Hidden (Nicole Jones #1)(55)

My detour has landed me on Cooneymus Road. I am starting to wonder about whether this was a good idea. My goal is to get to Steve’s, but he lives up near the Great Salt Pond. I’m afraid it’s too long a walk, and anyway, Frank Cooper and anyone else who’s looking for me is watching his house.

But Jeanine’s place is just down the road. I look at my watch again. It is eight o’clock in the morning. My run from Vail Beach and through the Hollow has taken longer than I thought. The spa opens at seven, with an early-morning yoga class. Jeanine might be there, or she might be home catching up on the sleep I stole from her. I know I am an imposition and am pushing the boundaries of friendship, but I have no choice.

I start to run again, the backpack slapping against my wet back, my feet happier on pavement than sand. I see her house ahead, a two-story gray clapboard house with a wide front porch. Her car is not in the driveway. I walk around to the back door and cup my hands around my eyes, peering through the window. The kitchen is dark, but I see a coffee cup perched on the counter next to the sink.

I know where she keeps her spare key, and I find it under a pot on the back deck. I let myself in and breathe in the familiar scent: potpourri and sea salt and morning coffee, familiar, comforting smells that help me relax.

I find a water glass and fill it, drinking it down in one gulp then filling it again and drinking again. Although I’m breathing normally again, now I’m a little chilled as my sweat dries.

I put my backpack on the floor next to the stool at the kitchen island. The coffee pot still has at least one cup left in it, and as I pour it, I can tell Jeanine has not left too long ago as it is still warm. I put the cup in the microwave to heat it a little more. I reach into the fridge to get the milk, and when I finally take a sip, it is smooth and rich and warms me. My stomach growls, though, reminding me that coffee is not breakfast. I am not sure when I’ll have another chance to eat, so I make myself a couple of eggs and toast. While I eat, I take my laptop out of the backpack and set it in front of me. Jeanine has wireless. I end up in the chat room. It’s still empty. No sign of Tracker. No note, no nothing.

A small bit of panic rises in my chest, and I think again about those men. The man in the suit could be a fed, but the other one, I’m not so sure. I’ve seen my share of agents, and that one just didn’t have the look about him. His clothes, for instance. He could be undercover. I try to remember if he looks familiar. If he’s been on the island and I have noticed him, yet not noticed him. But I am coming up blank. Neither man was familiar, not in the way Ian was when I saw him outside Club Soda that night I was with Steve. The night it all started to unravel.

And as I am thinking, it pops up. On the computer screen. What I have been waiting for.

Are you there, Tiny?

Tracker is back.





TWENTY-EIGHT


I was worried, I write. I thought you’d left. Angel said you were unavailable.

He told me. He was wrong. I’m sorry. What’s going on?

I need something, like before. You know, you hooked me up.

It takes a few seconds longer for him to respond this time, and again I panic. But then: Everything like before?

Yes. And a credit card.

Where?

I know he is asking where I’ll pick the documents up.

New York.

Again, I wait a few minutes. I tap my fingers on the granite, take a drink of coffee, nibble a piece of toast.

That’s going to take a couple days.

When?

Friday.

Three days. I have enough money to hold me over. Anyway, I have to get to Boston, get the train.

Same name? he is asking.

No. I think. Elizabeth. Elizabeth McKnight.

I need a picture.

That’s right. Hold on, I say, switching to a new screen and the camera. I can see myself, what I will look like. I am flushed, still, from my long run. I comb my fingers through my curls, straighten out my glasses, lick my lips and take a basic head shot. I save the image and send it to Tracker in the chat room.

Background, is all he writes after about five minutes.

What?

You’re in a house. Can you get rid of the background? In Photoshop?

I may be able to get back into hacking, but I have never used Photoshop. I don’t know how, I admit.

OK. I’ll take care of it. And then, You look different.

I’m older.

You look better.

I cannot help myself. Maybe you could send me a picture of you.

Sorry, sweetheart, but you know the rules.

I’m at a disadvantage. If we were in the same place, you would know me but I wouldn’t know you.

A smiley face pops up on the screen. I tried. I’d tried back then, too. Tracker did know what I looked like. I am as uncomfortable now with that as I’d been before. But I can’t dwell on it. This is all about my survival.

So, where on Friday? I write.

Chinatown. There’s a tea shop on Mott Street. Go in and ask for their special jasmine tea and they’ll take you to the back. You pay them then.

How much?

Twenty.

I glance at my backpack. OK.

Tiny?

Yes?

Nothing else?

I think about everything he’s doing for me. Everything he has done. I can’t ask for more. No. Thank you.

Be careful. And if you can, let me know how you are. I’ve missed you.