Riptide

"This is just too much," he said. "Just too
    much."
    "What the hell is it?" Adam was at Thomas's side in but a moment.
    Thomas shook his head, his eyes dazed. There was a fine tremor
    in his hands. "You're not going to believe this. CIA Agent Elizabeth
    Pirounakis was blown up when she went into Vasili Kri

makov's apartment in Iraklion. Krimakov must have worked there,
    left notes there, evidence of his plans.
    "The whole building blew up. It's now rubble. Agent Pirounakis
    is dead, the two other Greek agents with her dead as well. Gaylan
    isn't certain yet, but given the time of the explosion, thankfully
    very few people were in the apartment building."
    "He did this before he left Crete," Agent Hawley said. "It's not
    something he's just done."
    Adam said, "At least now there has to be an inquiry about the
    guy they buried. Surely now they can't hang on to the fiction that
    the man in the car accident was Vasili Krimakov?"
    Thomas looked at Adam. "It doesn't much matter now. There's
    hell to pay over there, but that doesn't help us."
    "Time," Adam said. "It's what he hasn't given us."
    Thomas nodded, then paused another moment and looked over
    at his daughter. "You're right. Let's go."
    She gave him a smile filled with rage and said, "Yes. Lock and
    load."

Chapter 26

    It was hot that day in Maine, even by the water. Lobster boats
    bobbed up and down in the inlets, fishermen, their hats pushed
    back on their heads, lay in the shade of the awnings on their boats,
    if they were lucky enough to have awnings.
    The white spires of the Riptide churches shone beneath the
    bright afternoon sun. There wasn't much movement anywhere. It
    was just too hot. The tourists weren't wandering around taking
    photos of the quaint Maine town, they were holed up in air-conditioned
    pubs.
    The hot weather didn't bother the birds. Osprey dove for fish off
    the spruce-covered points. Gulls squawked and whirled over the
    lobster boats. The smell of dead fish left too long in the heat sent
    out odors that meant you had to take shallow breaths to survive.
    Cumulus clouds in fantastic shapes dotted the steel-blue sky. There
    was no breeze at all. Still, hot air blanketed the land.
    Becca was so scared that all the beauty of the land and ocean, the
    sound of the birds, the incredible blue of the sky--none of it penetrated
    her brain. She felt frozen in the near hundred-degree heat.
    She'd driven herself in a rented white Toyota from a private airfield
    near Camden. It had taken her nearly an hour to negotiate the
    tourist traffic on Highway 1 south to Riptide, just below Rock-land.
    Her hands were clammy, her heart slowly thudding in her
    chest. She tried to think of all that could go wrong, but her mind
    just wouldn't slip into gear.

When a mosquito bit her as she was pumping gas, she was
    pleased that she felt it. She wasn't even aware of being pissed off
    that the rental agency hadn't filled her car before renting it to her.
    When she arrived in Riptide at three o'clock in the afternoon,
    she drove directly to Tyler's house on Gum Shoe Lane. He was
    standing in the yard, waiting for her. He was quite alone.
    Tyler held her very close, as if she were a lifeline, and so she
    stood there, his arms locked tightly around her. Finally, she eased
    back and looked up at him. "Any word at all?"
    "Another note from Krimakov."
    "Let me see it."
    "This is all a huge mess, Becca."
    "Yes, I know, and I'm so sorry for it, Tyler. It's all my fault. If I
    could go back into the past, make the decision not to come here,
    I swear I would. I'm so sorry. I swear that Sam will be all right. I
    swear it to you."
    He looked at her for a very long time, but he didn't say anything,
    to either agree or disagree.
    "Show me the new note. Then I'll take both of them with me,
    okay?"
    The note was handwritten, big strokes, black ballpoint: The boy
    will be all right for another eight hours. If Rebecca isn't here, he's dead.
    She folded both notes, put them in the pocket of her sundress,
    and left for Jacob Marley's house twenty minutes later. Undoubtedly
    Krimakov was watching Tyler's house, at least he should be. She
    would call in another half hour just in case Krimakov hadn't been
    watching. For sure he'd have a trace on Tyler's phone.
    She unlocked the front door of Jacob Marley's house. It was so
    still and hot inside, so very silent, nothing moving at all, not a single
    sound, not even a floorboard. She opened all the windows and
    switched on the overhead fans.