Chapter 20
Twenty
Lincoln could not believe he was here again.
Hands and forehead pressed to the church wall, forcing down the sickness that kept surging up his throat.
Except this time he only had himself to blame.
This was his brilliant—or stupid—plan. He’d told Jeremiah to tell Susanne, who, as Lincoln had intended, had told the entire fucking town, judging by the packed pews out there, that he’d be playing at tonight’s service.
Playing and singing. Facing his fear in the hope of drawing Dr. Fear out. And the hope that Carter would be with him. Following Carter’s plan and giving Ryan a target.
Them.
“Dad, you need to breathe.” Elena’s voice was calm and steady through the earpiece. “Inhale and exhale.”
He tried to inhale and managed a wheeze.
“You can’t sing if that’s all the air you’re taking in.”
He tried again and managed a deeper breath.
“Better,” Elena said. She coached him through three more breaths before asking, “Why are you even playing?”
He rotated and rested back against the wall, then had to readjust owing to the holster clipped at the back of his waistband, underneath his sport coat. “For Carter.”
“Oh-ho!”
She sounded so much like her mother and aunt. He would never hear the end of this, even if they never heard the full story. But he couldn’t do this without hearing her voice first. “It’s case related,” he said.
“How—”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Why’d you call me, then?”
“Just needed to hear your voice.”
A sharp inhale on her end of the line. “Dad, is everything okay?”
“It will be.” He forced casual brightness into his voice. “Just wrapping things up here.” He hated lying to her, but he needed the lie as much for himself as she did.
“When are you going to be home?” she asked.
“Should be there by Friday night.”
“Ooh, you can go to the tourney with me on Saturday!”
“Count on it.”
He couldn’t wait to see her again, give her a hug, and be that awful parent who got too into their kid’s games.
Maybe it would be enough to fill the emptiness that had already started to creep in, the absence he anticipated.
This case was almost over. They knew who the bad guy was; they just had to catch him now.
And when they did—Lincoln twirled the braided silver band around his finger—what would happen to Mr. and Mr. Polk?
Would they go into the box with the rings, never to be brought out again?
He’d go back to being Professor Lincoln Monroe and Carter would go back to being Special Agent Undercover.
Lincoln didn’t think he’d found enough yet to convince Carter to settle, if that was what Carter even wanted, after the fight they had yesterday. “Dad?”
He shook himself out of the spiral. “Sorry, just trying to decide what to play. Any suggestions?”
“You’re in a church, do you have an option? If so, ‘Freebird.’”
“I should have never let you see that movie.” And he absolutely did not want this to go the way of The Kingsmen, no matter how cool that scene was on film.
“‘Who Will Save Your Soul’?” Elena suggested.
“I’m so glad we taught you about good music.”
“Or some Taylor Swift.”
They’d taught her too much about sarcasm too. “Hanging up now.”
“Love you, Dad.”
“Love you too, sweetie.”
He pocketed the phone and picked up his Martin, strumming—and missing—a few notes of the Jewel song. Not that one, then.
“You don’t look so good,” Jo said as she crossed the vestibule to him.
“Better than I was five minutes ago.” He continued to strum the guitar as he spoke, getting his fingers loose and falling into a rhythm. They gravitated toward one of his favorites—Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.”
“We get word from O’Shea?”
She checked the phone in her hand. “Nothing yet.”
“Do you think we can trust Larry?”
With the chief’s help, they’d examined more of the pictures, more of the town’s land records, and narrowed down the possible locations where Ryan could be holding Carter, Trudy, and Barry.
With Jo coordinating APD officers and O’Shea his agents, they’d found fresh tire tracks matching Ryan’s SUV at an old farm near the Petticoat property.
Larry had suggested he make the approach.
One last-ditch effort to defuse the situation.
“I’ve worked for him for years,” Jo said. “He’s loyal to a fault. That’s how he got into this mess. But I believe him when he says he’s trying to get out of it. He’s trying to get his friend out of it too. That’s what he’s been trying to do all along.”
Jo’s phone rang, startling them both. “Mark. Hey, ba—” She held the phone away from her ear and clicked speaker. Utter chaos reigned on the other end—sirens, shouts, and the blast of fire hoses. “What’s going on?” Jo asked, voice raised.
Every second O’Shea didn’t respond, another boulder of dread formed in Lincoln’s stomach, was carried up his throat on a wave of bile. He strummed faster, hoping the tune would give him some comfort.
“I’m here,” O’Shea said after a minute that felt like twenty. “He torched the barn.”
“Fire. That’s my fear,” Lincoln said. “Not Carter’s.”
“Carter’s not here.”
Lincoln missed the next note, his shoulder falling against the wall, holding him up when his legs refused to do so. “What?”
“He put Larry in a basement with Barry and Trudy. He meant to kill them.”
“Claustrophobia. Trapped by the fire and the crumbling structure.”
“Meant to?” Jo said. “They got out?”
“Through the underground passage Larry told us about. It was only recently dug. Ryan didn’t know about it. Larry got them out.”
“Everyone except Carter?” Lincoln said.
“The chief thinks he’s with Ryan. He never put Carter in the basement, and there are two fresh sets of footsteps down to the dock.”
“The dock?”
“Looks like he took a boat across the lake to Barry’s place. Barry’s GMC is on the move.”
“GPS?” Jo said. “Location?”
“Five minutes out from the church.” It was showtime, and Lincoln had never felt sicker.
Never felt like there was this much on the line.
All those recitals, everything that was supposed to be his future, none of them had felt like this.
Because until today, he’d never before played for the future he wanted.
Maybe it was the movie reference Elena had put in his head.
Or maybe it was every rom-com Gabby and Trina had ever forced him to watch.
Or maybe it was all the action flicks he’d binged over the years.
But Lincoln had assumed Ryan would throw open the main doors of the church and shove his hostage—Carter—down the aisle toward the chancel where Lincoln played.
That visual, that certainty, had been enough to power Lincoln’s steps onto the stage, his ass onto the stool, his guitar into position as he’d adjusted the microphone.
Even expecting it, Lincoln was prepared to lose what little was left of his shit when it happened.
To fumble the notes and lyrics he’d begun to play, to stumble off the stage, and to bungle the tactical plan Jo and Drake had devised.
Except it didn’t happen that way. Instead, the door on the other side of the chancel opened, and Ryan emerged from the Robe Room alone.
Sharply dressed in a three-piece suit, the only difference between the Ryan McCullough in front of Lincoln and the one he’d met last week was the scruff that shadowed his jaw.
Gray.
Mumblings from the congregation crested like a wave, lapping at the altar, but Lincoln registered it only vaguely, his attention on Ryan and the child’s chalkboard he held angled toward Lincoln.
Keep playing, it read. Your partner’s life depends on it.
In his other hand, Ryan held a phone, the recording app running.
Lincoln wanted to work it out in his mind—what was Ryan doing?
—but seventy-five percent of his brain was occupied with continuing to play and sing as directed, and the other twenty-five percent was occupied with internal screams of Where the fuck is Carter?
He found out two seconds after he played and sang the last note of “Hallelujah.” Ryan pressed stop on the recording, then motioned toward the Robe Room door.
Carter emerged out of the shadows, bruised and beaten, nose broken and bloody, arms tied behind his back and chin lowered, and most terrifying of all, a vest wired with explosives strapped around his chest.
Screams and shouts went up from the congregation, loud enough to hear over the blood pounding in Lincoln’s ears.
But Lincoln’s overriding thought was that stage-fright-induced nausea had nothing to do with the present roller coaster his insides were on.
He wanted to run to Carter, wanted to throw up, wanted to close his eyes and pretend this was all a bad dream.
Wanted to hurl his guitar at Ryan, draw his Glock, and put an end to Dr. Fear.
The trigger app on Ryan’s phone screen stopped him from doing any of those things.
Two glowing green lights matched the two glowing green lights on Carter’s vest.
Active.
“Don’t!” Ryan shouted at the congregation. “None of you move!”
Lincoln spared a glance their direction and terror spiked anew. For the townsfolk trapped here, and for Jo and Drake’s team who had moved into the aisles, weapons drawn. “Don’t!” Lincoln parroted as he slid off his stool. “He’s got a trigger device.”
Ryan’s gaze swung back to him. “You stay right there.”
Lincoln adjusted the guitar so it hung at his side, out of the way of his hands and his gun. He raised his hands, aiming to calm Ryan, and bent his knees, dipping slightly, aiming to get his partner’s attention. “Carter, you in there?”
Tortured green eyes lifted to his, full of doubt and self-recrimination. “I screwed up, L.”
“No you didn’t. You’re right where you’re supposed to be.”
“That’s right, he is,” Ryan said. “Because he wasn’t good enough. He said it himself, when he was talking to Larry in my house. I have it recorded.”
Carter averted his gaze, lowered his chin, and curled in on himself, as much as the vest would allow.