“Mr. Thatcher? I have cash and I want that white Civic.” I had noticed the car on my last run, with the handwritten sign in the windshield that read $1200. I pulled out my wallet, which held $3000 from the safe at home.
“Okay.” Thatcher brightened, standing. “Don’t you wanna take it for a spin?”
“No. I need a plate, too. Fast.” I thrust the money at him, and Thatcher took the stack, counting it while he spoke.
“There’s one on it. What’d you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.”
“I seen you, runnin’ with that other fella.”
“I’d appreciate you keeping this to yourself.”
Thatcher lifted an unruly eyebrow. “It’ll cost you.”
* * *
—
Minutes later, I was racing down the street in the Civic. I pulled into a beachy gas station and pumped some gas, paying in cash. I broke my phone and tossed it in the trash. My mind raced. Wiki would be out of the shower by now. He would call Dom. Dom would tell Lucinda, who would give him our cover story, that we had a big fight and I took off for a few days alone, a habit of mine. I hoped it would give me a head start.
Five minutes later, I was back in the Civic, hitting the gas. If I hurried, I would make it in time.
I glanced at the trees as I whizzed past, wondering about cameras. Traffic and red-light cameras on the main road. Security cameras on the shops. The FBI would collect the surveillance tape.
But I would be gone.
I had failed my daughter, but I would not fail my family.
They could not survive in the program, so I had to eliminate the threat against them.
I had a plan I prayed would work.
If it didn’t, there was Plan B.
B was for bait.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Straddling the Delaware state line, the Brandywine Valley was home to sunny pastures, colonial-era houses, and watercolor landscapes painted by favorite son Andrew Wyeth. I raced past the entrance to Longwood Gardens and its historic cemetery, but I was heading for a different cemetery. I was going to Junior’s burial. I had found the obit online.
I took a left, then a right, passing quaint fieldstone homes and McMansions set back from the winding roads. Horses grazed in dappled sunlight under trees aflame with fall foliage. The air smelled fresh and earthy in a familiar way, unlike the marshy humidity of our house. I regained my emotional footing, despite where I was heading. In time the road narrowed to one lane, and I passed clapboard Cape Cods and ranch homes crowbarred onto land that used to be farms.
I spied a sign ahead, hartwood cemetery & memorial gardens, and scanned the area for the FBI or local police. The houses were split-levels with driveways, and only one or two cars were parked on the street. If the FBI were surveilling the funeral, an agent sitting in a parked car would have been obvious. I didn’t see any. The street was quiet and still, and the only person out was a ponytailed woman running with a German shepherd. I looked around for unmarked vans, but there weren’t any of those, either.
Pillars of tan fieldstone marked the cemetery entrance, and I entered and turned left onto an internal road. The cemetery was parklike, with old oaks interspersed between rows of gray tombstones and only a few scattered mourners. Junior’s service was at the top of the hill, a large group of mourners under a blue tent. Long black limos and a line of cars with neon-flagged windshields were parked near them.
I headed that way, my gaze straying to the trees for cameras. I didn’t see any, but assumed they were there, now that I knew standard operating procedure. I was hoping the FBI wouldn’t recognize me in a cap and sunglasses, even if they were already onto me. No one at Junior’s funeral would know me, since I was betting Milo wouldn’t be there. He would have to stay away because he was pretending to be a fugitive, and Big George would buy it, unaware that Milo was working for the FBI.
I cruised uphill, feeling a tingle of fear. I would expect most if not all of GVO to attend the funeral, since it was the boss’s son who had died. I would keep my distance, but there was no turning back. I approached the line of flagged cars at the curb, scanning them for the dark BMW that had been sent to kill me and my family. Dom had said its driver was a lower-level member of GVO, so he should be here.
I kept going, my face forward and my expression impassive. Two uniformed limo drivers stood together, smoking by the cars. A placard in the window read colon funeral home, kennett square, pennsylvania. There were a few black SUVs, a red Miata, and a BMW two-door in a dark blue color.
I had to know if it was the same BMW. I cruised forward and passed the BMW, and I didn’t know if the plate matched. But then I noticed something on the passenger side of the bumper; a shadow-like vertical dent, like from backing into a stanchion. I remembered seeing that on the photo I had taken of Dom’s laptop screen. It was the same BMW.
My mouth went dry but I kept going, aware that limo drivers were looking over. I reached the head of the line, forcing a pat smile for the drivers, then drove forward as if I were visiting a different grave. I parked behind an old white Kia with a faded VFW Post 5467 decal, grabbed my drugstore bouquet, and got out of the car.
I made my way down the grassy aisle between the mounded graves, keeping Junior’s funeral in my peripheral vision. The seated mourners under the tent were facing me, and beefy types in suits stood apart from them, positioned at the perimeter like bodyguards.
I passed gravestones shaped like an angel and a Celtic crucifix, then a row of granite tombstones with textured tops. I found myself wondering what type of tombstone we would get Allison. I couldn’t begin to guess what kind she would’ve wanted. She was too young to have thought about it. She was too young to die.
I shooed the thought away. I couldn’t afford to be emotional now. I read the names etched into the smooth granite: Gavin, Forster, DiJulio, Rodriguez, and Sanchez. Ahead an elderly man leaned on a cane at the foot of one of the graves, whose headstone read helen westerly, beloved wife and mother. He had to be in his late seventies, stooped in a loose tan sweater and baggy jeans, his head bent in an old VFW cap. I noticed that his wife had died two years ago.
We fit.
I suppressed the thought, focusing instead on the opportunity presented by the mourner. If I picked a grave near him, the FBI or the bodyguards at Junior’s funeral would assume we were together. I approached, and the old man looked over.
“Hello,” he said, smiling with yellowing teeth.
“Hi,” I said briefly, but his hooded eyes lit up behind his bifocals.
“Nice to see a new face. I’ve never seen you here before.”
Uh-oh. “Right, I don’t live here anymore. I came to visit my dad.” I scanned the names on the tombstones: Harvey Villard, James Hernandez, Arthur E. Nielsen. I set the bouquet down on the Villard grave.
“Where do you live?”
“California,” I answered, since it was far away. Oddly, I found myself not wanting the old man to think I was a bad son. My father always said I was a good son. He deserved a good son.
“I was there once. Coronado.”
“Right.” I had never been.
“I’m here for my wife Helen.” The old man returned his attention to the tombstone, pushing up his bifocals. “I visit every day. I miss her every day. People say time helps, but it doesn’t.” He looked over, his cloudy eyes searching my face. “Does it help you?”