Blood Victory
But with this particular psycho, the goal’s the destination.
Surrounded by all this technology, the item hanging around his neck feels ironic. It’s a stopwatch, the kind gym coaches wear, and he’ll set it for three hours the minute he gets word Charley’s been triggered.
“Hey,” his brother’s voice says quietly in his ear.
Maybe Bailey’s on edge, but there’s a hint of hesitation there. Luke immediately assumes something awful’s happened to Charley and Bailey’s trying to figure out how to break the news. Why anyone who’s spent longer than five minutes with his little brother would pick him to break bad news of any kind is beyond Luke’s ability to comprehend.
“How’s it looking out there?” Bailey asks.
“You tell me,” Luke says before he can stop himself.
“Uh, that’s a no-go, guys,” Shannon cuts in, a reminder that he and his brother don’t have a private line of communication.
“I’m not allowed to ask my brother how he’s doing?” Bailey asks, sounding genuinely pissed. Not just pissed, Luke notes, stressed.
“Actually, you asked him how things were looking. Which is a different question.”
“Let me guess, Shannon. When the teacher at school forgot it was Friday and said I’ll see you kids tomorrow, you were the first to raise your hand and say, ‘Nah-uh, Ms. Parker. You’re not going to see us tomorrow because tomorrow’s Saaaaaaturday.’”
“I’m just saying maybe being more direct with your brother might improve your relationship,” she answers. “I’ve heard it’s had its moments.”
“You could also try leaving us alone,” Bailey says.
Shannon says, “The question Bailey meant to ask, Luke, is how are you feeling?”
“Well, annoyed, to be frank, now that this comedy routine’s lighting up my right ear.”
“I figured it was time for some jokes,” Bailey says. “I mean, how else are we going to pass the time?”
There it is, Luke thinks. The hesitancy in his brother’s tone. Bailey’s about to start speaking in code.
“Sure thing, brother. It’s not like I’m jamming out to satellite radio out here.”
Luke never calls Bailey “brother” or even “bro,” so he hopes this deviation from their usual pattern will tell Bailey he got the message and he’s listening closely.
“How many Texans does it take to eat an armadillo?” he asks.
“No idea.”
“Three. One to eat it, and two to watch for headlights.”
“Ha.”
“Seen any out there?”
“Nope.”
“Well, watch out. Armadillo shells are hard as hell. Might take out one or two tires on that thing and leave your grille looking a little different. Probably two, I’m guessing.”
“I doubt that. This thing’s pretty souped up.”
“Still, an armadillo should stop you in your tracks. Not sure you’d have to stop for one blowout. But for two, definitely. Even in that thing.”
Armadillo, armadillo. In the past minute, Bailey’s said the strange word more than he probably ever has in his life. Impossible not to think that’s the basis of whatever code he’s trying to project. What else has he said? The number two.
Not sure you’d have to stop for one . . . but for two, definitely.
Armadillo.
Stop.
Two.
Leave your grille looking different.
He’s not telling Luke to stop right now. He’s telling him he might have to stop in the future if he encounters whatever an armadillo is code for in this instance.
He’s telling us where we’re headed.
Headed, direction. Maps. Naturally, since they’re being listened to, Bailey wouldn’t be able to give place-names or points on a compass with his coded directions.
There’s something in the number two . . .
Luke can’t use the GPS screen in Cloak Mode, but Lord knows he’s studied enough detailed maps of Texas, Louisiana, Oklahoma, Arkansas, and even New Mexico as prep for this operation. He visualizes them in his mind. If they stay on their current course, the next big town they’ll hit will be Wichita Falls and then . . .
Boom.
He has to stop himself from crying out.
Amarillo, Texas.
He can see it on the map in his head, all by itself at the top of the Texas Panhandle, just about due north of Lubbock.
It’s armadillo with two letters knocked out, not two tires. And the different-looking grille must be the r you have to add to get it.
Now, how does he signal he read the code?
“Appreciate the warning, brother. I’ll be sure to brake for the ugly little sons of bitches if I see one.”
“Sure thing.”
“Got any better jokes? That one wasn’t actually very funny?”
“Yeah, I think that well’s gone dry for the time being.”
No more code. Is that really all Bailey knows about their destination? Just a city?
“I don’t know. Shannon? You got any gut busters about famous math problems you want to chime in with?”
“Shannon’s gonna bust your gut with her foot if you don’t knock it off,” she answers casually, as if the threat took no effort at all.
“You see how they treat me around here?” Bailey asks.
Better than the feds would have treated you if they’d ever caught you, Luke thinks. But he keeps that joke to himself.
Silence falls, leaving Luke to consider the information just shared.
Charley never asked for their destination to be withheld from her. Just the method of Mattingly’s madness, specifically the contents of his truck. If Bailey’s telling him now, does that mean Bailey knows and Cole doesn’t? Or does it mean Cole’s been keeping it a secret from Bailey and Bailey just now managed to find out?
If so, why keep the information from Charley?
Trying to get the answers to these questions through coded conversation would either result in preposterous confusion or detection by their multiple monitors, so Luke decides to take the only option available, even though it’s far from being the easiest one.
Shut up and drive.
12
Joyce Pierce.
Sixteen years old, safe in her new bedroom at her grandmother’s house with no one peering over her shoulder, typing her mother’s full name into her new computer feels like the most rebellious act Charlotte’s ever committed.
As Charlotte, still Trina then, pages through the search results yielded by her mother’s name, her heart starts to race, fingers of tension pressing against the back of her neck.
There is information she’s never heard before; details that have been hidden from her. Somehow the therapists, the tutors, the press agents, the network of staff her father constantly encircled her with all kept these pieces of the story from her. Maybe for a very simple reason. Their job wasn’t to sell Joyce Pierce’s narrative; it was to sell Trina’s. That was the sales pitch. That by having spent seven years as the child of serial killers, Trina Pierce possessed intimate knowledge of how such predators concealed themselves.
It was a lie.
She’d had no idea that Abigail and Daniel Banning weren’t her real parents, not until a SWAT team exploded from the woods one day, the result of a deliveryman recognizing Trina from an age-progression photo he’d seen on a true crime show.