“Thank you.” Katie glanced from Celia to Mark. “Thank you so much, both of you.”
Mark looked deep into her eyes. “You will be safe there. I promise you that.”
A shiver ran down her spine as a deeper, more vulnerable fear stirred inside her. It was one thing to accept her life was in danger from an unknown threat. It was another thing entirely to realize this strong, rugged and oh-so-good-looking stranger was willing to personally guarantee her safety.
* * *
Gravel crunched under Mark’s feet. He shot a sideways glance at the beautiful woman walking stoically beside him. Their flashlights sent beams of light swinging back and forth along the train tracks. Pale waves of hair fell over Katie’s face. Her eyes were inscrutable in the darkness. Celia had already gone back to the guesthouse to get a room ready, but Katie insisted on accompanying him and Sakes back to where he’d left his truck and transmitter so that she could take a look around the train station for herself. He could respect that. If his equipment had been stolen, he’d have been the same way.
The ground sloped steeply downhill. Katie stumbled. Instinctively, his hand reached for her elbow, offering his strength to steady her.
She brushed it off. “Thank you. But I’m okay.”
The words were polite enough, but there was an edge to her tone that told him Katie was the kind of woman who’d rather stumble a bit than lean on someone else for support. He’d heard it in her voice when he told her that he’d called Celia on her behalf. It was a tone he knew all too well from his development work. One that said, “Thank you, but I can take it from here.” He tended to see it as a sign that the project he was working on was finished and he could move on with a clear conscience. Okay then. As soon as he knew she was taken care of, he’d say his goodbyes and move on. He was good at that. Too many charity workers hung on to a project long after it was done. Not him. He’d never had a problem walking away. The police and Katie waited beside the tracks while he climbed down and retrieved the portable broadcast unit. The prototype was a complete broadcast studio, hidden inside a nondescript hard-backed case. In the right hands, a tool like that could change the world. If TRUST ever got the resources together to get the project off the ground.
They spent over an hour helping the police search around the station for Katie’s bag. Sakes called the search off around midnight and sent everyone home for the night. Mark offered her a ride to Celia’s in his truck, but she opted to ride with Sakes instead, saying she had a few last questions for the officer. Something told him that the reporter would be grilling Sakes about police procedures on attempted kidnappings all the way back to the guesthouse. Would having more facts make her feel any safer? Mark hoped so for her sake.
He watched as she twisted her sweat-soaked hair up into a knot at the back of her head and then let it fall again. They hadn’t exchanged more than a couple of words since leaving the station. Instead, her face had been as set and guarded as a mask, leaving him to guess what might be going on underneath.
She climbed into the front seat of the police cruiser, and Sakes closed the door for her. Only then did Mark slide onto the cracked leather seats of his ancient pickup truck and pop the key in the ignition, praying it would start. The rusted red pickup had been ten years old when he’d bought it. Now it was practically prehistoric—with nothing but a zigzag maze of duct tape keeping the seat springs at bay. But it was all his. The first thing he’d bought with his first independently earned paycheck, and he loved it for that.
The engine roared to life. His satellite phone started ringing, with the African drumbeat he’d preset for his second in command. He turned off the truck. A call from Nick this late at night meant trouble. “Hey, what’s up?”
Nick tried to chuckle. It was the noise he always made when he was trying to put on a brave face about something. Now it sounded more like someone was strangling him. “Mark? We’ve got a major problem.”
Mark fought the urge to groan. No, they could not have a major problem—they simply did not have the capacity to handle one more problem. The bank account only had enough to cover the rent on their workshop for three more months. Ever since he’d founded the charity, they’d been running pretty close to the edge. Now they were just a hairbreadth from tumbling over.
“Jenny’s beginning to have second thoughts about marrying me....”
Mark swallowed hard. He couldn’t imagine how much pain Nick was in right now. He was crazy about her.
“She wants us to postpone the wedding for a year and get premarital counseling. It’s this job. She says she’s begun to dread every time she sees my name on call display because I’m about to tell her I’m hopping onto another plane, heading off for weeks to some dangerous, developing world war zone...” Well, considering how much travel their work entailed, she definitely had a point. “She still loves me. I know she does. She’s just worried that the job is going to keep us from being able to build a life together...” His voice trailed off.
Mark blew out of a long breath. “Okay. Here’s what we’re going to do. You tell Jenny that you’re canceling all trips for the next six months to give you time to work things through. Longer if she needs it. I’ll tackle Romania and Lebanon both.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.” Just don’t quit. Because I can’t handle TRUST alone. “Change my Lebanon flight to Monday.” Taking time off to go camping with Zack would just have to wait. “I’ll wrap Lebanon up in three weeks, then fly to Zimbabwe for a couple of months and then head on to Romania in January. Once the tickets are booked, email around to everyone and let them know the new schedule.” He could hear Nick taking notes.
“But the tickets are nontransferable.”
Right. They were booking economy flights these days—without a dime to spare for extras. “That’s okay. When the banks open in the morning, get my grandfather’s watch out of the safety deposit box and take it down to Packard Jewelry on Queen West. They’ll give you enough to cover the flight changes. Plus, if I’m traveling for six months, I can break the lease on my apartment and throw my stuff in storage. Why pay for a place no one’s going to be living in?”
Six months’ rent in exchange for helping three different charities change countless lives? It was a no-brainer.
Nick sighed. “And you’re sure you’re okay with that?”
Mark watched as Officer Sakes’s taillights disappeared in the distance. “Absolutely. I’ve got nothing to stick around here for.”
* * *
Celia lived in a small hundred-year-old farmhouse off a winding dirt road.
Sakes’s cruiser was pulling out as Mark arrived. Mark waved. Katie stood on the front porch, staring up at the clouds with her arms crossed over her chest. But as soon as he cut the engine and climbed out, she smiled and walked over.
“All sorted?” he asked.
“Pretty much. Celia’s found me enough clothes to last a year. Plus someone from her church brought over a suitcase. She even managed to borrow a laptop.”
He wasn’t surprised. “Celia’s a force of nature. She used to work in the child rescue division of social services. Her husband passed two years ago, and they never had children of their own. She’s probably been itching to have someone around to take care of.”
She nodded. Then her smile faded slowly. “It’s all really wonderful and kind of her. But...” Her gaze drifted toward the tree line. She sighed and frowned. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with people making this kind of fuss about me.”
He was sure that wasn’t the easiest thing for her to admit to someone. She looked up at him, letting her hard, determined mask slip from her eyes for a moment, exposing the look of pure exhaustion behind. He wanted to slide his arms around her shoulder, let her head fall against his chest and let his strength envelop her. Instead, he slid his hands into his pockets. “I get
it. I’m actually the same way. Somehow it always feels a whole lot easier for me to be the one going into a refugee camp or disaster zone to help someone else than it is for me to even let a stranger hand me a quarter when I’m short at the gas station.”
Huh, he didn’t think he’d ever really admitted that to someone before, either.
“I hear you.”
An unfamiliar feeling fluttered in his chest. Those weren’t just empty words to her—he thought—she meant them. It was as if, inside the outer beauty that she carried off so effortlessly, he’d caught a glimpse of someone actually capable of listening. Someone he might even be able to risk telling the truth about himself.
He looked away. He couldn’t afford to think this way. Not now. People were counting on him. His company was on the verge of financial collapse. He was leaving the country in four days. Plus, he still hadn’t figured out how he was going to face his father again. Even if he had been willing to let himself pause, pull up a chair and find out more about this brave, beautiful stranger who had just landed in his world—right now was not the time. “Have you figured out how you’re getting back to Toronto tomorrow?”
“Actually, I’m planning on heading north. I’ll be staying in Kapuskasing.”
Then again, maybe he didn’t have to leave her quite as soon as he’d thought. His father lived out in the country, only about twenty minutes north of Kapuskasing. “I’ll be driving past that way myself tomorrow. I’d be happy to give you a ride.”
He could almost see the tension melting from her shoulders.
“That would be wonderful. This whole assignment has been a total disaster from the beginning.”
“Kapuskasing is pretty small. What kind of story are you up here covering?”
“A completely inconsequential one.” She rolled her eyes. “Someone is holding a gala this weekend and, for some reason, my boss thinks parties are news.”
Well, that answered the question of whether her story was related to anyone he knew. While he’d met a handful of people in the town, none of them were the type to throw a gala, let alone the kind you’d invite the press to. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” She sighed. “I actually used to love my job, back when I wrote about things that mattered. Now I feel more like I’m trapped in it and have to fight my way out.”
“I know that feeling, too.” Whatever kind of reception he was going to receive from his father, it sure wouldn’t be a party. His father’s face flashed across Mark’s mind. He remembered the callous curl of his lip when he was angry and then the relief that had coursed through Mark like rain when he’d finally found the courage to walk away. He’d lost track of the number of times his father had called TRUST asking to speak to his son. Mark had ignored the calls for years.
But now? Here he was reduced to handing over the last thing that remained of his inheritance. The small plot of land his grandmother had left him was set inside the family’s lands. The will had stipulated he had to offer first rights of sale to his father. He just prayed his dad would give him a fair price for it. Not for his own sake but for the sake of all the charity projects that depended on him.
The farmhouse door swung open. Celia stepped out onto the porch.
Katie yawned. “Well, I guess I’d better go crash. I’ve got a long day ahead of me tomorrow. See you tomorrow. Thank you for everything.”
He smiled. “My pleasure.”
Her hand brushed lightly against his arm. Then he watched as she walked back into the house. The door closed, and he stared at it a full minute, willing her to come back outside.
An unsettling feeling burrowed into the center of his chest. Unfinished. This whole thing with Katie felt unfinished, like a half-built circuit board sitting on his workbench. Like an engineering project he’d just started working on and would be forced to walk away from tomorrow. There was a story there, a puzzle he had only started to figure out. Why would someone try to hurt her? Would they try again? The idea that she was going to disappear from his life in a few hours was almost unfathomable.
Rule number one of running a charity like TRUST was never start something you couldn’t finish. With so few hours left until she walked out of his life, he’d be lucky to even scratch the surface.
* * *
Katie followed Celia through a disorienting maze of rooms. Ornate tables bursting with flowers and knickknacks filled every spare corner to overflowing. Celia led her through the living room, opened what at first glance appeared to be a closet and showed Katie into a small bedroom, dominated by a four-poster bed. There was a huge bag of clothes on the bed and an old clunky laptop humming on the bedside table.
“Remember to take whatever you’d like,” Celia said. “Don’t worry about getting any of them back to me, either. Just donate to one of the clothing banks in Toronto when you can. The Lord knows they need it more than we do. Now, I’ll go find you something from the kitchen.”
She swept out again before Katie could say another word. By the time she’d changed into a pair of simple black leggings and an oversized shirt, Celia was back again, carrying a tray with bread, honey and jam. She pressed a mug of tea into Katie’s hands.
“Now if you’re still hungry, we’ve got plenty more food in the kitchen.” Celia turned toward the door then stopped. “Don’t worry. The Lord knows where you are and will make sure you get where you need to be.” She closed the door behind her.
Faint rain tapped against the window. Trees shook in the breeze, scattering red and gold leaves against the glass. Somewhere out there in the darkness were two strangers who’d tried to kidnap her. Had they tossed her belongings in a ditch and moved on to find another victim? Or were they now poring through her things, plotting how and when they were going to get their hands on her again? Katie set down the tea and pulled a quilt around her like a shroud.
She couldn’t remember the last time someone had made her a cup of tea, let alone told her not to worry. For that matter, she could barely remember what it felt like to just sit still and stare out a window. When she first started out as a journalist she’d been drawn to the hard work, the fast pace, the unrelenting schedule. In college, she’d volunteered for a community newspaper during the day and waited tables at night. Her first boss at Impact News, an aging newshound named Ron, had pulled twelve-hour days and expected the rest of his team to do the same. She’d never minded falling into bed exhausted at the end of the day because she’d always known she was doing something that mattered.
Then Ethan came along. Needy. Unpredictable. One moment he was excitedly happy. The next he was inexplicably furious—changing writers’ assignments and entire layouts on a whim. He was in his late thirties with a boyish charm and manipulative need to get his own way that made him appear years younger. He’d apparently tried his hand at a tabloid in Los Angeles before crashing, burning and returning home to beg his aunt for a bailout. Several of the staff suspected he was addicted to prescription drugs. Most days he came in with the smell of alcohol on his breath.
If there was one consistent thing about Ethan, it was the kind of publication he wanted Impact News to become—a supermarket tabloid. Parties, weddings, affairs, divorces, gossip and rumors. Pictures of pretty people wearing expensive clothes and acting ridiculous. Jonah Shields’s weekend gala was hardly the most frivolous story he’d assigned her—at least Shields was a powerful and influential recluse.
Her cell phone still couldn’t find a signal. She tried the laptop. Someone at Impact had already posted an article on their website about her attempted abduction. Very few facts and a whole lot of rhetoric. Just how Ethan liked it. Then she clicked on the link underneath: Impact News Invited to Jonah Shields’s Gala Weekend.
Being invited to a party was news now? Well, probably in Ethan’s world. Although they’d received an invitation to the event—from Shields’s personal secretar
y, Tim Albright—chances were dozens of other reporters had, as well. It was the first time the Shieldses had allowed reporters inside their secluded Ontario estate.
Did the Shieldses even know that she’d covered the residents’ protests in Langtry Glen? Certainly, they’d never responded to her request for an interview. Although that kind of socially conscious reporting was miles away from what Ethan would be expecting now.
Still, the mere fact she was going up to cover the weekend’s events had already gotten over two-hundred comments from readers—many of them full of anger directed at the Shields Corp.
The Shields family deserves to suffer for all the innocent people they put out of business.
Oh, great! They throw a swanky, “private” weekend of events all the way up north. How about coming down to Toronto and facing some of the real people you’ve hurt?
What happened to you, Ms. Todd? You think we don’t remember when you were walking around Langtry Glen, pretending you cared that we were about to be thrown out on the street. Way to betray your principles.
Little did they know. She plugged “Jonah Shields” and “Shields Corporation” into her search engine and started digging. If he was inviting reporters into his home, there had to be a reason. Despite the company’s very public name, the family itself had managed to keep itself well out of the media’s glare. Jonah Shields, a self-made man, had started gutting, developing and reselling homes straight out of high school. By the time he was twenty-five, he was running his own construction company. One of his first purchases was a resort hotel complex he’d bought for next to nothing from an owner facing foreclosure, which he’d then converted into his home and business headquarters. That’s where she’d be heading tomorrow.
Killer Assignment Page 3
