McLain's Law

by Kylie Brant

  “All right?” she questioned faintly, but his head was buried once again in the maps. “All right what?”

  “You can help find the place where they’re holding the kids.” Her brief surge of elation that she wasn’t going to have to fight him on this anymore was squelched by his stern look and next words. “But we do this my way. Once we do find it, you will stay well out of the way. Understood?”

  “If,” she stressed the word, “I decide to do as you say, will you promise to wait for backup before you go in to search the place?” At his silence, her alarm grew. “Connor! I want you to promise.”

  He sighed and eyed her soberly. “You know I can’t promise you that, Michele.”

  If anything more lethal than a pile of maps had been handy, she would have thrown it at his stubborn head. “Then I refuse,” she said haughtily.

  It was Connor’s turn to gape. “You what?”

  Michele sniffed. “You heard me. I refuse. I won’t help you. And I’ll slip away every chance I get and continue searching on my own.”

  Connor’s hands crumpled the maps as his fists clenched. It had been a while since he’d seen that haughty mask descend over those perfect features and heard that snooty tone, but it still had the power to rouse his instant ire. “You won’t refuse, Princess,” he crooned softly. “Because if I can’t be sure you’ll stay put, I’ll throw you in a cell for obstruction of justice, and you can just explain that to your dear colleague.”

  Michele’s frosty gray eyes changed to simmering coals. “You wouldn’t.” Her voice was a dare.

  “Try me,” he invited flatly. Green eyes glared into gray. It was Michele who looked away first. After a long silence she spoke, her voice soft. “I’m so afraid for you, Connor.”

  His voice was just as quiet. “So you know how I feel about you. Work with me on this, Michele. I have the manpower to find the place eventually, but with you, I can find it a lot faster. You don’t want to subject those kids to any extra moments of hell, I know. All right?”

  “All right,” she murmured in resignation. Vibrant between them was the understanding that she had never received the promise she had asked for.

  Connor’s perusal turned back to the maps. “These X’ed areas have already been checked?” At her nod, he asked, “Did you have any special reason to start where you did?”

  Michele hesitated. Finally she replied simply, “I had to start somewhere.”

  Connor nodded. “We’ll leave your car here for now and take mine.” He got out of the car with the maps in his hand, and Michele followed more slowly. “We’ll probably start northwest of the district,” he continued, spreading a map over the hood of his car as he planned, “because that’s the general area in which most of the kidnappings occurred. If the kidnapper continued in that direction, that would put the place right about in here.” He indicated a section on the map. “Doesn’t look like you’ve started looking there yet.”

  Michele continued past him, around the car. She opened the door and slid in without a word. As she stared sightlessly out the window, she couldn’t prevent the feeling that Connor’s plan would take him to his own death.

  * * *

  After several hours driving around the scenic countryside, Michele couldn’t remember a single trait she had ever found attractive in Connor McLain. She was tired, she was thirsty and she had found answering nature’s call in the tall grassy ditch next to the road humiliating.

  Connor was undoubtedly feeling the same frustration, and obviously adversity didn’t bring out the best in him. He was sarcastic and downright surly. As the afternoon waned and they still found nothing, his mood worsened.

  Michele complained querulously, “For goodness’ sakes, Connor, let’s pack it in for the day. I’m tired, and I want something to eat and a long hot bath. And I don’t know about you, Attila, but the next time I have to go, I’d like to use a rest room.”

  “Well, look into your crystal ball,” he baited back, “and see if you can at least find one of those anywhere around here.”

  Michele told him in short graphic terms where she would put her crystal ball if she had one, and they continued to drive in silence for a while.

  At last Connor spoke. “Well, if nothing else, we’ve gotten to see a lot of the countryside. Hell, tourists pay good money to come to Pennsylvania and drive through country like this. Maybe you should have brought your camera.” At her silence he glanced over at her, and the sight of the frozen expression on her face instantly alarmed him. “Michele, what is it? Michele?” He reached over and touched her still arm. “You’re like ice,” he muttered as he steered the car to the side of the road and stopped. He turned to her again. “Michele, honey, are you okay?”

  Michele looked at the landscape ahead of her as though memorizing it, but that wasn’t really necessary. She knew without using her eyes what she would see in front of her. The little farm lay nestled snugly in the distance, flanked by rolling hills. And to their right . . . She knew already what lay ahead of that stand of trees. She could feel the evil, even if she couldn’t see the building itself yet. She felt the hopelessness, the despair, of the children, and something else, something with an almost familiar air about it.

  Connor stared hard in the direction where her eyes were focused and suddenly knew without any words from her what was wrong. Despite the warmth outside, he threw the heater on full blast, his only concession to what Michele was feeling, and drove on.

  A quarter mile up the road he stopped again. He didn’t need to ask for Michele’s confirmation; she had described this place too well on too many occasions for him to be unsure about what they had found. He radioed the state police for backup. Then he turned to Michele.

  Her gray eyes were wide with terror, and he hated to leave her, but he had to. “It looks deserted,” she whispered, staring out at the dilapidated building. And it did. It had obviously been decades since it had served in its original function as a one- room schoolhouse for neighboring farm families. The bell in front was cracked and hung crookedly from its crossbar. The windows were boarded up, and Michele’s eyes were drawn irresistibly to the one she had looked out in her dreams. The crack between the boards was there, just as she had known it would be.

  “Give me your hand,” Connor ordered, and Michele tore her eyes away to turn them to him in confusion, even as she obeyed. As he drew out a pair of handcuffs she guessed his intention too late and frantically tried to withdraw, but he held her hand tightly and snapped one of the bracelets over her wrist and locked it.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded.

  “Making sure you stay put,” he told her imperturbably as he latched the other cuff to the steering wheel. He slipped the key in his pocket. “I’m going to take a look around.” He slipped from the car.

  “Connor, no!” Michele implored. “Wait for the others, please. Connor!” She was speaking to his retreating back. She drew a deep breath as she watched him draw his gun and approach the building in a crouched position. He disappeared around one corner, and Michele slammed her free hand against the steering wheel. She waited anxiously for long minutes, but Connor didn’t reappear. Peering down the road, she couldn’t see any oncoming vehicles, and she knew that it would still be a while before help would reach them.

  She yanked ineffectually at the cuff, which held firm. Then she eyed it skeptically. She was small-boned, and it just might be possible . . . .

  After several more minutes she gave up. Try as she might, she was unable to worm her hand through the opening. She slumped back in the seat for a minute, then sat up in renewed determination. She reached over with her free hand and opened the glove compartment. She rummaged through the full compartment as best she could, but she didn’t find another set of cuffs or another key. That didn’t stop her, however. She got down on the floor on one knee and contorted her body so that her free hand was able to search under the front seat.

  She grunted in discomfort. She obviously wasn’t as flexible as she h
ad thought. Her hand moved under the passenger seat in vain. It was a bit more difficult to search under the driver’s seat. She finally had to turn her back and crouch completely under the steering wheel, wincing in pain as the handcuff pinched her flesh at her changed position. Once more her free hand searched, this time with more luck. She pulled out a packet of tools, Connor’s shield and badge—and an extra set of handcuffs.

  She held the handcuffs up triumphantly and, in her jubilation, sat upright. “Yeow,” she moaned as her head met the bottom of the steering shaft. Next she maneuvered her body back to her original position on the seat and, using the key from the extra set of cuffs she’d found, attempted to unlock the ones she was wearing.

  By this time she was sweating at the combined effects of her efforts and the heater. She switched the heat off before turning her attentions to the handcuff once again. In moments she was free.

  “Finally,” she muttered as she rubbed her tender wrist. It was red from the twisting and tugging she had been doing in her efforts at freedom.

  Opening the car door she got out, casting a worried look down the road again. Still no cars in sight. Michele made herself look at the building once again, praying to see Connor McLain emerge from around one corner. No sign of him, either.

  She stood still and chewed her bottom lip uncertainly. How many minutes had it been since Connor had disappeared? She closed her eyes briefly. Too many.

  Her mind made up, she walked toward the old school. Toward the scene that had played too many times in her mind to be disbelieved. Toward Connor.

  Chapter 17

  Michele followed the path Connor had taken around the old schoolhouse, but he was nowhere in sight. There was a back door leading to the inside, mute testimony to where he had disappeared.

  She eyed it, shocked by the ice crystallizing anew within her body. This was it; she knew it with a certainty that had nothing to do with the woods to the side or the brook gurgling behind it with an incongruously pleasant sound. The surety rose from something else, the suffering and despair that radiated from the building in waves, enveloping her.

  She wrapped her arms around herself and tried to still the shaking that suddenly attacked her body with bone-jarring force. She longed violently to go running back to the car, back to the heater, away from the unfamiliar dementia that surrounded this building.

  Michele closed her eyes, struggling with herself. Even as she longed to leave, she knew she would never comply with that wish. All the heat in the world wouldn’t warm her now, could never chase away the chill that had permeated her bones. Only finding Connor could do that. Finding him safe. And whole. And alive.

  Her hand shook so badly that it slipped from the knob twice before she managed to pull the door open. She somehow wasn’t surprised to find that it opened easily, swinging outward without a sound to attest to its age. Peering into the dark interior, she stepped over the threshold.

  The door swung closed behind her, leaving her blinking at the sudden blackness. As she stood still for a moment, her eyes adjusted. Because of the bright sunlight outside and the poor condition of the roof and rotting boards over the windows, the place wasn’t totally dark. Here and there a wayward ray crept in and provided partial visibility.

  Michele moved forward, aware that most of the corners were still shrouded in darkness. She didn’t question her knowledge that there was no one in her immediate vicinity, just as she didn’t question the ability of her feet to take her directly to a rickety stairway in one corner.

  The condition of the stairs as she crept carefully up them made it obvious that whoever had taken such pains to render the door soundless had not paid the same care to the steps. Each step creaked and groaned, and at one point Michele’s foot went completely through a tread.

  Grimacing, she was silently grateful she couldn’t see her feet well enough to examine what was covering her shoe when she finally freed it. The upstairs was almost as dark as the downstairs. As she gazed around tremulously, she was only half aware that she was in some sort of loft. Because her immediate attention centered on the man crumpled upon the floor.

  With a muffled cry she rushed to his prone figure, sure that the nightmare was ready to reach up and engulf her, certain that his blood was about to flow over her, just like in her dreams.

  But when she reached him, she knew she had been wrong. For once the cursed visions had gone awry. “Connor,” she murmured to his still figure, but relief swept through her when she bent low and heard his steady breathing. She closed her eyes briefly in gratitude before moving her hands worriedly over his torso. How had he been injured? What could have happened to him? This place seemed deserted, and she wanted to scream inwardly for the damn backup car to get here already, so Connor could get help. So she could get him to safety.

  “Move away from him, Miss Easton.”

  Michele froze for a moment before looking up slowly. She swung her gaze searchingly around the area, but she saw nothing but shadows.

  “Who are you?” Her voice came out as a croak. “What have you done to him?”

  “He’s not hurt bad. And I told you to get away from him. Now!” the voice commanded her.

  Michele stood slowly, her mind racing. She knew that voice. She knew it!

  “Over there, by the window,” she was instructed, and she moved like an automaton, her eyes still flickering about in the darkness. Her eyes widened in shock, then horror, as the owner of the voice stepped out of the shadows, close enough for Michele to recognize him.

  “Scott,” she murmured, dazed. She shook her head, trying to make sense of the scene before her. “Whatever are you doing here? It doesn’t matter now,” she continued, worry for Connor taking precedence over her confusion. “You can help me. First we have to see what’s wrong with Connor. Then we can get help.”

  The young custodian approached her, stopping a few feet away. “I already know what’s wrong with him,” he told her, with no trace of his familiar stammer. “I hit him with this.” He held up an old board, then threw it to the side, where it clattered noisily down the steps. “He’s out cold.”

  Michele’s numbed mind was having difficulty making a connection between his words and what was happening in front of her. She wondered disjointedly at the certainty that had replaced his usually unsure manner. Not only was his familiar stutter missing, he seemed so decisive, so aggressive. What could have brought about such a change? “You hit him?” she repeated. “But why? Why would you . . . ?” Her voice trailed to a stop as she watched him reach into his belt and pull out a gun.

  Her eyes widened in disbelief. She had seen that gun too many times not to recognize it. She’d seen it lying in pieces on the table, being cleaned. She’d watched it being slid into its holster as it was being belted on. It was Connor’s.

  “What are you doing with that, Scott?” she asked conversationally. She noted the unfamiliarity with which he handled it and didn’t know if that was a bad sign or a good one. She devoutly hoped it was the latter.

  “Took it off him,” the young man boasted, casting a scornful eye in Connor’s direction. “The big city detective ain’t so great after all. Didn’t even have to swing that hard at his head and he was out like a light.”

  Michele felt nausea rise at his words, so callously describing how Connor had been injured. She forced it down, forced her voice to mildness, as she inquired, “Why would you want to hurt Connor, Scott? He wouldn’t harm you.”

  He snorted at her words. “Think I don’t know what he was doing here, what both of you are here for?” he asked scornfully. “But you’re too late. The last few kids are gone, and you’ll never find ‘em now. I was just getting rid of the last traces of ‘em. And the great hero detective won’t never solve this case.”

  Michele was aware of a great many things all at once. That she had never really known the person standing in front of her. That he had obviously had something to do with the kidnappings, and that he had no intention of letting them out of here. A
t those simultaneous certainties, she felt composure slip over her. All she had to do was keep Scott talking. Just keep him busy until the units Connor had called had time to arrive. It shouldn’t be too hard. After all, drawing people out about themselves was what she did for a living.

  But her life had never depended on it before.

  “Why don’t you tell me about all this, Scott?” she invited softly. His eyes jerked from Connor’s still figure to her. “How are you involved in this?”

  She watched as he almost preened with pride. “I knew what was happening all along. Me! Knew more than the cops, that’s for sure.”

  “That’s obvious,” Michele agreed gently. “How was it you were so clever, Scott?”

  “I seen the kidnapper that first time,” he explained proudly. “I seen him take that first kid. The cops thought no one seen nothing, but they were wrong. I was there, at the store where he was snatched. It’s the same place I pick up my ma’s pills.”

  “So you saw the whole thing,” Michele repeated, encouraging him to go on.

  “Yeah, I saw, and I knew the guy what did it, too. Seen him at church lots of times. My ma always makes me go,” he explained, as if his church-going habits rather than his bizarre behavior warranted clarification. “So I followed him on my moped until I lost him. But after church the next time I went up to Dennis—that’s his name,” he explained in an aside, “—and I says, ‘What’d you do with that kid you took?”

  “And he told you?” Michele asked, genuinely amazed.

  “He didn’t want to,” Scott muttered in remembered anger. “He thought I was stupid. I ain’t stupid!” he roared suddenly, his eyes blazing. “My ma says I just think slower, but that don’t make me dumb.”

  “I’ve never thought you were,” Michele reminded him gently.

  That stopped him for a moment, and he stared at her, the anger fading from his face. “No, you never did,” he agreed. “But Dennis did, at first. Thought he could scare me, make me be quiet and leave him alone. I had to prove how smart I can be before he’d let me help.”