Afraid of the Dark - James Grippando [88]
“Are you saying that she knows who killed Neil?” asked Jack.
Mays didn’t answer. Jack pressed: “Did she tell you that in her message?”
“She told me more than she realizes,” said Mays.
“Stop being so damn coy,” said Jack. “What does that mean?”
“It means that Shada’s message reveals enough for me and my computers to figure out where she’s been for the past three years. And that’s key for everyone here. Because I believe she’s spent all that time—every minute of every day for the past three years—looking for the monster who killed McKenna and blinded Vince. And I think that same son of a bitch is the guy who murdered your friend.”
Jack had the same suspicion, but he had no proof. And until now, he had no conceivable way of getting it. “What are you proposing?” asked Jack.
“I’m proposing that you get off the dime. We’re right back where we left off before you buried your friend. Except now the pot is sweeter.”
“How much sweeter?”
“My supercomputers are only as good as the data I input, and now all the pieces are within reach. I know I can find Shada. If I can add what Shada knows to what I know, what you know, what Jamal told you, what Jamal’s mother knows . . . bingo. This fucker is mine.”
“You mean mine,” said Vince.
“He’s not anyone’s,” said Mays, “unless the rest of us are all on board. So what’s it gonna be, Swyteck?”
A cool breeze whispered through the oak limbs overhead. Day was turning into night, and the shadows across the cemetery were now so dark that the marker on McKenna’s tomb was no longer readable. A strange feeling hit Jack, but it was nothing supernatural. It was the survivor’s paradox that follows every funeral—that moment when you’re faced with a decision because a friend or loved one is dead, and you catch yourself wishing he were there to help you decide.
Jack glanced at Theo, but it wasn’t up to him. Then he looked at Mays, and he went with his gut.
“I’d say he’s ours,” said Jack.
Chapter Forty-three
Brent and Bradley Hellendoorn, please come to the check-in counter,” said the gate attendant.
Shada Mays grabbed her purse and carry-on bag, hoping for her name to be called next. The gate at the Miami International Airport’s Terminal A was jammed with three-hundred-plus passengers, several of whom seemed more than capable of felony assault, if that was what it took to snag an upgrade to business class. Shada had the last available seat in the waiting area. It was right next to a family of seven, and three toddlers were tumbling on the floor in front of her. The 747 was right on the other side of a large plate-glass window, however, so at least she could keep an eye on it and make sure the flight didn’t leave without her. She didn’t normally worry about such silly things, but flying out of her hometown after a day like today was beyond stressful. She’d taken extra precautions to make sure no one would recognize her. Her traditional hijab dress included a half niqab, a veil tied on at the bridge of the nose that falls to cover the lower face. Only Homeland Security officers would see her full face. In hindsight, she should have worn a full niqab to the cemetery.
I can’t believe Chuck came before nine o’clock in the morning.
Shada had disappeared a month before her daughter would have turned seventeen. For three birthday anniversaries running, Shada had returned to Miami to visit McKenna’s grave. Any hour before noon should have been a safe time to make the pilgrimage. Never had Chuck been a morning person—especially a Sunday morning person. Apparently he wasn’t the late-Saturday-night party animal he used to be.
Admit it: You wanted him to see you.
Shada shook off the thought. If she’d wanted it, she wouldn’t have dressed like a Muslim. Shada had never worn the hijab—never practiced any Muslim traditions—as long as she’d known Chuck. The clothing was purely an expedient form of concealment that she’d adopted since her disappearance. It fooled most people. It was funny, however, the way a man could recognize his