Roxy drew in a breath, caught in one of those perfect, crystal clear moments that a person never forgot. The world between then and now. The window when time stood still.
The camaraderie between both men and even the sibling banter between the kids had combined into one of those heart-stopping fractions of time and space. Darrin’s face glowed with hero worship for Isaiah. Kitty beamed with love for her brother. The look on big, burly Tate’s face was just as bright.
In that one perfect instant, there was no stalker. No demented mother. No five mil and no worries. Just one perfect—now. The world was good again—until some idiot’s big, linebacker body came out of nowhere, and Tucker Chase bellowed, “Got it!”
She burst out laughing. He’d just intercepted Isaiah’s toss to Darrin, rolled to one hefty shoulder, and was already back on the balls of his boots—bouncing and grinning like a kid instead of an FBI director.
“What you’ve got is grass stains on your knees and your butt, big guy,” she taunted as Tucker brushed the grass off his pants and handed the ball to Darrin.
“I was gonna catch that,” the boy groused, his thumb and first two fingers on the ball like Tate had shown him, his arm cocked high behind his shoulder, aimed toward Roxy. “Here you go. I’ll make it a slow ball.”
“Not good enough to pitch a bullet yet, eh?” She egged him on.
Just that fast, Darrin got that competitive look in his eye. His chin came up. He angled his hip, curled one knee in tight, and wham. The little shit knew how to throw! It hit center of her left palm, snug in the pocket and stinging like a mother.
“Ouch!” she hissed, shaking her fingers. “You about broke every bone in my hand, Babe. You’re a regular deadeye. That one came right to me.”
Didn’t those words light up Darrin’s face? They should. She meant them to.
“Babe? You called me, Babe. Did you mean Babe Ruth, huh? Did you?”
“Of course I did. You’ve got a good arm on you. I can see it now.” She waved a hand across the sky as if seeing an imaginary billboard. “Babe Ruth Bratton. Star pitcher singlehandedly wins the pennant for the...”
“For the Nats!” he squealed even as he skipped like a ten-year-old on his way back to her. “I didn’t mean to hurt your hand, though. Sorry if I did.”
She waved him off. “You didn’t. Your turn. You go long this time. Make it count. No grounders.”
“We’ve had a break in the case,” Tucker breathed at her side.
“You got a hit on the note Harley found?” she asked as she delivered a long, straight pitch to the still grinning boy who’d run like the wind to the edge of the trees.
“Damn. You can throw, girl,” Tucker muttered under his breath.
“’Course I can throw.” She hadn’t taken her eyes off Darrin. He’d missed that time, let the ball roll by his feet, but quickly recovered. “And I’m not a girl. I’m a Dust Devil.”
Isaiah and Tate had since closed in on their boss. Kitty tagged along behind them, but Roxy didn’t want this game to end. Darrin was having the time of his life, and damn it. Days like this were just as important as workdays, maybe more so. Little boys should be able to grow up playing baseball, and their dads should want to play with them. They should teach and coach and spend more than just an allotment of quality time with them. Quality time was a myth. Kids needed to smile every day, not just when adult schedules allowed. Life shouldn’t be so hard on kids, old people, and animals.
“Here comes a zinger!” Darrin belted out as he, oomph, threw his weight behind the ball and sent it flying.
“Isn’t that the cutest little guy you’ve ever seen?” she asked Tucker as she caught the zinger and waved Darrin in. He’d worked up a sweat, but the smile on his reddened face as he ran to her was wide enough it split his cheeks.
“He’s not who you think he is,” Tucker said softly.
“I know,” she said, lowering her voice. “He’s got a different father than Kitty. She knows, too. She’s seen the guy once. Jack Fillion. Tate says he owns a pub in Boston.”
“Do you also know that Fillion’s the reason Bob Bratton was in Boston instead of with Randall and his old man robbing the armored car that day? Bob waited until Jack opened his pub that morning, then beat the shit out of him. Broke his jaw. Put him in the hospital. Trashed his business, too.”
“Don’t tell me. That’s when Jack first found out he even had a son,” Roxy muttered. Darrin was closing in fast. This conversation had to end. “Do Isaiah and Tate know this?”
But Darrin had come within hearing range. “Hey, tiger,” Tucker quipped. “You’ll need a Nat’s jerseys if you keep pitching like that.”
He couldn’t have said anything better. Darrin nearly dropped his teeth, his grin was so big. “Gee, thanks, Mister Chase, umm, I mean, Agent Chase. You really think so?”
“I know so.” Tucker tugged a red and white jersey from inside his shirt and tossed it at Darrin. “Try this one on for size.”
The baseball dropped to the ground between Darrin’s feet. “Ohwowohwowohwow! For me?” He couldn’t get his head and skinny arms into that jersey fast enough.
“Yes, for you. You’re a winner, aren’t you?”
Damn this arrogant man. Just when Roxy thought she had him figured out, Tucker Chase went and did something incredibly kind for a kid who needed a father in the worst way. Thoughtful things, like what this brash federal agent just did for this motherless little boy, made her tear up. The jersey was too large for Darrin, but the smile on his face? Heart splittingly beautiful. Beat cops don’t cry, but here she was, dragging a fingertip under her eye before anyone caught her looking like a sap.
By then Isaiah, Tate, and Kitty had closed in, and Tucker made it worse. He pulled a folded pink Nats ball cap out of his rear pocket and tossed it to Kitty. “This is for you, princess.”
Her shoulders scrunched when she caught it. “For me? Sweet!”
Wasn’t that sparkle in her eye when she tugged the brim over her forehead the most adorable thing? And the red glow creeping up her neck? Tucker had just embarrassed her, but he hadn’t ignored her, and that was monumental for a young woman who felt ignored and invisible. Guys like him usually didn’t pay attention to teenage girls, much less remember they liked presents, too.
Score two for Tucker Chase.
“Thank you,” Kitty said shyly, giving the brim another tug and batting her lashes. “I like it.”
“Of course you do.” He stood there, tall and proud. Beaming. His chest puffed out and so damned sure of himself. “’I knew you would.”
“You catch really good, Officer Thurston!” Darrin exclaimed. His gray eyes brimmed with pride, and damn. There it was again, that feeling of—joy—or something that stamped a warm glow in the middle of Roxy’s heart.
Fighting the lump in her throat, she reached out and pulled him against her thigh. “And you’re a better catcher than Agent Zaroyin,” she whispered conspiratorially. “Don’t let on, though. He thinks he’s better than all of us, but no way.”
“I heard that,” Isaiah said behind her with a smile in his voice. “You’ve got news, Boss?”
Tucker’s big chest deflated. “Yep. Back to work, boys and girls.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Tucker sure knew how to spoil a good game. Isaiah had sensed him drawing closer long before he’d shown up, but since it was just Tuck and his bright red Dodge Challenger, he hadn’t alerted anyone. They’d been having fun. Why spoil a good baseball game?
Before long, everyone was back inside, sweaty, but good. Tucker pulled his sweet ride into Isaiah’s secure garage. Kitty left to take a shower. Darrin was back in Isaiah’s room with Nugget, while the adults gathered in the living room and—adulted.
“What’s up, Boss?” Isaiah asked as he passed tall glasses of ice water around. Roxy’d taken the center of the sofa and held her glass to her sweaty forehead. Watching her interact with the kids had raised Isaiah’
s awareness of her easy way with children as well as every last feminine curve in her lithe, sexy body. She’d make a terrific mother someday.
Tucker took the chair near the window. Tate sank cross-legged to the floor at Tucker’s left. The weapons they’d set aside while playing ball, were back on their hips, ankles, or tucked into shoulder holsters to stay. The reprieve was over.
“Forensics came back with a hit on the note Harley found on the dog,” Tucker said. “Garrett Randall’s prints were all over it.”
“Figures,” Roxy hissed.
“Why’d he do it?” Tate asked.
Tucker’s shoulders lifted. “Won’t know ’til we bring him in, but we do know where he is, and we know where Jack Fillion is, too.”
Roxy leaned forward and her elbows hit her kneecaps. “Shit, they’re in on this together?”
“No. Ky backtracked Fillion’s bank records. I’ve also got him watching Fillion at the moment. The man’s stayed in cheap motels and other dives, all of them within a block or two of each of Randall’s last knowns.”
“Fillion’s following Randall?” Isaiah asked, glad to hear that Ky Winchester was back in town and working the case. He was a good friend and a strong psychic in his own right.
Tucker nodded. “Ky got in yesterday. I know what Randall wants, but Fillion’s the wildcard.”
“He wants his son, that’s why he’s here,” Isaiah said smoothly. “I say we bring him in and introduce him to Darrin now that Darrin knows everything. What harm could it do?”
Roxy’s nod and smile confirmed Isaiah’s suggestion. She wanted Darrin’s happiness too, but Tucker shook his head. “Not yet. I’d rather keep the kids here until we locate Candace. She’s the key to this mess. Once she’s behind bars, we’ll worry about reconnecting families.”
“No sign of her yet?” Tate asked.
“Not yet. She’s completely off the grid.”
Tate grunted. His nostrils flared. “Every mother bear returns to the same cave to drop her next litter. Bratton’s no different. Like everyone else, she’s got a safe place where she thinks we can’t touch her.”
“So, you can track her?” Tucker asked, his gaze gone dark.
Tate nodded. If there was one thing he excelled at, it was tracking wild animals. That those bear-hunting skills translated to tracking humans as easily as they did, amazed Isaiah. Yet over and over again, he’d seen Tate lift his nose to the wind as if he could scent the men and women he was after.
Speaking of which… Isaiah leaned back in his seat by Roxy and stretched his arm on the sofa back behind her. Damn she smelled good.
Ziiiiiipppppppp. In an instant, he was miles away, peering over the shoulders of a man standing at the locked front entrance of the FBI safe house on Embassy Row.
‘That lying bitch,’ Jack Fillion hissed as he pounded the massive wooden doors. ‘You did it to me again, Bratton! Where’s my kid?’ Tears filled his green eyes. His shoulders were tight, his fingers curled into hard fists. He’d come here believing he’d finally get to meet his son, only to find Darrin gone. Again.
Upon those bitter words, Isaiah sank deeper into Jack’s mind, needing to know the full story and how he’d gotten onto the secure grounds in the first place. The Bureau maintained the property. The security gate should’ve been locked. Where was everyone?
Unable to explain the lack of security, he re-focused on Jack. Isaiah didn’t have to delve far to sense that Candace was behind this. She’d lied to Jack, told him Darrin lived there with her soon-to-be husband, the dashing playboy Isaiah Zaroyin.
Talk about a surprise. No one had ever called Isaiah a dashing playboy before.
The sting of her words still tormented Jack. ‘I’m marrying Isaiah Zaroyin, so get over it, asshole. You know, the crazy doctor’s son? Yeah, it’s true. He’s filthy rich. His mom left him a mint when she died, and he plans to adopt Darrin. It’s too late for you and you can’t do anything about it, Jack, so don’t try. Isaiah knows people. He can make Darrin disappear for good this time. But I will do one thing, you know, for old time’s sake. If you want to see your kid, be here today, cuz we’re leaving the country in the morning, and this is your only chance.’
Jack’s fisted hands told the rest of the story. Frustration. Betrayal. This wasn’t the first wild goose chase Candace had sent him on, though this one had been timed to get Fillion off Garrett Randall’s back. Most likely because she and Randall were not only working together, but they were close to recovering the five mil.
Damn. Tucker needs to hold that press conference to smoke those two out.
Not smart enough to leave well enough alone, Isaiah allowed his inner sight to delve deeper into Jack’s mind. A cloud of rage so thick and black that it nearly sucked the breath from his lungs stopped Isaiah short. Jack Fillion was not only worn out by the lies he’d endured on his quest to find his only child, but a certain mental illness had taken root. It filled him with a depression so dense, Jack Fillion was literally on the verge of going crazy with grief.
He stood there alone and humiliated again at the grand entryway to a one-time monument to wealth and greed. Him, a lowly barkeep from Boston, who’d worked twenty-four-seven every day of his life just to break even. All he wanted was what he couldn’t have, the son he’d never seen but loved with his whole heart and soul.
Cathleen, his wife and his childhood sweetheart, wasn’t able to have children, yet Isaiah sensed that she craved having Jack’s son in her life as much as he did. They both loved the boy they’d never seen. He’d have a good home with them, maybe not everything other boys had, but he’d know genuine love for the first time in his life.
Candace Bratton had Jack by the balls. He had no choice but to dance to her sadistic whims, all in the name of love and sacrifice. Yet even a good man can be broken, and Jack was as low as he’d ever been.
‘Just once!’ Jack bellowed as his fist hit the massive doors. ‘Damn you, God! Just once can’t I see him? What the hell did I ever do to deserve this kind of torture? You know I love him. I’d never hurt him. He’s mine! Damn you, damn you, damn you!’ Rage against his Maker poured out of Jack’s soul, a tangible river of sacrilege and sorrow as he sank to his knees, his fists pressed to his forehead, and sobbed, ‘Just once. Please. I’ll… I’ll do anything.’
Jack blamed God, and he was about to do something extremely foolish. He was about to give up and blame himself for the rest of his life. We’ll just see about that.
The man needed a knot in that rope he was hanging onto, so Isaiah intended to send him one. In his hurry on that last nerve-racking night at the mansion, Isaiah had snagged Nugget’s ball from the top of the refrigerator on his way out. He’d stuck it in his pants pocket, thinking the toy would give Darrin something to hang onto until he got his dog back. Yet somehow, the ball had gotten lost in the shuffle. It wasn’t in Isaiah’s pocket when he’d undressed that night, and he’d worried he’d lost one of Darrin’s prized possessions.
Yet all things in the cosmic spin of the universe happened for a reason, and Isaiah now knew where that ball was. With one well-placed psychic nudge and a helluva lot of mental concentration, he nudged it out of its hiding place and sent it rolling down the Trex walk that ran along the east side of the estate.
Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. It cleared the three steps between here and there, and with another psychic nudge, it rolled to Jack’s feet. And there it stopped. His desperate gaze dropped to the toy that had come out of nowhere. It was nothing but a piece of blue molded rubber that a boy and his dog played with, and yet… It was something that belonged to his boy and Jack knew it.
Jack’s shoulders heaved. He swallowed hard and stooped. He brought the ball to his chin, squeezed his teary eyes shut, and he breathed, “Lord, I needed this. Th-thank you.”
Isaiah breathed his own thanks.
Jack wasn’t crazy and he wasn’t a bad man. He just wanted his child in the way that all good fathers everywhere wanted thei
r children. Desperately. He just needed something to hold onto until he could hold onto Darrin and the fluffy yellow dog that came with him.
Isaiah left him standing there with the small token of a boy’s love for his dog in his hand.
Sucking in a deep breath, Isaiah withdrew from Jack Fillion’s mind and instantly zeroed back to his living room. It always seemed as if he’d ridden some kind of a psychic vortex from there to here, especially when the vision had been as lengthy as this one. Opening his eyes, the spinning room came into focus. He gasped, sure he’d been holding his breath for the duration.
Roxy was on her knees beside him. She had her hands on his chest. Her fingers were warm and fluttering with nerves, but it was Tate who spoke first. “I hate when you do that. You look like you’re dead, and I can’t tell if you’re breathing or dying.”
Isaiah drew in a lungful. Then another.
“You scared the hell out of me,” Roxy whispered into his face, her dark eyes wild with fright. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“Sorry.” Isaiah nodded so she’d know he was okay, but the after-buzz from this mental probe to the District had been more exhausting than most. Moving objects was not his psychic talent. It took fierce concentration and one helluva ton of psychic energy to motivate even a small rubber ball, but at this distance, it was unheard of.
Rolling his shoulder, he turned to Tucker. “I know where Jack Fillion is, but he’s not part of this. Candace is. She’s with Randall. There’s no time to hold that press conference. We need to move. Now.”
Tucker snapped his fingers. “Good. Go with Tate. Find Bratton. Bring her in.”
“Me?” Isaiah asked like an idiot, but recovered quickly. “Sure thing, Boss. You’ll stay here with the kids?”
“No need,” Roxy said, smoothing her palms over her knees. She’d settled her butt to the couch again, but Isaiah had a feeling she would’ve slapped him if she hadn’t had an audience. She still might. “I’ve got this covered. You guys go and—”
One-Eyed Jack (The Deuces Wild Series Book 3) Page 22
