a broken chair, dishes, utensils and huge pieces of used duct tape in the aftermath of a struggle.

“Pleeezzzhelpmee!”

Beyond the kitchen, in the hallway leading to the rear door, Kate found a second man sitting on the floor with his back against the wall and his chest drenched in blood.

Kate called 911 for an ambulance, frantically explaining, repeatedly telling the dispatcher all she knew.

“I think there’s been a shooting, two male victims! The white house next door to 164 Briscoe Street!”

Kate went to the sitting man. “I’ve called an ambulance. Can you hear me? What’s your name?”

“Helpmmee!”

“The ambulance and police are coming. Where’s the baby… Who’s got the baby?”

“Masssoo. Gone to Assfnton-Ficksson farmanchch…”

Straining to understand, Kate got closer to him. “Say it again. Where’s the baby?”

“DOA’s or Assnnfton. Rrraanch. Pleeasehelppmmee- hurtsssbaaadd.”

Kate repeatedly asked the wounded man about Caleb Cooper for more than a full minute. As he continued his struggle to give her information, Kate reached into her pocket, found her pen and someone’s business card. She used the back to scrawl every syllable of his response before his voice weakened, his eyes fluttered and he lost consciousness.

She caught her breath upon hearing a noise nearby.

A baby’s stifled cry?

It came from another room.

She shoved the card into her pocket, and before she turned, the floor creaked, and Kate’s head was swallowed by a blanket as everything went black.

57

Fate, Texas

A rented blue Chevy sedan eased by the Faulk house unnoticed and parked a few doors away on Briscoe Street.

Pavel Gromov killed the motor.

Before taking any action, he studied the property through powerful binoculars. A small car was parked out front. The carport was empty. Next to it, Gromov saw a large tarp covering a vehicle.

There was no activity. All was quiet.

“I have a bad feeling about this place,” Yanna Petrova said after glancing around the neighborhood. Yanna was still contending with her situation with Gromov, which was becoming more surreal at every turn. Through his near-psychopathic actions he’d become a perversion of Virgil, taking her through the realms of hell. And as their circumstances grew more desperate, she feared she’d be implicated in his crimes and never return to Moscow or see her family again. “I have a very bad feeling about this place, Pavel.”

Gromov was silent.

Yanna had Lamont Faulk’s computer on her lap and continued searching it, relieved to be wearing latex gloves. Not only because they protected her fingerprints but because the laptop’s content was revolting. Faulk was beyond depraved. Still, Gromov had demanded she keep extracting information from it and make notes, because they were running out of time.

After Gromov’s beating of Lamont Faulk in his garage, they’d returned to their hotel where, at Gromov’s insistence, Yanna had mined Faulk’s computer into the night, finding addresses for the house in Fate, for Garza and DOA.

When they’d set out the following morning, they’d discovered the battery in their rented sedan had died. Service took several hours. They’d gone less than three miles when the repaired car broke down on a freeway, causing a number of problems. By the time Gromov could have the car towed, get through to the rental agency and be provided with another vehicle, a green Ford sedan, they’d lost the day.

Throughout it all, Gromov remained deceivingly calm.

For now, watching him examine the property, Yanna saw the veins in his neck and forearms pulsating, betraying the heart of a man who was seething under the surface.

“I believe my grandson is inside that house, Yanna.”

“What is it that convinces you? Did you see a baby inside?”

At that moment, emergency sirens shattered the tranquility as an ambulance, then a marked police car, sped to the house, followed by a second ambulance and two more police units.

“What’s going on?” Yanna asked.

For the next twenty minutes, sirens wailed as more than a dozen emergency vehicles converged on the property, indicating that a serious incident had taken place inside.

Yellow crime-scene tape was stretched around the house, police cars blocked the driveway where a sprinkling of neighbors, worry etched on their faces, gathered to watch. Soon, news trucks arrived, TV cameras and reporters emerging from within.

As events played out before them, Gromov turned to Yanna. “See what you can find out.”

Yanna went online and searched news sites and the address. “A local radio station is reporting a possible double homicide and a survivor at a residence belonging to the Faulk family on Briscoe Street.”

Gromov began thinking as Yanna came upon a fuller breaking story from a newspaper website.

“This one is newer-the report questions the possibility of a link to the double homicide at the Faulk home and- Oh no, Pavel-‘The recent homicide of Lamont Faulk at his garage in the Metroplex…’ HE’S DEAD! HE DIED! Gromov!”

Gromov blinked several times then calmly started the car. “They’ll be searching for his laptop and soon they’ll be canvassing this neighborhood.”

Without passing in front of the crime scene Gromov drove slowly down the street away from it. He stopped a block away in front of a house.

“Keep the laptop on and place it at the end of the driveway. If police are tracking it, it’s best they find it here near their crime scene.”

Yanna did as Gromov had instructed her to do. Then they drove out of the neighborhood the same way they’d entered: unnoticed.

Gromov exhaled slowly as he calculated where they needed to go next.

58

Fate, Texas

Kate sat in the back of a Rockwall County ambulance.

Its rear doors were open, and she stared at the death house on Briscoe Street while the paramedics assessed her and sirens filled the air. Her adrenaline was still pumping, increasing her pulse rate.

Other than some bruising, she was okay.

They’d discovered her in the kitchen lying on the floor, bound in a blanket coiled with duct tape, indicating that whoever attacked her only wanted to subdue her, not kill her.

“Did you hear me, Kate?”

“Sorry.”

“I said the police are going to want to talk to you again. First, I’m just going to give you a little oxygen.” The paramedic, his name was Dwayne, slipped a plastic face mask over Kate’s nose and mouth. “Breathe normally for me.”

Kate tried, but it was difficult amid the wailing sirens and activity. As she looked over the chaos, a million thoughts streaked through her mind; some of them she’d already conveyed to Rockwall County Sheriff’s Deputy Al Hardwick, who was the first to talk to her.

I heard a baby…it had to be Caleb Cooper…I saw the towel from the motel…crazy Hazel’s tip about the woman using a wig to cover short dark hair fit the description…two people were dead…so much blood…the paramedics said the man I talked to is dead…what did he say before he died?…I asked him about the baby…think…he mentioned a ranch…the ranch had a name…what was it?…where is it?…Ellamaton? Afanton? Aneffton?…think…think…someone called DOA…I’m sure I heard that clearly…

Kate’s attention shifted to police stretching yellow tape around the house to secure the scene as more emergency vehicles rolled onto the property. They were from the Rockwall County Sheriff’s Office, the Dallas County Sheriff’s Office, Texas Department of Public Safety and the Dallas Police Department. There were more agents from the FBI, which had jurisdiction. The FBI’s Evidence Response Team also joined the investigators.

Kate spotted FBI Agents Grogan and Quinn among a group at the corner of the house under a tree. They’d been there a long time taking notes and making phone calls while talking with Deputy Hardwick. Kate had overheard someone say that the two other men huddled with them were the detectives from the Dallas police. Grogan and Quinn shot glances in Kate’s direction before they broke from the huddle and approached the ambulance.

“Did you give her any medication?” Grogan asked the paramedic.

“No, she didn’t need anything.”

“We need to talk to her alone.”

“Sure, let me remove the mask.”

The FBI agents took Kate to the far side of the property. “How’re you holding up?” Grogan asked.

“Still shaky, but okay.”

“We got a full briefing from Deputy Hardwick.” Quinn turned to a fresh page in her notebook, checked the time and wrote it down. “Now, how about you tell us what happened, how you got to be here and what followed? Take your time.”

Kate began by telling them how the first call came into the bureau from Hazel Hill, the woman next door. How Kate had initially dismissed her as a crazy person before deciding to follow her gut on the disturbing detail about the wig. Then Kate relayed how events unfolded after she’d entered the house, to the point paramedics and the deputy arrived and freed her.

Grogan and Quinn listened, interrupting occasionally to ask a question or clarify an aspect. When they’d ended the interview, they took down all Kate’s contact numbers then asked her to accompany them to their office to give a formal statement and provide her fingerprints for elimination prints for the evidence techs.

“Aren’t you going to chase this down to this DOA person’s place at Vickson Farm in Ellamont, Afanton, Aneffton or wherever it is?” Kate asked.

“We’ve already taken action with the DEA, based on what you’d told the deputy,” Grogan said.

“What action?”

Quinn and Grogan exchanged a look, a not so subtle question of how much to reveal. A moment passed before Grogan continued.

“DOA is the street name of a drug dealer in Lubbock. He’s got an affiliate near Lubbock. We’re working with locals there now, preparing to move on the residence.”

“Are you saying drug dealers have the baby?” Kate said. “That that’s what the victim in there was trying to tell me?”

“We’re saying we have grave concerns and we’re acting on them.”

“I’m not staying here. I’m following my story.”

“Not so fast. We need you to give us a formal statement.”

“You’ll get it later.” Kate’s phone rang and she answered it, annoying Grogan, who’d blocked her departure as Kate focused on her call.

“Kate, it’s Chuck. Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m okay.”

“Tommy told us what happened, that you followed a tip to Fate and he heard everything on the police scanners. It’s breaking on TV right now. The Fate murders may be linked to another across the Metroplex.”

“Another murder? The FBI never said anything about that.”

Grogan’s patience was running thin.

“At a garage,” Chuck said. “A male, very grisly, apparently. Details are still sketchy. We’ve sent people there. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, I want to follow the story.”

“I’m responsible for your safety, Kate. Please come back to the bureau ASAP. You can help with the story here.”

Kate felt Grogan’s glare burning through her, but continued: “I want to follow this story,” she said firmly. Then she spotted Mandy Lee among the newspeople collecting at one end of the property. “Chuck, who sent Mandy down here?”

“Dorothea. Now, Kate, I need you to come back to the bureau.”

Looking at the growing crowd, it dawned on Kate how the story was emerging, giving rise to another concern. “I’ve gotta go.” She hung up and turned full bore on Grogan. “Why didn’t you tell me about the other murder linked to this?”

“The Dallas PD caught that one. The victim may be the owner of this residence.”

“So now it’s a triple homicide tied to the baby’s case? I gotta go.” Kate began making a call on her phone, but before she could complete it Grogan covered her phone with his hand, stopping her.

“Hey!” Kate said.

“You’re not calling anybody.”

“Excuse me! Please get your hand off of my phone!”

“You’re a witness in a crime scene.”

“I’m calling my daughter to let her know I’m not hurt.”

“We’d prefer you didn’t do that now, Ms. Page, and request you accompany us.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I know my rights. I’ve cooperated. I’ve told you all I know and I’ve answered your questions. I will come to your office later.”

“Kate.” Grogan’s face was taut. “We advise you to come with us.”

“Or what? Are you going to arrest me? Threaten to call me a suspect? I cover crime, Agent Grogan. I know how this works.”

“Do you? Then you know your car’s been seized to be processed as part of the crime scene.”

A tense moment passed.

“I’m going to call my daughter.” Kate turned from the agents then pressed the number for Heather. Grogan and Quinn left her alone. As the line rang, Kate considered the time, knowing that Grace would be in school.

“Hello?”

“Heather, it’s Kate.”

“Hey there, how’s it going?”

“A little rough right now. Listen, I don’t have much time. I just came across a bad murder scene-”

“Oh my God!”

“When I found it, someone came up behind me and tied me up-”

“What? Tied you up? You’re scaring me!”

“No, I’m okay. I’m fine. But because I might be in some of the news pictures, it’s Grace I’m worried about. She might hear about it, or things might get confused. I want her to know that I’m okay, that her mother’s not hurt. I’m with police… I’m okay.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Could you call her school? They have my cell number. Could you get them to call me when Grace’s next class ends? Just say her mom wants to talk to her. Ask them to put Grace on so she can hear my voice and know I’m fine?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay, thank you. I have to go.”

“Please, Kate, be careful.”

Kate hung up, took a deep breath, closed her eyes and briefly imagined Heather calling Grace’s school. Kate pictured the message being dispatched to Grace’s teacher. Kate then saw Grace walking down the hall to the office and…at that moment, standing alone amid the double homicide, Kate nearly lost it as she ached to be home in Ohio holding her daughter.

At the far end of the property across the street, Kate saw a white SUV parked alongside the growing number of vehicles that had converged on the address. Jenna Cooper rushed from it along with her husband. They went to the nearest deputy.

No one among the press pack had noticed them so far.

Using police vehicles to shield her, Kate hurried over to the area. Catching Jenna’s attention, Kate led her and Blake out of view behind some shrubbery.

“What happened?” Jenna’s eyes bulged with fear. “They won’t tell us!”

“I followed a tip, and it looks like they were here with Caleb.”

“The news said homicides. Was Caleb-was he-” Jenna’s hands were cupped to her face.

Kate shook her head. “No. We think they took him and fled to the Lubbock area.”

“Let’s go now!” Blake grabbed Kate’s arm and with Jenna trotting beside them started for the SUV. “You’re going to tell us where to go.”

Kate pulled her arm free, stopped and stood her ground. “I’ve gotta think about this.”

She shot a look back at Grogan and the FBI agents, who needed her to stay in Dallas. She glanced at her phone, replaying Chuck’s orders to return to the bureau. Then she looked at Jenna and Blake, waiting for her to make a decision.

What’s the right thing to do? Who needs me most right now?

She found the answer in the anguish that filled Jenna’s and Blake’s eyes.

“Okay,” Kate said. “Let’s go. I’ll help you.”

They got into the SUV.

Blake climbed behind the wheel and the engine roared.

As they pulled away Kate glanced behind her.

She saw Mandy Lee walking in their direction but getting smaller in the rising cloud of dust.

59

Near Abilene, Texas

Somewhere near Abilene, Remy searched the horizon.

Now we’re killers on the run. But it was self-defense-it was.

More than two hours had passed since Remy and Mason had taken the baby and fled Dallas. Remy’s heart was still hammering and her head was still throbbing as she grappled with the onset of a spell. They’d come within an inch of being murdered by those two assholes in Fate.

It was either them or us.

Remy took deep breaths and kept counting backward from one hundred. It helped. They were still a long way from sanctuary near Lubbock. Watching the hills and mesas rolling by, Remy knew it would all be over soon. She looked at the baby, asleep in his car seat, then at Mason. She was torn up about Mason, hating him for what he’d put them through but amazed at how he’d saved their lives.

He’d recounted it all for her about a hundred miles ago.

“When we first got to the house, Remy, and I saw Arlen, I knew that Lamont betrayed me.” Mason was still keyed up, adjusting and readjusting his hold on the wheel. “Arlen was trouble, so when I went back to the truck for money, I strapped on my ankle holster with my Smith & Wesson and never took it off, even slept with it. So when they did what they did, I was ready.”

Mason had made his move when Brice had put his gun down to bind him with tape. Mason smashed his elbow into Arlen’s head, kicked Brice in the face, then in one smooth motion drew his holstered gun and shot them both three or four times, the-pop-popping so loud Remy thought it could be heard for miles.

Mason then freed Remy, who comforted the baby. They were packing quickly when someone knocked at the door, which was unlocked. A woman had entered and started snooping when Mason tackled her from behind and taped her up before they fled.

Who was she?

As they drove from the Metroplex, Mason stuck to the speed limit and while Remy checked online for news, he monitored the radio for updates on the shootings.

Remy’s anxiety dogged her mile after mile as she contended with her conflicting emotions about Mason. Could she trust him with her future? Or was being with him too great a risk?

Now, after checking the time, Mason turned up the volume on the radio, tuned to one of the big Dallas stations. It was reporting that the FBI was looking for the suspects in the murders of two men in Fate.

“It was them or us!” Mason shouted at the radio. “But no cop’s gonna believe that.” Mason was rubbing his lips, signaling his need for dope. The report went on by quoting unnamed sources saying that the man who owned the house in Fate where the murders took place was also murdered in another location. The Dallas police and FBI were investigating a link. The body of Lamont Harley Faulk was found in Ray’s Right Fix Auto Repair, a garage where he’d worked.

“Did you hear that?” Mason shook his head, staring at the highway ahead. “What the hell’s going on? I don’t know who did it and I don’t know why, but I guess Lamont got what he deserved. That perv had his nose in everyone’s business.”

Mason saw fear deepening in Remy’s face.

“Don’t worry. This could help us,” he said.

“How, Mason? How does this help us?”

“It’ll complicate things for the cops, two different crime scenes, two different suspects.” He rubbed his lips.

“But who was that woman who came to the house?”

“Maybe a neighbor. I don’t know, but she wasn’t part of it and I couldn’t hurt her. With Arlen and Brice it was self-defense. No need to implicate us any further.”

“Do you think she saw us?”

“No. Don’t worry, I came up from behind. We’re going to get through this. We’re alive, we made it this far and we got a place to lay low, a good place. We got Hedda coming with the money. Then we’ll be done with the kid and we’ll be gone. I told you, I know a guy who’ll get us whole new identities. We’ll disappear, maybe to Belize, let things cool off. It’s going to work out, darlin’.”

“I don’t know, Mason. With all that’s happened, I’m worried.”

He took a long look at Remy in her blond wig, ball cap and sunglasses. His hand found its way to her left inner thigh and he began caressing her. “You know, you look good in that wig, darlin’.”

Remy said nothing and they passed much of the next few hours saying little. Mason stopped for a cold beer to help deal with his craving. And at one point, Remy used the truck’s adapter and a portable coffee cup warmer to heat a bottle of formula for the baby. As the miles flowed by and they neared their destination, Mason consulted Garza’s directions, which he’d entered into his phone. Soon they left the interstate for farm roads and country routes, cutting through the South Plains. Driving deeper into the region, they saw fewer homes as the landscape grew more isolated.

“We’re almost there. It’s straight through this village or hamlet or whatever,” Mason said as they passed a dilapidated barn and a decaying school that looked like a ghost from the Dust Bowl days. Other aging buildings were sprinkled on either side of the empty road. Not much in the way of people. They came to L. T. Smith’s Store and Gas. It was in a single-story building with two ancient gas pumps out front.

“We’ll stop here,” he said. “You go in and get some groceries, enough for a couple days. I’ll stay in the truck with the baby.”

“I don’t want to leave the baby. I’ll take him,” Remy said.

“No. Think of the news reports-you might draw suspicion.”

“You go, then.”

“No, you go. You know what things to get for the kid.”

Remy said nothing but when she opened her door, Mason added, “And get me a Cherry Coke and something for my headache.”

Remy got out of the air-conditioned pickup truck and felt the full force of ninety-nine degrees of Texas heat. A cat napping in the shade of the store’s front porch opened a lazy eye to greet her as she entered.

A man in his sixties wearing a T-shirt and jeans looked up from his crossword puzzle at the counter.

“Hey.” He smiled.

“Hey.” Remy smiled back and browsed the shelves. “Just got to pick up a few things.”

“Let me know if I can help. Where’re y’all coming from?”

“San Antonio.”

Remy went to the cooler for cold cuts and soda, putting things on the counter before she got bread, peanut butter, bottled water and other items.

“I’ll get you a box.” The man went to a back room.

As Remy continued browsing, she glanced at Mason in the pickup. A strange feeling shot through her. It arose from seeing him kill Arlen and Brice. Somehow it drove home the point that there was a lot more going on with Mason than she ever realized.

I really don’t know him.

“This should work.” The man returned with a cardboard box. “Find everything you need?”

“Yes, thank you.” Remy reached into her bag for cash.

“Where y’all headed?” the man asked as he rang up her food and gave her change.

“That way.” Remy pointed to the right, the way the truck was facing.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you were going the other way and through the crossroads.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s just- Well, no, it’s not my business.”

“No, I don’t mind, why?”

“Miss, there’s nothing really down that way. The road goes for maybe a mile and a bit then it dead-ends. There’s a lot of land and the old Dixon Ranch, but ain’t anyone livin’ out there. Some fellas go hunting down that way every now and then. Are you going to have a picnic or something?”

Remy thought on that before smiling. “We’re just exploring the countryside.”

“Well, you take care now. We might see some rain.” He scanned the sky. “Want me to put your box in your truck for you?”

“No.” Remy wrapped her arms around it. “I can manage. Thanks.”

After putting the groceries in the bed of the truck, Remy climbed into the cab and passed Mason a sweating can of cherry cola. She opened one for herself, touching the cold can to her forehead.

They continued driving. Remy said nothing to Mason about the clerk’s comments as she wrestled with her growing unease in silence.

What’s really going on with him?

Or is it me? Are the fear, stress and exhaustion making me paranoid?

They’d left the paved road for a winding dirt road. As gravel popcorned against the pickup’s undercarriage, Remy took in the empty scrubland, the rolling grass, scattered brush and the occasional stand of trees.

Where’s he taking us?

As they came out of a small valley, she saw the cabin sheltered by cottonwoods. She observed no signs of life as Mason pulled the truck around the back and shut off the motor.

Will we be safe here?

Remy unbuckled Caleb.

As she took him in her arms and felt his tender cheek against hers, a huge emotional storm erupted in her heart.

I don’t think I can do this. I don’t think I can give you up.

60

Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

From their desks in the FBI’s Dallas Division on Justice Way, Agents Grogan and Quinn could see the Stemmons Freeway.

Cars passed by like time ticking down on the case, Grogan thought, as he worked at his terminal while Quinn worked the phone. Grogan clicked on the sketches of their suspects, the man and woman.

We’re gaining on you.

Waves of information were rolling in on the double in Fate. Pieces were coming together fast. The victims were tentatively identified as Arlen and Brice Gribbley of Mesquite, Texas. They were brothers. Arlen had a criminal record. The motel towel found in the Fate residence was being analyzed. The details Kate Page had provided at the scene were good: the information from the dying man, naming DOA as a link near Lubbock, was a solid lead.

Page had also reported hearing a baby.

Grogan and Quinn interviewed the neighbor Hazel Hill for her account of seeing a woman and a baby, stressing that the woman had short dark hair under a wig. Rockwall County’s canvass of the neighborhood had yielded reports of muffled sounds of firecrackers, then a Ford pickup racing down Briscoe Street-that description fit with the vehicle description the manager of the Tumbleweed motel had given on the couple with a baby who’d stayed in Unit 21.

Then there was the discovery of the laptop belonging to Lamont Harley Faulk on the road a few doors away, as if it had been lost or discarded.

Fate PD had confirmed Faulk owned the home where the Gribbleys were killed. The Dallas PD had tentatively ID’d Faulk as the male found murdered in the garage he’d managed, Ray’s Right Fix Auto Repair. Faulk was found with his head in a vise-the violence suggested outlaw motorcycle gang, but no assumptions should be made.

Using all of the new information, and assistance from the DEA and Texas Department of Criminal Justice, the FBI had established a link to DOA’s network and an address near Lubbock. Everything pointed to the baby being in the Lubbock area.

And now Quinn was confirming details for a warrant.

She finished her call and stood. “Our information from the RA in Lubbock and the DEA is good, Phil.”

“Yup,” he said, looking at a new text from the Assistant Special Agent in Charge. “And the ASAC already cleared SWAT for immediate deployment. We’re going with them. Let’s get moving.”

* * *

Grogan drove.

They took the Stemmons Freeway south and within twenty minutes they were at Dallas Executive Airport, previously known as Redbird Airport. Flashing their credentials at the security gate, they drove directly to the hangar and the waiting jet.

It was a Gulfstream the Dallas Division had on a standby lease. The FBI’s Dallas SWAT team was already aboard with equipment.

As Grogan and Quinn climbed in, the pilot’s voice crackled through his headset over the intercom. “Got some rough weather in front of us-this could get bumpy, folks.”

Once Grogan and Quinn had buckled up, the jet lifted off.

The skyline unfurled and the Metroplex shrank under them.

During the one-hour flight, the jet shuddered several times as Grogan and Quinn reviewed with SWAT commander Steve Elling more details and the context of their target address for this arrest-and-rescue operation.

Two of the murdered men, Arlen Gribbley and Lamont Faulk, did time in Hightower Unit. According to the TDCJ and the DEA, both had dealings with Jesus Ramos Ramirez, aka DOA, a drug dealer and ex-member of an outlaw motorcycle gang. Ramirez had an affiliate with a meth lab in a place called Vickson’s Farm in Anton, just northwest of Lubbock.

“It all fits with Kate Page’s information from Brice Gribbley, the connection to DOA, to Vickson’s farm outside of Anton.”

After they’d briefed the SWAT commander, the captain announced that they’d be beginning their descent into Lubbock. The sky had darkened with broiling clouds. The SWAT team began pulling on their gear, and Quinn reviewed the supplementary information that had come in from TDCJ on Lamont Faulk, concerning other prisoners he was known to associate with. Among the list of those recently released was Mason Varno. But he’d had no ties to Lubbock, so they’d given him a lower priority.

Still, that name.

Mason.

Quinn blinked thoughtfully, flipping through her notes from Kate Page on the dying man’s words. “One of the things he said sounded like (and here Quinn spelled everything phonetically) May-SOO.”

Her notes indicated they’d taken May-SOO to mean “Ray’s Shop.”

Could it actually be Mason? Mason Varno?

She’d tell Grogan that after this operation she’d run Varno down, too.

At that instant, the jet yanked from under her, her seat belt cut into her thighs and several SWAT members crashed to the floor.

“Sorry, guys,” the captain said once the plane leveled. “Everybody stay in your seats and buckle up. The NWS just issued a tornado watch for the region and that could be upgraded to a tornado warning.”

Without warning, the jet was shoved up then down and up again. Then Quinn heard the staccato of stones hitting the fuselage as her window began blossoming with shattering ice balls.

Hail!

She saw lightning and rain before the nose of the jet dropped to an unbelievable angle. Her stomach churned as it rocketed down.

61

West of the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

Jenna and Blake’s SUV was driving westbound on the I-30 over Lake Ray Hubbard when Kate got a call from Dorothea Pick.

“Where are you?” The news editor’s tone barely restrained her anger.

“Heading to Lubbock-following the story there.”

“Mandy said you left the scene with Jenna and Blake Cooper after Chuck gave you instructions to return to the bureau.”

“Yes.”

“You disobeyed your supervisor.”

“I felt it was the right thing to do under the circumstances.”

“I’ll give you the circumstances-you went to a residence while not officially on shift and without authorization from a supervisor.”

“I thought Chuck already clarified procedure about following breaking news when off shift.”

“Kate, your actions clearly demonstrate your insubordination.”

“You’re criticizing me for breaking a story and being a crime victim?”

“You heard me, Kate.”

“I hear you, but I don’t understand you, Dorothea.”

“And you failed to pass on contact information, as I’d specifically requested. You’ve also demonstrated that you cannot take direction.”

“I don’t believe this. Ever since I broke this story you’ve tried to push me off of it. I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m doing what any good reporter would do-I’m following the story I broke.”

“I’m sorry, Kate, but as of this moment you are no longer an interning employee with Newslead. You’re terminated and no longer have any association with our organization.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry. Please return to the bureau and turn in your ID.”

“Only Chuck, the bureau chief, can dismiss staff, Dorothea.”

“He’s no longer chief of the Dallas Bureau. I am.”

The line went dead.

Numb with disbelief, Kate stared into the freeway traffic moving across the Metroplex, scarcely mindful of Blake, who’d cranked the volume on radio news stations. Jenna had her phone pressed to her ear and was getting updates from her sister, Holly, who was back in their hotel room watching TV news reports. Holly’s husband, Garrett, had taken Jenna’s daughter, Cassie, to the park.

“We need your help here, Kate!” Blake raised his voice as he keyed coordinates into the SUV’s GPS. “You said Anton, northwest of Lubbock?”

“Right. That’s what the wounded man said…Anton.”

“Where in Anton, Kate? Dyson’s Farm, was it?”

“No, I told the FBI it sounded like Vickson’s.”

Kate’s phone rang again, this time with a Canton, Ohio, number.

“Hang on. I have to take this.”

“Hi, Mom.”

Kate’s heart swelled with the sound of her daughter’s voice.

“Hi, sweetheart. How are you?”

“Good. My teacher told me that you wanted me to call you. I had to go to the office. Why did you need me to call you?”

“Because I miss you so much, honey. I just wanted to let you know that if you hear from your friends, or anyone, about a story in Texas with people getting hurt, that I’m okay.”

“You mean the tornado stuff?”

“No, it’ll be a new story from Dallas. I’m all right, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Don’t worry. I miss you tons, and I’ll be home in a few days.”

“Then can we go to the petting zoo for a pony ride?”

“You bet. So, everything’s good with you?”

“Oh yes, but-” Grace dropped her voice to a whisper “-my friend Ashley likes a boy, Tyler, but that’s a big secret.”

“Okay, I won’t tell. I’ll let you get back to class. I love you.”

“I love you, too. Bye, Mom.”

Kate stared at Grace’s face, blurring on her phone’s screen, and brushed her tears. As the freeway droned under them and the city vanished behind them, Kate tried to come to terms with all the surreal turns her life had taken. Despite all of her problems with Dorothea and Mandy, she’d desperately wanted to be a reporter with Newslead. Reporting was in her blood, and she’d dreamed of one day working in Newslead’s bureau in New York or Washington, of building a new life with Grace. But that dream was gone, and while she was bolstered by the fact she’d see Grace soon, she was pulled down by the reality that bills and unemployment also awaited her in Canton.

Kate forced herself to get a grip on what was real right now.

She shoved all of her concerns aside and focused on helping Jenna and Blake find Caleb.

As the miles and hours passed, Kate used her phone to search for leads and updates, while Jenna and Blake did what they could to keep on top of developments.

But there weren’t any.

All Kate had was a wisp of a location in Anton, this “Vickson’s Farm.” Kate was fairly certain that’s what the dying man had told her. She’d gone over it a thousand times in her mind. But when she called a cab company in Anton their response was odd. They said they’d heard of Vickson’s but didn’t know where it was. The same happened when Kate called a gas station and a corner store. When she tried a county office, she was told the clerk with access to Anton property records would not be back. When she called a post office, utilities office and the library, she got recorded messages with prompts. It was a little strange because Anton was not that big of a town, Kate was confident someone would know of this address.

So far no one did.

Now she searched for it on her phone again, to no avail.

Kate’s challenge was made more difficult because she couldn’t use the resources of the newswire service. She couldn’t go to Tommy Koop for help, and she couldn’t call the FBI agents directly.

As time passed, the backseat where she sat had become overgrown with drive-through food wrappers, her notebooks and the old fanfold map of Texas she’d studied repeatedly every few miles. They were less than fifty miles from Lubbock when Blake slammed his palms on the wheel in anger.

“So, just where in hell are we supposed to go in Anton, Kate?”

She didn’t know.

Again, she scrutinized her map, scouring the counties, the cities, towns, hamlets, villages, every dot until her eyes glazed and memory propelled her back to the gurgling utterances of the man who’d died only hours before.

Kate reached into her pocket for a pen and suddenly remembered something critical that would help.

62

Near Lubbock, Texas

The cabin stood empty, sheltered by the cottonwood trees.

But the shade provided little relief from the heat, Remy thought when they stepped inside. The air was musty.

No air-conditioning. Cripes. My head’s pounding.

Holding the baby, Remy was hot, sweaty and her nerves were fraying as she struggled to keep herself together after their long drive to escape the horror behind them.

After fixing a spot for the baby, she opened every window to capture the soothing breezes that were kicking up under the clouding sky. Radio reports had said conditions were ripe for a tornado in the region.

“My buddy uses this property for hunting,” Mason said, going room to room inspecting the place. It had three good-sized bedrooms, a full bathroom and a huge kitchen that opened to a spacious living room. The plumbing and electricity worked. So did the fridge and stove.

“There’s no TV but the cell signal’s good,” he added.

While Mason brought in their groceries and luggage, Remy took a cold shower, then made baloney sandwiches. They ate them with nacho chips before she gave the baby a bottle. Remy and Mason said little to each other as the tension between them thickened. Mason had put them in a situation where people had wanted to kill them. Remy couldn’t get that out of her mind.

It gnawed at her.

Later, when she was cleaning their plates, she’d noticed Mason checking his pockets for his crack supply. Just as she was going to demand that he stop taking drugs, his phone rang.

“Yeah, go,” he said. “Yeah…good…yeah…tell us then, okay.”

The call ended.

Mason slid his phone into his pocket while grinning triumphantly.

“That was Hedda. She’s boarding her flight with her assistant in Chicago now. She’ll be in Dallas this evening, get the cash in the morning then fly to Lubbock, where we’ll meet her and do the deal.”

Remy could feel her heart begin to beat faster.

“This is gonna happen, darlin’,” Mason said. “In twenty-four hours, the baby will be gone, our troubles will be gone, and we’ll be gone, with one hundred thousand dollars to start new lives. All the bad will be behind us.”

Remy said nothing as Mason got himself a cold beer from the fridge. The can whooshed as he opened it and guzzled.

“Fix up the big bedroom for us.” He belched while checking one of his guns. “I gotta go outside and take care of some business.”

Remy welcomed the time alone to think.

As she looked for fresh linen for the king-size bed in the larger bedroom, she saw Mason through the window. He was in the back on a large porch swing that creaked as he swayed.

She watched him reach into his pocket for a square of tinfoil. He unfolded it and heated the underside with his lighter while inhaling the rising smoke through a glass tube. He dropped his head back and rocked in bliss.

Remy’s eyes narrowed.

Mason’s addiction not only troubled and disgusted her, it reinforced all of his broken promises to change…and drove home the truth: she didn’t really know him. She didn’t know what was going on in his head beyond the facts.

He’s good at killing people and the world is looking for us.

All of it made things very dangerous because they were coming to a point of no return in their lives, and she was afraid of Mason, of everything.

It’s so messed up, she thought.

The baby’s cries came from the living room, where he’d been napping.

Remy went to check on him. He needed changing. After cleaning him and putting on a fresh diaper, she took him into her arms and held him.

At this very moment Hedda Knight’s on a jet coming here to take you away from me.

The glint of a small jewelry box in her bag caught her eye. She opened it and took out the corner of cloth cut from the blanket her stillborn son was buried in. As she held the baby, she pressed the cloth tenderly to her face.

Then she kissed Caleb Cooper’s cheek.

I can’t do this. I can’t lose you, too. I saved you from a very bad mother. You and I are meant to be together.

At that moment, she heard the sound of rain against the house, then the murmur of a voice outside the living room window. She saw Mason had taken shelter under a tree while talking on his cell phone.

It was weird, but even with the rain she could hear Mason’s side of the conversation almost echoing to her through the open window.

“Yes. Garza, listen, I’ll give you the five tomorrow, but by tomorrow night I’ll have all the money for my buy-in. That’s right, the fifty, no problem. That’s right. No, you heard wrong-I’m not tied down. No, once I have the cash and we get rid of the kid, I’ll get rid of her, too…she’ll be history. Right. Yes, it was always the plan.”

63

Lubbock, Texas

The FBI’s jet continued its dive.

Oxygen masks dropped from overhead. Grogan and Quinn heard alarms humming from the cockpit. Hail pinged on the fuselage. Quinn’s fingers dug into the armrests. Her stomach was pressed into her seat before the pressure suddenly eased and the alarms stopped.

Mercifully the crew had pulled the aircraft out of its steep descent and leveled it. Relief rolled through the cabin, and minutes later the Gulfstream landed at Lubbock’s Preston Smith International Airport.

“Sorry about the rough ride,” the pilot said as they taxied. “We’ve come upon a tornado watch, just bad luck. Be safe out there, guys.”

The jet came to a stop at an isolated hangar where a line of idling police vehicles from the FBI’s Resident Agency, Lubbock PD and the Hockley County Sheriff’s Office waited in the rain.

The SWAT members carried their gear down the plane’s gangway. After a quick round of greetings, the convoy roared along U.S. Route 84 for the thirty-minute trip to Anton, a small rural town of about twelve hundred people northwest of Lubbock. Soon the grain elevators, which stood beside the Santa Fe Railroad line rose from the flat terrain. Tires hissing in the rain, the vehicles rolled through the drowsy town, passing the beauty shop, the gas station and farm equipment supply store.

Along the way, Grogan and Quinn had slipped on their body armor and checked their weapons. The convoy was bound for a long-abandoned homestead known properly as the Vickerson Ranch, and a place to avoid. According to DEA intel, an outlaw motorcycle gang with ties to ex-cons operated a meth lab there. All of the best information and investigation gave the FBI reason to believe that the suspects in the kidnapping of Caleb Cooper had taken the baby to this location.

The vehicles had gone about a mile west of town when they’d stopped by a line of trees and a dirt road that ran adjacent to it.

Agent Steve Elling stepped into the rain and set up the command post. Steadying himself on the hood of an SUV, he found the target building in his scope through the distant trees. Keeping radio contact, he directed his squad to move quickly to set up a perimeter around the old residence. Hockley County deputies and members of Lubbock PD helped form an outer perimeter.

No other houses were in sight.

Next to Elling, Grogan and Quinn used binoculars to sweep the property as they braced themselves. Quinn’s stomach tensed at the thought of the baby being held here.

There was no phone associated with the residence.

Everyone was in position. FBI negotiator Andre Kuper was with the forward team. Elling radioed Kuper to call to the occupants over the bullhorn, and the air crackled.

“This is Special Agent Andre Kuper with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We’d like the occupants to please walk slowly out the front door with your hands above your head now.”

No response.

With the weather-warning fresh in her mind, Quinn glanced at the darkening sky.

The clouds looked menacing.

As Kuper called a second time, SWAT team members tightened on the house, peeking inside windows with miniature dental mirrors.

No signs of movement.

Kuper called a third time.

Nothing happened.

Elling checked with his sharpshooters. None reported any movement; none had a clear shot. Several moments passed and Elling made a decision.

“Throw in some flash-bangs then assault and extraction. Go!”

Seconds later came the sounds of glass shattering, then the deafening crack-crack and lightning flashes of stun grenades followed by white smoke billowing from the house as the team kicked in the front door. Two SWAT members dived through the broken glass and rolled on the floor before coming up on their knees with the automatic guns pointed to fire. The rest of the team moved in a quick coordinated search of the building, breathing hard through the gas masks. Room after room yielded nothing.

“No sign of life here,” the team leader radioed Elling.

Elling turned to Grogan and Quinn. “Nothing.”

The two case agents then walked to the house in disappointment and joined the search. Discarded take-out food wrappers, yellowing newspapers and the layers of dust confirmed that the property had not been inhabited for months.

“Looks like we got this one wrong, Phil,” Quinn said.

Grogan stood there inhaling the acrid air of defeat. “What about that Varno guy you were telling me about, Nicole?”

64

Near Lubbock, Texas

Mason ended his call with Garza.

From under the tree he glanced at the charcoal sky. The rain had stopped, but the worst was still to come.

Looks like a bad one’s gonna hit us. Well, bring it on. I don’t care. It’s all good for me. The deal’s sealed with Garza. I’m gonna pull this off.

Mason returned to the cabin and the kitchen for a beer.

He was still riding his blissful crack high.

He stood at the open rear door watching the clouds boil while drinking in his future and his sweet setup in Belize. Garza and his investors were going to buy a nightclub in Belize City near the harbor where the cruise ships docked.

Garza had it all set up with his ties to the crews. They’d use the club and the ships as transit and distribution points for drugs. The return on Mason’s investment would be huge. Along the way, Mason would create an identity and a whole new life. Given what had happened to Lamont and Arlen, it should be enough to keep DOA away.

All Mason had to do now was ensure the selling of Remy’s kid to Hedda. Then he’d take care of Remy. For good. The stupid bitch. Mason took pride in how he’d parlayed his painful relationship with that whack job into a hundred-thousand-dollar ticket to paradise. The other cons used to mock him when she’d visited Hightower, pregnant.

How big a fool are you, bro, letting someone bang your woman on the outside?

Mason grinned, shaking his head. Who’s laughin’ now, huh?

Remy was a piece of work, no doubt about that. She’d bought his BS about wanting to be a carpenter, have kids, be a daddy and live that white-picket dream. Well, he had plans for her. Garza had told him once about the unmarked graves at the edge of the property.

Ain’t nobody gonna find her there. End of story. Tomorrow Remy’s dream ends and mine begins. I’ll drink to that.

Mason guzzled the last of his beer, crushed the can and tossed it out back. Better go check on her. Make sure that she’s on board to hand over the baby tomorrow.

“Remy!”

She wasn’t in the living room. The place seemed quiet. Maybe she was sleeping with the kid? But she wasn’t in the big bedroom when he checked there, or any of the other rooms.

There was no sign of the baby.

What the hell?

“REMY!”

He rushed back to the big bedroom. Some of the bags were gone. He looked through the window. The pickup truck was still there. Did she just walk away? Maybe after all that’s happened she had one of her spells? Damn, that baby was his ticket.

Grabbing his keys Mason hurried to the front of the house, looking through the window, scanning the property. If she was walking, she couldn’t have gotten far. He’d get in the truck and look for her, talk sense into her like last time, he thought.

When he went through the kitchen to get to his pickup, he heard what sounded like something heavy knifing through the air as the blade of a shovel came at his face.

65

Near Lubbock, Texas

“It’s not Anton!” Kate said.

“What?”

In the chaos following the attack on her, Kate had forgotten that she’d jotted notes of the dying man’s last words on the back of a business card she’d jammed into her pocket. Studying the card, she’d deciphered her notations as “A-F ton,” not “A-N ton”-and the map confirmed it.

Blake and Jenna turned to look at Kate in the backseat of the SUV. They were on U.S. Route 84 coming up on Post about forty miles south of Lubbock when Kate circled a spot on her map.

“It’s not Anton. It’s Afton! Take the exit here at Post for Afton!”

“How did it become Afton?” Blake entered the town’s name into the GPS. “Are you sure?”

“I took notes, just a couple of the wounded man’s last words.” She held up the business card. “I completely forgot when the suspects hit me. I was wrong about Anton. The wounded man was trying to tell me that it was Vickson’s Farm in Afton!”

“Look.” Blake was tapping the GPS. “There’s Afton, there’s East Afton, there’s Anton, there’s Anson, there’s Arden! Christ, how can we know now where to go?”

“Blake.” Jenna touched his shoulder and looked at Kate. “How do you know it’s Afton?”

Kate shut her eyes. “I’ve replayed it a million times, and when I saw Afton on the map it connected with me. I can’t explain it, Jenna, it just did. That’s what he was trying to tell me. It’s Vickson’s Farm in Afton. You’ve got to trust me.”

“All right,” Jenna said. “Take the exit, Blake.”

He shook his head as he consulted the GPS.

“It’s at least sixty miles each way,” he said. “We’re going to lose two hours if it turns out to be Anton all along.”

“Do it, Blake,” Jenna said.

“Why?”

“Because I trust her. Kate found Caleb’s blanket…she found the house in Fate. She got us this close. I trust her.” Jenna cupped her hand to his face. “Do it, please, Blake.”

They left U.S. Route 84 at Post for Afton.

It rained off and on as they took a number of connecting state county roads with Blake driving as fast as he could wherever he could.

As they traveled farther, the area became sparse; the land was flecked with tired-looking farms and ranches. They followed the weatherworn signs to Afton, which was little more than a collection of a few lonely homes, an old school and a store: L. T. Smith’s Store and Gas.

“Stop at the store,” Kate said. “We’ll ask for directions to Vickson’s Farm.”

Blake parked in front by the gas pumps. Gusting winds blew dust down the deserted street and a heavy blanket of clouds churned above them when they entered the store.

No one seemed to be around.

A radio somewhere was broadcasting storm updates.

“Hello,” Kate called.

A man in his sixties came from the back with a cat in his arms.

“Hello, folks,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’m closing up now because of the coming storm. They say there could be a bad twister headed our way.”

“We’re hoping you can give us some directions?” Kate said.

“For shelter? Because you’re welcome to come to my storm cellar. It’s in the backyard of my house across the street. Buttons and I won’t mind.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind,” Kate said. “But we’re looking for a Vickson’s Farm, or Vickson’s Ranch? Would that be near here?”

The man stroked the cat and looked at the ceiling for an answer then shook his head. “No, there’s no place called Vickson’s. I’m sorry.”

Blake shook his head and cursed under his breath. His keys jingled. “Let’s get going to Lubbock,” he said.

At a loss, Kate searched the store. “Okay, thank you,” she said, joining Blake and Jenna at the door.

“There’s Dixon’s, though,” the older man said.

Everyone froze at the door and turned back.

“Dixon’s Ranch,” he said. “It’s an old abandoned place about a mile down that way,” he nodded.

“Thank you!” Kate said.

“Funny,” the man said, “but not too long ago a young woman was in here, and I think she was headed that way, too.”

Kate exchanged excited looks with Blake and Jenna. “Did she have a baby with her?”

“No, but there was red pickup truck out front and I think people inside it waiting for her.”

“Was there a baby in the truck?”

“I couldn’t see.”

“A man with tattoos? I’m sorry, but this is important.”

“Goodness, no, I couldn’t see.”

Jenna pulled an FBI poster from her bag, showing sketches of a woman with short spiky red hair and with shorter dark hair and dark-framed glasses.

“Did she look like this?”

“Oh my, are you with the FBI?”

“No,” Kate said. “Please help us. Did she look like this?”

The man shook his head. “She had long blond hair.”

“Long blond hair?”

“Yes.”

“It’s her,” Kate said to Blake and Jenna. “It has to be her.”

66

Near Afton, Texas

Stars swam around Mason.

His head lolled as he floated to consciousness.

His skull throbbed, and tears mingled with the blood and snot laced on his swollen face. He tried to reconnect with his thoughts and memory while working to register reality.

He’d been looking for Remy and the baby when everything stopped.

What happened?

He felt air on his body.

He was sitting upright in a kitchen chair, stripped to his underwear. His ankle holster was gone. He strained to move but it was futile. His legs, arms and hands were bound with electrical cords torn from the toaster, the coffeepot, the clock and several lamps that had all been smashed on the kitchen floor. Blood was webbed down his chest.

“You are Mr. Mason Varno?” said an accented voice.

Mason’s eyes flicked to a man leaning against the kitchen counter casually studying something in his hands. He was in his sixties and had a muscular build.

How did he miss this guy coming up on the cabin?

Mason’s gaze went through the window to the distant line of trees and glimpsed a green car parked there. This guy was good, coming up to the cabin unseen. He must’ve been watching us. Mason searched in vain for any sign of Remy and the baby. Did he have them? Who was this guy? He couldn’t be a cop, not with that weird accent. Be cool, he told himself. He could find a way out of this. Mason worked his jaw to speak but something was grinding in his mouth. A tooth. He spat it out.

“Did DOA send you because of Lamont and Arlen?” Mason managed.

The man kept searching through whatever it was he was holding in his hands. Mason couldn’t tell because he was still woozy.

“Tell him I have the money. It’s coming. It’ll be here tomorrow.”

The man tossed what he was holding into Mason’s lap. It was Mason’s wallet. The man positioned a chair before him, his small eyes burning with rage.

“Where’s your girlfriend, Remy Toxton, and the baby, Mr. Varno?”

Mason thought fast. He couldn’t risk losing the baby. Not after all they’d been through, not when he was this close.

“There’s no baby here. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The stranger offered the hint of a smile.

“Yanna!” he called, then let out a stream of Russian and a young woman appeared holding up a soiled diaper. She must’ve been searching the place. The man sighed, stood, looked out at the darkening sky. There was a metallic jingle as he opened the kitchen drawer containing spoons, forks and knives. He selected a bird’s beak paring knife. Good for precise carving. He ran the tip of his finger over the edge.

“Where is the baby?”

“I don’t know.”

The man lowered himself, swiftly seized Mason’s head, inserted the blade’s tip into Mason’s left nostril then sliced up, then did the same with the right nostril. As Mason cried out, blood splattered down his mouth, chin and neck.

“Jesus! I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know.”

A tree branch struck the house, followed by a peppering of dirt and brush as the clouds bubbled in black and purple across the sky.

“Again, Mr. Varno, where is the baby?”

Blood droplets splashed as Mason shook his head.

The man seized Mason’s right ear. Mason screamed as the man sliced half of it off and showed him the bloodied piece.

“The truth, please, Mr. Varno.”

The woman turned her head. “You must tell him,” she pleaded to Mason. “Or he’ll kill you.”

“Remy left with the baby! I don’t know where she is!”

“Tell me about the baby,” the man said.

“She took it from the flea market. We’re the people police are looking for.”

The man and woman turned to each other momentarily, puzzled looks on their faces.

“But she conceived a baby through a clinic in Moscow,” the man said. “Where’s that baby?”

“Moscow?” Breathing hard in pain, Mason realized that his situation had now taken a turn. “That baby died.”

“Died?” the man repeated.

“Stillborn. It’s buried in a cemetery in Shreveport, Louisiana.”

The man blinked at what Mason had said. “How can I know this is true?”

“Remy has a death certificate in her bag and some baby items the hospital let her keep. She went crazy after it happened. She was afraid she’d lose her deal with the agency-that’s why she took the other kid.”

The man said nothing.

“It’s true. I swear it’s true,” Mason said.

The man set the bloodied paring knife on the kitchen table, and as he turned to the window, branches and fence posts pelted the house. The ground shook as though a freight train were bearing down on it then a deafening rumbling sounded, the windows shattered and the house exploded around them.

67

Near Afton, Texas

Mason was going to sell the baby then kill me. That was his plan.

And to think I’d loved him and dreamed we could have a life together.

Remy tasted the salt of her tears as she fled across the scrubland.

After she’d overheard Mason’s phone call, she’d moved quickly, holding the baby with one arm, grabbing what she could, strapping one bag over her shoulder and carrying a second one. Using trees and brush as cover while walking and trotting, she’d put as much distance between her and the cabin as possible.

Her heart nearly burst when she’d spotted that green car approaching the property in the distance. She’d crouched down with the baby in a gulley and watched a man and woman steal up swiftly to the cabin. Were they police coming to arrest them, or drug dealers coming to kill them?

She was right to leave Mason.

When it was clear the strangers couldn’t see her, Remy continued as the weather worsened.

Clouds were churning overhead.

She shielded the baby as wind-driven branches rocketed by her.

Remy needed to get back to that man at the store before the storm broke. She could do it; it was only a mile. He seemed nice; maybe he could drive her to Lubbock? From there she could take a bus to Tulsa. Her girlfriend lived there. All she needed was a place to stay with her baby.

The bags were heavy, the baby was fussing, Remy’s arms were aching, the sky was growing darker and the wind was getting stronger. The gusts were nearly knocking her over.

Something underfoot crackled.

In a heartbeat Remy realized she’d stepped on the rotting wooden cap of an old well. With nothing but air under her she fought to keep from falling into the blackness with the baby.

* * *

“Look!”

As Blake guided their SUV toward the old Dixon place, Jenna spotted a flash of color far off in the brush and low-lying trees.

“It’s somebody walking, holding something in a bundle,” Kate said.

“That’s a woman with a baby!” Jenna said.

Blake cut the wheel, driving the SUV off-road over the vast field at top speed. As it bumped and bounced, they lost sight of the woman.

“She disappeared!” Blake said.

“To the left!” Jenna pointed. “I saw her there! Go! Go!”

Blake shoved the accelerator to the floor. They roared up to the spot, but nothing was in sight. As the black sky seethed they got out and searched the brush.

“Help! Please, help!”

Behind a thick stand of scrub, they found a woman nearly swallowed by the mouth of a well. She was clinging to the rusted anchor for the rotted well cap with one hand while a baby squirmed and cried in her other arm.

“Oh, help me! I can’t hold on much long-”

Jenna dropped to her knees, recognizing the woman under the blond wig as the one who’d taken Caleb at the flea market.

“Give me my son!”

“Get Caleb, Jen!” Blake shouted, dropping to the ground, and in one smooth motion he yanked the woman up to safety as Jenna took the baby from her.

As huge as the scene playing out in front of her was, Kate was transfixed by something else.

The cabin behind them exploded into confetti of wood, shingles and debris as a colossal tornado roared toward them. Black clouds boiled in a swirling, towering wall that stretched from the earth to eternity. The ground quaked as if a speeding locomotive were pounding straight at them.

Kate saw the strange woman running alone across the flat land in a futile attempt to escape the monster. Her arms swung wildly in a futile attempt to fend off the overwhelming force as it lifted her off her feet. It shot her skyward as if she were a tissue in a gale before it swallowed her and she vanished in the vortex.

“Kate! Down here!”

Blake had sheltered Jenna and the baby on the slope of a small ravine by wedging them under an enormous rock that offered a lip overhead. He drew up all of his strength to pack them against the rock until the screaming whirlwind passed over them.

When it ended, Jenna Cooper stared at her baby son then kissed him.

Caleb was alive and safe in her arms.

She turned to Blake and Kate and wept as they smiled.

68

Afton, Texas

Kate, Blake and Jenna, with Caleb in her arms, walked to Afton.

The tornado had picked up their SUV and dropped it on its roof one hundred yards away. Everywhere they looked the earth had been savagely plowed as if forces had clawed at the planet in anger.

Crossing over the torn-up terrain, it took them half an hour to get to the hamlet. Their cell phones didn’t work-the storm had taken out towers, but it had spared the tiny community. Broken branches, fence posts and muddied clumps of grass littered the main street, but buildings were untouched.

Several people had gathered at L. T. Smith’s Store and Gas. They were exchanging stories by the time Kate and the others got there. When they entered, relief blossomed on the manager’s face.

“Thank the Lord, I’m so glad to see you folks!” he said. “We sent some guys to check on Dixon’s because people had gone out that way. We haven’t heard back on everyone yet. Is there anything I can get you?”

Before they could respond, four men rushed in behind them, carrying an injured woman on a door. She was on her back, alive and moaning, her face a veil of blood and dirt.

“Call an ambulance, L.T.!” one of the men said. “Ebb Davis found her in the hay beside his barn! The winds musta dropped her there! Buddy and Toby are still out at Dixon’s-it got hit real bad.”

“Put her down here.” The manager arranged storage crates near the bread shelf, and the men set the door holding the woman upon them. Then, as the manager used his landline to call, Jenna, holding Caleb, moved to the injured woman to take a close, hard look at her.

Recognition registered.

“This is the woman who took Caleb,” Jenna said. Then, to the woman: “Why? Why did you steal my baby?”

“I’m sorry,” she groaned.

The manager was still on the phone when Kate went to him and grabbed his arm. “Call the sheriff’s office right now!” To the men who’d brought her in she said, “Where’s the man who was with her?”

They shook their heads. “Never saw anyone else,” one of the men said.

Blake and Jenna recounted their ordeal while more people arrived. As awareness dawned on those listening, murmurs rippled around the store.

“That’s the flea market baby from the Dallas tornado…” “They’re the parents…” “They found him, here…” “She said that woman took him…”

* * *

Pavel Gromov and Yanna Petrova were among the people in the store who’d endured the storm. When the tornado had reached the cabin, they’d managed to get down on the floor. They’d survived the destruction with a few cuts on their arms and faces. Their car was also miraculously not damaged and they drove away unnoticed along a path that twisted through a back section of the Dixon property. They made their way to town where they told local residents that they were tourists on holiday when the storm hit.

Now, after hearing the Coopers tell their story, and prompted by the distant wail of sirens, Gromov and Yanna approached the injured woman. A man in his early twenties with first-aid training said that she had fractured ribs. He was cleaning her face with a towel.

Gromov leaned down, kept his voice soft and took her hand. “Are you Remy Toxton?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

The sirens got closer.

“Now is not the time to lie.” He squeezed. “Are you Remy Toxton?”

“Yes.”

“Did you become pregnant at a Moscow clinic?”

Remy nodded.

“Where’s the baby from that pregnancy?”

“Louisiana.”

“Shreveport?”

Her chest heaved as she let out a sob. “Yes, that’s where he died.”

The sirens were getting louder.

Gromov stood. His face was creased.

He turned to Yanna and then he looked thoughtfully at the Coopers before he stood next to Jenna and studied Caleb.

“This is your son who was missing?” Gromov said.

“Yes,” Jenna answered.

“He’s a beautiful baby.”

“Thank you.”

“I see the resemblance to his father.”

Jenna smiled.

Gromov’s eyes filled with sadness as he accepted that his dream had turned to dust, then he and Yanna left the store and got in their rented car. Driving carefully around debris, they left Afton.

* * *

As the paramedics and Dickens County Sheriff’s deputies arrived, two other men pulled alongside them in a farm truck and rushed into the store.

“The Dixon place is gone. We found a dead man in the rubble,” one said. “Must’ve been out there hunting.”

“Looks like he tried to tie himself down. He was all tangled up in the debris,” the other added, breathless.

The deputies called for assistance to get a car out to the Dixon ranch as the paramedics began assessing Remy Toxton. Her injuries were not life threatening.

When the deputies obtained the preliminary details of what had transpired from Jenna, Blake and Kate, they requested the paramedics hold off taking Remy to a hospital.

After a quick series of calls to their dispatcher and computer checks, confirming details through NCIC, Remy Toxton was charged and read her rights.

She remained silent throughout the process, never once asking about Mason, or for an attorney. She stared at the ceiling as the deputies handcuffed her to the gurney, then cleared the paramedics to take her to hospital with a deputy as her escort.

FBI case agents Phil Grogan and Nicole Quinn were alerted and on their way from Lubbock. Kate called her friend Heather in Ohio to let her know what had happened then joined Jenna and Blake on the bench at the front of the store, where they waited for the FBI agents.

As word spread, local residents approached them with praise and congratulations.

“Something positive has come out of the storm,” L.T., the store’s manager, said as he took their picture.

Jenna Cooper couldn’t take her eyes off Caleb, but when she finally did, she turned to Kate.

“We would have lost him forever without you. I know that in my heart. You’re a good person, Kate, and a pretty good reporter, too. You never gave up…you never let go.”

Kate nodded, but her smile faded as she looked into the distance and deeper into the clearing sky. She reflected on all that the Coopers had suffered, and all that she’d endured up to that moment in her hard life. The outcome had restored Kate’s faith to never ever give up, whatever the odds. For in Jenna and Blake’s miracle, Kate had found reason to hope that maybe, just maybe, her little sister had somehow survived that night in the river all those years ago.

Kate almost laughed for she was suddenly haunted by an unresolved aching, yet comforted by an irony.

It was her sister’s tragedy that led to her becoming a reporter.

And here I am, an unemployed one, sitting on a huge story.

But it doesn’t matter right now. It’s not what I need right now.

She cupped her hands over her face and let the tears flow.

What Kate needed more than anything was to get back home to Ohio and hold her daughter.

Epilogue

It was late that night when Kate got back to Newslead’s Dallas bureau.

Expecting that her ID and swipe card had been invalidated, she’d intended to give it to the security guard then have him escort her to clean out her desk and leave a note.

“No, miss,” he said after taking her ID and checking his screen. “It’s still good for Kate Page. Want me to go with you? No one’s up there-they all went home long ago.”

“Yes, thanks. I want to do this right.”

“Sure, I don’t mind stretching my legs.”

As the elevator rose, Kate looked back on her day. After telling the FBI everything that had happened in Afton, Blake and Jenna had driven her to Lubbock, where they did network interviews…but without Kate.

She’d slipped away for a flight to Dallas.

Before she’d left Lubbock, Grogan and Quinn said the evidence team had finished processing her car after the murders in Fate. She could pick it up at the FBI’s office in the morning. That was good, because she wanted to start driving home to Ohio the next day.

In the cab from the airport to the Dallas bureau, her phone showed messages from Dorothea Pick, Chuck Laneer and about a dozen news organizations wanting to interview her for her part in the story.

She ignored them all, but one name caught her eye: David Yardley with USA TODAY wanted to interview her for a story. Kate’s heart warmed with memories. He was the reporter at the Chicago Tribune who’d helped get her started in journalism.

I owe him. I’ll call him when I get to my hotel room. Maybe he can mention that I’m looking for a job in the business? She laughed to herself. Funny how things have gone full circle.

The elevator doors opened to the dimmed lights of the bureau.

“I won’t be long,” she said.

The guard sat at the empty desk next to hers. Kate’s computer account had not been closed. She’d received nineteen emails from news organizations wanting interviews. Ignoring them, she typed a short note thanking Dorothea and Chuck for considering her for the internship and the job. After sending it, she wondered for a moment what had happened for Dorothea to replace Chuck.

She sent a goodbye note to Tommy Koop, thanking him for being her friend and helping her. Then she cleaned out her desk, putting her coffee mug and dictionary, along with a few personal items, into a small garbage bag, thinking it a metaphor for her career as she left with the guard.

* * *

The next morning, Kate checked out of the hotel, took a cab to the FBI to get her car. Before starting for Ohio she checked her phone. More messages for interview requests from NBC and ABC.

She ignored them.

When she got her third message from Chuck, she decided to return his call. Somewhere on the I-30 East near Union Valley she pulled over. He answered on the second ring.

“Kate, I’m sorry things ended the way they did.”

“Me, too.”

“Managementwise, our bureau was in disarray when you arrived. As you’ve probably heard, my wife is ill. I tried to keep that private, but it got out in the bureau. I was distracted during your internship and for that I apologize.”

“Don’t apologize. It’s okay, I understand. I’m so sorry to hear about your wife.”

“We just learned that it’s very serious. Cancer.”

“Oh my God, Chuck-that’s terrible.”

“That’s why Dorothea took over. There’s no question she had an agenda. I’ve since learned that you had two strikes against you, as far as she was concerned.”

“What were they? I don’t understand.”

“Mandy Lee’s father worked at the Dallas Morning News and had given Dorothea her first job. Guess she’s quietly guaranteed him that she would return the favor and hire Mandy Lee, not counting on you being so good.”

“She used that to terminate me?”

“Yes, she set everything in motion while I was in the hospital and she was acting bureau chief. In our time together, Dorothea and I never saw eye to eye, but that can’t be helped right now. I’ve got to take some time off to be with my wife.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I know this is cold consolation, but you were by far the best candidate for the position, and I made that known to New York. But Dorothea made her move to use the insubordination matter against you and hire Mandy. Dorothea had a weak case but you were an intern with no protection and human resources approved. I tried to intervene but was overruled.”

“Thank you, Chuck. Again, I’m so sorry for your wife and you. I’ll keep you both in my thoughts.”

“Thanks.” He cleared his throat. “Now, Kate, you can hate me for this, but I’m still a news reporter. Would you grant me a short interview about the Cooper baby case for a story for Newslead?”

“Well, I already spoke to USA TODAY as a favor for an old friend.”

“I understand, but would you also consider talking to Newslead?”

“I’ll talk to you, Chuck.”

“Thanks, Kate. Oh, before we start, I took a call for you from a young man named Cody Warren. A while back you did a small story about the search for the person who hit his dad in a traffic accident.”

“I remember.”

“Guess the person who did it saw your item and turned themselves in. We’re going to follow that up.”

“Good,” she said. “That’s good. I’m happy to hear it.”

As cars and big rigs thundered by her along the interstate, Kate talked to Chuck for nearly twenty minutes. Then she wiped away her tears, got back on the highway and drove out of Texas.

* * *

Before returning to Russia, Pavel Gromov and Yanna Petrova went to Shreveport, Louisiana. After making some gentle enquiries, they visited a small cemetery where Gromov’s grandson was buried. They found a marker for Baby Toxton.

They left flowers.

* * *

Remy Toxton was moved to Dallas, where she cooperated with the FBI’s investigation into Caleb Cooper’s kidnapping. Remy faced twenty-five years in prison. In a bid for a lighter sentence, she’d given evidence which led to Chicago and a federal investigation of Hedda Knight’s law firm.

At first Hedda denied knowing Remy, noting that she’d never set foot in Texas. Agents discovered Hedda’s recent airline ticket to Dallas for a flight that was canceled because of bad weather. They found other records and moved to charge Hedda for her national and international baby-selling activities.

* * *

Back in Lancaster, Texas, Jenna and Blake underwent the process of rebuilding their home and their lives with Caleb and Cassie, who never wanted to let go of her baby brother’s hand.

“I don’t want him to fly away ever again.”

Throughout it all, Jenna kept in touch with Kate Page.

* * *

As time passed, Kate recovered.

Being home with Grace was a balm for both of them. And although Kate was still unemployed with bills to pay, she also knew she was blessed. Our lives are fragile things, she thought, leaving us vulnerable to forces beyond our control that can destroy everything we cherish.

In the weeks after her return, Kate wrote a long article for Vanity Fair about her experience in Texas and the Caleb Cooper case. It paid very well, allowing her to take care of some bills. Her ordeal also led to a few job offers at news organizations across the country.

She was not sure what she was going to do.

Nearly two months after she’d returned to Ohio, Kate was giving serious consideration to accepting a job in Minneapolis with the Star Tribune when Chuck Laneer called her with good news. His wife had recovered. The doctors were confident they’d gotten it all, but the best treatment and therapy she needed was in New York.

“We’re moving there, and Newslead has given me a new senior editor’s position at world headquarters in Manhattan, and authority to build a new reporting team.”

“That’s so great,” she said. “I’m so happy for you.”

“Kate, I’d like to offer you a job with Newslead in New York. The pay is very good. We’ll help with moving costs and you’ll never have to worry about Dorothea Pick. She’s resigned to pursue a career in politics.”

“I don’t know what to say, Chuck.”

“Take some time to think it over.”

“Okay, thank you.”

Kate’s heart lifted with excitement as she walked through the house, considering the possibilities. Her dream to work for a major news agency in New York was coming true. Somehow she found herself in her room on her bed holding Chilly, the stuffed polar bear that had belonged to her sister. Moments later, she was looking at the tiny guardian angel necklace with Vanessa’s name engraved on it.

A storm of memories swept Kate back through time, across all she’d endured in her life, and tears filled her eyes.

Grace walked into the room.

“Are you sad, Mommy?”

Regaining her composure, Kate brushed her cheeks then pulled Grace up onto the bed and into her arms. “Just thinking about things.”

“What things?”

“How lucky I am to have you as my kid and stuff.”

“Is that because of the phone call you just got?”

“I guess so. It gave me a lot to think about.”

“Like what?”

“Like moving to New York City.”

“Oh, where Stuart Little lives? With all the really tall buildings?”

“Yes, and Central Park and subway trains that run underground and the big Santa Claus parade and the toy store with the Ferris wheel inside.”

Grace’s eyes grew wider.

“Think you’d like that, sweetie? Living in a great big city like that?”

She nodded big nods. “But I’d miss my friends so much.”

“Me, too, but we’d make new friends.”

“Like Stuart Little.”

“Exactly-like Stuart Little.”

Kate tickled Grace and their laughter filled the room.

Acknowledgments

As a former crime reporter I have a basic understanding of police procedure and jurisdiction. But for this story I took a great deal of creative license. I have been to Texas a number of times but make no claim to being an expert on local matters.

My thanks go to two colleagues from the news business, Paula LaRocque, formerly of the Dallas Morning News, who so graciously put me in touch with Texas journalism legend O.K. Carter, former publisher of the Arlington Citizen-Journal and the Arlington Star-Telegram. If my settings and news aspects ring true, then thanks goes to them.

If you see inaccuracies, then blame me.

I did my best to reflect the meteorological aspects of the story accurately and apologize to experts for any errors. Again, I took liberties as a fiction writer.

My thanks to Amy Moore-Benson, to Emily Ohanjanians and the incredible editorial, marketing, sales and PR teams at Harlequin and MIRA Books.

As always, my thanks to Wendy Dudley.

Very special thanks to Barbara, Laura and Michael.

It is important readers know that in getting this book to you, I benefitted from the hard work and generosity of many people, too many to thank individually.

This brings me to what I hold to be the most critical part of the entire enterprise: you, the reader. This aspect has become something of a creed for me, one that bears repeating.

Thank you for your time, for without you, a book remains an untold tale. Thank you for setting your life on pause and taking the journey. I deeply appreciate my audience around the world and those who’ve been with me since the beginning and who keep in touch. Thank you all for your kind words. I hope you enjoyed the ride and will check out my earlier books while watching for my next one. I welcome your feedback. Drop by www.rickmofina.com to subscribe to my newsletter and send me a note.

Rick Mofina

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Rick Mofina

Rick Mofina grew up east of Toronto, in Belleville, Ontario, Canada. He began writing fiction in grade school. At age 15, he sold his first short story to a U.S. magazine.

He became a reporter at The Toronto Star before embarking on a career in journalism that spanned three decades and several newsrooms. His freelance crime stories have appeared around the world in such publications as The New York Times, Reader's Digest, Marie Claire, The South China Morning Post magazine and The Moscow Times.

Rick is currently based in Ottawa, where he lives with his wife and their two children and works as a communications advisor.

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Content

Rick Mofina
Whirlwind

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Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Rick Mofina