by Lynde Lakes
Footsteps thundered behind her. Strong arms closed around her, lifting and propelling her out of the way. The flying tackle took her to the grassy, center parkway. York’s chest curved protectively around her back as they rolled in a tangled spool of force and momentum. When they came to a stop, they were both gasping for breath. He turned her over to face him. His sunlit blue eyes glinted down at her. “Dammit, Jen, didn’t you hear me shout stop?”
Her breasts rose and fell against his chest, their heartbeats merging. “I had to draw him out.”
Without releasing her, York flipped open his cell phone and called for a nearby squad car to stop any Goodwill trucks in the area. “Probably won’t locate him in this traffic.” A dark, wavy lock fell over York’s forehead. “This was the craziest stunt yet. What got into you? What are you, a marathon runner?”
She brushed a leaf from his hair, conscious only of the hardness of his body, his heat. He held her as though he’d never let her go. She didn’t want him to. Ever.
“If you hadn’t pushed me out of the way...” She couldn’t stop trembling. “You saved my life.”
He touched her face. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine.” It was bizarre. They were just lying there on the wide, grassy strip of the median, holding each other as cars sped by on both sides. He shifted, and his thigh pressed against hers, sending a warm tingle to her core. Incredible. She had just faced death, yet she’d never felt more alive.
Steeling herself against the untimely and ridiculous surge of desire, she asked, “The driver of the truck was the strangler, wasn’t he?”
“Taped over plates,” York said. “Driver bundled up like January in August? Definitely.”
“Taped over plates? Then you didn’t get the license number?”
“No, dammit. And you almost got killed for nothing.”
York helped her to her feet and brushed lingering grass from her knit top and slacks with gentle fingers. She trembled from his touch and cursed her inability to keep desire at bay. Her throat constricted. “What’ll happen to Buddy now?”
York clenched his jaw. “How typical of you, you’re almost hit by a truck and still your only thoughts are for the boy.”
She stared at York. Wow, talk about growth. Before he always blamed her impulsiveness on her desire to get the story. And growth for me, she thought.
“Until we get him back that’s all that’ll be on my mind. Have I fouled it up for him?”
“I don’t know. You tried to ditch me. And your flight was sure as hell believable. But thank God, I foiled the psycho’s plan.”
Jen felt a ripple of warmth when York gripped her arm, and using the crosswalk this time, urged her back across the street toward his car. “I was looking for a gray Honda. Not a truck.”
York’s glance held tenderness. “No doubt it was stolen. But somehow the Honda fits into all this. At first I thought it was a rental car. However, after the break-in at Shelly’s apartment, Ted checked with the local agencies. No one rented a car with the Honda’s description. And Brock rented a red Mustang.”
“Then Lee is off the hook.”
“Your loyal, hopeful tone twists my gut, Reporter. No he’s not. Brock could’ve stolen this truck and he probably has access to a gray Honda.”
“Other than his bullet wound, you have no reason to think he’s the strangler.”
“Call it instinct. One thing I know for sure, the suspicious Honda on the street the afternoon of the axe man’s attack was the killer’s car. And then he’d grabbed a Goodwill truck.”
When York tried to help her into his T-Bird, she shook off his hold. “Admit it. You want Lee to be the strangler. But you can’t tie him to the car, the murders, the mayor or any of the other suspects, and it gripes your suspicious soul.”
He rounded the car and lunged behind the wheel. “You’re right. I can’t tie it all together, but that doesn’t change the fact that Brock is still a suspect.
“Look,” she said, feeling frustrated. “I just want this to be over. Tell me how to get Buddy back home.” She fought against it, but failed to keep her voice from breaking. “I still hear his cries.” Jen knew from her contact with the PD the longer a child was in the hands of a psycho the less chance of getting him back alive.
****
Earlier, when the SWAT pigs started their six-block search, the killer left the area quickly in the truck he’d hot-wired and snatched earlier from the donation center’s parking lot. Now, across town, he cruised through an abandoned industrial area the city had purchased for a tunnel right-of-way. The deserted buildings had become a hangout for street people and his temporary home.
The road curved past a crumbling parking structure and over rusty railroad tracks that led nowhere. He stopped in front of his building. His heart pounded. He’d been here before, killed here before. Earlier he’d sawed off the state’s heavy-duty padlocks and replaced them with his own. Rigged with pilfered electricity, the place had all the comforts of home. He pressed a button inside the pedestrian door and the twenty-foot-high bay rumbled open. He drove inside and parked next to the Honda. Later, he’d ditch the truck.
He carried the boy over his shoulder, rolled up inside the Oriental rug he’d copped from an executive office in the building across from The Globe. Getting the kid out unseen turned out to be almost too easy. He laughed, and shook his head, seeing a soothing yellow brightness to his world. Who could explain it? The seemingly difficult was easy, and the simple troublesome.
The yellow glow in his mind faded. He gritted his teeth as blackness gripped him. Why was it harder to control his moods lately? Had he taken his medication? He kicked an empty wine bottle out of his way, and let out a string of expletives, each cruder than the one before. Temptation, momentary insanity, and fickle fate had allowed the stubborn reporter to slip through his fingers. He had the bait to bring her to him. But he’d gotten too excited. He’d seen her break free from the detective and estimated where she’d cross the street. He’d intended to stop in front of her, flash his gun and order her into the truck, but when he got her in his sights, he pressed the gas pedal all the way to the floor. It was such a powerful adrenaline rush to decide the moment someone would die.
A trickle of sweat slid down his back. The hit and run should’ve gone without a hitch. But the bus in the other lane moved ahead, allowing the detective to charge onto the scene and ruin everything.
The killer swore again. It was Jen’s fault that he didn’t follow the plan. Her fault. Not his. He had to remember to take his medication. The job required cold, rational control. His boss didn’t know about the blackness, the loss of self-control. The killer shifted the load on his shoulder. Was the kid still alive? The rear of the van had been a furnace. Dead bait wouldn’t work.
In an open area next to the boiler room, he dropped the rolled carpet to the floor and gave it a kick. It unfurled, dumping the tiny, limp body onto the concrete. Something about the child lying there touched him. There’d been another boy—a boy who’d been abused and beaten and left for dead. His heart pounded. “You can’t die.”
He ripped the tape from the boy’s mouth and yanked out the cloth. The boy was him—he was the boy. The killer placed his mouth to the boy’s, and pinching his nose, he gave him rhythmic blasts of air, giving him the CPR he’d learned in the medical corps before the bastards kicked him out. A loose cannon, they’d called him.
“Breathe, dammit!” His trembling voice echoed back at him as the tiny chest began to rise and fall.
****
Desperate for news about Buddy, Jen matched York’s quick pace as they hurried up the steps to the cordoned off building. A SWAT leader with a butch haircut stood sharply erect, waiting for them in the lobby. His grim look killed any hopes that his team had found the child.
“The strangler got away,” he said flatly. “But we found the office where he camped out.” The SWAT leader bent and pulled a small, clear plastic bag from his evidence case. “The killer’s cal
ling card.”
The coiled contents contained exactly a two-foot length of fishing line. The killer was obsessive about that. She rubbed her arms. And about killing me.
York drew her closer as though he needed the contact as much as she did. “Any idea how he got the boy out unseen?”
“The SOB stole an Oriental rug from one of the exec offices. Must’ve rolled the boy inside.”
“Any witnesses?”
“A janitor, but he ain’t talkin’. Strangled.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Gloves, as always.”
York’s gaze was locked on the bag holding the fishing line. “I want to check the office where that was found.”
The leader gave the floor and suite number, then joined his men. Jen heard him say, “We’ve done all we can do here.” She closed her eyes briefly at his futile tone.
“Don’t give up,” York said huskily in her ear. He took her elbow in his warm grip and guided her to the elevator.
They rode up in silence. He slid his arm around her waist and she looked up at him. He stood tall, his chiseled features hardened in fierce determination. How could he do this job day in and day out? It had to take its toll. Jen fought the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. It seemed they were always a step behind. Battling her sense of helplessness, she vowed to find a way to turn it around and gain the upper hand.
Inside the office, she noticed the sun-faded areas outside a rectangle on the carpet where the Oriental rug had lain. All the furniture was pushed to one side of the room and stacked in a pyramid. “Our strangler is not only big, but he’s strong,” she said. “Strong enough to carry a nine-by-twelve carpet with a small boy rolled inside.”
“It would be a bit unwieldy,” York said, “but not all that heavy for a guy who stays in shape. Brock and Zombolas are both big apes, probably strong too. Any guy their size could manage it.”
She knew Lee was strong; he could bench-press two hundred twenty-five pounds, but her bet would be with Zombolas. He looked like he was born in a gym and he had the pit-bull reputation. The reality of the situation hit her. The fishing line, the missing rug, Buddy’s cries on the phone... Tears welled in her eyes. Stop it. She’d be no help if she crumbled. Get busy. Stay busy.
While York searched for overlooked evidence, Jen called in the missing boy piece to The Globe hotline. She had a job to do—every paper and news station would be breaking the story. There was no chance of keeping it quiet with SWAT teams crawling all over a six-block city area. She didn’t mention the strangler. York’s orders—he’d made a point of saying that a guy with an egomaniac personality might kill the boy for the notoriety.
When she finished, Jen stared out the window and picked out The Globe office where she’d been standing just a few hours ago. Her breath caught. It was directly across from here. Oh, God. With a rifle, the killer could’ve picked me off.
Fighting the horrifying wave of awareness, she glanced down. Glistening in a beam of afternoon sunlight was a strand of blond hair. Zombolas had black hair. Her throat tightened. What was she thinking? It probably didn’t even belong to the killer. It could belong to the guy who worked here, even one of the SWAT guys. Let the lab decide. “York, look at this.”
With tweezers, he picked it up and slipped it into a clear plastic bag. To his credit, he didn’t mention it was blond. “Good eyes, Jen,” was all he said. He paused and looked at her with a probing gaze. “Unless this hair pans out, there’s nothing here to identify the killer, or to help us locate Buddy. We need the killer to contact you again. And he will.”
She sighed. “Let’s go to my apartment and make it easy for him.”
York rubbed his jaw. “Over my dead body. We’ll set up a look-alike female officer to take your place.”
Jen massaged her tight neck muscles. “How long will that take?”
“I’ll get right on it.” He grabbed a phone.
She pressed down on the disconnect button. “There’s no time to find someone else. I have to be the bait.”
“Not again. No way!”
Jen held his squint-eyed gaze, keeping her finger firmly in place. “You know I can handle this. I can shoot. Run. Think on my feet. Please, York.”
He removed her hand from the button. “You’re capable, but you aren’t a trained and experienced cop.”
“We can do it smart this time. Wire me. Take all the precautions.”
He put the receiver back in the cradle and stroked her arms. “Look, Jen. I want two things: to keep you alive and save Buddy, but—”
“The killer said if he doesn’t get me, Buddy dies.”
“And if he gets you, you’ll both die. Accept this, Buddy’s the bait to get you. We can let the killer think it’ll happen. But he must never get you.” York’s tone deepened to throaty a whisper. “Never.”
An hour and a half later, Jen stared at the mysterious equipment bag York had dropped on the floor beside her couch, curiosity bursting inside of her. “Okay, York. Show me your gadgets.”
He had stopped at the PD equipment room to pick up what he needed before she’d insisted that they stop at the grocery store. He unzipped the massive burlap bag, showed her the call-tracing and wiring devices, and explained the process.
She stiffened, reminded of why they were here. “What do you want me to do?” Fighting her feelings of being inept, she joined him on the couch.
York briefly put his hand over hers, sending heat through his fingers to her cooler skin. “Follow orders and stick close to me. Each time you step out the door, you’ll wear a wire.” He unscrewed the mouthpiece from the phone. “I have men in the field tracing all incoming calls and running down our suspects.”
“So that’s what you were up to at the PD when you left me in your office to cool my heels and drink that acid you called coffee.”
“I had to set some wheels in motion. I ordered an all points bulletin on Brock.”
She bit her tongue to keep from saying anything. Lee’s disappearance made it look bad for him.
“Ted’s trying to reach Tormont,” York continued. “Got an undercover man watching the mayor, but Zombolas has disappeared. He was supposed to go with the mayor on his yacht but didn’t show up.”
Jen sighed. Any discussion about what that might mean would be pure speculation. With curiosity and fascination, she watched York use a delicate tool to adjust a tiny screw on the phone’s innards. Her stomach growled. “Well, while you play with your cop toys, I’ll make us a couple of sandwiches.”
“Good. We need to keep our strength up for what lies ahead.”
She needed more than food to get through the next hours. If only she could bury herself in York’s arms and forget everything for a while. But all her concentration had to focus on doing whatever was necessary to find and save Buddy.
In the kitchen, Jen looped the apron over her head and secured the ties around her waist. She hadn’t realized how much she needed to be around her own things, and live like a normal person, if only for a few hours. Still, it felt wrong to be doing normal things with Buddy in the clutches of a killer, but if she didn’t stay busy she’d climb the walls.
When this was all over she wanted to make York a real home-cooked meal. Right now, with the possibility of the killer’s call coming at any moment, she’d resorted to soup and sandwiches. However, it seemed important to make the dessert from scratch for York before she faced the killer. She shivered. Just in case she never got the chance again...
As Jen assembled what she needed, she heard the CD player come on; it was Stevie Wonder’s “I Just Called To Say I Love You.” One of her favorites, but it sent a shiver down her spine. If the killer called, it wouldn’t be to say, “I love you.”
****
While Jen worked in the kitchen, York attached the call tracing device to her phone. Considering the death threats and attacks, she’d held up well. But the tension of waiting for the killer’s call might be the straw that tipped her scale out of balance. H
e had to try for some lightness between them to make waiting easier.
The smell of baking chocolate floated from the kitchen, teasing his senses and making his stomach growl in anticipation. His first encounter with Jen’s near-empty refrigerator and bare cupboards convinced him she couldn’t cook, but maybe he’d been wrong.
On the way here, she’d thrown him a curve when she insisted upon stopping at the grocery store in the middle of setting up this trap. Thinking about it now, it made sense. They needed to eat, and she needed to stay busy.
He’d been so intent on attaching the call-tracing equipment and talking to the field crew that he’d sensed, more than saw Jen setting the dining room table. York glanced at his watch. Everything was ready to close the net. He started to dial Ted’s cellular unit, leaving Jen’s phone free for incoming calls.
“Can you take a break to eat?” Jen stood in the doorway of the kitchen, wearing an apron. She looked adorable and deceptively domestic, with a smudge of flour on her cheek. Her upbeat tone didn’t fool him, but he admired the hell out of it.
He forced a light tone. “You bet. Something smells great.” He held her chair, noticing the stiff way she moved and her darted glance at the phone. He sat down next to her, amazed at her courageous efforts to proceed as if she wasn’t coiled tight waiting for the ring.
He took the soup she passed to him, grazing her finger with the nail of his thumb. “How did you whip all this up so fast?”
Her face flushed, making her even more beautiful. “I have my little secrets.”
“Intriguing.” He groaned at the desire-driven huskiness in his voice. He knew they were no longer talking about food.
She was putting up a good front, but worry lurked in her eyes. God, she was a trooper. The longer he was with her the more he mused about sharing the rest of his life with her. He’d known he loved her from their first kiss. But she’d made it clear that there was no way she’d ever give up her career.
