“I want to know about those photos on the CD, Marc.”

“Fine, let’s go ask her.”

When we left the kitchen, I spotted Cheryl on the stairwell. She looked down at me, arms crossed. I don’t think I had ever seen that look on her face before. It made me pause. There was some blood on the carpet, probably from Rachel. On the wall was one of those studio photos of all four kids, trying to look casual in matching white turtlenecks against a white background. Children and all that white.

“I’ll take care of it,” Lenny told her. “You stay upstairs.”

We hurried through the den. A DVD case from the latest Disney movie lay splayed on top of the television. I nearly tripped over a Wiffle Ball and plastic bat. A game of Monopoly featuring Pokemon characters was spread across the floor in midgame clutter. Someone, one of the kids I assumed, had scrawledDO NOT TOUCH A THING ! on a piece of paper and laid it over the board. As we passed the fireplace mantel, I noticed that they’d recently updated the photographs. The kids were older now, in those images as in real life. But the oldest photograph, the “formal dance” image of the four of us, was gone. I don’t know what that meant. Probably nothing. Or maybe Lenny and Cheryl were taking their own advice: It was time to move on.

Rachel sat at Lenny’s desk, hovering over the keyboard. The blood had dried down the left side of her neck. Her ear was a mess. She glanced up when she saw us and then went back to typing. I examined her ear. Severe damage. The bullet had scraped along the upper region. It had skimmed the side of her head too. Another inch—hell, another quarter inch—and she’d probably be dead. Rachel ignored me, even when I applied the Bactine and threw on a bandage. It would be good enough for now. I’d fix it for real when we had the chance.

“Bang,” Rachel said suddenly. She smiled and hit a key. The printer began to whir. Lenny nodded toward me. I put the finishing touches on the bandage and said, “Rachel?”

She looked up at me.

“We need to talk,” I said.

“No,” she countered, “we need to get out of here. I just found us a major lead.”

Lenny stayed where he was. Cheryl slipped into the room now, her arms still folded. “What lead?” I asked.

“I checked the logs on the cell phone,” Rachel said.

“You can do that?”

“They’re in plain view, Marc,” she said, and I could hear the impatience. “The dialed and received call logs. It’s pretty much standard on every phone.”

“Right.”

“The dial log didn’t help. No numbers were listed, which means, if the guy did dial out, it was to a blocked number.”

I was trying to stay with her. “Okay.”

“But the received log is another story. There was only one incoming call on the list. According to the internal timer, it came in at midnight. I just checked the phone number in the reverse directory at Switchboard dot-com. It’s a residence. One Verne Dayton in Huntersville, New Jersey.”

Neither the name nor the city rang any bells. “Where is Huntersville?”

“I MapQuested it. It’s near the Pennsylvania border. I zoomed in to within a few hundred yards. The house is all by itself out there. Acres of land in the heart of Nowheresville.”

The chill started in my center and spread. I turned to Lenny. “I need to borrow your car.”

“Hold up a second,” Lenny said. “What we need here are some answers.”

Rachel stood. “You want to know about the photos on the CD.”

“For starters, yes.”

“It’s me in the pictures. Yes, I was there. The rest is none of your business. I owe Marc an explanation, not you. What else?”

For once, Lenny didn’t know what to say.

“You also want to know if I killed my husband, right?” She looked at Cheryl. “Do you think I killed Jerry?”

“I don’t know what to think anymore,” Cheryl said. “But I want you both out of here.”

“Cheryl,” Lenny said.

She shot him a look that could have downed a charging rhino. “They shouldn’t have brought this to our doorstep.”

“He’s our best friend. He’s the godfather of our son.”

“Which makes it that much worse. He drags this danger into our home? Into the lives of our children?”

“Come on, Cheryl. You’re exaggerating.”

“No,” I said. “She’s right. We should get out of here now. Let me have the keys.”

Rachel grabbed the sheet out of the printer. “Directions,” she explained.

I nodded and looked at Lenny. His head was down. His feet rocked back and forth. Again, I thought of our childhood. “Shouldn’t we call Tickner and Regan?” he said.

“And tell them what?”

“I can explain it to them,” Lenny said. “If Tara is at this place”—he stopped, shook his head as if he suddenly saw how ridiculous the thought was—“they’ll be better equipped to go in.”

I moved right up next to him. “They found out about Rachel’s tracking device.”

“What?”

“The kidnappers. We don’t know how. But they found it. Add it up, Lenny. The ransom note warned us that they had an inside source. First time out, they knew I’d told the cops. Second time out, they learn about the tracking device.”

“That doesn’t prove anything.”

“Do you think I have time to look for proof?”

Lenny’s face sank.

“You know I can’t risk that.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

Lenny reached into his pocket and handed me the keys. We were off.

Chapter 35

When Regan andTickner got the call about the shooting at the Seidman residence, both men leapt to their feet. They were nearing the elevator when Tickner’s cell phone rang.

A stiff, overly formal female voice said, “Special Agent Tickner?”

“Speaking.”

“This is Special Agent Claudia Fisher.”

Tickner knew the name. He may have even met her once or twice. “What’s up?” he asked.

“Where are you right now?” she asked.

“New York Presbyterian Hospital, but I’m heading out to New Jersey.”

“No,” she said. “Please come down to One Federal Plaza immediately.”

Tickner checked the time. It was only five in the morning. “Now?”




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