Miranda shot after him. “Go find Parker,” she shouted over her shoulder.
“Are you kidding? We can’t let that guy get away.” And Holloway took off right behind her.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Parker led Sloan down another long hallway. Again they opened room after room only to find nothing.
Nothing but hundreds of model train cars lined up on dozens of shelves along the walls. Boxes of tracks and scenery, paint and sculpting equipment. The man was a fanatic.
Where was Miranda? What had that bastard done with her?
A sudden surge of remorse stabbed at his heart.
Regret for ever letting her get involved in another case. His old fears, his old ghosts. He fought them down as best he could. There was no time for them now.
As he reached for another knob he glanced down the hall and saw a door several rooms away stood open.
“Look,” he said to Sloan. Heart pounding with anxiety he raced to it.
He found the door frame shattered. Broken wood lay on the floor.
“It’s been kicked in,” Sloan said.
Parker pushed what was left of the door aside with his foot and stepped inside the room.
He took in the sight.
A waist high table with a model train on it. A projector screen overhead. Torn duct tape on the floor. A syringe in the corner like the one Tamarkin was going to use on him.
But on the other side of the room a back door leading outside stood open.
Parker ran to it and peered out.
He saw three figures racing across the lawn. They were heading for the brick fence that ran around the property. If he wasn’t mistaken he knew what lay on the other side of that wall.
“They must have gone out this way,” Sloan said.
No time to lose. Parker spun around and hurried out of the room and back down the hall.
“Where are you going?”
“C’mon, Sloan,” he called over his shoulder. “We have to get to the car. There’s no time to lose.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
DeBow was too far ahead of them.
Miranda picked her way through the last of the curving rocks and miniature waterfalls of the outside model railroad, kicking up the tracks and nearly losing her footing.
Finally.
Before her lay a wide stretch of grassy lawn edged by the winding pale brick fence that enclosed the whole property.
DeBow reached it first and slipped through a wooden door in its side. Holloway was halfway to the wall, beating her soundly with his long legs. He always used to win when they had running contests as IITs.
She watched him as he reached the door and yanked at the fancy knob, gave the wood a few kicks.
“It’s locked,” he told her when she finally caught up to him.
“Then we go over it.” She cupped her hands to give him a boost.
He didn’t argue. He put his long foot in her palms and with one good heave he was up and over the wall. And gone.
“Hey!” He hadn’t waited for her.
Anger fueling her already kindled adrenaline she managed to scale the wall and get down the other side by herself.
There were woods on the other side. With the trees spaced out several feet apart as if they had been planted by a gardener. The ground sloped downward and she could see DeBow scrambling down the hill already at the spot where the trees ended.
Holloway was barreling toward him, dodging trunks and branches as he went.
“Holloway,” she shouted.
He ignored her.
A few minutes later, DeBow’s curly blond head disappeared below the hill.
Dodging boughs, the smell of pine in her nose, Miranda pushed her way through the tree trunks being careful not to trip over clumps of pine straw or limbs on the ground. At last she could see the edge of the forest and a clearing up ahead.
While she was still in the trees she heard it. The loud howl of a train whistle.
No.
The last few feet seemed to have more brush and undergrowth but she fought through it and finally stepped out from the trees. Here the ground became a grassy hill dipping down to a hollow ditch before rising again to a crushed stone ballast.
Train tracks.
A long freight train chugged over them.
DeBow was already near the bottom of the hill heading toward the train. Holloway was still in front of her scurrying down the hill.
She followed.
As her legs sped up with the momentum of the descent, she saw DeBow’s hand reach up for a bar on one of the cars.
He grabbed it and pulled himself up.
“He’s getting away,” she shouted to Holloway.
“Like hell he is.” Holloway began to zoom.
Seconds later he reached the train and did the same as DeBow, pulling himself up and onto the train two cars behind DeBow.
Good Lord.
They had to stop him. If he got away he’d set up shop somewhere else and other little boys would go missing. She had no choice but to get on that train.
She ran alongside it, forcing her legs to move as fast as they could.
The train wasn’t going very fast right now but it would speed up any minute. An iron bar flew past her face. She reached for it, missed.
C’mon, Steele. You can do better than that.
She pushed her legs harder, glanced behind her. A grab bar was coming. One with an iron ladder beside it. Luck. She stuck out her hand.
Just as it reached her, her fingers curled around the wind cooled metal. She held on tight and hauled herself up as the train’s momentum swung her body hard against the car. She found her footing, getting a toe onto one of the spokes of the ladder.
She was okay. She was onboard.
Now what?
Looking up she saw Holloway’s feet disappear over the top of the car he’d just climbed. He wasn’t waiting for her, probably didn’t even know she was behind him.
So that was how it was going to be, huh? Okay.
Ready or not, here she came.
Chapter Fifty-Six
When she climbed onto the top of the boxcar she was relieved to find another grab bar, and that its roof was fairly flat. The wind whipping the hair around her face, she squinted toward the front of the train.
DeBow was on his feet picking his way toward the front. Holloway was two cars behind him about to jump to the next one.
He was going to kill himself.
“Holloway,” she called. “This isn’t the movies.”
He ignored her and leapt.
She wanted to close her eyes but she didn’t. Holloway flew across and managed to land on top of the next car. She watched him get to his knees, then to his feet.
She’d have to follow. She peeked over the edge of her car, watched the couplings jiggle back and forth. The loud clackety-clack made it hard to think. The rocking of the car tilting it back and forth made it hard to stand.
But she did.
She took two shaky steps back then made a running jump over the cars. She landed atop the flat surface of the next one, waving her arms for balance like a frightened chicken.
She raised her head just as Holloway cleared another car.
She pushed herself up and did the same. She was still behind.
“DeBow,” Holloway shouted. “Give it up. We’re on you.”
DeBow spun around, the lapels of his coat flapping in the wind, his blond curls whipping around his face. He raised his arm.
He had a gun in his hand.
Where had he gotten that? If he’d been carrying it in his pocket or an ankle holster, it had to be small. Might not have the range to hit Holloway at that distance.
She couldn’t take the chance. “Get down!” she shouted.
DeBow fired.
Holloway lurched to the right and the bullet missed him. He got up and jumped another car trying to get to DeBow.
DeBow turned around and headed backward, coming toward him.
&nbs
p; Miranda cleared another car. She had to get to Holloway. She had to yank him down before DeBow got off another shot.
Too late.
She heard the blast, heard Holloway yelp, watched him crumble to his knees.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
She had to get to him. She had to get to Holloway.
But the car she’d landed on was a tanker. Round and slippery and suicidal to ride on. She lowered herself and half crawled to the middle of it where grab irons surrounded a hatch for pumping fluid into the tank. She used the bars to pull herself up and around the hatch. Then she had to balance herself carefully before the next jump.
She stuck her arms out, ran as best she could and leapt.
Somehow she made it, landing hard atop the next car.
She was determined to kill Holloway when she got to him. He was her responsibility. Her team member. Why didn’t he listen to her?
She scrambled along the catwalk of another boxcar, then picked her way over a coal car. Ignoring the shaking and the clatter, she crossed two more cars. At last she reached Holloway and sank down to her knees.
She tore back his brown coat. “Where did he get you?”
Holloway lay on his back staring up at the blue sky. “My calf, I think.”
“Not anywhere up here?”
“I felt it down there.”
She followed his finger and saw blood on his pant leg near the knee. There was a bullet hole in the fabric.
She leaned toward it, put her fingers in the hole and tore the material apart with her bare hands.
“Ow. Careful, Steele.”
The flesh was torn and blood oozed from it. At least it wasn’t gushing. The bullet must still be inside. Looked like a 9mm wound. She hoped it hadn’t hit bone.
She tore off her jacket and wrapped it around his leg to stop the bleeding. Tying the makeshift bandage by the sleeves, she pulled as hard as she could.
Holloway yowled.
She took his hand and pressed it onto the knot. “Hold this down tight. Keep pressure on it.”
She crouched, steadying herself before she got to her feet again.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve got to stop that bastard.”
“Be careful, Steele.”
“I will.” And she hurried off as best she could.
The train seemed rockier now. It rolled around a curve and she almost lost her balance. She peered over the side and saw a steep drop into a grassy valley far below. If she fell off here, it would be a long way down before she hit the ground.
The wind felt cold. It made her eyes sting and it kept blowing her hair into her face. She shoved the unruly mess away and peered toward the front of the train.
DeBow was making his way forward again.
He was trying to get to the conductor, no doubt. Probably knew all the routes and stops. He’d commandeer the train and make it go wherever he wanted. And when he got where he was going, he’d kill the conductor and disappear somewhere. They’d never find him.
She had to get him now.
She got to her feet and started running across the boxcars, if you could call the crouching posture she was in a run. The train jerked and she nearly slipped. She caught herself on the bar just before knocking her chin into it. Forcing herself up she kept going.
One, two, three more cars. Almost there.
DeBow was almost to the engine now.
He didn’t turn around. Didn’t seem to know she was there. Maybe he hadn’t seen her behind Holloway. Could she be that lucky?
He jumped and was on top of the engine, making his way past the air intakes. She was close now. Very close. She tried to be quiet as she made the last leap.
She landed on the blue-and-yellow roof of the engine with a hollow clunk.
Not quiet enough.
DeBow turned around. His face windblown and twisted, his classy clothes and hair disheveled, he looked like a youthful monster.
He was a monster.
He raised the gun and pointed it at her. “Don’t try to stop me, Ms. Steele. I’m following my destiny.”
She let out a bitter laugh. “The destiny to destroy the lives of young boys?”
“You don’t understand. No one understands me. I’m beyond everyone.”
“Put the gun down, DeBow. It’s over.”
His lip curled up. “It will never be over. Not for me. Unfortunately for you this is the end.”
Did he really dare pull the trigger? She waited for his finger to move. It did. She dropped and fell flat on top of the engine. The bullet zipped past her and disappeared somewhere down below.
She was about to get up and go for his legs when another bullet came whizzing up from the side of the train.
DeBow swiveled and it missed him.
Miranda glared down.
A gray car was following the train along a side road fronting the tracks. A man in a suit hung out of the passenger window with a gun aimed at DeBow.
Parker.
The car was the Mazda.
Just the distraction she needed.
Before he could recover she got up and lunged at DeBow. They went down together smacking the iron hard, DeBow’s back taking the blow. The gun fell out of his hand and tumbled down into the valley below.
She crawled over him to his chest. Straddling him, she began to pummel his face with her fists, letting out all the disgust she felt for him.
He fought back, deflected her blows. He was a lot stronger than he looked.
At last she connected with his cheek, grazed his nose.
“This is for Dylan.”
She swung again and got his mouth. His eyes glazed like a wild animal from some mythological jungle.
“Dylan, hah! Who is he? Just another little brat who’s parents spoiled him.” He twisted below her, drew back an arm and came at her head with his fist.
She pulled back but he clipped her across the mouth hard. She felt her lip break open and start to bleed.
Blood dripped onto DeBow’s face. That seemed to energize him. He grabbed her by the wrists, squeezed hard.
Gritting her teeth to keep from yowling with pain, she angled her knee trying to aim for the groin. But it was dicey up here on the engine and she felt herself start to slip.
DeBow saw her distraction. With a quick jerk he wrapped a leg around her, yanked at her arm and suddenly she was under him.
His face twisted with anger above her.
She could feel the reverberation of the train through her back. Rivets dug into her ribcage as DeBow’s hands inched toward her throat.
She fought him hard. Blocked and strained with every trick she knew. But her hands were slippery with sweat and blood and somehow DeBow managed to get his fingers around her throat.
He began to squeeze.
“And now you’re going to die for Dylan, Ms. Steele. Does that make you happy?”
She plucked at his fingers, tried to pull them back. Her hands kept slipping. And so was her body. She shot a hand out for balance and managed to find a bar to hold onto.
DeBow’s grip grew tighter.
“Has it really been worth it to give your life for a sniveling little boy whose parents doted on him every day and couldn’t give him enough?”
She managed to get her free hand under his wrist to relieve the pressure a bit. “How—would you—know?” she spat out between gasps for breath.
“Oh, I know all about it. I can just imagine them. What would Dylan like to do today? What does Dylan want to eat? Where does Dylan want to go? Sickening, Ms. Steele. Sickening.”
His fingers tightened. He was thinking of his brother, she realized. He had been insanely jealous of him. Jealous of a poor handicapped boy who never meant him any harm.
Gritting her teeth she turned her neck and jammed her hand under his palm—an escape technique from her grappling training. If she could just get enough leverage she could break free of him.
“You don’t know anything about Dylan Ward Hughes,” she
gasped.
“Oh? Don’t I?”
The train was rocking hard again. The only way she could stop DeBow from strangling her was with both hands. She let go of the grab bar and got her other hand under his. One hard thrust could break his grip on her.
She heard Parker shouting her name from down below. His voice seemed very far away.
She pushed hard, released more of the pressure of his hands. “No, you don’t, DeBow. Rebecca Ward Hughes isn’t even Dylan’s real mother.”
He laughed tightening his grip over her hands. “Of course I knew that.”
He did?
His fingers were so strong. She was losing air, starting to see flashes of black at the corner of her eyes.
She closed them and her mind slipped back to the things Parker had told her about his school days. She could see Susannah Emmett and Perry Ward Hughes arguing in the halls of Westminster. Her older brother Fenton coming home on the holiday and breaking them up. A pregnant Susannah marrying Brent DeBow. And having a son neither she nor Brent would ever love.
She felt DeBow’s breath on her and opened her eyes again and looked into his.
There it was.
She saw the anger, the resentment, the fear, the loneliness, the longing for love. And she saw their color.
A deep watery blue. Just like the senator’s.
DeBow read the revelation on her face. “That’s right, Ms. Steele. Perry Ward Hughes is my father. Nathan was my half brother and so is Dylan. That’s why I have to destroy them both.”
He’d never stop. He’d come back and snatch the boy again. He might have to wait years to do it, but he would.
Unless she stopped him.
She grabbed hold of his wrists and pushed with all her might. His fingers started to loosen. She was just pulling them away, just able to suck in air again when she heard Holloway shouting behind her.
He was trying to tell her something. What was he saying?
Finally his words rang clear.
“Look out, Steele!”
She glanced up over her head. Tunnel. Coming fast. Stone. Old-fashioned. Not much clearance.
With everything she had she pushed the heels of her hands against DeBow’s chest.
The Boy Page 22
