Picture Perfect

by Fern Michaels

  Sanders’s ulcer was beginning to act up, and he had the two-and-a-half-hour plane ride back to New Jersey to look forward to. And an airline dinner. He popped two Rolaids into his mouth, hoping to ward off what he knew would be an acute case of indigestion. The thought of sitting beside Sara Taylor for the entire trip played hell with his whole body chemistry. Perhaps she would sleep, or he would. Although the latter was out of the question—he’d have to remain awake to play bodyguard. Ridiculous. It was like playing nursemaid to a barracuda in open water.

  He wanted this case to be over and done with. He wanted Davey back home, safe and sound. He yearned to take Lorrie Ryan into his arms and tell her everything was going to be all right, but he didn’t know if it would be. It had to be, dammit. It just had to be. Davey Taylor was one hell of a special little boy and Sanders couldn’t bear the thought of anything bad happening to him.

  His footsteps were silent in the thickly carpeted hallway which led to the Taylors’ hotel suite. Could it have been only half an hour ago that he’d presented them with the facts about Davey, carefully omitting any mention of the possibility of foul play? He’d intentionally reinforced their suppositions that Davey was lost or had wandered off. Whatever it was that he’d expected, it hadn’t happened. Sanders knew that he had wanted to be the one to tell them because he’d wanted to see Sara Taylor go to pieces. He should have known better, he told himself, and wondered when he’d become so vicious in his thinking. If it had been any other woman, he would have dreaded telling her that her son was missing. But not Sara Taylor. For once he wanted to see her rattled, confused, and desperate. Out of control.

  Andrew Taylor was the one Sanders pitied. The man kept running a frantic hand through his hair, his features drawn and pained. Sara had been the strong one, comforting her husband, telling him that she agreed with Sanders and was certain Davey had wandered off.

  For a long moment, Sara’s eyes had commanded Sanders’s attention. Was he wrong, or had he seen an accusation in their depths, even while her hand tenderly stroked Andrew’s arm? A thought came to him. Andrew Taylor’s witnessing of that scene in the university library had upset the order of Sara’s household. Things were beyond her control and she blamed Andrew.

  Matthews stood outside the Taylor suite, arms crossed over his chest. “They wanted to be alone,” he explained.

  Sanders nodded and rapped on the door. Andrew opened it, the anguished lines of half an hour ago gone from his face. Sara had worked her magic with him once again. But how, Sanders wondered, did you get a man to forget that his son might be in grave danger?

  “Mrs. Taylor, our plane leaves at six ten. A car will pick us up. The airport is only a few minutes from here. Can you be ready?”

  Sara’s eyebrows shot up. “Mr. Sanders, I won’t be leaving with you after all. My husband and I talked it over, and I’m going to remain here with him.”

  Sanders was incredulous. Wild horses wouldn’t have kept his sister away if one of her kids had been in trouble.

  “And Mr. Sanders,” Sara continued in her cool voice, “tell my sister I’ll be calling her shortly.” The words held a threat; Sanders pitied Lorrie Ryan, and Davey too. Every child needed a loving, tender mother figure in his life. Somehow he just knew that if Sara had anything to say about it, and she would, Lorrie Ryan might as well forget she’d ever known and loved little Davey Taylor.

  “Now, Mr. Sanders, I don’t want you to waste your time trying to persuade me to go back with you. My mind is made up. I must be here with Andrew. We started this together, and we’ll finish it together. What kind of wife would I be if I deserted my husband now when he needs me? You’d better hurry; you don’t have much time and there’s bound to be traffic at this hour. We wouldn’t want to be responsible for you missing your plane. After all, it is your job.”

  Sanders turned to Andrew. “Mr. Taylor, do you agree with your wife’s decision to remain here?” Make her go, dammit! Make her be a mother to that kid for once in her life. But Sanders did not give voice to his thoughts. He’d been warned that the Taylors weren’t to be unnecessarily alarmed—at least Andrew Taylor wasn’t. He was the key witness in the trial, and his testimony was all important in the case against the multimillion-dollar drug ring. The State needed to prove a connection between the murdered man and the syndicate, and Andrew would provide the connection.

  “Both you and my wife have assured me that Davey has just wandered off from the campsite. What would Sara’s presence accomplish? Lorrie will do all she can; we know that. Right now, as I see it, the imminent danger to Davey is his missing his shot. Unfortunately, nothing can be done about that until he returns.”

  Sanders couldn’t believe his ears. Taylor was talking as though Davey were a naughty child who had wandered away, and would return when he was good and ready! Sanders wanted to take Andrew and shake him and hear his stiff neck crack. Still, he couldn’t go against departmental orders. Even a hint that Davey might be held by friends of the Miami syndicate could discourage Andrew’s testimony.

  As time went on, Sanders was becoming more and more skeptical of that possibility. Surely, if Davey had been kidnapped, the Taylors would have been apprised of that fact; word would have been gotten to them, either directly or through the Bureau itself.

  “As my husband has told you, Mr. Sanders, we’ll be staying here until Andrew takes the stand. Tomorrow afternoon, at the latest, and then we’ll be back in New Jersey. By that time, Davey will have returned.”

  Sanders stiffened. What kind of mother was Sara Taylor? That poor little kid. Christ, he felt like smashing something. Smashing her! Something was on fire in his stomach—his damn ulcer was acting up. At least he could sleep on the plane and hope for the best. Just because she gave birth to Davey didn’t make her a mother. Schooling his face to impassivity, he said goodbye and walked away. He hoped he would never have to see either one of them again. Back in New Jersey he would be in the field, his responsibility to the Taylors over. From this moment on, his only contact with them would be through Lorrie Ryan.

  Leaving their hotel room, he sent up a silent prayer. Hang in there, little buddy. I’ll find you somehow. He dismissed the lump in his throat. Must have something to do with the ulcer, he told himself.

  Andrew Taylor watched his wife through narrowed lids. Another day and they would be back home, safe in New Jersey. Now why had he used the word “safe”? Here they were, locked in a hotel room with an armed guard outside the door. How much safer could he be than he was at this moment? He still wasn’t certain of Sara’s decision to stay with him. Was it a mistake for Sanders to go back alone? Sara had made the decision to stay at his side; he’d known she would. Her argument that two heads were better than one convinced him. Sara was always right. Everything that could possibly be done for Davey was being done. Sanders would take charge. Davey was alone, lost in the woods, but Sanders would find him and take him home safely. Sanders was a man to depend on.

  Andrew’s shoulders slumped as he recalled the look on the agent’s face when Sara had told him she wasn’t flying back with him. Her duty, she had said, was to stay with her husband. Sanders should have understood that, but Andrew knew he hadn’t. At first the look had been one of disbelief, but that had given way to sour acceptance. His goodbye had been barely audible. Sara was right; she was always right. Davey had just lost his bearings and would turn up before dark.

  Sara walked around the edge of the bed and lightly touched Andrew’s shoulder. “Would you like roast beef or chicken for dinner?”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I think a broiled spring chicken sounds fine. With a garden salad and some fresh peas—it’s much too hot for a heavy dinner. Andrew, you aren’t upset with me because I decided to stay on with you, are you?”

  “Of course not, Sara. Why would you even think such a thing? I know everything is being done to find Davey. The truth of the matter is, we would probably be in the way. Besides, he’ll turn up before dark. I know I alw
ays did.” He laughed. “I used to get lost at least once a week and always managed to find my way back.”

  “And Davey is his father’s son,” Sara said briskly. “After dinner I’m going to call Lorrie. I want to know how this happened. She always was a featherbrain. I’m so disappointed in her that I hardly know what to do. It just bears out, Andrew, what I told you before we left home. We must curtail her involvement with Davey.”

  Any doubts Andrew might have had concerning Lorrie’s attentions toward his son were wiped away with Sara’s words. It was uncanny how she was always right. “I quite agree, Sara.”

  “Police!” Sara made the term sound obscene. “It isn’t bad enough that we’re surrounded with guards and police twenty-four hours a day, but now we have to be subjected to more of them. What would you like to drink, Andrew? Why don’t we order wine and we can have it for the rest of the evening. It will help us to unwind and relax.”

  All Andrew heard was the word “relax.” He had been looking forward to a double scotch, straight up. A couple of liters of wine while he went over his testimony would certainly help. Sara was one step ahead of him all the time. Scotch wasn’t really a drink to sip in a hotel room. He hoped the wine-glasses had long stems.

  “I think I have it all now. You don’t want dessert, do you?” Sara said, putting the hotel pen back in the desk drawer.

  If he ordered dessert, he would still be eating after Sara was finished.

  “ No. ”

  “I didn’t think so.” Sara’s eyes twinkled down at him. Fondly, she stroked his hair. “I’ll give this to the guard and you can watch the news while we wait.”

  Just as Sara was about to open the door a sharp knock sounded. She glanced at Andrew—he was already engrossed in the early evening news. It was probably just the guard wondering why she was taking so long with the dinner menu. She smiled as she opened the door, the menu extended ready to hand over, then backed off a step, her eyes flashing between the bellboy and then to the guard.

  “A message came in for you a few minutes ago, ma’am,” the bellboy offered.

  Sara looked at Jake Matthews. “It’s all right,” he assured her. “We’ve checked it out. It just came in. Is that your menu? Good, the boy can take it down when he leaves. I’ll tip him, Mrs. Taylor. You go back inside now and lock the door.”

  Sara made a face the minute the door was shut—as if she needed to be told to lock it. The message was probably from Lorrie and full of all kinds of apologies, or else to say Davey had returned to the campsite. She sat down next to Andrew and withdrew a slip of paper from the envelope. She read it once, then read it again. The message was brief: It’s urgent that you call 943-0773 as soon as possible. There was no signature, just the time the message had been logged in.

  Sara read it again. Was it a local number? It was certainly a Florida number or the operator would have included an area code. What could it mean? Should she show it to Andrew? He would worry. Roman DeLuca. Of course. It didn’t matter that she detested the suave district attorney. She would wait till a commercial came on before telling Andrew.

  The anchorman’s voice droned on as he reported on the plight of the Albanian refugees. A sleek Mercedes flashed on the screen as a pitch came on for a local car dealer. “Darling, look at me,” Sara began. “It seems we have a message. A bellboy gave it to me when I opened the door to give our dinner menu to the guard. Read it and tell me what you think.”

  Andrew read the curt message. He shrugged. “Did you show it to the guard?”

  “Of course not, Andrew. After all, we are entitled to some privacy. Perhaps it’s something personal, although I can’t think what it could be. It appears to be a local number, or at least a Florida number. At first I thought it might be a message from Lorrie, or even Mr. Sanders, but I don’t think that’s the case.”

  “Well, there’s only one way to find out—call the number and see what it is,” Andrew suggested.

  “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Andrew. Perhaps we should wait for Roman DeLuca to get here and show it to him. I really don’t want to get involved in anything else right now. It could be some pervert, or a weird person who watches the news and does things like this. You know how some people get a thrill out of tormenting others. It could even be a threat against us.”

  “I don’t want anyone threatening you, ever,” Andrew said adamantly. “We’ll wait for Roman to get here and let him handle it.”

  Sara smiled. “How gallant of you, Andrew. I think it’s wise to wait, too.”

  Andrew let out a long sigh. She agreed with him. He smiled at her in an intimate way and she responded in kind. Gently, she blew him a kiss. He smiled again as the caravan of Mercedes cars left the screen to be replaced again with the silver-haired, somber-faced news commentator.

  Sanders settled himself in his aisle seat aboard the 747. He hoped the flight would take off on time and that they wouldn’t have to wait in line on the runway. He hated waiting. It seemed all he ever did was wait. Wait for this. Wait for that. Waiting was something most people thought he did well because he never complained. But he didn’t do it well. Not at all. His insides always felt as though they were on fire. He detested inactivity almost as much as he hated certain people. Once he hated someone, God Almighty couldn’t get him to revise his opinion. And by the same token, when someone got close to his heart, that person stayed close forever. His sister said he loved with a vengeance. Maybe he did, he thought sheepishly.

  Out of habit, he reached for his pack of cigarettes, took one out, then remembered: no smoking. What the hell! The half dozen he would have smoked during the flight would be that many fewer nails in his coffin. He’d always thought that when he went down for the count it would be with the big C. He was already coughing and hacking in the morning. The thought of his own death didn’t bother him. It was the death of other people that made him want to lash out.

  Davey Taylor. Was the kid suffering, wherever he was? Sanders leaned back and grasped the cross he always wore around his neck. He didn’t like takeoffs any more than he liked landings. It used to be that as long as he could smoke and sleep in between, he didn’t care. But things were different now. The silver bird climbed and climbed then leveled off. The “No Smoking” sign, a laughable relic of the last decade, went off. Maybe if he had a bourbon and water, he would be all right for the next two and a half hours. He opened his briefcase and pulled out the Polaroid he’d taken of Davey Taylor wearing his red windbreaker. A deep, paternal feeling for the little boy swelled in him. There was something about this kid, something that bothered him. Something he just couldn’t put his finger on. He would have to chalk it up to a gut feeling, and twenty-three years with the Bureau.

  Back in Miami he’d felt that someone, or some force, was at work against the kid. Over the years he’d learned to trust his feelings, even if others didn’t. When he’d told the chief about it, he’d listened, nodded and asked for some concrete evidence or substantiated facts. Sanders didn’t have anything concrete—just a feeling, a gut feeling. Both agreed it was possible that the little boy was being used as a pawn, but Sanders thought it more improbable than probable. So what was it then—this feeling of his?

  All of a sudden Sara Taylor’s face appeared before him. She had a cool, patrician kind of beauty, he had to give her that. But that was all he would give her. She’d said her place was with her husband. How could she ignore her son like that? Was it possible she knew something Sanders didn’t? Had she really bought into his bogus theory that the kid had just wandered off? Who knew what she was thinking behind that frozen mask she wore. Sanders might not know what made Sara Taylor tick, but there was one man who thought he did know—Roman DeLuca. Sanders had watched the suave district attorney during his first meeting with the Taylors. DeLuca sized Sara up in five minutes flat, and immediately discounted her—much to Sara’s chagrin.

  Sanders stared at the snapshot of Davey for a while longer. He couldn’t shake his feelings. He kept thin
king that he’d see something in the photo that would make it all clear. Some answer, some clue. But there was nothing. He laid the picture back on top of a yellow legal pad, groped for a paper clip and attached it to a wad of sheets. He didn’t want to lose it. Satisfied that the picture was secure, he fished and fumbled inside the briefcase, looking for his favorite treat—salted peanuts. He found two bags and laid them on the seat next to him.

  Chapter 8

  Cudge Balog wished he had three eyes—one for watching the road, one for watching his back, and the third for watching Elva. He didn’t like the way she was acting, nor did he care for the creepy way she kept looking at him. And, he thought grimly, she hadn’t bawled at all when he’d kicked her ankle. That wasn’t like Elva. Crying and whining were the things she did best, besides making Kool-Aid. Time to give her another jolt.

  He took his eyes from the road for an instant and sneaked a look at her. She was nervous, of that he was certain, but it was annoying him that she was in control of it. “I was thinkin’, Elva. You know, in prison they give you anything you want to eat for your last meal. What would you order, Elva? This is as good a time as any to decide because you been belly-aching how hungry you are. What would you order?”

  Elva knew exactly what Cudge was trying to do. Unnerve her. Make her fall apart, and then, when she was hysterical, he would kill her. She couldn’t let that happen. She had to help the little boy get out of the camper and get away. She couldn’t let Cudge do anything to her until the boy was safe.

  Cautiously, she turned in her seat and stared at Cudge for a long time. It was Cudge who was becoming unnerved now as he kept glancing at her then quickly looking back at the road. Her voice was light, almost airy, and seemed to come from far away. “I think I’d order veal cutlets, because of what they cost. And shrimp. Big juicy ones with a real spicy sauce to start with. Baked potatoes, with lots of sour cream. And rolls. Hot ones with butter. And that dessert I always hear about, Cherries Jubilee; whatever it is, it sounds good. And beer. A really icy cold beer. Coffee, with rich cream, none of that fake stuff, to top it off. Maybe a peppermint Lifesaver to settle my stomach as I walk down death row. What are you gonna order, Cudge?”