Jeffery Deaver - XO

Simesky asked, “Where are we with all this? What do we know?”

Dance said, “We’re still trying to find Edwin. Michael O’Neil-a deputy from Monterey-and the others are back at the sheriff’s office working on that. He’s vanished from the mall where he sent the website post. His car’s still there but he could have other wheels. Until we have a better idea where he is, we want to get you to that safe house as soon as possible. Are you ready to leave now?”

“Sure. Where is it?”

Harutyun said, “A place we use about a half hour north of here, in the woods.”

“Yes, all right.” He grimaced. “I just don’t want to be seen as running from this guy.”

Simesky said, “We go through this a lot, Bill. People aren’t going to care. They’d rather have a live candidate than a dead martyr.”

“I suppose.” Davis thought of something. Kathryn Dance was with a statewide agency so he said to her, “Could you get police to my house in L.A.? I’m worried about my family.”

“Of course. I’ll call our office and have a CBI team there, with tactical LAPD. We work with them a lot.”

“Thank you,” he said, feeling some relief, tepid though it was. He gave her the address and Susan’s phone number.

Dance made the call and then disconnected. Officers, she said, were en route. Davis was all the more impressed with her for her cool efficiency and decided that, as Peter had suggested, she’d be perfect in his administration.

Then, thank you, Lord, his wife called. “Honey?” the woman blurted. “Jess came to the school. What’s going on? Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes…” Davis explained the situation, adding that there would be some police or troopers at the house in just a minute or two. “There’s a little security thing. Probably nothing. Don’t open the door for anybody but the police. They’ll be from the LAPD and the California Bureau of Investigation.”

“What is it? Another threat from those isolationist idiots?”

“No, this is just a crazy guy, looks like. We’re ninety-nine percent sure he’s not down there but I just want to make sure you and the kids are all right.”

“You’re sounding too calm, Bill,” Susan said. “I hate it when you sound that way. It means you’re not calm at all.”

He laughed. But she was right. He was too calm.

Dance tapped her wristwatch.

“I’m fine. I’ve got police here too. I have to go. I’ll call you in a bit. Love you.”

“Oh, honey.”

He reluctantly disconnected.

Simesky called Davis’s other aide, Myra Babbage, who was at the local campaign headquarters, and told her to join them at the safe house.

Then, with Dance and Harutyun leading and Tim Raymond in the rear, Davis and Simesky moved quickly through the hotel corridor and down into the garage, where they climbed into a sheriff’s office Tahoe SUV.

Dance said to Harutyun, who was driving, “I’d say lights, no sirens for two or three miles. Bust it, really move… and use side streets and alleys. Then flashers off and normal stream of traffic to the safe house.”

“Sure thing.”

“You think he’s nearby?” Simesky asked, looking out the windows uneasily.

“He’s invisible,” Dance said cryptically. “We just don’t know.”

As the big vehicle accelerated fast, the CBI agent gripped the hand rest and looked queasy. Davis reflected that if she did join his administration she would not do well on one of his speedboat outings.

On the other hand, he sensed she and Susan could become good friends.

Ten minutes later, when it seemed clear that Edwin was not following, they slowed and entered a highway. After a half hour of driving, the deputy turned down a deserted road, drove for another mile or so and, passing no houses along the way, finally approached a fancy log cabin. The one-story rambling brown structure was in the middle of a large cleared area-good visibility of the grounds, should anyone try to assault the house.

And there were also, Davis could see, only a few windows and all of them shuttered or shaded. Although he was perhaps more of a target than some politicians anyone who’s run for office instinctively considers security, particularly lines of fire and sniper’s vantage points. Everywhere. All the time.

Thank you, Second Amendment.

KATHRYN DANCE GRATEFULLY climbed out of the SUV and inhaled the pleasant, astringent smell of pine.

The nausea from the rocky drive persisted but was fading.

She watched Harutyun approach the house and punch keys on a number pad and a green light came on. He stepped inside and deactivated another security system. Then he turned some switches and lights clicked on, revealing a functional interior, with no personality whatsoever: brown shag carpet that smelled of old automobile interiors, stained photographs in cheap plastic frames, Mediterranean-style lamps and furniture with excessive scrolls. A ski resort rental. The ancient Dodge smell was supplemented by that of musty upholstery, mold and cooking fuel.

All that was needed to complete the kitsch was a mounted bear or elk head.

The place was big. It appeared to have four or five bedrooms and several offices behind the living room and kitchen.

Dance exchanged mobile numbers with Tim Raymond, the security man, who remained outside. Harutyun shut the door and locked it. Then the mustachioed detective walked through the house to make sure it was secure. Simesky accompanied him.

A few minutes later Raymond called Dance and told her that everything seemed fine along the perimeter.

Dance looked around the austere facility and then at Davis, who now that his wife was protected seemed simply irritated that a security issue was taking time from his campaign and his congressional duties. He confirmed this a moment later when he muttered that he was due to meet workers at another farm soon but that clearly wasn’t going to happen. He’d have Peter or Myra cancel for him. “Pisses me off, I have to say.” He sat and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles, then scrolled through his iPhone.

Simesky and Harutyun returned. “All clear, windows and doors secure and armed,” the deputy told them and passed out bottled water.

“Thanks.” Davis drank one down.

Dance’s phone hummed with an incoming email. Rather than read it on the small screen, she opened her computer and went online. She smiled at the header: Bird Shit.

The message was from Lincoln Rhyme and had to do with some additional analysis of the trace outside Edwin’s house.

Finally managed to isolate the other trace in the ammonium oxalate. They were phosphates and residue of animal matter. It’s bird shit. Exactly what kind it is, I can’t say. I didn’t bring my bird shit recognition kit with me. Nor have I been able to gin up support for a bird shit genome project. But I can say the excreting birds were most likely resident in a coastal region. Fish had been the mainstay of their diet. For what it’s worth. Here’s the whole list. Don’t understand why nobody drinks in this department.

He included the entire evidence chart and Dance read through it again, amused to note that when someone-Amelia Sachs, presumably-had added the recent discovery, she’d been a bit more delicate in her description.

• Wednesday. Edwin Sharp’s house

– outside:

– boot print probably cowboy-style, unable to determine size, male or female

– no vehicle tread marks

– unique trace materials

– triglyceride fat (lard)

– 2700K color temperature (yellowish)

– melting point: 40-55 degrees F

– specific gravity: 0.91 at 40.0C

– Determined likely to be neatsfoot oil, treatment for leather sports equipment, tack and gunslings