by W. L. Dyson
The other prisoner laughed. “I knew you'd pull it off.” He held out his hands. “Get me out of these.”
When his chains fell away, the man nodded toward Richie. “Him too.”
“But—”
“Just do it.” He jumped out of the transport and looked around. Richie saw him smile as another person came around from the side, carrying a black duffel bag.
It was a woman. The kind of woman that would make a man drop to his knees and beg for mercy. Tight black jeans, a low-cut black sweater, black cowboy boots, and long dark hair that whipped around her face. She angled her face up to the white-haired man with an inviting smile. “Hey, lover. Miss me?”
Richie's companion let out a low and throaty laugh. “Nothing has been the same since the last time I saw you, Leese.” She held the duffel bag out to him, but he ignored it, wrapping a hand around her neck and pulling her up for a kiss. “You being a good girl?”
“I'm always good, Cutter. You know that.”
Richie felt his heart squeeze in his chest. Cutter. He knew that name. Had heard about the man around the exercise yard. He was rumored to be a hired killer out of Atlantic City—ruthless, experienced, and as cold as steel in an ice storm. At the time, he dismissed it all as just talk—like so much in the yard was—but this man had a reputation for getting the job done quickly, quietly, and efficiently. And he'd just proved his reputation wasn't rumor at all.
Richie's chains fell away and he stood up, rubbing at his wrists as he climbed out of the back of the transport.
Cutter continued to ignore him as he spoke to his companions. “You two have a good alibi, right?”
The masked man tossed Cutter a set of keys. “Yeah. When the cops show up, Leese and I will be tangling the sheets at my pad. I mean, dude…you're gone for twenty-five to life. The woman's got to move on. Who better to take care of her than your old partner?”
Cutter shook his head slowly as he jangled the car keys. “Just don't get too tangled in those sheets. I'm coming for my woman, and when I do, I'd hate to have to kill you.”
The man threw both hands up in the air. “Chill, dude. It's all alibi and no action. I'd never cross you, Cutter. You know that.”
“Disappear,” Cutter told his associates. “Make sure your alibis are solid. I'll be in touch.” They bumped fists and left.
Richie followed Cutter into the woods, his prison shoes slipping in the wet grass. Just beyond the trees, an old Bronco sat, apparently waiting for them.
Cutter tossed the duffel on the hood and opened it. He glanced over at Richie as he pulled out a plaid shirt. He looked in the duffel, pulled out a sweatshirt, and tossed it to Richie. “That'll have to do. Cover up.”
It took Cutter only seconds to strip out of the orange jumpsuit and into the clothes his friends had supplied.
Richie buttoned up the shirt, climbed up into the old Bronco, and reached for his seat belt. “You really pulled it off.”
“What's your name?”
“Carver. Richie Carver.” Richie buckled his seat belt. “I've heard of you.”
“Well, I haven't heard of you, so it's time you put up or I don't need you.”
Richie felt a shiver of fear slide down his spine as he stared into those cold eyes. He licked his lips. “Head back to the interstate. Then go west two more exits and get off. Then north. There's a—”
Cutter cranked the engine, revved it, cutting Richie off. He turned the radio up and, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, pulled out on the pavement. Richie stared at the prison transport sitting there in the middle of the street like road kill. The doors were sitting open. One guard was slumped behind the wheel, shot before he even had a chance to pull out his weapon. The other guard was sprawled in the road, hand still gripping his weapon.
He smiled to himself as Cutter drove around the crash scene. See ya, suckers. Then as the vehicle accelerated, jumping from twenty to fifty, Richie settled back in his seat and looked out the window. I'm coming for you, bounty hunter.
Nick stepped into the kitchen, sweeping his gun out in front of him as he noted the bare walls, the missing countertops, the cabinets hanging lopsided on each side of the window. Crouching down, he descended the dark stairway into the basement. He could smell the dust, decay, and mold mixed with something far more familiar—sweat and fear.
He could hear a girl whimpering like a wounded animal and tried to narrow in on the sound of her low cries. As he stepped away from the bottom step, he swung around, gun firmly held in both hands out in front of him. There was a small window at ground level, and the sun, low in the sky, was sending beams of gold light through the window, guiding Nick to the girl.
She stood in front of him, her long dark hair falling across her face as Richie Carver stood behind her, a grin on his face and a knife to her throat.
Richie grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back so that Nick could see the blade pressed against her soft throat and the blood that was slowly beginning to spread along the edge of the knife. “Been waiting for you, bounty hunter.”
Nick's hands began to shake as he recognized the young girl. His stomach twisted. His daughter. Krystal.
“Daddy? Help me. Please. Don't let him kill me!”
Stay focused, man. Stay focused on the moment. Forget it's Krystal. Forget she's your daughter. Just get her out alive the way you would any hostage.
“Put the knife down, Richie.”
Richie pulled Krystal up tighter against his body. “Can't do that, Nicky boy. I warned you not to send me to jail.”
Krystal emitted a high-pitched wail as Richie dragged her sideways, skirting around Nick. “Daddy! Please. Don't. Don't let him kill me!”
Nick raised his hands slowly, holding the gun out and away from Richie. “Let her go. She doesn't have to get hurt in all this. It's between you and me.”
Richie grinned as he tightened the knife against Krystal's throat. Her whimpering stopped as she held her breath.
Slowly, Richie brought the knife across Krystal's throat. Blood pulsed out, hitting Nick across the face. “You should have listened to me, bounty hunter.” Then Richie tossed Krystal's body into Nick's arms before he turned to run.
Nick caught Krystal with one arm and slowly lowered her to the ground. Her eyes locked with his, and he knew time was running out fast. He reached for his radio, but it was gone. Quickly, he unbuttoned his shirt and whipped it off.
“Daddy…” She closed her eyes.
Nick grabbed her face. “No! Krystal!”
He heard a heavy sigh, and then he felt her body go limp. “No! No!”
“NO!”
Tuesday, 3:45 a.m.
Towson, Maryland
Nick jerked upright, breathing hard, trembling as he scrambled to pull himself out of the dream. He reached over with shaking hands and turned on the light. Swinging his feet to the floor, he bent forward, burying his face in his hands. Just a dream. It was just a dream. Not real. Richie was in jail. Krystal was safe in her bed. It was all just a bad dream.
It took a few minutes, but Nick finally flopped backward across the bed, draping one arm across his eyes. He'd give anything to be able to get up and walk over to Krystal's room and check on her. To lean down and hear her breathing softly as she slept. To brush back her hair from her face and pull her covers up to her chin, tucking her in the way he had when she had been little. Back in the days when he had been her hero.
If there was any consolation at all, it was that he'd put Richie away where he'd never be able to hurt Krystal.
3
Tuesday, 8:00 a.m.
Prodigal Recovery offices, Baltimore
The team at Prodigal Fugitive Recovery met in the conference room as they did several mornings a week. In spite of the mandatory attendance required for all team members, there was an empty chair at the table, and Nick did his best to ignore it, even though it annoyed him. The rest of the team was chatting quietly when Nick spoke up. “All right, guys. Let's get start
ed. First thing on the list: we have less than two weeks to find Tommy Lester and bring him in.”
“Dead or alive, at the end of a rope or over a saddle.” Rafe mimicked in his best John Wayne voice, which still wasn't all that good, but it made them all laugh.
Shaking his head, Nick turned his attention to Conner. “So where do we stand with Lester?”
“No sign of him at the clubs, his parents’ house, or his own apartment. I've been talking to several of his ex-girlfriends, but so far, none of those leads have panned out.” Conner shifted his massive body back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “I've been pinging his cell phone, but so far, nothing. Either he's picked up a throwaway or he's not using his cell.”
“Best guess?” Nick asked as he reached down for his Mountain Dew. Everyone else was drinking coffee.
“I know he isn't all that smart, so I figure Jon Carver has him tucked away somewhere. The Lily is advertising for a new bouncer. I applied for the job. Maybe I can get inside far enough to find him.”
“Stay on it.” Then Nick turned to Rafe. “What about Zeena Bantham? Any word on her?”
Zeena Bantham was what they called a tweeker—a meth addict— which made her one of those people that could run a bounty hunter into the ground. Hyped for days on end, they would bounce from place to place, from person to person, until they finally crashed out to sleep it off somewhere. When awake, all they thought about was the next high—how to get it, where to get it, who to get it from. Made them difficult to catch.
Rafe set his coffee cup down and flipped open his notebook. “The last anyone can recall, she was on the streets about a month ago, which would have been a couple days before her court date. One of the girls told me that Zeena mentioned having a family in West Virginia somewhere, but so far, I haven't been able to find anyone local.” He lifted a finger into the air. “However, I did find out that one of her main sources for drugs is a loser by the name of Danny Sloop. Problem is no one can recall seeing him around for a while either. Could be they scored big and are holed up somewhere going through their stash.”
“What do we have on Sloop?” Conner asked.
Rafe leaned forward, clasping his hands on top of his file folder. “Typical street punk. Twenty-five years old. Has a rap sheet as long as a cat's tail, but mostly low-grade stuff. Petty theft, possession, shoplifting, burglary. Last known address was a bust. Landlord tossed him out when he got three months behind on the rent. No one has any idea where he's living now. No car registered to him. His probation officer tells me Sloop is working construction, but that was another dead end. The company told me Sloop stopped showing up for work a couple weeks ago and they have no idea where he is and don't care. The foreman said Sloop was more interested in stealing the company blind than actually working. I let his probation officer know so if he shows up there, he can be picked up for violation of probation. It's not much, but it might give me a chance to have a little chat with him. One of my snitches tells me he's now dealing on a small scale.”
“If Zeena's no longer at the address we have for her,” Nick said, “it could be she's gone to the streets. Put up wanted posters at the shelters. Say something like she has inherited some money and needs to contact an attorney.”
“On it,” Rafe replied, leaning back and stretching out his legs.
Half an hour later, the meeting ended. The men gathered in a small circle and bowed their heads, as was their tradition after every team meeting. Fugitive recovery was supposed to mean more to this group than just being tough guys who hunted criminals. The Prodigal team felt called to their work and hoped that with each recovered skip, they were serving justice and maybe even saving lives. These days, to Nick, that seemed like a load of junk, but he faithfully said the prayer anyway.
“Lord, protect us all today as we go out onto the streets,” Nick droned. “Guide us to these fugitives and give us the wisdom to deal with them, and we pray that after we do, they might turn to you rather than return to a life of crime and destruction. Amen.”
The prayer was taught to him by his father and was repeated after every Prodigal Recovery meeting since the doors had opened in 1977. Today, he ran through it a little more quickly than usual, but he had a lot on his mind, including a meeting he couldn't afford to miss.
As Rafe left the room, Conner eased his hip against the conference table. The table shifted a fraction. “You okay?”
Nick nodded. “I'm fine. Just a little distracted. And if you break that table, you bought it.”
Conner laughed as he stood up. “I've never broken a table. Heads yes, tables no.” Back in his younger days, Conner had been one of the “bad boys” of the wrestling ring, and breaking heads had been his key to success. That success led to alcohol, drugs, and very nearly divorce. His wife, Ria, had packed her bags and given him the ultimate ultimatum: if he ever wanted to see her or their children again, he had to change his lifestyle. She was gone less than two weeks when Conner made his decision. He left wrestling, saved his marriage, and two years later, ended up at Prodigal.
Nick gathered up his file folders and soda. “I have a meeting across town. Don't break any heads until I get back.”
“Nick.”
He stopped in the doorway and looked back at Conner.
“I'm sure Steven has a good reason for being late this morning.”
Nick bit down on his temper. “He always does, doesn't he?”
It took Nick ten minutes to drive through the rain to his meeting. And it took five minutes to find out it had been a waste of time. Lately, his life had become a run of dead ends and false turns, and the way out was proving to be as elusive as the typical bail jumper.
“I'm sorry, Nick.” Michael nudged his coffee mug aside and picked up his gold pen, running it through his fingers. As always, he was dressed in a sharp-looking suit—which today was navy blue with pin-stripes—with a light blue button-down shirt and navy blue tie. “I even tried to go to bat for you, but they just decided that they couldn't approve the loan.”
Bowing his head, Nick ran his fingers through his hair, squelching the desire to pull it all out. Then he glanced up. “Okay. What if I use Mom's house as collateral?”
He hated to think that it had come to this, but with his mother in a nursing home with Alzheimer's, she wouldn't even know. In fact, most of the time, she didn't even remember the house. Or her children. And that hurt, but Nick set that little twinge of pain aside.
“Same problem as the office.” Leaning back in his chair, Michael shook his head as he tossed his pen back to his desk. “Your parents left everything to you, your brother, and your sister. Without both Steven and Marti's signatures, you can't use it.”
Nick swallowed the response that rose up to the tip of his tongue. Michael was a banker, but he was also an old friend. “A whopping one-third of everything is mine.”
It sounded like whining, and while it bothered him that it had even escaped from his thoughts to run out of his mouth, he knew Michael would understand.
Michael leaned forward, resting his hands on his desk. “Nick, if I had that kind of money to give you, I would. But I don't.”
And Nick knew that Michael would. They had been friends for years, sharing a love for the Orioles, old cars, and tall blondes with cool smiles. Michael had season tickets at Camden Yards, two restored Corvettes, three boys, and a petite brunette wife who worshiped the ground he walked on. Nick, on the other hand, had married one of those tall blondes with a cool smile before he'd been smart enough to realize that the cool smile indicated a frigid heart and an icier temper.
“I know. But I'm not asking you for what is yours, Mike. I'm asking for what is mine.”
“Then find Marti.”
“I've been looking for her. Every time I get close, she disappears again.” Nick slowly pushed himself to his feet, wondering if he'd aged ten years in the last few days or if it merely felt that way. If he looked in a mirror right then and saw himself with white hair and the
sagging jowls of an octogenarian, it wouldn't have surprised him. Instead of a mirror, though, he looked into the eyes of his friend and tried to ignore the pity he saw there. “In the meantime, Dad entrusted this business to me, and I can't let it die without a fight.”
“I understand. Have you tried asking Jessica to let you use the other house as collateral?”
The laugh that rolled off Nick's tongue tasted as bitter as it sounded. “She told me she wouldn't let me put that house at risk even if we were still married.”
“I'm sorry.”
Nick glanced out at the rain, drizzling down the office window. Then he turned, holding out his hand to Michael. “Don't worry about it. I appreciate you trying to get me the loan.”
Michael clasped his hand, shook it firmly. “What now?”
“I don't know. But I can't just let Prodigal close up shop.”
Standing in the doorway, Nick shrugged his jacket on, staring at Michael. Finally he squared his shoulders. “Dad expected me to take care of the family. I'll find a way to do that.”
Nick pulled the door closed behind him and strode briskly through the bank lobby, his gaze fixed on the double glass doors. He'd always heard that when life tossed you lemons, you made lemonade. But what did you do with rotten lemons? There wasn't enough sugar in the world to help him make things any sweeter.
The gray skies had become even gloomier while Nick was in the bank, and the cold rain was coming down as if it were pressed to get as much soaked as possible in the shortest amount of time. As the downpour sent rivulets down his back, Nick strode through the parking lot, fingering the keyless remote as his mind raced.
He stuck his key in the ignition, then picked up a CD and slid it into the player. As Alabama started singing about angels being among us, he turned up the volume and started to back out of the parking space.
As the wipers cleared the windshield, movement caught his eye. He moved the gearshift into park and climbed out of the vehicle. Kneeling down, he stared into the big brown eyes of a small white dog huddled under the car next to him. It was dripping wet, shivering with cold, collarless, and looked as if it hadn't had a decent meal in weeks.
