by Tami Hoag
“Hannah, honey, please sit down,” Natalie said softly, leading her to the camelback love seat. “Sit. I'll bring you something to drink.”
Outside the house, the dog barked and a car came up the driveway. Hannah swallowed back the rest of the tears, though Lily made no similar attempt. The suspense was as thick as smoke in the air. Would Josh come bursting in the kitchen door? Would it be Mitch Holt with news she couldn't bear to think about?
“Why isn't Gizmo in the backyard, where he belongs?”
Paul stepped into the kitchen, a petulant frown turning his mouth. He didn't look across the room to Hannah, but went about his nightly ritual as if nothing were wrong. He went into his small office off the kitchen to put his briefcase on the desk and hang up his coat. Hannah watched him disappear into the room that was his sanctuary of perfect order. Fury boiled up inside her. He cared more about hanging his coat perfectly in line with his other coats—arranged left to right from lightest weight to heaviest, casual to dress—than he cared about his son.
“Where's Josh?” Paul snapped, striding back into the kitchen, tugging loose the knot in his striped tie. “That dog is his responsibility. He can damn well go out and put him away.”
“Josh isn't here,” Hannah answered sharply. “If you would bother to return my phone calls, you would have known that hours ago.”
At the tone of her voice, he glanced up, his hazel eyes wary beneath the heavy line of his brow. “What—?”
“Where the hell have you been?” she demanded, unconsciously squeezing Lily harder. The baby made a fist and hit her shoulder, wailing. “I've been frantic trying to get you!”
“Jesus, I've been at work!” he shot back, trying to take in the scene and make some sense of it. “I had a hell of a lot more important things to do than answer the damn phone.”
“Really? Your son is missing. Do you have a client more important than Josh?”
“What do you mean, he's missing?”
Natalie stepped between them and reached up to rescue Lily. The baby went gratefully into her arms. “Let me put her to bed while you and Paul sit down and discuss this calmly and rationally,” she said firmly, her eyes hard on Hannah's.
“Missing?” Paul repeated, hands jammed at the waist of his fashionable brown trousers. “What the hell is going on here?”
Natalie wheeled on him. “Sit, Paul,” she ordered, swinging an arm in the direction of the kitchen table. His eyes widened, his frown deepened, but he obeyed. She turned back to Hannah, her fierce expression softening. “You sit, too. Start at the beginning. I'll be right back.”
Cooing to Lily, she headed across the plush carpet of the family room for the short flight of steps that led up to the bedrooms. Hannah watched her go, guilt rising at the way Lily laid her head on Natalie's shoulder and blubbered a watery, “No, no, Mama,” her big eyes full of accusation as she stared at Hannah.
God, what kind of mother am I? Goose bumps turned her skin the texture of sandpaper, and she pressed a hand over her mouth, afraid an answer might come out that she didn't want to hear.
“Hannah, what's going on? You look like hell.”
She turned back toward her husband, wondering bitterly why the effects of stress seemed to lend character to a man's appearance. Paul had just put in better than twelve hours at the accounting firm he was partners in with his old college friend Steve Christianson. He looked tired, the lines that fanned out from the corners of his eyes and bracketed his mouth were a little deeper than usual, but none of that detracted from his attractiveness. Just an inch taller than she, Paul was trim and athletic, with a lean face and a strong chin. His pinstripe shirt had lost its starch, but with the tie hanging loose at his throat, he looked sexy instead of rumpled. She glanced down at herself as she sank onto a chair and felt like something that had crawled out of the depths of the clothes hamper.
“We had an emergency at the hospital,” she said softly, her eyes on her husband's. “I was late picking up Josh. I had Carol call the rink to leave word, but when I got there he was gone. I looked everywhere but I couldn't find him. The police are out looking now.”
Paul's face hardened. He sat up, shoulders squared. “You forgot our son?” he said, his voice as sharp as a blade.
“No—”
“Christ,” he swore, pushing to his feet. “That damn job is more important to you—”
“I'm a doctor! A woman was dying!”
“And now some lunatic has made off with our son!”
“You don't know that!” Hannah cried, hating him for voicing her fears.
“Then where is he?” Paul shouted, bracing his hands on the tabletop and leaning across into her face.
“I don't know!”
“Stop it!” Natalie barked, storming into the kitchen. “Stop it, both of you!” She gave them both the ferocious glower that had cowed more than one cop on the Deer Lake force. “You have a little girl upstairs crying herself to sleep because her parents are fighting. This is no time for the two of you to be sniping at each other.”
Paul glared at her but said nothing. Hannah started to speak, then turned her back on them both when the front doorbell rang. She ran across the family room, stumbled into the hall, and flung herself at the door, her heart hammering wildly in her chest.
Mitch Holt stood on the front step, his face grave, his eyes deep wells of pain.
“No,” she whispered. “No!”
Mitch stepped inside and took her arm. “Honey, we'll do everything we can to find him.”
“No,” she whispered again, shaking her head, unable to stop even as dizziness swirled through her brain. “No. Don't tell me. Please don't tell me.”
No amount of training could prepare a cop for this, Mitch thought. There was no protocol for shattering a parent's life. There were no platitudes adequate, no apology that could suffice. Nothing could stem the pain. Nothing. He couldn't be a cop for this, couldn't detach himself even if it would have lessened his own pain. He was a father first, a friend second, and memories and guilt assaulted whatever professional reserve he might have had left. Behind Hannah, he could see Paul and Natalie standing in the hall, waiting, their faces bleak, stricken.
“No,” Hannah whispered, her lips barely moving, her tear-filled eyes brimming with desperation. “Please, Mitch.”
“Josh has been abducted,” he said, the words tearing his voice into a low, hoarse rumble.
Hannah crumpled like a broken doll. Mitch wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. “I'm sorry, honey,” he murmured. “I'm so sorry.”
“Dear God,” Natalie murmured. She stepped past them and shut the front door against the bitter chill of the night, but the cold that had come into the house had little to do with the weather. It cut to the bone and could not be shaken off.
Paul stepped forward and pried loose one of Mitch's hands from around Hannah's shoulders. “She's my wife,” he said. The bitterness in his tone caused Mitch to lift his head.
Paul pulled Hannah away as Mitch dropped his arms. But he made no real effort to offer her the same kind of comfort or support. Or perhaps it was just that Hannah drifted away from him when he would have tried. Either way, it seemed odd, but then, what about this night hadn't been surreal? Children weren't abducted in Deer Lake. The BCA didn't have any female field agents. Mitch Holt never lost control.
Christ, what a lie.
The anger flared inside him, saved him, as ironic as that seemed. It gave him something to focus on, something familiar to hold on to. He pulled in a deep breath, pulled himself together. He rubbed a hand across the stubble on his jaw and looked to his assistant. Behind the big lenses of her glasses Natalie's eyes were swimming with tears. She looked nearly as lost as Hannah, who stood hugging the archway into the living room, her face pressed hard against the wall.
“Natalie,” he said, touching her shoulder. “Is there any coffee made? We could probably all use some.”
She nodded and hustled off to the kitchen, glad for the t
ask.
Mitch herded Hannah and Paul into the family room. “We need to sit down and talk.”
“Talk?” Paul snapped. “Why the hell aren't you out trying to find my son? My God, you're the chief of police!”
Mitch gave him an even look and the benefit of the doubt. “Every officer I have available is on the case. We've called the sheriff's department, the state patrol, and the BCA is here. We're organizing search parties at the ice rink. Helicopters are coming with infrared sensors that will pick up anything that gives off heat. In the meantime, Josh's description is being sent out to all surrounding law enforcement agencies and it's being entered into the system at the National Crime Information Center. He'll be registered as a missing child all across the country. I'll be coordinating efforts on the search myself, but first I've got to ask the two of you some questions. You might be able to give us a starting point, something to work with.”
“We're supposed to know what madman grabbed our son? Jesus, this is unbelievable!”
“Stop it,” Hannah snapped.
Paul gaped at her, feigning shock. “Or maybe Hannah can shed some light on the situation. She's the one who left Josh there—”
Hannah gasped, reeling as if he'd struck her across the face.
Mitch hit Paul Kirkwood hard with the heel of his hand, knocking him backward and dumping him unceremoniously into a wing chair. “Knock it off, Paul,” he ordered. “You aren't helping anyone.”
Paul slumped in the chair and scowled. “I'm sorry,” he murmured grudgingly, leaning heavily against one arm of the chair, his head in his hand. “I just got home. I can't believe any of this is happening.”
“How do you know—?” Hannah couldn't bring herself to finish the sentence. She wedged herself into one corner of the love seat as Mitch shrugged off his parka and sat on the other end.
“We found his duffel bag. There was a note inside.”
“What kind of note?” Paul demanded. “For ransom or something? We're hardly rich. I mean, I make a good living, but nothing extravagant. And Hannah, well, I know everyone thinks doctors are rolling in it, but it's not like she's working at the Mayo Clinic . . .”
He let the thought trail off. Mitch frowned at him, wondering just how careless the remark had been. It tilted the blame in Hannah's direction again. She began to cry silently, tears rolling down her cheeks, her hand pressed over her mouth.
“It wasn't a ransom note, but it made it clear Josh had been taken,” Mitch said. The words were branded in acid on his brain, an eerie message that pointed to a twisted mind. He wished he could give them the confidential evidence line, tell them it might be crucial to keep the information secret, knowledge only the guilty party would have, et cetera, but he couldn't. They were Josh's parents and they had a right to know. “It said, ‘ignorance is not innocence but SIN.' ”
A chill shot through Hannah. “What does it mean? What—”
“It means he's nuts,” Paul declared. He raked his fingers back through his hair again and again. “Oh, Jesus . . .”
“It doesn't ring any bells with either of you?” Mitch asked. They shook their heads, both looking too stunned to think at all. Mitch let out a measured sigh. “What we need to concentrate on now is coming up with possible suspects.”
Natalie brought the coffee in on a tray and set it on the cherrywood trunk, where remote controls lay like abandoned toys. She handed Mitch a cup, took another, and pressed it into Hannah's hands, leaving Paul to fend for himself while she coaxed her friend to take a sip. Paul didn't miss the slight. He shot the woman a glare as he leaned forward to add sweetener to his.
“You can't honestly think anyone we know would do this?” he said.
“No,” Mitch lied. The statistics scrolled through the back of his head like a news bulletin crawling along the bottom of a television screen. The vast majority of child abductions were not perpetrated by strangers. “But I want you both to think. Have any clients or patients gotten mad at either of you? Have you noticed any strangers in the neighborhood lately, any strange cars driving by slowly? Anything at all out of the ordinary?”
Paul stared into his coffee and heaved a sigh. “When are we supposed to notice strangers hanging around? I'm at the office all day. Hannah's hours are even worse than mine now that she's been named head of the emergency room.”
Hannah flinched as another small barb struck its target. It occurred to Mitch to ask them how long they'd been having problems, but he held his tongue. For all he knew, the stress of the situation was bringing out Paul's cruel streak.
“Has Josh said anything about someone hanging around the school or approaching him on the street?”
Hannah shook her head. Her hand trembled violently as she set her mug back on the tray, sloshing coffee over the rim. Ignoring the mess, she folded herself in two, hugging her knees, dry sobs racking her body. Someone had stolen her son. In the blink of an eye Josh was gone from their lives, taken by a faceless stranger to a nameless place for a purpose no mother ever wanted to consider. She wondered if he was cold, if he was frightened, if he was thinking of her and wondering why she hadn't come for him. She wondered if he was alive.
Paul pushed himself up out of the wing chair and paced the room. His face was drawn and pale.
“Things like this don't happen here,” he muttered. “That's why we moved out of the Cities—to live in a small town where we could raise our kids without worrying about some pervert—” He slammed a fist against the fireplace mantel. “How could this happen? How could this happen?”
“There's no way to make sense of it, no matter where it happens,” Mitch said. “The best thing we can do is focus on trying to get Josh back. We'll get a tap and a tracer on your phone in case a call comes in.”
“Are we just supposed to sit here and wait?” Paul asked.
“Someone has to be on hand if the phone rings.”
“Hannah can stay by the phone.” He'd volunteered his wife without consulting her or even considering her mental state, Mitch thought, his patience wearing thin. “I want to help with the search. I have to do something to help.”
“Yeah, fine,” Mitch murmured, watching as Natalie knelt at Hannah's feet and tried to offer her some words of comfort. “Paul, why don't we go out in the kitchen and discuss this, all right?”
“What can I bring to the search?” he asked, trailing after Mitch, his mind completely absorbed with planning a course of action. “Lanterns? Flashlights? We've got some good camping gear—”
“That's fine,” Mitch said curtly. He looked Paul Kirkwood in the eye, giving him a moment to realize this conference wasn't about the search. “Paul, I know this is a tough situation for anyone,” he said softly, “but could you show your wife a little compassion here? Hannah needs your support.”
Paul stared at him, incredulous and offended. “I'm a little angry with her at the moment,” he said tightly. “She left our son to be abducted.”
“Josh is a victim of circumstance. So is Hannah, for that matter. She couldn't foresee an emergency coming into the hospital the exact time she was supposed to be picking up Josh.”
“No?” He gave a derisive snort. “How much you want to bet she was late leaving as it was? She has regular hours, you know, but she doesn't keep them. She hangs around the place just waiting for something to go wrong so she can have an excuse to stay later. God forbid she should spend any time in our home, with our kids—”
“Put a cork in it, Paul,” Mitch snapped. “Whatever problems you and Hannah are having in your marriage go on the shelf this minute. You got me? The two of you need to be together—for Josh's sake—not taking potshots at each other. You need to be angry with someone, be angry with God or with me or with lenient courts. Hannah has enough on her conscience without you climbing on top of the pile.”
Paul jerked away from him. Mitch was right—he wanted to lash out at someone. Hannah. His golden girl. His trophy bride. The woman who didn't have a clue about how to make him happy. She w
as too busy basking in the glow of everyone's adoration to be there for him or for their children. This was Hannah's fault. All of it.
“Bring whatever equipment you have,” Mitch said wearily. “Meet me at the ice arena.” He started for the hall and brought himself up short. “Bring some clothing of Josh's,” he added quietly, his eyes on Hannah, curled into a ball of misery on the love seat. “We'll need something for the dogs to scent.”
Natalie followed him to the front hall. “That man needs more than a talking-to. He needs a good swift kick in the pants—right where his brain is.”
“That's assault,” Mitch said. “But if you want to go in there and get him, tiger, I'll swear in court I didn't see a thing.”
“I can't believe that little number-twiddling twerp,” she grumbled. “Let that poor girl sit there and cry. Stick pins in her from across the room like she was a voodoo doll. God almighty!”
“Did you know they were having trouble?”
She made one of her faces. “Hannah doesn't talk about personal things. She could be living with the Marquis de Sade and she wouldn't say a word against him. I'm the wrong person to ask, anyway,” she admitted ruefully. “I always thought Paul was a stuck-up little prick.”
Mitch rubbed at the knots of tension in the back of his neck. “We should cut him a little slack, Nat. No one's at their best in a situation like this. Everyone reacts differently and not always admirably.”
“I'd like to react all over his head,” she muttered.
“Can you stay with Hannah? Is James home with the kids?”
Natalie nodded. “I'll call some other friends. We can pull shifts here. And I'll get the tuna casserole brigade rolling.”
“Use my cellular phone. That way you won't tie up the line here. Someone will be coming over to get the phones wired. If anything happens, I'm on the beeper.” He gave her a long look as he shrugged into his parka. “You're worth your weight in gold, Miz Bryant.”
