The Intern(105)

“Well, it didn’t stop your friends from the FBI. We got company. I make at least three surveillance vehicles. You walked right by ’em.”

“They saw me?”

“Yes, and they’re watching now. So let’s make this quick. It’s supposed to be a handoff. You got something for me?” he said, opening his jacket and reaching inside.

Madison gasped, reeling back.

“Hey, hey, take it easy,” he said, pulling out an envelope. “This is just for show, to make it look like an exchange is happening in front of them. I handed over the kid an hour ago. Didn’t Kathy explain?”

“Yes, sorry. I’m just really nervous,” she said, her heart starting up again after skipping several beats.

His eyes were bloodshot and rheumy. But not unkind.

“Steady as she goes, it’ll be over in no time. Now, you got something for me?”

They exchanged envelopes. The one she gave him contained the judge’s cell phone, with a photograph on it that Logue had been concerned about, depicting Nancy the case manager leaving the scene of Doug Kessler’s murder. As much as she’d always suspected that Nancy was corrupt, Madison had been shocked to learn that she was actually a killer. Logue took the envelope, ripping open the top and looking inside. He nodded in satisfaction. But what he didn’t know was that, before she left the motel, Judge Conroy had sent a copy of that photo to the FBI. Madison didn’t enlighten him. Why disrupt the deal or interfere with Nancy being brought to justice?

“We’re good,” Logue said, nodding.

She turned, glancing nervously toward the railing that ran the length of the pedestrian walkway. Meant to protect people from falling into the swift-moving river below, it was no more than chest-high. All she had to do was lift one leg and then the other, climb over and let herself fall.

She hesitated.

“Is it time? Should I…?”

Her voice trailed off. She’d been so certain she could handle this part. The jump, the cold, the current. But now, with the wind raging and icy flakes strafing her face, she was terrified.

“Wait a minute,” Logue said, looking at his watch. “There’s been a slight adjustment to the plan. I’m expecting someone else. The snow must’ve delayed him.”

There was only one person he could mean.

“Wallace? No way,” Madison said, starting to back away, but Logue grabbed her by the sleeve.

“Please, kid, trust me on this. He needs to see Kathy jump. He would never take my word for it, but he’ll believe his own eyes. Otherwise, he won’t stop looking for her. As soon as I see his car, you get up on the railing. I’ll give the signal. Then you jump. Okay?”

The snow was beginning to let up, visibility improving slightly. The area was largely deserted, with no traffic and virtually no pedestrians. But as Madison glanced down the street, she saw six people emerge simultaneously from three different cars. All of them were men, except for one, whom she recognized. Olivia.

“The FBI, look,” she said.

“You have to jump, or they’ll arrest you,” he said. “They’ll see you’re not Kathy. Go, hurry.”

He was right. If the feds caught her, the whole charade fell apart. Not only would they go looking for the real Judge Conroy, but Danny would remain in prison, and Madison would join him.

As she took a step toward the railing, a familiar car came barreling into view. It skidded to a stop in the middle of the bridge, fishtailing wildly, the driver’s door flying open. Wallace stumbled out, a gun in his hand, his eyes on Madison.

“Kathy, you double-crossed me. You think I’d let you get away with it?” he shouted, coming at her.

The FBI agents were running toward them with weapons drawn.

Pulling out a gun, Logue gave her a push. “Go.”

Madison stepped over the railing and jumped, leaping into darkness as shots rang out behind her.





39


With its beautiful beaches and low cost of living, the country attracted visitors from around the globe. The Americans were mostly retirees priced out of Scottsdale, Bluffton, Boca—anywhere in the States with halfway decent weather. They’d rent colorful bungalows near the center of town and hit the bars at night, in their white pants and leathery tans, getting drunk on cheap beer, dancing to fake mariachi bands. Then there were the backpackers, vagabonds of many nations, who came to surf the big waves and smoke their nights away. They lived in crowded hostels and cheap hotels and moved on when the rains came. The foreigners who preferred to live up in the mountains, who kept to themselves and visited town only for necessities—they were a different breed. They’d done their research. The country’s appeal to them was the lack of an extradition treaty. They’d stay for a while, or maybe not, depending on who was looking for them, how dangerous they were, and how fast they were likely to catch up. The locals tended to avoid those types, if they were smart.

Jenna Allen didn’t fit neatly into any category. She was attractive and obviously well-educated, with a small daughter. Too young to be a retiree, too old to be a backpacker. Well-dressed, short dark hair, a pert nose, and unnaturally smooth skin that spoke of plastic surgery, though the job was good enough that one couldn’t be sure, and her dark-haired daughter looked exactly like her. She stayed at the best hotel in town, where the desk clerk examined her passport, finding it to be as fresh and trackless as the beach at sunrise.