What Mattered Most

by Linda Winfree

  He hated to admit she was right. Any conversation between him and Mitchell was hell-bent for disaster. “I guess you want to play hostage negotiator.”

  “Me? Hardly. No, I had someone else in mind.”

  The events of the next few minutes transpired with smooth, secretive ease. A nondescript van appeared at the end of the street, and dark shadows moved into position around the house. John, relegated to waiting in the back of the van, chafed while the minutes stretched.

  Sheriff Dennis Burnett adjusted the radio’s channels, making sure a tape would record all transmissions. He fitted a pair of headphones with an attached mike, then handed John a pair with no microphone. “Thought you might want to listen in.”

  While putting on the earphones, John shot him a glance. So Caitlin trusted him enough to put Lanie’s life in his hands. “Are you experienced with hostage negotiations?”

  The other man shook his head. “I’ve done it once or twice, though, and completed the FBI’s basic training in handling hostage-takers. The Bureau’s negotiator team from the Houston office is unavailable since they’re at a training seminar. Houston P.D.’s team is already out on a call; they said they’d be glad to assist when they finished that one.”

  He’d done it once or twice? Basic training? John didn’t find the thought reassuring. Burnett frowned at Caitlin when she appeared at the van’s open door. The sheriff adjusted another knob and glanced sideways at Caitlin. “I know you don’t think you’re going in on that entry team.”

  She smiled a cool, little smile. “I know you don’t think you’re going to try to tell me I can’t.”

  “What if I said please?”

  “She’s family.”

  Burnett sighed, but the sound held more resignation than exasperation. “Which is exactly why you shouldn’t go.”

  “Give it up. I’m going.” With one last smile in his direction, she disappeared around the corner of the van.

  “I don’t know why I even try to argue with her.” Burnett plugged a phone line into the recorder.

  John grabbed the conversation as a way to keep the worry at bay. He pressed a hand against his aching ribs. “How long have you known her?”

  A grin quirked at the other man’s mouth. “Since she was ten. Heck, I was engaged to her once. You just have to know how to take her.”

  How to take the quintessential arrogant Fed? Falconetti didn’t seem like the easiest person to deal with, but maybe she was different with Burnett. Lanie could be prickly as hell, and John knew she had colleagues who weren’t fond of her. He liked the sharp edges of her honesty, though—a guy always knew where he stood with her. Underneath the razor-sharp exterior lay softer layers, the ones only a privileged few got to see.

  An image rose in his mind—Lanie in the small bedroom she’d painted a deep blue for their son, her hands smoothing over a stack of tiny T-shirts and fleecy blankets, her face alight with a joy that had taken his breath. Remorse tightened his throat. She deserved someone to share that joy with, someone better than him. She deserved someone whole.

  “So what’s the story with Mitchell, anyway?” Burnett’s quiet question dragged John from his reverie. “Is he a couple of bales short of a full hay loft or just plain mean?”

  “He’s not crazy.” John wished the situation was that simple. Obsessed was the only word he could think of to describe Mitchell’s desire to control Beth’s life, to be her life. “He wants to own her, and if he can’t have her—”

  “Then he’ll fix it so no one else can.” A sickened expression twisted Burnett’s face for a moment. “Where do you fit into the whole mess?”

  Mess pretty much covered it. “She… I helped her get away from him.”

  Burnett’s hazel gaze flickered in his direction. “So the way he sees it, you took his wife and his family away from him.”

  As he remembered Falconetti’s suspicions, foreboding shivered over John’s skin. “Yeah,” he said, the words hurting his throat, “that’s the way he sees it.”

  Arms crossed over his chest, Burnett settled deeper into his seat. “That’s not good. He doesn’t have anything else to lose.”

  Anger born of fear curled low in John’s stomach. “Your positive outlook is inspiring, Sheriff.”

  Burnett reached out to fiddle with the squelch knob. “And I’m not going to blow sunshine up your rear end, buddy. In that house is a desperate, obsessed man with a freaking vendetta against you, and he has a couple of human bargaining chips. Make that three human bargaining chips. Compared to that, we have squat."

  John latched onto his description of Lanie, Beth and the baby. Slight hope rose. “Bargaining chips? You think he’s going to want to bargain?”

  “You could say that. Cait thinks he’s going to try to use the women.”

  The newborn hope died under Burnett’s ominous tone. “Use them how?”

  Burnett fixed him with a look. “She thinks Mitchell will try to force you to choose.”

  At the bald statement, John’s stomach churned, bile forcing into his throat. Mitchell would love possessing that power over him, and John knew there wasn’t a real choice to make. Falconetti was right—his own stupidity had thrown Lanie into danger. He couldn’t allow anything to happen to her.

  If it hadn’t already happened. He glanced through the windshield at the still, quiet house. Falconetti’s theory remained mere speculation. For all any of them knew, Mitchell may have already taken his revenge. He’d killed once. What was another death if it struck back at John? Lanie could already be dead or dying behind those bright windows.

  His fault.

  John closed his eyes. Not again. Not Lanie. He’d sworn a long time ago that no other woman would die because of his failures. He hadn’t been able to protect his mother. Even though he’d thought he’d protected Beth, he hadn’t, not really. All he’d accomplished was making everything too easy for Mitchell. He cursed himself in a shaky whisper.

  “You don’t look so well. We can handle this. Maybe you should let someone take you back to the hospital.” Genuine concern lingered in Burnett’s voice.

  John’s eyes snapped open, and he stared at the house again. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Your shoulder wound is seeping.”

  He gave his shoulder a cursory glance. Spots of red dotted the turquoise cotton. “I’m fine. I’m not leaving her.”

  “Which her?” The question came in a casual drawl but didn’t fool John for a second. The guy might talk slow, but a quick intelligence lay behind that sharp, hazel gaze. “Which one will Mitchell expect you to choose?”

  A pent-up breath escaped John’s burning lungs on a trembling sigh. Agony stabbed at him, and a moment passed while he struggled for breath. “Beth. He thinks I’ll choose Beth, and then he can kill her in front of me.”

  “And if you choose Lanie?”

  Eyes clenched shut against the images beating in his brain, John swore. “Same thing. Hell, Falconetti’s right. Mitchell wants to take what matters most from me.”

  Denim rustled against the tweed seat cover. “I think the real question might be who matters more—your partner or the mother of your child?”

  The phone rang, and John jerked in his seat, ignoring the pain that rocketed through him with the action. His gaze locked on the attached caller identification unit. The call came from inside the house, and Burnett drew in an audible breath before picking up the call. “Hello?”

  “I want to talk to O’Reilly.” Mitchell’s malevolence crawled through the headphones like a living thing. A chill crept over John’s skin, even as anger heated his gut.

  “Detective O’Reilly is still hospitalized.” Burnett’s low voice was even. “Talk to me.”

  “You’re one of them. I want O’Reilly.” Chimes rang in the background behind Mitchell’s voice.

  Burnett rubbed his palms over his denim-clad knees, the only sign of nervousness John could see. “Then just talk to me until they can get O’Reilly for you.”

  �
��Until I can talk to O’Reilly, I got nothing to say.” The line went dead, the dial tone echoing through John’s head. He wanted to scream, to remove the headset and throw it across the van, to smash something, anything.

  He wanted Lanie out of that house. He wanted her safe, with him.

  Shoulders slumped, Burnett passed a hand over his eyes. “Well, that was productive.”

  John glanced at his watch. Ten to three. “He’s in the foyer.”

  Burnett lifted his head. “What?”

  “The chimes. The foyer clock runs fast. It was chiming three o’clock. He’s in the foyer.”

  “Are you sure?” The other man was already reaching for the handheld radio.

  “As sure as I can be.” John let Burnett’s conversation with Falconetti wash over him, his eyes trained on the front of the house.

  The pattern repeated through more conversations, but each one was a few minutes longer than the last. Exhaustion and pain tightened Mitchell’s voice, and as the tension grew, Burnett’s patient demeanor deepened.

  John was glad one of them could be patient. The forced waiting and not knowing what went on in the house drove him crazy. He wanted to be out of the van and doing something; he wanted to be on the entry team, first in the house, first to see if Lanie was all right.

  The hints of light at the horizon added to the stretching of his taut nerves. Instinct whispered that dawn would not only reveal their presence to Mitchell, but would also be his breaking point. The approaching dawn heralded disaster—John was sure of it.

  “Cait.” Burnett picked up the handheld once more, and the note of unease in his voice dragged John back to reality.

  Her husky voice blended with the static. “What?”

  “He’s slowing down. The calls were getting closer together, coming about every five minutes. It’s been twelve since the last one.”

  “Sunrise is going to be the crisis point.” Resignation hung in her words. “We can’t wait for that. Is O’Reilly sure he’s in the foyer?”

  Burnett glanced his way, and John nodded. “Sure as he can be.”

  “It’s all that glass. He’ll see us coming, from the front or the back.”

  The phone’s shrill ring cut through the van once more. Without a goodbye, Burnett killed the connection on the handheld. Silence thrummed over the phone line. Burnett rubbed at the back of his neck. “Doug?”

  “I want O’Reilly. Now.”

  “The man’s been shot. He’s—”

  “He’s in the van with you, isn’t he?”

  John watched Burnett’s body jerk with surprise before he spoke again. “Yes, Doug, he is. He’s here, like you asked. Now I need something in return.”

  “Like what?” Mitchell sounded smug, as if he were finally winning an extended game of Monopoly.

  “Let the women go.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “Then one, Doug. Give us one. I got you O’Reilly, now you return the favor.”

  “Fine. I’ll let one of them go.” Taunting satisfaction curled through Mitchell’s voice.

  Burnett glanced over his shoulder, and John read the nonverbal message in his sharp gaze. That was too easy.

  The knowledge lay heavy in the air. Mitchell would release one of the women. The other would die. John closed his eyes—this scenario was worse than any nightmare his mind could devise.

  “Just one thing.” Mitchell’s voice snapped John’s eyes open, his entire body back to alertness. “O’Reilly chooses.”

  No surprise in that. Body singing with tension, John sat forward, waiting to see how Burnett would handle this turn. “No can do. We’re not letting him call the shots. You choose, Doug.”

  Mitchell hadn’t expected that. Silence stretched over the line, and when Mitchell spoke again, anger curdled his voice. “Now, listen to me, you son of a bitch. I said O’Reilly chooses—”

  Over the line came the sounds of breaking glass, splintering wood, and multiple shouts. An authoritative male voice barked commands for Mitchell to drop his weapon and surrender. Curses hung in the air, but John didn’t wait to hear more. A hand pressed to his ribs, he bolted from the van and made for the house in a painful, limping run.

  His lungs burned, and it took him a moment to realize Burnett was at his side. Still clumsy from the painkillers, John stumbled on the front steps, and Burnett reached out to steady him. The front door stood open, the frame splintered, and light and personnel spilled onto the porch.

  Mitchell’s muffled curses rent the air, and John pushed past a couple of black-clad deputies. A deputy knelt in the foyer with one knee on Mitchell’s back and recited the Miranda warnings while another snapped cuffs on Mitchell’s straining wrists. Beth sagged against the wall, blood-spattered hands pressed to her wet cheeks.

  “Oh my God, John!” She threw herself at him, her arms clenched around his neck. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “You okay?” His hand pressed against her spine for a moment, his gaze searching beyond the chaos, seeking Lanie. Where was she? The thick, heavy scent of blood hung in the air. He pulled back, his heart thudding against the wall of his chest. “Where’s Lanie? Is she—”

  “Get the EMTs in here!” Falconetti’s panicked voice carried from the small bath off the foyer, and that note of alarm sent terror racing over his skin.

  John put Beth away from him, and she reached for his arm, a beseeching note in her voice. “John, wait, she’s—”

  He ignored her and steeled himself for what lay on the other side of that door. Blood, the bright crimson startling against the snowy tile. Falconetti knelt by Lanie, fingers that visibly trembled brushing over her throat, seeking a pulse. Her pallor terrified John—the only color in Lanie’s face was the dark slash of her eyebrows and the feathery shadow of her lashes. Even her lips lacked color. His lungs constricted.

  She looked dead.

  Aware of the paramedics clambering up the steps, John crossed the room to Lanie’s side, the blood-spattered tile cold and slick under his bare feet. Her limp hand lay on the mound of their baby. He dropped to his knees, and the impact sent pain jarring through his torso. He touched her cheek, the skin cold under his touch. “Lanie?”

  “Good God.” The paramedic swore under his breath. “I need you out of the way. Now.”

  Falconetti moved immediately, but John faltered until she leaned down and jerked him to his feet. The harsh move rocketed pain along his nerves, and he backed up a step, watching as the medics cut away clothing, checked Lanie’s airway and vitals and inserted an IV line. “What’s wrong?”

  The medic didn’t look at him. “She’s got a head injury, and she’s going into shock from the vaginal bleeding. How advanced is her pregnancy?”

  The question threw him, and he counted back, trying to come up with an accurate number. “Thirty-five weeks. Maybe thirty-six.”

  “Any bleeding before this?”

  “No.”

  A second medic appeared with a stretcher. “Clear the room, please.”

  John backed out of the room, his gaze never leaving her face. She was so still, as still as his mother had been… No. God, please, she couldn’t die.

  A soft touch fluttered over his shoulder. “John? You’re bleeding.”

  He grabbed Beth’s hand, her fingers cold in his. “I’m fine. How long has she been bleeding?”

  Beth’s teeth chattered, blurring her words. “Since we got here. She—she hit her head when Doug… John!”

  Rage burst into flame in John’s soul. Ignoring the pain clutching his chest, he moved toward the door where Burnett and a deputy were escorting a strangely subdued Mitchell from the house. He’d kill him. “Mitchell, you bastard, I’ll—”

  Burnett caught him up before he made contact, and John fought against the other man’s hold. With ridiculous ease, Burnett pushed him against the wall, holding him with one arm. “Stop.”

  Dragging his gaze from Mitchell’s retreating form, John glared at Burnett. “He—”
<
br />   Sympathy glinted in Burnett’s hazel eyes. “This isn’t going to help her. Get yourself together, O’Reilly. Stop thinking about what you want and think about what she needs.”

  The words quieted the clamoring vengeance. The stretcher rattled as the medics carried it from the bath. Caitlin brushed her hair away from her face and glanced in John’s direction. “You should go in the ambulance with her and let them take a look at your shoulder.”

  Burnett nodded. “We’ll meet you at the hospital.”

  Chapter Six

  With impatience burning under his skin, John submitted to having the pulled stitches in his shoulder repaired. Lanie lay in the ER room next to his, but with the plaid privacy curtains pulled, he couldn’t see what was going on. The level of activity scared the crap out of him—a doctor ordered a CT scan and mentioned coma scale scores, another voice called out blood pressure numbers that seemed way too low and offered the chilling information that the fetal heart rate seemed unstable.

  John closed his eyes, his throat tight. God, please. She wants that baby. Don’t. Please don’t.

  The young physician’s assistant pulled the last stitch taut. “Do you want something else for pain? That local’s going to wear off in an hour or so.”

  “No.” He deserved the pain, and he’d take it.

  After handing John a sheaf of discharge papers, the PA rattled off wound care instructions that John only half-heard. He shoved the papers in the chest pocket of the ruined scrubs he still wore. Outside the cubicle, he hovered and peered into Lanie’s room. Twin IV bags hung above her sheet-draped body, pushing blood and fluids back into her system. A harried nurse glanced up and hurried in his direction, attempting to push him down the hall. “Sir, you can’t be here. You’ll have to go to the waiting area.”

  John dug in. “How is she? What about the baby?”

  For a second, her face softened. “She’s stable. Dr. Lott will be out in a few moments. Now, please, go to the waiting area.”

  With one more long look, he went. Guilt crushed his throat. If not for him, she wouldn’t be in this damned, sorry situation. If he’d ignored the attraction and kept it in his pants, there wouldn’t be a baby to risk losing. Mitchell wouldn’t have seen her as a target. And she wouldn’t be lying there, with doctors struggling to save her life.