Dead Even - Mariah Stewart [6]
While she walked along the narrow shoulder of the road, she fiddled with her phone, found the autodial number she wanted, and hit Send. When there was no answer, she dialed a second number, never missing a stride.
“Please leave a message for John Mancini. . . .”
“Damn,” she grumbled. “I hate voice mail.”
She blew out a heavily agitated breath.
“John, it’s Miranda Cahill. I’m currently hoofing it up what I believe is still Route 387, but since there are no signs out here in the middle of No Where, Wyoming, that’s just a guess on my part. I’m due in Linden in twenty minutes for the meeting, but that looks way optimistic right now. I tried calling Aidan, but he didn’t pick up. If you or someone else could reach him, please let him know I’m going to be a little late. If he’d like to come and pick me up, even better. I’ll be the one walking along wearing a tan suede jacket and a we-are-not-amused expression.”
She ended the call, slipped the phone into her pocket, and hitched the bag a little higher. Her long legs ate up lengths of the road at a healthy clip despite the high-heeled boots, partly because her natural pace was quick, partly because the temperature was barely thirty degrees and certain to be dropping as the day began to fade. She was determined to reach Linden before that happened. If there was one thing she hated more than anything, it was the cold.
“Jamaica,” she mumbled under her breath. “Bahamas. Acapulco. Bermuda. The Keys . . .”
She tried to recall the words to some of the old Beach Boys surfer songs they played on the local oldies station, but the only song that came to mind was “Kokomo,” so she sang those few words she knew over and over—“Bermuda, Bahama, come on, pretty mama, to Key Largo, Montego, baby why don’t we go”—hoping to mentally transport herself to some warm clime. But the wind began to pick up and blew her dark hair around her head, and the soft sands and blue waters faded away. She stopped, rummaged in her bag for an elastic, then pulled her hair back into a ponytail before moving on. She walked for nearly forty minutes before the outline of a building appeared in the distance.
“Please be Linden. Please please please . . .”
Ten minutes later, she found the building to be a gas station attached to the small diner that was her destination. She walked across the parking lot, which was little more than one large pothole, and smiled through a grimy window at the man who sat behind an old metal desk on the other side of the glass.
She opened the door and took a half step inside. “Hi. I don’t suppose you have a tow truck?”
The old man at the desk shook his head, struck dumb, no doubt, at the sight of the tall, willowy beauty who’d appeared literally out of nowhere.
“I was afraid of that.” She nodded and let the door swing closed behind her.
She walked a dozen more steps and entered the diner, pausing momentarily to look around. There were only two customers. Fortunately, they were the two people she’d come to see.
“Hey, Aidan.” She greeted fellow agent Aidan Shields with a pat on the back, then dropped her bag onto the floor before reaching out to hug his companion. “Mara, it’s good to see you.”
“Good to see you, too.” Mara Douglas stood and embraced her friend. “I couldn’t believe it when Aidan said you were on your way out here. It must be something really important.”
Mara’s eyes were shining with hope.
“It is, but I’m afraid it’s not what you want to hear, honey.” Miranda pulled a chair over from a nearby table and sat down. “I’m sorry, Mara, I wish I could tell you that we’ve been able to confirm that your daughter and your ex-husband are part of the group out at the Valley of the Angels, but they are not.”
“But we—Aidan and I—have tracked them here. Jules is here; he’s got Julianne here with him.” Mara’s eyes widened. “We had a credible tip—Aidan, tell her. . . .”
“We did have a credible tip.” Aidan Shields nodded slowly. “But, Mara, I told you that we weren