The Cradle Mission

by Rita Herron

  “My baby and I are stranded,” Alanna yelled over the whistle of the wind. “Could we have one of your cabins for the night?”

  The old man narrowed bushy gray eyebrows at her and nodded. “I’ll get you a key. I’ve been expecting a few people tonight.”

  Alanna paid him in cash, accepted the key and hurried to the nearest cabin with Simon huddled in her arms. Headlights broke the foggy landscape, at least two other cars having followed her. Ducking her head so they couldn’t see her, she pushed open the door to the cabin and hurried inside. Simon clutched a strand of her hair with his fist, his cries quieting slightly. The room was dark, cold and smelled of dust, but was better than sleeping in the car. Or being discovered.

  She quickly locked the thin wooden door, slid the curtain aside, and looked outside at the cars beating a path up to the cabins. Simon cried again and she removed a bottle from his bag and offered it to him, grateful when he latched on and ate greedily.

  “It’s okay, sweetie,” she crooned.

  Simon stared up at her. So trusting.

  He couldn’t know she was lying. That she hadn’t a clue as to whether or not they would survive.

  Shivering, she glanced out the window at the other stranded tourists who’d veered off the road to seek shelter. The bare tree branches bowed with the weight of the wind, and several of them snapped and fell to the ground. But her eyes tracked the people as they climbed from their cars, searching their faces.

  Were they all travelers stranded and lost in the storm?

  Or could one of them be after Simon?

  PHYLLIS FRENCH STOOD beneath the shaded cover of the neighboring porch and watched Alanna.

  She had been following her since she’d left Savannah.

  Smiling to herself, she patted the soft gray curls of her wig, pulled the hood of the ancient parka over her head and grabbed a bundle of wool blankets. Hunching her shoulders, she limped as she approached the cabin where the young nurse had just taken residence.

  She had to see the baby for herself.

  To make sure Alanna still had him. That he was safe and sound.

  Phyllis placed one hand on her flat stomach where an ache burned through her belly. Emptiness clawed at her, gut-wrenching in its intensity. But she couldn’t give in to the agony. She could alleviate the ache, though. When she got Simon.

  And she would. She just had to be patient.

  Stifling the emotions clogging her throat, she knocked on the door, knowing Alanna would be scared to open it.

  “Who is it?” Alanna’s thin voice barely through in the wind.

  Phyllis masked her own voice, smiling at how well she mimicked an old lady. “It’s Mr. Dimsdale’s wife with extra blankets. Thought you might want them in case we lose power during the night.”

  The metal latch squeaked as Alanna slowly slid it open from the inside. Alanna Hayes had no idea what she’d gotten herself into. Or how to deal with the situation.

  Phyllis almost felt sorry for her.

  Except she had been a victim herself. Bitterness welled inside, like a virus twisting her gut into pieces. She missed her baby. Wanted him. Had to hold him.

  “Miss, it’s cold out here,” she said, purposely letting her voice quiver.

  “I’m sorry.” The door finally opened a crack and the nurse peered through the narrow opening, her big blue-green eyes frightened. But her expression softened at the sight of Phyllis’s stooped posture. Alanna exhaled, a tiny puff of relief Phyllis was certain the young woman hadn’t realized she’d emitted.

  “Thanks. My husband said you have a baby. Is the little one all right?”

  Wariness darkened Alanna’s features. “Why, yes…thank you for asking.”

  “You need anything? Formula, diapers?” Phyllis smiled, revealing fake crooked teeth. “Anything for the baby?”

  “No, we’re fine.” Alanna opened the door just enough to take the blankets. “And thanks for these.”

  Wanting desperately to get a look at the baby, Phyllis tried to peer inside, but the damn woman had the door blocked. Then she heard the baby’s cry. A soft little gurgling sound that squeezed at her heart.

  “I’d better go feed him,” Alanna said.

  Phyllis nodded and fisted her hands as the door closed in her face. Despite the disappointment, excitement stirred in her chest, along with a deep longing. Ducking into the shadows of the trees, she hurried to the cabin she’d rented next door.

  She would know when it was time to play her hand. When it was time to reveal herself and take Simon. And she would fight for him when that time came.

  Until then, she’d be a shadow trailing Alanna Hayes’s every move.

  One day she would have it all. She would claim Simon as hers, the way it should have been. She would have him and everything that went along with being his mother.

  Because she knew all their dirty little secrets.

  The researchers’. Dr. Polenta’s. Arnold Hughes’s.

  Even Alanna Hayes’s.

  CAIN SAT IN THE CAR in the blinding rain and studied the small cabin where Jane Carter, or whoever the hell she was, had hidden out for the night.

  There was no question in his mind that she was hiding.

  From whom, he didn’t know. But she’d even acted suspicious when the old ctaker had taken her blankets.

  Most likely an abusive boyfriend or husband. Eric tended to have a soft spot for women like her. They’d both known the reason why. He’d even understood Eric’s actions, had wanted to cross the line a time or two himself, but he’d taken an oath to uphold the law and he intended to keep it.

  Still, this woman’s sudden appearance seemed too coincidental.

  Did it have anything to do with Eric’s death?

  He parked out back near her car and settled in his seat. Surely she wouldn’t be foolish enough to leave during the night, not with the bad weather and a baby in tow, and that fever. He’d sack out in the car and get some sleep and question her in the morning. If she did know something that would help him find Eric’s killer, he didn’t intend to lose her.

  But when he closed his eyes, he couldn’t shake the image of Eric’s burning car from his mind.

  THE CLOCK GLARED at Cain in the dimness of the predawn sky, its bold numbers mocking him with the time. Five-thirty in the morning—almost twenty hours since the explosion. Twenty hours since he’d told his brother goodbye.

  He hadn’t realized it would be the last time.

  He folded his arms behind his head and stared at the woods, an image of the explosion, the burning car, his brother’s charred remains tormenting him. They’d haunt him for the rest of his life.

  Dammit, he’d told Eric that eventually something would happen to him, but even as he’d issued the warning, he’d never imagined the worst coming true, especially so soon. Eric had always managed to beat the odds. He’d acted invincible. Maybe somewhere deep down, Cain had believed it, too.

  Anguish overpowered him. He’d felt helpless yesterday when his captain had ordered him to sit out the case.

  Today he would start investigating.

  After he made the arrangements for the memorial service.

  Eric had been only twenty-nine; how could he choose a plot of land to bury his ashes in? His cell phone rang. Not wanting to listen to another awkward condolence, he let the voice mail pick up, then retrieved it in case it was important.

  “Caldwell, this is Flack. Just let me know when the service is and I’ll be there.” Cain’s captain cleared his throat, an uncharacteristic bit of emotion resonating in his voice. “And don’t plan on coming in for a while. We all know you need time to deal with this. Pirkle and Wade caught the case, so try and get some rest. We’ll find out who killed your brother.”

  A bitter snort escaped him. Rest? Like hell. He wouldn’t rest until he found out who had turned his brother into a…no, he couldn’t think it. And he couldn’t sit around and let two half-cocked rookies handle the investigation.

  Eric had de
voted his life to helping victims, the vulnerable and the needy. In honor of his mother, Eric had said. If the cops had done their jobs, she wouldn’t have killed herself.

  What if the locals or the feds discovered his brother had taken the law into his own hands a time or two? What if Eric had something to do with Charlene Banks’s husband’s death?

  Could Cain bring himself to cover it up to protect Eric’s memory?

  Jane Carter suddenly opened the door to the cabin she’d rented. She cuddled the baby to her chest and stumbled over the gravel, her face ashen, the dark circles beneath her eyes even more prominent this morning.

  She was going to run. He recognized the fear in her agitated pace.

  He opened the car door and stalked toward her, his gut clenching when she gripped the baby tighter and threw a terrified look his way.

  FEAR SHOT THROUGH Alana at the sight of the imposing man standing before her. “You…you followed me?”

  He held his hands out, palms up, to assure her he wouldn’t hurt her. “I wanted to talk, that’s all.”

  “I…I have to go.”

  She tried to sidestep him, but he caught her arm. “Listen, Ms. Carter, it’s obvious you’re in trouble. I can help you.”

  Huge blue-green eyes stared at him, the tension palpable as she clutched the baby protectively against her. “I don’t need your help, Mr. Caldwell. I needed to see your brother.”

  “About what?”

  She hesitated, the faint line around her mouth twitched. “That was between the two of us.”

  “Why won’t you talk to me? Because I’m a cop?”

  Her sharp intake of breath echoed in the quiet morning air. “I just want to leave.” She glanced pointedly at his arm. “Now, please let me go.”

  He stared at her for a long minute, trying to gauge the emotions in her eyes. He wondered at the secrets. But he didn’t bully women. And judging from the bruises around her arms, that was the kind of man she’d known. So he released her and took a step back, giving her space.

  “I have to find the person who killed my brother.” The stark need in his own voice must have gotten to her. She faltered, her pleading look full of regret and sorrow.

  But fear overrode those feelings, and she reached for the car door. “I really am sorry about your brother. I wish I could help you but I can’t.”

  Fear laced her voice, coupled with sincere remorse, which surprised him. How well had she known Eric? She strapped the baby into the car seat and started the car. When she drove away, he saw tears streaming down her cheeks.

  Dammit, he wanted to help her, but she obviously didn’t want his help. And he had Eric’s funeral. He had to be with his brother.

  Mud and rocks spewed from the back of her car as she barreled down the driveway. A green Honda pulled out behind her, a woman at the wheel. Was she following Jane or just another tourist? He memorized both license plate numbers anyway. He’d check them out later.

  But now he had nd say goodbye to his brother.

  PAUL POLENTA PULLED at the leather straps holding him prisoner on the steel table, his body limp with drugs. The overhead fluorescent light glared directly at him, nearly blinding him, triggering pinpoints of pain behind his eyes. The scent of alcohol, formaldehyde and other chemicals wafted around him and he felt an icy numbness.

  The irony of his situation didn’t escape him. He was a genius of modern science, now trapped, a virtual prisoner of the same technology.

  What had they given him? How long had he been lying here? Hours, days? Time shifted in and out of focus, as did the voices, the faces, the bare white walls. He tried to move his head to the side to determine his location, but he couldn’t move. Was he in one of the research labs on Nighthawk Island? The surgical wing?

  An echo of footsteps clicking on the hard floor droned into his consciousness, low, muffled voices growing nearer. He remembered talking to them. Telling them something…

  They must have given him a truth serum. What had he told them? Had he mentioned Eric’s name? Had he told them his address?

  God, he couldn’t remember.

  Had they found Alanna? Simon?

  In spite of the cold, beads of sweat rolled down his face. Regret swept over him almost as strong as the physical pain in his stomach. Why had he crossed the line and let them talk him into agreeing to play God? How had he ever justified tampering with people’s lives?

  Suddenly a blur of white moved in front of him.

  Paul tried to speak, but his tongue was swollen and stuck to the roof of his mouth. Through the haze, he finally discerned the distinct lines of a man’s face: the thick bulbous nose, the mole on his chin, a scar above his right eye. Peterson? Ames? Hughes? The doctor raised a hypodermic, tapped it, then lowered the needle, a frown of concentration pulling at the deep grooves of his face. Paul fought, but the weight of the drugs had paralyzed him. The needle pricked his arm, and slowly warmth seeped through his veins, numbing and languid. The light was so bright, so harsh, it swirled in a kaleidoscope of colors.

  Then darkness overcame him, swallowing him into its vortex. Was he finally going to die?

  Maybe it was better he did. Better to die than face the shame of his family learning what he’d done. That he’d sent them money at the sacrifice of his honor.

  Alanna Hayes’s beautiful face appeared in his mind’s eye. He saw her holding baby Simon in her arms, cuddling the infant, rocking him good-night, whispering goodbye. He just prayed they didn’t find her.

  ALANNA’S THROAT CONVULSED, and clogged with tears as she sped away from the cabin. Simon flailed his hands, and she crooned to him while the winding dirt road blurred in front of her.

  Where could she go now?

  Although her fever-ridden body had finally given in to exhaustion around four in the morning and she’d slept for an hour, despair and fear had pt her awake most of the night.

  Eric Caldwell was dead.

  The grief and pain in his brother’s eyes had nearly ripped the last vestiges of her control right from her. She’d wanted to tell him everything. To plead for his help. But something had stopped her.

  She spared a glance at Simon who popped his chubby thumb into his mouth and began to suckle it. He trusted her to take care of him.

  But could she live up to his trust?

  The only person in the world she’d thought could help them was a stranger who had been killed the same day he was supposed to meet her.

  Guilt pressed heavily against her.

  What was she doing to do now? How could she possibly keep Simon safe and give him a new life without Eric Caldwell’s help? And how could she live with his death on her conscience?

  Chapter Four

  The brisk January wind tossed brown leaves across the graveyard, the whistle of winter a bitter reminder of the emptiness that had settled inside Cain’s chest. Head bent, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his faded leather jacket, he stared at the ground where his brother’s remains lay, the steel gray of the casket the same drab color as the clouds hovering above.

  The gatherers were sparse. It was a sad testament to Eric that he had so few friends. Yet he had helped so many nameless, faceless strangers who had drifted through his life for a day or week until he could help them move on. They might mourn him if they were still around. Or if they dared come out of hiding. But they didn’t.

  A few of Cain’s friends from the police force had turned out for the memorial service, more out of respect for him than his brother, since half the force had had run-ins with Eric over the past two years.

  They hadn’t seen Eric’s good side like he had. They hadn’t known that the man who pretended not to care about anyone or anything, the hardened renegade who crossed the line and had little regard for the law, was really a tender heart inside, risking his life and reputation to give hope to abused women.

  Cain’s throat ached from grief, and his cheeks stung from the wind sifting through the limbs of the nearby trees.

  The minister o
ffered a few words of prayer, the same mindless mutterings that should offer hope to those left behind, but Cain felt too numb and angry to be comforted.

  “You doing okay?” Captain Bobby Flack laid a broad hand on Cain’s shoulder.

  Cain shrugged. What could he say? Hell no, I watched my brother get blown up, and couldn’t do anything to stop it. Cain was the oldest; he should have protected him…

  “You need some time off, Caldwell. Take it.”

  Cain shot him a dark look. He didn’t want time off. He wanted to be on the case and Flack damn well knew it.

  The scrape of dirt being hoisted into shovels and thrown onto his brother’s casket jerked his attention back to the grave. His co-workers shuffled by, one by one, heads bowed, voices low as they offered their condolences. Cain nodded and grunted, knowing the men didn’t expect any more. Not that the officers didn’t face their own mortality every day; probably why it made them all so damn uncomfortable to attend a funeral.

  “We’ll get the person who did this,” Wade said as he moved past.

  “Hang in there, man,” Pirkle added.

  Cain’s throat closed as the mound of dirt grew higher. From his pocket he pulled the gold cross that had belonged to Eric, and ran his thumb over the worn, cool gold, remembering the day his mother had given it to his brother. Eric’s thirteenth birthday.

  Eric had already started to develop an attitude. He’d gotten into several scrapes and brawls at school, had beaten up some bully who’d been picking on a younger girl. They’d come home from school that day and found their mother bruised and battered again, lying on the sofa with an ice pack on her face. Their father had left, Eric’s birthday not even a speck of dust in his memory.