I check my watch. It’s 9:07 a.m. The squat one-story library with the rough stone exterior over there should have opened seven minutes ago, but no one’s shown up yet. And it’s a Wednesday, so there’s no holiday that should be observed.

Extreme, I think. Maybe I should break a window, sneak in, find where their computers are located.

Yeah. Extreme.

I take out a burner phone that I keep powered up in my go bag, look through my contact list on a sheet of paper contained in the leather case, hesitate. The woman I want to call is currently stationed at Fort Lewis, near Tacoma, Washington. I’d probably end up waking her, but still…

I touch the keypad, wait and wait as it rings.

A click.

“Huh?”

“Freddy, it’s me, Amy.”

“Amy…Jesus Christ, do you know what time it is?”

“I sure do. Hey, how’s your eyesight?”

“What?”

“You know. Under four eyes. Glasses. That sort of thing.”

She’s no longer sleepy. “I get it. Give me about…fifteen minutes.”

“You’re a dear.”

“And you’re a nut.”

“No argument there.”

She disconnects.

A light-red Honda Civic comes into the library lot, moving slowly, very slowly. It parks near a sign that says STAFF ONLY.

An older woman steps out, carefully closes and locks the door. I look around. There are a couple of houses near some tree groves, but that’s about it. This is a secondary road, not even near a highway.

The woman moves to the entrance of the library. I put my hand on the door handle of my Wrangler.

She pauses.

Opens her purse.

Roots around inside.

Pulls out a key, goes to the door.

The key apparently doesn’t work.

Back into the purse.

“Ma’am,” I whisper, “you get that door open or I’m coming right over there with a tire iron to help you out.”

I’m not sure if there’s a Patron Saint of Librarians, but if there is, he or she has just helped the elderly librarian. The door opens up at the same time mine does.

CHAPTER 19

TEN MINUTES later I’m at a computer terminal, having just smiled at the nice librarian and walked by like I’m a local taxpayer, checking things out. Once more I enter the classified computer system, and after poking around in the Fairfax County Police Department, I quickly confirm what I suspect: the Able Carpet van was stolen yesterday out of a parking lot.

The theft report is a basic document, with no witnesses, no information on who might have stolen it.

A slight chance, but I had to check it out, in case there was some information as to where the two thieves—and eventual kidnappers of my loved ones—had come from, but there’s no joy.

I won’t waste my time going back there.

I call up a site linked to the FAA, and quickly punch in the tail number for yesterday’s Learjet videotape—NS-28312—and wait for its identity to be revealed. This is my best lead, to find out who owns the jet and who’s operating it. There aren’t that many organizations that can own a $1.5 million aircraft or that can rent one for four or five thousand dollars an hour. And I was guessing that it was the owner or owner’s representatives who were flying that jet. An aircraft rental to help along a double kidnapping would raise lots of awkward questions.