Page 78

Holmes lowered the phone, tapped an app, and did a quick conversion. He turned to Poe. “Call Edwards. Tell him we need a helicopter, a jet, and another helicopter, in that order. Three passengers.”

“Where to?” asked Poe.

“The Gulf—about a hundred miles south of Houston.” He put his phone down.

“Okay then,” said Marple. “I guess it’s time for Agnes to show up.”

“Are you sure about this?” asked Holmes.

Marple nodded. “Go get your things—and give me twenty minutes to change.”

CHAPTER 78

THE FLIGHT FROM the lodge to Hancock Field Air National Guard Base in Syracuse took just twenty-eight minutes, courtesy of a quickly dispatched FBI helicopter. Holmes looked out the cabin window as the chopper hovered over the tarmac. Burton Edwards was waiting near the end of the runway. Fifty yards behind him was a sleek Embraer Phenom jet, with its boarding stairs lowered.

Holmes unfastened his harness. The helicopter door was opened from the outside. He stepped out as the rotor was winding down. Poe was right behind him.

Edwards strode over. “How solid is your information?” he shouted over the engine noise.

“How fast is your jet?” Holmes shouted back.

“Four hundred fifty knots. Less than three hours to Houston, depending on the headwinds. Then a forty-minute chopper flight to the coordinates you gave me.”

“Then let’s get airborne. Paul will be waiting.”

Edwards turned as a third figure climbed out of the helicopter wearing a prison jumpsuit. Her dark hair was parted in the middle. She was hunched over, with a bitter expression on her face.

It took a second for the illusion to register with Edwards. When it did, his jaw dropped. “Holy shit. Marple?”

She elbowed past him and headed for the jet. “Out of my bloody way!”

“Don’t mess with her,” said Holmes. “She’s not herself tonight.”

CHAPTER 79

THE FLIGHT PATH from Syracuse to Houston was on a line that ran almost directly southwest. At forty-five thousand feet over Chattanooga, Holmes felt his phone vibrate.

As he’d expected, it was a FaceTime call, but with no face on the other end—just an empty black sky with the sound of a marine engine in the background. And then a raspy, disembodied voice.

“Do you have her, Sherlock?”

Holmes turned up the volume so everybody in the darkened cabin could hear. Edwards leaned forward from the facing seat. Poe leaned over from across the aisle. It was the first time Holmes had heard the watchmaker’s voice in five months.

“No preamble, Oliver?” said Holmes. “No cordial greeting? I mean, we haven’t spoken since the day you planted the bomb in our office. The same day you escaped. The same day you killed Celia Rogers.”

“You mean that poor young mother on the lake? I believe you’re the one on the hook for that murder, Sherlock. Quit stalling. Where’s Agnes?”

“She’s right here. All wrapped up and packaged for delivery.” Holmes turned his camera toward the rear of the cabin, where a female figure sat slumped in her seat, chin to her chest, strapped in with heavy restraints. He flipped the phone back around.

“Let me talk to her!” Paul demanded.

“She’s heavily sedated,” said Holmes. “It’s the only way they’d let us transport her. You can speak to her in person at about 1:00 a.m. Houston time. We’ll wake her up and meet you on the Aquila.” He clicked off the call and turned off his phone. He was sure that Paul would have more questions or demands. Holmes didn’t want to hear them.

A few seconds later, Marple raised her head. “Get me out of these fucking straps!” She was still practicing Agnes Matts’s accent, and her vocabulary. Poe unfastened his seat belt and walked back to loosen Marple’s leather restraints.

“Do you think we sold it?” she asked.

Poe patted her arm. “The cabin is dim. Let’s hope love is a little bit blind.”