She turned to Charles. “You wasted your time with him. Dodie won’t get any help unless Social Services comes to take her away from her father- if she survives what he’s doing to her.” Back to the boxer, the target. “This man you’re hunting, I’d put good money on him over you. He’s a plotter, a stalker, a long-term planner, but you only know how to use your fists.”
Charles noticed that Mallory was holding something behind her back, and it was not her gun. The weapon was still resting in its holster.
“I can look after my own,” said Joe Finn.
“Ariel gave up her life to save her little sister.” Mallory’s hidden hand came forward. She held up a photograph of a dead body. It was a teenage girl, dark of hair, blue of eye-Ariel.
“That’s not my daughter,” said the boxer.
“You know it is,” said Mallory. “Look at her hands, Finn. You know how those bruises are made. Your daughter took the first shot. The perp didn’t catch Ariel. She attacked him. She was buying the time for Dodie to run.”
Mallory put one finger on the crucifix that hung from his neck, pushing it into his skin, as if to brand him. And the boxer seemed powerless to move her hand away.
“Ariel was a hero,” said Mallory. “But if you get Dodie killed, then Ariel’s death is pointless.” She reached for the tent’s remaining pole and pulled it up with the mooring stakes, then let it drop to collapse the canvas. The boxer was felled, too, taken down by words and pictures. He turned away from her and called out to his son to come and help with the packing, for they were leaving the caravan.
And the boy came-running, grinning-back to life.
While Riker kept a lookout on the other side of the wall of vehicles, Mallory stood beside Charles, watching the small family pack their belongings into the car. The tent had been discarded, for they would have no more need of it. The little girl stood off to one side, holding a doll, her only valued baggage.
Dale Berman was a very unhappy man. “They’d be better off with the Federal Witness Protection Program.”
“Blame it on Kronewald,” said Mallory. “He’s heard rumors that FBI witnesses are dropping like flies.” And the matter was closed. They would proceed with arrangements for the Chicago Police Department’s safe house.
Dale Berman rejoined his people, a cluster of agents that included Christine Nahlman and her young partner.
“So you trust them,” said Charles, “to get the Finns on the right plane?”
“No,” said Mallory, “but the FBI escort isn’t my call. It’s part of the deal Harry Mars worked out with Kronewald. The case is an official joint venture now-Chicago PD and the feds. Berman’s people will deliver the Finns to the airport. That’s not negotiable.” Mallory glanced at her watch. “Kronewald’s plane should be landing soon.”
“Well, I don’t see how Berman can screw this up-unless he works at it.” Charles watched Mallory stroll off with a peculiar, half smile in place and an obvious plan to torture the special agent in charge. And Charles trailed after her-as always.
“So you’re riding along,” she said to Dale Berman.
“I’m still in charge.” Agent Berman turned back to his clipboard and paperwork. A moment of silence went by, and he realized that she was not quite done with him yet. “Look, Mallory, I’ve got eight guns, and that’s not counting the state trooper. As far as cover goes, this is overkill. Nothing can happen to the Finns.”
And still the detective remained silent, letting the agent’s imagination do all the work for her. Finally, Dale Berman seemed to grasp the fact that if something should happen to that little family, something worse would happen to him. Charles wondered if the hand holding the man’s clipboard was slowly descending to the testicles in a subconscious gesture.
If Charles accurately read Mallory’s face as she turned away from Berman, she did not trust the man to do this simple thing without damaging a child. Apparently, this was also obvious to Agent Nahlman, who caught up with her some distance away.
“Look,” said Nahlman, “my daughter was Dodie’s age. I knew the name of her favorite doll. I could even name the doll’s boyfriends. I know how to take care of a little girl.”
“I know all about your daughter,” said Mallory. “She’s dead.”
Nahlman bent forward slightly, as if she had taken a blow. Regaining her poise, she said, “I’ll be driving the Finns. She’ll never be out of my sight. You’ve got my word. I just want to keep Dodie safe.” The agent turned and strode off to her car.
Mallory showed no signs of trust, but neither did she shoot out the tires to prevent the FBI agents from carrying the small family away.
Riker appeared behind Mallory, tapping her shoulder. “What was that business about her kid?”
“Her daughter was shot to death,” said Mallory. “The shooter was a neighbor’s b o y the same age, six years old. They were playing with Nahlman’s g u n. That’s when she started drinking alone-and drinking a lot. She’s been in therapy for years.”
“You got that from her personnel file?”
“No,” she said, “I got that off Dale Berman’s personal computer. It was a memo he sent to every agent on this detail-except her. Berman was explaining to the troops why they had to make allowances for Nahlman’s little episodes. I’m guessing he meant the times when she stood up to him. Maybe she challenged his orders.” Mallory was staring at the group of young agents surrounding Christine Nahlman. “They won’t w ant to work with her again. They don’t t rust her now. But I do.”
Agent Nahlman had just ended a call when Riker reached through the open car window. He took her hand, the one with the cell phone.
“I’m not making a pass at you,” he said.
She was still holding the cell phone as the detective pressed the buttons to enter his own number into her electronic address book.
“In case you haven’t got it memorized,” he said. “You can never have enough backup.” Done with this little chore, he did not release her hand. “Now listen carefully, Nahlman, ’cause this happens to be one of my favorite song lyrics, okay?” He gently closed her fingers over the cell phone. “Just call, and I’ll be there.”
He whistled the tune that went with those words as he moseyed away from the car. And, though she understood that he only wanted to keep her alive, it was her most romantic moment since that old song was new.
19
State troopers had displaced the remaining FBI agents. By foot and flashlight, they patrolled the perimeter of the caravan city, and, courtesy of a local appliance store, three hundred civilians were watching small television sets powered by batteries, car chargers and mobile home outlets.
The camping experience had begun to wear on Charles Butler. There was no escape from the constant din of changing channels, and the glow of TV screens outshone the firelights and lanterns. The parents watched the New Mexico manhunt play out across the state as if this were not their own story but someone else’s drama-possibly because so much of it was fiction. The news broadcasters aimed to entertain, undeterred by an absence of facts. The caravan’s field reporters had long since departed, following the night’s big story, and the two detectives from New York City sat before an open fire and finished the last of their reports to the local authorities.
Charles was somewhat leery of Riker’s latest experiment, though he approved the use of an old-fashioned pot. After mingling the water and the grounds, the detective brought the whole mess to a boil and then added cold water.