by S. J. Harper
I shake my head. “You’re wrong. It’s always been ours. It’s still ours. You heard what he said, much of that island is only accessible on foot and she knows the place like the back of her hand. They don’t. If it comes to that, we might be of help. Right?”
He looks off in the distance.
I reach for his arm, give it a squeeze. “Right, partner?”
He smiles. “Right, partner. Get Taft on the line. There’s a maze of waterways surrounding this area and I haven’t been to Bulls Island since I was a kid. We’re going to need him to guide us to that landing.”
When we reach the landing, there’s no one in sight. But there is another boat docked there, presumably the one Stephanie Mason had been in. I peer inside. See nothing. Zack climbs on board. Crouches down. He appears to be examining the deck. His nostrils flare. I know what he’s searching for is a trace of Cooper’s scent. Before he climbs out, he pulls a wire loose from the motor.
“Taft sent us a map,” I hold up my phone. “By my estimate, she probably has a head start of seven or eight minutes.”
The sound of the helicopter can be heard circling in the distance.
“Call Jastrzemski.”
I dial. He picks up on the second ring. “We’re here, fanning out and doing a grid search. There’s no place for her to go. It may take some time, but we’re going to get her.”
Zack tosses the wire into the water. “Tell him the boat has been disabled.”
I relay the message then, “Agent Armstrong and I are on the island. We’re more concerned with Cooper than the woman. How can we help?”
“Right now, just let us do our job. I promise I’ll keep you informed,” he says shortly before signing off.
I resist the urge to throw my phone into the Atlantic.
Zack climbs out of the boat takes my cell from me and looks at the map. “Let me guess. We’re not invited to the party?”
“Jastrzemski sucks. So help me, if he screws this up—”
His eyes meet mine. “I have a gift for tracking. Something I picked up from my father.”
I’m sure. “Explains how you found Stuart Mason. Think you can use your gift to find Stephanie and Cooper?”
He casually scents the air. “Yes. And I bet I can find them before Jastrzemski and his team. But HRT might not like it.”
“It could piss Jastrzemski off,” I add.
Zack shrugs. “So, you with me? Or do you want me to tell you all about it later?”
I smile. “I’ll do my best to keep up, hotdog. Go!”
Zack takes off at a run, down the narrow dirt road that leads away from the docking area. This time I manage to keep up, which tells me he’s holding back. Stephanie may know the lay of the land, but having Cooper in tow is bound to slow her down. If we can maintain this pace, we can catch them. Up ahead, the road turns to the right. Zack doesn’t. Instead he continues off trail. The vegetation is thick and lush, the ground soft, uneven. Moss hangs from trees. The forest feels otherworldly. We surprise a bird. It takes off, wings fluttering. I see a trail up ahead. Zack veers onto it. We’re making good time now. The sun is higher in the sky. The terrain on the worn path makes the run easier. We push onward.
Suddenly, Zack comes to a stop. “They went off trail here and headed that way.” He points east. “Let’s have a look at the map.”
I pull out my phone.
“It looks like they started off going parallel to Beach Road and now they’re following fairly close to this one,” he says.
I’m winded. My breathing is heavy. “This looks like a body of water. Could she be heading here to Moccasin Pond?”
“Maybe. There’s another trail that goes down to the beach in about half a mile. Could be she’s heading there. Could be she has no idea where she’s going.” He eyes me. “Are you all right?”
I nod. “Absolutely. Let’s go.”
The next twenty minutes are hard going. The ground is wet and marshy. At one point I stumble and fall, sliding into mud and algae.
“You okay?” asks Zack.
I unzip my jacket and tie it around my waist. “The only thing wounded is my pride.”
We’re at the edge of the pond. I turn just in time to see a gator taking an early morning sunbath slide slowly into the water.
I hear a low whistle. When I turn, Zack is not looking at the gator.
“That’s some tatt,” he says.
I hadn’t anticipated having to rid myself of the windbreaker. The sleeveless top I have on underneath reveals the edges of a pair of wings that covers most of my back. “This is what happens when you date someone who’s into ink, go to Tijuana, and drink way too much tequila,” I tell him. “You should see what he ended up with.”
In truth, there was no boyfriend who was into ink, no Tijuana, no tequila. The tattoo on my back isn’t one I chose. Like so much else, Demeter chose it for me. I was marked the day I was stripped of my real wings, the day I was sent here. Because I don’t see them every day, you might think I’d forget.
I never forget.
Zack lets his eyes drop. “They went this way, toward the beach,” he says, walking ahead and clearing a path.
The Blackhawk is close.
“So, you and this guy still an item?”
“A world of no.” My cell phone rings. The display says it’s Jastrzemski.
“Our pilot’s spotted the suspect. She’s on the beach. The boy is with her. He’s alive. We have agents just east of the Big Pond heading in her direction.”
“We’re closer,” I tell him.
“What?” Jastrzemski’s voice is shrill. “ I thought I told you—”
Zack takes my phone and tosses it into a nearby puddle.
“Oops.”
“Oops?”
He picks it up, tries to turn it on. The screen remains dark. “Water damage is a bitch. Come on, it sounds like she’s on Boneyard Beach.”
I snatch it from him and stuff it in my back pocket. “God damn it!”
I’d say more to express my dissatisfaction, but Zack’s on the move again and unless I want to be left behind, I need to run and catch up.
As soon as we reach the clearing, I understand why they call it Boneyard Beach. Hundreds of downed oaks, cedars and pines are strewn along the beach. Victims of erosion, bleached by the sun and worn smooth by the salt and sand, the place resembles a bone yard. But it’s not the trees that hold my attention. Or the plethora of birds—wood storks, blue herons, egrets, pelicans. Or the tide pools teaming with conchs and crabs. Rather I’m focused on the little boy, being dragged, kicking and screaming into the Atlantic.
“Stephanie!”
I run toward them, into the water. The ocean is rough, the waves high. Dark clouds are rolling in. There’s a strong gust of wind and Cooper stumbles.
Stephanie Mason scoops him up, one arm around his waist, then she turns to face me. “Stay back. You won’t take my son from me!”
Cooper is clearly terrified. I can’t imagine what the child has been through over the last several days, and now this. I remember his mother had just begun swimming lessons for him but could he handle the rough ocean?
The water is up to Stephanie’s thighs, almost over Cooper’s head. A wave hits the two of them and for a moment Stephanie loses her footing.
The boy clings to her, tears streaming down his cheeks, his screams are shrill. “No!”
She reaches back with one arm and pulls what looks like a SIG semi-automatic pistol from the back of her jeans. Her eyes are wild with desperation turned to madness. I’m reminded of another mother, Demeter.
“Stephanie, please don’t go out any farther. You can see how big the waves are today. There are rip currents. You don’t have to do this. We understand. Stuart explained everything. We just want the boy to be safe. We just want you to be safe,” I tell her.
“I just want my son back!” she yells.
“I know.” I take a step closer. My hand is resting on the hilt of my Glock.
She steps back a few
more feet, dipping up then down with each swell.
I’m knee deep now myself. I feel the push and pull of the current under my own feet and realize I’d be lucky to get off a clean shot.
Stephanie lifts the pistol. The waves continue to crash against her, making her aim unsteady. At first I think she intends to shoot me.
“I need to be with him.” The words are said so quietly, I barely hear them.
“Just drop the gun!”
She raises it to her temple, still bobbing and weaving in the turbulent surf.
Somewhere behind me, the sound of a single gunshot splits the air.
Stephanie and Cooper fall back, disappearing under a crush of white froth.
I take a deep breath, throw myself over a wave, then dive under the one that swallowed them. I kick, using my arms and legs to pull myself forward. The saltwater is murky, full of sand and silt. My eyes burn. So does my skin. The ice-cold water feels like millions of pinpricks. My jeans and shoes are heavy in the water. I reach out, my arms searching. I’m running out of oxygen. My lungs are close to bursting when my fingertips brush up against something. I grab hold, kick up.
My head breaks the surface of the water. I gasp for air. See that what I have in my hand is the waistband of Coopers jeans. I find my footing, pull the boy close. Zack is by my side.
“You got him?” he asks.
I nod, hugging the little boy. He’s choking, shaking from cold and fear, but a quick check reveals he seems unhurt. The blood on his shirt must belong to Stephanie.
I look up at Zack. “That was some shot. Nice to know you have my back.”
Zack is scooping Stephanie out of the water. She’s coughing and sputtering, but alive. Blood stains her blouse and the surrounding sea.
“I’ll always have your back, Emma,” he says. “Always.”
CHAPTER 12
By the time Zack and I get back to the hotel, it’s after ten in the morning. A gust of wind pushes the car door shut. The rain is coming down hard and fast. My clothes, soaked during my dip in the ocean, are once again sopping wet. What I want more than anything right now is a hot soak and a long nap. The Masons are in custody. Stuart is in jail and Stephanie is in surgery under police guard at MUSC. Most importantly, Cooper is safely home with his parents. Zack and I can finally rest.
We make a run for the lobby doors. Several hotel employees are gathered around the television over the bar. The newsman Anderson Cooper is on, talking about the near-hurricane weather being experienced in the Charleston area—and the exclusive interview he’s going to be doing with Brett Anderson at the top of the hour.
The bartender who’d served us previously waves us over. My eyes meet Zack’s. I can tell he’s no more interested than I am, but ever the polite gentleman he says, “I’ll go. Head on up and hit the rack. You’re exhausted.”
I start to head over. “So are you. We’ll be polite and tell them we’re dead on our feet.”
The bartender pulls out two champagne glasses. “This one’s on us. Looks like the two of you got your man and woman.”
I hold up my hand. “That’s really sweet of you. It’s been a really long couple of days. I’m afraid if I drink that before undressing, I’ll fall sleep in these wet clothes.”
He slides the glasses toward me, then pulls out an unopened bottle of champagne. “Take it up to your room then. You deserve it.”
One of the other employees, a tall blonde in a suit, chimes in, “And we’ll be sending up breakfast, compliments of the house. What would you like, pancakes, French toast? We make a terrific crab cake Benedict.”
Zack and I glance at one another. “Surprise us,” he says. “I’m afraid we’re done in. A hot shower, a little food, then what we really need is uninterrupted sleep. Send the breakfast up to Agent Monroe’s room?”
“Will do.” She eyeballs the two of us, trying to figure out if we’re more than partners. “And we’ll make sure you aren’t disturbed. Your breakfast will be up before eleven. I’m sure you don’t want to miss the interview.”
We slink away. I carry the glasses, Zack the champagne.
“I can’t believe the Andersons agreed to an interview,” I say as we step into the elevator.
Zack shrugs. “Brett’s been in this business a long time. He knows that in twenty-four hours the media will be on to the next hot story. I seriously want to get out of these wet clothes and into a hot shower.”
My key card is out before the elevator doors open. My legs feel like lead as we make our way the short distance down the hall. “I’m with you.” I swipe my key through the lock mechanism, then hand it to Zack. “I’m headed for a bath but the chances are 50/50 I’m going to fall asleep in the tub.”
Zack holds up the card. “I could lifeguard. I’ve been certified and everything.”
I push away the image of Zack wet and soapy in my tub.
“Did you bump your head on the ocean floor? That wasn’t an invitation for sex. You have my key because I don’t want to drown and miss breakfast before going into hibernation.” I walk into the room, turn around. “We clear?”
“Crystal.” He bows ever so slightly at the waist. “My apologies.” Zack hands me the bottle of champagne before sliding his card key into the lock next door.
My eyes focus on his hand, which I imagine is strong and sure. I envision it skimming over my breast, grasping my hip. Do I want him? Yes. Throughout this entire case, we’ve kept it professional. Eye on the ball. But the case is over. In less than twenty-four hours I’ll be heading back to the west coast, where there will be no Zack and no danger.
A cold chill passes over me. Is it the wet clothes or a not so friendly reminder from the vindictive goddess who has spent century after century torturing me?
I let my door close.
I’m almost finished towel drying my hair when I hear Zack come in. Seconds later, the cork pops out of the champagne.
“You still awake in there?”
I throw the towel over the shower rail and step into a pair of comfy black yoga pants. “I’ll be right out.”
There’s a knock on the door. I hear the room service cart being wheeled in. Zack and the waiter have a brief conversation. I slide a loose-fitting gray sweater over my head, run a brush through my hair, and tie it up in a topknot. By the time I finish Zack is stretched out on the sofa, a glass of champagne in one hand and what looks like a rolled-up pancake in the other. The television is on. Anderson Cooper is looking directly into the camera.
“In just a moment CNN will be bringing you an exclusive interview with Sophie and Brett Anderson. They’ve just endured what surely is a parent’s worst nightmare. The abduction of their four-year-old son, Cooper.” He smiles, wryly. “Named after yours truly, I’m told. The ordeal began on March 21st, when Cooper was abducted from their family home, and ended just a few hours ago, when the FBI rescued him. All of America has been following this story. Now the speculation ends. This morning we bring you a behind-the-scenes report. Stay tuned to CNN and find out what really happened to Cooper Anderson.”
A commercial about erectile dysfunction begins to roll.
Zack sits up to make room for me on the sofa. “Coffee? Champagne?”
“Just the champagne, I don’t want anything that could interfere with my sleep.”
He pops the last of the pancake in his mouth, then pours. “Alcohol and carbs, that’s my plan,” he says as he hands me the glass.
A gust of wind rattles the windows, drawing our attention. The sky is ominously dark. The rain is coming down in torrents. “Gotta give it to South Carolina. Ya’ll have some interesting weather.”
My attempt to properly say “ya’ll” makes Zack smile.
“At least we have weather,” he says, giving my shoulder a bump with his.
A loud crack of thunder drowns out my retort. The lights flicker.
Zack picks up the plate with the pancakes and offers it to me. “They’re pretty good.”
“Go for it. I think I’m g
oing to try this French toast.” I pull the dish toward me. It’s piled high with apples, cinnamon, and pecans. “Fork?”
He reaches across the table and hands me one just as Anderson Cooper returns. The camera pulls out and he’s there with the Andersons in their living room. The couple is holding hands. Mrs. Anderson is also holding a tissue. It’s obvious she’s been crying, this time tears of joy. There’s talk about the FBI’s management of the case, for which the couple expressed gratitude.
“They worked around the clock to find our son,” explained Mrs. Anderson. “The agents who set up command in our home, who worked in the field, they lived through this with us. It wasn’t just another job, just another case. The FBI even flew in a specialist from California. I’m so thankful. If it wasn’t for those individuals…” She dabs at her eyes.
The anchorman continues, “I understand they even deployed the Hostage Rescue Team to Bulls Island.” He looks into the camera. “For the people at home who might not be familiar with the HRT, they’re essentially the FBI’s equivalent of an elite Special Forces team. The Boston Marathon bombing. The Hannah Anderson kidnapping. Those, along with hundreds of others, involved the FBI’s HRT.” He turns back to the Andersons. “When were you told they’d been called in?”
“We weren’t. Don’t get me wrong. I think the FBI did a great job of keeping us informed. But they had to be careful toward the end.” Brett pauses as if considering what do say next. “There was a leak at one point. A news station—my news station—aired a sketch of the suspect without the permission of the FBI. That jeopardized the investigation and could have ended my son’s life. I understand the news game, Anderson. I know how important ratings are. But they aren’t as important as a child’s life.”
“Of course not.”
Brett continues, “I can’t work for an organization willing to take those risks.” A beat passes. “That’s why I’m going to be leaving Live5News. After what we’ve been through, I’m going to take some time off. My family needs me right now.” He wraps his arm protectively around his wife’s shoulders. “And I need them.”
I’ve been eating as I’ve listened and made it through an entire slice of French toast and a slice of bacon. My eyes are so heavy I can hardly keep them open. They start to drift shut. Another crack of thunder causes them to snap back open.
