Last to Die

TWENTY-FOUR

JANE AND FROST WERE SILENT AS THEY DROVE TOWARD COLUMBIA, both of them stunned and trying to process what they had just heard. After their visit to NASA, this was an anticlimactic journey down a mundane highway toward the unexciting office where Olivia Yablonski worked as a medical equipment sales rep.

“I’m wondering if we had it wrong,” said Frost. “I don’t think the boy was the target in New Hampshire.”

Jane glanced at her partner, who was squinting ahead, as though trying to peer through fog. “You’re thinking it was the boy’s uncle. Brian Temple.”

“Both men are about to reveal something earth shattering. Neil gets taken out. Brian panics, flees with his wife and nephew to New Hampshire. The bad guys come after him.”

“Trouble is, we don’t know who the bad guys are.”

“You heard Bartusek. Finding ET would shake up the world. It would make people question everything they learned in Sunday school.”

“So, what, we’ve got some albino assassin monk killing NASA scientists?” She laughed. “I think that was a movie.”

“Consider what religious zealots already do to defend their beliefs. Those climate scientists at MIT, they’re always getting threats. This is gonna really bring out the crazies. If it ever gets announced.” He frowned. “Interesting that NASA hasn’t.”

“Sounds like the proof isn’t there yet.”

“Is that really true, or is this too hot for them—for anyone—to handle?”

Extraterrestrial life. She spun that possibility in her head, trying to see it from every angle, imagine every repercussion. A motive for assassination? The murders of the Yablonskis and the Temples were definitely the work of professionals who knew their way around Semtex. “There’s a problem with this theory,” she said. “It doesn’t explain Claire Ward’s family. He was a diplomat, working for the State Department. What’s his connection with NASA?”

“Maybe they’re unrelated cases. We’re just linking them because both kids ended up at Evensong.”

She gave a sigh. “Now you sound like Crowe. Different kids, different cases. Just a coincidence they ended up in the same school.”

“Although it is interesting …”

“What?”

He pointed to a road sign for the turnoff to Washington. “Didn’t Erskine Ward also work in DC for a while?”

“And Rome. And London.”

“At least we’ve got a geographic connection between the Wards and the Yablonskis. They lived within the same fifty-mile radius.”

“But not Teddy Clock’s family. Nicholas Clock’s job was in Rhode Island.”

“Yeah.” Frost shrugged. “So maybe we’re trying to connect things that have no connection, and we’re just making it all too complicated.”

She spotted the address they were searching for and turned into the parking lot. It was yet another strip mall, indistinguishable from thousands of others across the country. Was there some universal strip mall design they taught you in architecture school, photocopied blueprints passed around to every builder in America? She pulled into a parking spot and eyed the usual mix of businesses. A drugstore, a dress shop for big sizes, a dollar store, and a Chinese buffet. That was the one constant you could always count on, the Chinese buffet. “I don’t see it,” said Frost.

“Must be at the far end.” She pushed open her door. “Let’s stretch our legs and walk.”

“You sure this is the right address?”

“I confirmed it with the manager this morning. She’s expecting us.” Her cell phone rang, and she recognized the Maryland number of the detective who had investigated the Yablonski case. “Rizzoli,” she answered.

“It’s Detective Parris. Did you make it to Baltimore?” he asked.

“We’re here now. Can you still meet us tonight?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m on the road right now, but I should be back in town by dinnertime. How about we meet at the LongHorn Steakhouse around seven thirty? It’s on Snowden River Parkway. By then, I’ll be ready for some red meat. I’d rather not meet at my residence.”

“I understand. I don’t like to mix business and family, either.”

“No, it’s more than that. It’s this case.”

“What about it?”

“We’ll talk about it later. Did you bring your partner?”

“Detective Frost is right here with me.”

“Good. It always helps to have someone watch your back.”

She hung up and looked at Frost. “That was a weird call.”

“What hasn’t been weird about this case?” He eyed the strip mall, with its unexciting array of shops. “From NASA to this place.” He sighed. “Let’s do it.”

Leidecker Hospital Supplies was located at the far end of the mall, behind a storefront window displaying two wheelchairs and a quad cane. Stepping inside, Jane expected to find a showroom filled with medical equipment. Instead they found an office with five desks, beige carpet, and two potted palms. At one of the desks, a middle-aged woman with shellacked blond hair was talking on the phone. She spotted the visitors and said, “I’ll call you back later about that order, Mr. Wiggins.” Hanging up, she smiled at her visitors. “May I help you?”

“Ms. Mickey? Detectives Rizzoli and Frost,” said Jane. “We spoke earlier.”

The woman rose to greet them, revealing a slim figure in a well-cut gray pantsuit. “Please, call me Carole. I really hope I can help you. It still haunts me, you know. Every time I look over there, at her desk, I think about her.”

Jane glanced around at the unoccupied desks. “Are Olivia’s other colleagues around? We’d like to talk to them, as well.”

“I’m afraid everyone else is out of town right now, on sales calls. But I knew Olivia longer than anyone here, so I should be able to answer your questions. Please, sit down.”

As they all settled into chairs, Frost said: “I’m guessing you’ve been asked these questions before.”

“Yes, a detective was here several times. I’ve forgotten his name.”

“Parris?”

“That’s him. A week after the accident, he called here, asking …” She paused. “But I guess we know now it wasn’t an accident.”

“No, ma’am.”

“He asked me if Olivia had any enemies. Any old boyfriends. Or any new boyfriends.”

“And did you know of any?” Jane asked.

Carole Mickey gave a vigorous shake of her head, but not a hair moved in her perfect blond helmet. “Olivia wasn’t that kind of person.”

“Lots of regular people have affairs, Ms. Mickey.”

“Well, she wasn’t just a regular person. She was the most reliable sales rep we had. If she said she’d be in London on Wednesday, she’d be in London on Wednesday. Our clients always knew they could rely on her.”

“And these clients,” said Frost, “These are hospitals? Medical offices?”

“Both. We sell to institutions around the world.”

“Where are your products? I don’t see much on display here.”

Carole reached into a drawer and pulled out a heavy catalog, which she thumped onto the desk in front of them. “This is just our satellite sales office. The catalog shows our extensive range of products. They’re shipped out of warehouses in Oakland, Atlanta, Frankfurt, Singapore. Plus a few other locations.”

Jane flipped through the catalog and saw hospital beds and wheelchairs, commodes and gurneys. A glossy compilation of everything she hoped she’d never need. “Mrs. Yablonski was on the road a lot?”

“All of our sales reps are. And this office is home base, where I try to keep everything under control.”

“You don’t go out on the road yourself?”

“Someone has to hold down the fort.” Carole looked around the room with its beige carpet and fake palm trees. “But sometimes it sure does get claustrophobic in here. I should spiff things up, shouldn’t I? Maybe put in some travel posters. It would be nice to stare at a tropical beach for a change.”

Frost said, “Do your reps make their sales calls solo, or do they travel with associates?”

Carole gave him a puzzled look. “Why do you ask?”

“I just wondered if Olivia had a particularly close friendship with any of her colleagues.”

“Our five reps travel alone. And no, there were no inappropriate friendships in this office. For heaven’s sakes, this is Olivia we’re talking about. A happily married woman with a son. I babysat Will a few times, and you learn a lot about people just by seeing the sort of children they raise. Will’s a wonderful boy, very polite and well behaved. Obsessed with astronomy, like his father was. I just thank God he wasn’t aboard their plane that day. To think of the whole family being wiped out …”

“What about Will’s aunt and uncle, the Temples? Did you know them as well?”

“No, I’m afraid I didn’t. I heard they took Will and moved away, probably to escape all these sad memories. Give the boy a fresh start.”

“You do know that Lynn and Brian Temple are dead?”

Carole stared at her. “Oh my God. How did it happen?”

“Their farmhouse burned down in New Hampshire. Will wasn’t in the house at the time, so he escaped.”

“Is he all right? Is he staying with other relatives?”

“He’s in a safe place” was all Jane would say.

Clearly shocked by the news, Carole sank back in her chair and murmured: “Poor Olivia. She’ll never see him grow up. You know, she was eight years younger than I am, and I never imagined I’d outlive her.” Carole looked around the office as if truly seeing it for the first time. “Two years later, and what have I done with my extra time? Here I am, in exactly the same place, and I haven’t changed a thing. Not even those stupid fake palms.”

The phone rang on the desk. Carole took a deep breath and forced a smile to her lips as she answered it brightly: “Oh hello, Mr. Damrosch, so nice to hear from you again! Yes, of course we can update that order for you. Is this for multiple items, or just that one in particular?” She reached for a pen and began jotting down notes.

Jane had no interest in hearing a conversation about canes and walkers, and she rose from the chair.

“Excuse me, Mr. Damrosch, you can you hold on a minute?” Carole cupped a hand over the receiver and looked at Jane. “I’m sorry. Did you want to ask me anything else?”

Jane looked at the glossy catalog on the desk. Thought of Olivia Yablonski, hauling that heavy catalog from city to city, appointment to appointment, selling wheelchairs and bedpans. “We have no more questions,” she said. “Thank you.”

DETECTIVE PARRIS LOOKED LIKE a man who loved his beef and booze. They found him already seated at the LongHorn Steakhouse, sipping a martini as he studied the menu. His burly frame was so tightly wedged into the booth that Jane waved him back into his seat as she and Frost settled into the seat across from him. He set down his martini and gave them a typical cop’s once-over, the same cool survey that Jane was simultaneously conducting of him. In his early sixties, probably on the cusp of retirement, he’d long ago lost his boyish figure as well as most of his hair. But judging by that penetrating stare, there was still a cop’s brain behind those eyes, and he was sizing up Jane and Frost before he committed to the conversation.

“I’ve been wondering when someone would finally come asking about that case,” he said.

“And here we are,” said Jane.

“Hmph. Boston PD. You just never know which direction this thing is gonna twist next. You folks hungry?”

“Yeah, we could eat,” said Frost.

“I just spent a very long week with my vegan daughter in Tallahassee. So you can bet I’m not here for any frigging salad.” He picked up his menu again. “I’m going for the porterhouse. Twenty ounces with a loaded potato and stuffed mushrooms. That should make up for suffering through a week of broccoli.”

He ordered his steak rare, and another martini. His week in Tallahassee, thought Jane, must have been quite the ordeal. Only after he took a sip of his second drink did he seem ready to get down to business.

“You read the whole file?” he asked.

“Everything you emailed us,” said Jane.

“Then you know what I know. At first glance, it looked like just another small aircraft accident. Single-engine Cessna Skyhawk goes down shortly after takeoff. Debris scattered across a wooded area. Pilot was described as a real nitpicker about safety, but you know how it is. It’s almost always human error, either the pilot’s or the mechanic’s. I didn’t get involved in the case until I got the call from NTSB. In the recovered debris, they’d found signs of penetration by high-velocity fragments. That led them to test for explosive residue. Don’t quote me on the chemistry details, but they used liquid chromatography and mass spectrometry. Found something called hexa-hydro blah blah blah. Otherwise known as RDX.”

“Research Department Explosive,” said Frost.

“So you did read the report.”

“That part interested me. It’s used by the military and it’s more powerful than TNT. Mix it with wax, and you can shape it. It’s part of what makes up Semtex.”

Jane looked at her partner. “Now I know why you wanted to be a rocket scientist. So you can blow stuff up.”

“And that’s exactly what happened to the Yablonskis’ little Skyhawk,” said Parris. “It got blown up. The RDX was lit up via radio control. Not a timer, not altitude-triggered. Someone was on site, saw the plane take off, and pressed a button.”

“So this was not a mistake,” said Jane. “Not the wrong plane.”

“I’m almost certain the Yablonskis were the intended target. That’s probably not what you heard from Neil’s NASA colleagues. They refuse to believe anyone would want to kill him. I never bothered to enlighten them.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what we heard from Dr. Bartusek,” said Jane. “That it had to be a mistake. That Neil had no enemies.”

“Everyone has enemies. But the kind who play around with RDX?” He shook his head. “We’re talking scary shit, military-grade explosives. Scary enough to make me wonder if …” He suddenly stopped as the waitress brought their meals. Compared with the huge slab of meat on Parris’s platter, Jane’s seven-ounce filet and Frost’s chicken breast looked like appetizers. Only after the waitress had left did Jane prompt Parris to finish his sentence.

“It made you wonder what?” she asked.

“If I was the next one who’d turn up dead,” he muttered, and shoved a dripping chunk of meat into his mouth. Bloody juices pooled on his plate as he cut another chunk, took another gulp of his martini. Jane remembered what he’d said on the phone earlier that afternoon: I’d rather not meet at my residence. She’d thought it was merely to keep his job separate from his personal life. Now his statement had an ominous new meaning.

“This scared you that much?” she said.

“Damn right.” He looked at her. “You’ll start to understand if you keep chasing this.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“That’s just it, I don’t know. I’ll never know if I was being paranoid and imagining things. Or if there really was someone tapping my phone. Tailing my car.”

“Whoa.” Jane laughed. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack.” He set down his knife and fork and stared at her. “That’s why I’m glad you came with your partner here. Someone to watch your back. I’m old school enough to think ladies need to be looked after, even if they’re cops.”

“Looked after?” Jane said to Frost. “You’ve been falling down on the job.”

“Detective Parris,” said Frost, “where do you think this, uh, threat is coming from?”

“I can hear it in your voice. You don’t believe me. But you’ll find out soon enough. So here’s my advice: Keep looking over your shoulder. Everywhere you go, pay attention to the faces, and you’ll notice some of them start to look familiar. The guy in the coffee shop. The gal in the airport. Then one night, you’ll notice the van parked outside your house. The van that just stays there.”

Frost shot a glance at Jane, and it was not missed by Parris.

“Yeah, okay. You think I’m nuts.” He shrugged and reached for his martini. “Just keep digging and things will start squirming out of the mud.”

“What things?” said Jane.

“You’ve probably already got ’em stirred up, just by coming here and asking questions.”

“Having to do with Neil or with Olivia?”

“Forget Olivia. Poor gal was just in the wrong plane at the wrong time.” Parris waved at the waitress and pointed at his empty martini glass. “If you don’t mind,” he called out.

“You think the motive was professional?” asked Frost.

“When you rule out jealous lovers and pissed-off neighbors and greedy relatives, you’re kind of down to the workplace.”

“You know what his research was at NASA, right?”

Parris nodded. “Alien life. Word is, he and his buddy Brian Temple thought they might’ve found it, even if no one at NASA will go on the record and say it.”

“Because they’re suppressing it?” asked Frost. “Or because it’s not true?”

Wyman leaned forward, his face flushed from the alcohol. “You don’t get blown up when you’re wrong. It’s when you’re right that things get dangerous. And I have a feeling …” He suddenly stopped, his gaze fixed on something behind Jane. She started to turn, and he whispered: “Don’t.”

“What is it?”

“Guy with glasses, white shirt, blue jeans. Seated at six o’clock. I think I saw him at a highway rest stop two hours ago.”

Jane let the napkin slide off her lap onto the floor. She bent to pick it up and caught a look at the man in question, just as a woman with a toddler in hand slid into the booth beside him.

“Unless they’re hiring three-year-olds as spies,” said Jane, straightening, “I don’t think you need to worry about the guy with the glasses.”

“Okay,” Parris admitted. “So I got that one wrong. But there’ve been other things.”

“Like vans outside your house,” she said, voice neutral.

He stiffened. “I know how it sounds. When this started, I couldn’t believe it, either. I kept fishing for a logical explanation, but stuff kept happening. Voice mails got lost. Things on my desk got moved, files went missing. That went on for months.”

“And it’s still going on?”

Parris paused as the waitress returned with a third martini. He stared at his drink, as if weighing the wisdom of dumping any more alcohol into his bloodstream. At last he picked it up. “No. The weird stuff stopped happening around the same time the case ran out of steam. Government agencies we were working with—NTSB, FBI—told me their investigation was at a standstill. I guess they had other priorities. It all went quiet. The strange vans went away, and my life went back to normal. Then, a few weeks ago, I heard from the New Hampshire police about the Temples’ farmhouse, blown up with Semtex.” He paused. “Now you’re here. And I’m just waiting for the vans to show up again.”

“You have any idea who’s sending them?”

“I don’t want to know.” He slumped back against the seat. “I’m sixty-four. Should’ve retired two years ago, but I need the income to help out my daughter. This is my job, but it’s not my life, you know?”

“The trouble is,” said Jane, “there may be other lives at stake here. Neil and Olivia’s son, for one.”

“That’d make no sense, to go after a fourteen-year-old boy.”

“Makes no sense to go after two other kids, either.”

Parris frowned. “What kids?”

“During your investigation, did you ever come across the names Nicholas and Annabelle Clock?”

“No.”

“What about Erskine and Isabel Ward?”

“No. Who are these people?”

“Other victims. Other families who were murdered the same week Neil and Olivia died. In each of those families, a child survived. And now those three kids have been attacked again.”

Parris stared at her. “Those other names never came up in my investigation. This is the first I’ve heard of them.”

“The parallels are eerie, aren’t they?”

“Is there a connection with NASA? Can you tie them together that way?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“So what do you have linking these kids?”

“That’s what we hoped you could tell us. What the connection is.”

He sat back, eyeing them over his empty dinner plate, now pooled with blood. “You know as much as I do now, about the Yablonskis. So tell me about the Wards.”

“They were shot to death in a London alley, appeared to be a mugging gone awry. He was an American diplomat, she was a homemaker. Their eleven-year-old daughter was shot as well, but managed to survive.”

“Ward was a diplomat, Yablonski a NASA scientist. What’s the connection? I mean, astrobiology isn’t exactly a hot diplomatic issue.”

Frost suddenly sat up straight. “If ET’s intelligent, we’d have to establish diplomatic relations, wouldn’t we?”

Jane sighed. “No more Star Trek for you.”

“No, think about it! Neil Yablonski and Brian Temple are about to fly to Rome, to meet with Vatican scientists. Erskine Ward was once assigned to Rome, so he had connections there, at the embassy. He probably spoke fluent Italian.”

“What about the Clock family?” said Parris. “You haven’t told me about them. Do they have a link to any of this?”

“Nicholas Clock was a financial consultant in Providence, Rhode Island,” said Jane. “He and his wife, Annabelle, were killed aboard their yacht off Saint Thomas.”

Parris shook his head. “I’m not seeing any connection with the Yablonskis or the Wards. Nothing that ties these three families together.”

Only that their children are all in the same school. A fact that Jane didn’t reveal, because it made her uneasy. A killer needed only to track them down to Evensong, and it would be one-stop slaughter.

“I don’t know what any of this means,” said Parris. “All I can say is, this scares the hell out of me. RDX brought down the Yablonskis’ plane. Semtex blew up the Temple farmhouse in New Hampshire. These are not amateurs. Killers like that, they don’t give a damn that we’re cops. They’re operating on a whole different level, with special training and access to defense-grade explosives. You and me, we’re just cockroaches to them. Remember that.” He drained his martini and set down the glass. “And that’s about all I have to tell you.” He waved to the waitress. “Check, please!”

“We’ll take care of dinner,” said Jane.

Parris nodded. “Much appreciated.”

“Thanks for meeting with us.”

“Not that I could add much,” he said, rising from the chair. Despite the three martinis, he seemed perfectly steady on his feet. “In fact, I should thank you.”

“Why?”

The look he gave her was one of sympathy. “This gets me off the hook. Now they’ll be watching you.”

JANE TOOK A HOT shower and flopped onto her motel bed to stare up at the darkness. The cup of coffee with dinner had been a mistake. Caffeine, plus the day’s events, kept her wide awake, mind churning over what she and Frost had learned, and what it all meant. When at last she fell asleep, the turmoil followed her straight into her dreams.

It was a clear, clear night. She was holding Regina as she stood amid a crowd, gazing up at the sky where stars glittered. Some of those stars began to move like fireflies, and she heard the crowd murmur in wonder as those stars grew brighter, traveling across the heavens in geometric formation.

They weren’t stars.

In horror, she realized what those lights really meant, and she pushed her way through the crowd, desperately searching for a place to hide. A place where the alien lights could not find her. They are coming for us.

She lurched awake, her heart slamming so hard she thought it might leap out of her chest. She lay sweating as the terror of the nightmare slowly faded. This was what happened when you had dinner with a paranoid cop, she thought. You dreamed about alien invasions. Not friendly ETs, but monsters with spaceships and death rays. And why wouldn’t aliens come to earth as conquerors? They would probably be as bloodthirsty as we are.

She sat up on the side of the bed, her throat parched, the sweat cooling her skin. The motel’s bedside clock glowed two fourteen A.M. In only four hours, they had to check out and catch their flight back to Boston. She rose in darkness and felt her way toward the bathroom to get a drink of water. As she passed the window, a pinpoint beam of light flickered through the curtain and vanished.

She moved to the window and nudged aside the drape to peer out at the unlit parking lot. The motel was completely booked, every parking stall filled. She searched the darkness, wondering where that flashlight beam had come from, and was about to let the curtain fall shut again when a dome light suddenly went on inside one of the vehicles.

That’s our rental car.

She hadn’t packed a weapon for this trip; neither had Frost. They were unarmed, without backup, against what? She snatched up her cell phone and hit speed dial. A few rings later, Frost answered, voice still groggy with sleep.

“Someone’s screwing around with our car,” she whispered as she pulled on her blue jeans. “I’m going out there.”

“What? Wait!”

She zipped up her fly. “Thirty seconds and I’m out the door.”

“Hold on, hold on! I’m coming.”

She grabbed her flashlight and keycard and stepped barefoot into the hallway, just as Frost emerged from his room next door. No wonder he’d managed such a quick exit; he was still wearing his pajamas. Red-and-white-striped PJs that hadn’t been in fashion since Clark Gable.

He saw her staring at him, and said: “What?”

“Those make my eyes hurt. You’re like walking neon,” she muttered as they headed for the side exit at the end of the hall.

“What’s the plan?”

“We find out who’s in our car.”

“Maybe we should call nine one one.”

“By the time they respond, he’ll be long gone.”

They slipped out the exit into the night and darted behind a parked car. Peering around the rear bumper, she stared down the row, toward the stall where their rental vehicle was parked. The dome light was no longer shining.

“You sure about what you saw?” he whispered.

She didn’t like the doubt she heard in his voice. At this hour of night, with the gritty pavement biting into her bare feet, the last thing she needed was to have her eyesight questioned by Mr. Neon PJs.

She crept toward their rental car, not knowing or caring if Frost was behind her, because now she was starting to doubt herself. Starting to wonder if the light she’d seen was just a remnant from her nightmare. Aliens in her dreams, and now aliens in the parking lot.

The car was one stall away.

She paused, her sweating palm pressed against the rear bumper of a pickup truck. All she had to do was take another two steps and she’d be touching their own bumper. Crouching in the darkness, she listened for movement, for any sound at all, but she heard only the hiss of distant traffic.

She rocked forward and stared between the two vehicles. Saw empty space. That doubtful note she’d heard in Frost’s voice echoed in her head, even louder now. It sent her scrambling around the rear of their rental car, to peer down the passenger side.

No one there, either.

She rose to her feet and felt the night breeze against her face as she scanned the parking lot. If anyone was watching them, he would see her now, fully exposed. And now here came Frost, an even more blatant target in his red-and-white pajamas.

“No one,” he said. Not a question, just stating the obvious.

Too irritated to respond, she turned on her penlight and circled the car. Saw no scratches in the finish, nothing on the pavement around it except a trampled cigarette butt that looked like it had been lying there for weeks. “My room is right there,” she said, pointing to her window. “I saw a light through the curtains. A flashlight. While I was watching, the dome light went on. Someone got into our car.”

“Did you actually see anyone?”

“No. He must’ve been crouching too low.”

“Well, if he got into our car, then it should be …” Frost paused. “Unlocked.”

“What?”

“It’s not locked.” He gave the driver’s handle a tug and the dome light came on inside. They both stared into the lit car, neither one of them moving.

“I locked it tonight,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

“Why do you keep questioning me? I know I locked the frigging door. You ever seen me not lock my car?”

“No,” he admitted. “You always do.” He looked down at the handle he’d just touched. “Shit. Fingerprints.”

“I’m more concerned about why someone was in our car. And what they were looking for.”

“What if they weren’t looking for anything?” he said.

She stared through the window into the front seat and thought about Neil and Olivia Yablonski climbing aboard their Cessna Skyhawk. She thought about RDX and Semtex and a New Hampshire farmhouse that exploded into flames.

“Let’s take a look under the car,” she said quietly.

She didn’t have to explain a thing; he had already backed away from the driver’s door and was following her to the rear bumper. She got down on her knees and felt grit biting into her palms as she leaned in to study the undercarriage. Her flashlight beam skimmed across the muffler and tailpipe and floor pans. Nothing caught her eye or looked out of place.

She stood, her neck sore from the awkward position. Massaging her sore muscles, she circled to the front of the vehicle and once again dropped to her hands and knees to search the undercarriage.

No bomb.

“Shall I pop the trunk?” said Frost.

“Yeah.” And hope that doesn’t blow us sky-high.

He hesitated, clearly sharing her anxiety, then reached under the dashboard and pulled the release lever.

Jane lifted the trunk and shone her flashlight into the empty space. No bomb. She peeled back the floor carpet and peered into the well with the spare tire. No bomb.

Maybe I did dream it all, she thought. Maybe I forgot to lock the car. And we’re standing out here at three A.M., with Frost in those god-awful PJs, losing half a night’s sleep for nothing.

She closed the trunk and gave a huff of frustration. “We need to look inside the car.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll do it,” muttered Frost. “Might as well make a whole night of it.” He crawled onto the front seat, his pajama-clad rear end poking out the open door. Who would have guessed he’d go for the candy-cane convict look? As he rifled through the glove compartment, she knelt down and shone her flashlight up into the left rear wheel well. Of course, she saw nothing. She moved to the front of the car, repeated her examination of the left and right wheels, and circled back to the right rear wheel. Dropping to her knees, she aimed the flashlight into the space above the tire.

What she saw instantly made her freeze.

Frost called out: “I found something!”

“So did I.” She crouched staring into the wheel well as a chill clawed its way up her back. “You’d better come look at this,” she said quietly.

He climbed out of the car and dropped down beside her. The device was no larger than a cell phone, and affixed to the underside of the wheel well.

“What the hell is it?” she said.

“It looks like a GPS tracker.”

“What did you find inside?”

He took her by the arm and pulled her a few feet away. Whispered: “It’s under the passenger seat. They didn’t even bother to tape it in place. I’m guessing whoever put it there had to take off in a hurry.” He paused. “That’s why he left the car door unlocked.”

“It can’t be because he spotted us. He was gone before we even got out here.”

“You called me on your cell phone,” said Frost. “That had to be the tip-off.”

She stared at him. “You think our phones are being monitored?”

“Think about it. There’s a bug under the seat and a GPS tracker in our wheel well. Why wouldn’t they tap our phones?”

They heard the sound of an engine and turned just in time to see a car suddenly swerve out of the parking lot. They stood barefoot beside their bugged and tracked rental car, wide awake now, and too shaken to return to bed.

“Parris wasn’t paranoid,” said Frost.

She thought about burned farmhouses. About massacred families. “They know who we are,” she said. And where we live.