Heartbreaker

Chapter 2

Agent Nicholas Benjamin Buchanan was about to begin a long A overdue vacation. He hadn’t taken any time off in the past three years, and it was beginning to show in his attitude-or so he’d been told by his superior, Doctor Peter Morganstern, when he’d ordered him to take a month’s leave. He’d also told Nick that he was becoming a little too detached and cynical, and deep down Nick worried that he might be right.

Morganstern always told it like it was. Nick admired and respected him almost as much as he did his own father, and so he rarely argued with him. His boss was as steady as a rock. He never would have lasted more than two weeks in the Bureau if he had let his emotions control his behavior. If he had any flaw at all, it was his maddening ability to remain calm to the point of being catatonic. Nothing ever fazed the man.

The twelve hand-picked agents under his direct supervision called him Prozac Pete-behind his back of course-but he knew about the nickname and wasn’t offended by it. Rumor had it he actually laughed the first time he heard it, and that was yet another reason he got along so well with his agents. He had been able to hold on to his sense of humor-no small feat, considering the section he ran. His idea of losing his temper was having to repeat himself, though in all honesty, his raspy, years-of-smoking-cigars voice never, ever rose a decibel. Hell, maybe the other agents were right. Maybe Morganstern really did have Prozac running through his veins.

One thing was certain. His superiors knew gold when they spotted it, and in the fourteen years that Morganstern had worked for the Bureau, he’d been promoted six times. Yet he never rested on his laurels. When he was named head of the "lost-and-found" division, he dedicated himself to building an extremely efficient task force for tracking and recovering missing persons. And once that was accomplished, he turned his efforts to a more specific objective. He wanted to create a specialized unit devoted to the most difficult cases involving lost and abducted children. He justified this new unit on paper and then spent a considerable amount of time lobbying for it. At every opportunity, he waved his 233-page thesis under the director’s nose.

His dogged determination finally paid off, and he now headed this elite unit. He was allowed to recruit his own men, a motley crew at best, who came to him from all walks of life. Each man was required to go through the academy’s training program at Quantico first, and then he was sent to Morganstern for special testing and training. Very few made it through the grueling program, but those who did were exceptional. Morganstern was overheard telling the director he firmly believed he had the cream of the crop working for him, and within one year he proved to all the doubting Thomases that he was right. He then handed over the reins of the "lost and found" to his assistant, Frank O’Leary, and made the lateral move within the department to devote his time and effort to this very specialized group.

His team was unique. Each man possessed unusual skills in tracking the missing children. The twelve men were hunters who constantly raced against the clock with but one sacred goal, to find and protect before it was too late. They were every child’s greatest champion and the last line of defense against the bogeymen who lurked in the dark.

The stress of the job would have sent average men into cardiac but there wasn’t anything average about these men. None of them fit the profile of the typical FBI agent, but then Morganstern wasn’t your typical leader. He had quickly proven that he was more than capable of running such an eclectic group. The other departments called his agents the Apostles, no doubt because there were twelve of them, but Morganstern didn’t like the nickname because, as their leader, it implied all sorts of things about him that he couldn’t possibly live up to. His humility was yet another reason he was so respected. His agents also appreciated the fact that he wasn’t a by-the-manual boss. He encouraged them to get the job done, pretty much gave them a free hand, and always backed them up whenever it was needed. In many ways he was their greatest champion.

Certainly no one with the Bureau was more dedicated or qualified, for Morganstern was a board certified psychiatrist, which was probably why he liked to have his little heart-to-heart talks with each of his agents every now and then. Sitting them down and getting into their heads validated all the time and expense of his Harvard education. It was the one quirk all of them had to put up with and all of them hated.

He was in the mood to talk about the Stark case now. He had flown from D.C. to Cincinnati and had asked Nick to stop over on his way back from a seminar in San Francisco. Nick didn’t want to discuss the Stark case-it had happened over a month ago and he didn’t even want to think about it, but that didn’t matter. He knew he was going to have to discuss it whether he wanted to or not.

He waited at the regional office for his superior to join him, then sat down across from him at the polished oak conference table and listened for twenty minutes while Morganstern reviewed some of the particulars of the bizarre case. Nick stayed calm until Morganstern told him he was going to get a commendation for his heroic actions. He almost lost it then and there, but he was adept at concealing his true feelings. Even his boss, with his keen eye constantly on the lookout for any telltale signs of burnout or stress overload, was fooled into thinking that once again he was taking it all in stride-or so Nick thought.

When the conference wound down, Morganstern stared into the steely blue eyes of his agent for a long, silent minute and then asked, "When you shot her, what did you feel?"

"Is this necessary, sir? It happened over a month ago. Do we really need to rehash this?"

"This isn’t a formal meeting, Nick. It’s just you and me. You don’t have to call me sir, and yes, I think it is necessary. Now answer me, please. What did you feel?"

And still he hedged, squirming in the hard-backed chair like a little boy being forced to admit he’d done something wrong. "What the hell do you mean, what did I feel?"

Ignoring the burst of anger, his superior calmly repeated the question a third time. "You know what I’m asking you. At that precise second, what did you feel? Do you remember?"

He was giving him a way out. Nick knew he could lie and tell him no, he didn’t remember, that he’d been too busy at the time to think about what he was feeling, but he and Morganstern had always had an honest rapport with each other and he didn’t want to screw that up now. Besides, he was pretty sure his boss would know he was lying. Realizing how futile it was to continue the evasion, he gave it up and decided to be blunt. "Yeah, I remember. It felt good," he whispered. "Real good. Hell, Pete, I was euphoric. If I hadn’t turned around and gone back inside that house, if I had hesitated even thirty seconds more, and if I hadn’t had my gun drawn, it would have been all over and that little boy would be dead. I cut it too damned close this time."

"But you did get to the child in time."

"I should have figured it out sooner."

Morganstern sighed. Of all of his agents, Nick had always been the most critical of his own performance. "You were the only one who did figure it out," he reminded him. "Don’t be so hard on yourself."

"Did you read the newspapers? The reporters said she was crazy, but they didn’t see the look in her eyes. I did, and I’m telling you, she wasn’t crazy at all. She was pure evil."

"Yes I’ve read the papers and you’re right, they did call her crazy. I expected they would," he added. "I understand why and I think do too. It’s the only way the public can make sense out of such heinous crime. They want to believe that only a demented man or woman could do such obscene things to another human being, and only a crazy person could derive pleasure in the killing of innocents. A good number of them are crazy, but some aren’t. Evil does exist. We’ve both seen it. Somewhere along the way, the Stark woman made a conscious choice to cross the line."

"People are afraid of what they don’t understand."

"Yes," Morganstern agreed. "And there’s a large percentage of academics who don’t want to believe that evil exists. If they can’t reason it or explain it in their narrow minds, then it simply can’t be. I think that’s one of the reasons our culture is such fertile ground for depravity. Some of my colleagues believe they can fix anything with a long-winded diagnosis and a few mind-altering drugs."

"I heard that one of your colleagues believes that Stark’s husband controlled her and that she was so terrified of him, her mind snapped. In other words, we should feel sorry for her."

"Yes, I heard that too. Nonsense. The Stark woman was as depraved as her husband. Her fingerprints were on those pornographic tapes along with his. She was a willing participant, but I do believe she was breaking down. They’d never gone after children before."

"Honest to God, Pete, she was smiling at me. The boy was cradled in her arms, and she held a butcher knife over him. He was unconscious, but I could see he was still breathing. She was waiting for me. She knew I had figured it all out and I think she wanted me to watch her kill him." He paused to nod. "Yeah, it felt good to blow her away. I’m just sorry her husband wasn’t there. I would have liked to have gotten him too. Any leads yet? I still think you ought to put our friend Noah on his trail."

"I’ve been considering doing just that, but they want to take Donald Stark alive so they can question him, and they know if Stark gives him any trouble at all, Noah won’t hesitate to shoot."

"You kill a cockroach, Pete. You don’t domesticate him. Noah’s got the right idea." He rolled his shoulders to stretch his cramped muscles, rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, and then remarked, "I think I need to go on another retreat."

"Why do you say that?"

"I think I might be burning out. Am I?"

Morganstern shook his head. "No, you’re just a little fatigued, that’s all. None of this conversation is going in my report. I meant it when I said it was between you and me. You’re way past due for some time off, but that’s my fault, not yours. I want you to take a month off now and get your mind centered again."

A hint of a smile softened Nick’s bleak expression. "Center my mind?"

"Chill out," he explained. "Or try to anyway. When was the last time you went up to Nathan’s Bay to see that big family of yours?"

"It’s been a while," Nick admitted. "I keep in touch with all of them by E-mail. Everyone’s as busy as I am."

"Go home," he said. "It’ll be good for you. Your folks will be glad to see you again. How’s the judge doing?"

"Dad’s fine," Nick answered.

"What about your friend Father Madden?"

"I talk to Tommy every night."

"By E-mail?"

"Yes."

"Maybe you ought to go see him and have those talks face-to-face."

"You think I need a little spiritual guidance?" Nick asked with a grin.

"I think you need a little laughter."

"Yeah, I probably do," he agreed. He grew serious once again and said, "Pete, about my instincts. Do you think I’m losing my edge?"

Morganstern scoffed at the notion. "Your instincts couldn’t be The Stark woman fooled everyone but you. Everyone," he repeated more forcefully. "Her relatives, her friends and neighbors, church group. She didn’t fool you, though. Oh, I’m sure the locals would have eventually figured it out, but by then that little boy would be dead and buried, and she would have snatched another one. You know as well as I do that once they start, they don’t stop."

Pete tapped the thick manila folder with his knuckles. "In the interviews, I read all about how she sat next to the poor mother’s side day in and day out, comforting her. She was on the church’s grieving committee," he added with a shake of his head. He looked as though even he, who had seen and heard it all before, was shocked by the Stark woman’s gall.

"The police talked to everyone in that church group, and they couldn’t find anything," Nick said. "They weren’t real thorough," he added. "But then it was a tiny little town and the sheriff didn’t know what to look for."

"He was smart enough not to wait. He called us in right away," Morganstern said. "He and the other locals were convinced that a transient had taken the boy, weren’t they? And that’s where all of their efforts were focused."

"Yes," Nick agreed. "It’s difficult to believe that one of your own could do such a thing. They had a couple of witnesses who had seen a vagrant hanging around the schoolyard, but their descriptions didn’t match. The team from Cincinnati were on their way," he added. "And they would have figured her game out real quick."

"What exactly was it that tipped you off? How did you know?"

"Little things out of sync," he replied. "I can’t explain what it was that bothered me about her or why I decided to follow her home."

"I can explain it. Instinct."

"I guess so," he agreed. "I knew I was going to do a real thorough check on her. Something wasn’t right, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was. I got this weird, gut feeling about her, and it got stronger as soon as I walked into her house… you know what I mean?"

"Explain it. What was the house like?"

"Immaculate. I couldn’t see a speck of dust or dirt anywhere. The living room was small-a couple of easy chairs, sofa, TV-but, you know what was odd, Pete? There weren’t any pictures on the walls or family photos. Yeah, I remember I thought that was real odd. She had plastic covers on her furniture. I guess a lot of people do that. I don’t know. Anyway, like I said, it was spotless, but it smelled peculiar."

"What land of smell was it?"

"Vinegar… and ammonia. The smell was so strong it made my eyes burn. I figured she was just a compulsive housecleaner… and then I followed her into the kitchen. It was clean as a whistle. Not a thing sitting on the counters, not a towel draped on the sink, nothing. She told me to have a seat while she fixed us a cup of coffee, and then I noticed the stuff she had on the table. There were salt and pepper shakers, but in between was a huge clear plastic container of pink antacid tablets, and next to it was a ketchup-size bottle of hot sauce. I thought that was damned peculiar… and then I saw the dog. The animal tipped the scales. It was a black cocker spaniel sitting in the corner by the back door. He never took his eyes off her. She put a plate of chocolate chip cookies on the table and when she turned her back to get the coffee, I took one of the cookies and put it down by my side, to see if the dog would come and get it, but he never even looked at me. Hell, he was too afraid to blink, and he was watching her every move. If the sheriff had seen the dog with her, he would have known something was real wrong, but when he interviewed her, the cocker was outside in the pen."

"He went inside her house and didn’t notice anything unusual."

"I was lucky, and she was arrogant and reckless."

"What made you go back inside after you left her house?"

"I was going to get some backup and wait and see where she went, but as soon as I got outside, I knew I had to go back in, and I had this feeling she knew I was on to her. And I knew that the boy was somewhere in that house."

"Your instincts couldn’t be better tuned," Morganstern said. "That’s why I went after you, you know."

"I know. The infamous football game."

Morganstern smiled. "I just saw it again on CNN Sports a couple of weeks ago. They must run that clip at least twice a year."

"I wish they’d give it a rest. It’s old news."

The two men stood. Nick towered over his boss. Morganstern, in his tasseled black leather loafers, was five feet eight inches tall, and Nick was over six feet. His boss was slightly built, with thinning blond hair that was quickly going gray, and his thick bifocals were constantly slipping down the bridge of his narrow nose. He always wore a conservative black or navy suit with a long-sleeved, white, starched shirt and muted striped tie. To the casual observer, Morganstern looked like a nerdy university professor, but to the agents under his supervision, he was, in every respect, a giant of a man who handled the hellacious job and the horrific pressures with unruffled ease.

"I’ll see you in a month, Nick, but not a day before. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

His superior started out the door, then paused. "Are you still getting sick every time you get on a plane?"

"Is there anything you don’t know about me?"

"I don’t believe there is."

"Yeah? When was the last time I got laid?"

Morganstern pretended to be shocked by the question. "It’s been a long while, Agent. Apparently you’re going through a dry spell."

Nick laughed. "Is that right?"

"One of these days you’ll meet the right woman, heaven help her."

"I’m not looking for the right woman."

Morganstern smiled a fatherly smile. "And that, you see, is exactly when you’ll find her. You won’t be looking, and she’ll blindside you, just like my Katie blindsided me. I never had a chance, and I predict you won’t either. She’s out there somewhere, just waiting for you."

"Then she’s going to have a hell of a long wait," he replied. "In our line of work, marriage isn’t in the equation."

"Katie and I have managed for over twenty years."

"Katie’s a saint."

"You didn’t answer my question, Nick. Do you?"

"Get sick every time I get on a plane? Hell, yes."

Morganstern chuckled. "Good luck getting home then."

"You know, Pete, most psychiatrists would try to get to the bottom of my phobia, but you get a kick out of it, don’t you?"

He laughed again. "See you in a month," he repeated as he strolled out of the office.

Nick gathered up his files, made a couple of necessary calls to his Boston office and to Frank O’Leary at Quantico, and then hitched a ride to the airport with one of the local agents. Since there was no: getting out of his forced vacation, he made some tentative plans. He really was going to try to kick back and relax, maybe go sailing with his oldest brother, Theo, if he could pry him away from his job for a couple of days, and then he was going to drive halfway across the country to Holy Oaks, Iowa, to see his best friend, Tommy, and get some serious fishing done. Morganstern hadn’t mentioned the promotion O’Leary had dropped on the table two weeks ago. While he was on vacation Nick planned to weigh the pros and cons of the new job. He was counting on Tommy for help with the decision. He was closer to him than he was to his own five brothers, and he trusted him implicitly. His friend would play his usual role of devil’s advocate, and hopefully by the time Nick returned to his job, he would know what he was going to do.

He knew Tommy was worried about him. He’d been nagging him by E-mail for the past six months to come and see him. Like Morganstern, Tommy understood the stresses and the nightmares of Nick’s work, and he also believed that Nick needed time away.

Tommy had his own battle to fight, and every three months when he checked into the Kansas Medical Center for tests, it was Nick who got the queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach that stayed until Tommy E-mailed him with good news. So far, his friend had been lucky; the cancer had been contained. But it was always hovering, waiting to strike. Tommy had learned to deal with his illness. Nick hadn’t. If he could take the pain and suffering away from his friend, he would willingly give his right arm, but that wasn’t how it worked. As Tommy had said, this was a war he had to wage alone, and all Nick could do was be there for him when he needed him.

Nick was suddenly anxious to see his friend again. He might even be able to talk him into taking off his priest collar for one night and getting roaring drunk with him the way they used to when they roomed together at Penn State.

And he would finally get to meet Tommy’s only family, his baby sister, Laurant. She was eight years younger than her brother and had grown up with the nuns in a boarding school for wealthy young girls in the mountains near Geneva. Tommy had tried several times to bring her to America, but the conditions of the trust and the lawyers guarding the money convinced the judges to keep her sequestered until she was of age to make decisions for herself. Tommy had told Nick that it wasn’t as grim as it sounded and that by following the letter of the trust, the lawyers were, in fact, protecting the estate.

Laurant had been of age for some time now and had moved to Holy Oaks a year ago to be close to her brother. Nick had never met her, but he remembered the photos of her that Tommy had stuck up on the mirror. She’d looked like a street urchin, a scruffy-looking kid wearing a pleated black skirt and a uniform white blouse that was partially hanging out of her waistband. One of her knee-high socks had fallen down around her ankle. She had scabby knees and curly long brown hair that drooped down over one of her eyes. Both he and Tommy had laughed when they saw the photo. Laurant couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old when the picture was taken, but what stuck in Nick’s mind was the joy in her smile and the sparkle in her eyes, suggesting the nuns’ chronic complaints about her were true. She did look like she had a bit of the devil in her and a zest for life that was going to get her into sure trouble one day.

Yeah, a vacation was just what he needed, he decided. The key to all of his plans was getting back to his home base, Boston, and that meant he was going to have to get on the damned plane first. No one hated flying as much as Nick did. It scared the hell out of him, as a matter of fact. As soon as he entered the Cincinnati airport, he broke out in a cold sweat, and he knew his complexion was going to be green by the time he boarded the plane. The 777 was bound for London with a brief stop in Boston, where Nick would be getting off, thank God, and going home to his Beacon Hill town house. He’d purchased the building from his uncle three years ago, but he still hadn’t unpacked most of the cardboard boxes the movers had dropped into the center of his living room, or hooked up the high-tech audio system his youngest brother, Zachary, had insisted on’ picking out for him.

He could feel his stomach tightening as he headed for check-in. He knew the drill. He presented himself, his credentials, and his clearance to the security officer. The prissy, middle-aged man named Johnson nervously chewed on his pencil-thin upper lip until his computer gave him Nick’s name and code verification. He then escorted Nick around the metal detector the other passengers would have to pass through, handed him his boarding pass, and waved him down the ramp.

Captain James T. Sorensky was waiting for him in the galley. Nick had flown with the captain at least six times in the past three years and knew the man was an excellent pilot and meticulous in his job-Nick had run a background check on the captain just to make certain there wasn’t anything suspicious in his past to suggest the possibility of a nervous breakdown while he was flying. He even knew the kind of toothpaste the man preferred, but none of those facts made his nervousness subside. Sorensky had graduated from the Air Academy at the top of his class and had worked for Delta for eighteen years His record was unblemished, but that didn’t matter either. Nick’s stomach was still doing somersaults. He hated everything about flying. It all boiled down to a question of trust, he knew, d even though Sorensky wasn’t a complete stranger-they were on first-name basis these days-Nick still didn’t like being forced to trust him to keep almost 159 tons of steel in the air.

Sorensky could have been a model for an airline poster with his silver-tipped, immaculately trimmed hair, his perfectly pressed navy blue uniform with razor-edge creases in the trousers, and his tall, lean physique. Nick wasn’t overweight by any means, but he still felt like a bull moose next to him. The captain radiated confidence. He was also rigid about his own rules, which Nick appreciated. Though Nick had the government clearance and FAA approval to carry his loaded Sig Sauer on the plane, he knew it made Sorensky nervous-and that was the last thing Nick wanted or needed. In preparation, Nick had already unloaded his gun. As the captain greeted him, he dropped the gun’s magazine into his hand.

"Good to see you again, Nick."

"How are you feeling today, Jim?"

Sorensky smiled. "Still worried I’ll have a heart attack while we’re in the air?"

Nick shrugged to cover his embarrassment. "The thought has crossed my mind," he said. "It could happen."

"Yes, it could, but I’m not the only man on board who can fly this plane."

"I know."

"But it doesn’t make you feel any better, does it?"

"No."

"As much as you have to fly, you’d think you’d get used to it."

"You’d think I would, but it hasn’t happened yet."

"Does your boss know you get sick every time you get on a plane?"

"Sure he does," Nick answered. "He’s sadistic."

Sorensky laughed. "I’m going to give you a real smooth ride today," he promised. "You aren’t going on with us to London, are you?"

"Fly over an ocean? That’s never going to happen." The thought made his stomach lurch. "I’m going home."

"Have you ever been to Europe?"

"No, not yet. When I can drive there, I’ll go."

The captain glanced at the magazine he held in the palm of his hand. "Thanks for letting me hold on to this. I know I don’t have the legal right to ask you to give it up."

"But it makes you nervous to have a loaded weapon on board, and I don’t want a nervous pilot flying this plane."

Nick tried to get past Sorensky so he could get settled in his seat, but the captain was in the mood to chat.

"By the way, about a month ago I read a real nice article in the newspaper about you saving that poor boy’s life. It was interesting to read about your background and how you’re best friends with that priest… how the two of you ended up taking different paths. Now you wear a badge and he wears a cross. And saving that child… it made me proud to know you."

"I was just doing my job."

"The article also mentioned that unit you work with. What was it he called the twelve of you?" Before Nick could answer, the captain remembered. "Oh, yes, the Apostles."

"I still haven’t figured out how he managed to get that information. I didn’t think anyone outside the department knew about the nickname."

"Still, it’s fitting. You saved that little boy’s life."

"We were lucky this time."

"The reporter said you refused to be interviewed."

"This isn’t a glory job, Jim. I did what I had to, that’s all."

The agent’s humility impressed the captain. With a nod, he said, "You did a fine thing. That little boy’s back with his parents now, and that’s all that counts."

"Like I said, we were lucky this time."

Sorensky, sensing Nick’s unease with his compliments, quickly changed the subject. "There’s a U.S. Marshal Downing on board. He had to give me his weapon," he added with a grin. "Do you happen to know him?"

"The name’s not familiar. He isn’t transporting, is he?"

"Yes, he is."

"What’s he doing on a commercial flight? They’ve got their own carriers."

"This is an unusual situation according to Downing. He’s taking a prisoner back to Boston to stand trial and he’s in a hurry," he explained. "Downing told me they got the boy cold for selling drugs and that it’s an open-and-shut case. The prisoner isn’t supposed to be violent. Downing thinks his lawyers will plea him out before the judge ever picks up his gavel. Like you, they preboarded. The marshal’s from Texas. You can hear it in his voice, and he seems like a real nice fella. You ought to go introduce yourself to him."

Nick nodded. "Where are they seated?" he asked with a quick glance into the main cabin of the mammoth plane.

"You can’t see them from here. They’re on the left side, back row. Downing has the boy shackled and handcuffed. I’m telling you, Nick, his prisoner can’t be much older than my son, Andy, and he’s just fourteen. It’s a crying shame, someone that young is going to spend the rest of his life in prison."

"Criminals are getting younger and dumber," Nick remarked. "Thanks for telling me. I will go say hello. Is the plane packed today?"

"No," Sorensky answered as he tucked the magazine into his pants pocket. "We’re only half full until we land at Logan. Then we’ll be packed."

After insisting that if Nick needed anything he was to let him know, Sorensky went back to the cockpit, where a man wearing the navy blue uniform and identification of the airline’s ground crew was waiting with a clipboard full of curled papers. He followed the captain into the cockpit and closed the door behind him. Nick put his suit carrier in the overhead compartment, dropped his old, scarred, leather briefcase in his assigned seat, and then crossed over to the left side of the plane and started down the aisle toward the U.S. marshal. He was halfway there when he changed his mind. The other passengers were quickly filing on board now, and so he decided to wait until they were in the air and he’d gotten his legs back before introducing himself to Downing. He did get a good look at him though, and the prisoner too, before he turned around. Downing had one leg stretched out into the aisle, and Nick could see the fancy scrollwork on his cowboy boot. Tall and wiry, the marshal was all cowboy with his weathered complexion, his thick brown mustache, and his black leather vest. Nick couldn’t see his belt, but he would have bet a month’s salary that Downing was sporting a big silver buckle.

Captain Sorensky had been on the mark in his evaluation of the prisoner. At first glance he did look like a kid. But there was a hardness Nick had seen countless times in the past. This one had been around the block more than once and had most likely killed his conscience a long time ago. Yeah, they were getting younger and dumber these days, Nick thought. The prisoner had been cursed with bad judgment and god-awful genes. His face was scarred with acne, and his marble cold eyes were so close together he looked cross-eyed. Someone had done a real hatchet job on his hair, no doubt on purpose. There were spikes sticking up all over his head, kind of like the Statue of Liberty, but then maybe he wanted to look that way. What did it matter what kind of punk haircut he had? Where he was going he would still have plenty of friends waiting in line for a chance to get to him.

Nick went back to the front of the plane and got settled in his seat. He was in first class today, and though the seat was wider, it still felt cramped. His legs were too long to properly stretch out. After shoving his briefcase under the seat in front of him, he leaned back, clipped his seat belt together, and partially closed his eyes. It would have been nice if he could have at least tried to get comfortable, but that was out of the question because he knew that if he took his suit jacket off, he’d freak out the other passengers when they saw his holstered gun. They wouldn’t know it wasn’t loaded, and Nick wasn’t in the mood to calm anyone else down. Hell, he was hovering on the edge of a panic attack now, and he knew he’d stay that way until the plane had taken off. He’d be all right, sort of, anyway, until they began their descent into Logan Airport. Then the anxiety would start all over again. In his present, claustrophobic, neurotic state, he thought it was damned ironic that O’Leary wanted him to join the crisis management team.

Mind over matter, he told himself, and in a panic or not, he was determined to catch up on his paperwork while he was in the air. He’d already checked and knew that no one was going to be sitting in the window seat. Nick always took the aisle, even if it meant moving another passenger, so that he could see the face of every single person who came on board the plane. After takeoff he would be able to spread his folders out while he deciphered his notes and fed the information into his laptop.

Damn, he wished he weren’t such a control freak. Morganstern had told him he’d taught him relaxation techniques while he was on retreat with the other team members during their isolated training period, but Nick didn’t have any memory of anything that had happened during those two weeks, and he knew the others didn’t remember anything either. They had all agreed to Pete’s terms. He had sat them down, explained what he wanted to do, but not how, and then asked them to trust him. Nick had the most difficult time making up his mind because it meant he would have to give up his control. In the end, he finally agreed. Pete had warned them they wouldn’t remember, and he’d been right about that. None of them did.

Sometimes a scent or a sound would trigger a thought about the retreat and he’d tense in reaction, but just as suddenly as it came into his mind, it vanished. He knew he’d been in a forest somewhere in the United States-he had the scars to prove it. There was one the shape of a crescent moon on his left shoulder and a smaller scar directly above his right eye. He’d left the retreat with cuts and abrasions on his hands and legs, and God only knows how many mosquito bites to prove he’d been stomping through the wilderness. Did the other Apostles have scars? He didn’t know, and he could never seem to hold on to the question in his mind long enough to ask.

Once during a private meeting Pete had brought up the topic of the retreat and Nick had asked him if he’d been brainwashed. His boss had flinched at the word. "Good Lord, no," he said. "I simply tried to teach you how to maximize what God gave you."

In other words, Pete’s mind games trained them to hone their naturally acute instincts, to focus or, like the army slogan said, to be all they could be.

The plane was moving. They taxied to the end of the runway and then stopped. Nick assumed they were waiting for their turn to get in line with the other planes for takeoff-Cincinnati was a national hub and was always glutted with traffic-but fifteen minutes passed, and they still weren’t inching forward. When he leaned over the empty seat and looked out the window, he saw two planes taxung at a hell of a fast clip in the opposite direction.

A young blond woman smiled at him from across the aisle and tried to engage him in conversation by asking him if he was a nervous flyer. His white-knuckle grip on the armrests had to have been a dead giveaway. He nodded in answer, then turned to look out the window again to discourage further chitchat. She wasn’t bad-looking, and the spandex skirt and top she wore proved, without a doubt, that she had a fine body, but he didn’t want to work at small talk, and he certainly wasn’t in the mood to flirt. He must be more tired than he’d thought. He was becoming more and more like Theo. These days his brother wasn’t in the mood for anything but work.

Nick spotted the fire truck and two police cars racing toward the plane at the same time that Captain Sorensky’s voice came over the intercom. It was strained with good cheer.

"Ladies and gentlemen, there will be a slight delay while we wait our turn for takeoff. We should be in the air soon, so sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the door to the cockpit opened and Sorensky, oozing confidence with his smile, stepped out into the galley. He hesitated for the barest of seconds, his gaze fully directed on Nick, and then started down the aisle. Following on his heels was the young, pasty-faced airline crewman. The man was tailing the captain so closely he looked like he was holding on to the back of his jacket.

Nick slowly unfastened his seat belt.

"Captain, shouldn’t you be flying this plane?" the leggy blond asked, smiling.

Sorensky didn’t look at the woman when he answered. "I just want to check something in back."

The captain’s hands were fisted at his sides, but as he passed Nick’s seat, his right hand unfolded and he dropped the gun’s magazine into Nick’s lap.

In one fluid motion, Nick sprang out of his seat, grabbed the young crewman’s arm, and pinned it to the back of the headrest behind him. The element of surprise was on his side. The man didn’t even have time to blink before his gun was snatched out of his hand and he was facedown on the floor with Nick’s foot pressed against his neck. The magazine was back in the Sig Sauer and the gleaming barrel was pointed at the man before the captain had fully turned around.

It all happened so fast, the other passengers were too stunned to scream. Sorensky raised his hands and called out, "Everything’s okay, folks." Turning to Nick, he said, "Man, do you move fast."

"I’ve had some practice," Nick replied as he reholstered his gun then knelt down and began to go through the man’s pockets.

"He told me he’s the prisoner’s cousin, and he was going to get him off this plane."

"Didn’t put a whole lot of thought into the plan, did he?" He flipped open the man’s wallet and read the name on his Kentucky driver’s license. "William Robert Hendricks." Nudging the man he asked, "Your friends call you Billy Bob?"

In response Billy Bob started squirming like a fish in a canoe and screaming at the top of his lungs for a lawyer. Nick ignored him and asked the captain to see if Marshal Downing happened to have an extra pair of cuffs he could borrow.

As the initial moment of shock wore off, the passengers began to react. A murmur went through the crowd, and like a snowball, gathered momentum as it rolled down the aisle. Captain Sorensky, sensing the panic that was spreading, took control. In a voice as smooth as good whiskey, he called out, "Settle down, settle down. It’s all over now. Everyone sit back down and relax. As soon as this law officer takes care of this little matter, we’ll be on our way again. No one’s been hurt." The captain then asked one of the attendants to please fetch Marshal Downing from the back row.

The marshal, with prisoner in tow, strode down the aisle and handed Nick a pair of handcuffs. After Nick had snapped the cuffs in place behind the prisoner’s back, he hauled him to his feet. He noticed that Marshal Downing was shaking his head and frowning.

"What’s the matter?" he asked.

"You know what this means, don’t you?" Downing muttered in a slow Texas drawl.

"What does it mean?" Captain Sorensky asked.

"More damned paperwork."

After stopping by his Boston office to drop off a couple of folders, tie up some loose ends, and take a little ribbing about the possibility that he had only squelched the hijacking to delay having to fly-everyone in the department seemed to think his fear of flying was hilarious-Nick finally headed home. Traffic was a bitch, but then it always was. He was tempted to head his ‘84 Porsche toward the highway and open her up just to see how the reconditioned motor would manage but decided against it. He was too tired. Instead, he maneuvered her through the familiar side streets. She handled like a dream. What did he care if his sisters, Jordan and Sidney, had nicknamed her "Compensation," implying that a man who drove such a sexy sports car was merely compensating for what was lacking in his love life.

He pulled into the basement garage of his brick town house, hit the remote control to close the door, and felt his entire body begin to relax. He was finally home. He climbed the steps to the main floor, dumped his Hartmann bag in the back hallway outside the laundry room door-his housekeeper, Rosie, had trained him well-and had his suit jacket and tie off before he reached the newly remodeled kitchen. He dropped his briefcase and his sunglasses on the shiny brown granite island, grabbed a beer from the Sub-Zero refrigerator that always made a weird sucking sound whenever he closed the door, and headed for his sanctuary, dodging the pyramid of unpacked boxes Rosie had stacked in the center of his living room with hostile notes Scotch taped to them.

The library was his favorite room in the house and the only one he’d bothered to furnish since he’d lived there. It was located in the back on the first floor. When he opened the door, the scent of lemon furniture polish, leather, and musty old books wafted about him, the scent not unpleasant. The room was large and spacious, yet still felt warm and cozy on harsh winter nights when a blizzard was raging outside his windows and there was a fire blazing in the hearth. The walls were a dark walnut that stretched twelve feet up to the ornately carved eighteenth-century moldings bracketing the ceiling. Two of the four walls bore shelves slightly bowed from the weight of the heavy texts. A ladder rolled back and forth along a brass pole across the bookcase so the volumes on the top shelves could be easily reached. His mahogany desk, a gift from his uncle, faced the fire-place, the mantel a clutter of photos his mother and his sisters had placed there after he’d moved in. Double French doors with a Palladian arch above them were straight ahead. When he pulled the draperies back and opened the doors to the walled garden with the old cherub fountain and paver-brick patio, that had been laid down God only knows how long ago, sunlight and scent filled the library. In the spring it was lilac first, then honeysuckle, but now the heavy smell of heliotrope was prominent.

He stood there surveying his peaceful haven for several minutes until the heat began to press in on him and he heard the central air conditioner kick on. He closed the doors, yawned loudly, and took a long swallow of his beer. Then he removed his gun, took the magazine out, and put it all inside his wall safe. He sat down at his desk in his soft leather swivel chair, rolled up his sleeves, and flipped on his computer. The tension in his shoulders was easing, but he let out a loud groan when he saw the number of E-mails waiting for him. There were also twenty-eight logged calls on his answering machine as well. With a sigh, he kicked off his shoes, leaned back in his chair, and began scrolling through his E-mail while he listened to his phone messages.

Five of the calls were from his brother Zachary, the youngest in the family, who desperately wanted to borrow the Porsche for the Fourth of July weekend and vehemently promised to take good care of the car. The seventh message was from his mother, who was just as vehement when she told him that Zachary was not to be given the Porsche under any circumstances. His brainy sister Jordan also called to tell him that their stock had just hit $150 per share, which meant that Nick could retire now and live the high life had he been so inclined. Thinking about it made him smile. His father, with his work ethic, would have heart failure if any of his children weren’t productive. According to the judge, their purpose in life was to make the world a little better. Some days Nick was sure he was going to die trying.

The twenty-fourth message stopped him cold.

"Nick, it’s me, Tommy. I’m in real trouble, Cutter. It’s five-thirty my time, Saturday. Call me as soon as you get this message. I’m in Kansas City at Our Lady of Mercy rectory. You know where it is. I’m going to call Morganstern too. Maybe he can get hold of you. The police are here now, but they don’t know what to do, and no one can find Laurant. Look, I know I’m rambling. Just call, no matter what time."