I'm Watching You

by Karen Rose

  And flinched as the roaring began. He concentrated to ignore it. To hear what he needed to hear in the ocean of sound. She was pulling him across the room, into the closet.

  She pushed him in the corner and to the floor. Crouched down to meet his eyes.

  “Someone’s downstairs,” she whispered, pointing at the floor. Her hands continued to move, her signing jerky. She was shaking. “Paul went to check. Don’t come out until I come get you.” She gripped his chin. “Understand? Stay here. Don’t make a sound.” She gripped harder. “Say nothing.”

  He nodded and she snapped upright, grabbing the stack of life jackets that someone had stored on the top shelf of the closet. Then they were covering him, smelly and musty. The door closed and he was left in the darkness.

  He was hiding. Like a coward.

  Temper began to simmer, mixing in with the fear. He wasn’t a coward. He was going to be thirteen, for God’s sake. She’d shoved him in the closet like a little kid. Buried him under a pile of smelly life jackets, while Paul went to check. Carefully he pushed one of the life jackets far enough away from his eye to stare at the door, trying to think what to do. He wasn’t going to just sit here while someone broke into his house. He certainly wasn’t going to let Paul take all the credit for chasing them away.

  Dim light appeared at the crack under the door and all courage disappeared. He shrank back into the corner of the closet, his heart beating so loud he thought he could hear it. He could feel the hairs rise on the back of his neck, the painful shudders that shook him. He was crouched in the corner of a closet like a crying baby. No way. He’d do something.

  A scream cut through the ocean of sound.

  Cheryl.

  Someone hurt Cheryl. I have to do something. I have to help her.

  But his body was frozen. Frozen into a useless lump in a closet under a pile of life jackets. He concentrated, listening. Pushed the roar aside like Cheryl had taught him to do. And listened.

  There was nothing.

  Then there was a loud crack of sound, so loud it hurt. His head jerked back, struck the closet wall, that pain mixing in with the other.

  A gun. They had a gun. Someone had shot a gun.

  Cheryl. They’d killed Cheryl.

  And they’d kill him, too. Or worse.

  Do something. Do something.

  What?

  He didn’t know. Didn’t know what to do. Dad. What would his father do?

  He felt a sharp pain in his chest. He was too old to cry for his parents, but he wished them here, wished it with all his might. Wished they hadn’t picked tonight to go into Annapolis. It was their anniversary. They’d gone dancing. Dad had made reservations in the hotel where he and Mom had stayed on their honeymoon. He’d shown him pictures from the hotel’s Web site. The old hotel on the water. That’s where they were. Dancing. They’d come back and find him dead. Mom would cry.

  He blinked, realized his own face was wet.

  He was hiding in a closet, crying like a baby, while they killed Cheryl.

  And he couldn’t move.

  He flinched at the second shot, quieter this time. Then more screaming.

  She was screaming. Cheryl was still alive. Screaming. The sound stabbed his brain like a million knives. He could hear it. Feel it. A million knives slashing. Heart pounding, hands trembling, he yanked the processor from behind his ear.

  And it was quiet.

  The minutes ticked by in his head.

  Then the closet door opened.

  He shrank back into the corner, clenching his eyes shut, his teeth together. Trying not to make a sound.

  One life jacket was pulled away. Then another. And another. The musty smell no longer tickled his nose and he could feel the air on his face.

  He made himself open his eyes, felt a whimper stick in his throat. Looked up.

  She was tall, taller than Cheryl.

  Her hair was wild.

  Her eyes were crazy. White. She had white eyes.

  Her mouth was smiling, an evil smile that made him want to scream.

  But he didn’t.

  Because her shirt was splattered with blood and in her hand she was holding a gun and it was pointed at him.

  Wights Landing, Maryland,Friday, July 30, 9:30 A.M.

  Ethan Buchanan sat down at the table in the Vaughns’ beach house kitchen and pulled his palms down his face in helpless frustration. Twelve-year-old Alec was gone, as was his live-in interpreter and speech therapist, Cheryl Rickman.

  Stan and Randi Vaughn had not yet called the police or the FBI. Ethan’s recommendation to do so had been met with a pair of terrified yet decisive “No”s. Randi had clutched the phone to her chest and Stan had looked as if he’d tackle Ethan when he’d reached for his cell phone.

  Only after he’d promised not to call the police did Randi restore the phone to its place on the counter. Stan had taken up residence at the window, looking out at the sea. Ethan looked from Randi’s pale face to Stan’s rigid back. And sighed. “Let’s take this from the beginning. When exactly did you realize Alec was gone?”

  Silence. Ethan began to lose his patience. Time was ticking. “Stan?”

  Stan leaned his forehead against the windowpane wearily. “Three-thirty this afternoon.”

  “Three-thirty-five,” Randi whispered.

  Stan shot an angry glare over his shoulder and Randi returned it defiantly.

  Ethan drew an uneasy breath. So this was how it would be. He’d once thought theirs a perfect marriage. People changed, he supposed. “Where had you been?”

  Randi cleared her throat. “Annapolis,” she murmured and her lips twisted. “Wednesday was our tenth wedding anniversary.”

  A picture flashed in Ethan’s mind. Stan in his tux, Richard in his dress blues as the best man, waiting as Randi came down the aisle, so beautiful in white lace. He himself had been holding wriggling toddler Alec, just hoping to keep his own dress blues slobber-free until they’d said their “I do”s. Ten years. Gone by so fast.

  Alec was now twelve. And gone. He’d been gone for hours now, maybe days. Hours that his abductors had to get away. Hours Randi and Stan had done nothing. Nothing except call me.

  Ethan cleared his throat. “When did you leave for Annapolis and when did you get back?”

  Stan turned from the window. “We left about three Tuesday afternoon. We got back at three-thirty today.”

  “We should have come back Wednesday,” Randi bit out, angrily. “I wanted to come back Wednesday, but you told me I was paying too much attention to Alec. That I needed to pay more attention to you.” She stood up, her features twisted viciously. In all the years he’d known her, Ethan had never seen her like this. “You said you’d called Cheryl. You said you’d talked her.” Randi took a step forward, her hands curled into taloned fists, her body quivering with rage. “You lied to me just so you could—” She broke it off, spun, turning her face away. “Damn you, Stan,” she whispered.

  Stan’s lips thinned. “I left a message on the answering machine,” he said harshly. “How was I to know? Damn it, Randi, you’re acting like this is my fault.”

  “Go to hell.” Her response was quietly said, but very sincere.

  Ethan cautiously interceded, putting his arm around Randi’s shoulders, guiding her into one of the kitchen chairs where she sat, her hands locked between her knees, trembling. He gave her shoulder a squeeze and backed away, feeling Stan’s eyes following his every move. “What happened when you got back here today?”

  “We smelled …” Stan waved his hand toward the window. “We smelled it as soon as we got out of the car. The first thing we did was check Alec’s room. We found the note pinned to his pillow.”

  “What did the note say?”

  Stan hesitated, swallowed hard. Then he turned abruptly, waving for Ethan to follow. “Come.”

  Together he and Stan walked through the back door that led to the beach. The stench grew stronger with every step as they crossed the sand to the little s
hed near the dock where they kept their summer toys—inner tubes, snorkels, crabtraps. Stan opened the door. “See for yourself.”

  Ethan came up short in the doorway, his empty stomach heaving at the sight before him. It had been a man. Who’d once had a head. A whole head. Buzzing flies now covered what was left. The body was bloated from the heat, nearly unrecognizable.

  Shocked, he forced his eyes lower to where a shotgun lay sideways across the man’s naked torso. Lower still to where a length of string ran from the shotgun’s trigger across the man’s boxers to the big toe of his right foot. At first glance it appeared to be a suicide. The man had presumably put the end of the shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger with a wiggle of his toe.

  Ethan turned to where Stan stood resolutely looking out at the bay, its serene beauty at diametric odds with the grisly sight in the shed: “Who—” Ethan’s voice caught and he cleared his throat. “Who was he?”

  Stan kept his eyes glued to the horizon. “Paul McMillan. Cheryl’s fiance.” He swallowed, his throat working viciously. “It wasn’t suicide.”

  No, he hadn’t thought so. “What did the note say, Stan?”

  Stan dug a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Ethan. Wincing at the evidence Stan had likely destroyed, Ethan took the note by the upper corner. The note had been made on a printer. Hard, perhaps impossible to trace.

  “ ‘We have your son,’ ” he read in a murmur. “ ‘Do not call the police or we will kill him. If you doubt our word, look in your shed. We kindly made this look like a suicide in case the body is discovered and the police ask questions. Make certain they get no answers. We will contact you with our demands. Don’t leave town. Repeat—do not call the police or any other authority. We’ll know if you do.”’

  Stan still stared at the sea. “Now you see why we didn’t call the police.” His whisper was nearly lost on the wind that rippled the water. “We didn’t know what else to do.”

  “So you called me.”

  Stan turned at that, and in his eyes Ethan saw desperation. “We called you. Please help us find Alec.”

  “Stan …” Ethan lifted his hands, panic mixing with the shock at what Stan was asking him to do. “Clay and I run a security consulting business. I’m not a cop.”

  Stan shook his head. “You know how to find people.”

  The people he’d found had been terrorists hiding in Afghani caves, not little boys kidnapped by crazy monsters. He had to make Stan see reason. “Stan, look. I don’t have a lab, I can’t do forensics. Anything I touch would contaminate a crime scene. I’d be destroying evidence the FBI could use to find Alec. Call the FBI and let them do their jobs.”

  In a blinding instant, Stan stepped forward and grabbed Ethan’s lapels in both hands. He shook him hard.

  Ethan fought the wave of nausea and let him do it.

  “Damn it, you have to help us. Whoever did that has my son. They’ll kill him.” Stan’s voice broke. “They’ll kill him, Ethan. He’s only twelve. Please.” He dropped Ethan’s lapels, dropped his chin to his chest, his fisted hands to his sides. His shoulders heaved and for a long moment neither of them spoke. When Stan did, his voice was hard. “You and Richard tracked Taliban in the desert. He told me so. You know how to find people.” He looked up, his eyes wet. “I’d ask Richard, but he isn’t here.” Stan’s eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched. “My brother didn’t come home.”

  Because of you. The phrase echoed between them as if it had passed Stan’s lips. It had, of course. The last time they’d seen one another.

  “That’s not fair, Stan,” Ethan said quietly and Stan exploded.

  “I don’t care if it’s not. Those animals have my son. They did that to an innocent man.” He leaned forward, jerked his finger toward the corpse, his eyes wild with fear and grief. “They’ll kill him, Ethan.” He straightened slowly, wiped at his wet face with his sleeve. “If you won’t do it for me, then do it for Richard. You owe him that much.”

  Ethan drew a breath. Remembered those last few moments before he’d lost consciousness after their vehicle hit the mine on the road out of Kandahar. Richard should have left him there, saved himself. But he didn’t. He’d stayed and fought, his body shielding Ethan’s from the bullets of the enemy, lying in ambush.

  Richard stayed when he shouldn’t have. He would have done so for anyone, not just his best friend. Because that’s the kind of man Richard Vaughn had been.

  Ethan let the breath out. “All right. But I’m not going to do this alone. You have to let me call my partner. Clay was a cop after the Corps. He’ll know what to do here.”

  Stan shook his head vehemently. “No. No cops.”

  “Stan, look. I’m an electronics specialist. I don’t do forensics, but Clay did. He was a cop, a damn good one. I won’t live with the guilt if I miss something that could have saved Alec’s life. Let me call Clay Maynard. Please. He’s a good man. He won’t do anything to put Alec in danger.” Ethan gripped Stan’s upper arms. “I promise.”

  Stan closed his eyes, relief now warring with the fear on his face. “You trust him?”

  “With my life.”

  “How soon can you get him here?”

  “It’s a three hour drive from D.C.”

  “Call him then. Tell him to hurry.”

  THE EDITOR’S DIARY

  Dear Reader,

  All work and no play make for dull romance. But what if you could combine work and play and get more romance and excitement than you ever dreamed possible? Find out in our two Warner Forever titles this October.

  Publishers Weekly raves that Karen Rose’s previous work “offers heart-racing thrills, both in the bedroom and the forensics lab” and that “readers will … rush to the novel’s thrilling conclusion”. Well, fasten your seatbelt— her latest, I’M WATCHING YOU, is going to take your breath away. With the highest conviction rate of any prosecutor in the state, Kristen Mayhew is passionately devoted to locking criminals up. It isn’t just a job to her—it’s the most important thing in her life. But one night, she opens the trunk of her car and discovers pictures of three dead bodies with a cryptic note that vows retribution on the few criminals that have gotten away, signed “Your Humble Servant”. As the death toll rises, Kristen and broad-shouldered Homicide detective Abe Reagan follow the clues to the serial killer while finding comfort—and love—in one another’s arms.

  Journeying from heart-stopping suspense to sugar, spice and everything nice, we present Kimberly Raye’s SOMETIMES NAUGHTY, SOMETIMES NICE. Vicki Lewis Thompson raves “Kimberly Raye is hot, hot, hot!” So good luck trying to cool down! Xandra Farrel knows men are only good for two things: sexual pleasure and procreation. As the owner of Wild Woman, Inc., the largest erotic aid manufacturer, Xandra is about to launch her best product yet that promises mind-numbing pleasure for women. One problem: she needs a guinea pig for a test drive. So when Beau Hollister reappears, she thanks her lucky stars. Beau is a blast from her past, responsible for her absolute worst sexual experience ever, and she’s certain that if she can have a deliciously naughty night with him, her product’s success is a sure thing. But after one kiss, it’s romance—not work—that’s on her mind.

  To find out more about Warner Forever, these October titles, and the author, visit us at www.warnerforever.com.

  With warmest wishes,

  Karen Kosztolnyik, Senior Editor

  P.S. The holidays are right around the corner so put down that turkey baster and enjoy these two reasons to give thanks. Amanda Scott pens a sexy and magical Scottish medieval of two devoted lovers overcoming their warring clans and the betrayal that threatens to rip them apart in HIGHLAND PRINCESS; and Diane Perkins delivers the poignant and evocative story of a man who returns from war only to discover that a beautiful, pregnant stranger is claiming to be his wife in THE IMPROPER WIFE.

 

 

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