Free Forests of the Night by James W. Hall Page B

down two geeks to run a check with their spectrum analyzer. But after a week of crisscrossing the territory in question, the techies couldn’t identify any discrete interfering signals.
    â€œHow about the Nextel tower?” Sheffield said. “You know, that twelve-story object that’s taller than anything within ten square miles. Bouncing a few thousand microwave signals every second. Think that might be it, fellas?”
    The techies couldn’t confirm it. They left, and no one got back to Sheffield. Papers shuffled. Budgets cut, funds diverted to more pressing needs. Same old shit.
    So tonight the chopper dispatched to Parker Monroe’s address hovered ten blocks east of its objective, and its enormous spotlight scanned the front and backyard of Dr. and Mrs. Jeffrey Silberman’s two-story Mediterranean, while seven black-suited, heavily armed federal agents battered down the heart surgeon’s front door.
    Considering how fucked their radios were, it was a miracle the rapid-response guys got as close to the target as they did.
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    With a steadying hand against the dining-room table, Charlotte said, “Panther’s in his late twenties.” Struggling with the simple math, her head so fogged. “So you were, what, fourteen?”
    â€œFifteen,” he said. “It’s a long story, Charlotte.”
    He crossed the room and offered his arms. She hesitated, feeling her own geologic tremors deep beneath their common ground. She retreated a step, and Parker lowered his arms.
    â€œYou’ve known this how long? For years? That you had a son?”
    â€œNot until tonight.”
    â€œHe told you that? He told you he was your son?”
    â€œNo one told me. I saw it in his eyes, his bone structure. Who his mother is, his age. Look, I’m just now sorting it out myself.”
    â€œSo you’re not sure. You’re guessing.”
    â€œWe don’t need a blood test. He’s my son, Charlotte.”
    Outside in the driveway, tires screamed.
    She got to the window in a second, yanked the curtains back, and caught a flash of the rear lights of Parker’s Mercedes swerving onto Riviera Drive.
    â€œGoddamn it.”
    Before she turned away, she saw, above the oaks and royal palms, a helicopter’s searchlight washing across a neighborhood at least a mile away.
    â€œAw, shit. Shit, shit, shit.”
    She sprinted to the kitchen. Dug her cell phone from her purse and speed-dialed Gables emergency. Getting Mary Troutman, thank God, a veteran of twenty years.
    â€œThey’ve got the wrong address, so the perimeter’s off. And it’s not the red truck I told them he was driving. He’s in Parker’s Mercedes. Silver sedan, heading north on Riviera toward U.S. 1.” She spelled out Parker’s vanity plate, DFENDR.
    Mary kept her on the line while she patched into the FBI. As Charlotte drummed a finger against the stove top, Parker passed through the kitchen, heading down the hallway.
    With the line still empty, Charlotte grabbed the Cabernet bottle from the counter and took a slug. She put the bottle down, wiped her mouth, and craned to see from the kitchen window if the chopper was still there, but a hibiscus bush blocked her view. One of many chores Parker had been neglecting, working all that overtime to get a guilty kid off a murder rap.
    â€œEverything’s busy,” Mary said. “They’re probably calling each other, a lot of backslapping.”
    â€œKeep trying. Call me when you get through.”
    When she snapped the phone shut, Parker was at her side, out of breath.
    â€œGracey’s not in her room, not in your office. Nowhere.”
    Charlotte’s throat shut. Something hot and hard lodged there.
    â€œWe’ve got to go,” Parker said. “Now, Charlotte.”
    â€œHe took her? The bastard took her hostage?”
    â€œWe don’t know that. Now come on.”
    Charlotte clawed through her purse,