Page 99 of The House of Cross

Unless Malcomb believed we were total converts to his cause, we would not leave this place alive. But even that seemed off to me. I murmured in her ear, “If we agree to join, why would he let us go? What’s to prevent us from turning on him and Maestro once we’re out of here? Unleashing the FBI and the Mounties on the killers of the Supreme Court candidates?”

She stiffened a little in my arms, then whispered, “He’s playing us?”

“I suspect in every way he can.”

“What do we do?”

“Like you said, we have no choice. We bend the knee. We sell it. We buy time.”

CHAPTER 75

Washington, DC

NED MAHONEY HAD DEALTwith many difficult, pressurized days before. But this one had the potential to be the toughest of them all as he drove into the nation’s capital at seven the next morning and answered a call from acting FBI director Marcia Hamilton.

“Director Hamilton,” he said. “To what do I owe the honor.”

“The inauguration is in three days,” Hamilton said. “I need an arrest.”

“You told me as much eight hours ago, ma’am,” Mahoney said. “And nothing has changed. Maestro is still our focus, and—”

“Yes, yes, its relationship to that dead tech billionaire.”

“Ryan Malcomb,” Mahoney said.

“The candidates were all killed after he died.”

“If he’s dead,” Mahoney said.

“The twins theory again.” Hamilton groaned.

Mahoney gripped the steering wheel. “With all due respect,Director, Dr. Cross, his wife, and Detective Sampson have all worked that specific angle of the investigation. And they’ve all gone missing. What does that tell you?”

“That they’re missing,” she said, and hung up.

The FBI agent wanted to put his fist through the windshield. Instead, he drove to the Cross house on Fifth. Since returning to the East Coast, he’d tried to check in with Nana Mama and the kids every twelve hours.

On the way there, he called the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in Vancouver again. His liaison said there’d been no news regarding Officer Fagan or Alex. And he was sorry to say that the weather was going from bad to worse in the next twelve hours, postponing aerial searches.

He parked on Fifth and went to the front door and knocked. Alex’s ninety-something grandmother answered in her quilted blue robe.

“I’m making breakfast for Ali and Willow,” she said, standing aside to let him in. “Any word?”

“No,” Mahoney said, taking off his winter coat and putting it on the rack. “And the weather up there is going in the wrong direction.”

“I’ve been watching the Weather Channel,” she said. “Or, rather, Ali is.”

Indeed, when they entered the kitchen where the smells of bacon and coffee were mingling, her great-grandson was splitting time between the Weather Channel on the TV and a real-time satellite view of British Columbia from Weather Canada on a laptop set on the counter. Both showed a major storm approaching.

Willow Sampson was sitting at the kitchen table eating Cheerios and looking at her iPad with little enthusiasm. She glanced up.

“Did my daddy call you, Uncle Ned?”

“Not yet, sweetheart,” Mahoney said.

“But he always calls, every night, and now he hasn’t called in three nights.”

“I know, Willow. And I’m doing everything I can to get him to call you.”

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