by Rita Herron
A dead end.
“See if you can locate a woman named Sandra Peyton.”
“Who is she?”
“Lewis’s foster sister, Janelle Dougasville, claims that he was involved with Sandra Peyton years ago, so he might have reconnected with her.”
“I’m on it.”
Dugan’s other line was buzzing, so he thanked Jaxon and answered the call. “Graystone.”
“Mr. Graystone, this is Ashlynn Fontaine. I ran the story for Ms. Freeport about her son in the paper, and my friend covered it on the news.”
“Yes.”
“Ms. Freeport gave me your number to contact in case any leads came in regarding her son.”
His pulse spiked. “You have something?”
“I received a call from an anonymous source who said that a woman and a little boy Benji’s age moved in next to her about a month after Ms. Freeport’s son went missing. She’s not certain the child is Benji, but she said the woman was very secretive and kept to herself. Thought you might want to check it out.”
“Text me her name and address.”
A second later, the text came through. Dugan headed toward the address. It might be a false lead.
Then again, maybe they’d get lucky and this child might be Sage’s missing son.
* * *
SAGE CLENCHED HER HANDS together as Dugan explained about the call.
“I hope this pans out, Sage,” Dugan said. “But normally when a tip line is set up, it triggers a lot of false leads.”
Sage nodded. She knew he was trying to prepare her for the possibility that this child might not be her son, but still, a seed of hope sprouted. Even if it wasn’t Benji, maybe the tip line would work and someone would spot him.
Worry mounted inside her, though, as he drove. The half hour drive felt like years, and by the time they arrived, she’d twisted the locket around her neck a hundred times. Her neck still felt sore from the attack, the bruises darkening to an ugly purple.
A stark reminder that someone wanted her dead.
The woman lived in a small ranch-style house with a giant blow-up Santa Claus in front and a Christmas tree with blinking, colored lights visible through the front window.
Sage’s heart squeezed. If Benji was here, at least the woman was taking care of him and decorated for the holidays.
Although resentment followed. Those precious moments had been stolen from her.
Dugan parked on the curb a few feet down from the house. The front door opened and a woman wearing a black coat stepped out, one hand clutching a leash attached to a black Lab, the other hand holding a small child’s.
Sage pressed her face against the glass to see the boy more clearly, but he wore a hooded navy jacket. He looked about five, which was the correct age, but she couldn’t see his eyes.
Sorrow and fear clogged Sage’s throat. Children changed in appearance every day. What if Benji had changed so much she didn’t recognize him?
Sage started to reach for the door to get out of the SUV, but he laid his hand over hers. “Wait. Let’s just watch for a few minutes. We don’t want to spook her.”
As much as Sage wanted to run to the boy, Dugan was right. If this woman had her son and knew Sage was searching for them, she might run.
Dugan pulled a pair of binoculars from beneath his seat and handed them to her, then retrieved a camera from the back, adjusted the lens and snapped some photographs. She peered through the binoculars, focusing on the little boy and the woman.
The woman kept a tight hold on the child’s hand. A natural, protective gesture? Or was she afraid he might try to get away?
Stories of other kidnappings where the victims identified with their kidnapper nagged at her. Benji had been only three when he was abducted.
Did he even remember her?
Or had he bonded with whoever had him? If it was a woman, did he think she was his mother?
A pang shot through her. Did he call her Mom?
* * *
DUGAN SENSED THE TENSION radiating from Sage. Hell, he couldn’t blame her. She hadn’t seen her son in two years—she was probably wondering what he looked like now. If he would even recognize her.
If he was alive and had been living with another woman or a family, he might have developed Stockholm syndrome.
He studied the body language of the woman and child as she spoke to the little boy. They seemed completely at ease with each other. The boy was saying something, and she tilted her head toward him with a smile. They swung hands as they rounded the corner, then paused while the dog sniffed the grass in a neighboring yard.
“I can’t really see his face,” Sage said.
“I don’t have a good shot of it, either,” Dugan admitted. “When they reach the house, and he takes his coat off, maybe we’ll get a better look.”
The dog nuzzled up to the little boy, and the kid laughed. Then the woman looked up and scanned the streets, as if nervous. A second later, he swore her gaze latched with his.
Dugan lowered the camera to the seat. “I think she spotted us,” Dugan said. “Drop the binoculars, Sage.”
Dugan pulled a map from the side pocket of the car and pretended he was looking at it. But he continued to watch the woman and boy out of the corner of his eye.
“He looks happy and well taken care of,” Sage said in a voice laced with a mixture of pain and relief.
Dugan gave her a sympathetic look. The woman suddenly turned and ushered the boy and dog back toward the house. This time, instead of walking leisurely, she picked up her pace and looked harried. Even frightened.
Sage sat up straighter. “She looks scared. Maybe we should go talk to her.”
Dugan shook his head. “Wait. Let’s watch and see what she does.”
Sage’s frustrated sigh echoed through the SUV. “What if she runs?”
“Then we’ll follow her.”
Panic streaked Sage’s voice. “But if it’s Benji, I don’t want to lose him again.”
Dugan wanted to promise her she wouldn’t, but he bit back the words. They didn’t know for certain that this was Benji.
When the woman reached the walkway to her house, she broke into a jog, half dragging the dog and the boy. She ushered them both inside, then shut the door.
But not before glancing over at them again. Fear had flashed in her eyes.
Dugan’s pulse pounded.
What was she running from?
* * *
SAGE DUG HER FINGERNAILS into her palms to keep from opening the SUV door and bolting toward the house. She desperately wanted to see the little boy’s face.
And the woman was definitely afraid.
Memories of Benji smiling up at her as a baby with his gap-toothed grin taunted her. His curly blond hair, the light in his green eyes, his chubby baby cheeks... Then he’d turned from a pudgy toddler to a three-year-old overnight.
More memories flooded her—his first words, the way he loved blueberries and called them BBs, his attachment to a pair of cartoon pajamas and the yellow rubber boots he’d worn to play in the rain.
The side door to the house opened, and the boy and dog spilled out. The dog barked and raced across the fenced-in yard, and the boy ran over to the swing set and climbed the jungle gym. She needed to see his ear, that piece of cartilage....
The hood to his jacket slipped down, and she stared at the mop of blond hair. Her breath caught, lungs straining for air.
Could it be her son?
Suddenly a siren wailed, and Dugan cursed. She looked over her shoulder and spotted the sheriff’s car rolling up behind them.
“Damn. She must have called the law,” Dugan said.
Sage bit her tongue. Would she have done that if she was hiding out with a child that the police were searching for?
Dugan shoved the camera to the floor, and she slid the binoculars into her purse. The sheriff’s car door slammed, and then he hitched up his pants and strode toward them, a sour look pinching his face.
&nbs
p; He tapped on the driver’s window, and Dugan powered the window down. “Sheriff,” Dugan muttered.
Sheriff Gandt leaned forward, pinning her and Dugan with his scowl. “What are you two doing here?”
Dugan indicated the map. “Just stopped, looking for directions.”
“Don’t lie to me,” Sheriff Gandt growled. “Get out of the car.”
Sage clenched the door handle. Was he going to arrest them?
Dugan opened the door, climbed out and leaned against the side of the SUV. She walked around the front of the vehicle and joined him.
Sheriff Gandt hooked a thumb toward the house. “The woman that lives inside there called, freaked out, said a couple was stalking her and her child.”
Sage’s stomach knotted. “We weren’t stalking them.”
“But you were watching them,” Sheriff Gandt said, one bushy eyebrow raised.
Dugan cleared his throat. “We had a tip we were following up on.”
“What kind of tip?”
“From the news story that aired about Benji,” Sage explained. “Someone called with suspicions that the woman who lives here might have Benji.”
Sheriff Gandt mumbled an ugly word. “Then you should have called me.”
Why would she call him when he hadn’t helped her before? When she didn’t trust him?
* * *
DUGAN BARELY RESISTED slugging the imbecile. He should be following up on leads, searching for Benji, but so far he’d either been incompetent or just didn’t care. “We assumed you were busy investigating Rankins’s supposed suicide.”
Gandt’s eyebrows crinkled together. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Are you sure it was a suicide?” Dugan asked.
“Of course it was. His own son called me. Said he heard his daddy pull the trigger.”
“Did you check Junior for gunshot residue?” Dugan asked.
Anger reddened Sheriff Gandt’s cheeks. “Wasn’t no need. His daddy was upset about your visit and he was dying of cancer and decided to end his misery. End of story.” Gandt planted his fists on his hips. “Besides, I’m not the one breaking the law here. You are.”
“We didn’t break the law,” Sage said.
“You scared that poor woman to death,” Gandt said. “She thought you were child predators, here to steal her son.”
Sage stiffened. Those words hit too close to home. “Maybe she’s afraid because she’s the one who stole Benji, and now that the story aired about him again, she’s terrified someone will recognize Benji and call the police.”
Which was exactly what had happened.
Gandt looked exasperated, but Dugan didn’t intend to let him off the hook. If the kid inside was Benji, once they left, the woman would take him and run.
Then they might never find him again.
“There’s one way we can settle this,” Dugan said. “Let’s go talk to her.”
Sheriff Gandt huffed. “That could be considered harassment.”
“Then go with us,” Sage suggested. “You can explain the circumstances. If she has nothing to hide, she’ll talk to us. And if that little boy isn’t Benji, then we’ll go on our way and she won’t ever see or hear from us again.”
Gandt looked annoyed and frustrated, but he heaved a weary breath. “All right. But if she insists on pressing charges against you, I won’t stop her.”
Dugan nodded and pressed his hand to the small of Sage’s back as they followed the sheriff up to the door.
He could feel Sage trembling beneath his touch as Gandt rang the doorbell.
Chapter Fourteen
Sage held her breath as they waited on the woman inside to open the door.
When she did, her wary look made Sage’s heart pound.
“Ms. Walton,” Sheriff Gandt said. “I came as soon as I got your call.”
Dark hair framed an angular face that might have been pretty had it not been for the severe scowl pulling at her mouth and the jagged scar that ran down her left cheek. A scar Sage hadn’t noticed from a distance because of the coat and scarf the woman had been wearing.
Ms. Walton glanced back and forth between Sage and Dugan, her eyes angry. “Why were you two watching me?”
“Can we please come in and explain?” Sage said, grateful her voice didn’t quiver and betray her.
Ms. Walton looked at the sheriff, who rolled his shoulders. “They’re not stalkers,” he said, although his tone indicated they were barely a notch above it.
“I’m a private investigator,” Dugan said. “And this woman is Sage Freeport. You may have seen the recent news story that aired about her missing son, Benji Freeport.”
The woman clenched the door in a death grip as if she was ready to slam it in their faces and flee. “I don’t see what that has to do with me.”
“Maybe nothing,” Sage said. “But we received an anonymous tip that you might know something about my little boy.”
“Me?” Shock strained the woman’s voice. “I don’t know anything.” She angled her head toward the sheriff. “Now, are you going to make them leave me alone?”
“Yes, ma’am, I’m sorry—”
“We’re not leaving until you answer some questions,” Dugan said.
Gandt shot him a warning look.
“I told you I don’t know anything about your little boy, Ms. Freeport. But I am sorry about what happened to you, and I hope you find him.”
Sage swallowed hard. The woman sounded sincere.
But if she was innocent, why was she so nervous?
* * *
DUGAN STUDIED MS. WALTON’S body language. She was definitely scared and hiding something.
But what?
“Did you know a man named Ron Lewis?”
“No.” A noise sounded behind them, and Dugan realized it was the back door shutting. The little boy was coming back inside.
“How about Mike Martin or Seth Handleman or Joel Bremmer?”
“No, who are those people?”
“Aliases of Ron Lewis, the man who abducted Benji Freeport.”
“I told you, I don’t know any of them.” She started to shut the door, but Sage caught it this time.
“How old is your little boy?” Sage asked.
A dark look crossed the woman’s face. “He’ll be six next week.”
Sage’s sigh fluttered in the tension-laden air. “What’s his name?”
Ms. Walton’s eyes widened with alarm, as if she realized the implications of Sage’s question. A second later, anger sparked. “I named him Barry after my father.” Her tone grew sharp. “He is not your son, Ms. Freeport.”
“Then, you have his birth certificate?” Dugan asked.
Panic flared in her expression. “I don’t have to prove anything to you.”
Sheriff Gandt made a low sound in his throat. “No, you don’t, Ms. Walton.” Sage opened her mouth to argue, but Gandt continued. “But if you have it, please get it and we’ll clear this matter up. Then these folks will be on their way and I’ll make sure they never bother you again.”
“I...actually I don’t have it here,” she said shrilly. “It’s in a safe-deposit box at the bank.”
Dugan cleared his throat. “Then you won’t mind bringing the boy to the door so we can meet him.” Not that they still wouldn’t need DNA if Sage recognized the child.
The fear that had earlier pervaded Ms. Walton’s eyes deepened, but she looked directly at Sage. “He’s not your son. He’s mine.”
Dugan gritted his teeth. Was that her way of telling Sage the truth? Or could she be mentally and emotionally unstable?
If she’d wanted a child and had lost one or hadn’t been able to have a baby, she might have taken Benji and now perceived him as her own.
* * *
SAGE FORCED HERSELF not to react to Ms. Walton’s possessive, defensive tone. Was she defensive because she was an honest, loving mother who had to defend herself?
Or because she was a kidnapper, afraid of getting caught?
“Just introduce us to the little boy,” Dugan said.
Ms. Walton glanced at the sheriff, who managed a grunt. “Do it, ma’am. Then we’ll be out of your hair.”
Ms. Walton shot Sage a wary look. But she turned and yelled for Barry to come to her. A minute later, the child ran to the front door and slipped up beside his mother.
Sage soaked in his features. The wavy blond hair. The cherub face. The wide eyes that looked distrustful and full of fear.
Eyes that were brown, not green like her son’s. And his ears...no extra piece of cartilage.
Disappointment engulfed her, and she released a pained breath. Dugan had warned her about getting up her hopes, but still she had latched on to the possibility.
He looked at her for a response, and Sage shook her head. She’d feared she wouldn’t recognize her son, but she immediately knew that this precious little boy was not hers.
“Hi, Barry,” Dugan said. “We saw you walking your dog. He’s pretty cool.”
Sage tried to speak, but her voice refused to come out.
“Well?” Sheriff Gandt said bluntly.
“No,” Sage finally managed to say.
“I’m sorry we bothered you,” Dugan said.
Relief softened the harsh lines of Ms. Walton’s face, and she stooped down and kissed Barry. “Honey, why don’t you get the spaghetti out of the pantry and we’ll start dinner?”
Barry nodded eagerly and raced to the pantry. Ms. Walton squared her shoulders. “I’m sorry for you, Ms. Freeport. I didn’t mean to overreact.”
“But you were afraid,” Sage said, still confused.
“I was. I am...” Her voice cracked. “My husband was abusive. He did this.” She rubbed the scar along her cheek. “I had him arrested, but he keeps getting out of jail and looking for us. Barry and I went into a program and changed our names so he wouldn’t find us.”
“Why didn’t you just tell us that when we first arrived?”
“I...when I saw you watching me, I was afraid he’d hired you to find us.”
“You have a restraining order against him?” Sheriff Gandt asked.
“Yes,” she said in a low voice, “but that didn’t stop him before.”
That explained the reason the caller said the woman stayed to herself and seemed nervous.
