Echoes (21 page)

“It doesn't matter what you want, Miss Pearson.”

“Yes, it does, or you wouldn't have bothered to call. So put Erin on. Or I'll hang up.”

A short silence, and then Erin's voice came on the line.

“Callie?” At the subdued, tremulous quality of Erin's voice, so out of character, Callie's eyes prickled with tears.

“Erin! Are you okay?”

“I don't know what these guys want.”

Mac mouthed the word “questions” at her, and she nodded.

“Erin, I am going to ask you three questions. It's for security. Tell the guy who called that I am going to ask you three questions every time we talk so I know it's really you and you're okay, all right?”

She heard Erin repeating her words to someone in the background.

“What flavor do I hate?” she asked once Erin's captor had agreed to the stipulation.

“Curry,” Erin replied promptly.

“What do I always order at the Indian restaurant?”

“Tandoori salmon.”

“And what do you always tell me?”

“That you're boring, and should try some curry on your tandoori.”

“Erin, I promise—” But she heard a scuffle on the other end of the phone, and the man came back on the line.

“You have asked your questions, Miss Pearson. Miss Campbell is well. If you follow the instructions we give you, she will remain so. My employer requires some information from you. He would have preferred to avoid involving your friend, but since you seemed determined to hide, it was necessary to take certain measures to find you.”

“Look, I'm happy to tell you whatever you want.”

“My employer requires . . . assurances. We will allow Miss Campbell to go free once you come to us. Don't call the police. Don't talk to Brody or Harper. If you do, your roommate's usefulness will come to an abrupt and very painful end. We will be calling back with details.” He disconnected, but Callie hung on for a long moment, the dial tone buzzing in her ear.

“What did he say?” Nash's question pierced the fog creeping across her mind.

“Nothing.” She considered the conversation. “Really, it's weird. He didn't say much of anything—they had Erin, they wanted me, they'd trade, and they'd call back with more details later. Why wouldn't he just go ahead and tell me what he wants now?” She left out the admonishment about withholding information from Mac and Nash, unsure how far she planned to obey it.

“Stalling,” Mac said slowly. “Maybe he's waiting for his boss? Where does Falcone live?”

“Anywhere he wants to,” replied Nash with a grimace. “He has a villa in Tuscany, a private island in the Grenadines, the coffee plantation in Colombia, and a pied-à-terre in Miami. He's also part owner of a horse-training facility outside of Brussels. He's been active this summer, in and out of the US, though he usually spends summers in Europe. Let me check something.”

He walked over to the desk and sat down at the computer, his fingers racing over the keys as he used some program Callie had never seen—probably written by his own people, she thought—to connect to the mainframe at HSE.

“Your buddy Lewis is on the move,” he said after a couple of minutes. “Bobby, who took over for you two on the
Lady
, has been doing his best to keep an eye on him, but he says Lewis left his house late last night and never came back. Travis went back to the island, and he's asking around, since it's easier for him to do so without looking suspicious, but hasn't heard anything yet about where Lewis might be headed.”

“Is there any question? Obviously, that's what the guy who called is waiting for.”

“Nothing's ever obvious in cases like this,” Mac said. “Jumping to conclusions leads to mistakes. But if we run with the idea that Lewis is headed to the US, the next question is: Where? It's certainly easy enough to get into the country, but getting into New York itself is a little harder. He'd probably take the same route we did—quick hop to Puerto Rico, which gets him into the country, then some kind of transport from there. Or maybe he goes through Florida. It's not such an easy trip from St. Martin, but it could be done. Chopper to a boat anchored offshore somewhere, then smuggled into the country by some rich friend of Falcone's?”

“Possible,” agreed Nash. “If he's using Falcone's allies, he'll go through Miami rather than Puerto Rico. Falcone has an enormous network in Florida; he's practically untouchable there. It's, what, a thousand miles from Miami to St. Martin? If Lewis left last night, took a speedboat out to a bigger boat somewhere nearby with a helipad, he could have been in Florida early this morning. Plenty of private jets fly between Miami and New York on legitimate business every day, so Lewis wouldn't have to go commercial; he could borrow one of Falcone's partner's planes.”

“What could John possibly want to ask me? The man I spoke to said he wanted ‘assurances,' that that was why he was insisting on meeting me in person. And why bother sneaking into the country when he could just fly into JFK and meet with me?”

Mac and Nash shared a glance, totally in sync for once. “The only assurance Lewis wants,” Mac said, “is that you won't live to reveal his secrets. Before he kills you, he would prefer to find out just how much you've uncovered and how many people you've told so he can estimate how much damage control he has to do, but that knowledge isn't essential. What's essential is that he prevent you from learning or telling anything more than you already have.”

Nash spoke up. “Which is also why he won't fly commercial. He wants you for some reason, but he can't afford to leave a trail back to him once you're gone.

“I assume the man you spoke to threatened Erin's life if you consulted me?”

Callie stared. Mac hadn't been kidding about Nash's ability to know everything.

“It's only logical,” he explained. “The whole object of this exercise is to limit the scope of what must—to both Lewis and Falcone—appear as an impending disaster. HSE has formidable resources, so you have to be cut off from them.”

Fine. If he wanted to put it all out there, she would. “Involving you could get Erin killed.”

“Not involving me will almost certainly get both you and her killed.” Nash's gray eyes reminded her of ice floes on the Hudson in winter. No warmth, no softness showed in them, just implacable chill. “If you hope to survive this, you'll inform me and Mac of your every move before you make it.” He glanced at his watch. “In fact, Lexie should be here soon with tracking devices and some items Mac requested last night. We'll get you outfitted with them soon enough.”

“Not that you'll need the GPS,” said Mac, “since there's no way in hell you're meeting with these guys, but it's best not to take chances.”

Callie took a deep breath and called on the diplomatic skills she'd absorbed listening to her father negotiate day in and day out to keep her manner calm and relaxed despite the churning in her belly. “I appreciate all you two are doing, have done. But it's me they want, so you can't keep me out of this altogether. I'll wear whatever electronics Lexie brings, but I doubt the men who have Erin are going to turn her over without at least seeing my face.”

Nash cut off Mac's incipient protest. “She's right.”

Mac propelled himself from the sofa and stalked over to the window to stare down at the insanity of Times Square. Callie wondered what was going through his head. She poured herself another cup of coffee and picked up half a ham sandwich. Nibbling it, she waited out the two men's silence. Mac finally broke it.

“You said Lexie was coming here?” Nash nodded. “Then I'll shower while we wait for her. If you have a phone, I'd like to call Vince, see whether he's heard anything from the feds, though he says they're keeping him in the dark.”

“You can call through the HSE switchboard. If they are tracking your partner's calls, they'll be able to trace it back to HSE, but no further. He can tell them I called to ask about you. In fact, I'll make the call myself in case he's not the one who answers.”

“That'll work.”

Callie thought “Thank you” might have been a better response, but whatever was between the two men seemed to inhibit gratitude. With a brief nod, Mac disappeared into the bedroom, leaving her alone with Nash.

“Travis didn't have a high opinion of Nicole Lewis,” he remarked the moment the bedroom door closed. “I believe the term he used was ‘skank.'”

“It's not polite to speak ill of the dead,” Callie replied automatically. What was Nash's object with this line of conversation?

“Oh, she wasn't dead at the time. He called me the day she and Mac got married. Of course, by then it was too late for me to check up on her. Not that it would have done much good anyway. Mac doesn't listen particularly well, especially to me, and Trav is too honest not to tell him where the information came from.”

“What happened between the three of you?”

“A . . . breach of trust.” He shrugged, as if the topic were of little importance, but would not look at her. When he did, his pale eyes were carefully blank. “Aidan Macmillan Brody is not a forgiving man. If your relationship is important to you, I suggest you don't lie to him.”

“We don't have a relationship.” But her cheeks heated.
Aidan
. She'd slept with a man without even knowing his first name. She turned the conversation back on Nash. “Is that what you mean by a breach of trust? You lied to him?”

His smiled lacked even a trace of humor. “I lie to everyone.”

Before Callie could process the statement, Lexie knocked and identified herself. Nash opened the door and she swept in, an enormous backpack dwarfing her slender frame. She'd applied her makeup strategically, but nothing could hide the red rims of her eyes. Had she and the dead Hal been friends? Lovers? Callie could not come up with a suitable way to express her sympathy, so she ignored the remnants of the other woman's distress, allowing herself to be drawn into a discussion of the items Lexie was removing from the pack and laying on the coffee table.

“Is that what you're planning on wearing for the next couple of days?” Lexie's bloodshot eyes swept over her, leaving Callie squirming like a guest on the television show
What Not to Wear.

“Actually, I need to buy some jeans. I planned to do that today. The ones you got for me were too small.”

The other woman snorted, the sound a startling contrast to her professional air. “Told you,” she said to Nash. “Moreland gave you the sizes he'd want to see her in, not the ones she'd want to wear.” Her expression brightened and she winked at Callie. “Travis is such a guy.”

“You know him?”

The grin disappeared. “I did. Years ago. He was a friend of my brother's.” She focused on the items on the table. “If you're going to buy jeans, we won't sew a transmitter into the skirt. Do you have any experience with firearms?”

“Guns? You want me to carry a gun?”

“Only if you know how to use it.” The voice came from behind her. Mac had emerged from the bedroom, shirtless, hair still shower-damp. She couldn't help ogling just a bit as he reached into the shopping bag he'd left next to the desk and withdrew a clean T-shirt, but by the time he'd pulled it on, she had herself back under control.

“My father taught me to shoot when I was in high school. He believed in physical activities, so he took me hiking, riding, waterskiing, target shooting, whatever was popular where we were living. I kept up the shooting—both guns and archery—through college, but I haven't picked up a bow or a pistol in more than five years.”

Mac grunted. “Fair enough. At least you won't shoot yourself in the foot. Target shooting—were you using a revolver or a semi?”

“Revolver.”

He cocked an eyebrow at Lexie, who nodded and dug a weapon out of the backpack, along with a carton of bullets.

“It's a .357,” she explained as she handed it to Callie. “I brought .38-caliber loads for it. Plenty of stopping power, but it won't kick too hard.”

“It's not exactly a purse pistol.” Callie turned the gun over, getting a sense of the weight, then loaded it, relieved to feel the muscle memory of the actions returning.

“Snub noses aren't accurate enough. And a .22 won't do anything but piss off a serious attacker. Besides, no gun is small enough to hide if someone's searching you. The idea is to keep them at a distance, and for that you need heft. If you're going to be wearing jeans, you can use a belt holster.” She passed one across, and Callie snapped the revolver into it. “Just buy a peasant blouse or something to wear over it.”

“The holster is tagged,” Nash said, “as is the gun. We'll also put trackers in your purse, shoes, and clothes. The more devices we can stash on you, the more likely they are to miss one in a search, if it comes to that.”

“Which it won't,” Mac growled.

A half hour later, Callie had been outfitted with multiple tiny electronic trackers. Mac had consented to wear one himself, and he suspected Nash had slipped a second into the handgrip of the Sig Sauer P228 he'd turned over to Mac and probably a third in the grip of the knife he now wore strapped to his ankle. Nash preferred to keep track of all his assets, human and otherwise. Tracking software had been installed on a fresh sat phone Nash had brought for Mac's use, and the bugs registered to it. The same software resided on the computers at HSE.

Nash and Lexie had headed back down to HSE headquarters, leaving Mac and Callie alone. Mac would have preferred to stay in the suite, but Callie claimed she needed jeans. Which he guessed she did, as the skirt she was wearing would trip her in a chase. Besides, just looking at her in it reminded him of how her skin had felt beneath his hands as he'd stripped the skirt from her body. Not conducive to concentration.

Nash had brought a shoulder holster for Mac, which was his preferred carry, but in the August heat he couldn't very well wear a jacket. At the moment, he had the pistol stashed in a holster at the small of his back, which was great for concealment but made for an almost impossible draw. He'd have to pick up a T-shirt big enough to hide the gun if he wore it at his waist.

Mac considered shopping torturous, even without the added stress of knowing they could be attacked at any moment. The crowds thronging Times Square hid them but could also hide their pursuers.

“How can you stand living here?” he asked after a few blocks. Callie had explained that in New York City, the north-south blocks ran twenty to a mile and that, since the store was only half a mile from the hotel, walking was the best option. But in the last quarter mile, he figured he'd seen—and been seen by—more people than lived on entire Army bases. In the high season, St. Martin had been crowded, but this, this was intolerable.

Callie slanted a look up at him, managing to keep one eye on the street before her. “I keep forgetting you're not from here. Chappaqua, where I live, is nothing like the city. Actually, most of the state isn't like the city, and even most of the city isn't as bad as this.” Still moving forward, she waved a hand at the crowd. “A good half of these people are tourists. Penn Station, where the trains come in, Times Square, the Port Authority bus terminal—there are all kinds of draws for this area.

“And then, this is the garment district. FIT—the school for fashion—is just a few blocks down from here, and there are actual manufacturers and designers as well as students, professors, shopkeepers . . . all people who don't keep nine-to-five schedules. And they all smoke, so they have to stand out on the street for at least ten minutes every couple hours. Foot traffic here is much heavier than it is in other parts of town.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. You didn't see swarms like this down in Tribeca, where Nash's office was, did you?”

“It was late.” But he hadn't. As they'd driven through the neighborhood, he'd noticed only a few stores. Most of the buildings seemed residential, with some galleries, a couple of offices, and the occasional bodega. “Is that the kind of neighborhood you live in?”

“No. My house is on half an acre of land. The people around me have fenced yards, barking dogs, fruit trees, fancy gardens, the whole suburban package.”

Mac had a hard time imagining such a thing existing mere minutes from where they wound their way through the human traffic jam.

Inside Macy's, which Callie insisted was the most efficient place to go, since they could get everything they needed in one place, the situation was worse.

They started in the women's department, where Callie wanted to find a particular brand of jeans.

“If I get the ones I usually wear,” she explained, “I don't need to try them on. We can just buy them and go.” But she couldn't find her size and couldn't find a salesperson. Other women, acting as if Armageddon was approaching and they needed just the right outfit, pushed by them, twice jostling Mac so hard he put his hands on his back, letting his fingers rest on the Sig.

Finally, Callie got her jeans, and they headed to the men's department, where it took him all of ten seconds to find a T-shirt. While he was paying, however, the cell in Callie's purse rang. She walked away to take the call in private, pretending to sort through a rack of fall jackets about ten feet from Mac and the salesman, her head ducked down as she listened to the caller. A man approached her, and Mac automatically reached back for his gun, but the guy seemed intent on the clothing and didn't follow when she moved away.

The salesman took Mac's money and handed back his change and the bagged shirt. Mac glanced down to complete the transaction. Only a second, but when he looked back, Callie had disappeared. Every muscle in his body tensed, locking him into place, only his eyes able to move, scanning the area.

The man who had taken Callie's spot by the jackets had been joined by his wife, and they argued quietly, the wife waving her arms. A teenaged shoplifter fingered a slinky nylon shirt with a skateboarding logo on it, glancing surreptitiously from side to side. A woman held a sweater up to check the size against the shoulders of her harried-looking son. Two Japanese men peered into a glass case whose contents Mac couldn't determine from a distance.

Where the hell was Callie? They couldn't have found her, taken her, in the scant window his distraction had afforded. He strode toward the spot he'd last seen her, his scar itching like the devil. Black shadows danced at the edge of his vision. He paused by a rack of sweaters and drew his gun, draping the new shirt in its white plastic bag over his hand to conceal the weapon.

He stepped back into the aisle and saw her. She was kneeling next to a shelf of jeans, apparently tying her shoe. But as he strode toward her, he realized her hands were shaking too badly to maneuver the laces. He pushed her fingers aside and made quick work of the mangled knot, then rose, drawing her close and wrapping his arms around her. She clung, and he could feel the trembles running like chills through her body. He didn't speak, letting the physical contact assure them both that she was safe.

“She was crying,” Callie said after several breaths, and he could hear the rasp of tears in her own voice. “Erin never cries.”

Mac stroked the silky waves of her hair. “We'll get her back. I promise.” She nodded against his shoulder. “What did they want?”

She didn't answer, and he could feel her decide to lie to him. He refused to let her, pushing her slightly away from him to stare down into her tear-damp eyes. “Don't. Whatever they said, whatever their threats, you're better off with my help. With Nash's, too. You know it.”

***

When he stood as he did now, a bulwark between her and danger, she absolutely believed him. But she believed Sonny Juarez, too, when he described with gusto how he planned to cut off Erin's fingers, cauterizing each wound so she wouldn't bleed to death too soon. This would be Erin's fate, he promised, should Callie bring either Mac or Nash to the meeting John Lewis would arrange.

Remembering Lewis, at least, gave her something she could safely tell Mac.

“He said it was John Lewis who hired him, who wanted to meet. He didn't set a time or anything, but told me to gather any evidence my father might have left, that John would want all of it, along with the picture I showed him in St. Martin, in exchange for Erin.”

“You know that's an excuse, right? Lewis couldn't care less about a photo you could have copied dozens of times or some nonexistent evidence. It's just a way to force you into killing range.”

His harsh tone stiffened Callie's spine. “I'm not an idiot.”

“No.” Mac's voice lost its cold edge. “You're not. But you're frightened for your friend. The guy who called—did you find out who it was?”

“Sonny Juarez. He seemed to think I should recognize his name.”

“Because he knows you've spoken to Nash. Remember what Nash said about Juarez specializing in over-the-top killings?”

How could she forget? She nodded.

“Message murders are terrorism in its most basic form. And terrorism works, which is why it's always been part of human societies and always will be, no matter how hard we try to eradicate it. Scared people, no matter how smart they are, don't act rationally, or even in their own best interest. You're not an idiot, but you're also not used to dealing with the Sonny Juarezes of the world.”

“And you are.”

It wasn't a question, but he inclined his head in response. Staring at his dark features, Callie realized anew how far out of her depth she was. Standing in the men's department of an enormous department store discussing murder, kidnapping, and terrorism hadn't been in her life plan.

“What if I make the wrong decision?”

“You won't.” Mac's opaque eyes revealed nothing, but there was a solidity to that, an obscure comfort. “Lewis and his men are going to try to rush you. It's another terror tactic—isolate the subject, then remove time for consideration and reason. To combat that, you have to get ahead of them. Plan your reaction. Work out what path you'll take, what lines you will and won't cross, regardless of what they do.”

She understood the inference: the line she should never cross would be the one that separated her from him. But she couldn't make that promise, so she looked away, excusing the move by leaning down to pick up the shopping bag with her new jeans and red empire-waist shirt. She didn't like the style on her, but the fabric fell loosely to her hips, providing inconspicuous cover for a weapon at her waist.

Mac let the lack of response pass. “Let's get back to the hotel,” he said, plucking the bag from her hand and consolidating her purchases with his own.

“Yeah, okay.” Callie started to move toward the exit, but he laid a hand on her shoulder. When she stopped, he let his fingers trail lightly down her bare arm, sparking fires beneath her skin, until he could lace their fingers together. Then he brought her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips across her palm.

“We'll get her out.”

He couldn't guarantee Erin's safety, and Callie recognized both the promise and the physical contact as forms of manipulation designed to ensure her cooperation, but the steadiness of his gaze added force to the words, and in spite of the nagging, logical voice in the back of her mind, the constriction in her chest eased a bit.

Outside the artificially maintained environment of the department store, the weather had shifted to match Callie's mood. Storm clouds hung low, and heavy and damp air muted the sounds of passing cars and people. Pedestrians peered upward as they rushed along, hoping to reach their destinations without getting soaked, their contagious anxiety infecting others. Even Callie, who quite liked the rain, found herself hurrying, and noticed Mac's strides becoming choppier as well. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

The first drops fell when they were half a block from the hotel, quickly increasing to a deluge. Lightning shot through the gloom just as they stepped into their suite. Callie jumped, tension getting the better of her, and Mac gripped her shoulder briefly in reassurance.

“I'm gonna nuke myself a cup of coffee,” he said. “You want one?”

“Sure.” Maybe the caffeine would kick her brain into gear, because she had some serious thinking to do. As of Juarez's phone call, she had four hours to ditch Mac, at which point Juarez would call back with instructions.

The microwave pinged, and Mac handed her a steaming cup of coffee. His own he set on the desk while he booted the laptop and logged into the program allowing him access to the HSE system. He didn't speak, and Callie wondered whether he was deliberately giving her space and time to consider her options. She settled on the couch and watched him work.

After a few minutes, he seemed to forget her entirely. His focus on the computer deepened, and his coffee sat untouched as he muttered, tapping keys and clicking furiously through page after page of information. He'd run a hand through his hair, as was his custom, and it stood up in ragged clumps. The muttering and the hair gave him something of a mad-scientist appearance, negated by the muscles bunching where his neck and shoulders met and the preternatural concentration he exhibited.

Although he ignored her, Callie couldn't avoid the knowledge that all his effort, the danger to which he'd subjected himself, was on her behalf. He could have left at any time. Sure, he'd have some awkward questions to answer from the gendarmes regarding Nikki's murder and his own disappearance, but they would cause him no real difficulties, especially with Nash on his side.

A bell sounded on the computer, and a message window opened on Mac's screen. Callie couldn't read it from her position, so when Mac cursed at its contents she rose and pulled a chair over to the desk.

“NICOLE LEWIS DNA SHOWS SAME PATERNITY AS OTHER VICS. BOTH PARENTS SAME AS CALLIOPE PEARSON.”

“How in the hell is that possible?” Mac muttered. “We know Ava was Nikki's mother.”

“No,” Callie said slowly, remembering the pictures of a slender and gorgeous Ava mere months after Nikki's birth. “Ava left the island, remember? Maybe she got her child the same way my parents did. The whole affair and separation story gave her an excuse to disappear so no one would notice she never got hugely pregnant or gave birth. She came back with an infant she claimed as her own, and no one thought to question it.”

“Okay, but why fake an affair? Why not just argue a lot, then separate? Wouldn't you think Lewis would want to claim his own kid, not allow people to think his wife had cheated on him?”

“There's still something missing,” Callie agreed. She stared at the words on the screen. “She was my sister.”

Mac shut the laptop and turned to face her. He didn't touch her, but the steadiness of his gaze had an almost tangible weight.