Trixie wrinkled her nose at the stale air that hit them as soon as they unlocked and opened the door to room 15 of the inaccurately named Mountain Lake Motel. “Geeze. How long do you think it’s been since the last guest stayed here?”
“Probably awhile,” Regan replied as he reached for the light switch. He stepped inside and took note of the dingy carpet, frayed curtains, chipped and scratched dresser, and lumpy bed that leaned heavily to the left. He’d stayed in significantly worse hovels during his running years, but he recognized it was likely Trixie had never spent a single night in a “fleabag motel” in her entire life. He set down their bags and went immediately to their bed, stripping off the garishly striped coverlet and tossing it to the floor.
“Is there something wrong with the bedspread?” she asked uncertainly.
“There’s probably plenty wrong with it. Places like this? They’ll wash the sheets but they never bother with the blankets.”
“Oh. Ew.”
Regan turned on every light in the room and inspected the bed carefully, pulling back the fitted sheet to see the mattress beneath. “I’m not seeing any bedbugs, and this is about the time they usually come out.”
“Uh, you know… that car Mr. Wheeler gave us is pretty comfortable. Maybe we could put the seats back and sleep in there?”
He turned and offered her a reassuring smile. “No. We should be all right. We’ll crash for a few hours and hit the road again when the sun comes up.”
Although she remained dubious, Trixie dug out the small traveling case of toiletries Eric had packed for them. She quickly brushed her teeth and washed her face, then ran a brush through her tangled curls. It felt like a week at least had passed since she discovered the phone and photo in her car, and she knew exhaustion was about to claim her.
Ten minutes later, dressed in pajamas she thought might have belonged to Honey, she climbed into the bed and curled up at Regan’s side. “You probably still have loads of questions,” she mumbled wearily.
“They can wait.” He placed a soft kiss on the crown of her head. “Sleep, baby. We can talk in the morning.”
~~~~~~~~~
It was still dark out when Trixie woke with a start. She blinked and sat up quickly.
“Shhhh….” Regan whispered, before she could speak. “There’s someone prowling around our car.”
He was standing at the corner of the window with the curtain pulled slightly to the side.
She slid from the bed and padded across the room to join him. “How did they find us?”
“I don’t know. But we’re gonna need a new plan.”
“We could go out the bathroom window.”
“You could go out the bathroom window. Maybe. And that's what I want you to do if we can't think of anything else. I doubt I’d fit.”
Trixie leaned around him to see. A dark figure stood by the car, peering in a side window. She swallowed hard and looked toward the back of the room. “Okay. I have an idea, but… it will take perfect timing.”
~~~~~~~~~~
It was shortly after 4:00 am when eleven unsuspecting guests staying at the Mountain Lake Motel were rudely awoken by the loud, sudden clanging of an old fire alarm that, in truth, the night manager had always assumed no longer worked. Thirty seconds later, they were treated to unplanned showers as the overhead sprinkler system sputtered to life, spewing a stream of disturbingly rust-colored water.
Regan watched through the window as doors up and down the corridor banged open and confused, dazed men and women stumbled out onto the cracked concrete walkway. The shadowy figure lurking near their vehicle turned and bolted off into the night. He grabbed up their belongings and rushed outside himself, fumbling with the key fob to unlock the car doors. In moments, after carelessly tossing their things onto the back seat, he cranked the ignition, shifted to reverse, and gunned the engine. He drove backwards across the parking lot, barely missing a curb stone meant to indicate a parking space by the front office, and slammed on the brakes as Trixie came racing around from the back of the building. She wrenched open the passenger-side door and threw herself in. “Go!” she exclaimed as she scrambled into a sitting position and yanked at her seatbelt.
She turned around to watch out the rearview mirror as Regan spun the wheel and drove out onto the feeder road, looking for any sign of an entrance onto the highway. “Are we being followed?” he asked tersely.
“Not right now. There’s no one behind us. But that might not mean anything. They found us somehow. Even with a new car and registered under assumed names. I think… I think there must be someone back home we can’t trust,” she said unhappily. “It could be someone working for Mr. Wheeler, or someone even closer than that.”
A name popped immediately into Regan’s head, but he remained silent. Accusing Eric of betraying them would only anger her, and she would, with admittedly good reason, likely only attribute his suspicions to his inability to completely control his jealousy where the other man was concerned.
“Let’s not take a direct route," she said as she pulled her phone from her pocket and flipped it open. "Pick some back roads and ‘scenic drives.’ It’ll be easier to tell if someone’s tailing us that way, and it won’t be as obvious where we’re going." Although it was early and they were probably still in bed, she sent a series of texts, updating Dan, Eric, and the captain on their situation. “When we get to Philly, we can find somewhere to eat breakfast and then look for a car rental place. This one’s not safe anymore.” She glanced over at him and frowned. Reaching up, she pressed one of the lights, turning it on. “You dyed your hair.”
“While you were sleeping.”
“It looks…”
“Don’t. Even. Say. It.”
“I was going to say it actually looks pretty good. I would even say ‘dashing.’ And now it makes Dan’s resemblance to you much more apparent. Maybe you should consider keeping it this color.”
His sour expression at that spoke volumes. Trixie only grinned.
~~~~~~~~~~
Even though the drive from Sleepyside wasn’t really that far, Trixie had only been to Philadelphia a handful of times. Once, as part of a middle school field trip, she’d toured all the famed historical spots. Her clearest memory of that particular trip was standing in line for almost three hours so that she and her classmates could eventually spend a few, decidedly underwhelming moments looking at the cracked Liberty Bell.
Independence Day was, naturally, a huge event for the city. They drove around for some time before finding a side street with an available spot to park. After slinging one of the backpacks over her shoulder, Trixie left the keys sitting in plain view on the dash and slammed the door. “There. Now maybe someone will take it and serve as our decoy.”
“Is that such a good idea, Wildcat?” Regan asked, brows raised. “It could be putting someone else in danger.”
“Eh. It would serve them right for stealing a car in the first place.”
Deciding there was a certain logic to that, albeit one with a fair share of rationalization, Regan nodded and hefted the other bag. “There was a café about four blocks back that way. We can have something to eat and then focus on securing new transportation.”
“Actually, I think I want to find the cemetery first,” she said, after a moment. “No. I mean second. We’ll eat first, then get over to Fleet Street, and after that, we can look for another car. If we pick up another tail, maybe we can lose ‘em again, while we’re still on foot, before they see whatever it is we’re driving.”
The closer they got to the heart of the city, the more people they encountered. Everywhere she looked, Trixie saw splashes of red, white, and blue. She glanced down at her own bright yellow t-shirt and pursed her lips in thought. She stood out too much. Regan as well, though his faded green shirt wasn’t quite as eye-catching. “Hang on a second,” she said, coming to a stop outside a gift shop filled with the typical souvenirs of postcards, shot glasses, and the sort of useless knick-knacks no one ever bought for themselves but always bought in volume to take home to all their friends and relatives.
“What’s wrong?” Regan asked her, glancing quickly about. “Did you spot someone?”
“No… but if you must know, I have that hair-standing-up-on-the-back-of-your-neck feeling that someone is following us. I’m trying my best to ignore it and not panic. In the meantime… ” She cocked her head toward a rack of blue shirts that read “Philadelphia Freedom - July 4, 2002.”
“You want to stop and shop? Really?”
“As a disguise, Regan. Sheesh. It’s so we can blend in better. C’mon. Hopefully, they have something in your size.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Captain Jean Rand unlocked the door to Interrogation Room One and let Dan inside. “You made good time. I wasn’t expecting you back in town for another hour or so. I’ve moved everything in here now,” she explained. “Away from prying eyes. And access is strictly limited to a needs-to-know basis.”
“Mr. Wheeler’s asked me to tell you that you can move your base of operations out to the Manor House if you want,” he told her quietly, taking in the stack of file folders spread out on the room’s only table and the long incident board set up on the far wall.
“I think we’re better off here. At least for now. The station is manned 24/7 and my officers know that no one aside from us and Agent Kobayashi is allowed to enter this room.”
“Have you heard anything new?”
Jean shook her head. “I got the text from Trixie when they reached Philly. That was the last one. As for our own investigations… we’re still tracking any unknown visitors in town and trying to determine what we can about those photos. Especially where they were developed.” She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “Listen. I’m sorry about your great-aunt.”
“You haven’t said anything to Trix or Uncle Bill have you?” he asked hurriedly.
“No. I’m following your suggestion on that, but… do you really think it’s a good idea to keep them in the dark?”
“They have way too much to worry about already,” Dan said decisively. “I know the official report from Parson’s Mill says Maggie ‘fell down’ the steps to her cellar and now she’s in a coma, but that was no accident. I’m sure of it. I’m going to head up there with Charly later today. I spoke to a doctor and he said the prognosis wasn’t good.”
“If someone did attack her, it’s probably not safe to return to Parson’s Mill.”
Dan lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “At this point? I’m not sure it’s safe anywhere.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The mid-morning heat was reaching uncomfortable levels and Trixie wiped impatiently at the sweat beading on her forehead as Regan paid for their taxi.
“You folks sure you don’t want me to wait?” the driver asked, peering down the deserted street. “Maybe you got the address wrong? You wanna check and make sure somebody’s home?”
“That’s all right,” she said with a forced smile. “My brother’s expecting us. Thanks, though.”
They waited until the cab went up one block and turned a corner before shouldering their bags. Trixie was not looking forward to the roughly half-mile hike they had to reach the Fleet Street cemetery, but they’d agreed it was better not to tell anyone, not even a random taxi driver, their actual destination.
They were in an older section of the city. The homes sat on wide lots, many overgrown with weeds and grass long past the need for a good mow. Most of the houses bore the look of years of neglect, and Trixie could well understand their driver’s hesitation at leaving them stranded in such a questionable location. “I wonder what this neighborhood looked like back in the 70’s,” she murmured as she stepped over a shattered beer bottle. “Back when your dad would’ve been here.”
“Probably back then it was considered a nicer part of town,” Regan guessed. “You can see where once upon a time this was probably a desirable place to live.”
“And now it just gives me the creeps. I’ll bet a lot of these houses are simply abandoned. It’s hard to picture anyone living in them.”
He reached out and took her hand, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. He could very easily imagine squatters, drug addicts, and runaways taking up residence after the owners left or died off. He silently prayed they wouldn’t run into any desperate tweakers in search of another high.
They’d only gone about five blocks when a group of young men appeared at the end of a side street. Regan knew they would prove to be a problem the moment he saw them. The tallest flashed a gold-toothed grin and sauntered forward. “Looks like somebody’s come wandering where they don’t belong.”
This was, Regan thought grimly, the point where he was supposed to say something about how they were only passing through and didn’t want any trouble. It seemed this was always the reaction of people who “wandered where they didn’t belong,” usually affluent folks from the suburbs who made a wrong turn in a “bad” section of a big city. It never worked. Saying you didn’t want trouble was the most surefire way of making certain you got it, in his experience.
“Yo, homie. How much for the little bitch?”
Regan heard Trixie suck in a sharp breath. He released her hand, keeping his eyes firmly on the approaching men. Five against one. The odds weren’t good. “When I say, you need to run,” he murmured. “Drop your backpack and go.”
She looked up at him with wide, scared eyes and he felt a jolt of adrenaline surge through him. Five against one might not be the best odds, but he knew none of these losers had anything in their lives as precious as his reason for fighting.
Trixie took one step back as the men crossed the street. “Go!” Regan ordered harshly. “Run, Wildcat!”
She gave him one last look before spinning on her heels and sprinting away, her backpack still strapped to her shoulders.
“Da-yum,” one of the men said with a low whistle. “Chica can move.”
Regan clenched both his fists. He would wait for an attack, not instigate it himself.
“What the hell?”
All five men had their attention focused behind him. Regan wasn’t certain whether or not this was some sort of planned attempt to distract him, but then he realized he could hear the sound of fast footsteps growing louder. He turned quickly and was stunned to see Trixie racing toward him.
The next thing he knew, he was stumbling to one side, choking on air filled with the burning smell of pepper spray. He straightened, wiping at his eyes, and saw that the tall man had grabbed Trixie by the arm. With a low growl, he launched himself forward and threw a single punch that knocked his opponent out cold. He swung around and clocked the man to his right as Trixie held up her small weapon and blasted another directly in the face.
“C’mon!” he shouted, taking her hand and pulling her along. They ran to the end of the block and turned. Regan made a quick decision, leading her up a narrow driveway and around the side of a decrepit two-story house with broken windows and peeling paint. The back door was shut. He didn’t even pause to try the knob. He raised one leg and kicked it in. The wood around the lock splintered and the door gave way. As soon as they were inside, he pushed it closed and slid the room’s only piece of furniture, a scarred wooden table, up against it.
His eyes were stinging and his throat felt as if he’d swallowed fire. “When I said run, I meant run away,” he rasped. “To safety.”
“And leave you behind? Are you kidding me?”
“I was hoping you were scared enough to listen to me. You certainly looked frightened out of your wits.”
“That was just for show. I mean… yeah, I was terrified, but not to the point that I’d run off without you. I only wanted them to think that so I could get far enough away and get the pepper spray out of my backpack.
“I didn’t even know you had it,” he told her, coughing into his hand.
“It was in with my lipstick and feminine hygiene products. I guess that was some kinda joke on Eric’s part.”
She stepped over to one of the walls and pressed herself against it, peering between a crack in the blinds that hung at a slanting angle in one of the windows. “I don’t think the Not Welcome Wagon followed us,” she said after a long moment. “Though that seems weird. Wouldn’t they want revenge?”
“They’re probably still recovering. That’s some powerful stuff. I only got a whiff of it after you shoved me out of the way and I can still barely see.”
“I’m sorry.” She crossed over to him, regarding him in concern. “Is it that bad? I couldn’t think of any way to warn you that wouldn’t also warn them and I didn’t want them to know what was about to hit them.”
“I’ll get over it,” he said gruffly. “We need to get out of here pretty soon. Before they do come looking.”
“Yeah,” Trixie agreed darkly. “I’d rather we didn’t have a repeat encounter with the Lost Boys of Old Philly. One was enough.”
~~~~~~~~~~
“Holy crap. For real?” Trixie exhaled heavily as she took in the locked gate and seven-foot brick wall surrounding the small property. “Who leaves a cemetery locked up during the day? What if someone wants to visit their dearly departed?”
“Maybe it’s just closed for the holiday?” Regan suggested as he studied the old-fashioned lock intently, wondering if he could find a tool to break it.
“All the more reason for it to be open,” she declared stoutly. “Maybe I want to put flowers on the grave of my great-great-great whatever granddaddy who fought in the Revolutionary War. Did no one think of that? Huh?”
“I don’t think this cemetery is quite that old, Wildcat.”
“Oh, fine. Whatever. Here. Boost me over.”
“If I boost you over, you’ll just be stuck on the other side.”
“Nah. See that tree in the back? I can use it climb out.”
He hesitated, considering their options, which were, he had to admit, extremely limited.
“Regan, I’ll be fine. I may not be some crazy cliff-scaling lunatic like you, but I’ve got the tree thing down.”
She dropped her bag and rummaged around, finding her disposable camera at the very bottom. She tucked it securely in her back pocket and turned to look at him expectantly. “All right?”
He reluctantly bent down and cupped his hands. “Be careful, baby,” he said quietly.
“What? I’ll be within your sight the entire time.”
With his help, she scrambled over the brick wall and dropped down on the other side. Despite its surroundings, the cemetery was surprisingly well-tended. She walked quickly down the front row, reading the names on each stone, happy they weren’t obscured by any weeds or trash.
She found what she was looking for near the far wall. “It’s here!” she called out. “Neall Regan. Born February 29, 1966. Died March 18, 1970. Geeze. I hope there’s not really a little kid buried here.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Uh… hang on.” She circled the marker and knelt down. At the base, a small metal plate was attached with two screws. “Yeah… there’s something….”
“What’s it say?” Regan asked as she pulled out her camera and snapped a picture.
“"Made in the USA. Patrick Morris, Custom Markers. Owensboro, Kentucky.” She rose and held up both hands. “Guess we’re heading to Kentucky. Yay.”
“Unless the bomb is buried here? How do we know this isn’t the end of the trail?”
Trixie winced and stepped back from the grave site. “I don’t think so. This is too much like the last one. ‘Donated by… made by.’ I think when we do find the right place, we’ll know it.”
“Awesome.” Regan glanced over his shoulder. For a moment, he thought he’d heard… something. But the street remained empty and still. Nothing moved but a lone blackbird that flew overhead. He turned back to see that Trixie was already hauling herself up onto the lowest branch of the towering black maple. He met her halfway around the back and pulled her into a tight hug.
“Oh, uh, okay,” she stuttered in surprise. “Air?”
He loosened his hold only slightly. “I’m sorry, Wildcat. About all of this.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” she said soberly. “But for the record? If your dad was still alive? I’d probably kill him myself.”
“You’d have to stand in line and wait your turn. Let’s go, baby. We need to get back to a more populated area and figure out our transportation issues.”
~~~~~~~~~~
“I don’t understand!” Di exclaimed angrily as she stormed into the Wheeler’s private family room. “Why don’t they have an entire army with them? We just let them go out there by themselves to hunt for a freakin’ bomb? Seriously?”
Matthew waved her toward the sofa and nodded to Celia. “Some tea would be great,” he told her. “Thanks. Diana? Would you like anything?”
“Yes,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “I would like answers.”
“I know. I’m afraid I don’t have all that many for you, though.”
“Start by explaining why Trixie and Regan are on their own.”
Matt sighed and sat down across from her. “Because that was one of the… conditions. Trixie’s caller apparently gave her very explicit and gruesome details of what would happen to, and this is a quote, ‘someone very dear to her,’ if she enlisted more than Regan in this damn… quest.”
“So? Isn’t that like when kidnappers tell people not to call the police? Of course you call them anyway.”
“I know this seems like a poor decision, but Trixie was very insistent. She wouldn’t risk it. We’re keeping close tabs on them, though. We have GPS linked to the phones we gave them and she’s been checking in regularly.”
“And what happens if they succeed? What if this bomb is real and they find it?”
“We have resources in place for that scenario, Diana. You’re going to have to have faith. Trust in Trixie and Regan and trust in me. All right?”
She leveled him with a gimlet-eyed stare. Matt couldn’t decide if that was to indicate her reluctant agreement or signify her wish that he’d drop dead. If looks could kill… Diana Lynch would be considered a lethal weapon.
~~~~~~~~~~
How was it possible there were this many people packed in to so little space? Trixie had been bumped and stepped on several times and she was about ready to walk out into the middle of the road, regardless of the policemen cautioning everyone to stay back. In the distance, she could hear a whistle and the banging of drums. The parade was getting closer and the crowd surged forward eagerly.
Despite the wall of people that stretched out in both directions, she felt certain they weren’t the only ones pushing their way along with no interest in the day’s festivities.
They were being watched. She felt vulnerable and exposed as they worked their way down Chestnut Street. She studied their surroundings carefully, but the crowds were too much. Tourists mingled with locals as everyone jockeyed for the best spots to watch the parade, and she felt Regan’s hand grasp hers tightly. She knew he was afraid they might be separated, and his fingers gripped hers almost painfully in response to this worry.
Maybe she was giving in to simple paranoia. They’d driven for hours before arriving in the city that morning with no signs of any followers, and yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that even right then they were under someone’s close surveillance. She wanted to believe only friendly eyes were upon them, but she couldn’t seem to muster up enough optimism to accept that hopeful thought.
Regan found a break in the rush and pulled her toward an alley that ran along the back of a row of small businesses. “This is nuts,” he said, shaking his head. “We need to find another cab. One that will take us to the airport.”
“Are you suggesting we fly to Kentucky?”
“I doubt we’d be able to book a flight on today of all days. But we might be able to rent a car. I think we stand a better chance there then around here.”
“Okay. Maybe if we walk a few blocks in that direction we can call for a taxi. I’d really like to get the heck out of Philly as soon as possible.”
A young man rode past them on a bicycle decked out with ribbons and flags. “God bless the USA!” he hollered cheerfully.
“Woo,” Trixie muttered blandly in reply. “And hoo.”
“Probably awhile,” Regan replied as he reached for the light switch. He stepped inside and took note of the dingy carpet, frayed curtains, chipped and scratched dresser, and lumpy bed that leaned heavily to the left. He’d stayed in significantly worse hovels during his running years, but he recognized it was likely Trixie had never spent a single night in a “fleabag motel” in her entire life. He set down their bags and went immediately to their bed, stripping off the garishly striped coverlet and tossing it to the floor.
“Is there something wrong with the bedspread?” she asked uncertainly.
“There’s probably plenty wrong with it. Places like this? They’ll wash the sheets but they never bother with the blankets.”
“Oh. Ew.”
Regan turned on every light in the room and inspected the bed carefully, pulling back the fitted sheet to see the mattress beneath. “I’m not seeing any bedbugs, and this is about the time they usually come out.”
“Uh, you know… that car Mr. Wheeler gave us is pretty comfortable. Maybe we could put the seats back and sleep in there?”
He turned and offered her a reassuring smile. “No. We should be all right. We’ll crash for a few hours and hit the road again when the sun comes up.”
Although she remained dubious, Trixie dug out the small traveling case of toiletries Eric had packed for them. She quickly brushed her teeth and washed her face, then ran a brush through her tangled curls. It felt like a week at least had passed since she discovered the phone and photo in her car, and she knew exhaustion was about to claim her.
Ten minutes later, dressed in pajamas she thought might have belonged to Honey, she climbed into the bed and curled up at Regan’s side. “You probably still have loads of questions,” she mumbled wearily.
“They can wait.” He placed a soft kiss on the crown of her head. “Sleep, baby. We can talk in the morning.”
~~~~~~~~~
It was still dark out when Trixie woke with a start. She blinked and sat up quickly.
“Shhhh….” Regan whispered, before she could speak. “There’s someone prowling around our car.”
He was standing at the corner of the window with the curtain pulled slightly to the side.
She slid from the bed and padded across the room to join him. “How did they find us?”
“I don’t know. But we’re gonna need a new plan.”
“We could go out the bathroom window.”
“You could go out the bathroom window. Maybe. And that's what I want you to do if we can't think of anything else. I doubt I’d fit.”
Trixie leaned around him to see. A dark figure stood by the car, peering in a side window. She swallowed hard and looked toward the back of the room. “Okay. I have an idea, but… it will take perfect timing.”
~~~~~~~~~~
It was shortly after 4:00 am when eleven unsuspecting guests staying at the Mountain Lake Motel were rudely awoken by the loud, sudden clanging of an old fire alarm that, in truth, the night manager had always assumed no longer worked. Thirty seconds later, they were treated to unplanned showers as the overhead sprinkler system sputtered to life, spewing a stream of disturbingly rust-colored water.
Regan watched through the window as doors up and down the corridor banged open and confused, dazed men and women stumbled out onto the cracked concrete walkway. The shadowy figure lurking near their vehicle turned and bolted off into the night. He grabbed up their belongings and rushed outside himself, fumbling with the key fob to unlock the car doors. In moments, after carelessly tossing their things onto the back seat, he cranked the ignition, shifted to reverse, and gunned the engine. He drove backwards across the parking lot, barely missing a curb stone meant to indicate a parking space by the front office, and slammed on the brakes as Trixie came racing around from the back of the building. She wrenched open the passenger-side door and threw herself in. “Go!” she exclaimed as she scrambled into a sitting position and yanked at her seatbelt.
She turned around to watch out the rearview mirror as Regan spun the wheel and drove out onto the feeder road, looking for any sign of an entrance onto the highway. “Are we being followed?” he asked tersely.
“Not right now. There’s no one behind us. But that might not mean anything. They found us somehow. Even with a new car and registered under assumed names. I think… I think there must be someone back home we can’t trust,” she said unhappily. “It could be someone working for Mr. Wheeler, or someone even closer than that.”
A name popped immediately into Regan’s head, but he remained silent. Accusing Eric of betraying them would only anger her, and she would, with admittedly good reason, likely only attribute his suspicions to his inability to completely control his jealousy where the other man was concerned.
“Let’s not take a direct route," she said as she pulled her phone from her pocket and flipped it open. "Pick some back roads and ‘scenic drives.’ It’ll be easier to tell if someone’s tailing us that way, and it won’t be as obvious where we’re going." Although it was early and they were probably still in bed, she sent a series of texts, updating Dan, Eric, and the captain on their situation. “When we get to Philly, we can find somewhere to eat breakfast and then look for a car rental place. This one’s not safe anymore.” She glanced over at him and frowned. Reaching up, she pressed one of the lights, turning it on. “You dyed your hair.”
“While you were sleeping.”
“It looks…”
“Don’t. Even. Say. It.”
“I was going to say it actually looks pretty good. I would even say ‘dashing.’ And now it makes Dan’s resemblance to you much more apparent. Maybe you should consider keeping it this color.”
His sour expression at that spoke volumes. Trixie only grinned.
~~~~~~~~~~
Even though the drive from Sleepyside wasn’t really that far, Trixie had only been to Philadelphia a handful of times. Once, as part of a middle school field trip, she’d toured all the famed historical spots. Her clearest memory of that particular trip was standing in line for almost three hours so that she and her classmates could eventually spend a few, decidedly underwhelming moments looking at the cracked Liberty Bell.
Independence Day was, naturally, a huge event for the city. They drove around for some time before finding a side street with an available spot to park. After slinging one of the backpacks over her shoulder, Trixie left the keys sitting in plain view on the dash and slammed the door. “There. Now maybe someone will take it and serve as our decoy.”
“Is that such a good idea, Wildcat?” Regan asked, brows raised. “It could be putting someone else in danger.”
“Eh. It would serve them right for stealing a car in the first place.”
Deciding there was a certain logic to that, albeit one with a fair share of rationalization, Regan nodded and hefted the other bag. “There was a café about four blocks back that way. We can have something to eat and then focus on securing new transportation.”
“Actually, I think I want to find the cemetery first,” she said, after a moment. “No. I mean second. We’ll eat first, then get over to Fleet Street, and after that, we can look for another car. If we pick up another tail, maybe we can lose ‘em again, while we’re still on foot, before they see whatever it is we’re driving.”
The closer they got to the heart of the city, the more people they encountered. Everywhere she looked, Trixie saw splashes of red, white, and blue. She glanced down at her own bright yellow t-shirt and pursed her lips in thought. She stood out too much. Regan as well, though his faded green shirt wasn’t quite as eye-catching. “Hang on a second,” she said, coming to a stop outside a gift shop filled with the typical souvenirs of postcards, shot glasses, and the sort of useless knick-knacks no one ever bought for themselves but always bought in volume to take home to all their friends and relatives.
“What’s wrong?” Regan asked her, glancing quickly about. “Did you spot someone?”
“No… but if you must know, I have that hair-standing-up-on-the-back-of-your-neck feeling that someone is following us. I’m trying my best to ignore it and not panic. In the meantime… ” She cocked her head toward a rack of blue shirts that read “Philadelphia Freedom - July 4, 2002.”
“You want to stop and shop? Really?”
“As a disguise, Regan. Sheesh. It’s so we can blend in better. C’mon. Hopefully, they have something in your size.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Captain Jean Rand unlocked the door to Interrogation Room One and let Dan inside. “You made good time. I wasn’t expecting you back in town for another hour or so. I’ve moved everything in here now,” she explained. “Away from prying eyes. And access is strictly limited to a needs-to-know basis.”
“Mr. Wheeler’s asked me to tell you that you can move your base of operations out to the Manor House if you want,” he told her quietly, taking in the stack of file folders spread out on the room’s only table and the long incident board set up on the far wall.
“I think we’re better off here. At least for now. The station is manned 24/7 and my officers know that no one aside from us and Agent Kobayashi is allowed to enter this room.”
“Have you heard anything new?”
Jean shook her head. “I got the text from Trixie when they reached Philly. That was the last one. As for our own investigations… we’re still tracking any unknown visitors in town and trying to determine what we can about those photos. Especially where they were developed.” She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “Listen. I’m sorry about your great-aunt.”
“You haven’t said anything to Trix or Uncle Bill have you?” he asked hurriedly.
“No. I’m following your suggestion on that, but… do you really think it’s a good idea to keep them in the dark?”
“They have way too much to worry about already,” Dan said decisively. “I know the official report from Parson’s Mill says Maggie ‘fell down’ the steps to her cellar and now she’s in a coma, but that was no accident. I’m sure of it. I’m going to head up there with Charly later today. I spoke to a doctor and he said the prognosis wasn’t good.”
“If someone did attack her, it’s probably not safe to return to Parson’s Mill.”
Dan lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. “At this point? I’m not sure it’s safe anywhere.”
~~~~~~~~~~
The mid-morning heat was reaching uncomfortable levels and Trixie wiped impatiently at the sweat beading on her forehead as Regan paid for their taxi.
“You folks sure you don’t want me to wait?” the driver asked, peering down the deserted street. “Maybe you got the address wrong? You wanna check and make sure somebody’s home?”
“That’s all right,” she said with a forced smile. “My brother’s expecting us. Thanks, though.”
They waited until the cab went up one block and turned a corner before shouldering their bags. Trixie was not looking forward to the roughly half-mile hike they had to reach the Fleet Street cemetery, but they’d agreed it was better not to tell anyone, not even a random taxi driver, their actual destination.
They were in an older section of the city. The homes sat on wide lots, many overgrown with weeds and grass long past the need for a good mow. Most of the houses bore the look of years of neglect, and Trixie could well understand their driver’s hesitation at leaving them stranded in such a questionable location. “I wonder what this neighborhood looked like back in the 70’s,” she murmured as she stepped over a shattered beer bottle. “Back when your dad would’ve been here.”
“Probably back then it was considered a nicer part of town,” Regan guessed. “You can see where once upon a time this was probably a desirable place to live.”
“And now it just gives me the creeps. I’ll bet a lot of these houses are simply abandoned. It’s hard to picture anyone living in them.”
He reached out and took her hand, giving her fingers a gentle squeeze. He could very easily imagine squatters, drug addicts, and runaways taking up residence after the owners left or died off. He silently prayed they wouldn’t run into any desperate tweakers in search of another high.
They’d only gone about five blocks when a group of young men appeared at the end of a side street. Regan knew they would prove to be a problem the moment he saw them. The tallest flashed a gold-toothed grin and sauntered forward. “Looks like somebody’s come wandering where they don’t belong.”
This was, Regan thought grimly, the point where he was supposed to say something about how they were only passing through and didn’t want any trouble. It seemed this was always the reaction of people who “wandered where they didn’t belong,” usually affluent folks from the suburbs who made a wrong turn in a “bad” section of a big city. It never worked. Saying you didn’t want trouble was the most surefire way of making certain you got it, in his experience.
“Yo, homie. How much for the little bitch?”
Regan heard Trixie suck in a sharp breath. He released her hand, keeping his eyes firmly on the approaching men. Five against one. The odds weren’t good. “When I say, you need to run,” he murmured. “Drop your backpack and go.”
She looked up at him with wide, scared eyes and he felt a jolt of adrenaline surge through him. Five against one might not be the best odds, but he knew none of these losers had anything in their lives as precious as his reason for fighting.
Trixie took one step back as the men crossed the street. “Go!” Regan ordered harshly. “Run, Wildcat!”
She gave him one last look before spinning on her heels and sprinting away, her backpack still strapped to her shoulders.
“Da-yum,” one of the men said with a low whistle. “Chica can move.”
Regan clenched both his fists. He would wait for an attack, not instigate it himself.
“What the hell?”
All five men had their attention focused behind him. Regan wasn’t certain whether or not this was some sort of planned attempt to distract him, but then he realized he could hear the sound of fast footsteps growing louder. He turned quickly and was stunned to see Trixie racing toward him.
The next thing he knew, he was stumbling to one side, choking on air filled with the burning smell of pepper spray. He straightened, wiping at his eyes, and saw that the tall man had grabbed Trixie by the arm. With a low growl, he launched himself forward and threw a single punch that knocked his opponent out cold. He swung around and clocked the man to his right as Trixie held up her small weapon and blasted another directly in the face.
“C’mon!” he shouted, taking her hand and pulling her along. They ran to the end of the block and turned. Regan made a quick decision, leading her up a narrow driveway and around the side of a decrepit two-story house with broken windows and peeling paint. The back door was shut. He didn’t even pause to try the knob. He raised one leg and kicked it in. The wood around the lock splintered and the door gave way. As soon as they were inside, he pushed it closed and slid the room’s only piece of furniture, a scarred wooden table, up against it.
His eyes were stinging and his throat felt as if he’d swallowed fire. “When I said run, I meant run away,” he rasped. “To safety.”
“And leave you behind? Are you kidding me?”
“I was hoping you were scared enough to listen to me. You certainly looked frightened out of your wits.”
“That was just for show. I mean… yeah, I was terrified, but not to the point that I’d run off without you. I only wanted them to think that so I could get far enough away and get the pepper spray out of my backpack.
“I didn’t even know you had it,” he told her, coughing into his hand.
“It was in with my lipstick and feminine hygiene products. I guess that was some kinda joke on Eric’s part.”
She stepped over to one of the walls and pressed herself against it, peering between a crack in the blinds that hung at a slanting angle in one of the windows. “I don’t think the Not Welcome Wagon followed us,” she said after a long moment. “Though that seems weird. Wouldn’t they want revenge?”
“They’re probably still recovering. That’s some powerful stuff. I only got a whiff of it after you shoved me out of the way and I can still barely see.”
“I’m sorry.” She crossed over to him, regarding him in concern. “Is it that bad? I couldn’t think of any way to warn you that wouldn’t also warn them and I didn’t want them to know what was about to hit them.”
“I’ll get over it,” he said gruffly. “We need to get out of here pretty soon. Before they do come looking.”
“Yeah,” Trixie agreed darkly. “I’d rather we didn’t have a repeat encounter with the Lost Boys of Old Philly. One was enough.”
~~~~~~~~~~
“Holy crap. For real?” Trixie exhaled heavily as she took in the locked gate and seven-foot brick wall surrounding the small property. “Who leaves a cemetery locked up during the day? What if someone wants to visit their dearly departed?”
“Maybe it’s just closed for the holiday?” Regan suggested as he studied the old-fashioned lock intently, wondering if he could find a tool to break it.
“All the more reason for it to be open,” she declared stoutly. “Maybe I want to put flowers on the grave of my great-great-great whatever granddaddy who fought in the Revolutionary War. Did no one think of that? Huh?”
“I don’t think this cemetery is quite that old, Wildcat.”
“Oh, fine. Whatever. Here. Boost me over.”
“If I boost you over, you’ll just be stuck on the other side.”
“Nah. See that tree in the back? I can use it climb out.”
He hesitated, considering their options, which were, he had to admit, extremely limited.
“Regan, I’ll be fine. I may not be some crazy cliff-scaling lunatic like you, but I’ve got the tree thing down.”
She dropped her bag and rummaged around, finding her disposable camera at the very bottom. She tucked it securely in her back pocket and turned to look at him expectantly. “All right?”
He reluctantly bent down and cupped his hands. “Be careful, baby,” he said quietly.
“What? I’ll be within your sight the entire time.”
With his help, she scrambled over the brick wall and dropped down on the other side. Despite its surroundings, the cemetery was surprisingly well-tended. She walked quickly down the front row, reading the names on each stone, happy they weren’t obscured by any weeds or trash.
She found what she was looking for near the far wall. “It’s here!” she called out. “Neall Regan. Born February 29, 1966. Died March 18, 1970. Geeze. I hope there’s not really a little kid buried here.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Uh… hang on.” She circled the marker and knelt down. At the base, a small metal plate was attached with two screws. “Yeah… there’s something….”
“What’s it say?” Regan asked as she pulled out her camera and snapped a picture.
“"Made in the USA. Patrick Morris, Custom Markers. Owensboro, Kentucky.” She rose and held up both hands. “Guess we’re heading to Kentucky. Yay.”
“Unless the bomb is buried here? How do we know this isn’t the end of the trail?”
Trixie winced and stepped back from the grave site. “I don’t think so. This is too much like the last one. ‘Donated by… made by.’ I think when we do find the right place, we’ll know it.”
“Awesome.” Regan glanced over his shoulder. For a moment, he thought he’d heard… something. But the street remained empty and still. Nothing moved but a lone blackbird that flew overhead. He turned back to see that Trixie was already hauling herself up onto the lowest branch of the towering black maple. He met her halfway around the back and pulled her into a tight hug.
“Oh, uh, okay,” she stuttered in surprise. “Air?”
He loosened his hold only slightly. “I’m sorry, Wildcat. About all of this.”
“You have nothing to apologize for,” she said soberly. “But for the record? If your dad was still alive? I’d probably kill him myself.”
“You’d have to stand in line and wait your turn. Let’s go, baby. We need to get back to a more populated area and figure out our transportation issues.”
~~~~~~~~~~
“I don’t understand!” Di exclaimed angrily as she stormed into the Wheeler’s private family room. “Why don’t they have an entire army with them? We just let them go out there by themselves to hunt for a freakin’ bomb? Seriously?”
Matthew waved her toward the sofa and nodded to Celia. “Some tea would be great,” he told her. “Thanks. Diana? Would you like anything?”
“Yes,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “I would like answers.”
“I know. I’m afraid I don’t have all that many for you, though.”
“Start by explaining why Trixie and Regan are on their own.”
Matt sighed and sat down across from her. “Because that was one of the… conditions. Trixie’s caller apparently gave her very explicit and gruesome details of what would happen to, and this is a quote, ‘someone very dear to her,’ if she enlisted more than Regan in this damn… quest.”
“So? Isn’t that like when kidnappers tell people not to call the police? Of course you call them anyway.”
“I know this seems like a poor decision, but Trixie was very insistent. She wouldn’t risk it. We’re keeping close tabs on them, though. We have GPS linked to the phones we gave them and she’s been checking in regularly.”
“And what happens if they succeed? What if this bomb is real and they find it?”
“We have resources in place for that scenario, Diana. You’re going to have to have faith. Trust in Trixie and Regan and trust in me. All right?”
She leveled him with a gimlet-eyed stare. Matt couldn’t decide if that was to indicate her reluctant agreement or signify her wish that he’d drop dead. If looks could kill… Diana Lynch would be considered a lethal weapon.
~~~~~~~~~~
How was it possible there were this many people packed in to so little space? Trixie had been bumped and stepped on several times and she was about ready to walk out into the middle of the road, regardless of the policemen cautioning everyone to stay back. In the distance, she could hear a whistle and the banging of drums. The parade was getting closer and the crowd surged forward eagerly.
Despite the wall of people that stretched out in both directions, she felt certain they weren’t the only ones pushing their way along with no interest in the day’s festivities.
They were being watched. She felt vulnerable and exposed as they worked their way down Chestnut Street. She studied their surroundings carefully, but the crowds were too much. Tourists mingled with locals as everyone jockeyed for the best spots to watch the parade, and she felt Regan’s hand grasp hers tightly. She knew he was afraid they might be separated, and his fingers gripped hers almost painfully in response to this worry.
Maybe she was giving in to simple paranoia. They’d driven for hours before arriving in the city that morning with no signs of any followers, and yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that even right then they were under someone’s close surveillance. She wanted to believe only friendly eyes were upon them, but she couldn’t seem to muster up enough optimism to accept that hopeful thought.
Regan found a break in the rush and pulled her toward an alley that ran along the back of a row of small businesses. “This is nuts,” he said, shaking his head. “We need to find another cab. One that will take us to the airport.”
“Are you suggesting we fly to Kentucky?”
“I doubt we’d be able to book a flight on today of all days. But we might be able to rent a car. I think we stand a better chance there then around here.”
“Okay. Maybe if we walk a few blocks in that direction we can call for a taxi. I’d really like to get the heck out of Philly as soon as possible.”
A young man rode past them on a bicycle decked out with ribbons and flags. “God bless the USA!” he hollered cheerfully.
“Woo,” Trixie muttered blandly in reply. “And hoo.”