by Rebecca York
And then there had been Kathryn. She'd watched him as though he were committing burglary, not conducting an official police investigation.
Kathryn. He brought himself up short. A half-hour ago she'd been Reynolds. And she'd better stay Reynolds.
His mouth set in a firm line, he got to work. First he made requests to utility companies, phone companies, credit card companies.
Next he pulled up DeYoung's motor vehicle records. She seemed to get pulled over for a moving violation at regular intervals—just far enough apart to keep from getting enough points to suspend her license.
There was also a notation that she'd received a second request to bring her car in for an emissions test. But he already knew she wasn't the most responsible person in the world.
While he was checking DeYoung's background, his mind kept straying back to Kathryn Reynolds.
He'd be justified in investigating her, too, he told himself. In some cases, the individual who reported a person missing was the person responsible for that disappearance. He didn't want that to be true of Kathryn, but he couldn't dismiss it out of hand.
The phone on his desk rang, and he picked up the receiver.
"Thornton."
"Jack, I'm sorry to bother you."
It was Emily Anderson, his housekeeper, who made a point of not interrupting him at work, except in an emergency.
Instantly on the alert, he asked, "What's wrong?"
"Jack, it might not be anything."
"Tell me why you called."
"Lily's missing."
CHAPTER FOUR
« ^ »
IT WAS HARD to speak when his heart had leaped into his throat, blocking his windpipe. But Jack managed to croak out a request for more information.
"You know she was supposed to go to a friend's after school. Jessica Barrett."
He didn't remember, but he managed a small affirmative sound.
Emily rushed on. "She was supposed to call me when she got there. Sometimes she forgets, so I finally called the Barrett house. Mrs. Barrett said that she thought the girls had changed their minds and come here."
Jack cursed under his breath, thinking that the woman's irresponsibility was beyond comprehension. He'd naturally assumed she was picking the girls up from school.
"So Lily and her friend still aren't at the Barretts'. And they're not at our house, either?"
"Yes."
"And when should they have gotten home?"
"School was out at three. They should have been there by a quarter after three."
"Okay. I'm going to look for them. What's the address?"
Emily gave him the street and number, which he wrote on a sheet of notepaper and shoved in his pocket.
"Call me on my cell phone if they show up," he said. "And I'll keep in touch with you, too."
He saved his work, turned off his computer, and made a rapid escape from the building, glad he had a job where he could come and go without having to sign in and out.
As he climbed into the unmarked, he was thinking how much things had changed in a few hours. He'd gone to interview Kathryn because her tenant was missing. Heather DeYoung had been purely a professional concern. Now his daughter was missing, and his pulse was pounding so loudly in his ears that that was all he could hear.
WELL, she hadn't been missing for days. Only a little over an hour. Not long in the grand scheme of things. But he was a cop, and he knew what could happen to a child in a very short time. A mom could turn her head away for a few seconds, and some bastard could scoop up her kid at the mall.
He tried not to think about all the terrible possibilities. But he couldn't stop his mind from flashing back over old cases. Cases that made his stomach tie itself in knots when he thought about them in terms of Lily.
He forced himself not to drive more than ten miles above the speed limit. The elementary schools were out. And the middle schools would be dismissed soon—which meant lots of kids on the streets, kids who weren't so careful about watching where they were going.
As he headed toward his neighborhood, he phoned Emily again.
"Have you heard from her?"
"No, Jack, I'm sorry."
"Not your fault," he answered, then focused on getting more information. "Jessica Barrett—what kind of kid is she? Has Lily gotten into trouble with her before?"
"She's a nice child. I wouldn't have let Lily go there after school if I was worried about her."
"Right. I wasn't questioning your judgment."
"Jack, I know you're worried. We both are."
"Yeah. Don't let me take it out on you," he answered, thinking that if he stayed on the line much longer, that was exactly what would happen.
At the school, he made himself take several deep breaths before jogging around the redbrick, one-story structure.
On the playground at the back and side of the building, he scanned the blacktop, the climbing equipment, the soccer field. His heart stopped when he thought he caught a glimpse of Lily's light brown hair. But when he sprinted closer, it turned out to be another girl.
"Shit!" The reflexive expletive drew stares from the children and a mother who happened to be on the scene. He flushed as she pulled out a cell phone. Probably the cops were about to get a call about a suspicious guy hanging out around the school.
Hurrying back to the unmarked, he climbed inside and pressed his palms against his eyes, picturing the likely route that Lily and Jessica would have taken.
By the time he reached the Barretts' place, frustration and fear bubbled inside him. Jumping out of the unmarked, he strode to the door and banged on it loudly.
After half a minute, a scrawny teenage boy with shaggy hair and a torn Grateful Dead tee shirt came to the door. Jack sniffed, pretty sure he detected the aura of pot clinging to the kid's clothing.
"Where's your mother?" he demanded, looking into the boy's muddy brown eyes. When the kid shrugged, Jack pulled open the screen door, resisting the urge to grab the boy by the shoulders and shake him till his eyeballs fell out of his head.
He settled for taking one menacing step forward. "Listen, son, your sister is missing. Along with my daughter. Why aren't you out looking for them?"
The kid blinked, taking a good look at Jack for the first time. "Sally was supposed to walk them home. But she didn't. M… Mom told me to stay here, in case they showed up. I'm supposed to phone her if I see them."
"Yeah. If they do show up, call me first." He pulled out one of his cards, wrote the cell phone number on the back, and tossed the card into the hallway.
He wasn't proud of taking out his impotent anger on the boy, but his nerves were too raw for control. He wanted to scream out his frustration. He wanted to speed along the street, but he forced himself to creep along, his eyes scanning first to the left and then to the right.
A block and a half from the Barrett house, he heard a dog barking furiously. It was a large dog; he could tell that from the deep, barrel-chested sound. Not normal barking like a dog warning off someone walking past the back fence. This sounded more furious and dangerous.
KATHRYN stared at the old photograph. Gran as a young woman standing tall and proud beside her new house. This house. Only the azalea bushes were tiny, and the car in the driveway, which was gravel instead of macadam, had headlights like bugs' eyes, a square top, and high fenders.
A wave of longing for what had been and would probably never be again swept through her. "Oh, Gran," she whispered, "I wish I could talk to you now. About so many things. My work. Jack Thornton. Heather."
The woman in the photograph didn't answer, of course. Kathryn rubbed her hands over her arms, staring at the material possessions she'd pulled out of the storage closet. Old photo albums. Gran's sterling silver dresser set, carefully wrapped in plastic. Her button box.
Her postcard collection. So many precious things that Kathryn hadn't been able to throw away—because they were the last links to her past. Today she'd felt the need to touch them, look at them o
nce more.
Somewhere outside, the loud barking of a dog drifted toward her. The sound was far away, yet she tipped her head to the side, listening for a moment, feeling a small spurt of uneasiness. The sound faded, and she turned back to the collection of memories.
"I got my values from you, Gran, didn't I?" she murmured. "Work hard. Love your family. Keep your private business private. Stay productive."
Which was why she was sorting through this stuff now, she told herself firmly, since she needed a rational explanation for her behavior. She hadn't been able to keep her mind on her job since Detective Thornton had left. And if she couldn't work, then she needed to do something else useful—like figure out what should finally go to consignment shops. Or Goodwill.
"So what about the love part?" she asked, still speaking aloud, as though her grandmother were sitting in the easy chair in the corner. "You were so warm and generous and loving. That's how I know something important is missing from my life. Is that why I've fixated on the first man who knocks on my door?"
Gran didn't answer. If she had, her words would have been drowned out by the sudden sharp noise outside. The dog was barking again. Only now it was louder. Closer. More frantic. It sounded like an animal in trouble. Or an animal about to attack someone.
Jumping up, she ran to the window, craning her neck. Although she saw nothing unusual, the uneasy feeling wouldn't go away.
Stepping over a box of old tablecloths, she hurried to the door, opened it, and pounded down the stairs.
JACK craned his neck, seeing nothing. The noise was coming from off the street. A backyard? Or a wooded area along a stream? An isolated location?
He was out here because he was looking for his daughter, but he'd just encountered another situation. It sounded a lot like the animal had someone cornered, and as a cop—as a good citizen, for that matter—he couldn't simply drive away from obvious trouble.
Pulling to the curb, he cut the engine and started up the blacktop path between two houses. Wind rustled the dry leaves still clinging to the oak trees overhead. Through a screen of tree trunks, he saw a large backyard with a wooden playhouse a handyman father must have lovingly built for his kids. It had wood siding and flower boxes with artificial flowers under the windows. A solid wooden door was closed. The windows had mullions but no glass panes, as far as he could see.
A dog charged around the corner of the house—a Doberman. It was jumping and barking and snapping its teeth, directing its fury toward the little building. When it threw its body against the side, the house rocked.
One of the mullions cracked under the assault. The animal stuck its head inside, and he heard a child's terrified shrieking from within. If the dog got in there, it was obvious he was going to tear the kid to shreds.
If Jack had been able to assess the situation from the street, he would have called for backup. Now he was on his own. And the first thing he had to do was get the dog away from the child cowering in the playhouse.
If he called the dog, would it leave the kid alone? Would it calm down? Or attack him?
He had never been in a situation where it had looked like he might have to shoot a dog. But he drew his Sig before giving a loud shout, "Come on, boy. Come away from there. Good dog. Good dog."
The animal whirled in his direction, teeth snapping in the face of this new enemy. In those first few seconds of confrontation, it was apparent that the animal wasn't going to calm down. A deep growl rose in its throat as it leaped away from its previous target. Focused on Jack, it picked up speed, its teeth snapping as it headed straight toward the new target.
Jack held his gun in a two-handed grip, pointed at the charging streak of black and brown as he took careful aim.
"Daddy! Watch out, Daddy!"
The child's cry riveted his attention just as the dog leaped.
God! It was Lily in there!
Thrown off his stride, he scrambled to find the dog again, knowing he couldn't risk a wild, random shot in the middle of a residential neighborhood—with his daughter somewhere in front of him.
It was already too late to get the dog before it reached him. He braced for the deep, tearing sensation of canine teeth sinking into his flesh.
But it never happened. Once more that day, the normal course of time seemed to stop. It was like someone had thrown a switch, making everything around him freeze. The leaves on the trees went still in place. The wind stopped blowing. The dog seemed to hang in midair—three yards from him.
Jack Thornton was the only moving, breathing thing in the freeze-frame universe. He had time to bring the gun into firing position, time to pull the trigger before the dog reached him. As he fired, time snapped back into its normal forward course.
The dog yelped once, dropped to the ground. And Jack knew by the way it lay still and the lack of blood on the wood chips that he'd shot it in the heart.
KATHRYN stood transfixed. Moments ago, the angry barking had enveloped her, solidified the breath in her lungs.
Now… there was utter silence. Feeling unsteady on her feet, she leaned back against the door frame, staring into the afternoon sunshine, struggling to catch her breath.
She had the strange conviction that disaster had been averted. Yet she had no idea what had happened.
For several minutes, she stood in the doorway, all her senses on alert. But she saw nothing unusual. Heard nothing. With a shake of her head, she stepped back inside, made her way up the steps, clutching the banister. Back into the living room—she blinked, staring at Gran's things still spread over the floor.
Lord, she'd been sorting through this stuff, trying to decide what to keep and what finally to let go of. But she'd forgotten all about what she'd been doing when the dog had claimed her attention.
JACK stepped around the dog, holstering his gun as he rushed toward the playhouse. Pulling open the door, he looked inside and found two little girls. Lily and her friend. They were both white-faced, both sobbing.
He went down on his knees. Reaching inside, he drew them both into his arms, feeling their small trembling bodies press against him as he stroked his hands over their backs.
"It's okay. It's okay," he murmured.
Lily hiccuped, struggled to speak. "Jessica wanted to show me this house on the way home. We… we were only going to stay a few minutes. Then… then the dog came. He was trying to bite us."
"I know, honey. I know."
She tried to look over his shoulder, but he kept her head down so she couldn't see the dead animal.
Still, her voice quavered as she said, "You shot him with your gun."
"Yes."
He calmed the two girls down, then moved back so he could make eye contact.
"Did the dog bite you?"
"No," both girls answered, although he had to reassure himself by checking their exposed skin. He couldn't find any tooth marks.
"How did you get away from him?" he asked.
"We were playing in the little house when we heard him barking. Then he was running toward us, and we shut the door and pushed that wooden piece down," Lily answered.
"That was exactly right."
"But then he kept jumping at the door and the window, and shaking the whole house. He was going to get in—until you got here," Jessica said. "How did you find us?"
"Well, I was looking for you, and I heard him," he answered, adding a heartfelt but silent "Thank God."
DELIBERATELY, Kathryn focused on the boxes she'd pulled out of the closet, determined to bring order out of chaos. If not her disordered thoughts, then these things.
She'd never use the linen and damask tablecloths, she told herself firmly. Or the box of old fabric. They could go to one of those upscale consignment shops. And the same with the postcards and the little animals that had come packaged in boxes of tea.
She stopped, suddenly picturing herself sitting on the floor, watching a small girl playing with the ceramic lions, monkeys, and giraffes.
Jack's child. She'd just met the ma
n today, under emotionally trying circumstances. But she was back to daydreaming about him—and his daughter.
She dragged in a breath, held it for a moment, and let it out before carefully gathering up the animals and setting them back in the cardboard box. She would save the animals. But was she doing it for the wrong reasons?
JACK glanced at the dog lying on the wood chips, thinking that Animal Services would take hours to arrive.
His alternative was to find a patrol car in the area. Leaving the girls for a moment, he knelt beside the dog, feeling guilty as he stared down at the still form. He'd never shot a dog. And it gave him a queasy feeling now. But there had been no alternative. The animal had been crazed, out of control. After getting the girls into the backseat of the unmarked, he picked up the radio and called for a uniformed officer.
Next he called Emily on his cell phone and told her that he'd found Lily and Jessica. She wanted a full report on what had happened, but he kept it to a minimum, then called the Barrett house.
He got the teenage boy again and said he was on the way back with Jessica, and to tell his mother, if he could get in touch with her.
By the time he had hung up, a patrol car was rolling to a stop in back of the unmarked. Climbing out, he talked to the officer, a guy named Jacobs, telling him what had happened.
Jacobs could have asked him to stay at the scene, since he was the one responsible for the dead dog, but when he explained the situation, and the officer saw the strained faces of the girls in the backseat, he told Jack to take them home.
He drove straight to the Barretts' house. By the time he got there, Mrs. Barrett had just pulled into the driveway. Her face a mixture of fear and relief, she rushed to his car, pulled the back door open, and gathered Jessica to her, hugging her close.
As he climbed out and walked around to the other side of the car, she said, "Mrs. Anderson got me on the phone. She told me about the dog." She raised her face to Jack. "Thank you. Thank you for rescuing the girls. I had a hairdresser appointment, and my neighbor's daughter was supposed to walk them home. But she must have forgotten. I'm so sorry. I should have reminded her in the morning."
