Free Speaking in Tongues by Jeffery Deaver Page B

think he’s been following me around.’ And I go, ‘No way.’ But she’s like, ‘Yeah, really.’ ”
    “Where?” Tate asked.
    “Around school, I think,” Amy said.
    “Any description?”
    “Of the guy?”
    “Or the car.”
    “Naw. She didn’t tell me. But I’m like, ‘Right, somebody following you . . .’ And she’s like, ‘I’m not bullsh—I’m not fooling.’ And she goes, ‘It was there yesterday. By the field.’ ”
    “What field?”
    “The sports field behind the school,” Amy answered.
    “That was this last Tuesday?”
    “Um, yeah.”
    “Did you believe her?”
    “I guess. She looked pretty freaked. And she says she told some people about it.”
    “Who?”
    “I don’t know. Some guys. She didn’t tell me who. Oh, and she told Mr. Eckhard too. He’s an English teacher at the middle school and he coaches volleyball after school and on the weekends. And he said if hesaw it he’d go talk to the driver. And I’m like, ‘Wow. This is totally fuck—totally weird.’ ”
    “His name’s Eckhard?”
    “Something like that. I don’t know how to spell it. But if you want to, like, talk to him there’s usually volleyball practice on Saturday afternoon, only I don’t know when. Volleyball’s for losers, you know.”
    “Yeah, I know,” Tate said. It had been the only sport he’d played in college.
    “You think something, like, happened to her? That’s way lame.”
    “We’d just feel a little better knowing where she is. Listen, Amy, we’ll be around to pick up her book bag in the next couple of hours. If you hear from her give us a call.”
    “I will.”
    “Promise?” he asked firmly.
    “Yeah, like, I promise.”
    As soon as Tate pushed the End button on Bett’s phone it buzzed again. He glanced at her and she nodded for him to answer it. He pushed Receive.
    “Hello?”
    “Um, is this Megan’s father?” a man’s voice asked.
    “That’s right.”
    “Mr. McCall . . .”
    “Actually it’s Collier.”
    “That’s right. Sure. Sorry. This is Dr. Hanson.”
    “Doctor, thanks for calling . . . I have to tell you, it looks like Megan’s run away.”
    There was a pause. “Really?”
    Tate tried to read the tone. He heard concern and surprise.
    “We got some . . . well, some pretty angry letters from her. Her mother and I both did. And then she vanished. Is there any way we can see you?”
    “I’m in Leesburg now. My mother’s had an accident.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that. But if Bett and I drove up could you spare a half hour?”
    “Well . . .”
    “It’s important, Doctor. We’re really concerned about her.”
    “I suppose so. All right.” He gave them directions to the hospital.
    Tate looked at his watch. It was noon. “We’ll be there in an hour or so.”
    “Actually,” Hanson said slowly, “I think we should talk. There were some things she told me that you ought to know.”
    “What?” Tate asked.
    “I want to think about them a little more. There are some confidentiality issues . . . But it’s funny—I’d expect any number of things from Megan, but running away? No, that seems odd to me.”
    Tate thanked him. It was only after hanging up that he felt a disturbing twist in his belly. What were the “any number of things” Megan was capable of? And were they any worse than her running away?
    •   •   •
    His precious cargo was in the trunk. But while Aaron Matthews would have liked to meditate on Megan McCall and on what lay ahead for both of them he was instead growing increasingly anxious.
    The fucking white car.
    He was cruising down I-66. He’d planned to stop at the house he’d rented last year in Prince William County—only two or three miles from Tate Collier’s farm—and pick up some things he wanted to take with him to the mountains.
    But he couldn’t risk leading anyone to that house, and this car was just not going away.
    It was raining again, a gray drizzle. In the mist and rain he couldn’t