Джеймс Паттерсон - Private Rogue

The cab took us to Little Summit, a small town north of I-80. I asked the driver to drop us by the Kalahari Resort, a vast hotel, waterpark, convention center and shopping mall that lay at the edge of town. I’d talked to Beth about catching a bus to Chicago. After I’d paid the driver a fare that amounted to ten dollars for every minute we were in the cab and he’d driven away, I started walking west.

“Come on,” I said.

“Where?” Beth asked.

She gathered the children to her and eyed me with suspicion.

“A Marine buddy of mine used to have a fishing cabin up by Stillwater Lake. It’s about a mile that way,” I replied. “It’s somewhere safe, and most importantly, no one knows about it.”

Beth hesitated and looked at Danny and Maria, who watched her uncertainly.

“I’m here to help you,” I assured her. “I didn’t know your father was dead.”

“He is,” she said. “Died a long time ago. Either you’re not a very good detective or someone was clever enough to outfox you. Either way, it doesn’t fill me with confidence.”

The remark wounded because it was true. I knew I wasn’t a bad detective, but, in the man who’d posed as Donald Singer, I’d encountered someone who’d outsmarted me. The backstory he’d built on the Internet and public records was too convincing to have been the work of an amateur, and I was concerned by the thought I could no longer see the edges of this investigation. What had started as a simple hunt for a mother and her two young children had grown into something else.

“I know. I messed up, but I promise you’ll be safe with me,” I said. “Even if it’s just until you decide you want to go your own way.”

Beth nodded. “OK. Come on, kids.” She gave them a squeeze and nudged them toward me.

I crouched down to their level. “I’m here to help you. You can trust me. I promise.”

Little Summit was a small Pennsylvania town of a few hundred people that lay to the west of Pocono Summit. It was popular with hunters and anglers during summer, but in the depths of winter it seemed to be hibernating. We went through a tunnel that took us under I-380 and followed a trail into the snowy woods that surrounded the town. I could see the roofs of houses nestled in the trees, but we stayed clear of civilization and turned northwest, sticking to the woodland trail until we reached the tiny commercial district that passed for a town center. There was a mini-mart and the bright lights of a pizza restaurant shone in the gloomy light.

We passed the mini-mart, which was surrounded by high drifts of snow, ploughed to keep the parking lot clear. The store was open, but there were no vehicles in the car park. A sickly-sweet smell of pretzels and donuts drifted through a steaming air vent. I looked at the downturned faces of the cold children.

“Wait here,” I said, and jogged into the store.

I picked up a couple days’ essential supplies and some hot treats, and paid the bored teenager behind the counter. I hurried outside and offered Beth and the children warm pretzels.

“Thanks,” Beth said.

The children nodded. “Thank you, sir,” Danny remarked.

We kept moving as they devoured the sweet pastry and made good progress along Stillwater Drive, the quiet residential road that led to the lake. None of us wanted to be outside any longer than necessary. We walked briskly in an effort to ward off the chill. Beth tried to keep the children’s spirits up by pointing out some of the more beautiful ice formations in the trees, or icicles hanging from the homes we passed.

“Not much farther,” I said as I took them over a graying drift of icy snow that had been plowed over the mouth of a trail leading off the main road.

The track leading up to Leo Wylie’s cabin was buried beneath deep snow, and we all had soaking wet shoes and trousers by the time we’d finished walking the final quarter of a mile.

The cabin stood in the middle of a tiny clearing, and nature had most definitely encroached since the last time I’d seen it. Overhanging branches brushed against the walls and touched the top of the roof. Snow had drifted up to the first-floor windows on either side of the building. At first sight, it certainly appeared no one was home.

A porch ran the whole length of the front of the cabin, keeping the entrance free of snow, and large piles of seasoned logs stood either side of the door. At least we’d be warm inside.

I found a spare key hidden in a nook behind the mailbox that was fixed to the wall between the front door and one of the logpiles, and we hurried inside.

A couple hours later, after a quick meal of mac and cheese, Beth put the children to sleep in one of the four bedrooms. They wanted to share, although neither would admit it was because they were scared. After a couple of failed attempts at getting them to settle, Beth joined me in the living room, where I’d managed to get a blazing fire going in the large stone hearth. I’d also found a bottle of Leo’s wine and poured us two glasses. The smooth red brought the twin comforts of warmth and calm. For a moment we sat saying nothing, listening to the crack of the burning logs, savoring the peace after the day’s mayhem.

Beth’s eyes were on the fire. She opened her mouth a couple times and I sensed she was building up to something.

“Can I trust you?” she asked earnestly.

I nodded.

“It’s my husband,” she responded, and tears welled in her eyes. “At least I’m pretty sure it is. I think he’s the reason we’re here. I believe he’s in danger, and those men... those assholes who tried to take our children...” Her voice trailed off and she gulped in a calming breath. “I think those men are trying to use us to get to him.”

“Why?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I don’t know. My husband is a Special Forces pilot. I never know anything about his missions. He flies Ospreys for Third Special Forces Group. His name is Joshua Floyd.”

Beth took a sip of wine and followed it with a deep breath.

“I know the Third,” I said. “I flew a Sea Knight in Afghanistan.”

“You look like you’ve seen combat,” she replied. “Not that you’re scarred or anything. It’s in the eyes. Hard to describe. You’ve seen trauma, and it’s left its imprint.”

I nodded slowly. I knew exactly what she was talking about. The horror of battle, the deaths of friends, these were things that would never leave me.

“I was an Osprey pilot,” Beth said. “That’s how Floyd and I met. I always said I’d never marry another soldier, but love makes liars of us all.”

She had another drink.

“I took my discharge when Maria came along. We married soon afterwards, but the nature of Josh’s work means we kept the wedding secret. The Army classified his file. No one is supposed to know we’re together, and we go to great lengths to keep it that way. He doesn’t really go out when he’s on leave, and the kids have been taught never to talk about him.”

She put her glass on a side table, leaned forward and peered at the flames.

“We have an arrangement. If he is ever captured, I’m supposed to take the kids to a cabin we have in the woods and hunker down with them until the danger passes.”

“Makes sense,” I observed. “Bad guys can’t use you and the children as leverage to get him to talk.”

She nodded.

“Three days ago, two guys posing as cops pulled me over when I was bringing the kids home from school. I escaped, but they used a drone to follow us to the cabin — I spotted it just in time before they showed up with others. We had to make it out on foot.”

“And when you did, the guy posing as your father hired me to track you down,” I remarked. “I checked him out thoroughly. His cover was impeccable. Whoever these people are, they’re well-resourced and professional.”