by Lyn Stone
Lights worked, so the utilities were still on. Investigators had obviously finished with the place. A few boxes were stacked in the middle of the room. Someone had packed her personal items but hadn’t shipped them yet. It didn’t appear that she had very much.
He continued into the bedroom, and there were a few more boxes. The bathroom was empty of her toiletries and towels and shone from a recent cleaning.
“All clear,” he said, then realized as he turned that she was standing right behind him. She looked like a lost little waif, so tiny in his sweats and socks, hands clasped in front of her.
Her expression had altered considerably, and he figured this wide-eyed trepidation was her real reaction to the place. “It’s okay,” he said, gently touching her shoulder. “There’s no one here but us.”
“Thank goodness.” Her words were breathy, almost a whisper, as if she uttered them reluctantly.
“Hey, why don’t you call your family and talk to them? Mercier will have notified them by now that you’re safe, but maybe you’d like to tell them yourself. A familiar voice might make you feel better.”
She bit her bottom lip and avoided his questioning gaze. “Maybe later. After a shower.”
She stepped past him, approached the boxes and peeled the packing tape off one. “Towel,” she muttered, withdrew one and draped it over her shoulder. He watched as she opened another container and fished out a pair of jeans and a pullover. And undies. Beige lace. Brief.
He cleared his throat and looked away. “I’ll, uh, just leave you to take your shower.”
“Thanks…Grant,” she replied, using his given name for the first time. Why that seemed significant puzzled him. She wasn’t flirting, more as if she was earnestly reaching out, needing a friend.
He could understand why she felt friendless. Her people hadn’t sent anyone to save her. Her family couldn’t ransom her. He wondered if she had a significant other who was just sitting on his butt back there in the States, waiting for a miracle or word of her death.
Well, that wasn’t his problem, Grant thought. He would take good care of her as long as she was in his custody, of course, and until he saw her off, he’d be her friend if she needed one. No risk there.
There had been a time when he did consider making friends a risk. For one thing, they had always moved away or he had. A lasting relationship of any kind had been his greatest wish when he was young, but he soon learned that short-term was his best bet. No gut-wrenching goodbyes to suffer.
Whenever he did get involved with people, he felt responsible for them, compelled to look after them, fix what was wrong with them, ease their way in life however he could. And then they would have to move on, or he would, leaving behind a feeling of distress on his part that they were going off on their own and might be unable to cope. Yeah, it was definitely better not to let himself care all that much.
Because he soon realized that was a cold attitude to live with, he had adopted a smiling, good-ol’-boy warmth that put people at ease. That way, they’d be less aware that he kept a safe emotional distance. He’d had to do that with the people under his command or he would have gone crazy.
He did much better with this civilian job. Working alone sure had its advantages. In this particular case, he was relieved that his association with Marie Beauclair would be temporary.
Grant went into the living room and clicked on the television to cover the sound of her shower. He didn’t want to imagine her wet and naked. It just didn’t feel right to do that. But he couldn’t seem to help it.
Given what she had endured, his response filled him with guilt. He concentrated on pity, a much safer reaction to her and a lot more appropriate. Poor little thing.
Twenty minutes into a boring old movie, Grant began to get worried. The shower was still running. The water should be stone-cold by this time.
Was she in there, crying? Had she gone to sleep? Drowned herself? He’d better check.
“Ms. Beauclair?” He knocked several times. “You okay?” He knocked again. “Marie? Answer me right now or I’m coming in.”
Nothing.
Grant tried the handle. Locked. Well, there was no window in the bathroom, so he knew she hadn’t climbed out. Either she had passed out or was unable to speak for some reason. He backed up and ran against the door. And promptly bounced off. Dammit, he’d break his shoulder. He shouted again. No answer.
Chapter 3
G rant reached in his pocket and pulled out his pick tools. It took a minute or so to slip the mechanism on the bathroom door and unlock it. The room was filled with steam, but a quick scan showed it was empty.
She had thumbed the lock and pulled it shut to buy some time. But how had she gotten past him?
Grant turned off the water and went back into the bedroom. He raked back the draperies and cursed. The window at the back of the building was open. The thin line of a rappelling rope anchored to the bed frame snaked out one edge of the window and dangled nearly to the ground. Probably kept as a means of fire escape. Why hadn’t he thought of that?
He ran a hand through his hair and gave it a tug. Tricked like the greenest recruit, but how the hell was he to guess she’d even want to take off on her own? Where the hell did she think she was going?
After her kidnapper, of course. And the logical place for her to start would be back at that little burg where she’d been held.
A foot-long section of baseboard near the closet lay loose on the floor. The cavity that had lain behind it was the hidey-hole for the grandmother’s ring, if there had even been one, and whatever else she’d felt compelled to conceal so carefully.
He knew exactly what that would be. If he were her, working undercover, he would have his real I.D. and creds stashed somewhere safe. That, and cash.
Always have a back door. Her fire-escape rope verified she’d had that. He was a little paranoid himself about any abode with only one exit, so he couldn’t fault her for that. He could, however, curse her for using it in this instance.
He pulled out his phone and called Mercier. Embarrassing as it was, he would have to report this snafu to control and take his lumps for it. He was mad as hell with the sneaky little devil. And sort of impressed in spite of that.
Mercier wasn’t impressed at all, especially with him. Grant could almost see the boss rolling his eyes.
“I know where she went,” Grant declared. “She tried to convince me to let her help catch her abductor. Since I said no, in no uncertain terms, she’s gone off on her own. I’ll have her on the plane within twenty-four hours.”
“No,” Mercier said. “If she’s that gung ho and that quick on her feet, let her help. You say she’s seen him and heard him. Catch up with her and see how she does.”
“Jack, she’ll just slow me down. I’d rather do this by myself.”
“Noted, but indulge me.” An order, not a request.
“All right, but if she gets in the way, I’m sending her back, cuffed if necessary!”
“If you have to,” Mercier agreed. “Give her a chance, though. She’s been a real asset to the Company, had as much training as you and obviously has had real initiative. No reason to treat her as a novice.”
Yeah. No reason at all. Except that Grant really didn’t think she was up to this. He realized his take on it was colored by his personal opinions. As politically incorrect and chauvinistic as those might be, they were grounded in experience.
His mother had given every outward appearance of strength and courage. Everyone had always commented on how well she coped. Only Grant had known her to break down when no one else could see or hear. One of his first memories was that of sitting in the hallway outside her bedroom door, holding the little stuffed dog she had made for him, feeling her fright and wondering how to comfort her. His dad was overseas where they couldn’t go that time, and his mom couldn’t handle it. Her pretense left a lasting impression on him.
And so had Betty Schonrock, the girl who had everything. Everything but some
one to watch out for her and care what happened to her. God, would he live with that failure forever? Twenty years had passed and it still troubled him. It hadn’t been his place to protect her and what else could he have done? He ought to let it go.
He fully understood that women wanted and truly tried to be as strong as men. Maybe some were. He just didn’t think this one was as self-sufficient as she thought she was.
Marie Beauclair looked incredibly fragile and downright helpless at times. Okay, but while he knew that part of that had been an act to throw him off guard, her tears had been real enough. Her fear, the trembling and pain hadn’t been faked. At least he didn’t think so. Had they?
He had never worked with a female partner. He’d even caught himself worrying about the female agents employed by COMPASS. They seemed capable and got the job done, so he heard. But in his opinion, women were just more sensitive, more vulnerable, and they should be protected, not thrown into situations where they might be hurt.
They were physically weaker, a proven fact. And while they were probably more tolerant to pain than men were, he couldn’t see any justification for exposing them to it intentionally. Participating in an investigation of her own abduction and imprisonment surely qualified as painful where Marie was concerned. Dangerous, too.
Grant pocketed his phone and started after her. Maybe if he hurried, he could beat her there.
Marie sailed down the autobahn, grinning at the speed of her little Audi roadster. She loved the convertible, the one fancy she did love about her cover as an eager young admin assistant with her first international job. She had to admit she liked the clothes, too. Had to dress to impress!
No need for that today, though. Her small duffel was packed with only practical stuff, not the froufrou. She wore dark jeans, a black knit shirt and black running shoes with thick socks to cushion her cuts. Her braid kept her still-wet hair slicked back for the most part, but as it dried the wind grabbed at tendrils around her face.
The little Glock 27 lay on the seat beside her, ready to tuck into her belt when she got back to the scene. Dressed to kill, she thought with a smile.
Hopefully the kidnapper would be out looking for her in the village still, thinking he’d find her wandering around the streets half naked, begging for help or curled up in an alley nearby, hiding. With any luck, she’d find him first.
She imagined trussing him up, strapping him to the hood of her car like a hunting kill and hauling him to the nearest Polizei station. He had definitely picked the wrong victim this time.
Was Grant Tyndal still sitting in front of her television, or had he caught on by now? Poor guy, never had a clue. Eyelash fluttering and lip trembling went a long way with him. Pity it had taken her so many years to discover the power of that—she might have saved herself a boatload of angst early on.
She felt sorry for Tyndal, but he could have cut her a little slack and agreed to let her assist. Despite his periodic gruffness, he had been a real softie and easy to dupe. He seemed an all right guy, at least on the surface, so she hoped he didn’t get into too much trouble for losing her.
This probably canceled any chance of her working for COMPASS, but so what? She liked the job she had.
She had been procrastinating on a response to the offer anyway. It would be an excellent move professionally, she was flattered they wanted her and she probably would have accepted. But the European assignment had been really exciting so far and she hated to give it up so soon.
The Company would reassign her to another post, and she’d carry on, attending parties, searching, listening and mentally recording, playing the featherbrained innocent overawed by the powerful who surrounded her.
In what seemed no time at all, Marie reached the exit leading to the village where she’d been stashed. When she got to the town, she slowed and parked on the sidewalk in front of a small row of shops.
She slipped her weapon into the back of her belt, pulled her shirttail down over it and got out to join them.
The village was a bit larger than she reckoned, and it took a while to locate the building from which she’d escaped.
The alley adjacent to the building was deserted. Marie walked around to the entrance. The door was unlocked, even standing open a little. She pulled her weapon, hesitated, listened and heard nothing. Quietly, she edged it open a little more and slipped inside.
It was fairly dark, dank smelling and apparently empty. There was a chair, a bare cot and a table near a door to what she figured must be her former cell. That door, too, was cracked open a few inches.
Carefully, she approached, gun out and off safety. She kicked it fully open and shouted, “Polizei!”
“Bang. You’re dead,” a quiet voice declared in English. He sat, hands linked over his stomach, leaning back against the wall in the same straight chair she’d used to break the window.
“Dammit, Tyndal! I almost shot you!” She lowered her weapon and shook her head. “How’d you get here before I did?”
“Shortcut,” he drawled. “What took you so long?”
“What do you mean? I flew!”
He rocked forward and got up. “Not fast enough, either of us. Our boy’s gone already. I just found this in the other room, though.” He held out a scrap of paper with a few words scribbled on it. “It’s in Dutch, I think.”
She examined the paper. “Yeah, it’s a supply list. So he’s probably either from the Netherlands or had Dutch parents. That must be his mother tongue. He used it to make a list, and I heard him curse in it. Not much of a clue to his whereabouts now, though.”
“It’s all we have so far.”
Marie looked up at him and grinned. “Did you just say we?”
He shrugged and nodded, looking resigned.
“Not your decision, I take it?”
He shook his head. “Mercier said to watch you. So, show me what you got. If it’s good enough, I guess you get the job.”
“I have a job right now—getting this guy. One thing bothers me. If he intended for me to escape, maybe he meant for the authorities to find that,” she said, staring at the paper as she spoke.
“You think he let you go?”
“Sure made it easy enough. And he let me overhear him speaking in Dutch.”
“Let you, huh? Maybe he thought you were still out from the drugs. I don’t think we can assume—”
Marie interrupted. “So what do you think? False leads?”
“I don’t know. I found the paper right before I heard you coming and haven’t had time to examine it. Give me a minute.” He turned away, holding the scrap between his palms.
It was a full minute before he answered. “No. He took something out of his pocket, dropped this accidentally.”
Marie didn’t appreciate the humor, but she laughed anyway. “Thanks, oh, great swami. Did you divine anything else?”
Oddly enough, he didn’t laugh with her. “I’m psychic.”
“Well, excuse me for not recognizing that. Your ears aren’t pointy like Mr. Spock’s.”
“A skeptic. Well, at least my luck’s consistent today.”
“You’re serious,” she guessed. “You really think you can…”
“I really know I can, and I don’t intend to debate it with you right now. I thought maybe since you have a photographic memory—something very few people possess and some consider strange—that you’d at least have an open mind about it.”
“That’s why COMPASS wants me? So all that stuff about the team having unique powers isn’t just some outlandish rumor?”
“Hardly. But it’s not up to me to convince you. Mercier can do that if you come on board. If not, it’s just as well you retain your disbelief. We don’t need it advertised.”
She cocked her head and pursed her lips. “So, how’s it work? Your gift, I mean. And how well does it work?”
If she expected defensiveness, she didn’t get it. He pocketed the paper and answered matter-of-factly, “Only works with touching things, not people,
which we figure might be an early developed defense mechanism on my part. Or it could simply be a limitation. Accuracy’s about 80 percent in my case.”
“Oh, so you admit that sometimes it doesn’t work?” she asked politely.
He nodded. “It depends on how much energy was expended on the object that was held or used and for how long it was exposed. Our boy obviously put some thought into making the list. Got more than I figured from it.”
“Okay, let’s hear it. What did you get?” She asked, humoring him while trying not to view him as a crazy she ought to run from.
After a pause, Tyndal added almost reluctantly, “He’s working for somebody else.”
Marie avoided his eyes and gave a succinct nod, not wanting to make him angry by questioning this ability. Psychic mumbo jumbo aside, he had access to a number of enforcement agencies and therefore more resources for investigating this than she had.
She needed him, crazy or not. Now how could she make him need her?
Chapter 4
“I f I give you a picture of him,” Marie offered, “you could have it run through Interpol?”
“Sure, but how—”
“Art major. Worked my way through LSU doing sidewalk portraits around Jackson Square.”
“That’s not in your file.”
“Don’t tell the IRS. I worked for cash only. I’ll need charcoal and a sketch pad.”
She pushed past him and returned to the outer room. Have you checked out the rest of this place. Maybe he dropped something else.”
He followed. “Because of you, we have breaks in the case now, you furnishing that likeness of the perp and this, the location where he held you. None of the others that lived have been able to provide any information. They were drugged the entire time, then dumped in a public park, either alive or dead. Forensics hasn’t gotten anything, either, but this time, we’ve lucked out.
“I got a partial print off the bed frame.”
Marie smiled her approval. “You brought a print kit?”
“Boy Scout. Always prepared.” He held up the salute.
