52

"Six miles south, you got the ruins of the old wooden fort where the Eighth U.S. Cavalry was posted for a time." Ned Fuller nodded to the sweep of flat land that reached to the sky and mountains. "Big Cloud's just up ahead."

Fuller had become Jack Gannon's tour guide after picking him up at the airport in Cheyenne where he'd held up a small sign bearing Gannon's name in block letters. He had a firm handshake and gunmetal eyes that drilled into Gannon's when they met.

"This had better be for real because my niece has been through hell."

"It is, sir," Gannon assured him before they left the terminal.

Now as they drove, he listened to Fuller point out landmarks. The mid-nineteenth-century storefronts and the municipal buildings evoked the frontier. As they cut through town, Gannon reminded himself of what he was pursuing, of what he'd endured and how far he'd traveled since Melody Lyon had first put him on this story.

Last night, after telling her that his call to Emma Lane was a strong lead, Lyon had urged him to fly to Wyoming and follow up. "We've just learned Reuters is sniffing around Adam Corley's murder in Morocco."

The pressure for Gannon to break the full story was mounting.

"Want me to drop you at your hotel, or do you want to go straight to the house?"

"I'd like to get started," Gannon said.

After they parked in the driveway of Emma's bungalow, Gannon grabbed his computer bag and approached the house with Fuller. Aunt Marsha met them at the door. Gannon smelled freshly brewed coffee and a faint hint of soap as he entered.

"Welcome, Mr. Gannon. I'm Marsha Fuller, Emma's aunt." She shook his hand and gestured to the sofa. "We hope you had a good trip--all that way from New York, goodness! Would you like some coffee?"

"That would be fine."

"How do you take it?"

"Milk and sugar, thanks."

He set his bag near the sofa and before sitting, turned to a woman about his age who'd entered the room.

"I'm Emma Lane." She held out her hand. "Thank you for coming."

"Thanks for seeing me," he said, "and please accept my belated condolences."

Emma sat in the sofa chair opposite him. While she took stock of his face, the fading cuts, he noticed hers, how the anguish manifested by her stress lines and reddened eyes failed to disguise the fact she was pretty.

"After you called," she said, "I'd thought of having my doctor and some of the local police join us. But for now, I think only my aunt and uncle need to be here."

"I understand."

"Tell me what you know."

He began with the bombing in Brazil, his murdered colleagues, Maria Santo's discovery and the ex-CIA player's link to the law firm suspected of illegal adoptions. Then he went on to tell her about the link to the London human-rights group and human trafficking, and finished with Morocco and the murder of Adam Corley and Gannon's encounter with a U.S. agent.

Emma took it all in slowly, while every few minutes her aunt and uncle questioned how such things could happen.

"It's almost too fantastic to believe," Uncle Ned said.

It was Emma's turn.

She allowed Gannon to set out a recorder and she started by recounting the details of the crash.

"I know Joe died out there, I felt it, but I swear other people were present--that they took Tyler. The investigators here told me Tyler was consumed by the intensity of the fire. All they found were his shoes. But during our drive, I had removed them and set them aside. In my heart, I know he is alive."

Emma explained how she and Joe had gone to an L.A. fertility clinic, and she told Gannon about Polly Larenski's disturbing call, how everyone had dismissed it. How she felt compelled to go to California. How she'd learned Larenski was a lab manager at the clinic and was fired. How she'd tracked her down in Santa Ana, and how, before Larenski died in the fire, she'd admitted to selling Tyler's DNA to some shadowy corporation.

"What corporation?"

"I don't know, but Polly told me that the people she was dealing with had boasted to her after the crash that Tyler was alive, that Tyler was 'chosen.'"

"Chosen for what?" Gannon asked.

"I don't know."

"And you told police everything?"

"Yes. I went to the authorities in California, the FBI. I told police here. Nobody believes me. They think I've lost touch with reality. The doctors say I'm delusional, that I'm hallucinating as part of my grieving to help me cope with post-traumatic stress and survivor's guilt."

Emma touched the corners of her eyes.

"Jack," she said, "do you believe it's possible I'm not crazy? Do you believe Tyler may have been taken from the crash, that he may be alive?"

Looking into her eyes Gannon found pain, fear, helplessness and hope, and then he told her the truth.

"Yes, I believe he could still be alive."

Emma's hands flew to her face. She gulped air and took a moment to maintain her composure.

"Then help me find my son. Oh, God, please, before it's too late!"

"Let's get started."

Gannon set up his laptop and turned it on. Emma went to her bedroom and returned with a collection of file folders bound by a thick rubber band. Aunt Marsha made more coffee while Uncle Ned shook his head and quietly cursed to himself before turning to his niece.

"Honey," he said softly. "I'm so damned sorry for not believing you. We couldn't have known. We just--"

Emma pressed her fingers to his mouth and hugged him.

"At times I didn't believe it myself," she said.

Hours passed and Gannon and Emma examined file after file, page after page of the information they each had.

"Do you have any more details on who Polly Larenski was dealing with, or how she had contact with them?"

"No. She told me they called her at home, or at a pay phone. She said she had files she was going to give me, but they were lost in the fire."

"Which is still under investigation by the Arson Unit."

"Are you thinking someone killed her?"

"It's possible, since someone murdered ten people in Rio de Janeiro, and someone murdered Adam Corley in Morocco." Gannon rubbed the back of his neck then shifted his thoughts. "When Polly Larenski called you the first time and said Tyler was alive, you said police here traced the number to a pay phone in Santa Ana?"

"Yes." Emma flipped through her files for a document. "Here's the number and address."

"And do you have Polly's home address and phone number?"

Emma passed him the information. As he jotted notes in his book, she pointed to one of Gannon's computer files labeled E.D.--Extremus Deus?

"What's that?"

"I'm not sure, some shadowy group. I need to follow up on that one," he said while yawning and rubbing his eyes. There were so many files they had not yet reviewed. It was nearly 3:00 a.m., 5:00 a.m. New York time, and he was struggling to stay awake.

Uncle Ned drove Gannon to his motel, the Blue Sage Motor Court, dropping him off under the big wagon-wheel arch entrance.

"I'll pick you up around nine in the morning," he said.

Emma planned to take Gannon to the crash site in the morning.

In his room Gannon took a hot shower to clear his mind. After he got into bed, he flipped through the notes he'd written in his notebook, reflecting on everything he'd learned.

Emma Lane's baby was "chosen."

Was he plucked from a fiery crash?

Who stole him?

Polly Larenski was the key here, and now she was dead.

Who was she selling the DNA to?

Polly Larenski's phone numbers--her home number and the one for the pay phone near her house--they were the thread to the answer.

Gannon studied them.

He knew what to do.

He was closer now, closer than he'd ever been.