King and Maxwell

CHAPTER 45

WHEN THEY RETURNED TO FBI HEADQUARTERS, Sean asked Agent Littlefield to take them to see Tyler. The expression on Littlefield’s face was not encouraging.

Sean said angrily, “Look, you have no right to keep us from seeing him. He’s probably scared out of his mind right now.”

“I wouldn’t know if he was or not,” said Littlefield evasively.

Michelle said, “And why would that be? Can’t you just ask him?”

Littlefield said nothing. He simply aimed his gaze at a spot on the ceiling and seemed to be pretending Sean and Michelle weren’t even there.

Sean looked at her. “I think he’s sending us a telepathic message.”

“Okay, let’s see if we can grab the signal.” She put a finger to her forehead and closed her eyes. “Wait for it, wait for it, okay, it’s coming.” She leaned down and got right in Littlefield’s face, her hands on her hips.

“How the hell did the FBI manage to lose a sixteen-year-old kid?”

Now Littlefield met her eye. “We had no reason to believe he was going to make a break for it.”

“And you had no reason to believe he wasn’t either,” Sean pointed out. “But from the WFO[36]? Really?”

“How?” demanded Michelle.

“Does it matter?” asked Littlefield.

“It might just help us find him.”

Littlefield slumped in his chair.

“He said he was hungry. Wanted a hot dog and curly fries from the vendor outside. He also wanted some air. Sent one of the old codger uniforms with him. Our guy had two dogs and a pack of fries in his hands and was trying to pay for the food when the kid took off across the street like a rocket. Right in the middle of rush hour. In less than a minute he was gone. Our guy said the boy could flat-out run.”

“Uh, yeah, he’s sixteen freaking years old with long legs,” said Michelle. “And he’s on the swim team, which means he has tons of endurance. But I’m sure you knew all that. Which makes me wonder why you sent an old codger out with him in the first place!”

“He wasn’t under arrest. He wasn’t being detained.”

“It was your job to keep him safe. Now he could be anywhere,” said Michelle. “Including dead.”

“Okay, I get all that,” said Littlefield miserably. “I screwed up.” He looked from one to the other. “So what now?”

“Now we find Tyler before some other folks do,” said Sean. He added, “I’m assuming we’re free to go?”

“For the time being. But I’ll feel a lot better if I send some agents with you. For personal protection, of course.”

“No offense,” said Michelle. “But the Secret Service does personal protection a lot better than you, so we’re good to go.”

“So what did the president want with you two?” asked Littlefield.

Michelle said, “To congratulate us on our work to date.”

“Cut the crap. What did he want?”

“He wants us to do something,” said Sean. “And we’re thinking about it.”

“The president asks you to do something and you’re thinking about it?” Littlefield said incredulously.

“You know,” said Michelle. “That’s exactly how he sounded too. Well, take care, we’ll be going now.”

She put her hand on the knob and eyed Sean. An invisible message seemed to have been telegraphed between them.

Sean said, “We’ll keep you abreast of our investigation if you do the same.”

“You know I can’t promise that,” said Littlefield.

“Good,” said Sean. “Then we’ll keep you in the dark on ours too.”

They left.

As they walked down the hall Michelle said, “Where do you think Tyler went?”

“He got a message back from his dad. My guess is he got another one.”

Sean was already pulling his phone out and checking the back door he had established on Tyler’s Gmail account.

“And there it is. And unfortunately it’s not in code.”

“Why unfortunately?” asked Michelle. “If it’s not coded we should be able to break it easily, even without Edgar.”

“You’d think, wouldn’t you?”

He handed her the phone.

She eyed the screen, reading the short email.

Tonight at ten. Usual place.

“Usual place,” said Michelle, her brow furrowed.

“Seemingly straightforward information without context is better than code,” noted Sean. “There’s no logical way to crack it because we don’t know where the usual place is.”

“Sure there is,” countered Michelle, tossing him back his phone.

He caught it and stared at her as she sped up on her way out of WFO.

They had to take a taxi back to Sean’s house because the FBI had refused, or at least Littlefield had refused, them a ride back.

Michelle sat impatiently in the backseat, urging the cabdriver to run red lights, break the speed limit, and come as close as possible to sideswiping cars that refused to get out of the way.

“In other words,” said Sean, “you want him to drive just like you.”

“Basically, yeah.”

“And why the rush?”

“Got an idea. We need to talk to someone.”

“Who?”

“The only person I know who can give us some context and help us understand that email.”

They returned to Sean’s house and climbed immediately into Michelle’s Land Cruiser. Sean had to kick junk and trash off the floorboard so his feet would have a place to rest. Some of the stuff fell outside on the driveway as he closed the door.

“Just so you know,” he said, “I am not picking that up.”

“Good boy, Sean. Glad to see you’re being a little less of a neatnik. It shows personal growth and maturity.”

“You know that was not my poi–”

He didn’t finish because she had backed the truck out of his driveway at about eighty miles an hour before slamming it into drive and hurtling off. She started tapping the steering wheel with her fingers, moving her head from side to side and smiling.

“You really get high from this stuff, don’t you?” he observed, watching her.

“What stuff?”

“Speed, danger, being stupid.”

“You lost me on the last one.”

“So the context? Fill me in.”

“Kathy Burnett. They grew up together. They’re tight. I’m betting if anyone can tell us where the ‘usual place’ is for Tyler and his dad, it will be her.”

“That’s actually quite insightful, Michelle,” he said.

“I thought so.” She glanced at him. “But if we do guess right and we catch up to Sam Wingo, what then?”

“I’ve been running those scenarios in my head. He’s officially wanted by the authorities. Our duty should be clear.”

“Our duty is never clear.”

“This is very true,” he agreed.

“So again, what do we do?”

“I don’t have a clear answer. A lot depends on what Sam Wingo’s story is.”

“He’s Special Forces, Sean. Selected for a pretty classified project. And survived what looked to be an ambush and a bunch of people dead. Guy clearly has incredible skills. If he’s gone bad–”

“Then we’ll have to tread carefully.”

“Maybe more than that.”

He looked at her. “What do you mean?”

“Sean, we might have to be prepared to kill him. Before he kills us.”

“Kill him? Right in front of his son?”

“It’s not my first choice, obviously.”

Sean stared at the scenery passing by them at eighty miles an hour.