“Duckworth could be hiding somewhere else…”
“Are you even listening? The man’s dead!”
“Don’t say that!” I explode.
“Then stop acting like a lunatic!” he shoots back. “The sun doesn’t rise and set on Marty Duckworth!”
“You think that’s all it’s about? Marty Duckworth!? I could give a crap about Duckworth – I just want my old life back! I want my apartment, and my job, and my clothes, and my old hair…” I grip a fistful of black follicles from the back of my head. “I want my life back, Charlie! And unless we figure out what’s going on, Gallo and DeSanctis are going t-”
A loud splat smacks against the window. We both duck down. The noise stays loud – rat-a-tat-tatting against the glass – like someone breaking in. I look up to see who, but the only thing there is a starburst of water. It pummels the calendar-covered glass and quickly drips down the pane. Sprinkler… just the sprinkler.
“Someone probably tripped on the hose…” Charlie says.
I’m not taking any chances. “Check outside,” I insist.
I run to the small window in the kitchenette; he goes for the one near the door. The sprinkler’s still barreling against the glass. I peel back a piece of the calendar and peek outside… just as a blurred figure darts below the windowsill. I jump back, almost falling over.
“What? What is it?” Charlie asks.
“Someone’s out there!”
“Are you sure?”
“I just saw him!”
Staggering backwards, Charlie does his best to fight fear, but even he’s not that good.
“Do you have the-?”
“Right here,” I answer, reaching down and grabbing the gun from my pants. I cock back the pin and put a finger on the trigger.
Stuck in the kitchen, Charlie rummages through the drawers, looking for a weapon. Knives, scissors, anything. Top to bottom, he rips open each drawer. Empty. Empty. Empty. The last one slides out and his eyes go wide. Inside is a rusted machete, broken in half so it fits perfectly in the drawer.
“Blessed are the drug dealers,” he says, yanking it out.
As he takes off, I follow him through the main room and into the bathroom. Just like we worked out last night. Tiny efficiencies may be too small for back doors… but they still have back windows. Leaping on the toilet, he cranks open the cheap window and punches out the screen. I hop up next to him.
“You go first,” Charlie says, cupping his hands to boost me up.
“No, you.”
He won’t budge.
“Charlie…” The tone and my scolding eyes are all mom. He knows it’s been ingrained since birth – protect your little brother.
Realizing it’s a fight he’ll never win, he tosses out the machete and steps into my boost. Up and out – he’s gone in an instant. Another perfect landing. I follow, though I almost kill myself on the landing.
“Ready to run?” he asks, rechecking the narrow concrete alley created by the building ours backs up to. On our left is a swinging metal gate that leads back to the street; on our right is an open path that snakes around to the main courtyard – right where they’re hiding. With a shared glance, we scramble toward the gate… and quickly spot the metal chain and padlock that keeps it shut tight.
“Damn,” Charlie whispers, smacking the lock.
I motion with the gun. I can shoot it open.
He shakes his head. Are you crazed? They’ll hear in a second! Without thinking, he takes off toward the other end of the alley, and I grab him by the arm.
“You’re gonna run right into them,” I whisper.
“Not if they’re already inside… besides, you got a better way out?”
I look around, but there’s no arguing with impossibility.
C’mon, Charlie motions. He speeds down the alley, sticking to the patches of dried-out grass to keep quiet. At the edge of the building, he stops and turns my way. Ready?
I nod, and he peeks around the first corner. All clear, he signals, waving me forward.
Like burglars in our own backyard, we slip down behind the building, ducking under the windowsills. Around the next corner is where we saw him. I hear the stream from the sprinkler still gushing against the glass. The sound drowns out our own footsteps… and whoever’s waiting for us there.
“Let me go first,” I whisper.
He shakes his head and shoves me back. He’s done letting me play protector. I don’t care. Squeezing in next to him, I check the ground for stray shadows and slowly stick my head out. Around the corner, a discarded jump rope sits on the lawn, right next to a deflated beach ball. I scan the courtyard from tree to tree, but I can barely hear myself think. The sprinkler still pounds against the window. Charlie’s breathing heavy next to me. No one’s in sight, but I can’t shake the feeling that something isn’t right. Still, there’s no choice. It’s the only way out. Charlie licks a puddle of sweat from the dimple above his lip and puts up his fist. Counting by fingers, he nods my way. One… two…
We tear out of there at full speed, ducking under the sprinkler. My heart’s thundering… all I see is the street… almost there… the metal gate’s in sight…
“Where you off to, Cinderella – late for the ball?” a voice asks from our front steps.
Whirling around, we stop in our tracks. I lift the gun; Charlie raises the machete.
“Easy there, cowboy,” she says, hands already in the air. Forget the Service. It’s the woman from Duckworth’s.
“What’re you doing here?” Charlie challenges.
She doesn’t answer. Her eyes are fixed on my gun. “You want to tell me who you really are?” she asks.
“This isn’t about you,” I warn.
“Why were you asking about him?”
“So you do know Duckworth?” I blurt.
“I asked you a question…”
“So did I,” I shoot back. I wave the gun to get her attention. She doesn’t know us well enough to decide if she should call the bluff.
“How did you know him?” Charlie demands.
She lowers her hands, but never stops staring at me. “You really don’t know?” she asks. “Marty Duckworth was my father.”
34
Maggie Caruso was never a good sleeper. Even when things were going well – during her honeymoon in the Poconos – Maggie had trouble mustering five hours of continuous sleep. As she got older – when the credit card companies started calling at the end of the month – she’d be lucky to get three hours straight. And last night, with her sons gone, she sat up in bed, clawed at the sheets, and barely made two – which was exactly what Gallo was counting on when he brought her in this morning.
“Thought you’d like some coffee,” Gallo said as he entered the bright white interrogation room. Unlike yesterday, DeSanctis wasn’t by his side. Today it was just Gallo, wearing his standard ill-fitting gray suit and a surprisingly warm grin. He handed Maggie the coffee with both hands. “Careful, it’s hot,” he said, actually sounding concerned.
“Thanks,” Maggie replied, watching him carefully and studying his new attitude.
“So how’re you feeling?” Gallo asked as he pulled up a chair. Like before, he sat right next to her.
“I’m fine,” Maggie said, hoping to keep it short. “Now is there something I can help you with?”
“Actually, there is…” He let the words dangle in the air. It was a tactic he learned right when he started in the Service. When it came to getting people to talk, there was no better weapon than silence.
“Agent Gallo, if you’re looking for Charlie and Oliver, you should know that neither of them came home last night.”
“Really?” Gallo asked. “So you still don’t know where they are?”
Maggie nodded.
“And you still don’t know if they’re okay?”
“Not a clue,” she said quickly.