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When he left her alone in the bedroom, Angelica placed the backpack on a cedar chest at the foot of the four-poster bed, which was one of the few surfaces free from knickknacks or photos. She unzipped the main compartment. The soft beige turtleneck, the jeans and the lightweight, superwarm Patagonia jacket were familiar. As she changed into the clothes, she remembered when she’d bought them, remembered trying them on, washing them and taking them out of the dryer. Her memory seemed back to normal, except for recent events.
It was as if a neuroprogrammer had reached into her skull and erased chunks of her brain. Last night and yesterday were totally blank. Until Spence had explained the investigation at NORAD, she didn’t know why she was here. What kind of computer hacking did she do? Who taught her? And then, there was Spence. He was the most fascinating puzzle of all. She remembered him but didn’t know if they were tangled in a hot-and-heavy relationship or if they were just friends.
When she raised her arms to slip the turtleneck over her head, her torso twisted and she felt a stab of pain from the big, nasty bruise on her side and hip. Unwilling to admit how truly lousy she felt, Angelica forced herself to stand erect. Wearing her own clothing felt good. Even better, she found a makeup kit and toiletries in the backpack.
Confronting the mirror that hung above the dresser was horrific. From her snarled black hair to her chapped cheeks to her hazel-green eyes, which were road-mapped with red squiggles, she was a mess. How could Spence even look at her without gagging? If she ever hoped to find out what kind of relationship she had with him, damage control was necessary.
After she combed her hair, put on lotion and dabbed at the worst parts of her face with makeup, she looked around the guest bedroom. On the top of the dresser was an army of clay figurines that were obviously sculpted in kindergarten classes. And there were tons of framed photos of kids in costumes, playing games, skating and skiing.
Trudy was the opposite of Angelica’s mom, who kept tidy scrapbooks and limited her displays to formal pictures, such as wedding photos, graduation pictures and framed diplomas. Angelica figured she was more like Trudy, favoring snapshots of kids with dirty faces and stolen moments caught on film. She liked to think that pictures were a good way to capture memories, her memories.
Eyes closed, she attempted to focus. She visualized the headquarters where she worked, an attractive space filled with bold artwork, curving corridors, horizontal windows and computer screens with cascading streams of numbers. She imagined her desk in a smallish, orange-and-white office with a window, an ergonomic chair and a white desk that extended the length of one wall. Her gaze zoomed in on a framed photo of her and Spence, laughing and embracing. In another intimate picture, they were holding hands and walking at the edge of a frothy ruffle of surf.
The sound of a ringtone from downstairs pulled her out of her reverie. Spence’s ringtone, it played the opening notes to Camelot. He’d changed it to that theme after they saw a revival of the musical at the Arena Theater.
Vivid images of what happened after they went back to the hotel after curtain call rushed through her. She tasted the fizz of champagne, smelled the scent of fresh roses, felt his huge hands encircling her waist as she opened her mouth for his kiss. The definitive answer to one of her questions became clear. Their relationship was anything but casual. Deep and intense, they were lovers.
Chapter Four (#ud9902ce9-98f7-5e28-af7f-04658544f7c4)
Spence zipped up his parka and took his cell phone outside onto the snow-covered porch that stretched across the front of the cabin. The caller ID displayed: “SA RAMI.” It had to be Special Agent Ramirez calling to let Spence know that the SWAT takedown was successful. But the first words Ramirez said were, “I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“One of the suspects got away.”
He launched into an explanation of what had happened at the nearby cabin, but Spence stopped him. “That’s enough.”
“You need to understand that—”
“You and a trained team of SWAT officers failed to apprehend four mindless goons in a sneak attack.” In spite of the cold, Spence was steaming. “Spare me the details.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” Ramirez complained.
Spence hadn’t forgotten that SA Ramirez was quick to sneer at Angelica’s rookie status. “Is SWAT in pursuit?”
“They are, but this guy got out of his cuffs, grabbed a weapon and—”
“He’s armed?”
“Oh, yeah, he was slick. He took off like a jackrabbit. They aren’t going to catch him.”
And why aren’t you chasing him? Spence had little respect for feds like Ramirez who left the real work of law enforcement to the cops while they stood around posing in their black suits and their FBI windbreakers. Part of Spence’s investigation at NORAD would include checking out Ramirez’s office, and he wouldn’t be surprised to find a mole. Even a half-assed spy wouldn’t have much problem outsmarting the likes of Ramirez. His boss, Supervisory Special Agent Raquel Sheeran, was another story. She was as sharp as a stiletto.
Spence ordered, “Arrange for the three in custody to be delivered to the FBI offices.”
“I already have.”
The escaped thug complicated the situation. Spence couldn’t leave Angelica and the elderly couple unprotected while he hiked back to pick up his vehicle. But he wanted to get Angelica checked out by a doctor as soon as possible. Being in two places at one time wasn’t an option.
Though he hated relying on Ramirez, he needed help. He leaned against the porch banister and peered toward the church next door. Though the storm was pretty much over, a blanket of snow lay heavy on the unplowed road and the parking lot. Night was starting to fall, but it wasn’t totally dark. The glow of starlight filtered through the clouds.
“Ramirez, I want you to drive here. Bring one other man.” Spence gave directional driving instructions and used Pastor Clarence’s address for Ramirez’s GPS. “Do you understand?”
“Got it.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Pastor Clarence came onto the porch. In spite of his age and potbelly, he moved with the stealth of a hunter. “I can help you find that van at the cabin,” he said. “Angelica mentioned a green door. I know exactly where it is.”
The old man wore a red knit cap, again making Spence think of Santa. But the pastor’s red gloves were clutched around his rifle instead of a bag of toys. The parka that was belted around his ample midsection was black.
“I’m getting picked up,” Spence said. “Besides, you need to be here when the ambulance arrives.”
“The sheriff can figure it out. He’s a real crackerjack.”
“Yeah? Well, he’s not winning any prizes as a first responder.” Spence had to consider the possibility that sweet old Clarence hadn’t, in fact, contacted the emergency dispatcher. Santa might be lying. “How long ago did you make that call?”
“A while.” He tugged on his beard. “Something’s fishy. What was your phone call about?”
“There’s a dangerous armed man on the loose. I’ll get Angelica to the hospital. An officer from SWAT will be left behind to protect you and your wife.”
“I can take care of my family.” Clarence puffed out his chest. “I don’t want some SWAT punk hanging around.”
“You need protection.” Spence was fairly sure the old man was hiding something but didn’t have time to dig for the truth. “The punk stays, and that’s an order.”
“Hah!” The pastor threw back his head. “I’ve been retired for fourteen years. I don’t obey orders unless they come from my sovereign.”
“Who’s that?”
Clarence pointed skyward. “My Lord in Heaven.”
Spence gazed across the snowy crossroads toward the dark, impenetrable forest. A shaft of moonlight illuminated the simple cross above the church’s entryway. Clarence was a man of God, but that didn’t mean he was without sin. “What does your Lord say about lying?”
“You know the Commandments.”
“Do you?”
The pastor fidgeted and sputtered, and Spence could see the truth struggling to get out. If he stood here quietly and waited, Clarence would confess whatever he’d been holding back.
The pearly white landscape spread before him, so ethereal and beautiful that he almost ran inside and grabbed Angelica to show her. Better that he didn’t; she might not be enthusiastic about the wonders of snow after being nearly frostbitten to death. The only marks in the unbroken snow were his tracks and Angelica’s. Hers were almost erased by the drifting wind.
At the edge of the forest, he saw movement. It could be deer or elk or his own imagination, but he didn’t think so. He took his night vision goggles from a parka pocket and held them to his eyes.
He saw a man, staggering from the forest. He disappeared behind the church. A moment passed while Spence waited anxiously for the man to reappear.
Beside him, the pastor cleared his throat. “There’s something I ought to tell you, Spence.”
“Not now.”
“It’s important.”
A light shone through an arched window at the far end of the church. The man—the fugitive—had found sanctuary. Or so he thought.
Spence grabbed the pastor’s arm and spun him around. “I saw the fugitive, the man who escaped custody. He’s in the church. When the agent and the SWAT officer get here, send them in that direction.”
“What about me? I could be your backup.”
“Stay here. Protect Trudy and Angelica.”
Spence pivoted and leaped from the porch. His boots hit the snow, and he started running toward the church. The new-fallen snow slipped over the top of his boots and soaked his jeans. He ducked behind a clump of aspen and inhaled a deep, frigid breath. At this elevation, oxygen was scarce.
Between the trees where he was hiding and the front entryway to the church, there wasn’t much cover. If he stood upright and ran, he’d be an obvious target. But there wasn’t time to dash around to the road and come up from the front.
He kept his repeating rifle slung across his back, choosing instead to arm himself with a handgun for easier mobility. His new Glock 17 fit neatly into his hand. Through the specially woven, nonslip fabric of his glove, he hardly felt the cold of the Glock’s handgrip. Keeping his head down and shoulders bent, he tried to make himself small as he rushed toward the front entryway under the cross.
Light continued to shine through the window in the rear part of the building. Was the fugitive standing there, looking out and taking aim? This guy wouldn’t be caught napping; he’d managed to get out of his handcuffs and evade a team of trained officers. Ramirez had called him slick, and Spence agreed.
The preferred method for taking a suspect was a straight-on assault, using the element of surprise, yelling to disorient the suspect and being ready to shoot first. But Spence wasn’t looking for a lethal shoot-out. This fugitive was low on the totem pole. His greatest value was the information he could give. Somehow, Spence needed to sneak into the church and take the fugitive into custody.
At the entryway, he leaned against the polished oak door with a small diamond-shaped stained glass window at eye level. The church building was a rectangle, with stained glass windows on either side. Spence wasn’t sure what he’d find inside. Ruefully, he realized, it would have been useful to have the pastor with him to give him the layout.
The door on the right had a keyed knob. Spence gave it a twist and found it locked. No problem, he’d been picking locks since he was a trouble-making teenager. This was the first time he’d done it at a church.
After turning the knob, he opened the door a crack, slid inside and closed it. The entryway was in darkness. No windows here. In the nave, where the congregation sat, the stained glass windows on either side allowed moonlight to fall across several rows of wooden pews. He edged his way down the wall, expecting—at any moment—to hear the blast of a repeating rifle.
No sound came. And Spence didn’t see the fugitive. At the front of the church, there was light from a door at the far right side of the sanctuary. In the entryway, Spence found himself at the foot of a narrow, wooden staircase that hugged the wall. He climbed to a choir loft. Three rows of pews and an upright organ were faintly visible. Quiet as a cat, he crept down to the carved railing, where he squatted and waited.
It was a pretty little church, simple and clean, with a high peaked ceiling and open beams. The carpet in the sanctuary was slate blue and the altar was carved from dark wood. From outside, a fierce wind buffeted the stained glass windows, causing the old structure to creak and moan. Not a bad thing, he figured. Those noises had masked the sound of his entry, allowing him to scoot across the back and up the stairs without the fugitive noticing.
A certain amount of skill was required to move with stealth and purpose. But Spence also believed in luck. Being in a church, he wondered if he should shoot off a prayer. He wasn’t a religious man, didn’t make it to church every week, nor did he quote from the Bible or other sacred texts. But he was spiritual. He believed in a higher power. When he was growing up, two men were instrumental in helping him pull his life together. One was a pastor, the other a priest. Spence had never done a whole lot of praying, but he felt like those church people had done a lot of praying to make sure he stayed on the right path.
A telephone rang. Spence heard the mumbled reply. Was the voice coming all the way from that back room? If so, the acoustics in here were incredible.
The light from the back room went out. The phone call must have tipped off the fugitive. But how? Who made that call? Behind the shadows of the pulpit and a standing candleholder, Spence saw a man dodge across the sanctuary, slam into the side of the altar and then duck behind it.
From his superior vantage point in the choir loft, Spence peered over the banister rail. The element of surprise was gone, but he could still give this guy a chance to make it easy on himself.
“FBI,” Spence called out. “I don’t want to hurt you. Just put down your weapon and step out from behind the altar.”
“What if I don’t?”
“I need to take you into custody.”
The fugitive laughed. “That doesn’t work for me.”
Spence heard a voice from behind his back. “Sorry, Spencer. Doesn’t work for me, either.”
He looked over his shoulder and saw Pastor Clarence, aka Bad Santa, aiming his rifle at a lethal point between his shoulder blades. The old man was working with the bad guys. “This explains a lot.”
“What?” Clarence asked.
“You never called 911.”
“Nope.”
“And I’m guessing that the van hadn’t ended up in this area by coincidence. Tell me, Pastor, do you own the cabin with the green door?”
“I do, and three others in this area.” He gestured with the rifle. “I want you to stand up real slow and careful.”
Seriously? Had Bad Santa forgotten how well armed Spence was? Did this old guy think he could take down a federal agent in his prime?
“Let me remind you,” Clarence said, “I’ve got the drop on you, and it’d be easier to swab up the blood from your dead body than to sand bullet holes out of the pews.”
“Were you even a chaplain?”
“I’m retired, but I served.”
Something must have happened to turn the old man into a traitor. In other circumstances, Spence might have been willing to delve and probe and put together motivations and answers. But he wasn’t in a forgiving mood. This investigation needed to be over so he could return to Virginia with Angelica and repair her memory.
Lowering his rifle and sliding his handgun onto the pew, Spence turned sideways in the choir loft so he’d present a narrow silhouette to the man hiding behind the altar. “Tell me, Clarence, if I hadn’t come along, what would you have done to Angelica?”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s a loose end. It doesn’t seem smart to leave her running free. Would you have shot her?”
Clarence huffed as he adjusted the barrel on his rifle. “You’ve got this wrong. Just give me a minute and let me explain.”
A disembodied voice rose from the altar. “It’s not as bad as you think.”
How do you know what I think? Spence had never been known for his calm, patient attitude, and he sure as hell didn’t need advice from some dumber-than-dirt thug. It was time to take control of this situation.
Disarming Clarence would be a piece of cake; the old guy wasn’t exactly in peak condition. The tricky part would be to avoid getting shot by the armed thug. Spence coiled his long legs beneath him. With one well-placed leap, he went into the aisle between the pews. With a pivot, he launched himself off the organ and smashed into the pastor’s broad chest.
Clarence went down with a thud. Flat on his back, he didn’t bother struggling. As Spence fastened his wrists with a zip tie, Clarence said, “There should have been an easier way to do this.”
“Explain.”
“First, an introduction,” Clarence said. “The dark and scary character who escaped the SWAT team is my nephew, Trevor MacArthur. Help us out, Trev. Turn on the sanctuary lights.”
The shadowy figure that had been lurking behind the altar went to the edge of the sanctuary and flipped a couple of switches. Lights blazed in the nave.
A young man with curly brown hair and a beard strolled to the front of the sanctuary. “There’s one more thing you ought to know, Spence.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m FBI, working undercover.”
Chapter Five (#ud9902ce9-98f7-5e28-af7f-04658544f7c4)
