When the Wind Blows - James Patterson [36]
“May I come in for a few minutes? I promise, this is vitally important. Your children are telling the truth, strange as it sounds.”
Harding Thomas produced his wallet, and a card that identified him as a lawyer with the Justice Department. Thomas wasn’t with Justice, but the business card worked like a charm.
The Ellers family had to be questioned, and then, unfortunately, they had to disappear.
They had seen Tinkerbell.
They went inside and Harding Thomas tried to make the question and answer period as nonthreatening as possible.
“I know this is weird, and a little scary, kids,” he told them. “I’m a little shook up myself.”
“Would you like coffee, sir?” the woman asked him. He wasn’t sure how well the fake ID had worked with the kids, but it had certainly gone over with her.
“It’s Thomas,” he said, “and coffee would be great. I just had a cup, but I could sure use another under the circumstances.”
The mother went off to make coffee—probably instant, but at least she was out of the way for the moment.
“You can call me Uncle Tommy,” he said to the two wide-eyed kids.
“We didn’t see anything,” the girl continued to insist. “My brother belongs in a loony bin.”
“We saw the girl with wings. We saw her fly!” the boy thrust out his chin and proclaimed.
“No, we didn’t.” His sister stared him down.
Harding Thomas brought his fist down on the living room coffee table.
“Yeah, you did! You saw the girl, and you saw her fly. Now tell me everything else—or I’m going to hurt you and your mama. You look in my eyes, and know what I’m saying is the truth.”
The two children looked—and they knew, and they told what they knew about the girl with wings.
Chapter 36
KIT MADE THE FORTY-MILE DRIVE from Bear Bluff to Boulder. He was definitely starting to feel like an agent again, to feel like the Tom Brennan of old.
He parked the black Jeep on a congested side street a few blocks from Boulder Community Hospital. As he walked there he saw evidence of the city’s celebrated mix of sixties hippies, “granolas” from the seventies and eighties, Gen-Xers, and plenty of relatively normal-looking, Rocky Mountain high natives, too.
Mostly, though, he was looking over his shoulder, afraid that he might be followed, that someone had already spotted him.
He needed to talk to a Dr. John Brownhill at the hospital’s in vitro clinic. Dr. Brownhill had past associations with two of the murdered doctors in San Francisco and Cambridge, Massachusetts. It was all recorded in Kit’s earlier reports at the FBI.
As he sat in the waiting room, he couldn’t help noticing how user-friendly the clinic was. The walls were painted a soft yellow and there were fresh-cut flowers on the magazine tables. That was good for the mothers-to-be, and it was good for him, too. He needed to relax some if he could.
“The doctor will see you, Mr. Harrison,” said a tall black receptionist who was sunny and pleasant. Everyone he saw at the clinic seemed that way, soothing and helpful.
“The doctor’s office is just down the hall, first door on the right. You can’t miss it.”
He walked purposefully down a plush beige-carpeted hallway to Dr. Brownhill’s office. He took a quick, deep breath before he turned inside. Here we go.
Dr. Brownhill was impressive to meet. Silver streaks were beginning to show in his long, reddish-brown hair. His complexion was ruddy. He looked to be in excellent physical shape. He had a toothy, Andy Hardy smile that was disarming. It seemed to Kit that he’d have a wonderfully reassuring bedside manner.
“I’m a little curious, Mr. Harrison. You’re here alone. Is this visit about your wife? Or perhaps a girlfriend?”
Kit still wasn’t quite sure how he should play the tricky interview. There were a lot of ways to go.
“I’m a senior agent with the FBI,” he said in a self-important tone he rarely used in the field. “I’m in Colorado as part of a murder investigation.”
It was a subtle thing, lasting only an instant, but he caught a slight