Cut and Run

He watched as his only verbal witness withdrew into herself. He recognized the aftershock of a guilty conscience, her second-guessing their cooperating with the man, her reviewing the alternatives they might have had, might have taken. Conscience is so quick to relive, so unforgiving and hypercritical of its own decision-making. Larson knew this about himself and could see it in her now, and knew better than to try to say anything comforting, for such things only solidified one’s convictions that the wrong choice had been made.

Seeing this as a scene that could quickly absorb him, Larson excused himself. The moment local police heard of a federal agent’s involvement, Larson would be delayed by questions he couldn’t answer. He turned and made for the door.

“I know where she lives,” the caregiver called out after him. “ Alice.”

Larson stopped and returned to her, sensing now the impending arrival of police and the need for quick information.

She spoke in a voice that sounded as if she were explaining this to herself. “I drove them both home once.”

From what Larson had learned, her colleague had been dragged off because of this same knowledge.

“Debbie didn’t need to tell him that,” the woman said. “Shouldn’t have told him. I wasn’t about to tell him.”

Larson took her gently by the shoulders. Human contact could have transforming results. He said softly, “I need the address.” When she gazed up into his eyes, Larson added, “With your help, we can stop him.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Hope Stevens, now Alice Stevenson, broke into a run at Baines Jewish Hospital, overwhelmed by the flashing spectacle of police cars and emergency vehicles. A pain gripped her chest, but she continued ru

Battling her maternal urges, understanding the attention she would provoke by storming into the daycare center, she forced her legs to slow, and as she did so took deep breaths to settle herself to where she could talk clearly and calmly without betraying her terrors.

She felt exposed and vulnerable. Both government agents and the Romeros could be looking for her. A day ago-just twenty-four hours earlier-she’d been rebuilding, pla

She reached the Children’s Hospital basement by a circuitous route known only to employees. Through a series of color-coded hallways, corridors, and underground passages, she passed through the central Baines building, heading north and finally into the subterranean infrastructure of Children’s, past laundry, food services, and maintenance.

She suppressed the urge to hurry, holding herself back for the sake of appearances. Reaching a clot of uniforms and scrubs that blocked the entry to daycare, she battled against her own guilt-ridden pessimism and did not ask what had happened. Instead she listened, gleaning bits and pieces. An intruder. Wanting an address. No children hurt. Awash with relief, she nonetheless coughed up a murmur of a mother’s anguish that mixed awkwardly with despondency and a sense of reprieve.

From behind her a uniformed cop approached, trapping her between the group and her only easy exit.

Then, a voice: “ Alice?”

She turned to see Phyllis’s astonished face peering around a door frame. Alice quickly reached the distraught woman, passing shoulder to shoulder with the cop, who barely looked at her.

“Pe

“We didn’t see her today…” Phyllis said. “A man… an awful man, Alice…”

“She wasn’t here? Didn’t come here?”

“Today? No. Listen… I’m so sorry…” Phyllis broke into tears, and not for the first time judging by the look of her.

Alice welcomed this news of her daughter, even though it meant Pe

“A policeman, or dressed like one. We wouldn’t have let him in… wouldn’t have opened the door…” Phyllis met eyes with Alice, hers bloodshot and tear-filled as she said, “We told him where you live.”

Alice backed up and slowly walked away, not wanting to bring attention to herself. She thought her heart must have stopped completely for the pain in her chest, but the pulse-pounding whine in her ears kept her moving.

“Hey, lady!” a deep male voice shouted from behind. “You! Lady!”

She headed left, then right, then right again, and then broke into a run. She would never allow them to catch her in these corridors.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“Pe

The girl turned around immediately, confirming her identity.

Paolo stood tall, enabling her to take in the police uniform. “I’m Officer Rodriguez.”

The little girl-she’s a pretty little thing-backed away from the apartment house’s buzzer board and into a corner. “I’m not allowed to talk to strangers…” she said. “I’ll scream if you come closer.”

And well trained…

“And well you should, young lady,” he said, “if I was a stranger.” He took another step closer. By the look of her, she didn’t have a way into the apartment building, standing by the buzzer board as she had been. It suggested Mama wasn’t home. He decided to play that card. “But I’m not a stranger. I’m a policeman assigned to find you and take you to your mother. Doesn’t that sound like a good idea?” Her head tilted curiously, like a dog’s. “She’s at the hospital. Baines Jewish.” Pe

“What happened?” The girl’s curiosity won out. Paolo extended his hand toward her, again reminded of a wary street dog. “We’ll take the bus,” he said. “Did you know policemen ride the bus? We’ll go find your mom.”

Already pla

Her eyes softened slightly, though she remained cautious.

“Or…” he said, “if you want to stay here-if you promise to stay right here-I could head back and tell her I’d found you, and that you were okay, but that you wouldn’t come with me…”

He turned his back on her, knowing well what she’d do.

“Wait!” she called out when he’d taken but two steps.

Thrust, parry.

He heard the patter of her small feet, dried the sweat from his hand on the uniform’s shirt, and extended it for her to hold.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Trill Hampton affected the deadbeat, too-cool-to-get-excited deputy marshal role whenever possible. So when Hampton interrupted Larson’s call in an animated voice, Larson immediately took note.

“Good timing!” Hampton said. “We just got a tac alert from Homeland that an air marshal may have IDed a guy with a bow tie scar on his forearm. Someone actually reads the alerts we put out there, if you can believe that. If it’s our cutter, he was seen on a morning flight, NWA, from Mi

“It’s why I called,” Larson said. “It is him: the guy who did Be

“Gimme your ten-twenty,” Hampton said.

“It’s a Jefferson Square address.” Larson recited the exact street and number.

“Me and Stubby have made some progress on Markowitz. We’ll catch you up. We’re probably ten minutes behind you. We’ll stay on com.”