Page 42 of Facing the Enemy
RISA
Gage used the Explorer’s Bluetooth to phone the hospital. Jack was still in surgery—and listed in critical condition. I knew the man, superintelligent, standoffish, and a protocol-rooted agent. He analyzed evidence and interviews like a mathematician, which meant following his thinking paralleled with quantum physics. Jack needed prayer, but God and I weren’t on the best of speaking terms, and usually I doubted He was listening. I bit back my pride and asked Him to bring healing. My prayers hadn’t saved Trenton, but God might help Jack.
Hours later, we found Carson’s Jeep at another motel, one in sore need of renovation with a half-lit vacancy sign. Shutters on the outside of the office hung from one hinge, and the potholed parking lot could have buried a car. The marquee light might have readMerry Christmasbefore I was born, but now lit up wasMery hrimas. The trash bin spilled over onto the cracked concrete, and the outside reeked of cigarette smoke. A crooked candy cane yard ornament leaned precariously against the motel’s door. The establishment must have been built in the fifties.
Inside, Gage flashed his FBI ID to the hotel manager. “This is the third and last time I’m asking you—in what room is the owner of theJeep parked outside and owned by Carson Lowell? I know he gave you his driver’s license number, but here it is to refresh your mind.”
The young woman with more hair colors than Christmas lights swallowed hard as though the effort hurt. “I’d like to take a pic of your ID for my boss. I can’t afford to get fired just before Christmas.”
Gage pulled his ID from his pant pocket again. Miss Christmas Hair studied his credentials, snapped a pic with her phone, and handed Gage’s items back to him. She aimed what was probably her best glare at me. “And you?”
“I’m FBI too.”
“ID, please.”
I reached into my purse and gave her my creds. Gage bored his gaze into me, but I ignored him. One day soon I’d tell him about my leave of absence. Until then, he could think I had the same lying habits as many of those we investigated.
“Room 85,” Christmas Hair said. “Take the outside walkway to the left.”
“Thank you.” Gage followed me into the chilly air. “Impersonating a federal agent is against the law.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
“Risa, if I live to be a hundred, I’ll never understand you.”
“Don’t try.” I forced a laugh. “It’s impossible.”
He growled and I hid my mirth. At room 85, Gage knocked. No answer. He knocked again. Still no answer. I held my hand up and he smiled. Wow, I loved working with him again.
I knocked and raised the tone of my voice. “Housekeeping.”
The door opened, and Carson stood in the doorway. No shirt, messed-up hair, barefoot, and ... surprised. More like frightened out of his mind, like a deer in the headlights.
He started to slam the door, but Gage stuck his foot inside. “Not so fast. We’ve come a long way to ask you questions.”
“I have nothing to say.”
“But we do.” Gage grabbed the door and held it wide for me to enter. Fury raced at breakneck speed from my toes to my hair and back again.
Carson glanced around him as though he might bolt. He gulped. “Professor Jacobs,” he choked out the words.
“Right and you’re Andy Sloan?” I walked into the dank room with Gage on my heels. “Close the door, Carson. It’s cold. You’re either shivering because of the wind or scared to death.” I scowled at him. “You’re pale too.”
He obeyed.
Gage flipped on a lamp light and pulled out drawers.
“What are you looking for?” Carson’s voice shook.
“A weapon,” Gage said.
“What makes you think I have one?” He stared at Gage and back at me.
“Where is it?” I said.
“In my backpack.”
Gage unzipped it and pulled out a Sig Sauer P320. “How does an underage kid get his hands on a handgun?”
