Page 31

Marple sat quietly for a few seconds, collecting herself. She cleared her throat and stood, avoiding everybody’s eyes. “I’ll make coffee.”

Virginia jumped up and wordlessly started clearing the table. Poe fiddled awkwardly with his cell phone.

Marple walked to the counter and poured water into the carafe, fighting back tears. She heard footsteps behind her, then felt Grey’s arms wrap around her shoulders. “Sometimes,” Grey whispered into her ear, “only the people you love can really make life unendurable to you.”

Marple wiped her cheeks and broke into a little smile. “Agatha Christie wrote that.”

“I know,” said Grey, giving her a little squeeze. “I’ve been stealing your books.”

CHAPTER 32

BRENDAN HOLMES GRIPPED the steering wheel tight as he bounced along the rutted driveway, heading toward the main road. The truck’s headlights were practically useless—all yellowed and scratched. They might as well be two flashlights taped to the bumper. Holmes could barely see ten feet ahead of him. As he shivered in the cold, waiting for the cab to warm up, he started to feel the familiar ache. He longed for the old days, when relief was just one snort away.

Right now he wanted nothing more than to park the truck in some deserted turnoff, inhale some pharmaceutical-grade opiate, and bliss out. If only he’d stashed some of his precious white powder in the glove compartment. But there were no drugs there. Or under the seats. Or in his coat pockets. Margaret had made sure of that.

On his good days, Holmes appreciated her vigilance.

But this was not a good day. Or a good night.

All he could do now was drive. Aimlessly. In the dark.

As the truck bounced onto the main road, Holmes tried to dissect his fury. Who was he most angry at? Was it Margaret, for developing other interests? Was it Helene, for calling in the FBI? Was it Edwards, for shaming him about losing Oliver Paul? Which offense was the worst—or were they all part of the same pattern? Was he losing control over his life?

A yellow caution sign warned of a sharp curve ahead. As Holmes hit the brakes, the truck started to fishtail across the oncoming lane. He felt a stab of adrenaline as he cranked the wheel and straightened out. Suddenly a flash of brown appeared from the right. Deer! His muscle reaction kicked in a split second too late. He twisted the wheel and went into a skid. No control! Holmes braced as the truck went off the shoulder and careened into a high snowbank. His head hit the side window. Then everything was still.

Stunned but conscious, Holmes tried to put the truck in reverse. No luck. The wheels skidded against the snow, unable to get any traction. No surprise in this piece of junk. Holmes unclipped his seat belt, then pressed his arm against the driver-side door and pushed it open. He took inventory of the vehicle, which seemed undamaged.

Holmes moved slowly toward the road, his heart pounding. A thick-bodied doe stood stunned on the asphalt, eyes wild. In the next second, the animal stomped her feet, made a jerky turn, then leaped over the guardrail on the other side. Holmes could hear branches crack as the deer crashed through the underbrush.

Holmes was still in shock, but nothing was broken, as far as he could tell. He put his hand to the left side of his head. It came away wet and sticky. He looked back down the road. The lodge was miles away. As he turned in the other direction, a vehicle rounded the curve. Headlight beams stabbed him square in the face. No! Before he could move or shout, the car skidded to a stop, inches from his knees. Holmes staggered backward. He heard the car door jerk open, then a woman’s voice.

“My God! Brendan! Is that you?”

CHAPTER 33

IN THE WAKE of the train wreck at dinner, Helene Grey and Virginia retreated to their bedrooms. While Margaret Marple puttered in the kitchen, putting away pots and utensils, Auguste Poe carried his laptop into the comms room and started combing through files and news reports on the Niagara attack, looking for threads that Edwards and his associates might have missed. But it was all surface stuff. Nothing helpful. The national news focused less on the actual bombing than on the horror of bodies toppling over Niagara Falls. A better visual for TV.

Now that Oliver Paul had graduated from serial killer to domestic terrorist, Poe knew that he had a cohort helping him with his dirty work. Probably scouts, explosives experts, and other bad actors. The Oklahoma video had proved that he wasn’t working alone, and Poe doubted that Paul had climbed the Niagara dam to place the charge himself. It was time to dig deeper. Time to go rogue.

It took him only a few minutes to hack into the system at the FBI’s Albany field office. Poe knew that Holmes would take special delight in that. You invade us; we invade you.

Poe focused his search on leads going back to last September, the month that Oliver Paul disappeared from Manhattan. He generated a two-hundred-mile search radius around Niagara Falls. A bit arbitrary but a start. He shared his laptop screen with the huge monitor at the end of the room. Easier on the eyes.

“Anything interesting?” Poe turned to see Marple standing behind him, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

“I’m in the federal database,” he said.

“So you’ve committed a federal crime.”

“Untraceable, I assure you,” said Poe. “Besides, Edwards knows that we use creative methods. It’s part of our charm.”

“He doesn’t seem charmed at all,” said Marple. “He seems irritated that somebody actually told him to work with us.”

Poe started scanning through documents and reports at double speed. “Oliver Paul isn’t pulling off these operations on his own,” he said. “I’m looking for people he might be partnering with. Maybe groups with an agenda that overlaps with his.”

“You mean other people who are in love with Agnes Matts?”

“He’s not just doing this for love,” said Poe. “There’s a reason he’s targeting the energy grid.”