by Lisa Harris
“Can I help you?”
He turned to the twentysomething blonde and held up his badge. “I’m Detective Nathaniel Quinn. A woman came in a few minutes ago with a man to get something out of a safe-deposit box. I need to know if they’re still here.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know, but Shannon . . .” She signaled to a coworker. “Can you help this gentleman?”
Shannon seemed just as perky. “What can I do for you today, sir?”
Nate tried to squelch his impatience. “A woman, early thirties, light-brown hair, came in fifteen minutes ago with a man to get something out of a safe-deposit box. I need to know if she’s still here, or if she’s already left.”
“I’m sorry, but they’re gone. Is there a problem?”
“There is, actually. The man she came in with was holding her against her will. How long ago did they leave?”
The woman’s eyes widened. “Um . . . a minute . . . two tops. Do you want me to call security?”
“I’ve got backup on their way. What I need now is security footage from when the bank opened until now. Both inside and outside.”
“Of course. Come with me, and we’ll go see the manager. She can make that happen.”
“Hurry.”
He glanced at the clock in the corner of the bank as they headed toward the manager’s office. Another minute had passed. Every minute spent in the bank meant Gracie was another minute farther away.
Melissa quickly introduced Nate to Sondra Parks, explaining the situation to the brunette in her late forties. Nate told her exactly what he needed, then got Kelli back on the line. “Kelli, I need you to see if you can track Grace Callahan’s cell—”
“I just got a call from Paige, and I’m already on it, but there isn’t a current signal. Looks like either the phone went dead, or they took out the battery. But wait a minute . . .”
Nate felt his panic grow. So tracking her phone wasn’t going to be an option? This couldn’t be happening. They’d used her for what they needed. And if they didn’t need her anymore—
“I think I’ve got something.” The bank manager leaned forward, then pointed at the screen.
“Stay on the line for another minute, Kelli.” Nate glanced at the screen in front of him.
Grainy footage showed Gracie walking to the car with someone holding her arm. They walked across the parking lot, then climbed into the black sedan. His heart raced as the footage showed the vehicle pulling out of the parking lot and heading left onto the main street. “See if you can zoom in on the license plate, then freeze the footage . . . there.”
Nate let out a sharp breath. They had the license plate, but where had they gone?
He read off the license plate number to Kelli, thanked the manager, then headed out of the bank to the parking lot. “Track any 911 calls placed in the last thirty minutes. Then search street cams . . . license plate readers . . . there’s got to be a way to track her. They couldn’t have just vanished.”
“I’m doing everything I can. But wait a minute, Nate . . .”
“What have you got?”
“Okay, I’ve got the last location of her phone, but without the ability to track it, that doesn’t give us much.”
It might not be enough, but at least it was a start. “It will steer us in the right direction.”
“What can you tell me from your end?”
“We’ve got her leaving the bank at 9:16,” he said. “They were heading north. Add your location and map it out.”
“Okay . . . They’re headed northeast.”
He pulled out of the parking lot and headed that direction. He thought he was three to four minutes behind them, but even that was a guess. And until the security cameras tracked her, he would have no idea if they were still on 428 or not.
He drove through the area, keeping the line open with Kelli, looking for the sedan. Why was it that every other car was a black sedan?
“Nate . . .”
“I’m still here.”
“An alert just came through via one of the city’s plate readers. I’ve got a cross street, four blocks from your location.”
“Give me the address.”
She gave him the street names. “Paige has just arrived at the bank.”
“See if she can find out anything else there.” He made a left and continued toward the location. “Is there any way to follow that sedan live?”
“I wish. All I can do is try to catch them on the traffic cams, but it’s not going to be easy.”
At least it was a start. It wasn’t foolproof by any means, but technology had allowed authorities to capture fugitives and kidnappers by reading license plates, then passing on up-to-the-minute data to local police.
“Nate . . . I found them again . . . They just turned left at the second stoplight ahead of you.”
“I’m on my way.”
He raced down to the four-lane intersection. Traffic might be somewhat lighter now that the official rush hour was over, but there was always congestion in the city no matter what time of day. He weaved in between a couple slower cars, fighting the urge to honk his horn.
“I’m making the turn now.”
“Wait . . . I’ve lost them again. Just give me a minute.”
He slowed down, not wanting to waste time having to backtrack.
“Okay,” she said finally. “Take another left at the next street.”
He flipped on his blinker, following Kelli’s instructions.
Where are they taking you, Gracie?
Unlike with Ashley, he still had a chance to stop this. But he was going to have to find her first.
“Do you see her?” Kelli asked.
He searched the lane in front of him as well as the side streets. “No . . . I don’t have her yet. Where is she?”
“Give me a second, Nate.”
His breaths became shallow. They’d narrowed it down, but it wasn’t enough. He needed to pinpoint her location. “Where is she? I need something.”
There was a long pause before she answered. “I’m sorry, Nate, but I’ve lost her.”
9
Grace lay in the pitch-black darkness of the trunk, struggling to force back the panic. It was so dark she couldn’t even see her hand in front of her face. The panic threatened to engulf her, but she knew she couldn’t give in to it. Panic would make her react emotionally instead of rationally, and she needed a clear head. She took in a breath, counted to three, then released the breath for another three counts.
Relax, Grace. You’re going to find a way out of this.
Breathe in, one, two, three.
Breathe out, one, two, three.
A memory surfaced. A few months ago, she’d seen a news report about a woman who’d been kidnapped. She’d somehow managed to pop the trunk from the inside with the emergency latch and escape from her captors. That could work. If she could find the latch, she could open the trunk once the car slowed down, then jump out and run. Once she was free, she’d worry about what would happen after she got out.
She ran her bound hands along the edge of the trunk, searching for a release switch.
Nothing.
Darkness pressed in around her, bearing down on her lungs like a physical force. The latch had to be here. Somewhere she’d read that it was required by law for all newer cars, but where was it? She took in another slow breath. The most logical place was where the trunk lid met the car body at the center.
Please, God. Please. It has to be here somewhere.
She fought to focus. She knew God didn’t always answer prayer, and that sometimes bad things happened to good people. She’d lived in that dark place of unanswered prayers when God didn’t say yes. And on one level—when she was looking at the situation as a psychologist—she understood why.
But that wasn’t always enough to take away the pain and emptiness of loss.
Or the constant reminders.
She felt the car slow down.
She searched the darkness for the latch
, then caught something glowing in the dark. That had to be it. She felt again for the latch and pulled on it. A second later the trunk lid popped open, allowing sunlight to stream into the trunk.
There was no time to think about the armed driver as she struggled to climb out of the vehicle with her bound hands. The car moved forward. Her ankle twisted as she hit the pavement. She stumbled, barely catching her balance before she started running. She ignored the pain shooting up her ankle. The car skidded to a stop, taillights on, then backed toward her. She needed a plan, but for right now, the only option was to run and get as far away from the men as she could.
To her left was a neighborhood filled with a long line of single-family homes with rear alleyways. She had no idea what had happened to her phone, but if she could find someone at home and call for help . . .
Choosing the shortest distance—her hands still bound together in front of her—she darted toward the first yard as fast as she could. They weren’t going to stop looking for her until they’d killed her.
Like Stephen.
She could see him now. Imagine his dead body, single gunshot to his head, lying lifeless in some nameless place. The image wouldn’t leave her alone as she darted toward a gate and into a backyard toward the back alley where she prayed she could hide. If they found her, she would be next. The thought terrified her. She’d worked with clients who were dealing with PTSD. Patients who’d faced their worst nightmares of abuse and violence, and who were now simply struggling to survive.
But no one had ever tried to take her life.
She ran toward the nearest house and banged on the back door. The house looked empty, so she kept running down the narrow road, three, four, five houses . . . She needed to put as much distance between her and the men as possible before she stopped again.
She glanced behind her. The black sedan passed on a cross street, slowed down, then put on its brakes and reversed. She pressed her back against the wooden fence, trying to stay in the shadows. Her heart pounded as she stood, frozen. She counted the seconds. Five . . . ten . . . fifteen . . . The brake lights went out and the car kept moving.
Which meant they hadn’t seen her. Still, she was far too exposed and out in the open. She slipped through a gate, then crossed the backyard of the next house before banging on the door.
Come on . . . come on . . .
No one answered, and she couldn’t wait. She ran back out of the yard and glanced both directions before running to the next house. It wasn’t going to take them long to figure out where she’d gone. And while getting someone else involved was a risk, she needed a phone.
An older man with a white beard opened the door. “Can I help you?”
“I’m sorry . . . I need to call 911. Please. I know this is going to sound crazy, but I was just kidnapped and managed to get away, but they’re still after me—”
A woman’s voice called out from somewhere in the house. “Marty . . . who’s at the door?”
“Please.” Grace held up her bound hands, praying he wouldn’t think she really was crazy and turn her away. “If I could use your phone.”
The man glanced outside toward the back fence, wasting precious seconds. If they found her again now . . .
“Please.”
“Hurry up and come in.”
He shut and locked the door behind her, then turned back to her in the middle of a kitchen that was decorated with bright yellow sunflowers. He took a pair of scissors from a drawer and snipped the zip tie around her wrists.
“You said you need a phone?”
“I need to call 911,” she said.
“Come with me into the living room. I think the phone’s in there.”
An older woman stepped into the kitchen wearing a loose-fitting, floral-print dress.
“The girl’s in trouble, Jill. Where’s the phone?” the man asked.
“I’m not sure. You had it after breakfast . . . What’s going on?”
“I promise I’ll explain everything,” Grace said, “but please hurry.”
Grace moved toward the front window and glanced down the street. A man jogged past the house, but there was no sign of the men who’d taken her.
“Here it is,” the woman said.
Grace wished she had Nate’s number. Instead, she called 911 for the second time in less than twenty-four hours.
Her hands shook as she punched in the numbers.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My name’s Grace Callahan. I was kidnapped and just managed to escape from the trunk of a car.” She was surprised at how calm her voice sounded. Like everything that had just happened was a bad dream. If she could wake up, it might all be over, but her throbbing ankle and trembling hands told her different.
“Where are you now?” the operator asked.
“Just a minute.” She turned back to the man. “I need your address.”
She put the phone on speaker and let the man give them the address.
“Retired Marine Corps Gunnery Sergeant Marty Phelps here, ma’am. She ended up at me and my wife’s house.”
“Mr. Phelps.” The operator’s voice helped calm her. “I want you to make sure the house is locked, then stay away from any windows and out of sight. I’m sending the local police to your location now, but Grace, I want you to stay on the line with me.”
“Okay.”
“I need to know if you’re still in danger.”
“I don’t think they know where I am, but they’re out there looking in the neighborhood.”
“How many men were in the car?”
“Two,” Grace said. “And at least one of them was armed.”
“Were you hurt at all during the escape?”
“No. Well . . . just my ankle, but it’s fine.”
“Can you describe the vehicle you were taken in?”
“Yes . . . it was a black, four-door sedan. I think it was a Chevrolet.”
“Do you know how much time has passed since you escaped?”
Grace glanced at a pendulum wall clock. It seemed like it had been hours since she and Nate had arrived at the bank, but it was only nine forty. Barely forty minutes since she’d seen Nate. Not more than five since she’d escaped from the trunk.
“About five minutes, but I also need to let you know that I was with a Detective Nate Quinn when we were attacked and separated. I don’t know what happened to him, but you need to find him.”
“Grace, I’m going to need to put you on hold for a minute, but I want you to stay on the line. Officers have been dispatched and are on their way to your location right now.”
“Thank you.”
Grace set the phone down on the coffee table in front of her.
“Name’s Marty, like I told 911, and this is my wife, Jill.”
Her gaze shifted to the shotgun he’d just grabbed out of the closet. “Grace Callahan,” she said, “and I’m sorry. Sorry for getting you involved in this. I just . . . I didn’t know where to go.”
“You did the right thing. I’m retired military, and trust me, when I say I’ve seen everything, I mean it. The Persian Gulf in ’88, then later the Gulf War in Iraq. We’ll get you out of this.”
She managed a smile. “I guess I picked the right house.”
“Yes, you did.” Jill closed the blinds just enough so they could look out, but hopefully no one could see in. “Do you know who’s after you? Ex-boyfriend? Ex-husband?”
“Nothing like that. It’s . . . it’s complicated, and will probably sound crazy. I had something that some very bad people wanted, and now I’m a liability.”
“What else can we do?” Marty asked.
“I don’t know . . .”
She stood up again and started pacing. She couldn’t think. Her mind seemed to be frozen. She needed to talk to Nate, but she had no idea where he was. Or if he was even alive. Fear seeped through her. What had she been trying to prove by insisting on going with him to the bank? That she could somehow bring justice for Stephen’s d
eath?
Unlike the pieces of her own life that she hadn’t been able to control.
The wall clock ticked the seconds. Time seemed to be creeping by. She listened for the sound of sirens, but there was nothing. She needed a distraction. There were photographs of birds hanging on the wall. A row of family photos with groups of kids smiling at the camera.
A familiar ache engulfed her.
What happened to living happily ever after? To families staying together? To kids who outlived their parents?
“You said you hurt your ankle, and you’re definitely favoring your left foot.” Jill’s voice pulled her back to the present.
“It’s nothing. I just twisted it jumping out of the car.”
“You should get off of it. I’ve got an ice pack in the freezer for emergencies. I’ll get it. And if someone does try to get into this house, they won’t get far. Marty was a drill instructor and an expert marksman—”
“That was three decades ago, Jill.”
“And you are just as tough today as you were back then.”
A moment later, Grace took the ice pack and towel and nodded her thanks. She pulled off her left boot, sat back down, and pressed it against her ankle. The cold shot up her leg.
“A black vehicle just parked about three houses down on the other side of the street,” Marty said.
Grace dumped the ice pack beside her and moved to the window where she could peek through the blinds. She felt an adrenaline rush. One of the men was walking down the street toward them. They were still out there, circling in on her. But there was no way for them to find her, was there?
“That’s them,” she said.
“Where are the police?” Jill asked.
“Grace?” Marty handed her the phone she’d set down on the coffee table. “The operator’s back on the line.”
“I think the men are coming,” she said to the operator.
“Can you give me a license plate number and a more detailed description of the car?”
Grace peeked through the blinds and squinted. “They parked down the street, it’s too far away. I don’t think I can read it.”
“Wait a second . . .” Jill stepped out of the living room, then returned with a pair of binoculars. “Try these. We do a lot of bird watching.”
