KANE
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Tuesday, July 13
I step out of the front door of the safe house, my breath hitching as I watch the last of the sun’s rays fan their dusky glory above the black peaks of the mountains. Nothing beats the beauty of a sunset.
Knowing I can’t put it off any longer, I push out a hard sigh and call Andries.
“Yes?” he answers.
“I’m contacting the father.”
“Is everything set up?”
“Yes.”
“Any problems so far?”
“No.”
“Is the package all right?” Andries asks.
“As well as can be expected.”
“We’re expecting the package to be intact.”
“The package is all there.”Every last selfish cell of her.
“If this is a success,” Andries continues, “you know what’s promised to you.”
Yes, I know. “It’ll be a success,” I say, and disconnect the call.
I slide into Nolene’s RAV parked in the driveway, remote-open the gate, and reverse out into the street.
After what happened last night, I avoided Amy today, letting Nolene take over the delivery of her meals. Although Nolene sent me speculative glances throughout the day, I didn’t succumb to the temptation to ask her how Amy is doing. I don’t want her leaning harder on Amy because of any softening she might sense in me.Andthere is no softening, I tell myself harshly. I only have to remind myself who Amy’s father is.
Shaking my head in an effort to dislodge the bruising thoughts, I accelerate away, the safe house fading from view.
Safe houses are typically the property of animal rights sympathizers and are integral to the survival of any activist cell. I have a network of houses dotted around the country and I use them to foster liberated ex-lab animals until permanent homes can be found for them.
The safe house where I’m keeping Amy belongs to one of my veterinary customers. He’s happy for me to use his house for the month of July while he visits family in Germany.
The five-bedroomed, double-story home perfectly suits my needs. Situated in a rural area forty-five minutes from the city, the house lies sprawled on a large plot, keeping nosy neighbors at a distance. High walls, electrified fencing, and two police-trained German Shepherds help to deter intruders.
I reach Graham’s house and cruise slowly past the mansion. My lips curve in satisfaction when I peer through the wrought-iron gates and glimpse no guest cars in the driveway. Nolene’s surveillance revealed Tuesday evenings are quiet in Amy’s childhood home.
I park a few streets away and walk back to Hutchinson’s house. The front walls are too high for me to scale. Hutchinson’s neighbor, however, has not embraced the current security paranoia and the low-walled house stands out in a street of fortified perimeters. I pull a ski mask over my head and haul my body over the neighbor’s front wall.
The previous week, I borrowed a utilities van and uniform from a friend. Under the pretext of checking telephone lines, I gained access into the neighbor’s property. The quick recon confirmed my suspicion that although Hutchinson puts up an impressive façade, the wall bordering his neighbor’s is aweak spot.
I quickly climb the wall separating the two properties and set off across Hutchinson’s lawn. As I circle the house, I spot what I’m looking for, an open patio sliding door. In July’s oppressive temperatures, doors are often left open to let in a draft.
I slip inside and hold myself still, my ears straining to pick up the sounds of a man moving about his home, filling the night hours before sleep. The only noise I can detect is the distant drone of the TV.
The room I’m in appears to be a formal living room cluttered with antiques. Framed photos jostle for space on a yellowwood server. One photo in particular arrests my attention: Amy as a child, all tousled blonde curls, blue eyes squinting in the sunlight. I look away.
I hook an index finger in the collar of my shirt and adjust it so it doesn’t constrict me so much. The unfamiliar fit of the clothes chafes my skin. I’m acutely conscious that the only weapon I carry is in an envelope in my pocket.
