“Ma’am, I’m SA Riggs, have you seen this woman?”
“You ain’t here for Junior?”
“Not unless he has something to do with this woman’s kidnapping.”
“Oh I’ll kill him.” She leaves the door and starts yelling down the hall. I should leave, but I’m interested in knowing who Junior is and why he’s in so much trouble with his mother.
When Junior comes to the door, I estimate that he’s about fifteen years old and maybe one hundred and ten pounds if he ate a sandwich.
“Wasn’t me,” he says as if he doesn’t have a care in the world.
“Step outside, son.”
“Ah, man, I didn’t do it. I was home all night.” He steps out, swinging the screen door so hard it hits the porch rails.
I grab him by the back of the neck so he’s looking at me. “Where’s your father?”
He shrugs. “Gone.”
“So that makes you the man of the house, and from what I can gather you’re stressing your mother out. Get your act together and take care of her because she doesn’t need to worry about you. Am I clear? If I have to come back here, I’m taking you in for the disappearance of this woman, got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
I let him go back into the house only to see his mother start hitting him with her dishtowel. It can’t be fun having an unruly teen, and it’s clearly not the first time the authorities have come to the door. When I’m a SEAL again, I’m going to come back and talk to him about enlisting. The service will teach him everything his mom is trying to do, but will demand that he respects himself while doing it.
Sirens, laughter and the odd screaming keep me pacing the floor while I wait for Cara to call. I’m going stir crazy, as the minutes and seconds tick on without any word from her. With her professional training she is more versed on how an investigation should go. Me, I wanted to go back to that one Amy Jones and sit in her living room until she’s recounted every place she’d been until she remembers where she saw Penny. One thing’s for sure, Penny is alive. She’s out there somewhere, and so is Claire. I’m certain of that fact, unless that lady isn’t remembering correctly, and then we’re back to square one and I’m still going door-to-door like a shitty salesman, but with nothing to offer. Only doors aren’t slammed in my face; instead, it’s the look of pity I receive as a result of what these people feel for Penny, even though they don’t know her.
I hear a scuffle in the hall, but through my peephole I can’t see what’s going on. Voices are getting louder and coming closer to my room. Pressing myself against my door, I try to decipher what I’m hearing but the words are muffled. You would think for a low-end hotel, the doors would be thinner, but that’s not the case.
I freeze when I hear my name, and by my name I mean Tucker McCoy, not the name I’m checked in by.
“I don’t have a guest by that name, ma’am.” The manager’s voice is right outside my door. Through the peephole I can see him and the back of another person. When that person turns to pound on my door, I see her. It’s Frannie.
Rage fills me instantly and I’m tempted to open the door, but I’d be hauled away for murder. When I take her out, it’ll be in the privacy of a place that I chose, not in a hotel.
“I know he’s here,” she snaps, pounding on my door. How the fuck does she know I’m here? Cara was right, there’s a mole inside her division—and it’s probably the Lawson follower.
I place my foot against the door and stretch until the gun Cara left me is firm in my hand. As carefully as I can, I check the magazine to confirm it’s loaded and flip off the safety.
For a brief moment I think about opening the door and welcoming her with open arms and once the manager walks away, gagging her. Bed sheets are easy to rip. I could tie her to the chair and torment her until the Feds came to pick her up, except I wouldn’t be able to explain to them how I’m in the possession of an agent’s badge.
Either way I’m fucked. I can’t kill her and I can’t take her as a hostage. Life is really unfair sometimes.
Of course, life also has a funny way of turning the knife even more at the most inopportune moments. My phone starts ringing, the chimes echoing throughout the room.
“Someone is in there,” she says, pounding on the door again and asking for her husband.
I have no choice but to let the phone go to voicemail, which I know will alert Cara that something is not quite right. After seven rings, it goes off again. I realize that I need to get out of this room while Frannie is still in the hallway.
Sliding the door chain on as quietly as I can, I grab the lone chair in the room and position it under the doorknob to keep her out. Picking up my bag and making sure I’ve left nothing behind, I head to the window.
As my luck would have it, not only is my phone ringing again, but the window hasn’t been opened in years.
“Shit,” I mutter as I push with all my might to get it to shift. When it finally does I wiggle out, drop to the street, and sling my duffle bag over my shoulders.
First stop is the Army Navy store—no more playing a helpless Fed. I need to have the tools that I’m used to. I just hope they don’t ask for ID.
When I’m far enough away from the hotel I pull out my phone and call Cara back.