there, she would tell no one. She would continue to investigate why
Newman was using an alias, but that would be done on her own time. She
wasn’t going to destroy his memory without a very compelling reason.
She owed the man that.
She left Anne Newman sitting on the sofa, the photo album open in her
lap. The ironic thing was, if Newman was the leak on the Lockhart
case, he had probably helped himself to an early death. Now that
Reynolds thought about it, whoever might have hired him had probably
hoped to eliminate the mole and the main target in one efficient
thrust. Only a slug deflecting off a pistol barrel had saved Faith
Lockhart from joining Ken Newman on a slab. And perhaps the assistance
of Lee Adams as well?
Whoever had orchestrated it clearly knew what he was doing. Which was
bad for Reynolds. Contrary to popular fiction and film, most criminals
weren’t that accomplished and couldn’t so easily outmaneuver the police
at every turn. The majority of murderers, rapists, burglars, robbers,
drug dealers and other felons were usually uneducated or scared; or
drugged-out punks or drunks terrified of their own shadows when off the
needle or bottle, yet demons when high. They left many clues behind
and were usually caught, or turned themselves in, or were ratted on by
their “friends.” They were prosecuted and did jail time or, in rare
cases, were executed. They were in no sense of the word
professionals.
Reynolds knew that this was not the case here. Amateurs didn’t find
ways to pay off veteran FBI agents. They didn’t hire hit men who
lurked in the woods waiting for their prey. They didn’t impersonate
FBI agents with credentials so authentic they had scared off the cops.
Sinister theories of conspiracy swirled in her head, sending a shiver
of fear down her back. No matter how long you did this, the fear was
always there. To be alive was to be afraid. To not be afraid was to
be dead.
* * *
As she walked out, Reynolds passed under a blinking fire detector that
was in the hallway. There were three other such devices in the house,
including one in Ken Newman’s office. While they were plugged into the
home’s electrical wiring and did function as designed, they all also
housed sophisticated surveillance cameras with pinhole lenses. Two of
the wall outlets on each level were similarly “modified.” The
modifications had taken place two weeks ago when the Newmans had taken
a rare three-day vacation. This type of surveillance mode was based
upon PLCs, power line carrier technology favored by the FBI. And the
Central Intelligence Agency.
Robert Thornhill was on the prowl. And his attention would now turn to
Brooke Reynolds.
As she climbed in her car, Reynolds understood very clearly that she
was perhaps at the crossroads of her career. She would probably need
every bit of ingenuity and inner strength she could muster to survive
this. And yet the only thing she really wanted to do right now was
drive home and tell her two beautiful children the story of the three
pigs, just as slowly, accurately and colorfully as she possibly
could.
CHAPTER 31
THE WIND, IT TURNED OUT, WAS BLOWING HARD along the beach, and the
temperature had dropped drastically. Faith buttoned her over shirt
then, despite the cold, she took off her sandals and held them in one
hand.
“I like to feel the sand,” she explained to Lee. The tide was low, so
they had a broad beach on which to meander. The sky held scattered
clouds, the moon almost full, the stars winks of light staring down
upon them. Far out on the water they saw the blink of what was
probably a ship’s light or stationary buoy. Except for the wind, it
was completely quiet. No cars, no blaring TVs, no planes, no other
people.
“It’s really nice out here,” Lee finally said as he watched a sand crab
do its funny sideways scuttle into its tiny home. Stuck in the sand
was a piece of PVC pipe. Lee knew that fishermen would stick their
poles in the hollow tube when they were fishing from the beach.