Bowen dressed carefully. He wasn’t going to let something stupid like a wardrobe malfunction screw up his well-laid plans.
He pulled on his comfortable work jeans and covered a slick, form-fitting wetsuit shirt with an old University of Illinois sweatshirt. He chose his sand shoes, a worn pair of Vibram’s that he’d spent the season breaking in. From the top drawer of his dresser he grabbed a stash of cash, his identification, and a razor-sharp pocketknife that had belonged to his father. He stuffed all of that up under his shirt where it hid snugly against his waist.
Bugsy came up to him, wagging her tail expectantly.
“That’s right, old girl. Stick close to me. You heard ’em last night. They’re up to some nasty shenanigans and they’ve picked the wrong old man to mess with.”
As he shaved, brushed his teeth, and combed his hair, Bowen thought back over the previous day. After Eve hung up on Foster, Bowen had been careful to make it clear that Matthew and Luke had hurt him badly when they’d wrestled him away from the phone.
It was, of course, a big ol’ lie. They’d only bruised him a bit. He’d been hurt worse playing with Bugs-a-Million. But those two young assholes didn’t know that, and hadn’t cared at all that he limped around—that much was obvious. The man named Mark was different. Mark had made sure Bowen had an ice pack to put on the hip he’d pretended pained him, and kept dosing him with ibuprofen. Then Eve had started her interrogation.
“Mr. Bowen, where’s Tate?” Eve had asked once Bowen was settled in his recliner with the ice pack and a short glass of whiskey.
“On his way here, I expect.”
“No, I mean where has he been these past several weeks?”
“I have no goddamn idea.”
“Right. Just like you had no goddamn idea your grandson was alive,” Luke said sarcastically.
“I lied about that,” Bowen admitted easily. “Wouldn’t you? I don’t know what exactly is going on with that boy, but I do know you’re not family and I have no reason to trust you.”
“That’s a good point,” Mark said, taking a seat across the coffee table from him on the couch. “We’re not family, but we do want to help Tate and Foster—and only we can help them.”
“What exactly did Tate tell you about what’s happened to him and Foster?” Eve asked.
Bowen shrugged. “Well, didn’t seem to be much to tell. He said he and Foster are somehow connected to tornadoes. Don’t know how—don’t know why. But they’re scared, I can tell you that.”
“You’re telling us your scared grandson who you thought was dead has been calling you, and you couldn’t even get him to tell you where he is?” Luke scoffed. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
Bowen frowned at the young man and shook his head. “You have mean eyes. Has anyone ever told you that, boy?”
“I’m not a boy, old man. I’m thirty-six.”
“I’m almost eighty, and from where I’m sitting you’re a boy. A mean little boy who doesn’t seem to have been raised right.”
“He might be mean,” Mark interrupted, “but his question is valid. You’re not a mean man, Mr. Bowen. So it’s hard for me to believe Tate wouldn’t confide his whereabouts to you.”
Bowen sighed and shifted in the chair, being sure to moan painfully before answering. “Yep, yep, yep that surprised me, too. But I didn’t take into account the girl.”
“Foster?” Eve leaned forward from her seat on the couch beside Mark.
“Yeah.” Bowen did his best grumpy old man impression, which was spot-on because sometimes he was truly a grumpy old man. “Girl’s got him whipped. Tate did call me without telling her, but I haven’t been able to convince the boy to tell me where they are. I’ve been trying to make him admit to that girl he and I are talking, and then bring her to the damn phone, but before today he’s refused. Said Foster would be mad. Seeing as he’s gone sweet on her, that’d be a bad thing.”
“He’s right,” Mark said to Eve. “We didn’t take into account that Tate would fall for Foster.”
“Let me ask you something,” Bowen said. “Why are you the only ones who can help my Tate?”
Eve and Mark shared a long look before Mark turned to Bowen. “We’re connected to tornadoes, too. Or, rather, Matthew is, and it’s not just tornadoes. It’s the element air. I’m water. Eve is earth. Luke is fire.”
“Figures,” Bowen said, sending Luke a dark look. “So, this does have something to do with Foster’s adopted father—Rick Stewart, the geneticist.”
“It does,” Mark said.
“And that’s all we’re going to say about that,” Eve added. “But we are the only people who truly understand what your grandson and Foster are going through, and because of that, we’re the only people who can help them control it.”
“Then why don’t you just do that? Help ’em. Instead of trapping and kidnapping ’em.”
“We’re not kidnapping anyone,” Mark said.
“Sure, boy,” Bowen said. “Just like you’re not holding me here against my will.” He shook his head in disgust. “I don’t think you’re a bad person, but if you stay with this lot you’re going to be forced to do things bad people do.”
“Hey, old man,” Luke sneered. “If we were really bad guys we’d gag you so that we wouldn’t have to listen to your crap.”
“Ya see, young pup, the thing is, I believe that’s the least of what you’d do to me if Mark wasn’t here to stop you.”
Luke stood and started to approach Bowen. Waves of heat began to lift from his skin and Bowen could feel the fire that simmered too close to Luke’s surface.
“Enough!” Eve snapped. “Luke, go outside in the rain and cool yourself down.” She turned to Bowen. “First, stop baiting them. Next, you need to understand that I’m in charge—not Luke, not Matthew, and not Mark. So if you want to be saved, you better look to me for that.”
Bowen tilted his head and studied Eve. “Well, young lady, instead I think I’ll stick with a motto that has served me well for almost eighty years.”
“And what’s that?” she asked.