Found Wanting

by Joyce Lamb

  Now, more than fifteen years later, Alaina sat shivering on the trunk of a broken tree, hopelessly lost.

  "I guess I showed you, Dad, didn't I?"

  Wearily, she pushed herself up and turned in a circle, trying to figure out which way would take her back to the shelter of the cabin.

  Chapter 26

  Mitch, warm now from loading up the rental car with supplies to last at least a week, plugged his last quarters into the Wal-Mart pay phone. Julia picked up on the first ring.

  "Were you followed?" he asked.

  "Don't think so."

  "Excellent. Alaina and I have taken refuge at one of those cabins we stayed at last year."

  "How's she holding up?"

  "She's doing as well as can be expected."

  "Where is she now?"

  "I left her at the cabin."

  "And you think she's staying put?" Julia asked.

  "I imagine she's exploring her options."

  "Jesus, Mitch, if she takes off, she could end up lost on that mountain."

  "I left her my cellphone and your number," he said. "She'll call if she gets desperate."

  "Yeah, or she might freeze to death before asking for help from us."

  "She's stubborn, but she's not stupid."

  "You like her," Julia said, a smile in her voice.

  "I do. But she doesn't trust me."

  "Gee, that's a shock."

  "I told her I'd help her get Jonah back."

  "Of course, you did."

  He smiled into the phone. "You don't have to sound so smug."

  She laughed. "But I am smug."

  "I'm going to need you to do a few things."

  "Shoot."

  He paused, struck suddenly by how lucky he was to have her. "Thank you, Julia."

  "I haven't done anything yet."

  "You've done tons. I owe you, big time."

  "Yeah, well, I won't let you forget it. So tell me what you need."

  "You've been keeping an eye on Keller's place like I asked?"

  "Yep. When I'm not there, I've got Steve on it."

  Steve Larson was a freelancer they used to help on bigger cases. "Great," Mitch said. "I need a sense of Jonah's schedule. I realize that it's too soon for him to have developed a routine, but there might be certain times of the day when he's outside by himself, maybe hanging out by a pool or something."

  Silence answered him.

  "You there?" he asked.

  "You're going to try to kidnap him back?" Julia asked slowly.

  "If we have to."

  "Wouldn't it be safer and more practical for Alaina to file for custody? I mean, a judge is going to do what's best for Jonah, and what Jonah has to say is going to carry a lot of weight," she said. "Plus, Keller didn't file a complaint after she took off with him, so it's unlikely that she'd be charged with kidnapping fourteen years later."

  "They might not have a case against her, but that doesn't mean they won't try."

  "What are you saying?"

  "The feds have threatened to go after her if she does anything that hampers their investigation of Keller," he said. "They don't want him distracted by a custody battle."

  "So you think they might arrest her to get her out of the way, even if they have no grounds to charge her?"

  "Right. She kidnapped him. There's no question about that. What the feds can or can't do about it now could get messy. A judge would have to sort it out, and the feds might be able to delay the process for months."

  "How long is this investigation into Keller supposed to take?"

  "I don't know. Chuck wouldn't tell me what it's about."

  "Typical fed bullshit."

  "He's just doing his job."

  "Wait a minute. Are you defending him?"

  "Yeah, I guess I am. He's a damn good agent. Alaina would probably be dead by now if he hadn't helped me out. Can we get back to Jonah's schedule?"

  "Keller isn't letting him off by himself at all. He probably expects Jonah to try to make a run for it, so he's watching him like a hawk. And his security is pretty standard for a paranoid millionaire who's built himself a fortress to keep the riff raff out."

  "Any progress on getting blueprints?"

  "The guy hasn't shared his fabulous home with Better Homes & Gardens or Architectural Digest. I might be able to cozy up to someone at the architectural firm that designed the place, but that'll take some time."

  "That's fine."

  "Uh, is that the best approach? I mean, knowing the layout of the place would make it easier to get the kid out of there, but if time is of the essence, someone on the inside and some security codes would serve us better."

  Mitch gripped the phone tighter. "Time is not of the essence right now."

  "I was thinking you'd want to move quickly on this."

  "I do, but not too quickly. If by some chance the feds manage to wrap up their case in the next few weeks, none of this will be necessary. Alaina, hopefully, would get Jonah back without having to commit another crime to do it."

  "A few weeks is a long time to stall."

  "I know."

  "She's going to be antsy as hell," Julia said. "And ticked off if she figures it out."

  "Then I'll have to make sure she doesn't."

  * * *

  "He's different," Addison said.

  "Different how?" asked FBI Deputy Director Chuck Reiser as he jotted a note in a small spiral notebook.

  Addison shifted in the rattan chair across the small wicker table from him. She had come to the Dupont Circle coffee bar to meet Assistant Director Norm Potter, who had introduced her to Chuck before slipping out. This man -- in his perfectly creased navy suit, impeccable dark blue shirt and artsy yellow tie designed by Jerry Garcia -- made her nervous. He didn't necessarily look FBI. His thick, light brown hair was slightly too long in the back, its waves swept back from his brow as if he constantly ran his hand through it. She imagined his blue eyes -- not piercing, but alert, watchful -- didn't miss a detail. All in all, he made her uncomfortable, and she longed for the familiarity that she had with Potter.

  "Why did Agent Potter leave?" she asked.

  "He's being reassigned."

  "Why?"

  "Your husband's investigation has become a high priority, Mrs. Keller."

  She couldn't stand it, the not knowing. "What is he doing?"

  "I'm not at liberty to say."

  "Don't feed me that bullshit --" She broke off, sliding her hand to the back of her neck and rubbing as she glanced around to see whether anyone was watching them. "I'm sorry. I'm under a great deal of pressure."

  "I understand. Can you tell me how your husband has been different?"

  "It's like he thinks he doesn't have to be polite anymore. He's starting to do and say things that he never would have. He's been sarcastic. Taunting. Even mean."

  "Has he tried to harm the boy?"

  "No, of course not. I wouldn't let him."

  "What about you?"

  She stared at him, aghast. "Have I tried to harm Jonah?"

  Chuck gave her a patient smile. "Has your husband tried to harm you?"

  Addison had to laugh, and her eyes watered as she looked around for a waiter or waitress. "Do they have anything stronger than coffee here?"

  "Mrs. Keller, has your husband mentioned a business trip to Belize?"

  She refocused on him. "In a couple weeks, yes. He has a meeting with a software company there. Why?"

  "Are you going with him?"

  "No. I haven't gone on a business trip with him in several years. If I want to go to Belize or wherever, I go. Why?"

  Chuck slid a photo out of his briefcase and onto the table. "Do you know this woman?"

  Addison gazed down at the photograph of Layton and a pretty redhead, facing each other in a park, their heads close together as if they were speaking intimately. It took a few moments for what she was seeing to sink in. Then suddenly it made sense why her husband hadn't touched her in months. And she felt a sta
b of jealous fury. "Who is she?"

  "Do you recognize her?"

  "Give me an answer, damn you," she snapped. "Who is she?"

  "Winnifred Ellison. She's a doctor at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. She and Mr. Keller have been meeting regularly for several weeks now."

  "And you're just now sharing this information? Is this another instance of 'need to know'? The FBI didn't think I needed to know before now that my husband appears to be having an affair?" More pieces fell into place in her head. The taunting, the sarcasm, as if he no longer cared whether he hurt her. Layton was planning to leave. The mask was starting to slip, not because he was getting less adept at keeping it in place but because very soon he wouldn't have to wear it anymore and he just plain didn't care.

  Chuck cleared his throat. "Your husband has made travel arrangements for three to Belize the week after next. One way."

  * * *

  Huffing and puffing from the hundred pounds of supplies strapped to his back, Mitch mounted the steps to the cabin's porch. Sweat poured down his face, and he swiped his forearm across his eyes. Unbuckling the pack, he eased it to the floor, then rotated his shoulders and twisted at the waist to stretch fatigued muscles. The sun had set an hour before, and a brisk wind was picking up, hinting at the spring thunderstorm that had been forecast.

  Walking into the cabin, he was relieved to find Alaina on the sofa, curled in a ball under the Mexican blanket. He knelt before her, gently brushing dark hair back from her forehead. Her cheeks looked flushed, as if she'd spent a significant amount of time outside in the cold or had a fever. Her skin was warm and dry, though, her breathing even and deep.

  Trailing his fingers lightly over the bruise that spread purple along her jaw, he experienced anew the rage that a man had struck her. It didn't make him any less angry that he himself had shot that man dead. He'd been Layton Keller's hired killer, and that made Keller the man behind the fist. Keller, he vowed, would pay for that.

  Marveling at this fierce protectiveness toward a woman he had met only days ago, he tucked the blanket more securely around her, then rose to tend to the fire.

  When he had that going, he started to return to the porch to unpack the supplies but paused at the door. Something about Alaina's shoes -- he picked one up, turning it over. The mud caked on the sole was fresh.

  She had made a run for it and returned.

  Glancing over at her, he wondered what had brought her back: trust or necessity. He figured he knew the answer.

  Chapter 27

  Seven days later

  Mitch rinsed the shampoo from his hair, his muscles seeming to hum from chopping wood to last a few days. It had been an invigorating workout, and now he was hungry. He was thinking about what to throw together for dinner when a piercing shriek startled him. Whipping the shower curtain aside, he fumbled for his gun, in its holster hanging from the door knob, and sprinted, dripping wet, toward the front room. Instead of an intruder threatening Alaina, he found her thrashing on the sofa, caught in the grip of a nightmare. Setting aside the gun, he dropped down beside her.

  "Alaina."

  She reared up and, surprised, he grabbed her arms to restrain her. "Alaina."

  Her struggles grew desperate. "Let go!"

  He gave her a hard shake. "Alaina! Wake up!"

  She came out of it, choking off in mid-scream. Instantly recoiling, she shoved at his hands on her arms. "Let go. Let go."

  He released her, something twisting in his gut when she retreated to the corner of the sofa farthest away from him. Holding his hands up in supplication, he backed off the couch to give her space. She'd been plagued by nightmares since they had holed up at the cabin a week ago, and he'd learned the routine quickly. No touching. "It's okay. It was a dream. You're okay."

  Gasping for air, she stared at him, pale and shaking, hair falling into her eyes.

  "It was a dream," he repeated. "You're safe."

  Finally, her eyes cleared, and her breathing slowed. Then her cheeks flooded with color, and she pushed the sweat-damp hair off her face with trembling hands. "I'm sorry," she said, her voice hoarse. "I'm sorry."

  He stayed where he was, hands up, heart still racing. Thunder shook the walls, and she flinched, but he made no move to go to her.

  Wiping her eyes, she gazed into the fire for several seconds, as if trying to get her bearings or perhaps get raging emotions under control. When she looked at him, her eyes looked more green than gray. "You're naked."

  Glancing down at himself in surprise, he laughed as he edged forward, grasped the corner of the blanket and drew it around his waist. "I was in the shower."

  "I'm sorry," she repeated, still appearing disoriented.

  He cleared his throat. "Uh, how about some dinner? I was going to make some tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches."

  Lightning flashed, and Alaina closed her eyes, as if steeling herself for the thunder that would follow. When it did, it was sharp, but she didn't flinch this time.

  "Want to talk about it?" Mitch asked.

  Looking at him, she wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Tomato soup happens to be one of my favorites."

  He smiled, ashamed at himself for being relieved that she didn't want to talk. He knew it was selfish, but he was beginning to fear that once he knew her demons, they would stalk him as much as they did her. "I'll get dressed, then put together dinner."

  * * *

  Alone, Alaina covered her face with her hands and took several deep breaths. This was the fourth time she'd awakened screaming since arriving at the cabin. The last time such nightmares had invaded her sleep, the diagnosis had been post-traumatic stress. That would certainly apply here, she thought. But this time was different. Then, she had begun relaxing, enjoying her life, "letting down her guard," as her therapist had put it. Now, though, it was all falling apart. And so, it appeared, was she.

  She'd managed to hold it together for seven days now. Her bruises had faded, along with most of the physical pain. But each day that went by without Jonah made it ever more difficult to hang on, to remain calm, in control. It was as if every second that ticked by chipped away at her chances of getting her son back. It took every ounce of strength she could muster not to dissolve into a distraught, incoherent mess.

  And now the nightmares had begun again.

  She forced herself to think about something else, and Mitch's glistening, bare chest came to mind. It was easy to focus on how good he'd looked just now, standing there wearing nothing but a worried expression, his hair wet and spikey, water streaming down his muscled thighs. As her cheeks heated, she steered her brain away from that territory, too. Such thoughts were futile and unlike her. The only reason she was having them was because she was such a wreck that any unbidden feeling could sneak past her defenses.

  Plus, she was grateful to him. He had given her the space she sought, accepting her distance and going about the daily chores of chopping wood, cooking meals, retrieving supplies and conversing regularly on his cellphone with his partner. He'd tried to draw Alaina into casual conversation, but she hadn't had the emotional fortitude even for that. She was simply biding her time until she had Jonah back. Nothing else mattered.

  She must have drifted back to sleep for a few minutes, because she woke when Mitch called out from the kitchen. "Soup's on."

  Pushing herself off the sofa, she followed the scent of tomato soup into the kitchen, where she was greeted by another delicious scent: coffee.

  Mitch was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved, navy T-shirt identical to hers, clothing that he had picked up for them both at Wal-Mart. As he set a cup on the counter and filled it from a thermos, he said, "We're running low on fuel for the generator. I'll have to make a run in the next few days to get some more."

  She sipped the hot coffee. "Damn, this is good."

  "You're not going to start talking to a log, are you?"

  She gave him a baffled glance. "Huh?"

  "Guess you never watched that TV show Twin Peaks. T
he guy was always raving about the coffee and the pie. And there was a lady who talked to a log."

  Her brain had stalled on the sentence before the last. "There's pie?"

  Chuckling, he gestured behind her at the table outside the kitchen door. "Go have a seat. I'll bring dinner to you."

  She didn't move, holding the coffee cup just under her chin so the steam and its heavenly scent wafted right up into her face. She remembered how busy he had been in the kitchen earlier in the day, had determined from the cooking smells that he was making something tasty, but she had been too lethargic to investigate. Now, however, her interest was piqued. "Please tell me there's pie," she said.

  He grinned. "That's a surprise."

  Feeling fortified by the coffee and the banter, she went to the table and settled onto a chair, noting for the first time how cozy the cabin was with only the light from the fire, thunder rumbling occasionally in the distance. If not for their circumstances, the ambience could have been considered romantic.

  Mitch walked in with two bowls of soup, one of which he set before her with a flourish, along with the roll of crackers he'd tucked under his arm. "First up, tomato soup a la Progresso."

  Picking up her spoon, she asked, "Did you talk to your partner today?"

  "Yes. She said Grant Maxwell left the hospital today. He's doing well."

  Her relief was profound. "That's excellent news."

  "She's going to drop in tomorrow to give us an update on her progress."

  "Where's she coming from?"

  "The District. It's about a two-hour drive."

  She studied him, struck once again by confusion. The man had seemed to hate her guts a week ago, and now he and his partner were putting themselves at risk to help her. He'd just spent seven days of his life cooped up with her in the woods, working his butt off to keep them warm and fed. He had killed a man to save her life.

  Her stomach rolled as she remembered being splattered with the hit man's blood, and suddenly, tomato soup was not the least bit appealing.