“We’ll tell you in the car,” says Judd. “That is, if you can give us a ride to my place.”
“Of course I can,” says Mike. “Come on. Let’s get you boys home.”
Judd rides shotgun, and Clay sits in back. Judd tells Mike the entire story. The rock through the window with the ransom note. Judd’s decision to give the kidnapper the money without involving the police. And his own shortsightedness in not anticipating an ambush before dropping the canister of cash in the river. And how fortunate he is that Clay followed him.
“I mean, Moen’s Bridge isn’t near anything or anyone,” says Judd. “I should have known better than to go alone.”
“You want to stop at the hospital?” says Mike. “Make sure you don’t got a concussion?”
Clay looks at the clock on Mike’s dash. It’s 2:02AM. He doesn’t remember the last time he was out and about at 2:02AM. The last thing he wants to do is sit in an emergency room under glaring fluorescents next to a cougher and sneezer. Plus Judd’s brain seems to be just fine—he just deduced Clay’s biggest secret. “I can check him at the house,” says Clay. “I’ve been through enough concussion protocols to know the drill. If he fails, we’ll go to the hospital.”
“Whose house?” says Mike.
“My dad’s,” says Clay. “It’s closer.”
The cornfields look black in the passing windows. Clay sees a ghost of himself in the window. He can’t help but wonder who that guy is now. He went from playing professional soccer inEurope where he was also a US intelligence agent. Both were fairly routine jobs, one serving the other, where Clay lurked below the surface. That wasn’t his first choice when it came to soccer. He’d much rather have played for top-tier teams like Liverpool or Real Madrid than Galway United FC.
But in espionage, lurking below the surface served him well. Unseen. Unheard. No one suspected a damn thing until the game blew up in his face. The diplomatic explosion that sent him running back to Riverwood, Minnesota. And yet, here he is once again. Not as an agent, but as a participant in a clandestine mission. So much for the quiet life.
Mike pulls into Judd’s driveway. It’s two hundred yards of winding gravel through river birch and maples. They come around the last bend and Judd says, “I don’t remember leaving all those lights on.”
“No,” says Clay. “You didn’t.” He spots Zoey Jensen’s squad car parked where Judd’s Tahoe usually is. “And I don’t remember the chief of police being parked outside the house when you left.”
“What the hell is she doing here?” says Mike.
Clay feels something gnaw at his gut. He opens the rear door before the car comes to a complete stop.
CHAPTER 23
When Clay was thirteen years old, he thought he was old enough to stay home by himself. Either that or sit vigil with his father at the hospital. He was almost a teenager. But instead he had to spend the night at Uncle Teddy and Aunt Deb’s. This was before Judd had acquired the doublewide for them. Back then they lived in a regular trailer. They had a bedroom with four walls in the rear of the trailer, but Clay had to sleep on a bunk that folded down and hovered over the dining table. The only things between Clay and the back bedroom were a tiny bathroom, a tiny kitchen, and a couch-like storage thing.
Judd usually gave Clay a choice between staying with Teddy and Deb or staying with Sue and Carol. Sue and Carol had a real house with a guest bedroom. He had his own bathroom there. And Carol was an excellent cook. She was also a nurse in caseClay happened to be not feeling well—this was before she retired from nursing and opened her Nymphomaniac fly shop.
But not that night. That night Judd insisted Clay stay at Teddy and Deb’s. Clay understood why. She could die tonight. She being his mother, Pam. She could die, and Judd, as much as he loved Sue and Carol, wanted Clay to be with blood relatives even if the quarters were cramped.
The partition between the bedroom and the rest of the trailer opened, and Uncle Teddy emerged, slid the partition shut, and disappeared into the bathroom. When he emerged, Clay watched Teddy reach for the partition handle to return to the bedroom. But Teddy must have felt Clay’s eyes on him. He stopped, turned around, and took a few steps toward Clay.
“You up, little man?” whispered Teddy.
“Yeah,” said Clay. “Can’t sleep.”
“Me either,” said Teddy. “But Deb can, so let’s keep our voices real low so we don’t wake her up.”
“Okay,” whispered Clay. He looked at his uncle’s shadowed face, the gold ring in his right ear reflecting a whisper of light.
“Can I get you something to eat? Bowl of cereal or a Pop-Tart?”
“Sure,” said Clay. “I’d eat a Pop-Tart.”
“That sounds good to me, too.” Teddy turned on an under-cabinet light, opened a cupboard near his head, and pulled down a box of Pop-Tarts. “We got brown sugar cinnamon. That work?”
“Yeah,” said Clay.
“Toasted?” said Teddy.
“No thank you.”
Clay heard the tearing and crumpling of Mylar. He watchedTeddy put two Pop-Tarts on a paper towel, then another two on a second paper towel. He handed one paper towel to Clay up in his bunk, took the other for himself, and sat on the couch. They ate without talking for a minute and then Clay said, “Is she ever going to come home?”
