Every Fear by rick mofina

Author:rick mofina
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: espionage, fiction
ISBN: 9780786017461
Publisher: Harlequin Mills & Boon Ltd.
Published: 2006-08-31T14:00:00+00:00

According to the printout from IVIPS, the address for the license number Everett Sinclair took down was in a North Seattle community, tucked away in the Pinehurst, Northgate, and Maple Leaf area. Easy to miss on the map, Jason discovered as he kept correcting his directions to his father.

They rolled by brick Tudor-style homes and bungalows that had gone up after World War Two. There were several vacant lots with overgrown shrubs and overturned shopping carts. One lot had a discarded TV and a dryer with the door torn off. The house next to it had an eviscerated pink Pinto in the oil-stained front yard. Sidewalks seemed to be missing. Most houses had dirt patches for driveways. FOR RENT signs were common in front windows.

“There, Brimerley Lane. Turn left here,” Jason said. “It’s 444 Brimerley Lane.”

A few houses on the street had well-kept yards, tended gardens, and flower boxes at the windows. The place they were looking for was at the far end and backed on to I-5. Except for the buzz of the freeway, the enclave was tranquil when they stopped in front of number 444. It was a light green bungalow sitting way back from the street. Not a bad-looking place, Jason thought when they arrived at the front door.

The doorbell’s chime echoed through the small home. His old man nodded to the flyers and junk mail clogging the metal mailbox. A few moments later, Jason pressed the bell a second time.

No response.

They looked back to the street.

Empty.

Jason knocked. Hard. Loud enough to wake anyone inside who might be sleeping. He placed his ear against the door. Not a sound, not a bird, not even the scratch of dog paws on linoleum.

“Nothing,” he told his dad, who nodded to the singlecar garage.

It was at the end of a dirt driveway, at the side but back of the house, canopied by a couple of tall alders. Paint blistered its wood sides and double doors. Jason scanned the small backyard. A trash can, some lawn chairs. Nothing beyond that. His old man, shielding his eyes, was gazing into the garage window.

“There’s a Toyota Corolla in there, color matches IVIPS.”

His father scanned discarded papers in the trash can while Jason tried the side door of the garage. It was open.

“Let’s go in,” he said, “check the plate, then we’ll leave.”

Reluctant, his father glanced around.

“It’ll only take a moment, Dad. And you dragged me all this way.”

Jason stepped into the darkened garage and waited a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the light. After finishing with the trash can, his father followed. Dust particles danced in the light shafts. The car took up most of the garage. Garden tools hung from the side; so did a hose, extension cord, a ladder. A bicycle leaned against the wall. Adult-size. Jason squeezed himself to the front of the car, noticing a fine layer of dust on the hood as he crouched down before the front bumper.

“It’s gone. There’s no front plate.”

“No back plate either,” his father called from the rear of the Toyota.

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