He raised his hand. Out of thin air a stick appeared in his poised fingers. A long sharp rod. He lifted it high.
He was going to stab her with it.
The girl screamed. She could see her face now, the terror in her eyes.
“Leave her alone, I said.”
Slowly the man turned toward her his face a mass of fury and hate. “She’s mine, I said.”
“No. She belongs to me.”
She lunged for the man and began to punch as hard as she could. “Don’t you dare hurt her,” she shrieked. “Don’t you dare.”
Over and over she pounded his chest, his arms, his face. But her blows did no good. And then she couldn’t move her hands. He had her tight by the wrists.
“Let me go. Let me go!” she screamed, her voice growing hoarse.
“Miranda. Wake up. Miranda.”
She opened her eyes and drew in breath as if she were drowning in an ocean. Blackness swirled in her head, but she kept taking in air.
At last her vision cleared and she saw Parker holding her wrists.
She rolled back her head. “No. Not again.”
“It’s all right. It was just a dream.”
“I know. At least I do now.”
He let her go and she rolled over and turned on the light. Her heart was still pounding.
She turned back, about to tell him she was okay when she saw blood on the corner of his lip.
“Oh, my God, Parker. Look what I did to you.”
“What do you mean?”
She reached out to touch his face, showed him the blood on her finger.
He glanced at it and scoffed. “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
“I’ve had worse wounds.”
But not from her. Not physically.
Not caring about cleanliness she wiped her finger on the sheet and press her hands to her face. “It was him. He had Mackenzie. He was going to stab her the way he—”
“Shh,” Parker said and pulled her into his arms.
He felt so good. His strength, his comfort. She buried her face in his shoulder and drank it in.
Kissing her hair he pressed her close to him. “My darling. My darling. It’s all right. He can’t get to you. He’s dead.”
“I know. I know.”
But part of him wasn’t dead. His evil spirit lived on in the dark part of her mind. And if Mackenzie found out about him, he’d live on in her mind, too.
“I just want to spare my daughter.”
“We will. We will.”
Parker stroked her hair, his heart breaking for his precious wife, his soul flooding with fury toward the two men who had given her so much pain.
If those men were alive, he’d kill them both with his bare hands. But they were dead. If only he could purge them from Miranda’s subconscious as well. She needed another session with Dr. Wingate, but he wouldn’t push that now. Not in the middle of this case. The son of Senator Perry Ward Hughes was missing. And Miranda wouldn’t rest until the boy was safe and back with his family.
He knew that.
Parker finally understood that the work she lived for was a therapy in itself. It saved her, kept her strong, kept her from feeling like a victim.
He felt her body relax. She was asleep now. With peaceful dreams this time, he hoped. He laid her down on her pillow and watched her lovely face.
And so he would give her that work. He would never take it from her again, no matter what it cost him, no matter how much he might fear for her. Right now the work was all he could offer her. It was, after all, the destiny she longed to fulfill.
And perhaps in saving others they could rise above the horrors that haunted them both.
Chapter Twenty-Four
He stood on a ladder in one of the large upper rooms of his family estate putting the finishing touches on the shelf that ran around the perimeter.
In one hand he held a tiny artificial tree. In the other hand his pliers. Carefully he used them to insert a thin wire into the tree’s base, then planted it onto the hill he had fashioned and contoured with ground cover yesterday.
He smiled at his creation. The scenery was almost complete. A perfect backdrop for the model locomotive that would run along this track—the engine and boxcars he used to play with alongside his father.
Father had loved trains. He had studied trains, collected trains, even owned part of a real railroad. And Mother would read to him of trains every night. He had been the joy of their lives and they gave him everything he wanted. One day when he was bigger, she promised, they would all take a long trip together on a train.
But that day never came.
Instead one day when he was four years old, his mother brought home a wriggling blue bundle in her arms. Little Brother. And suddenly everything changed.
There was a knock on the door.
Coming out of his reverie, he turned with a scowl.
The huge muscle-bound man who had been his underling for the past four years hovered in the doorway.
All in black, he stood with his muscled arms crossed defiantly over a thick, equally muscled chest. The black tattoo that crawled up his neck and over his shaved head was unnerving. They said he was thirty-two but his leathery skin made him look more like forty.
He had a round face and a vacant look in his narrow dark eyes. He seemed to be slow and dull, but his mind was quicker than he appeared. He had an interest in science, was good in electronics, and had enough medical training and finesse with drugs to be extremely useful.
They said his name was Yakiv Doroshenko.
The organization had recruited him from the Ukraine. He’d been only too eager to escape the run-down little town outside Kiev that had been his birthplace. They claimed he was descended from Cossacks. He didn’t believe that, but he didn’t question his superiors. Not about things that didn’t matter, anyway. Doroshenko served his purpose and that was good enough. He’d been in trouble with the organization so he was extra eager to please.
Besides, he enjoyed the idea of having control over a Cossack.
From the ladder he gazed down at Doroshenko feeling king-like. “Did you take care of the body as I told you?”
“I did,” he said in his deep voice and Slavic sounding accent. Another aspect of him that was unnerving.
“Did it work?”
“Did it. Ze four-oh-five came through right on time and sliced her head clean off, just as you said it would.” Doroshenko chuckled.
He smiled to himself. Of course it worked. One thing he knew was trains. Trains and boys. “And was he there?”
“He arrived just after the cops.”
“Did you see the look on his face?”
“I got a shot of it. Far away, but I used the zoom.” He held out his cell phone.
Reluctantly he came down from the ladder and took the phone. He studied the look on the dark-haired man’s face in the photo.
His smile deepened. “You left her phone for them to find as I told you to?”
“Deep in the woods. I hope we do not have many more assignments like dat. There are snakes in those woods.”
“Hmm.”
At times Doroshenko could be a complainer. He might have to replace him eventually. But not now. He’d proved too useful on this assignment. He’d picked up the woman’s location on one of his scans, snatched her off the street, unencrypted her GPS to discover where she’d come from. There he’d found the boy.
“There is something else.”
“What?”
“Someone else came to the tracks.”
“Who?”
“Local detectives. A team of three.”
“Names?”
“Wade Parker, Miranda Steele. Did not get the third man.”
His breath caught. Wade Parker and Miranda Steele?
He’d heard about them in the news recently. They’d stopped some serial killer out in Jasper County. He’d had a long list of victims, and the reporters’ accolades for the detectives had gone on
and on. What in the world had they been doing on the train tracks in Kennesaw?
He’d have to find out. But now it was time to get started.
He turned back to Doroshenko. “Is the boy awake?”
He nodded. “The drugs are just wearing off.”
The drugs designed to make him feel as if he were on a long, long train ride and had been taken far, far away. He would be soon. But now, it was time to begin his schooling.
“Bring him to me.”
With a nod Doroshenko left the room.
While he waited he went to the cabinet and took out one of his prized possessions. The G Scale steam engine he had run with his father. The last train Little Brother had played with.
It was a rich black and had amazing detailing. It puffed smoke from its stack, made a realistic braking sound when it stopped, and oh, its whistle. He loved this piece.
But his face fell as once again he thought of the day his mother came home from the hospital with Little Brother.
Suddenly that small blue bundle became the center of his parents’ lives.
Little Brother took up all their time. At first it was feeding and changing his disgusting diapers. Then they told him Little Brother was sick. A hearing disorder, they thought. Later on they said it might be autism. Then they said it might be Aspergers. They never did figure out what it was.
He didn’t really care. All he knew was now Little Brother was the one who got all the attention, the special treatment. Little Brother was the one Father shared his trains with. The one Mother read to at night.
He despised Little Brother.
“Here he is.”
He looked up.
Big hands on small shoulders, Doroshenko guided the boy into the room.
He put the engine on top of the cabinet and bent down to study the young man.
Such a pretty little thing. Fair skin, silky blond hair, marine blue eyes. Just the color of Little Brother’s.
“Hello there,” he said softly.
The boy glared at him. “Who are you? Where’s my teacher?”
“Oh, now don’t be angry with me.” He reached for the boy’s arm.
He tugged away. “Don’t touch me. I want my mother. I want my father.”
The big man grabbed onto his shoulders again, making the boy squeal.
Right on cue. Doroshenko played the role of the evil captor well. Soon the boy would have no choice but to turn to his only friend. But that would take time. He knew to be patient. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t done this before.
“Don’t hurt him. Let him go.”
Doroshenko obeyed but took up a guard’s stance at the open doorway.
He smiled at the boy. “Your father and mother had to go on a long trip with your teacher. They asked me to take care of you until they got back.”
“I don’t believe you.” His pretty lips turned into a pout.
“I’ll bet you’re hungry. I have a kitchen over there.” He waved toward another door at the far end of the room. “I have hot dogs.”
His eyes glistened with desire for a moment then he shook his head. “No peanuts. They make me sick.”
“I know that, Dylan. Your mother told me that.”
The eyes went wide again, this time with surprise. “My mother?”
Actually, it had been Doroshenko who had learned about the boy’s peanut allergy from his surveillance of the senator’s house.
“Yes, your mother,” he said to the boy. “She and your father want you to have a good time while you’re here. See that over there?” He pointed to the locomotive on the cabinet.
The boy nodded, his interest piqued.
“That’s part of my train set. I’m building a track for it. See?” He pointed to the shelving that ran around the room just under the ceiling.
The boy was suddenly mesmerized. They always were.
“After we eat I’ll show you how it works. Come now. Let’s go have some hot dogs. You can have as many as you like. And after that, a big bowl of chocolate ice cream. Won’t that be nice?”
He held out a hand and waited.
Hesitating the boy gazed at the engine again, then the tracks, then at him. At last curiosity and hunger got the best of him and he took his hand.
He smiled as the familiar tingle of victory rippled through him. “We’re going to have so much fun together,” he said, leading him away and suppressing a laugh.
The longer he did this, the easier it got. As easy as feeding candy to a baby.
Chapter Twenty-Five
For the second morning in a row the phone rang before they were out of bed.
Miranda lifted her head from the pillow and glared at the clock on her nightstand. Just past eight. And it was her phone that was ringing.
She reached for it. “Steele.”
“It’s me, Wesson.” She sounded angry.
Still groggy Miranda scowled at the receiver. If Wesson had called to give her any flack—
“She’s on the move.”
Miranda sat up. “What? Where are you?”
“At Erica King’s house. Holloway called me this morning and said you wanted us to do surveillance shifts.”
He actually followed her orders? “And?”
“I’ve been watching the house for about fifteen minutes. Just now Erica King came out and put a suitcase in the back of her car.”
“The white Chevy hatchback?”
“That’s it.”
“Any other activity?”
“Nothing that I can see, but it looks like she’s getting ready to go on a trip. Wait. She’s coming out again.” There was a pause, then Wesson sucked in her breath. “Oh my God.”
“What is it, Wesson?”
“She’s got a little boy with her. Blond. Maybe about eight. He’s got a ball cap on, but he looks like the kid in the photo you sent us. She’s putting him in the car.”
Miranda shot out of bed. “Tail her. Parker and I will be there as soon as we can.”
“Roger that. I’ll keep you posted on her location.” She hung up.
“What it is?” Parker was already in the closet pulling on clothes.
“Wesson says Erica King has an eight-year-old kid with her. She’s putting him and a suitcase into her car right now.”
“Then we need to hurry.”
Avoiding the clothes she’d worn yesterday, which had somehow gotten neatly folded on a chair, Miranda dug jeans and a top out of a drawer and pulled them on as fast as she could. She shoved her feet into tennis shoes and they raced downstairs.
Parker insisted on stopping in the kitchen for proteins bars and two bottles of water.
She didn’t argue.
With the hours she’d been keeping and the possibility of chasing down a kidnapper, her brain and her body needed fuel.
He handed a bar to her.
“Thanks.”
She shoved it in her mouth and rushed out the door with him to the elevator and down to the parking lot and the waiting Mazda.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Sunday morning traffic was light this time of day, with only the Catholics and Lutherans making their way to their respective houses of worship. The Methodists and Baptists would come out later. As well as the sports fans on their way to watch their favorite teams. And by one o’clock everyone would be on their way to lunch snarling the roads up good.
Miranda hoped they’d have Erica King in tow by then.
“Where is she?” she said into her phone after calling Wesson back and putting her on speaker.
“We’re on I-75 going south, heading downtown from the looks of it.”
“To where? Bus station? Airport?”
“She didn’t exactly hand me her itinerary, Steele,” Wesson grumbled.
Parker scowled at the attitude.
“Okay,” Miranda said. “Give me a cross street. An exit.”
“We’re near Windy Hill. Getting close to 285.”
Erica King had a lead foot.
Miranda peered ou
t the windshield and got her bearings. “We just got onto I-75. Traffic’s light. If she’s heading for the airport, she’ll come down this way. If she crosses the perimeter, we should connect at some point.”
“I can’t tell what she’s going to do.”
“I know that. Just stay on her.”
Miranda pulled up a map on the GPS and squinted at the screen trying to figure out where King and Wesson were.
“Here.” Parker pointed to the north part of the map. “We’re about fifteen minutes apart.”
Miranda glanced out the window. “We’re almost to the Chattahoochee,” she told Wesson.
“Okay. Wait a minute. She put on her blinker…She’s getting onto 285.”
Crap. Where the heck was she going? The long way around from the top of the perimeter to the airport?
As they rumbled over the green, muddy water of the Chattahoochee Parker skirted neatly around a pickup truck and took the lane for I-285 to Birmingham.
“She’s getting off. She’s taking Cobb Parkway. Could be heading for the Galleria or the mall.”
Miranda couldn’t tell if it was panic or frustration in Wesson’s voice.
Parker stepped on it.
“We’re almost there,” Miranda told her. “Just keep on her. And don’t get made.”
“Doing my best, Steele.”
“We know you are, Detective,” Parker said in a reassuring tone.
“Thank you, sir.”
Miranda grimaced at the exchange. Why couldn’t Parker see he was a much better boss than she was? She couldn’t mention it now, but she’d save this morsel for later as exhibit Z in a long string of evidence.
Miranda’s stomach did a dip as Parker took the ramp onto I-285, heading west. He was zooming. He took the Cobb Parkway exit and after a minute, Miranda spotted Wesson’s taillights.
She pointed out the window. “That’s her, right?”
“It is,” he said and eased off.
“We’re right behind you, Wesson,” Miranda told her.
Wesson was silent, no doubt stifling some snide comment. “She’s near the Galleria now.”
“We see that.”
“Wait. She’s turning left. She’s pulling into a gas station.”
Must need fuel. It was still a good jaunt to the airport, but the woman could be heading to Alabama with the kid for all they knew. Parker closed in on Wesson just as Erica King’s white Chevy pulled up to a pump.
The Boy Page 11
