What Happened to the Bennetts(90)

“Mary123.”

“How do you even exist in this world?” Richardson typed it in and scrolled to Google as I watched, worrying how this was going to turn out. I couldn’t have him call the cops. Then Lucinda and Ethan could be gone for good.

“Mr. Richardson, I didn’t tell her my real name because—”

“You’re damn right you didn’t!” Richardson hit another key, and onto the screen popped a headline: LOCAL MAN SOUGHT FOR MURDER OF FBI AGENT, then the subhead: jason bennett at large after family disappearance. Under that was my photo from the conference room.

“Mr. Richardson, none of that is true, and I can explain if—”

“What do you think I am, stupid?” Richardson whirled around to me, aiming the gun at my forehead. “You’re a killer!”

“Mr. Richardson, do you know Tig? If you do, please call him. I can tell you what to say, to verify who I am—”

“I know who you are! You killed a fed!”

“No, they framed me for that—”

“You’re stone-cold crazy! You killed your whole damn family—”

Oh God. “That’s not true, I’m hoping they’re with Dom—”

“It says it in the dang newspaper!”

“They’re wrong—”

“The cops say it!”

“They’re wrong, too! The FBI isn’t releasing the information. They can’t, because of the conspiracy.” I sounded crazy, even to me. “Please get me to Tig—”

“Now, why would I take a crazy-ass killer to one of my oldest friends?”

“I think he’ll know how to find Dom and—”

“What you need Dom for? You gonna kill him, too?”

“No, listen, Dom doesn’t work in procurement. He’s an FBI agent, protecting me and my family in the witness protection program.”

Richardson blinked.

“Oh my!” Mary gasped. They both looked at me, shocked. The gun didn’t waver from my forehead.

“Mr. Richardson, for the love of God, please call Tig.”



* * *



—

“It’s ringing.” Richardson held his cell phone in his left hand and his gun in his right, trained on me. I stayed on my knees, my hands raised. I’d noticed he’d called Tig with one touch, which meant he had him in Favorites.

Richardson said into the phone, “Tig, yo, I got a White guy here, name of Jason Bennett. He killed a fed in Delaware. He’s been askin’ about you, tryna get to Dom.”

Richardson fell abruptly silent, then his graying eyebrows lifted in surprise. “No shit,” he said into the phone.



* * *



—

A brown Honda came to pick us up, and Richardson hustled to the passenger seat and I went to the back. The Honda took off, driven by an older African-American man, his features shadowed by a red Sixers cap. A short salt-and-pepper beard covered his chin, and gold rings glinted on his fingers. He seemed short, and his black leather jacket puffed around his shoulders.

Richardson turned to me. “Get down.”

I lay down in the back seat.

“By the way, this is Skeet.”

“Nice to meet you, Skeet. Thanks for the assist.”

“Welcome.”

I felt the car accelerate. We turned left, then right. My heart pounded with anticipation. I couldn’t wait to see Lucinda and Ethan.

Richardson clucked. “Tig shoulda told us Dom was in trouble.”

Skeet snorted. “It’s bad, that’s why. He wants us clear.”

“Bullshit on that. We’re here. All for one.”

“One for all.”

“The Black Musketeers.”

“The sexy Musketeers.”

They both laughed.

I smiled. They sounded like old friends, the ease between them palpable. “How do you guys know each other?”

“Poker buddies,” Richardson answered. “Before that, we were in ’Nam together.”

“Three tours,” Skeet added.

Richardson shook his head. “You always gotta say that.”

“So what? I elaborate.”

Richardson chuckled, and Skeet joined him.

I started thinking up a plan. I could count on Dom, but I needed an army.

Maybe I already had one.





Chapter Sixty



“Let’s go!” Richardson motioned to me, and the three of us piled out of the parked car and hurried down the street. Most of the houses had been abandoned. One had been torn down, leaving a pile of bricks, rebar, and plaster. No one was on the sidewalk. The streetlights were out. I didn’t know where we were and it didn’t matter. Lucinda and Ethan were here.

We hurried to a dilapidated brick rowhouse, its front window boarded up. Richardson had texted ahead, and the front door opened as soon as we hit the stoop. Richardson and Skeet hustled inside with me on their heels.

We squeezed into a dark hallway, then the front door was closed behind us. It was pitch black. I heard a dead bolt being engaged, then the rattle of a chain lock being drawn. Nobody said anything. The air felt cold. It smelled dusty.

“Follow me,” a man whispered, presumably Tig. We fell into step behind his shadowy form, left the hallway, and hurried through a large, empty living room, our shoes scuffling on gritty hardwood.