Protecting Her Own (Love Inspired Suspense)

by Margaret Daley

  He shook his head, then closed his eyes. While her father slept, she flipped through the week-old magazine, scanning the pictures of the riots in Nzadi, an article she’d chosen not to read to her dad. One of the photos showed the café where the woman had been killed. The crowd held signs, some with pictures of Obioma Dia. A heaviness in her heart invaded her whole body. She’d read more about the woman and had admired her. If only she’d been able to…

  “Ca—raaa,” her father said, moaning, his eyes open wide.

  She dropped the magazine and leaped to her feet. As he struggled to sit up, she helped him. His face pale, he threw up onto the sheet that covered him. Sweat beaded his forehead. Cara punched the call button and held her father, feeling helpless to stop whatever was making him sick.

  The nurse, her friend Kathy, rushed into the room, took one look at the situation and said, “I’ll take care of this. Ask at the desk for an orderly to come here.”

  The look her father sent her tore at the anger she’d built up toward him over the past years. The pain and suffering in his eyes humbled her. She hurried to get an orderly, then paced in front of his door as Kathy and the orderly helped her dad.

  “What happened?” the deputy asked.

  “Dad got sick again.”

  “That’s a shame. I thought he was doing well, at least until recently.”

  “Yeah, he was. He should have been home a couple of days ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Hopefully Doc will find out what’s going on.”

  What if something else besides a medication reaction was going on? If someone was after her father, could that person have gotten to him here somehow? Thoughts tumbled around in her brain. But what? Poison? Here? Why was she even thinking that? People reacted to medication all the time. But maybe they needed to think outside the box.

  Kathy emerged from her father’s room. “Nauseated again, but he’s okay now. I’ll let Doc Sims know. It doesn’t look like the new medication is any better than the old one. Mark’s cleaning your dad up. Give him a few minutes.”

  “If Doc Sims is here, will you tell him I need to talk to him?” She was probably wrong about her dad being poisoned, but she needed to talk to Doc about it. All possibilities should be explored.

  When Kathy returned to the nurses’ station, Cara leaned against the wall while she waited. A few staff members acknowledged her with a smile that she returned. Finally she decided to slowly open the door to her father’s room, being quiet in case she needed to give the orderly more time to take care of her dad. He sat on the side of the bed, his legs dangling over the side while Mark helped him. Her father’s gaze linked with hers and fear blazed in his eyes. He’d never had to deal with something like this. He’d always been so healthy until the stroke eight weeks ago. Her heart went out to him.

  Dad, if you’ll let me, I’ll be here for you and help you adjust any way I can. She wished she could tell him that, but it would probably only make him angry.

  As the orderly laid her father back against the clean sheets, he began to get agitated, trying to pull away from Mark.

  Cara crossed to the bed. “Thanks for your help. I can do the rest.” She sent the orderly a smile to smooth over her father’s actions. Her dad hated his need for help and got upset with the people who aided him.

  Mark maneuvered around her to leave. The scent of the rehabilitative center mingled with the aroma of pine cleaner. She didn’t envy the orderly’s job. “Call me if you need any more help,” he mumbled in a deep voice.

  As the orderly left, Cara watched him. Dark hair, buzz cut, medium height with a bulky body and a large stomach that protruded. She wanted to take note of the people who worked with her father. When the door closed, she turned back to her dad. “Okay?”

  He shook his head.

  “Are you going to be sick again?”

  “Noo.”

  “Are you in pain?”

  He picked up his left hand and plopped it onto his stomach. He tried to say something, but it came out garbled. He pinched his mouth together.

  “I have Doc coming to see you.” She thought about telling him her suspicions about her father being poisoned, but she wanted to talk to the doctor first. Until then she didn’t want her father having anything. She’d read about poisons like arsenic being used throughout history. His symptoms sounded similar to a slow poisoning. She moved to the bedside table to take the apple juice, but the pitcher was empty. Had she poured the last bit into her father’s glass? She thought there had been some left.

  When Sally, one of the nurse’s aides in the rehabilitation unit, came to the room a few minutes later, Cara asked, “What happened to the apple juice?”

  Sally shrugged. “I can get you more if you want.”

  “No, I don’t want my father to have anything to eat or drink for a while. His stomach is upset, and he doesn’t need anything.”

  “Doc Sims called the nurses’ station. He’ll see you in his office here. He’s running behind and only has a few minutes.”

  “Fine. Where’s his office?”

  “I’ll show you. It’s down at the end of the west corridor.” Sally opened the door and stood in the entry.

  She leaned over and kissed her dad. His eyes grew round. She’d rarely done that since she was a child. “I’ll be right back. I have something I need to talk to Doc about. I have a theory about why you’re sick that I want to run by him. I’ll tell you all about it after I see him.”

  When she left the room, she said to the deputy, “I’m going to talk to Doc Sims. Don’t let anyone in there until I get back. That includes staff.”

  Sally ambled down the long west corridor and gestured toward a closed door with Doc’s name on it, then started back the way she came. Cara knocked, then went in expecting to find the doctor waiting. But the office was empty. She started to turn around, but something hard crashed against her skull. Darkness swallowed her.

  SEVEN

  “Thank you for meeting with me.” Connor shook the offered hand of the man who managed the delivery service in Winchester.

  “Bud is coming in from his run to talk to you. He should be here soon.”

  “I could use any information about that package sent to C. J. Madison in Clear Branch four days ago. Do you keep any kind of records?”

  “Only payment records.”

  Connor took the seat across the desk from the manager. “Can you tell me how the person paid for the delivery?”

  The older man typed something on his keyboard. “Yes, cash.”

  Connor sighed.

  “There wasn’t a return address?” the manager asked.

  “The return address was from Global Magazine where C. J. Madison worked, but no one from that company sent it to him. We checked and looked into the people C.J. worked with. Nothing sent up a red flag. The package along with many others was blown up. Since it was the last one to arrive and we can’t figure out where it really came from, we suspect it was the one carrying a pipe bomb.”

  “A pipe bomb!” Color drained from the manager’s face.

  “Now you see why it’s important we find who sent it.”

  “I can tell you that the person paid extra to have it delivered by a certain time.”

  Connor rubbed his hands together. Interesting. The bomb had been detonated remotely—not on a timer.

  “You said four days ago?”

  “Yes.” Connor leaned forward in his chair, clasping his hands together, his elbows on his thighs. “Do you remember anything?”

  “That particular package was dropped off here at our main store. I still have video feed for that day. The person is probably on the tape.”

  Finally they had caught a break. “Is there any way to narrow down when he came into the store?”

  “From what records I have, it was first thing in the morning, which meant it went out right away on Bud’s first run.” When a knock sounded on the office door, the manager called out, “Come in.”

  A young man
with blond hair and close to six feet tall, weighing around one hundred sixty pounds, entered the room. “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes, Bud. This is Connor Fitzgerald with the Criminal Investigative Division of the Virginia State Police. He has some questions for you concerning one of your deliveries to North Pine Street in Clear Branch on Monday of this week. While you two talk, I’ll get the videotape for you to look at.”

  After the manager left, Connor indicated that Bud take a seat next to him. The man, probably no more than twenty, folded his long length into the chair and looked at him with puzzlement in his expression. Deep lines wrinkled his forehead.

  “What’s this about?”

  “The package you took to Clear Branch. Did you see who brought it to this store for delivery?”

  “No, I was in the back when the clerk came in with it. It was to be delivered right away. Something about a birthday present.”

  “How big?”

  The deliveryman paused, squinted at a spot over Connor’s shoulder and said, “About eighteen inches long and nine inches wide. Not too heavy.” He indicated the size with his hands.

  Connor assessed the young man’s build. He was too tall and too thin to be Cara’s assailant. “Which clerk was that?”

  Bud tilted his head to the side. “Mindy.”

  “Where were you Tuesday night after nine?”

  “At my girlfriend’s house.”

  “All night?”

  “Till two.”

  “Write down her name and contact information.”

  Bud’s eyes widened. He quickly took a piece of paper from the desk and scribbled something on it then passed it to Connor.

  Connor rose and withdrew one of his cards. “If you can think of anything pertaining to the package or the person who wanted it delivered, you can contact me here.”

  As Bud disappeared into the hallway, the manager returned with a tape in his hand. “It’s this one.” He walked to his television set and inserted the video, fast-forwarding until he came to the time stamp he wanted.

  A man of about fifty walked into the store with an oblong box and paid to have it shipped by credit card. Two minutes later a woman, wearing a floppy sun hat, came in with a package that was about the size in question. The camera was obviously mounted near the door because her face was turned away while she stood at the counter. She gave the clerk cash then swung around to leave. The hat shadowed her features, only giving him a glimpse of her lower face. He bent closer to the TV as if that would help him see her better. That was when he saw the tattoo on her arm and went cold.

  A throbbing pain pulsated against her skull, reminding Cara vividly of being hit from behind. She inched her eyes open. Pitch-black surrounded her. Heat encased her in a suffocating tomb. Sweat rolled off her face; her cheek was pressed against rough material. Like a carpet in the trunk of a car that smelled of rotten fish. Slowly, more sensation reached her brain. The scent of dirty clothes. The gag over her mouth. Pieces of gravel digging into her stomach. The motion of the vehicle she was trapped in. Going fast. Smooth. Probably along a highway.

  Then the fact that her hands were tied behind her back with rope that chafed her wrists. She tried to move and came into contact with what felt like a duffel bag.

  When she raised her arms behind her, her fists connected with the top of the trunk, only inches from her. The darkness shut in around her, igniting her fear of closed spaces. The constriction of movement sent her heart racing. More perspiration drenched her clothing.

  She drew in a deep breath through her nose and still couldn’t fill her lungs enough with oxygen-rich air. Stifling. Hot.

  The thought shoved her toward panic—the one thing she couldn’t do if she wanted to get out of this alive.

  She began to focus on Connor, who would discover her gone. On his dark brown hair with a touch of curls when he let it grow out. His slate-gray eyes that showed more emotions than he probably wanted to give away. His laugh that enticed her to join in on the merriment. His kiss last night that had tempted her to forget everything.

  The car slowed almost to a stop then made a turn. Suddenly, the rough road jostled her against the floor of the trunk, increasing the pounding in her head. She tried to twist onto her side, but the jarring ride kept her almost completely on her stomach. With each bounce the gravel bits dug in deeper into her flesh.

  Making another attempt to roll, she felt the outline of her cell in her pocket as she ended up on her side. Hope surged through her. If she could just get to it and call for help…

  The car came to a stop. The sound of a door slamming shut iced her blood. Over her hammering heartbeat she heard footsteps approaching.

  Connor entered King Construction’s office and headed toward the receptionist’s desk. Lucy glanced up, her polite smile not reaching her eyes. She averted her attention to her computer and clicked out of a program.

  “What can I do for you today?” She turned her head back toward him but her gaze avoided his.

  He eyed her arm, where the markings of a tattoo were barely visible at the edge of her sleeve. “I have a few questions for you.”

  “I don’t know anything about the missing pipe and blasting powder. I can’t help you.”

  “That’s not what I want to talk to you about.” He dragged out the statement, purposefully pausing to get a reaction from her.

  “It isn’t? But Mr. King told me about what happened and asked me about the key in his desk. I’m gone a lot and anyone can come in here and go into his office. He doesn’t stay in there that much.” She ended her chattering and chewed on her bottom lip.

  Connor took a seat near the desk and lounged back in the chair. Then he removed a pad from his pocket and a pen. When he peered again at Lucy, she dropped her head and stared at her lap.

  Another long pause before he said, “I just came from Winchester. I paid a visit to Dayton Delivery Service.”

  She hunched her shoulders but didn’t say anything.

  “It seems you dropped off a package for C. Madison the morning of August 29th. Is that right?”

  “Who told you that?” She straightened and finally looked him in the eye.

  “No one.”

  Her eyebrows scrunched together.

  “I saw it for myself on a videotape from the store. Imagine my surprise when I recognized the tattoo on your arm.” He flipped open his pad and perused the blank page before him as though he were consulting his notes. “How do you know C. J. Madison? Why would you send him a birthday present?”

  “I don’t know C. J. Madison.” She yanked her sleeve down, covering the butterfly tattoo completely.

  “Then why did you send him a package that day?”

  “Someone asked me to because I was going to Winchester that morning for Mr. King.”

  “Who?”

  She shrugged.

  “Do you make it a habit of delivering packages for unknown people? Are you aware that it contained a bomb that went off and that you could be charged with the crime?” he asked, although he wasn’t one hundred percent sure the bomb was in that package.

  Color drained from her face. She brought a trembling hand up and brushed her long hair behind her ear. “A bomb!”

  He leaned forward, all pretense of casualness gone, and said in a voice full of steel, “Who asked you to take the package to the delivery service?”

  “I don’t—I want to call my lawyer.”

  “Suit yourself. But I’ll get to the bottom of this. That’s a promise. And I’ll take you down with whoever had you send the package.”

  Tears glistened in her eyes. But through the wet sheen she glared at him. Her jaw set in a hard line as though she’d fortified herself.

  “Before this is over I’ll have delved into every part of your life.”

  She reached for the phone and swiveled her chair away from Connor.

  Light flooded her when the trunk was thrust open. Cara blinked, the brightness hurting her eyes. The thundering in her head incr
eased with her heartbeat.

  As her gaze adjusted, the image of her attacker came into clear view. Medium height, not heavy but not thin. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt. And a black ski mask. Thoughts tumbled one after another as she stared up into the brown eyes. The last person she’d seen had been Sally, the nurse’s aide, but she was petite—certainly not this man. Someone had been waiting for her in Doc’s office. Behind the door.

  She tried to think but the pain in her head fogged her mind. “Why are you doing this?” she mumbled through the gag around her mouth.

  The man cackled. Behind the ski mask she glimpsed a smile. His eyes glinted. “Finally I’ll get my revenge.”

  Revenge? Who was this man? The voice was unfamiliar, but she was sure he was disguising it with a gruffness that wasn’t natural. Could it be someone from Nzadi?

  “Actually, this is so much better than killing you in the hotel room.” Her assailant reached behind his back and drew a gun. “Poetic justice, if I say so myself.”

  Again his laughter bombarded Cara. Terror seized her. He was going to murder her and she would never know why. Why did he wear a ski mask if he was going to kill her? Why didn’t he want her to see his face?

  With her hands bound behind her back and her feet tied together, she was at his mercy—a man who obviously had no mercy.

  Lord, help.

  He stepped forward. She stiffened. Her pulse sped through her body as quickly as the fear did. Her gaze was riveted to the barrel of the gun as the seconds ticked down. He reached for her. Shrinking back as far away from his touch as possible, she prepared to do whatever she needed to foil his plans.

  But instead of grabbing her and dragging her from the trunk, her attacker knocked her shoulder against the trunk floor so that she faced him. Then he lifted his weapon and pulled the trigger.

  Lucy’s lawyer walked into the meeting room at King Construction fifteen minutes later. Connor sat in the chair, observing the two confer. While Connor waited, he put in a call to Cara’s cell phone. It rang and rang. Why didn’t she pick up?