Sure, the sirens that flooded the street the night of Alexandria’s disappearance still haunt me and every time I see a patrol car I think of the dozen or so that sat in front of the Richardson house for weeks. It all spirals from there and I relive our last conversation over and over.
“Are you sure you don’t mind working for me?”
“Stop asking. I said I would,” she laughs. “When are you going to learn, we might not be sisters by blood but we’re sisters of the heart and sisters do favors for each other all the time. You’ll get to repay me by marrying my brother so that way we’ll be sisters through marriage.”
“It’s a football game not a marriage proposal.”
“Yeah, well you gotta start somewhere. Did you know that’s how my parents got together? My dad used to play football too and my mother was as crazy for him as you are for Jagger. Maybe history will repeat itself.”
I know she didn’t mean any harm when she said those words. They were the innocent words of a child, a wish a girl makes when she believes in the power of love, but they became the words that would ruin my existence. In another life being Cora and Keith Richardson would have been ideal—they loved one another fiercely and raised a beautiful family on that love.
Until they lost their daughter.
Then their love became a nightmare they couldn’t escape.
And they became a nightmare I couldn’t escape.
Now Alexandria’s wish is finally coming true.
They say the first forty-eight hours are the most critical in finding and returning a missing child safely. As soon as the police arrived on the scene and they began to question the witnesses on the street, they reported Skylar to the National Crime Information Center and activated an Amber Alert.
Feeling helpless, knowing others are searching for my baby while I sit in the boardroom of the hospital answering the dreaded questions no parent ever wants to face, drives me crazy.
“When did you see her last?”
“This morning when I dropped her off at day care,” I answer robotically.
After Jagger left Brooklyn, I went to a support group for victims of missing children. I remember staring at the quilt on the wall, each patch another face of a child all pieced together creating a tribute to the children lost to the world. I stared at every face, wishing I knew their names as I listened to parents, siblings, friends and other relatives speak about their grief. The parents always left an impression on me and I wondered how they found the courage to stand in a room and relive the loss of their child. I wasn’t a parent, didn’t even have babies on the brain at the time, but I thought losing a child meant your life was over. At least that’s what it was like for the Richardsons.
Some parents recalled the day their child went missing and spoke on how the questions they were asked resonated with them. One particularly blamed herself because she couldn’t remember what color sneakers her daughter was wearing. That woman stuck with me and when I became a mother, I always took notice of the shoes I put on Skylar and cataloged the spare outfit I kept in her diaper bag. It was always in the back of mind…just in case.
“What was she wearing?”
“A pink dress with little black bows on the shoulders. She had on her black and white converse sneakers, pink shoelaces and a big pink bow in her hair.”
“The bow wasn’t in her hair when I picked her up from day care,” Cobra interrupts hoarsely.
“Do either of you have a recent picture of her?”
“I do in my locker,” I say as the tears spill from my eyes. I think of my baby girl’s smiling face and the way she says ‘cheese’ every time I take a picture of her.
“Can you describe her mannerisms to me? Is she shy? Does she take to strangers?”
As a mother, you want to think you know your child better than anyone, yet when a detective is asking you all the questions you were once sure you knew like the back of your hand you second guess all your answers, knowing her life may depend on them.
“She is shy sometimes, like when she first meets someone, but she warms up to them quickly. If you’re nice to her and show her attention she’ll come to you.”
Out of the corner of my eye I spot my daughter’s pink teddy bear. I watch in horror as it’s cataloged as evidence and carefully placed in a Ziploc bag. A sob wretches from me and I bury my face in my hands. I scrub my hands vigorously over my face, trying to wake up from this nightmare but I can’t.
I’m stuck in this hell.
Then I realize I don’t know what hell is. Hell is different for everyone. My heart might feel as though it’s being ripped from my chest, but my daughter, my little baby girl, she might be in a different hell. The hell I feared Alexandria burned in.
Cobra’s arms come around my shoulders and I feel his breath against my ear.
He doesn’t say anything.
He doesn’t try to make it better.
He knows he can’t.
Handing me a box of tissues, the detective calls me.
“Ms. Spinelli, I know this is a very difficult time but we need to ask you and Mr. Richardson these questions. Mr. Richardson, walk me through what happened,” another detective says to Cobra. “You said you signed her out of day care and went to tell Ms. Spinelli you were taking Skylar out for the day.”
“Right,” he mutters, standing behind me. He moves to sit beside me and I watch as his jaw clenches tightly.
“You also said she was with your friend.”
“Deuce.”
“Is that his legal name?”
“Caleb West,” Cobra supplies.
The detective questioning us turns to glance at the one sitting beside him. They seem to exchange words with their eyes and the other detective stands up and turns to the blue and whites standing behind them. One of them radios in Deuce’s real name and I turn to Cobra. He stares at the detective cataloging the evidence found in the street and watches as he uses a tweezer to drop the pieces of Deuce’s phone into a Ziploc bag.
“Does Skylar know Mr. West well?”
“Well enough,” Cobra seethes. “Where are you going with this? I told you already, he’s my friend. He took her for ice cream.”
“Is Mr. West overly nice to your daughter? Does he try to give her special attention or buy her presents?”
It’s bizarre to think law enforcement has to rule out the people closest to your child, but facts are facts and sometimes it’s not the bad guy. Sometimes it’s not the stranger looking to harm your child. Sometimes it’s the person you trust your child with. The nanny whose credentials you check, the neighbor you carpooled with, the nice old man who has twelve grandchildren of his own.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Cobra roars, pushing off his chair. “Deuce wouldn’t harm a hair on my daughter’s head.”
He turns to me.
“You know that, Celeste, tell me you know Deuce would never take her.”
“I know,” I say.
He turns abruptly back to the detective.
“That’s all you fucking people are good for.” He explodes, “You sit there and ask ridiculous fucking questions and chase leads you concoct in your fucking head all the while wasting valuable time finding out who is truly responsible for taking my daughter.”
“Mr. Richardson, sit down,” the detective orders.
“Fuck you.”
“We’re trying to do our jobs.”
“Bullshit,” he bellows. “This isn’t my first fucking rodeo with you people. Your department spent four fucking years chasing theories and ignoring facts when my sister was abducted. Now my daughter’s gone and you think I’m going to sit here and let you cast the blame on my brother? You think I’m going to sit here and let you waste time. She’s just a baby,” he rasps.
It was different when Alexandria went missing. She was fourteen. She had a voice. She knew the difference between good and evil. She could spot the bad guy. She knew what was happening and could fight, although it may not have gotten her far and wors
e than that, fighting may have gotten her killed. But he’s right, Skylar is a baby. I am her voice and right now that voice is silent. She’s too innocent to know ugly. She believes in good and knows no evil.
The part that is Alexandria’s friend understands where Cobra is coming from and shares his frustration. The part that is Skylar’s mother doesn’t care. That part just wants everyone working together to find her.
“Cobra, stop it,” I shriek.
“Your sister is a cold case, your daughter isn’t and the next forty-eight hours are crucial if you want her back in your arms alive,” the detective states. “You might not like it, but right now Mr. West is the only suspect we have.”
Cobra’s fist rears back and collides with the detective’s jaw. The room erupts into chaos and the next thing I know Cobra has a pair of handcuffs on him.
“You’re fucking wrong,” he shouts as they drag him out of the boardroom. “He didn’t take her, and so help me fucking God if you don’t look for the guy who did, if something happens to her, I won’t be my father!”
My body trembles as I watch the blue and whites read him his rights.
“No! You can’t arrest him. He’s just worried about his daughter!”
No one hears me and if they do, they don’t care. They wrangle him out of my sight, leaving me alone in a room full of detectives chasing a dead end. After they ask me some more questions, they have a patrolman escort me out of the hospital.
I’m told to stay home by my phone and wait in case Deuce calls or decides to return her.
Deuce doesn’t call.
He doesn’t show up at my door with my little girl.
Because Deuce didn’t take Skylar.
My parents show up and they stay with me. Hours later Stryker brings Gina over and tells me Cobra’s been charged with assaulting an officer and will be arraigned tomorrow morning. He promises me everything is going to be okay, the club will get him out and they’ll find Skylar and Deuce. Two cops stand outside my door all night and the lights flash outside my building just like they did in front of the Richardson house all those years ago.
Maybe history will repeat itself.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
My baby is gone.
Chapter Thirty-nine
Wrapping my fingers around the iron bars that imprison me, I pull at them as if they’ll suddenly break and I’ll be free. Knowing I’m in here when I should be out there looking for her is torture. But it’s not enough. I need to feel pain, I need to submerge myself in agony. I slam my forehead against the iron bars repeatedly as I torment myself, wondering who has my daughter, what they’re doing to her, if they’re hurting her. It’s too much. For every bit of fear and pain she feels I need to feel it tenfold.
I’ve spent the night going over every possible scenario in my head. I fucked up by letting my past control my present. I should’ve answered the cops’ questions, let them chase whatever fucking lead they want. If I had, then I wouldn’t be here. There wouldn’t be any heat on me. The cops would be going after a theory and I’d be going after a fact. I’d be going after the motherfucker that has her. It’s got to be him, it’s got to be Yankovich.
That’s why there wasn’t another shipment scheduled to coincide with the one we hit. He delivered us those men and planned to take her. Rick kept saying something was off. He surmised that Yankovich was switching things up. Not only did he pull the wool over our eyes with the scheduled shipment, but Skylar didn’t fit the profile of his other kidnappings. She wasn’t a teenager he could mold, use and sell. She was a baby.
He had no use for her.
Which was a fucking terrifying thought.
At least if she had a place in his demented plan then maybe that would bide me time to find her and bring her back to the safety of her mother’s arms.
“Let’s go Richardson,” the sergeant hisses as he turns the key on my cell.
Wiping the blood from my eyes, I look up at him and watch as he slides open my cell. Staring at me in horror, he shakes his head.
“What the hell did you do to yourself?”
“I’m free to go?”
“Yeah, bails been posted.”
He escorts me upstairs where I sign my release papers and some bullshit waiver stating my injuries were self-inflicted. Got to love the NYPD always protecting their asses, the rest of the citizens, well, they’re a different story.
Wolf is the man who scrounged up the money to bail me out, and when I’m released he’s waiting for me outside the precinct. Descending the steps, I watch as he reaches into his denim jacket and pulls out a handkerchief.
“For fuck’s sake, boy, did the pigs do this to you?”
“No,” I growl, grabbing the handkerchief. Wiping the blood from my face, I lift my chin to Wolf. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. I need to get in touch with Rick, need to find out where Yankovich is,” I rattle off as I pull open the passenger door to the van. “Has Jack been in contact with Jones? Can he see how far along these mutts are with the case?”
Jones is the club’s contact within the police department. I was hoping he would have been radioed to the hospital; at least then maybe I would have had a leg to stand on. He never showed. I was starting to wonder if Jack had even placed a call in to him.
“Slow down, Cobra,” Wolf says calmly.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I stare back at the old fuck as if he’s lost his mind.
“Slow down? My daughter is missing, motherfucker, and I just spent twenty-four hours in lock up. Tell me, Wolf, if it was your kid would you slow down? If you knew the first forty-eight hours a child is missing is the most critical time, would you slow down? If you just spent half of that time behind bars when you should’ve been hunting the bastards who took her, would you slow down?”
“While your ass was in jail your club was doing everything it could in your absence. Now you listen here, don’t doubt for one second we don’t have your back; that we didn’t already call your boy Rick, or that Jones hasn’t been to your woman’s house five times in the last ten hours, or that he’s not sitting down with Jack as we fucking speak. We even reached out to Spinelli to see if his contacts could place Yankovich anywhere near the hospital. Now get your ass in the fucking car so we can find your girl and our brother.”
Somewhere in the back of my mind Pipe’s voice plays over and over, reminding me how he lost faith in the brotherhood.
“Today you cheated death, and tomorrow you’ll piss on that gift by throwing on that cut, thinking that piece of fucking leather defines you. You want to worship something, give your life some kind of fucking meaning then you find yourself a good woman. Parrish will think you found your heart and maybe you will. I guarantee you, if you ever think for one second you can have both, you’ll lose your heart because Satan doesn’t let any of his soldiers keep theirs. If you got any smarts left in you, then do yourself a favor and run the fuck away from this hell.”
Maybe he wasn’t talking out of grief, maybe the years of sacrificing his conscience for the sake of the patch finally caught up to him. Losing someone you love will do that to you. It will open your eyes to all the things you tried not to see. The shitty thing about that is by the time your eyes open it’s already too late. Pipe lost Oksana and I lost my daughter.
It doesn’t take long for us to arrive at Pipe’s garage and when I climb out of the van I’m bombarded by the men I call brothers. They are all there, offering me their promise to make it right. I want to believe them, I want to think they’ve got Skylar’s best interest in mind and aren’t doing it for the sake of the reaper.
Jack steps to me, puts a hand on my shoulder and leans close.
“You holding it together?”
“What do you think?”
“By the looks of it, no, but I need your head in the game. I need you focused. Jones just left before you got here, says a witness saw four men get out of a black van. Two of them were wearing leather vests. She couldn
’t make out patches but she said they knocked him out and grabbed your girl, put them both in the back of the van. The van had New York plates. You get where I’m going with this?”
“You’re telling me another club took my daughter? That it wasn’t Yankovich?”
“I’m saying it’s more than likely Rush found out we sent Deuce in there to collect information and decided to retaliate by taking Deuce. I don’t think they meant to take your kid. What the fuck is Rush going to do with a baby?”
“If Rush has a partnership with Yankovich, which we know he does, then we can’t assume he didn’t mean to take Skylar. I told you Yankovich preys on little girls. He may never have taken a baby before, but we’ve been wondering what the switch in his game was. This is it. Instead of shoving balloons of drugs inside girls, maybe he plans to use my daughter. I can’t fucking let that happen. I won’t let that motherfucker touch her.”
“Brother, listen to me, if that’s what his plan is we will shut him down before he gets a chance to and then we’ll fucking make him pay for every girl he’s ever harmed. Your sister, your daughter, every faceless girl. Now the first thing we’re going to do is ride to Albany. We’ll go guns blazing, take Rush’s obsession as collateral and force him to give up the location where they’re holding Skylar and Deuce. If we’re lucky, the motherfucker has them there,” he says with a firm pat on my back.
He leads me to the lot where the rest of the club are already mounted and ready to ride. I turn to the spot where I parked my bike yesterday but Jack grabs my shoulders and spins me back around so I’m facing the van. Wolf stands alongside the van with his arms crossed against his chest and exchanges a look with Jack.
“Want you riding in the cage so you can hold your girl when we get her,” Jack declares beside me.
I’m not the guy you tell to stand down. I’m not the guy who takes a step back so he can allow his men to guide him. I’m the man that takes, that leads and that puts himself in the line of fire before anyone else. I’m not the man you put in a cage, yet I don’t have the will to argue. I’m about to have the biggest showdown of my life and I need to put all of me, everything I am into that, into rescuing Skylar.
Wanderer (The Nomad Series Book 2) Page 27
