It was like asking herself to die an emotional death.
With her forehead against the window’s cool glass, Skyler fingered the pendant hanging from her neck. Closing her eyes, she recalled the dream that had awakened her. She had dreamed she’d found a box beneath her bed, and the key hanging from her neck had opened it. Inside the box lay a ribbon of paper with a familiar but meaningless message: Father Joseph knows how much I love you.
Father Joseph again.
With a small shake of her head, Skyler assured herself that the dream meant nothing. It was just her mind attempting to connect her mother’s disjointed messages, seeking meaning where there was none. Surely that remark about Father Joseph had nothing to do with the key.
And yet, the dream had seemed so real. What if the key did, in fact, open a box?
Goose bumps played chase over Skyler’s bare arms. This is the key to your future, her mother had said. She hadn’t called it the key to her heart. What if the discrepancy had been intended? Or were the words just ramblings of a mind ravaged by disease?
Rubbing the notches of a key worn smooth by age, Skyler determined she would visit Father Joseph tomorrow. It couldn’t hurt to go to confession or to seek his counsel. Unlike many religious leaders in Savannah, he was not a Centurion. She need not fear that he’d report her rebellious thoughts to her father.
But would he think it sinful that she would rather run away with an eighteen-year-old than marry a fifty-year-old man?
Owen Dulay reminded Drake of a raptor, complete with a beaklike nose, talons tucked out of sight, and eyes that saw everything. Having heard many a speech delivered by Dulay on Wednesday evenings, Drake knew what the Consul respected: hardworking, closemouthed individuals determined to pull themselves up by their bootstraps.
Drake portrayed himself as exactly that, a young man eager to climb the ranks of the secret society, to pledge allegiance to the Centurion agenda, and to perform whatever ungrateful task he might be called on to do.
“I’m a philanthropic man,” Dulay remarked, eyeing Drake across the acre of polished cherrywood that was his desk. “I take pleasure in enriching the lives of those less fortunate, a fellow Centurion, such as yourself.”
“Thank you, sir,” Drake answered, fighting to keep his incredulity from showing. It was believed the man owned a sweatshop in Vietnam where children were forced to work twelve-hour days for paltry pay, and he had the audacity to call himself philanthropic? “Does this mean I have the job?”
“Not so fast,” Dulay cautioned, lifting a lean, manicured finger. “First, we’ll take a look at the garden. I’d like to get a feel for your experience.”
Thanks to his photographic memory, Drake didn’t suffer a moment’s worry. “Sure thing,” he replied.
Thirty minutes later, Dulay’s handshake sealed the hiring process. Drake would show up 6:00 a.m. sharp tomorrow to begin his gardening duties. He would be allotted one of the three bedrooms reserved for staff on the third floor. He promised to keep off the streets and remain in good standing with the brotherhood. The forcefulness of Dulay’s grip left his knuckles aching as he headed out the wrought-iron gate.
He couldn’t wait to get on his cell phone and call his father with the news. The investigation wasn’t over yet. Thanks to Skyler, he’d gotten the big break he was hoping for.
“Let’s take a carriage into City Market,” Sean suggested, tugging Ellie out of the hotel lobby into the early afternoon heat. He drew her straight toward the horse-drawn buggy waiting at the curb.
Ellie roused from her introspection to send him a searching look. “I thought we were just going to meet the FBI agent.”
He had to shake his head at her insightfulness. “You know me too well,” he admitted sheepishly.
“You’re hoping the kidnappers are watching us, and they’ll follow us to City Market.”
“Where Butler will be waiting,” he admitted.
“Okay.” She cast the carriage a considering frown. “Although it makes us a pretty big target if they want to just get rid of us.”
“That’s why you’re sitting behind the driver,” he replied, approaching the man to pay him for a ride.
Ellie eyed the seat in question. Sheltered on three sides by the body of the carriage and sitting beneath an awning that provided shade, she’d be far safer than Sean, who no doubt intended to sit out in the open.
A shiver of apprehension rippled through her as Sean helped her climb into the box. Sure enough, he sat opposite her, putting himself in the exposed position, his blue eyes in constant motion. The reminder of his extensive training calmed her nervous jitters. She settled back onto the leather seat, resolved to enjoy her first carriage ride ever.
Sean had a hunch Ellie’d never been in a horse-drawn buggy before. As the two jet-black mares clip-clopped up Bull Street, turning onto Broughton to travel under branches dripping with Spanish moss, it was hard to keep his gaze from straying to the look of novelty on Ellie’s face.
The vibration of his cell phone took his gaze briefly off his environment. The caller ID read private. With a frown, he answered, aware of Ellie’s penetrating look.
“Sean, this is Hannah.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Surprised to hear from her, he raised the volume to drown out the rumble of the carriage, wondering why she sounded tense.
“Are you aware that Butler’s on his way down?”
“Yes, ma’am. We’re meeting him downtown at thirteen hundred.” He glanced at his watch. It was only 12:30.
“Sean, I’m hearing things that are pretty disturbing to me,” Hannah said unexpectedly.
“Like what?” he asked, keeping his tone light for Ellie’s sake, sweeping the faces of pedestrians and drivers for the slightest indication of malintent.
“Like the rumor that the casts made from the tracks at Jones Lake State Park match the tread on your truck tires,” she replied.
Sean fought to keep his incredulity from showing. “So what? It’s probably a common brand of tire.”
“So Butler was granted a warrant to search your vehicle, and that search turned up a Gerber blade that had trace DNA of all three boys on it.”
His ears started humming. What the fuck? “That’s impossible,” he said, keeping his voice modulated, hiding his sudden deep concern. Ellie was staring at him hard, but she couldn’t possibly hear what Hannah was saying to him.
“Did you ever show the boys your knife at any time?” Hannah queried.
“Negative,” he replied unequivocally. “I would never have done that.” A cold, uncomfortable feeling settled over him, exactly how a sniper felt upon realizing he’d just been spotted. “Hold on,” he said to Hannah. “Ellie, duck down,” he ordered. As she slunk lower, the color draining from her face, Sean raked the immediate area for a cause, only nothing unusual caught his eye. “You can sit up,” he told her.
“Sean, are you there?” asked Hannah.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you have someone who can vouch for your whereabouts on Thursday the thirteenth, the night the boys went missing?”
The question actually relieved his anxiety. With Tiffany as his alibi, he had nothing to worry about—well, almost nothing. “I do, actually.” He glanced at Ellie uneasily. “Do you need that information now, or . . .” He dreaded having to mention it in front of Ellie, though it was getting to the point where he’d better tell her before she heard it from the wrong source. He sure as hell didn’t want her knowing the FBI had so-called evidence against him.
“Just make sure Butler has that information,” Hannah advised him. “I know you had nothing to do with the boys’ kidnapping, Sean. I’m just concerned by what I’m hearing, that’s all.”
“Well, I appreciate you giving me a heads-up,” he countered, fighting to keep his tone light, disappointed that they were approaching City Market without any sign of being followed.
“No problem. Good luck with Butler. If you’re not stricken as a suspect soon, I want you to ca
ll me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sean promised. If Butler truly suspected him of involvement, why would he be going along with Sean’s conspiracy theory? Surely the man had spoken to Tiffany Hughes by now.
Hiding his uneasiness behind a grimace, he put his phone away. Ellie’s gray gaze remained fixed on his face. “What’s going on?” she demanded as their carriage slowed to a stop.
“Just stupid stuff,” he insisted. “I’m sure we’ll clear it up once Butler gets here.” He reached for her hand, helping her to descend. “You see him anywhere?”
Ellie shaded her eyes as she scanned the pedestrian promenade lined with hibiscus planters. “Not yet.”
He wondered if now was the best time to tell her about Tiffany—but how? Surely Ellie would rather know he’d been with another woman that night than suffer the least suspicion that he’d been involved with the kidnapping.
Jesus, what sick fucker had come up with that idea? And how the hell had his knife ended up in his truck covered in the boys’ DNA?
Reeling at the implications of Hannah’s phone call—his career could be doomed if he was arrested—Sean lapsed into silence. He led Ellie to the center of the promenade. Whimsical shops and restaurants offered an array of local wares and Southern fare. He gave the area a 360-degree inspection. No sign of Butler yet. No sign of Grimes and Little Hitler, or even the ugly guy with acne scars.
The late-summer weather had attracted a bevy of tourists. Maybe that was why he felt like he was being watched. People tended to stare at bald, buff guys as if they were inherently dangerous. “We’re early,” he said, glancing again at his watch.
“You want to sit and wait?” Ellie asked, nodding at a bench in the shade.
Sean wanted to pace. “No. Why don’t we window- shop?”
She gave a careless shrug, letting him lead her to one side of the promenade. The smell of grilled seafood poured through the open doors of a restaurant. The glaring sun made Sean sweat as he fretted over how to broach the subject of Tiffany Hughes. He couldn’t understand why Ellie’s opinion of him mattered so much when she was just one more woman in a line of many.
He felt distinctly off balance, like a rug was being yanked out from under his feet. The displays behind the windows of ceramic art and beaded jewelry blurred indistinctly as he cut constant glances over his shoulder.
Ellie shifted closer, offering him a light and comforting touch. Just then, a familiar silhouette darted through Sean’s peripheral vision. He whipped his head around in time to see Little Hitler disappear into a jewelry shop.
Adrenaline jumped into Sean’s bloodstream. Son of a bitch, how’d that man get so close without Sean seeing him?
With sweat beading his brow, he hustled Ellie into the next shop over, Savannah’s Candy Kitchen. The scent of pralines, fudge, and saltwater taffy sweetened the air- conditioned environment. She cast him a questioning look as he all but dragged her into the back of the store, into a separate room where custard stood in a multicolored display. “Here, buy yourself some custard,” he said, pushing the change from their carriage ride into her hand, “and stay here at one of these back tables.”
Ellie blanched. “Who did you see?” she demanded.
“Grimes’s companion, the little guy. He’s following us. I need to grab him. Then we wait for Butler.”
“What do I do?” she asked, looking eager to help.
He broke into a cold sweat just thinking of her getting in the way. “Stay here,” he grated firmly. “Don’t leave this shop until I come and get you. If you’re approached by anyone, start screaming. Do not let them take you anywhere.”
His heavy-handed tone had her regarding him oddly.
“I’m sorry,” he apologized, giving her lips a quick kiss.
“Be careful!” she called as he wheeled away.
Stalking back to the adjoining room, Sean noted an exit out the back and slipped through it. If he moved fast enough, he could sneak up on Little Hitler when the man went in the front door after them.
Rounding the building, Sean snuck a peek around the corner. Sure enough, there stood his quarry, peering through the panes of the candy shop door, about to pull it open. Despite the summery heat, he wore a jacket and was reaching into it.
“Hey!” Sean called, one hand on his own weapon, holstered at the small of his back. “You lookin’ for me, pal?” he demanded.
The suspect glanced at him, smirked, and whirled away. To Sean’s confusion, he took off running, scattering pedestrians as he cut a diagonal path toward Congress Street.
“Shit!” Sean swore, undecided on whether or not to go after him. It could just be a ploy to lure Sean from Ellie so that his partner could go after her.
On the other hand, he couldn’t afford to let the kidnapper get away, not with Butler due to show up any minute. The man had to know where Ellie’s boys were, or at least where he’d helped deliver them. That fact more than any other determined his decision.
Chapter Eleven
His mind made up, Sean dashed after Little Hitler. Skirting crowds of milling tourists and hibiscus planters, he managed to close the gap between them. But then the man darted around the corner at the Signature Arts Gallery, disappearing from sight.
Loath to lose him, Sean burst into a sprint. Rounding the corner at full speed, he plowed into an old man walking his Chihuahua. The man gave a strangled cry as Sean threw his arms around him. Twisting through the air to keep them from hitting the sidewalk, they crashed into the building’s brick wall. With a yip and a growl, the dog sank his teeth into Sean’s heel.
“Sir, are you okay?” Sean asked, setting the man on his feet as he attempted to shake the dog loose. Ouch!
“I . . . I don’t know,” said the man, quite obviously shaken.
“I’m so sorry,” Sean apologized, glancing up the street in time to see the wiry man jump into a Buick and take off. The driver might have been the third kidnapper, the scar-faced one. He thought he saw Grimes in the back seat. Son of a bitch, Sean inwardly raged. At least they weren’t stalking Ellie while his back was turned, but damn it, they’d gotten away.
“You sure you’re not hurt?” he asked the geriatric.
Speaking of hurt, the dog would not let go.
“I don’t think so,” the man relented, straightening his jacket, patting himself down. At last he noticed his growling mutt. “Cisco, let go,” he commanded, and the dog released him.
“I’m really sorry,” Sean repeated.
“Sir, do you have a complaint against this man?” chimed in a stranger.
Sean had seen the blue uniforms out of the corner of his eye when he’d first started giving chase. Aw, hell, he thought.
Setting his jaw, he turned and slowly faced the two police officers now standing behind him, both in a defensive stance, one with a hand already on the butt of his semiautomatic. Double hell, Sean thought. He raked the faces of spectators gathering, praying for Butler to step forward and shoo the cops away, only he didn’t.
Then, instead of answering the policeman’s question, the old man ducked his head and shuffled to one side, dragging Cisco with him. What the fuck?
“Sir, let me see some ID,” the older cop demanded of Sean, his eyes hard and focused as they zeroed in on him.
Sean expected them to protest the old man’s leaving, but they let him go, a circumstance that raised an immediate red flag.
He wordlessly handed the officer his military ID, keeping his sudden consternation to himself, his mouth shut. He heard Ellie’s approach before he saw her. Go back, he willed, sending her a psychic message to turn and walk away. Of course, she didn’t.
“What’s going on?” she asked, sidling up to him, a cup of lemon custard in her hand.
“I told you to stay put,” he growled, letting his frustration show.
“But I saw the police head this way,” she protested. “I figured they were arresting the kidnapper.”
“He got away,” Sean admitted shortly.
The officers were eyeing Ellie in a way that raised Sean’s hackles. Every instinct told him both men already knew who they were.
“Ellie Stuart?” asked the older officer, confirming Sean’s intuition.
She paled, flicking a wide-eyed look at Sean and said, “Yes?”
“And Sean Harlan,” he said, reading Sean’s name off his ID. “You’re both wanted for questioning by the FBI,” the man announced in a dry, emotionless voice. “Sir, I have to ask you to step aside, turn around, and put your hands against the wall.”
With a shake of his head, Sean did as he was told, kicking himself for what he knew was bound to happen. They’d search him and find his gun, and wouldn’t that be a lovely start to this clusterfuck?
“Ma’am, you, too,” the officer barked, causing Sean to turn his head and glare at him. The cup of custard fell from her hand, hitting the sidewalk and splattering.
“It’s all right, hon,” Sean soothed as she turned and splayed her hands against the wall beside him, her breathing fast and shallow. All around them, people were murmuring and taking notice. Ellie had turned as pale as a sheet. He wanted to reassure her that once Butler showed up, everything would be all right. Where was the son of a bitch?
“Are they arresting us?” she whispered.
“Just do what they say,” Sean advised.
“Quiet,” barked the older cop as he stepped close to pat them down. “No talking.”
Sean suffered a rough, thorough search, cursing inwardly as the officer probed his pockets, taking his wallet, his cell phone, his car keys, and finally, noting the holster at the small of his back, confiscating his Glock.
“You got a license to carry a concealed weapon, sir?” asked the man, letting it dangle dramatically from his finger as the crowd gasped and drew back.
Sean ground his molars together. “Only in the state of Virginia,” he conceded.
“Well, seein’ as how Georgia doesn’t have reciprocity with Virginia, that would make it illegal to carry one here, wouldn’t it?” the officer pointed out.
Too Far Gone Page 16
