She pulled her car away from the curb and in the rearview mirror she saw Delia Moon watching her from a window. Then the curtain fell and Delia was gone.
Delia Moon stepped away from the front window. The day was cool and clear and the wind, gusting, sighed against the glass. The house felt like it was closing in on her, a crushing fist. Every corner seemed full of Adam, and she shuddered with grief. Delia could imagine what Agent Vochek thought of her, the flicker of dislike that the woman had tried to hide and failed, for the briefest moment.
Well, high-and-mighty Agent Vochek was wrong. She didn’t care that she might not be Adam’s heir. She wished she had loved him more, or at least loved him better. She did not have a copy of his software designs, but she knew he was nearly finished with a project that might be worth millions, and now Homeland Security had seized his intellectual property. Computer files could be copied and stolen. His project could be hijacked. Even if she never saw a cent, that money was rightfully Adam’s, and money that could help his mother with her exorbitant health care costs.
He’d bought Delia this house, helped her straighten out her chaotic life; she’d protect his interests now. Resolve filled her, like water flowing into a bottle.
Please tell me about his project, Miss Judgmental had said. Not very likely, Delia thought; she wasn’t going to give away his trade secrets. If someone had killed Adam, he’d found someone he wasn’t supposed to find. Which meant his ideas worked.
She might need a lawyer to pry free his laptop, his papers, and his electronic files from Homeland Security.
She knew who to call. Because, yes, Adam had mentioned Sam Hector to her, as a man who was going to give him money to help develop his product. She found his name in Adam’s address book on the computer they shared when he was here in town, and found a number for Hector marked “direct private line.”
Delia Moon reached for the phone.
20
Ben and Pilgrim found a chain motel, one so new the landscaping wasn’t finished. It sat near the LBJ Freeway that cut across the northern stretches of the city. Pilgrim paid cash for the room. He left the money and the rest of the gear, except for one cloth bag, in the back of the Volvo.
Pilgrim looked pale as they headed up the stairs.
“Are you all right?”
“My bandages. I might need you to rewrap them.”
“Okay,” Ben said. They went inside the room; it was clean and neat. Ben turned on the television and started hunting for a news channel; Pilgrim tossed the bag onto one of the twin beds. Pilgrim went into the bathroom and closed the door.
Ben found CNN. The deaths in Austin remained the lead story, his face still on the news, still being sought as a “person of interest.” But then a photo of Emily appeared on the screen, and his throat plummeted into his chest.
The reporter, with a perfectly arched eyebrow, said: “Forsberg’s past includes an unsolved murder—that of his wife, Emily Forsberg, two years ago.” Ben grabbed the remote and switched off the TV. No.
He missed Emily with a grief that made his body ache. Fragments of the past spun into his mind: glancing up the green spill of hill that backed to their rental house, seeing no one, in the moments after Emily died; the Hawaiian police telling him someone had shot out windows at four nearby properties that morning, so this was probably a random shooting, his life destroyed for no reason; Sam Hector speaking at Emily’s memorial, of her grace and her remarkable work ethic and her dignity; Ben finally leaving their home in Dallas, knowing he could not stay, crowded by memories of her, and yet believing that abandoning the house they’d shared would be a final betrayal.
Pilgrim came out of the bathroom, stopped in the doorway. “I need you to check the bandages.”
“Sure,” Ben said. He stepped inside the bathroom and a bracelet of plastic closed around his wrist.
“What the hell . . .” He struggled and fought, but Pilgrim shoved him hard to the tiles and had already closed the other side of the plastic restraint around the pipe on the bottom of the toilet.
“Sorry, Ben, it’s better this way.” Pilgrim stepped back, breathing hard.
“You son of a bitch.” Ben yanked hard; the pipe didn’t give. Panic surged in his chest. “You would be dead if I hadn’t helped you.”
“I’m protecting you. I don’t know what I’m going to find at Barker’s house. And it’s best that you stay out of the way.”
“Fine, I’ll stay here, just take the cuff off.”
“Ben . . . I can’t have you slowing me down. Or me not being able to count on you. I’m sorry. I’m sure your name will be cleared.”