Trapped (Private Justice Book #2): A Novel

by Hannon, Irene

  Leaning to his right, he grabbed the night-vision binoculars from the seat beside him and fitted them to his eyes. All was quiet, which seemed to be par for the course. He’d recorded zero activity all evening in the case log beside him. According to Connor, the man had arrived home about four-thirty, and he hadn’t budged or had any visitors since.

  Their subject was spending a quiet Valentine’s Day too.

  As Dev swept the binoculars toward the alley, headlights suddenly appeared. A moment later, a slate-colored Nissan Maxima rolled into view. He focused on the license plate.

  Hamilton.

  Dev’s pulse took an uptick as he set the binoculars back on the passenger seat, flipped the switch that would cut off all exterior lights on the SUV, and turned the key in the ignition. It was possible the daycare manager had a late-night rendezvous with a Valentine’s Day date, but he’d lay odds the man with the chapped hands didn’t have romance on his mind at this hour of the night. Most people who’d put in a full week of work were thinking sleep by eleven o’clock, not going out to start an evening of socializing.

  The Maxima paused at the exit of the alley, then moved onto the street, heading west.

  Dev shoved the blanket out of his way and fell in behind him, keeping a prudent distance between them on the deserted, snow-packed side streets. If Hamilton spotted him, future surveillance would prove fruitless. The man would be on guard constantly.

  After several turns, Hamilton emerged onto Jefferson Avenue. Was he heading for the highway access point a short distance away?

  Dev had his answer a few minutes later when the man edged into the lane for the entrance ramp of westbound I-44.

  This was getting interesting.

  Once Hamilton turned left and accelerated onto the ramp, Dev increased the pressure on his gas pedal and flipped on his lights. It would be more difficult to keep the man in view on the highway, but with the additional traffic there’d also be less risk of getting spotted.

  At the top of the ramp, Dev caught sight of the Maxima two cars ahead, traveling at a fast clip. The man either had a heavy foot or was in a hurry to get somewhere.

  As they traveled west, Dev varied the distance between them, keeping one or two cars as a buffer. Whenever the traffic thinned, he dropped back.

  Five minutes out of downtown, flashing lights caught his attention ahead. Most likely it was a spinout on the still-icy roads. He slowed his speed to match that of the cars around him.

  Flares and cones reduced the traffic flow to a single lane, but with just one car separating him from Hamilton, Dev had no problem keeping him in sight as they approached the floodlit accident site.

  At least he didn’t until one of the cops working the scene stepped in front of the car preceding him, held up a hand, and motioned the wrecker with a mangled car attached to it into the traffic lane.

  Muttering a word that wasn’t pretty, Dev tightened his grip on the wheel as the taillights on Hamilton’s car melted into the night and disappeared.

  Talk about rotten timing.

  A full minute passed while the driver of the wrecker jockeyed the vehicle back and forth, and Dev felt his blood pressure inch toward combustion level. Could the man move any slower?

  He drummed his fingers on the wheel, compressing his lips into a thin line. For someone who’d once tailed a suspected terrorist bomber through the teeming streets of New York City without losing him, he’d made a pathetic showing tonight.

  But maybe, just maybe, he’d be able to catch up to Hamilton.

  By the time the cop waved the traffic through and Dev could pick up speed, however, he knew it was a lost cause. The road was deserted, and Hamilton had been pushing the speed limit. He was probably long gone.

  Still, he continued west for five more minutes . . . hoping.

  But the daycare center manager had vanished.

  Giving up the chase at last, he exited and retraced his route to Hamilton’s house to await the man’s return. If nothing else, he could determine how long their subject was gone.

  Unfortunately, that wasn’t going to answer the key question.

  Where had Mark Hamilton gone at such a late hour on this cold winter night?

  “Turn right, one hundred yards.”

  As the British-accented voice of his GPS guided him the last quarter of a mile to his destination, Mark surveyed the snow-covered terrain. The quiet neighborhood was exactly what he’d expected after studying the aerial and street views on Google maps.

  “Turn right.”

  Following the GPS prod, he discovered that the hill he’d seen on his computer screen was longer and steeper than the imagery had suggested. It also contained patches of ice. No other drivers were on the road, and only a few cars were parked on either side.

  Perfect.

  He made the climb slowly, as if he was just being a cautious driver.

  “You have reached your destination.”

  Mark slowed even more as he approached the small bungalow on his left with the attached one-car garage—the one the address on Darcy’s driver’s permit had guided him to. There was no external lighting except for low-wattage dawn-to-dusk lanterns on either side of the front door, and the house was dark inside; her half sister must be asleep.

  Also perfect.

  He passed Laura’s house, drove to the end of the cul-de-sac, and started back. Two houses before hers, he eased onto the side of the road, parked, and killed his lights.

  Once more, he inspected the slumbering neighborhood. He’d wait awhile, perhaps as long as an hour, to be certain there was no unexpected activity.

  Then he’d make his move.

  He turned off the engine, reached for the thermos beside him, and poured a cup of tea. The unaccustomed late night and delayed bedtime would take a toll tomorrow, but it was Saturday; he could compensate by sleeping in. After all the trouble she’d caused, Darcy could wait an extra couple of hours for her breakfast.

  Resting one arm on the wheel as he drank his tea, he thought through his plan again, twisting around to eyeball the equipment on the seat behind him. No matter which form of entry he chose after he scoped out the place, he was covered. Once inside, he’d do the job and get out fast.

  A mirthless grin twisted his lips. There wasn’t much he was grateful for from his old life, but he’d picked up a few questionable skills in his younger years that came in handy on occasion.

  He settled back in his seat as the cold outside air began to seep inside, stealing the warmth from the car.

  But that wasn’t a problem.

  After setting his tea in the cup holder, he zipped his thermal jacket all the way to the neck and tugged on fleece-lined gloves. He’d been cold many times in the past, with only a red nose and the sniffles to show for it.

  Tonight’s payoff, however, would be worth the discomfort.

  Because come tomorrow, if all went as he hoped, Laura would either be far too distracted to bother him anymore and would let the search for Darcy lapse—or she’d be out of the picture altogether.

  Either alternative suited him just fine.

  Where was Mark?

  Darcy wiped her damp palms down her baggy slacks as she paced.

  Ten feet one way.

  Ten feet the other way.

  Repeat.

  Why hadn’t he delivered her breakfast and lunch? He always came through the door with food by six-ten. It was now eight-thirty. Nor had she heard the muted sound of running water in the pipes that always signaled his rising.

  What was going on? Had he decided to . . .

  Wait.

  She stopped, frowning. It was hard to keep track of the days down here, but this was Saturday, wasn’t it? Maybe he followed a different routine on the weekends.

  Combing her fingers through her hair, she fought back a wave of panic. Two hours ago, she’d been psyched up to carry out her plan. When he hadn’t shown, however, the adrenaline rush had subsided. Now she was just plain scared.

  But fear was
her enemy. She had to keep it at bay. Had to be positive. Had to continue believing the plan would work despite the delay.

  Because this was her only chance of escape.

  It had to work.

  Forcing down the flutters in her stomach, she resumed pacing and listening.

  Five minutes later, she heard the muffled sound of water rushing through the pipes. A toilet was flushing.

  Her adrenaline surged.

  This was it.

  Heart hammering, she scurried toward the bathroom. Once inside, she turned on the shower, raised the water temperature to hot, and exited, pulling the door closed behind her except for a six-inch crack. Then she took up her position beside the door that led into the main part of the basement, crouching down as far as possible, flattening herself against the wall, praying she was hidden from the peephole lens. She had to be invisible to him for this to work.

  As the minutes ticked by, steam began to seep through the bathroom door, just as she’d planned.

  If all went well, Mark would see the steam through the peephole and assume she was taking a shower. He’d never think she was lying in wait, ready to spring at his legs, knock him to the floor, and sprint toward safety.

  Please, God, let this work so I can save Laura—and maybe myself.

  Faith edged into a parking spot in front of Mark’s house, shut off the engine, and shoved the pan of fresh-baked cinnamon rolls on the seat beside her farther away. Normally the savory aroma would set off a rumble in her stomach, but this morning it made her more nauseous than hungry.

  What if Mark didn’t appreciate her early visit, despite the homemade offering she’d risen at 5:00 a.m. to bake?

  What if he was sleeping in and she woke him up?

  What if he thought she was being too forward?

  But what else could she do? No matter what she tried at work, to him she was nothing more than an employee. Even the hand lotion hadn’t helped change that perception, though he was using it. She could smell the faint fragrance whenever he passed her in the hall. Since a personal gift like that hadn’t worked, however, this was her only option.

  She picked up the pan of rolls and juggled it in her hands. Best case, he’d invite her in to share them over a cup of coffee. That would be a great way to start a Saturday morning.

  If he wasn’t pleased . . . well, she’d be no worse off than she was now.

  Weighing the pan in her hands, she took a deep breath.

  Just do it!

  Following that prompt, she reached for the door handle—but when her pulse leapt, she dropped her hand. She needed to let her heart settle down and get her respiration under control.

  Once she calmed down, though, she was going to march right up to that door and deliver her gift.

  Come what may.

  Laura stifled a yawn, slid behind the wheel of her car, and tossed her purse on the seat beside her. It was only nine in the morning, and already she felt as if she’d put in a full day.

  But that’s what you got when you tossed most of the night, every night, for more than a week.

  Fortunately, she didn’t have anything more pressing on her agenda today than a trip to the grocery store and dry cleaner. Then she’d put in a few hours on the web, doing her own search for information on Mark Hamilton and Faith Bradley. There wasn’t much chance she’d unearth anything Nikki hadn’t already found, but it was better than sitting around doing nothing while others searched for Darcy.

  She turned the key in the ignition, pressed the button for the garage opener, and waited while the door rolled up. Sun streamed in the opening, reflecting off the snow, and she squinted against the glare as she backed out slow and easy. With all the icy patches on her driveway, she could find herself sliding into the mailbox and having to deal with a dented fender if she wasn’t careful. That was one complication she didn’t need, with everything else going on.

  A glance in both directions confirmed the street was deserted, and she backed onto the pavement, swinging the wheel to her left at the end of the drive. A flicker on the dashboard caught her eye as she applied her brakes, and she dropped her gaze to the brake warning light, frowning. Now what?

  Pausing in the middle of the street, she regarded the light. It could be an electronic glitch, like when the alternator light had begun blinking on and off last year for no apparent reason. Still . . . she’d have to get it checked out, just in case.

  One more chore to add to her list.

  With a sigh, she shifted from reverse to drive. The best plan might be to swing by the garage on the way to the grocery store, see if they could take a quick look. If the fates were kind, it would be some minor connection thing, similar to the alternator light problem—a minor nuisance that could be ignored until she was ready to have it fixed.

  Accelerating slowly on the flat stretch of the street at the top of the hill, she started and stopped a few times. The light came on whenever she applied pressure to the brakes, but as far as she could tell, they were working fine.

  The tension in her shoulders eased a notch, and she moved forward, doing her best to avoid the icy patches on the road. That was the one downside to her off-the-beaten-path neighborhood—the snowplows and salt trucks gave it low priority. A couple of quick passes, that’s all they’d made during the blizzard. On the plus side, her cul-de-sac was in far better shape than the untouched residential streets in the city like the one Mark Hamilton called home.

  She dodged another patch of ice as her thoughts drifted to Dev. Was he still there, or had he handed off the surveillance to one of his partners? She hoped it was the latter. But since she hadn’t heard from him, he must have spent a long, cold night with nothing to show for it. She hoped he was now asleep under a thick comforter, all warm and toasty.

  A smile flirted with her lips as that image materialized in her mind . . . but she forced herself to erase it. There’d be time for that kind of daydreaming down the road, once Darcy was home and the case was closed.

  After skirting a slippery-looking spot, she looked down the hill toward the main road. There were a few more patches of ice to negotiate, but in general it was clearer than the upper section by her house.

  She started down the hill, picking up too much speed too quickly, given the marginal driving conditions. Pressing on the brake, she waited for the car to slow.

  Instead, it continued to accelerate.

  Her pulse ratcheted up, and she tightened her grip on the wheel, pushing as hard as she could on the brake.

  The car slowed a tiny bit this time—but not enough.

  Apparently the warning light had been significant after all.

  As her speed continued to increase, panic squeezed the air from her lungs. In less than ten seconds, she was going to shoot past the stop sign at the end of her street and onto the busy thoroughfare below—straight into traffic.

  People could be killed.

  Including her.

  Think, Laura!

  Heart pounding, she forced her brain to engage.

  What about pumping the brakes, or slowly applying the emergency brake?

  She tried both.

  Pumping did nothing. The emergency brake had a small impact, but there was no way the car was going to stop before she reached the bottom.

  Now what?

  If she jerked the wheel to the left, she might be able to get the car to rotate around and face the opposite, uphill direction. Or she could aim for the empty lot near the bottom of the street and hope she didn’t plow into the house on the far side of it.

  Neither option was optimal—but both were better than barreling onto the main road.

  The lot was coming up fast on her right. Twist the wheel and hope to reverse the direction of the car, or head for the open ground?

  Wait . . . the lot wasn’t an option. There was too much snow and ice piled along the edge of the road, blocking her access. If she went that way, it would be like plowing into a brick wall.

  That left her one choice.


  She jerked the wheel hard to the left. The back of the car swung around toward the bottom of the hill, just as she’d hoped.

  Except it kept going, even as she straightened out the wheel.

  The car was sliding on a patch of ice.

  Laura tried to counter the spin, calling up every defensive driving tip she’d ever learned. But nothing worked as her Civic careened across the road, directly toward a telephone pole.

  She sucked in a deep breath and did her best to brace for the impact.

  Yet she still wasn’t prepared for the heart-jarring jolt of the impact or the cacophony of crushing metal and splintering glass or the sudden explosion in her face.

  But the chaos was short-lived.

  Because everything suddenly went black.

  Mark added a sprig of parsley to the scrambled eggs and set the plate on the tray next to a small bowl of fresh fruit. He’d fix Darcy’s lunch later, since he’d be home all day. He might even eat with her. She needed more time to adjust to her new situation, but leaving her locked up and alone for too long wasn’t wise. Solitary confinement could mess with a person’s mind, and that wasn’t his goal. He just wanted to keep her from making any more mistakes and falling into the kind of destructive lifestyle that had killed Lil.

  He retrieved the key from the hook on the wall, picked up the tray, and started down the steps, sparing the freezers behind him a quick glance as he reached the bottom. Those were his failures.

  Darcy would be his redemption.

  At the entrance to her room, he stopped to look through the peephole. The bathroom door was cracked open, and steam was seeping out. She must be in the shower. No problem. Clean was good. He’d leave her breakfast so it was waiting when she came out.

  Balancing the tray in one hand, he fitted the key in the lock, turned it, then tucked it away. At least he was calmer today. After the visit from that PI yesterday, he’d been furious at Darcy, convinced she’d lied to him. But when he’d confronted her and recounted what had happened, he’d seen surprise, not deceit, in her eyes . . . giving credence to her claim that she hadn’t expected anyone to expend a lot of effort searching for her.