How close to death was she that she’d needed mechanical help doing something so basic? “Where…?” Even that one word hurt, cracking the last of her courage to dust.
The woman, a stout, salt-and-pepper matronly type in pink scrubs with little yellow chicks scattered over the fabric, finished releasing the restraints at Winslow’s ankles. That was when Winslow noticed the catheter tube running over the side of the bed. It was true then. She was dying. How humiliating to be reduced to this level of dependency.
“I’m sorry, honey. I came as fast as I could when I heard the alarm go off, but these old legs aren’t as spry as they used to be.” The woman reached above Winslow’s headboard and immediately the raucous beeping quieted. Winslow hadn’t noticed the ventilator’s alarm over the screaming panic in her head.
“You’re at Dr. Bly’s private clinic, sweet thing. You’d crashed when you arrived, so he had to intubate you. That’s why the restraints. Most people panic when they come to, just like you did, but don’t worry. It’s over and you won’t need a respirator now that you’re breathing on your own. Take it easy. I’ll be right back.”
Winslow reached for the woman before she made it out the door. “My phone,” she croaked, her hand outstretched, needing her lifeline to Tate. She’d come to in a hospital gown, nothing more. Not even her bra where she’d hidden the cellphone. “I need—” she swallowed hard “—my phone.”
Miss Salt-and-Pepper marched back to her side and firmly gripped Winslow’s sweaty hand before she tucked it under the blanket. “I swear, you kids these days are all the same. You don’t need your phone, young lady. You need to rest, now go to sleep. Besides, your mother has it.”
She couldn’t have hurt Winslow worse. If Mommy Dearest had Tate’s phone, all hope was lost.
Chapter Fifteen
Despite the delay with finding Pepe, Tate made it back to the Parrish home before Ky, but Joyce’s damned car was gone. Parking hurriedly, one front wheel on the curb, he marched to the front porch and pounded for good measure, then illegally entered. Joyce could sue him for B&E, but he needed to see Winslow right damned now!
Didn’t that make him a fool? He should’ve known. The house was empty. He checked the few rooms, and man, the difference between Joyce’s room and Winslow’s was telling. Joyce lived like a diva, while her daughter lived more like a transient who’d moved in with a few cardboard boxes. Not only was the house empty of people, the closet in Joyce’s bedroom had been cleaned out. Her stylish dresser drawers stood open and empty, while all of Winslow’s things were still in their places. Even her wigs.
By that time, Ky had roared up in his Corvette and hit the ground running. “What’s up?” he asked, when he met Tate coming out of the house. Dressed in jeans, with his sleeves rolled up, that was Ky for you: Ready to pitch in and help at a moment’s notice.
“She’s gone. That mother of hers took her and—” Tate punched the air with his fist. “Son-of-a-bitch, I should’ve known. It was a distraction. She dumped Pepe to get me out of here, so she could move Winslow.”
“You’re bleeding,” Ky pointed out.
Tate bowed his head, his chest heaving. He wasn’t bleeding. He was dying inside. If Joyce moved Winslow this fast this time…
If she had no problem getting rid of Pepe like she did…
Why hadn’t she taken Winslow’s clothes and wigs with her? Were they leaving town or…
The scary answers to that multiple-choice quiz wouldn’t quit.
He shot a look at Ky, but saw past his best buddy’s grim face to the army of green trash receptacles lining Maple. What the hell? The ninety-six gallon residential trash bins were all parked at the edge of their appointed driveways like good little soldiers waiting for pick-up, their lids down and their rear wheels in the gutter. Except for the one at the side of the Parrish driveway. A white fluffy arm dangled at the lip of that green monster. It can’t be. No way.
Tate rolled off the porch for a look-see, his heart thumping in his chest like a damned snare drum in the USMC marching band. Joyce wouldn’t do something like that, would she? He lifted the lid and… Son-of-a-bitch.
The stuffed polar bear he’d brought for Winslow’s phony prom now lay on top of yesterday’s garbage. He’d forgotten the silly thing with last evening’s drama, but there it was, its belly eviscerated and foam-rubber stuffing scattered over the rest of the trash. But worse, the bear’s head was tucked face up in the stomach cavity where all that stuffing used to be. Its black plastic eyes were missing.
“Holy shit,” Ky muttered. “What happened?”
Tate couldn’t answer. The damned thing had been staged, not just tossed out. Joyce wanted him to find it. Sure, the bear had been a last minute thought and a kid’s toy at that. It meant nothing and Winslow had never seen it, but the vicious damage inflicted on that simple, funny looking toy had to have taken time and forethought and—malice.
Tate forced his throat muscles to swallow. What kind of person stooped to this level? Ike? Janice? Joyce? All of them? Were they working together? To what end? If not all three of them, what point was Joyce trying to make? Simply that she was all-powerful where Winslow was concerned? That he was powerless to do anything to help her daughter? That Joyce could and would do as she pleased?
Point taken. At the moment, that was precisely what Tate was—powerless. Winslow was in danger, but he had no concrete evidence other than this toy in the garbage and the fact that Winslow’s things were left behind. Just an unsettling suspicion that Joyce intentionally meant to hurt her child. But mutilated bear could be explained away. His suspicions and a quarter wouldn’t buy him a cup of coffee. He could hear his boss: Evidence, Tate. The FBI is all about real evidence. Not your gut.
Bullshit. Sometimes it is all about a man’s gut. His instincts.
Tate leveled a shrewd eye at the Parrish picture window. The blinds were closed, but his gut squirmed like it used to before the word had come down on overseas ops to hustle, gear up, that he and his squad were headed into combat. Joyce knew damned well what she’d done when she’d left the bear here. Like this.
Message received loud and clear, you bitch, he growled to himself. But if you hurt Winslow, I’ll tear you apart like you did this toy. The prom nightmare just kept getting scarier.
“Isn’t that the present you bought Winslow?” Ky asked, his eyes shadowed beneath his brows.
Tate nodded, his heart pounding. He heard his mouth say, “I don’t know where she is.”
“Understood, but why is that a problem if she’s with her mom? That’s the safest place for her.”
“No, it isn’t.” Tate explained what he suspected while Ky absorbed every last detail, nodding in his usual calm way, his eyes scrolling from Tate to the mutilated toy in the garbage. When the story ended, Ky looked Tate in the eye and told him true. “You’ve got nothing but circumstantial evidence, and you know what Tucker thinks of that. Not that I care. I’m here and I’m willing. State your game plan and I’ll back you up all the way. Eden will too. She’s just waiting on our babysitter. How can we help?”
That was Ky to his cotton socks. The man was as solid a friend as they came and twice as loyal. But what was there to be done? Tate shook his rising paranoia for Winslow off, thankful for brothers and sisters who never let him down. “Easy. She’s got my phone. We track her GPS.”
The growl of a rowdy performance engine roaring up Maple brought Tate up short. A flaming red Dodge Challenger headed his way. Son-of-a-bitch. Tucker Chase was officially in the house.
Chapter Sixteen
“This is an unsanctioned operation, Higgins,” Tucker stated unequivocally, one hand on his hip, the other flat to the hood of his pricey muscle car. As usual, he looked pretty damned sure of himself. He’d come dressed for a day off in that black button-up shirt tucked into black jeans with his Aviators shoved high into his dark hair. Isaiah Zaroyin came with him, and right now, they stood on opposite sides of the Challenger like two oddly matched bookends st
raight off the cover of GQ.
Both of the tall, dark variety, Isaiah was the loyal Robin to Tucker’s passionate Bat. Known for his rock ’em, sock ’em style, the ex-Navy SEAL now directed the Bureau’s innovative psychic unit with barely a hint of finesse. Isaiah, his right-hand man, was the intellectual of the pair, prone to quiet introspection prior to deliberate decision making instead of leading with his fist or his chin. He didn’t swear, drink, or womanize, and Tate was fairly certain Isaiah didn’t eat meat, either. He was the purist. The idealist.
Yeah. Total opposites. And there stood Tate with nothing but his gut and an almighty gift of affinity for animals? BFD.
If Eden had accompanied Ky, the whole fam-damn-ily would’ve been there, but she wasn’t, and Tate was thrilled that, for the moment, he had one less psychic digging around in his head. The story of his life. He’d always sensed Tucker, Isaiah, and sometimes, Eden, tiptoeing around his psyche when they thought they knew better, which was exactly why he blocked them. Maybe that inner sense that he was being infiltrated at a very intimate level was one of those psychic talents he didn’t want to have, but had.
At least Ky had the sense not to pry into Tate’s mind, but that was a good buddy for you. Respect, man. It all came down to respect.
Tate knew he wasn’t a deep thinker, nor did he have Tucker, Isaiah, or Eden’s level of education, sophistication, or looks. He got that. If this was a game of Deuces Wild like Tucker had nicknamed his team, then he, Tate Higgins, was the freakin’ joker in the deck. He was the odd man out, the throw away card.
All these kids were citified, while he was the unsocialized beast that refused to be tamed, a ragged wolf that preferred the clarion call of the mountains over the collar and chains of human society. Who was he kidding? He was no wolf. Truth be known, he wasn’t much different than the bulky bears he’d hunted high on the bony back of the Aleutian Range. Prone to solitude. Uncivilized. And damned proud of it.
“Understood,” Tate replied, not backing down, “but like it or not, I’m going after her.” If Alex Stewart had been standing there instead of Tucker, Tate would’ve added a respectful Boss to that declaration, but he didn’t. Tucker was just a boss, not the Boss.
Tucker ran his fingers through the inky black curls at his forehead, exasperation sparking in his eyes. That he, one of the biggest jerks on the federal payroll, now ruled his own FBI team, irked Tate no end. Tucker was no rule keeper. If anything, he was the blatant rebel in the Bureau, the gunslinger who should have been kept on a tight leash instead of given a badge. So why the slow roll? Oh, yeah. Now he was important. Who gives a shit?
Tucker shrugged a shoulder in Isaiah’s direction, his eye still on Tate. “Can you get a read on the Parrishs?”
Like his evil twin, Isaiah met Tate’s gaze head on instead of looking at his boss. “I’m not picking up anything, but Eden could if she were here, provided one of us can get back inside that house and retrieve something from either mother or daughter. Eden works best when she can make physical contact with an item the victim handled. You know that.”
“I can get inside,” Tate offered. There was still that side window.
“With a warrant?” Tucker qualified, that cocky gleam in his eye.
The urge to hit something—an ex-Navy SEAL would do—curled Tate’s fingers. Tucker was a great one to worry about warrants, considering how his previous MO as an agent had always been to shoot first, apologize later.
“Exigent circumstances,” Tate bit out. Deal with it.
Tucker’s brow spiked, the bastard. “You’d risk your career for an endangered kid you just met?”
That did it. “She’s not a kid, she’s... she’s a...” Even Tate heard that unquantifiable ring of doubt to his tone. What precisely was Winslow, just some woman in a bad spot? His girlfriend? He couldn’t name his feelings. They were what they were. Winslow needed help out of a bad situation, and he cared. Tucker was wasting precious time she didn’t have.
“You think she’s endangered, don’t you?” Tucker asked, his tone softened, those dark eyes of his taking Tate apart atom by atom.
“She’s sick to the point of dying and her mother’s acting erratic.” Tate knew that would go farther with his boss than calling Joyce a liar right off the bat. “Mrs. Parrish might be suffering a nervous breakdown. She got rid of Winslow’s dog this morning, and she took a knife to the thing I brought Winslow last night. I know Joyce is under a lot of stress with what’s going on with Winslow, but she’s got a shitload of prescription meds in her kitchen too.”
Okay, probably shouldn’t have added that insider information to the mix, but the more Tate talked, the weaker his argument sounded, even to himself. A missing dog, a worried mother, and a ruined toy bear did not a murderer make. The fact that Joyce had only packed her clothes wasn’t a clincher, either. There could be a reasonable explanation for everything. All he had to go on was that knot in his gut that kept urging him to run.
Tucker’s lip lifted. “You’re kidding me. Joyce Parrish knifed a stuffed bear?”
How many times do I have to say it? “Yes. She gave Winslow’s dog to her boyfriend this morning without telling her, and she hacked up the bear.” Was this just mother/daughter drama he should’ve kept his nose out of? Was his gut wrong? Was it enough?
“Why do you think I wanted you on my team?” Tucker asked, changing directions.
Tate rolled his neck, pissed that he’d let his guard down and not willing to answer that loaded question.
Tucker crossed his arms over his beefy chest, deliberately appraising Tate, his eyes scanning him up and down but always zeroing back on his eyes. “She means something to you.” He made that a statement.
Not answering that, either.
A light clicked on deep in Tucker’s dark blues. He cocked his head and his eyes narrowed as if he finally understood something. “The first time I met Melissa, I knew. So help me, Tate. We’re going to find Winslow and we won’t stop until we do.”
Not exactly what Tate expected, but okay. Better than nothing.
Turning on his other agents, Tucker snapped his fingers. “Isaiah, I want that warrant within the hour. Tate’s right. We’ve got a clear case of exigent circumstances and a possible endangered woman. Until we know otherwise, we’ll proceed under the premise that Winslow Parrish is in danger. We err on the side of her safety, not her mother’s. You know the judge I mean. Make it happen. When that warrant gets here, Tate, you’ll enter that house, and you’ll find me something that belongs to the mother or the daughter. Ky, get your wife here, and…”
How bizarre. Understanding and decisive action from the over-the-top alpha dog when Tate least expected it. That shift in the universe didn’t make Tucker a drinking buddy by a long shot, but it allowed Tate to release the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
He’d worked with Tucker before on a couple TEAM ops. The man was a flaming A, and not as in Type-A personality, either. He’d mellowed since he’d gotten married, but he still tended to lead with that big chin of his. Begrudgingly, Tate had to admit Tucker wasn’t so different than Alex Stewart. Both men continually went above and beyond the call of duty to God and country, and their abrupt management style annoyed anyone who got in their way. With that stellar trait in common, Tate was willing to trust Tucker. A little more.
He took another deep breath when Isaiah took off in Tucker’s Challenger for the warrant. It took Eden less than half an hour to show, and by then, Tate was wound tight with pre-combat jitters all over again. When Isaiah rolled back on the scene with warrant in hand within minutes of Eden’s arrival, Tate made quick work of retrieving a single item of Winslow’s from her closet, that silky black wig.
They had all day to execute the search and seizure warrant. After a quick round of hello-how-you-doings, Ky’s gorgeous blonde wife took a seat on Tate’s Jeep fender, sifting the strands of black hair through her fingers. Sitting there in soft blue jeans and a bulky cream-colored sweater, she looked the
least like an FBI agent.
But Eden Winchester was so much more than just a pretty woman. She had a knack for psychically targeting people under extreme duress, which was how she’d connected with Ky. Tate now knew it was Ky who’d set their initial encounter in motion the night he’d cried out for relief from a torture cell in far off Afghanistan. Lo and behold, Eden’s genius brain waves picked up Ky’s psychic plea to die, and look at them now. Happily married with a three-month old son, Kyler Lee, so named after another TEAM agent, Lee Hart, the man who’d physically rescued Ky. But it was Eden who’d gotten to Ky first, and who’d helped him hang on mentally until Lee showed up in person.
Her psychic talent worked better if she had a personal item of the victim’s—damn, Tate hated putting Winslow in that category. According to Eden, personal possessions retained a shadow, for lack of a better descriptor, of whoever handled them the most. That shadow enabled Eden to trace the victim, and, in most cases, to project a psychic suggestion to the victim.
Tate didn’t know how it worked and he didn’t want to. He was the muscle and the gut; they were the ‘Brainiacs’. But he also knew that once he let Eden in, she would be able to read his deepest memories, what made him tick. His despair. His emotions. Without trying, she could lay his heart bare. She’d know what happened those many years ago that still felt like yesterday. Yes, she’d keep his confidence, but damn. She’d still know, wouldn’t she?
Tate stood his ground and let her do her thing. He needed her psychic magic more than his pride, especially since Tucker and Isaiah had gotten uncharacteristically mute except for an occasional brow lift between buddies. Yeah. They were chatting up a psychic storm in front of everyone, yet behind everyone’s backs at the same time. Damn them.
Eden pursed her lips. “Why didn’t you track her through the GPS in her phone?”
Joker Joker (The Deuces Wild Series Book 2) Page 12
