Soul Thief (Blue Light Series) (24 page)

It was slow going along the dusty lane that passed through quiet, deserted citrus groves and dark cypress swamp. It took more than half an hour to reach the boulevard. Although he kept close watch for one-eyed birds he was not bothered again. Finally he reached the boulevard, giving a sigh of relief for having been allowed to get this far.

Traffic zoomed past in either direction. He picked the south-traveling traffic and stuck his thumb out. Vehicles streamed by in an endless procession. Finally, a van with
Florida Dreams
fancily air-brushed on its side panels pulled over onto the shoulder, sending dust puffing up into the air in a choking cloud. Doug ran and opened the door. A kid with long, stringy, brown hair sat beating his hands on the steering wheel in time to the loud and pulsing reggae music that blasted out of the stereo.

“Hey, amigo, jump in,” the kid shouted, smiling infectiously. But now Doug could see that he wasn’t a kid at all, just some
old hippy who never grew up.

“Where you headed?” the guy asked.

“Tampa International!” Doug had to shout to be heard above the music.

The guy reached for the radio and turned
it down. “Sorry about that, man. You get t’ groovin along with the tuneage and sometimes you forget how loud the shit is.”

“Yeah,” Doug said, “happens to me all the time.” The day had warmed considerably and he took off his jacket. He was looking over his shoulder for a place to put it.

“Just shove some of that shit out of the way and drop it anywhere,” the guy told him.

Doug saw that the van was loaded with tons of electronic equipment.

“Name’s Jeff Dean,” the guy said, seeing the look on Doug’s face, “and this is my mean surveillance machine.”

Doug nodded.

“Got into this shit a while back,” Jeff Dean explained. “Work for three or four private investigators. Mostly divorce cases.” He gave Doug a sidelong glance. “Hey, what can I say, buys the beans.”

“You’d never know it from looking at the outside,” Doug said commenting on the van’s general appearance.

“That’s the main idea, amigo. Just some old hippy, come down to Florida for fun and sun. No one’s the wiser.” Jeff Dean shot Doug another wide grin.

“You know how to use all this stuff?” Doug was amazed.

“Don’t seem the type, right, amigo?” the guy said grinning again. “Like I said, that’s the general idea. If I seemed the type, well, wouldn’t get away with much, now would I? Actually I’m some kind of genius. Least that’s what my mom always told me.”

“Name’s Doug,”
Doug offered his hand. Jeff Dean took it and shook it vigorously. He pulled the van out into traffic and soon they were moving south on Alternate 19 toward Clearwater. “You can take me as far as you’re going. Appreciate the ride.”

“Hell,” Jeff said. “I’ll take you all the way.
Need to cross over the bay sometime today anyway. Might as well be sooner as later.” He reached in his pocket and fished out a card, handing it to Doug. Doug quickly scanned the bold black lettering. It said, ‘Jeff Dean, Professional Surveillance’ and stamped on all four corners surrounding the lettering were speakers with waves emanating from them. “If you ever need to spy on anyone just give ole’ Jeff a call. I can tune into your living room from half a mile away and hear ice melting in your highball glass.”

“Comforting thought.”

Jeff Dean slapped the wheel and laughed. “You wouldn’t believe some of the shit I’ve heard.”

“I’ll bet.”

“If you lose the card the number’s easy. I’m out of Clearwater, so as long as you got the Clearwater exchange the rest is easy. 1776. Just like the ole’ American revolution. No problemo.”

Doug stared at the card for a long moment.

Jeff Dean shot Doug another sidelong glance. “Put it in your pocket, amigo. Never know when you’re gonna need some surveillance.”

Doug stuck the card in his shirt pocket
, but Jeff had given him an idea. “Hey, can I ask you a favor?”

“Absolutely, amigo. Shoot.”

When Doug was through explaining what he wanted he wrote something down on a sheet of paper and handed it to Dean. “That’s the address, but be very careful. They’re a slippery bunch.”

“No problemo, amigo
. I do slippery well.”

“
I’ve written down two phone numbers,” Doug said. “If you can’t reach me with the first number the second one is a friend of mine. He’s a good guy.”

“Got your back,
amigo.”

The guy yapped all the way to the airport, and when he dropped Doug off he said, “Adios amigo, stay cool and watch your back.”

“You too, man.” Doug closed the door feeling both melancholy and uplifted. It was the first dose of sanity he’d experienced in more than two days, yet there was something about the encounter that intrigued him, as if it had been more than just coincidence. Ah well, it was comforting to know that there were sincere, if not entirely sane people left in the world.

He went through the terminal, received his boarding pass and promptly forgot about Jeff Dean and his mean surveillance machine.

Rick Jennings stood in the airport terminal waiting area watching the television monitor, which was tuned to CNN. He could not believe what he was hearing and seeing. Possible Presidential candidate, Édouard De Roché was shot and wounded at his wife’s funeral yesterday. The gunman, who apparently acted alone, had been shot and killed by one of De Roché’s security personnel. The gunman was an elderly man who had not yet been identified. The camera panned to a shot of De Roché kneeling on a mound with Annie, his daughter, kneeling at his side. Jennings scanned the shot looking for Doug but did not see him.

The news clip went on to say that De Roché’s wound hadn’t been serious and that he had been taken to a local medical center where he’d been treated and released.

Furthermore, it seemed the media had learned of Doug’s and Annie’s house explosion and were trying to draw a correlation between De Roché’s wife’s murder, the attempt on De Roché’s life, and the apparent attempt on his daughter’s life in Maine the morning before. The belief was that someone was trying to derail De Roché’s presidential hopes.

Derail was an understatement,
Jennings thought. Even so, it was the same correlation he had been trying to draw since all of this started. And he was at as much of a loss at explaining it as was the media. Nothing made sense. He wondered what would happen if the press picked up on Spencer’s suspicion that Doug was somehow connected to the strange murder of a New Hampshire family and the disappearance of a child named Ariel. But that was too far out there for the media to draw any sort of correlation, wasn’t it? As far as Jennings knew, the only two people who suspected a connection at all were him and Spencer.

He’d tried calling Spencer twice this morning at the number he’d left with Rosemary, but had received no answer and no voice mail. What was going on?
Nothing made sense.

Jennings
decided he was not going to hang around and wait a minute longer. He’d booked a flight to Tampa. He would go directly to the source. He’d find Doug and Annie and bring them back by force if he had to.

His flight was called. As he began making his way toward the security gate his cell phone rang. Anxious, he pulled it from his jacket pocket looking at the caller ID. The number told him nothing. He answered it.

“Rick, this is Doug.”

Jennings
heaved a massive sigh of relief. He stepped aside to let others behind him go through the security checkpoint. “Doug, Christ, I’m so glad to hear your voice. Where are you?”

“
Tampa, just getting ready to board my flight for home.”

“Why didn’t you call me sooner? I’ve been worried sick about you.”
Jennings stepped away from the line and began pacing the waiting area.

“It wasn’t possible, Rick. Listen, a lot has happened.”

“I know they tried to kill you.”

“Yeah,” Doug said. “And they
may not be done trying. De Roché wants me out of the way.”

“Shit! You think it was him?”

“Who else?”

“
So you’re not safe.”

“I don’t know.”

“Listen, Doug, the feds are looking for you. You might have a better chance if you just turn yourself in.”

“No
way! There’s some sort of sick conspiracy or something going on. I know that sounds paranoid, but I’m not kidding and I’m not taking any chances. It’s bigger than anything you can imagine. I think it involves people inside our own government.”

“
You could be right,” Jennings said. “I’m pretty sure the government is interested in you.”

“
They never really gave up on me did they?”

“No,”
Jennings said. “And they seem more interested now than ever. I think they want to use you.”

“Bastards!
” Doug said.

“
Doug. Listen, I’m wondering if it’s safe for you to get on a plane.”

“I don’t know what else to do. If
De Roché is going to kill me, I can’t imagine he’d try it with all those people . . . .” His voice trailed off as an odd thought struck him. He remembered looking for his airline ticket this morning and finding it in the opposite pocket from the one he remembered it being in. He was certain that De Roché knew about the artifact. That’s why he’d hidden it in the woods outside the estate’s grounds. And he would not have been surprised if someone had gone through his pockets looking for it while he slept. If so, then they knew his flight number.

“Doug?”

“I’m here, Rick. Listen, I think I’ll be safe, at least until I get to Boston. Tell me something. If the feds want to nab me, why haven’t they done it before now?”

“Good question. Something doesn’t
feel right.”

“You sense it too
, huh?”

“It’s more than a sense. Doug, there’s something I need to tell you, but not on the phone.”

“It happened again, didn’t it, Rick?”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“Rick?”

“Yeah, Doug
, and the feds are heavily involved.”

“
A little girl named Ariel has been calling out to me. If I don’t find her I think I might go crazy.”

“Listen to me, Doug. You’ve been through this before and there’s nothing you can do. Right now your biggest job is to stay alive.”

“Yeah, but this one’s different.”

“How so?”

Doug was silent for a long moment in thought. Finally he said, “I don’t know. I can’t put my finger on it. It’s like I know her or something.”

“She’s from a family in
New Hampshire,” Jennings said. “Their name is Callaghan. Do you know a Callaghan family from Exeter new Hampshire?”

“No.”

“Then try not to let it distract you. You have enough to think about.”

“
Where are you now, Rick?”

“Funny you should ask. I’m at the
airport about to board a flight for Tampa. I had planned on coming to Florida to bring you back by force if I had to.”

Doug sighed. “Don’t go near that place, Rick. It’s evil. That man is evil.”

“Is Annie okay?”

“
She stayed with her father. I didn’t want her to, but it wasn’t my decision. I think her father is exercising some sort of control over her.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I don’t know. She’s acting weird. Listen, there’s a lot you don’t know about De Roché. Stuff I’ve never talked about.”

“Like what?”

“He’s very clever. He’s got some sort of gift. But there’s more.”

“More?”

“I have this thing . . . this artifact. It was given to me by the man who shot De Roché.”

“Jesus, Doug, an artifact? What sort of artifact
?”

“I’m not actually sure, but I think it has something to do with all the shit that’s going on. And there are others who want it.
”

“What’s it look like?”

“The broken off tip of an ancient weapon.”

A cold chill lanced into
Jennings’ heart. He remembered what the Collector had drawn on the wall of the house in New Hampshire.

“
This is going to sound crazy,” Doug said, “but I think it has some kind of power. I think it might lead me to the little girl, and maybe the others.”

“Christ, Doug,
those other kids are gone. It’s been years. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I won’t, but it’s why I need to get as far away from De Roché as possible. He’s been searching for the artifact and I think he knows I have it. In any event I’m fairly certain Annie will be okay for a while.
She’s pregnant and De Roché is very interested in the baby.” Doug’s voice faltered again as the dying old priest’s words came back to him:
Do not take your wife. She is stronger than you know. She will take care of her own.

“Doug, are you there?”

“Yeah, Rick, when I’m sure it’s safe I’ll go and get her. That’s all I can say right now.”

“Listen, Doug, is your flight coming into
Boston?”

“Yep. T
hree hours, give or take.”

“My flight is scheduled to land in
Boston in about forty-five minutes,” Jennings said. “How about I take it and hang out until you get in. I’ll meet you there and we’ll rent a car and drive up to Maine together. It’ll give us a chance to talk things over.”

“I’d like that.”

“Doug, I’m sorry about everything.”

“Don’t be. None of it was your fault.”

“Yeah, I know. I just want this nightmare to be over.”

“Me too, Rick. You don’t know how much.”

After giving Jennings his flight number and hanging up the phone, Doug pulled the heavy scrap of fabric from his pocket, opened it and stared at the object for a long moment. It seemed neutral now, inert. Other than the fact that it was old, there was nothing unusual about it, just a small hunk of ancient metal in an exceedingly classic form, worn smooth from centuries of time.
What are you?
He wondered.
Why are you in my possession?
He gave a quick and guarded look around him, considered pulling the chain around his neck and wearing the artifact, but at the last minute decided against it. Instead he wrapped it up and dropped it back in his jacket pocket. He glanced around once again before heading for the gate, wary of anything unusual; suspicious body language, strange expressions. He decided he was no good at detective work. Everybody and everything looked maddeningly normal.

In Portland Jennings rushed back to the boarding gate and made it to security.

The place was empty. “You’re a little late, sir,” the attendant said with a frown. “They’ve already boarded, and they’re pulling the gate back.”

Jennings pulled out his badge and ID, showed it to the attendant. “This is police business,” he said. “I need to be on that flight.”

The attendant picked up the phone and made a call. “Okay,” he said and hung up. “No problem, they’re putting the gate back. Right this way, sir.” The attendant rushed him through.
Jennings lumbered into the tunnel toward the waiting aircraft.

As he was settling into his seat he felt edgy and his mind was heavy with thought. Something was wrong. He felt it in his bones. He could not in a million years have guessed just how right his instincts were. If he’d known what would happen over the co
urse of the next several hours he might have lost his mind.