CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
He looked at me for a moment, and I saw the exact instant when he realized I meant it. That I would rather die on this rooftop than abandon him to face Vincent alone.
"Stubborn," he muttered.
"Practical. You're the only one who knows how to fight these people."
"I'm the only one they're really here for."
"Which is why we need you alive."
We moved from building to building, a desperate game of chase across the rooftops of downtown Windemere Bay. Behind us, the helicopter was getting closer, its searchlight sweeping systematically through the area.
The bell tower was older than the surrounding buildings, made of stone instead of modern materials. The fire exit Jim had mentioned turned out to be little more than a service ladder inside a narrow shaft.
"One at a time," Jim said. "And pray the ladder holds."
My mother went first, then Maddie, then Jim. I was about to follow when Hank grabbed my arm.
"Wait."
"What?"
He was looking back toward the downtown area, where police sirens were now joining the sound of helicopter rotors. "Vincent's covering his tracks. Making this look like a terrorist incident or gang violence."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean by the time the whole event settles, we'll be labeled as armed fugitives who attacked innocent businessmen. Vincent will be the victim, and we'll be the criminals."
The implications hit me like a physical blow. Even if we survived this chase, we'd never be able to tell our story. Never be able to expose the trafficking operation or bring justice for the dead girls.
"So what do we do?"
"We survived today. Figure it out tomorrow when it gets here."
The helicopter was almost on top of us now, its rotor wash whipping dust and debris across the rooftop. Time to go.
I climbed into the shaft and started down the ladder, trusting that Hank would follow. The ladder was old and rusty, creaking ominously with each step. But it was strong, carrying us down through the heart of the church to the ground level.
We emerged in the parking lot behind the grocery store, blinking in the afternoon sunlight. Around us, the normal life of the town continued, shoppers loading groceries into cars, children playing in the park across the street, tourists taking pictures of the scenic harbor.
"Now what?" Maddie asked.
"Now we become ghosts," Hank said. "At least until Vincent gives up looking for us."
"How long will that take?"
"Knowing Vincent? Could be days. Could be years."
The thought of spending years running from criminals made my chest tight with claustrophobia. But the alternative was worse.
"I have a place," Jim said quietly. "Off the books. Where journalists go when they need to disappear for a while."
"How far?"
"Twenty miles inland. Cabin in the woods, no utilities, no phone service. Cash only, no questions asked."
It wasn't much of a plan, but it was better than standing in a parking lot waiting for Vincent's people to find us.
"What about our cars?" I asked.
"Forget them. Vincent's people will have them under surveillance by now."
"Then how do we get there?"
Jim pulled out his phone and made a quick call. "A friend of mine runs a hunting guide service. He'll pick us up behind the hardware store in ten minutes."
We walked through the town like tourists, trying to blend in with the crowds of people enjoying the beautiful morning. But I could feel eyes on us, could sense Vincent's people positioned throughout the downtown area. Maybe I was just being paranoid.
The hunting guide turned out to be a weathered man in his sixties who asked no questions and accepted Jim's cash payment without comment. His pickup truck was old but reliable, with enough room in the covered bed for all of us to hide during the drive inland.
As we left Windemere Bay behind, I watched the town shrink in the distance through a gap in the truck's tarp. Somewhere down there, Vincent Torrino was probably already spinning the morning's events into whatever story served his purposes best.
The newspaper office would be sealed off as a crime scene. Our evidence would disappear into police custody where it could be conveniently lost or destroyed. The truth about fifty years of trafficking would remain buried.
"We'll find another way," Hank said quietly, somehow reading my thoughts.
"Will we?"
"We have to."
I looked around at our ragtag group of survivors. A former cop with a drinking problem, a blogger with a missing cousin, a small-town newspaper editor, a woman who'd been hiding for thirty years, and a man running from the criminal family that had shaped his entire life.
Not exactly the stuff that victory stories were made of.
But as the truck carried us deeper into the Maine wilderness, away from Vincent's immediate reach, I realized something important. We were all still alive. We still had Sarah's evidence. And we now knew exactly what we were fighting against.
It wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
The real fight was just beginning.