Not a Moment Too Soon

by Linda O. Johnston

  Which was what had made it particularly hard to call Hunter’s mother today. Shauna hadn’t divulged the story’s contents over the phone but had come right over to be with Elayne. To stay with her.

  To get Hunter’s current phone number from her so she could call him, for she alone had to be the one to relay this horrible news to him.

  Even though she knew full well, because of the way he had acted in the past, that he wouldn’t buy it. Or at least he wouldn’t want to.

  “Where were you when this story came to you?” Elayne asked.

  “Better yet, why don’t you just tell us what it said?” Hunter’s arms were folded as he sat back on his chair. His blunt chin was raised belligerently. Talk about expressive body language. Shauna sighed inwardly. Sure, he would listen to her, but he would fight any belief in what she said with all his innate stubbornness. That, apparently, had not changed.

  Trying for therapeutic distance, Shauna briefly responded to Elayne’s question first, needing to work into the rest. She explained that she’d sat down at her computer fully expecting—hoping—to write something especially for one of the kids who frequented the story time at her family restaurant, Fantasy Fare.

  Instead, that hellish narrative had spewed from her fingers.

  Looking unwaveringly into Hunter’s skeptical stare, she finally responded to his demand. She described the story but only sketchily.

  “I realized at once who the kidnapped child was,” she finished, “and knew I had to notify you.”

  “The story said she was my child?”

  “Not exactly.” She had kept up with what was happening in Hunter’s life in a manner she did not want to mention, so she didn’t explain how she knew who Andee was. Instead, she asked questions for which she already knew the answer. Otherwise, why would Hunter have come here? “Hunter, have you called whoever’s supposed to be watching your daughter in L.A.? Maybe this story is wrong.” From experience, though, she knew better. “Do you know where she is?”

  His strong features went as blank as if he had suddenly turned to stone. “She was with her mother. We’re divorced. I have primary physical custody, but Margo watches Andee when I travel. And yes, I’ve spoken with Margo.” His tone sounded bleak. “But no, I don’t know where Andee is.” He paused as if marshaling his internal forces, then demanded, “Is there anything helpful in your story, like something to identify the kidnapper?”

  “There’s one thing,” she said slowly, rehashing the narrative in her mind. “The person—a man—thinks of himself as ‘Big T.’”

  “That’s all?” Hunter sounded scornful. Damn, but his scorn, the same derision he had leveled on her just before he had exited her life for what she had believed would be forever, still had the power to wound her. “It’s got to be a pretty short story. I want to see it.”

  “No, you don’t,” she replied quietly.

  She hadn’t intended to injure him by a thrust of her own, but pain briefly shadowed his face, and Elayne’s, too.

  “Shauna, don’t you think—?” Elayne murmured.

  Her son interrupted. “Did you arrange to have Andee taken so you could impress me, after all this time, by proving one of your damned stories was coming true?”

  Shauna’s sudden intake of breath was echoed by Elayne’s gasp. Another direct hit, right to her gut.

  Similar accusations had been hurled at her by strangers when she issued warnings about other situations she had written about. She was a psychologist. She understood that people lashed out in fear and hurt. She had remained calm and soothing and understanding.

  But seven years had passed since her last confrontation with Hunter. Seven years, two months, and—

  Enough.

  She stood. “Why on earth would I? I wouldn’t do anything to hurt a child. Or you, for that matter. Not now. And certainly not Elayne.” Hunter opened his mouth as if ready to interrupt, but she pressed forward, not letting him. “I know you didn’t believe in my stories years ago, and what I did at the end wouldn’t exactly encourage you to trust me. But I didn’t set out to write a story that’d come true this time, any more than I did then. I never do. This one involved you and your daughter, so I had to let you know. That’s all. Except that I’m very, very sorry.”

  Hunter also rose. “Hell, me too. I was out of line.” He shook his head slowly. “I only wish the solution was that easy. If you took my daughter, I could just ask you to give her back.” The anguished smile he gave Shauna nearly broke her heart.

  “You know I would if I could,” she responded softly, her voice hoarse with the moisture she held back. She turned away. Elayne, too, was standing, and tears flowed down the older woman’s cheeks. “I’ll leave, now that you won’t be alone,” Shauna told her. “If it’s not too hard for you, I’d like to keep in touch so I can learn how things turn out. And if there’s anything I can do—”

  “There is,” Hunter interrupted. “Let me read your story.”

  “Hunter, I’m not sure you—”

  He didn’t let her speak. “You asked what you can do. Well, that’s the only thing you can do. Let me read it, Shauna. If it’s as you’ve always said, something that comes to you from the emotions of the participants, maybe it’ll have something to help me find my daughter. Let me see it now, so I can get on my way to L.A.”

  Chapter 2

  Shauna had argued with him, of course. Hunter, expecting it, hadn’t budged. He’d won. His mother had understood and said she’d had a bridge game planned with friends that evening. Not that she’d play, but at least she wouldn’t be by herself. She had encouraged them both to leave.

  Hunter was so antsy to get on his way to L.A. that he ground his teeth together in frustration. Still he followed Shauna, in his rental car, along the streets of Oasis toward her home.

  In the old days, he had enjoyed arguing with her. Shouts had led to surrender. Surrender had led to—

  Damn. This was the present. His daughter’s life was in danger. That, and only that, was his focus.

  Shauna had even tried to convince him that, for his own good, he should just trust her. She’d told him she’d written the damned story and had given him the only possible clue in it. Wasn’t that enough?

  Hardly. She might be a professional shrink now—his mother had let that slip a few years ago—but he was the professional investigator. Shauna might have overlooked something that could lead to his daughter.

  Except…others on the force had believed wholeheartedly in Shauna’s stories when Hunter was with the Phoenix Police Department. And sometimes even he couldn’t discount them entirely.

  But Andee was all right. She had to be.

  Hunter pounded one fist on the steering wheel of his rented sedan, then twisted it to follow Shauna’s little blue sports model down a street on the outskirts of town. She turned into a driveway, and he pulled in behind her.

  Nice house. One story, not very big, but pretty. It was the obligatory Arizona earth-tone color, but brighter in shade than customary, almost red, like rich clay.

  The garage door opened automatically, and Shauna pulled in. He parked outside and grabbed his cell phone for one more call.

  “Simon? What’s happening?” Simon Wells, a Rolls-Royce of a British import, was Hunter’s second-in-command at Strahm Solutions, his P.I. agency. Hunter had called him first thing when he’d learned about Andee, got him started doing all the things he’d do himself if he was in L.A. His complete trust in Simon was the only reason he’d been able to convince himself to indulge in this delay.

  “Nothing new yet,” Simon replied in his unabashedly English accent. “Soon, though. Banger’s on his way.” Strahm Solutions had developed an excellent working relationship with Los Angeles Police Detective Arthur Banner, whose nickname, perversely, was “Banger.” Straitlaced and all cop, he was the furthest thing imaginable from a gangbanger, though his nickname was also used to refer to those street toughs.

  “He’s from LAPD’s West Bureau,” Hunter pointe
d out. “You sure he can deal with this? Margo’s place is in Sunland. That’s Valley Bureau. Foothill Division, I think.”

  “You know Banger. He’ll figure it out. He understands this is high priority and low profile, so he’s called one of the best FBI agents he knows. A rare one who’s discreet. So far, the press hasn’t gotten wind of what’s happened. Where are you?”

  Hunter told him. “I’ll be here for another hour or so, then grab a flight back to L.A.” A thousand instructions slammed through his head, but he left them there. Simon was smart. He worked well with minimal direction, and the others on Hunter’s staff at Strahm Solutions knew to listen to him.

  “Good. I’ll let you know if I learn anything more in the meantime.”

  “Thanks.” Pushing the flap down on his cell phone to hang up, Hunter looked toward the garage. Shauna had exited her car and stood beside a door that opened into the house. Slender and poised and utterly sexy, she was watching him. Warily. As if she expected him to pounce on her the moment they got inside.

  Didn’t he just wish…?

  Instead, he got out of the car, cursing himself silently for still wanting her. Cursing her. For looking so good. For inciting ideas inside him that he had no business feeling.

  She stirred him still, as no woman had. Not even Margo. He wanted Shauna.

  Was there some other way that Shauna had really known something had happened to Andee? So much about her stories had always seemed true, too much to be coincidental. Yet he’d always prided himself on being a realist, had never wanted to buy in to the idea.

  Yeah? Well, if he hadn’t bought in to it, why was he here, when what he really wanted was to be home, looking for his daughter?

  He closed the car door and hurried toward Shauna. He’d accused her earlier of having something to do with the kidnapping. That had just been his anxiety lashing out, and they’d all known it. Apologies didn’t come easily to him, but he’d owed it to her.

  Years ago, though, he wouldn’t have put such a terrible hoax past her, not if it would have gotten him to admit that she had the power to write stories, out of the blue, that came true. She’d always been upset when he didn’t believe her.

  And maybe if he had been more accepting, he’d still be living here in Oasis, his job with the Phoenix Police Department intact.

  “Were you talking to someone in L.A.?” she asked when he drew near her. Her scent was much as he remembered it. Something too soft to be exotic, too spicy to be sweet and feminine. But very appealing. It suited the mystery of her.

  “Yes,” he said. “My assistant, Simon. He’s with my ex-wife, trying to get better information. So far, there’s nothing of use.” He let his tone turn scornful. “Your story’s as likely to tell me something helpful as Margo is.”

  Shauna’s eyes blazed, but only for an instant. Saying nothing, she led him inside.

  They entered the house through her kitchen. It was a lot smaller than his mother’s. A lot more like a small, homey forest. Shauna had plants everywhere—on her tiny kitchen table, along her gold-tile counters, even on top of the refrigerator. A few had flowers. Most were simply large and leafy and green. The place smelled more like a garden than a kitchen.

  “Sit down there.” Shauna pointed to a chair beside her table. “I’ll get you more coffee and…Hunter, I have to warn you again. I don’t think you should read the story.”

  “Yeah, I got that. Is it because Andee’s father is described in it as an ugly old goat who doesn’t believe in magical stories that come true?”

  She leveled her gaze on his. This time, what he read in her wide brown eyes, the tilt of her head that allowed her long, blond hair to cascade to one side, wasn’t hurt or anger. It was pity.

  Damn. Now that hurt. He had never wanted Shauna’s sympathy before. He sure as hell didn’t want it now. Yet the expression again reminded him of the past, of what they had shared.

  And not just that he’d thought he’d loved her.

  The passion between them had been phenomenal. The thought of it once more sent his blood coursing, as if a flood-gate had been opened. Sure, he could imagine himself making love to Shauna again. Hell, yes. She was every bit as beautiful and desirable as she’d been then.

  But the sympathy in her eyes brought him back abruptly to why he was here.

  She thought she knew the ending to Andee’s story, and it made her feel sorry for him.

  He had to learn all she’d written, so he would know what she figured he’d be up against. And then he’d dash home.

  Wearily he did as she asked and sat down on a chair. Covered by a thick, fringed pillow, it was more comfortable than his mother’s kitchen chairs.

  “What is it, Shauna? I know I never wanted to believe your stories came true, no matter what I saw. Some of the other guys swore by what you told them. Hell, maybe you’ve been right every time.” That was why he’d taken precious time to come here before hurrying home, why his hastily crafted strategy had included seeing Shauna—just in case. “Maybe whatever you’ve written now is real and there won’t be a damned thing I can do about it. But I’ve got to know, in case there’s anything to help me find my daughter. If it’s bad stuff, I’ll fight it.”

  “I know you will, Hunter,” she said with a sigh. “And you’re right. If nothing else, I can at least let you prepare for it. But, honestly, the only clue to who the kidnapper is, is that he thinks of himself as ‘Big T,’ assuming that’s actually his thoughts, not my imagination.”

  He couldn’t help raising his eyebrows. This all was her imagination…except that Margo had confirmed that Andee had been taken.

  “And no hints about how to find this so-called ‘Big T’?”

  She shook her head. “Hunter, the thing is…” She hesitated, then turned her back and opened the refrigerator door.

  “Andee dies at the end,” he supplied through gritted teeth. Prepare himself? Hell. Nothing could prepare him for that. “Right? Why else wouldn’t you want to tell me?”

  He heard a sound that might have been a sob. But when she turned back to him, a package of coffee in her hands, she looked composed. “Yes, Hunter. That’s the end of my story.”

  Big T swooped down and reached behind a couch in the middle of the warehouse floor, lifting his Uzi. Before he could begin spraying bullets, Hunter ducked, rolled and came up shooting. His first volley got the guy in the gut.

  The kidnapper fell to the hard concrete floor, moaning, as Hunter ran to kneel beside him, his weapon still leveled on him.

  “Tell me where Andee is, you perverted bastard. Now.”

  Blood spurted from between Big T’s fingers as he clutched his middle. “Too late.” His gasp was a ghastly laugh. “Good luck finding her.”

  His eyes closed. He was dead.

  Somewhere close by, but not near enough for Hunter to find her, Andee weakly cried “Daddy” for the last time.

  Of course Hunter had guessed the ending, despite Shauna’s reluctance about telling him. And maybe that had been what she wanted—not to have to say the words herself.

  Still, when she acknowledged he had guessed correctly, she winced inside at the pain that crossed his face, only to be replaced an instant later by stoic blankness.

  “I still want to see it.” His voice held as much emotion as if he had requested the day’s weather report.

  What he didn’t know yet was all Andee went through, all he went through, before that awful end. The story wasn’t always specific, but their torment was stark and real.

  But she knew he wasn’t about to give up. He would fight it. Hunter always fought everything, and everyone, that didn’t comply with what he perceived as right and just and the way things should be. He wrestled with wrongs till he had them fixed, or at least wrapped up and within his control. That was why he’d made such a good cop.

  And why things had gone so wrong for him at the end of his job with the Phoenix police.

  “Okay,” she said quietly, realizing she had no choice. “I’ll ge
t it in a minute.” She took the coffee carafe over to fill it at the sink first, buying herself a little more time.

  “Forget about the damned coffee,” Hunter exploded.

  She took a deep breath and put the carafe down. “Okay.”

  She glanced at him before she left the kitchen. He was watching her, brows locked in a glower she remembered too well from their last days together. It signaled his impatience. The way he blamed her for not listening to him.

  Oh, she had listened then. She’d heard too much, most of it things he was thinking, not saying. She didn’t need her special gift to tell her—only her eyes searching his, the mirrors to his very troubled, very angry soul.

  Damn, how that had hurt her then.

  It wouldn’t now, no matter what he thought or said or didn’t say. She wouldn’t let it.

  The inside door to the kitchen opened onto a long, narrow room that was supposed to be used as a dining room. Shauna seldom entertained at home, since it was much easier to throw parties at Fantasy Fare. That allowed her to maintain the privacy of her home more easily, too. As a result, she had turned the would-be dining room into her office. She loved spending time in it, writing in it—except when her fingers spewed her tales of painful prediction—with its wall of multipaned windows overlooking the desert garden that was her backyard. Her antique door-desk sat right in the middle, on a wood panel that protected the room’s pale berber carpeting.

  Ignoring her reflection in the large mirror along the inside wall, she sat at her desk chair and pulled open the top right drawer in one of the wooden file cabinets that acted as her desk’s legs. She had put the printout of the story in a folder right in front, and as she pulled it out, she couldn’t help scanning through it again. Surely she’d missed something, some glimmer of hope at the end that would mean—

  “Is that it?”