Pamela Tracy - The Missing Twin

“We found that in the garbage truck. The Cadillac belongs to a taxi driver in Phoenix. It was reported stolen the day before the kidnapping attempt.”

“Figures.”

For a few minutes they discussed what they both suspected: Miguel was involved with meth labs and bear poaching. He owed money and the boy was to be used as collateral.

“I’m surprised he shot me. They had more than one opportunity.”

“That’s what Angela said. She didn’t get the idea that shooting was on their agenda.”

Jake nodded. “They could have easily shot her, too. How’s she doing?”

“Pretty good. A bit shaken up.”

“And everyone else?”

“It’s strangely quiet on Jackrabbit Road.” Rafe punched a few keys and soon Jake was looking at Angela standing with Ted Dilliard. Both had blood smeared on their clothes. Jake’s, no doubt. She wasn’t looking at the camera, probably wasn’t aware her photo was being taken. She was looking at the garbage truck. The wind held her black hair in its grasp. It didn’t look as if she was wearing makeup, not that she needed to. There was that upturned chin again. If anything, that’s what had helped Jake recognize her.

The word beautiful didn’t even begin to describe her. Her shirt was yellow with giant white buttons, her jeans were formfitting and she wore white tennis shoes. He thought about the way she’d dashed across her front yard, intent on saving a small child.

She, more than anyone he knew, had reason to keep a low profile.

“She and Ted saved your life.”

He’d taken a bullet and this time he hadn’t thought twice about blowing his cover.

Rafe kept talking, “We’ve looked a little closer at Dilliard. Fifteen years ago he was married, one child, lived in a middle-class neighborhood and seemed to be living the American dream.”

Trying to stay upright was wearing Jake out. But he wanted to hear what Rafe was saying. He looked at the photos of Ted Dilliard. He was an awkward-looking man, and for all the years he’d lived on the tract of land, Jake had only met him once on rattlesnake retrieval.

“His daughter died of a drug overdose when she was seventeen. A few months later Ted and his wife divorced. She’s living in California, remarried. Ted’s a recluse here.”

Suddenly, Ted didn’t look awkward; he looked sad.

“Was Miguel dealing fifteen years ago?” Jake asked.

“We thought of that angle but Ted’s been renting the mobile home for ten years. No way he could have predicted the Rubios would move there just a year ago.” Rafe continued through about thirty photos, not just of Angela and Ted but of the cul-de-sac’s skid marks and the tire tracks across Ted’s yard.

Jake had to force his eyes to stay open. “Where’s Judy Parker? She’s not in any of these photos.”

Rafe shook his head. “According to both Ted and Angela, she never left her porch.”

“Think she knew it was me and not just some garbage man?”

“That’s the only good thing about her hanging back. She never got close enough to see your face, and we’ve worked hard to keep it out of the papers. Right now, I think she and Miguel are clueless. They don’t even know Albert’s involved.”

“They’ve always been clueless,” Jake agreed. “What about Angela? How will we keep her in the dark?”

Rafe hesitated, then said, “We’re not going to. I spoke with her already, told her I knew why she was here. She wasn’t exactly happy with her federal agent, and she has no idea there’s a connection between the two of you. Ted also recognized you. I told both of them you were involved in some undercover work. Neither was surprised. I answered their questions without going into detail. Thank goodness, Ms. Parker stayed on the porch, but I still think your garbage-collecting days are done. My guess is the Rubios will be lying low, not doing anything illegal. They’ll feel vulnerable, especially Judy.”

“Is Angela...?” Jake rethought the question. “Are Angela and Ted in any danger?”

“I don’t think so. Neither of the Rubios has so much as said thank-you to Ted or Angela. Ted’s not leaving his house. Angela’s a little wary, which makes sense. She’s barely settled in and this happens. I’m hoping that she’ll only need to give a deposition instead of personally testifying.”

“Good. That will help keep her safe.” If it wasn’t for the pain, Jake would scream because he couldn’t do anything to help while bedridden. How long would it be before he could walk again, work again, protect again?

“Anything you want to tell me?” Rafe said. “You’re usually not this quiet. I’m starting to think the doc was right, and I need to let you rest.”

“Nothing to tell.”

Rafe stood. “Just one more thing. Talk about coincidence—while you were doing Albert’s garbage run, he was the victim of a robbery.”

“Is he all right?”

Rafe nodded. “He wasn’t home. Said he was only gone two hours. Enough time for someone to break in. He’s mad as spit that someone would steal his belongings.”

Amazed, Jake said, “Have you been to Albert’s cabin? How can he tell anything is missing?”

Albert’s cabin was truly in the middle of nowhere. His driveway was identifiable by an opening in the weeds. He was a hoarder. His long-deceased father had been hoarder, too. Jake figured that somewhere in Albert’s house there could be anything from a letter signed by George Washington to a Model-T Ford. That’s how eclectic Albert’s taste was.

“What’s missing?”

“Something called Bisbee Blue.”

Now Jake understood. Albert’s grandfather had been a miner at the copper mine in Bisbee. He’d recognized what the Phelps Dodge Corporation did not. The waste rock surrounding copper contained turquoise. Unlike many of his fellow workers, Albert’s grandfather hadn’t taken the beautiful hard stone home in his lunch box to sell. He’d kept it.

“I’ve seen a lot of Albert’s Bisbee Blue.” Jake pictured the boxes of turquoise, some polished nuggets, some rough, broken pieces the size of his hand all the way down to just a fingernail. Albert had most of the treasure stored in boxes. Some distant Cunningham relative had framed a few pieces.

Rafe shook his head. “None of it authenticated or insured.”

Jake closed his eyes, picturing the blue-green mineral formed by copper and iron that Albert cherished. What a Monday morning. Albert getting robbed, Billy almost getting kidnapped, Angela putting herself in harm’s way.

She had wound up in his neck of the woods unintentionally, sure, but now that Angela was here, he’d make up for what happened on the bus.

* * *

SATURDAY MORNING, WITH a fascination that both worried and impressed Angela, Celia stood in her favorite spot next to their big living-room window and peered around the curtain. She even held a notebook in which she recorded sightings.

“They might see you,” Angela said, eyeing the notebook and remembering how she’d kept one for the first few years on the run. She recorded the comings and goings of neighbors, the staff at the grocery store and every person who’d walked by their house.

Those first two years, when she and Marena lived together, Marena had taken the dominant role, reassuring Angela. It was a reversal for the twins. All their lives, Angela—make that Sophia Erickson—had been the risk-taker. She’d jumped in the deep end of the pool at age four. She’d had the nanny take her to the skateboard park at age five. She’d zip-lined at camp when she just six. Marena had been the bookworm. She’d loved the pool, but she’d taken a scooter and not a skateboard to the skateboard park and had only zip-lined hooked to her sister.

She’d rarely instigated.