by D. C. Stone
He nodded, his throat too tight to speak, and turned back to the hospital bed. His hand, already holding a frail one, tightened slightly. He had to ignore the purple bruises on her hand from repeated IV attempts, the thin skin showing blue veins beneath, and lifted it to his lips. As he brushed his mouth over his mother’s hand, he closed his eyes and whispered, voice raw with emotion, the lump in his throat threatening to choke him.
“Mom, wake up. Please.”
No movement, not even a sound. He dropped his head between his shoulders and welcomed the surge of despair working through his chest. Once again, when he was supposed to have been looking after his mother he let his job get in the way, let it override his responsibilities, and left her on her own.
He had seen the signs, listened to what the doctor told him, and still decided to ignore it all. He did not want to admit that she couldn’t live alone any longer—or even continue to stay in the assisted living facility.
One year ago, after suspecting something to be wrong from her tone through the phone, he had made an impromptu visit to her house. She’d been coming out in public less and less and when he managed to finagle some time with her, she had gone to extreme lengths to cover her arms. It wouldn’t have been something he’d normally catch onto, except for the fact she’d been wearing those shirts in the hot, humid, summer air heat.
She’d brushed off his concerns claiming falls, old bones, and weak nutrients in her body. Age had been what she said.
Trent shook his head, brought her hand up to cradle to the side of his neck and tucked his face into the crook of her arm. Baby powder and lilacs, the combination bringing a rush of memories from his childhood.
His stepfather was now behind bars, a task he had seen to once he made sure his mother was cared for. The old fool would die there. But she hadn’t been okay, had she? She lost her ability to speak English and reverted to her native language until he was forced to get a caretaker assigned to her who spoke Italian.
He’d show up at her room, and in states of lowered lucidity, she’d call him by his father’s name, God rest his soul, and refuse to believe him her son.
Severe dementia had been the diagnosis, and it was growing to the point where she now wandered aimlessly, got lost in the big city of New York, and ended up in neighborhoods she had no business going to. The latest outing resulted in her being hit by a local taxi when she stepped off the curb and into traffic.
His eyes burned and he pressed his body tighter to the bed, ignoring the awkward level of the chair and mattress. All he wanted was to simply crawl up and lay in her arms, like he had as a child.
She’d always set his needs above her own and protected him from the hand of his stepfather. He had been a mere child. His mother did everything for him and in return, he’d given her nothing but neglected attention. Too selfish with his own time, he never saw the abuse until it was too late.
He lifted his head, wiped at his eyes with the back of his sleeve and gave a hearty sniff.
“Never again, Mom. I won’t leave you. We’ll get you set up some place where you’ll be happy. Where you will be safe. Even if I have to keep you with me in the meantime.”
He stared at her, willed her to wake up. She looked so tiny, so frail lying in the big hospital bed. Despite her petite size, she’d managed to coral him as an energetic child and put him in his place more than once as a teenager.
Soft black lashes lay against her pale skin, blue veins showing beneath the surface speaking of the frail status she sat in. He leaned up and brushed back her graying hair, pushed it out of her face and behind her ear.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it, wanting to give his entire attention to his mother. The kind she deserved and nothing less.
The buzzing stopped just as a tall doctor walked in. Trent stood, his hand never leaving from the clasp of his mother’s.
“Doctor.”
The older gentleman, Doctor John Moran, wrapped big palms around a silver chart and held it against his body. He glanced at Trent’s mother and then back to him, his mouth a grim, thin line.
“Her dementia has advanced, Trent. We’re classifying her at stage five.”
He frowned, startled when he shouldn’t be, and sucked in a breath. Staring at the aging man, he wanted to swear. To kick and scream like a child. He knew what the doc relayed, but wanted to deny it with everything he was. This was it, wasn’t it? He’d run out of time. He needed more, had to show her how sorry he was.
Doctor Moran took a step toward Trent, and when he blinked, he found the man standing at his side, clasping his shoulder.
“We’re going to do everything we can to make her more comfortable. She needs to be moved to a different care facility, though. I’m sorry.”
He shook his head, didn’t realize he was crying until the doctor shoved a tissue in his direction. He took it and wiped at his eyes. Cleared his throat and spoke.
“She’ll stay with me.”
The doctor shook his head. “I don’t think so. You need to manage your life, too. She needs proper care. Since it’s developed rapidly, it’s likely she’ll only have a number of months, maybe a couple of years left. It’s important for you to make her as comfortable as you can right now. I wish I had more, and again, I’m sorry.”
Doctor Moran gave another squeeze on his shoulder, then released. “We’ll all do what we can to help. She’s lived a long life, Trent. Know that and be grateful for it.”
The doctor turned to leave at the same time Trent’s phone buzzed on his hip again. Impatience snapped and he dug it from its holder and barked a terse greeting.
“What!”
“Agent Rossi?”
Trent jerked, surprised at the tone on the other end. He turned and his gaze sought out his mother. “Chief Woolsey?”
A deep clearing of a throat followed. “Yes. I’m sorry I’m calling when I know you’re dealing with some sort of emergency, but I need your help. I wouldn’t bug you if I didn’t think it wasn’t important.”
Trent frowned, released his mother’s hand and turned to stare out the window at the buildings lifting to what seemed like a vaultless sky.
“What can I do, Chief?”
“Have you—have you heard from Charlie?”
A trickle of unease licked down his spine. “No,” he said slowly. “Why?”
The chief let out a long, ragged sigh. “Shit, Rossi. I think she’s in trouble.”
All of his senses went on high alert. His vision sharpened, his ears picked up conversations down the hall, and his skin prickled with a spike of fear. “Tell me.”
“Charlie set up those checkpoints. I didn’t think they’d have any sort of success, but I’m willing to concede that in this case, I may be wrong. In fact, I know I was.”
His gaze narrowed, focused on the glass pane of a building across the street and the window washer who hovered some twenty stories above ground. “Get to the chase, Chief. Spit it out.”
“There’s no real easy way to ask this, son, but how well do you know Agent Echols?”
He gave a quick, disbelieving laugh, his shoulders relaxing. “Agent Echols? Hell, he is the Assistant Agent in Charge here in the New York City field office. While I’ve only worked for him for the last few months, he’s been with the bureau for close to twenty-two years.”
“Christ, Rossi. I know that, and I realize this doesn’t sound good, but, shit. You see, at one of the checkpoints Agent Echols came through and chatted up the officers a bit. Asked a few questions and the patrolman recognizing him let him through. They let him go despite his truck matching the vehicle we’re looking for.”
Trent shrugged, at a loss for words. “And? It’s a common vehicle.”
“It is, but the tire treads matched. The officer didn’t think to report it until just now. He mentioned it as a passing thought. But that’s not all.”
Trent lifted his brows, unease splintering now. “What else?”
“Earlier I was sitting her
e with Charlie when she got a call from Echols. Told her he’d been notified of another murder, and since you took the cruiser, he needed a ride. I wasn’t made aware of the incident, apparently, since it was outside Nyack’s jurisdiction.”
He glowered. “Another murder? When?”
The chief let out an exasperated breath. “That’s the thing. I wanted to get some information on it and checked with dispatch, who had nothing. Called all the surrounding towns then. No one reported anything tonight. Then it hit me as odd that if Echols had a vehicle, the same SUV he went through the checkpoint with, why was he asking for a ride from Charlie? Why wasn’t he taking his own car?”
Trent was already walking to the door, fear a chiming bell in his head. The clang grew, terror like an alarm clock intent on waking someone up.
“I’m on my way.”
“She’s not answering her phone, Rossi.”
He stopped without warning, the sound of his rubber soles squeaking along the hospital floor. “How long has she been gone?” White walls closed in. This could not be happening.
“About ten minutes. Give me the address to his cabin. I can’t find anything under his name.”
He cursed and turned in a circle, looking for the doctor, a nurse, someone he could make sure would sit with his mother. He spotted Susan down the hall and motioned to her.
“I don’t have it, but I’ll get it to you. Give me ten minutes, and I’ll call you back.”
“Okay, Rossi. But hurry up. She’s like my own.”
He paused again and sucked in a breath, understanding exactly what the chief said. “I know. I know exactly what you mean.”
****
Charlie’s headlights flashed across the dark forest as she pulled into the gravel driveway. Silver rocks laid a path toward the brown wooden cabin centered amongst a plethora of tall pine trees. A lone yellow lamp adjacent to the front door and the full moon shining above provided light over the area.
Charlie set the car in park and shut off the engine, eyeing the closed drapes and the slivers of light peeking through the blinds. She bit her lip with indecision, her gut rolling with some sort of warning intuition. Something seemed off and she couldn’t put her finger on it. She propped open the car door, sat a boot outside the vehicle and listened. A symphony of crickets sang their song. Owls inserted a low musical beat from their perches above. The slight pop and hiss of her engine spoke of her drive up the mountain.
Chalking her nerves up to the scene she was heading out to and lack of sleep, she stepped out of the car and shut the door. Gravel crunched under her boots like crinkles of paper. She rounded the curve of a walkway and bounded up wooden stairs. Charlie knocked on the screen door as she reached back for her phone, only to find her hip holder empty.
She cursed and turned around, when the house door opened with a creak. Agent Echols stood in the doorway, his blond hair pale against the backlight of his home. His brown eyes landed on her intently and his face was set in a chiseled masked that gave none of his thoughts away.
“Detective Lopez, come in for a second. I’ve just got to grab a few things and then we’ll head out.” He propped the screen door open, stepped to the side and waited.
She hesitated a moment, her stomach screaming, mind urging her not to go inside. Her heart sped in her chest. Instincts squealed like the town’s fire alarm. Why was she reacting like this? She shifted her feet, fighting an urge to run, but squashed it as Agent Echols lifted a brow in question.
“I’ve got to pass on the address to Woolsey. You got the location?”
He motioned his head over his shoulder. “Yeah, the address is sitting on the counter. I get poor cell reception out here. You can call the chief from my house phone.”
She hesitated, only briefly, but from his soft sigh, she knew he caught it. “Sorry,” she said. “I seem to be out of it tonight.”
She slid inside, and the door shut behind her with a sharp slap. Echols’ smooth laugh followed seconds later. “I can understand that. I haven’t been entirely on top of my game myself.”
He walked ahead of her, and she followed, curiosity peaking as she studied the house. Masculinity covered every square inch of what she could see. The front room included a dining room, complete with thick, dark wood and a china cabinet matching the same material.
Passing a dividing wall, the home opened into a spacious center containing the kitchen, an eat-in area, and a great room. Dark wooden pieces, thick and matching the dining room furniture scattered throughout. It fit Agent Echols, she realized. He oozed a primitive sense of being male.
On the wall past the hallway to her right sat one of the largest televisions she’d ever seen. Her mouth must have gaped because a dark chuckle broke through her obvious staring. “Seventy inches, Detective.”
The way he said inches seemed to be throwing in more intent than she thought necessary, but she smiled and gestured with her head, stuffing her hands into the back of her jean pockets. “Of course. It wouldn’t be a cabin without the necessities for watching a Giants game, right?”
His flash of teeth seemed predatory in the private area. “Exactly.” He tossed a thumb over his shoulder, gesturing down a dark hall behind him and to her right. “I’m going to go toss on a pair of boots, and we’ll head out.”
She nodded, as Echols disappeared down the hall.
Her attention twisted to the large kitchen. With dark granite countertops wrapping around almost the entire perimeter of the room, the stainless steel appliances stood out in stark relief. The counters gleamed under the soft light. Nothing was out of place, not the kitchen towel lined neatly next to the sink, nor the stack of envelopes laying in a straight and even line atop one another. With another quick glance in the living room, she also noticed four remote controls all lined up, evenly spaced, right next to each other. The first thought to come to mind was why someone needed four remote controls. Then she wondered why it seemed so familiar?
Charlie’s gaze rested on an open door across the room, and she frowned as the front end of a SUV peeked around the corner in an attached garage.
Didn’t he say he didn’t have a car? Checking to make sure Echols wasn’t coming, Charlie turned and crossed the room, her unease growing as she recognized the vehicle type.
Abruptly she stopped, alarm pounding in the back of her mind. The crime scene photos from earlier ran through her head with a rush, the straight and organized hairbrushes and remote controls, when everything else in the house was a mess. She remembered thinking it had stood out like a beacon in a picture of such disorganized chaos. Her pulse jumped in her throat, and she walked down the three steps to the concrete floor of the garage to get a closer look. The only light shining in the small room was from the moon splintering through the glass panes at the top of the rolling door. Her heart tripled in speed as she bent over and checked the black tires.
She knew the design, had studied the tires from the scene over and over again. The hours of research she conducted.
The sound of rubber shoes against the floor had her straightening and reaching around to her holster. She spun but before she could draw her gun, she had a fleeting moment of terror as she watched a fist charge forward and slam into her head.
Her vision blurred, she felt a prick at her neck, and her entire body relaxed within seconds. A slight tug drew her hand away from her holster and Agent Echols crooned in her ear, catching her falling body against his.
“Ah, my Charlie. Finally.”
Chapter Seventeen
Charlie came awake with an immediate sense of danger, and awareness flooded her. She drew in a harsh breath, but kept her eyes closed, and tested her body, taking inventory for any injuries and how much she could move.
Cold air invaded her lungs and a seizing pain gripped her chest. She choked, wracking coughs splintering her in two. Her eyes flew open and burned. Her head throbbed, pounding a fierce drumming beat. She lifted her upper body inches from what she lay on, but found her hands bound above her h
ead by something grating around her wrists. The room spun and she fought the wave of nausea that accompanied movement, and then tried like hell to focus on getting one part of her body under control at a time.
She lay back and sucked in short, choppy breaths as she studied her surroundings. The white pillow to her right gave an additional unneeded clue as she took in the burgundy covered bed. Even with the moonlight to give reprieve from the darkness, she could still make out the two large beams from the frame thrusting into the air at the end of the mattress. She jerked around, and cried out as the room rotated. Trying to get her bearings, she focused on the essentials in the room.
A dark dresser sat to her right, tall and thin. In front of her was a white chaise lounge and next to it, a door, the only escape from this room.
To her left, another door, this one opened, revealing a black closet. As she turned to the opposite wall, her heart jerked in her chest as she stared back at herself. A large mirror adorned the wall, showing in explicit detail the situation she was in. She shifted and arched her back, bowing on the bed to look behind her. Metal cuffs held her wrists together, and were attached to a long, thick chain. A tug on it barely gave way, the metal on wood booming through the room.
The sound of a door opening caused her to press her body back to the bed and jerk her gaze to the bedroom’s entrance. Light filtered around the rectangular shape, teasing her deprived eyes of sight. A shadow moved, interrupting the light, and her pulse, already running, echoed in her mind and pounded in her ears. Her head was about to explode. Between the pain and her phantom heartbeat, she would give anything to crack it open, just to relieve the pressure.
A shuffle of feet stopped on the other side of the door, and she tried to swallow. She pushed with her heels and tried to force herself back and away from the menacing shadow. Her back pressed against the cool wood, arms bound to the side of her head, helpless. What the hell was happening? She couldn’t keep up with this rapidly spinning out of control scene.
