What Happened to the Bennetts(57)

“Everything’s going to be okay.” I gave him a hug, then walked him to the Tahoe and opened the door. “Love you.”

“Love you, too. See you later.”

“Yep.” I forced a smile, not knowing when I would see him again. Ethan reached for another hug, and I squeezed him quickly, not to arouse suspicion.

Lucinda smiled convincingly. “Later, honey. Love you.”

My throat caught. She wasn’t supposed to say that. It wasn’t in the script. “Love you, too,” I said lightly, as she got inside the Tahoe.

“See you, Jason.” Dom opened the driver’s side door.

I waved goodbye, and Dom got into the Tahoe, started the ignition, and drove off, but I didn’t have time to watch them go. I was on the clock.

I hurried upstairs to the agents’ apartment and knocked on the door. “Wiki?”

Wiki came to the door with a smile. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.” I smiled back, trying not to think about whether he knew Milo was an FBI informant.

“Sorry to bother you, but something’s wrong with the outdoor shower.” I faked a frown. “Maybe you can give me a hand with it.”

“Not a problem, I can give it a shot.” Wiki opened the screen door to go. “There’s a toolbox in your laundry room.”

“I found it and I put it in the shower.” I went down the stairs and led Wiki to the outdoor shower, which I opened. I let him go ahead of me, closed the door partway, then stopped. “Hold on, I have to hit the head. Be right back.”

“Okay.”

I padlocked the shower door quietly, then took off running. I turned right out the driveway, running as fast as I could down the street, feeling light and fast. There wasn’t a moment to lose. The shower door was thick wood, but I didn’t know how long it would hold.

I reached the house with the junk in the front yard, and old man Thatcher sat in his BarcaLounger next to a refrigerator, reading the newspaper with his cigar plugged wetly into his mouth. Thatcher looked up, his hooded eyes flinty, when I ran up to him, but I didn’t have time for small talk.

“Mr. Thatcher? I have cash and I want that white Civic.” I had noticed the car on my last run, with the handwritten sign in the windshield that read $1200. I pulled out my wallet, which held $3000 from the safe at home.

“Okay.” Thatcher brightened, standing. “Don’t you wanna take it for a spin?”

“No. I need a plate, too. Fast.” I thrust the money at him, and Thatcher took the stack, counting it while he spoke.

“There’s one on it. What’d you say your name was?”

“I didn’t.”

“I seen you, runnin’ with that other fella.”

“I’d appreciate you keeping this to yourself.”

Thatcher lifted an unruly eyebrow. “It’ll cost you.”



* * *



—

Minutes later, I was racing down the street in the Civic. I pulled into a beachy gas station and pumped some gas, paying in cash. I broke my phone and tossed it in the trash. My mind raced. Wiki would be out of the shower by now. He would call Dom. Dom would tell Lucinda, who would give him our cover story, that we had a big fight and I took off for a few days alone, a habit of mine. I hoped it would give me a head start.

Five minutes later, I was back in the Civic, hitting the gas. If I hurried, I would make it in time.

I glanced at the trees as I whizzed past, wondering about cameras. Traffic and red-light cameras on the main road. Security cameras on the shops. The FBI would collect the surveillance tape.

But I would be gone.

I had failed my daughter, but I would not fail my family.

They could not survive in the program, so I had to eliminate the threat against them.

I had a plan I prayed would work.

If it didn’t, there was Plan B.

B was for bait.





Chapter Thirty-Four



Straddling the Delaware state line, the Brandywine Valley was home to sunny pastures, colonial-era houses, and watercolor landscapes painted by favorite son Andrew Wyeth. I raced past the entrance to Longwood Gardens and its historic cemetery, but I was heading for a different cemetery. I was going to Junior’s burial. I had found the obit online.

I took a left, then a right, passing quaint fieldstone homes and McMansions set back from the winding roads. Horses grazed in dappled sunlight under trees aflame with fall foliage. The air smelled fresh and earthy in a familiar way, unlike the marshy humidity of our house. I regained my emotional footing, despite where I was heading. In time the road narrowed to one lane, and I passed clapboard Cape Cods and ranch homes crowbarred onto land that used to be farms.

I spied a sign ahead, hartwood cemetery & memorial gardens, and scanned the area for the FBI or local police. The houses were split-levels with driveways, and only one or two cars were parked on the street. If the FBI were surveilling the funeral, an agent sitting in a parked car would have been obvious. I didn’t see any. The street was quiet and still, and the only person out was a ponytailed woman running with a German shepherd. I looked around for unmarked vans, but there weren’t any of those, either.

Pillars of tan fieldstone marked the cemetery entrance, and I entered and turned left onto an internal road. The cemetery was parklike, with old oaks interspersed between rows of gray tombstones and only a few scattered mourners. Junior’s service was at the top of the hill, a large group of mourners under a blue tent. Long black limos and a line of cars with neon-flagged windshields were parked near them.