The little boy didn’t acknowledge him. His eyes were fastened on the woman collapsed on the sofa. Crying out, the child ran to her, threw his arms around her and began to rock.
“Mah-mah.”
Madrid watched the scene unfold. He might not know a damn thing about kids, but he knew enough about human nature. One thing was for certain—this child was not afraid of Jessica Atwood.
“What the hell is going on here?” he muttered.
The only answer he got was the pounding of rain against the roof and the uneasy sensation that nothing was as it seemed.
JESS FLOATED TO CONSCIOUSNESS one sense at a time. The first thing she became aware of was the incessant crash of the sea against the rocky shore. Then the ebb and flow of pain in her left arm. She was lying on her side with her knees pulled up to her chest.
Everything that had happened rushed back like the memory of some terrible nightmare. Adrenaline sent her bolt upright even before her eyes were fully open. Pain in her arm wrenched a cry from her, sent her back down. For a moment she lay there, confused and fighting panic.
“Welcome back” came a low male voice.
Jess opened her eyes and found herself staring at a man with eyes the color of midnight. A day’s growth of whiskers darkened his lean jaw. He was watching her with an intensity that unnerved her, the way a predator might watch injured prey seconds before pouncing.
He was the man who’d accosted her outside the cottage. She remembered struggling with him. He’d identified himself as a federal agent. But then, why wasn’t she in jail? Or at the very least in a hospital bed with an armed guard posted at the door?
“You don’t look like a fed,” she said.
One side of his mouth curved, but his eyes remained cool, aloof. “You don’t look like a killer.”
She thought of Angela and closed her eyes against the quick swipe of pain. “I’m not a killer.”
“Save it for some bleeding-heart jury.”
“I want to see your credentials.”
The sound he made was more growl than laugh.
“The last guy who identified himself as a cop tried to kill me,” she added.
Scowling, he tugged a thin black wallet from his jeans and held it out for her to see. It was a photo ID— Mike Madrid. U.S. Attorney’s Office.
“It’s a fake,” he said.
“I figured that,” she returned dryly.
“I’m not with the U.S. attorney’s office. I’m CIA. More specifically the MIDNIGHT Agency. The fake ID was to get me past the local PD.”
“Why is the CIA involved?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.” He shoved the wallet back into his pocket.
“All I know is that one of my best friends in the whole world is dead and now the police are trying to kill me.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I don’t know what to expect anymore.” Jess looked around, tried to get her bearings. The windows were dark. She could hear rain lashing the roof, the sea battering the beach at the foot of the cliffs. She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious.
“How long was I out?” she ask him.
“Almost an hour.” He leaned back slightly and studied her with dark, inscrutable eyes. “How did you get that bullet wound?”
“I told you. The cops tried to kill me.”
“That’s pretty much standard operating procedure when a murder suspect attacks a police officer and tries to run.”
“I was not armed and I did not attack a cop. I ran because the cop was going to kill us.” Worry trickled through her when she thought of Nicolas. “Where’s Nicolas?”
“In the bedroom.”
“I want to see him.” When he only looked at her, she added, “Please. He’s scared. He misses his mother.”
“You can see him after you’ve answered my questions.”
Hating that he had the upper hand, that she was going to have to cooperate, she struggled to a sitting position, wincing when her arm protested. That was when she realized she was no longer wearing her clothes. She glanced down at the unfamiliar T-shirt. Alarm vibrated through her, followed by a terrible sense of vulnerability. “Where are my clothes?”
“In the dryer.”
“But why did you…” Not wanting to finish the sentence, she let her words trail. “You had no right to…”
“The bullet wound wasn’t going to wait. It needed to be cleaned and bandaged. You were covered with blood and mud, and frankly I couldn’t see leaving you like that.”
She knew it was ridiculous considering the situation, but a hot blush heated her cheeks. “I passed out?”
“That bullet wound is infected.”
She already knew that; her arm throbbed with every beat of her heart.
“I found a first aid kit.” He motioned to a small red-and-white kit on the coffee table. “Angela had some antibiotics from an old prescription. I would have started you on them, but I didn’t know if you’re allergic to penicillin.”
She didn’t want to take any pills, but Jess could feel the fever running hot through her body. Even if she was no longer delirious, she knew the fever was waiting at the gate for an encore. “I’m not allergic.”
Never taking his eyes from hers, he uncapped a brown bottle and tapped out a capsule. “It says to take one every four hours. Let’s hope this does it,” he said, and handed her a glass of water.
She took the pill and drank the entire glass of water. “If you think I’m a cop killer, then why are you helping me?”
“Because I have some questions I want answered.” He pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket. “Like where you got this.”
Jess recognized the photo instantly. “You searched me, too?”
“You mentioned the photo. What did you expect?”
So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours that Jess had nearly forgotten about the photograph. She didn’t understand its significance, but judging from the look in this man’s eyes, he did.
“Where did you get it?” he asked.
“Angela gave it to me.”
“Why? What does it mean?”
Jess closed her eyes briefly as her mind’s eye took her back to the terrible moment when she’d found her friend dying on the floor in a pool of blood. Angela had been trying to speak, but she’d been so weak Jess had been able to catch only a few broken phrases. Angela had used the last of her strength to give her the photo.
“Talk to me, damn it.”
His voice jerked Jess back to the present. “She gave it to me right before she died. I don’t know why, and I don’t know what it means. All I do know is that it was important for me to have it, because she told me to guard it and her son with my life.”
Madrid stared at her the way he might a suspect who’d just lied to him. Only, Jess wasn’t lying. How was she going to make him believe her?
“Did she say anything else?” he asked after a moment.
Jess didn’t want to recall those terrible last minutes of her friend’s life. But she knew the truth was the only thing that would exonerate her.
She looked at Madrid, wondering if she could trust him, knowing she didn’t have a choice. “She told me not to trust the cops. She begged me to keep Nicolas safe. She told me to bring him here. To this cottage.”
“How did she die?” he asked, his voice rough.
“She’d been shot in the abdomen.” Remembering, Jess shuddered. “There was a lot of blood.”
He had one of the most penetrating stares she’d ever encountered. The kind that made her feel stripped bare. She knew it was silly, but she felt as if he could see inside her head, read her most private thoughts.
“Did she say who did it?”
“No.”
Madrid scrubbed a hand over his jaw. He looked annoyed and tired, as if he’d been up all night and knew he wasn’t going to sleep any time soon. “I want you to start at the beginning and tell me everything.”
Jess didn’t know
if he was friend or foe. He had a badge that identified him as a federal agent, but considering the cops back at Lighthouse Point, she didn’t know if that was good or bad. Then a little voice reminded her he’d cleaned up her bullet wound. He’d given her antibiotics. If he wanted her dead, he could have killed her a dozen times by now.
She told him her story. “Angela was letting me live in the little apartment above her garage.”
“Why are you here?”
“I had some…problems. I needed a place to stay.”
“What kind of problems?”
She broke eye contact. “A divorce.”
He nodded. “Go on.”
“I received a call at about midnight. It was Nicolas. He was keening and terrified.”
“He’s noncommunicative?” Madrid asked.
She nodded. “He’s autistic. Even though he’s five years old, he doesn’t speak. He does communicate in other ways, though, with his voice and body language.”
Madrid grimaced. “What happened next?”
Gooseflesh slinked down her arms as the memory rushed back. “I threw on my clothes and ran down the steps. The garage is detached, so it took me a minute or so to reach the house. When I came through the front door, I could hear Nicolas crying. I called out, but no one answered, so I went farther inside.”
Images of the way Angela had looked lying on the floor in a pool of blood flashed in her mind’s eye. “I found her in the kitchen. She was alive, but barely. Nicolas was hysterical and screaming. I called 911, then went to her. She kept trying to talk, but she was so weak. I didn’t know how to help her.”
“I want you to tell me exactly what she said. Word for word. It could be important.”
Jess closed her eyes. The part of her that didn’t want to remember the horror of the moment rebelled. But the part of her that knew she had to get to the bottom of her friend’s death took her back.
She repeated, slowly and precisely, everything she’d already told the man. “The last thing she did was give me the photo.”
“Then what happened?”
“The police arrived.”
“Who, specifically?” he snapped.
“The chief,” she snapped back. “Norm Mummert. And two officers.”
“They arrested you on the spot?”
She shook her head. “It didn’t even cross my mind that I could be a suspect. They questioned me for a few minutes. I told them exactly what had happened, and everything seemed fine. The chief asked the officer to drive Nicolas and me to the station so we could make a formal statement.” The memory made her mouth go dry. “Midway to town, the cop turned on to a dirt road.”
“Which cop?”
“Finks is his name, I think. Tall guy. Crew cut.”
“Go on.”
A tremor went through her as she recalled the drive down the isolated dirt road. “I asked him what he was doing, but he ignored me. Just kept driving. About a mile down the road he stopped and told me to get out of the car. It was incredibly dark and deserted. When I got out of the car, he drew his gun. He tried to handcuff me, but I fought him and somehow managed to break free. I grabbed Nicolas and ran.”
The memory of the wild jaunt through the dark woods made her shudder. “Nicolas was exhausted and upset. He was keening and crying for Angela.” She shook her head. “After a while we stopped to rest. I was scared, but I kept thinking if we could get back to the main road we could flag down a motorist and everything would be okay.” She closed her eyes. “But it wasn’t.”
Madrid waited, his dark eyes expectant and hard.
“I thought what Finks had done was an isolated thing. A bad cop taking advantage of his position. I would have stopped and talked to the cops to straighten things out. But they never gave me the chance. They never stopped shooting.”
Their eyes met, and for an instant neither of them spoke. The only sound came from the rain beating against the windows.
Jess broke the silence. “A bullet grazed my arm. I thought we were both going to die. I was bleeding, afraid I was going to end up like Angela. But I kept thinking about Nicolas, about my promise to Angela that I would keep him safe. So we kept running.” She blew out a pent-up breath. “The woods were thick. The terrain had become rough. I must have stumbled over a rock or tree trunk, because the next thing I knew I was tumbling into a ravine. At first, I’d managed to hold on to Nicolas. But by the time we hit the water below I’d lost his hand.”
“You went into the water?”
She looked down at her battered hands. “The current was incredibly swift and swept me downstream. I remember debris striking me. Finally I heard Nicolas screaming and somehow managed to grab his hand. But I didn’t know how badly I was injured. I was terrified I would pass out. That the cop would find us and finish what he’d begun.”
“How did you end up here?” he asked.
“After a while the current slowed. I managed to grab a tree root as we passed a bridge not far from the Lighthouse Point marina. I remembered Angela telling me to bring Nicolas here, to the island. I knew she kept a boat there.”
“So you stole it?”
“I did what I had to do to stay alive.”
“What about the gun?” he asked.
“Angela’s,” she replied. “I found it here.”
“That’s convenient as hell.”
“There’s nothing convenient about any of this.” She nodded toward the door where Nicolas slept. “I made her a promise, and I intend to keep it.”
“Or maybe you wanted her child for yourself.”
Anger swept through her with such force that she broke a sweat. “That’s an absurd assumption.”
“That’s the chief’s theory.”
“He’s wrong.” She contemplated him for a moment, looking for some emotion that would tell her what he was thinking, what his agenda was. But his face was as unreadable as a stone. “I didn’t kill her. You’ve got to believe me.”
“I haven’t decided what I believe yet.”
She had. She didn’t trust this man.
“You can count on one thing,” he said after a moment. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this. I’m going to find the person who killed Angela. If it’s the last thing I do, I’m going to make them pay.”
Chapter Three
“How in the name of God did an unarmed woman and a little boy manage to elude four men armed with shotguns, two bloodhounds and a chopper equipped with infrared?” The man in the Italian-made suit and shiny wingtips paced as he snarled the words.
The rotund man standing opposite his desk shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “The terrain was rugged. It was dark and raining.”
“Don’t hand me excuses, damn it! Your men are supposed to be trained professionals. How do you explain this catastrophe?”
“We had a lot of ground to cover in a very short period of time.”
“That doesn’t change the problem we’re facing.”
“We believe Atwood was hit. We found blood…”
The suited man’s eyes blazed with a volatile mix of fury and disbelief. “I don’t want her hit! Hit people can still talk. I want her dead. And I want the child dead! I want them dead yesterday. Do you understand?”
“With all due respect, another death so soon will raise questions—”
“Atwood shot and killed a Lighthouse Point police officer. She kidnapped an autistic child. She is armed and dangerous with nothing left to lose. Believe me, her death at the hands of a police officer will not be questioned.”
The man standing opposite the desk didn’t look convinced.
“If Atwood talks to the wrong person she could blow this entire operation sky-high. I will not spend the rest of my life in prison because your men are incompetent.”
The other man felt a drop of sweat slide between his shoulder blades. “I have four men looking for them around the clock.”
“Look harder. No one disappears without a trace.”
“She could
have drowned in the river.”
The man in the suit spun and crossed to his lackey. Sweat glistened on his face. A vein in his temple looked as if it might burst. “Do not make the mistake of assuming she drowned. She is a walking time bomb. If she talks, all of us will be going to prison for a very long time. The flow of money will come to a grinding halt. I will do whatever it takes to keep both of those things from happening. Am I clear?”
The rotund man wiped sweat from his brow. “Yes, sir.”
The man in charge turned away and paced to the wall. “Use your resources to check all the local hospitals to see if any bullet wounds have been reported. Find out who her friends are. Check with family members. Pay them a personal visit. Make sure they know she is a fugitive and the full force of the law will come down on them like a ton of bricks if they do not cooperate.”
“All right.”
Grinding his teeth, the man crossed to the topographical map pinned to the wall. He glared at the area circled in red. He studied the river. “There’s a marina at the mouth of the river.”
“That’s correct.”
“Have you checked with the harbormaster?”
“I’ll take care of it personally. Right away.”
He reached out and put his hand on the other man’s beefy shoulder. But the ice in his eyes belied his serene expression. “We’ve been good to you.”
“Yes, you have.”
“The benefits have been rewarding?”
“The benefits have exceeded my expectations.”
“If you want things to remain that way, find the woman and the boy and eliminate them. Are we clear?”
“Crystal.” The man was sweating when he left the room.
BENEATH THE YELLOW LIGHT of the banker’s lamp Madrid studied the photo. The poor resolution and lighting made it difficult to make out details. Either the camera had been hidden or the photographer had been rushed. He wished for his computer and photo enhancing software. Unfortunately none of that was available, so he was going to have to make do with his naked eye.
The photo showed seventeen young women, most of Asian descent, crowded into a small, dark room. At least nine of the women were bound. Two had visible facial bruising. Were they being held against their will? If so, by whom? Where had the photo been taken?
Operation: Midnight Rendezvous Page 3
