The Seeker

by Ronica Black

  The man laughed and touched his nose in a playful manner. “That balloon was made just for you.” He smiled. “Would you like to see some more?”

  The child looked at him.

  “There’s a lot more over at the park. There’s Charmander and Squirtle and even a Blastoise. And you can have as many as you want.”

  The child looked hesitantly back at the house.

  The man did not falter.

  “Your mom said it was okay. She’s the one who told me Pikachu was your favorite. Would you like to go see all the others and show off your balloon?”

  The child stared up at the dancing Pikachu. He nodded.

  “Okay, then.” The man smiled and took his hand. “Let’s get going. We’ll even get some ice cream on the way back home.”

  They walked hand in hand through the grass to the car. The man opened the passenger door and helped the boy inside with his balloon. Then he rounded the car, crawled in behind the wheel, and drove away.

  She stood watching as the car disappeared. Then, suddenly, she was back at the scene staring at the bicycle. The wheel had stopped spinning and the Popsicle stick began to run over with blood. Suddenly, she was standing in a ditch along the side of the road, just out of town. There was more crime scene tape, more law enforcement milling about. Again she seemed to float through the tape. The sharp scent in her nose was no longer grass. And there was no bicycle.

  She clenched her jaw and forced herself not to look away. There, nestled in the thick knee-high weeds, was the little boy, face down, arms out at his sides, nude from the waist down. In his hand he clutched a string with a nearly flat yellow balloon connected to it. Flies swarmed around him. On the back of his shirt a message was written in longhand and pinned to the fabric.

  Seek and ye shall find.

  The words played over and over in her mind. And then, to her horror, the boy’s head turned all the way around and he opened his dead cold eyes and looked at her.

  “Why didn’t you save me? Why?”

  Kennedy bolted awake, throwing the covers off. She was covered in sweat and struggling for breath. The image of little Tyler Hobbs still swirled in her mind, his head twisted around gruesomely. His words sang in her ears and she choked back a sob.

  The nightmare wasn’t a new one. Tyler had haunted her dreams for years. He’d been the first one taken, the first one killed. His captor had held him for five days before finally strangling him. Then he’d dumped his body along a popular road near the outskirts of town.

  Kennedy hated to think about what all had happened to him during those five days. Unfortunately her imagination was cruel, played out on the stage of her nightmare. Standing, she steadied herself and then walked to face the mirror on the bureau. She stared into her pale face and haunted gaze. She thought of the balloon string clutched in his little hand. She thought of his face and the horrible cries of his mother when they told her they’d found him.

  “I’m so sorry,” she whispered into the air, hoping somewhere, somehow, he could hear.

  Then she opened her eyes and sighed. She glanced at her watch and saw that it was just after six. She’d only slept for a couple of hours.

  Deciding to start her day, she quickly showered and dressed and headed toward the kitchen, the strong smell of fresh coffee leading the way.

  Outside, dawn stretched its sleepy arms and yawned, casting a cool blue-gray haze in through the windows of the mansion. Silvery dew had been breathed gently upon the lawn, coating it in a light white mist. She poured herself a steaming mug full of coffee and stared out at the property. Absently, she placed her palm against the glass, just as she had done the day before on the plane. It felt heavy and cool against her skin, contrasting sharply with the hot mug she held in her other hand.

  Yawning, she cupped the cool hand over her mouth. She hadn’t slept well, too uncomfortable in a virtually unguarded house. And then, after Veronica’s confession, she had been on the phone most of the night making the travel arrangements with the help of Allen and the FBI. She had seen Shawn only briefly, to ask her if anyone else knew about her desire to go to Hilton Head. She’d said no but nothing more.

  Kennedy had worried for her, but she knew there wasn’t much she could do other than make the travel arrangements and hire the Ryans some new security. Veronica had insisted that her remaining two bodyguards go with her to her movie shoot, while Monty and the new guys went to Hilton Head with Shawn and the girls. Kennedy and Allen had both insisted Veronica take on additional personnel as well, someone with better training, and after a while she agreed. The new men were ex–Secret Service and they knew their stuff.

  She took another sip of her coffee as she thought about Sloan Savage.

  She had asked for any information on Sloan Savage to be copied and sent to her in Hilton Head as well as through e-mail. Agents would be questioning the rock star later today and she wished she could be there. More than that, though, she wished for the singer to be solely responsible for the shooting and the threats. If she was, then the family would be out of immediate danger. But that was wishful thinking at best. She didn’t know much about Sloan, but what she did know didn’t fit the profile.

  She glanced at her watch and noted the time. She needed to meet with Monty to go over some things. She needed to probe into his background and get more information on his training. More than likely, Veronica was right and what hindered him from doing a better job was the boss herself. That could be fixed.

  “Good morning,” Shawn said in a strained and exhausted voice.

  Kennedy straightened at her presence and watched as she poured herself some coffee. She still had on her flannel pajamas and her short blond hair was tousled and unruly.

  “Morning.”

  “I don’t know about you, but I didn’t get much sleep.” She laughed a little at her statement.

  Kennedy examined her silently, noting her pale and drawn face, the dark shadows still lingering under her eyes. Now they were accompanied by a puffy redness from hours of crying.

  “I stayed up making the arrangements,” she confessed.

  “Hilton Head?”

  “Yes. We leave in a few hours.”

  “I’ve always wanted a house there,” she whispered, sipping her coffee, a far-off look on her face.

  “For what it’s worth,” Kennedy started, unsure of the words she was searching for, “I’m sorry for all that you’re going through.” Shawn had a startled look. Her coffee mug shook as the pain traveled through her, consuming her once again. Kennedy took a step toward her, desperately wanting to just reach out and hold her, to shield her from the hurt and betrayal. But she stopped, halted by reason and professionalism.

  “Thank you.” She set down her mug and her hand rose to lightly stroke her throat, as if it would somehow give her the strength to speak. “But don’t feel too bad for me.” She held her gaze. “I knew it all along deep down. I just didn’t ever do anything about it.” A sob choked her and she covered her mouth and forced it down. “Sometimes…sometimes denial can be a blessing, you know?”

  Kennedy swallowed hard. “Yes. I do.”

  “You know what the real kicker is?” She looked away from Kennedy and laughed. “When she said she’d been unfaithful, I thought okay, this I know. Tell me about her. I’ve been waiting for you to. But then she said her name and I died. I knew about one, yes. But it wasn’t Sloan.” She sucked in a quick painful breath, picked up her coffee mug, and turned to walk away.

  *

  Tired and strung out, Shawn hoped she would make it to Hilton Head before she collapsed from exhaustion. Her shoulder ached and her body cried out for rest, but her battered heart and mind wouldn’t allow it. Veronica’s confession, while not a complete surprise, had been a walking nightmare nonetheless, shocking in its details and the revelation that it was yet another woman besides the one she’d been sure of. She still couldn’t quite believe it to be true. It seemed like a dream, so sickening and surreal. Was it real? Was any of thi
s really happening? She swallowed down more tears, knowing it was, but wishing like hell it wasn’t.

  They’d grown more and more apart the last two years but she’d preferred to deny any thoughts of infidelity. Veronica flirted, yes, and she loved and sought attention, but the thought of her actually having sex with another had just been too much to bear. And when she had tried to talk to Veronica about their floundering relationship, Veronica didn’t want to listen, even flat-out refused to talk about it.

  They had always said they would talk about it if either one of them felt the urge to be intimate with someone else. They were supposed to talk about it before it happened. Shawn realized now that she’d really counted on Veronica to do that. But it seemed that Veronica hadn’t been able or willing to. Claiming that it had been uncontrollable, something that had happened so quickly that afterward she’d hurt over it, knowing it was a mistake, and she just hadn’t been able to bring herself to tell her.

  But that was with Sloan. Who knew what the story was with the other one. And any of the possible others.

  Her stomach flipped. How many were there? Did she really want to know? Could she handle it? And why had she been so goddamned stupid?

  The cold hard truth was that Veronica had serviced herself. Had put her own needs ahead of Shawn and everyone else. She had done it for years. First with the fame and its demands, and now with the affair. It was time Shawn faced it.

  She walked zombielike back to her bedroom. Veronica stood next to the bed packing in silence, readying for her departure. Unable to handle the sight of her, Shawn turned and headed instead into the children’s bedroom. After placing her nearly empty mug on the chest of drawers, she sat carefully on the foot of Kiley’s bed, tucking the covers in around her sleeping form. The girls shared a room, too scared to sleep alone in the dark at night. She wiped away a tear as she thought of her close-knit little family. Sadness threatened to overwhelm her. Her little girls slept on, oblivious to their mother’s anguish. She hoped they would never have to experience the heartache she was feeling. And she hoped they never would have to know about the betrayal.

  She kissed Kiley’s warm forehead and rose from the bed. Then, while wiping away another tear, she approached a softly snoring Rory and kissed her as well. She watched her girls dream their sweet innocent dreams a little longer.

  Dreams she no longer had.

  Chapter Three

  FBI Field Office, New York City

  “Ms. Savage, are you comfortable?” Special Agent Allen Douglas asked, staring at her blond and black–streaked hair.

  “No. But does it really matter?” she responded, sucking deep on her cigarette while fingering her eyebrow piercing.

  He wished for the third time that Kennedy was there to help interview Sloan Savage. While he knew he could handle her, Kennedy had a way of reading people that rivaled all his other colleagues. It was something innate and went beyond what he could teach. But Kennedy had agreed to go with Shawn Ryan and look after her. She’d e-mailed him questions and was awaiting Sloan’s answers.

  The fact that Kennedy was no longer a sworn agent also could cause potential problems. Some would complain. Not all, but some. So he had to include her carefully.

  Allen crossed his legs and smiled pleasantly. Sloan’s painted red lips were full and beautiful and he watched as she pulled the cigarette from her mouth and expertly released delicate rings of smoke into the air. He studied her brown eyes and noted her striking face and slightly snub-tipped nose. It seemed to express her mood and hold it in place. She was a beautiful woman but hid it well behind her punk-girl attitude and ensemble.

  He reviewed what he knew about her, having gone over her personal background earlier that morning.

  Melissa Ann Bradley, a.k.a. Sloan Savage, was twenty-eight years old, never married, and employed as an entertainer. She lived alone, preferred cats to dogs, ate only raw food, had seven tattoos, and left high school her junior year to pursue her music career.

  As she was growing up, she lived with her maternal grandmother after a sexual attack by her mother’s boyfriend. She was hardheaded and verbally aggressive, and she’d had several small scrapes with the law while a teenager. An infamous story told of her stealing a ring in a home burglary to pawn for her first guitar.

  Currently, she made millions, had two homes and twelve vehicles, had dozens of famous friends, and partied nearly every night at posh nightclubs after sleeping the day away. She did plenty of recreational drugs, mainly marijuana, ecstasy, and cocaine, and she loved to grin and give the paparazzi the finger. A self-professed bisexual, she’d mainly stuck with females the past five years. Veronica Ryan had been one of a dozen.

  Sloan fingered her cigarette and stared at the star tattoo on her inner wrist.

  Allen hated the smoke, but he was allowing it, hoping it would help her to open up.

  They’d already spent two hours with her, asking her easy “get to know you” questions, ones he knew the answers to. He used them to gauge her truth-telling reactions and behaviors. She seemed pleasant and cooperative for the most part, amused by her surroundings. She’d willingly come with them after they dropped in on her at home. She most likely would’ve gone anywhere with them in order to get them away from her property.

  “Can I go now?” she asked, sounding bored and tired. “I could be at home, you know. Doing absolutely nothing.”

  She rubbed her face and smeared her heavy eyeliner. She didn’t seem to care.

  They were in an interrogation room, small and poorly ventilated. Cameras stared at them from every tall corner and a rectangular mirrored window hid those who were listening in.

  “Are you high right now, Ms. Savage?”

  She seemed to be having trouble holding open her eyes.

  “No.” It was a sharp answer. “Is it against the law to be tired? I was out all night and you people showed up before I could get to bed.”

  “Veronica Ryan,” he said quickly. He watched her carefully, trying to catch her off guard.

  She stared at him.

  “Oh, right. V.” The cigarette returned to her mouth. “What is it that you want to know, detective?”

  “It’s Special Agent Douglas,” he corrected her. “And we want to know about your relationship with her.”

  “You think we’re together or something?”

  “We know you’ve been intimate,” he said. “We know about the affair.”

  “So what’s to say?” Her body tensed a bit.

  “Tell me about her. Tell me about the affair.”

  “We fucked. So what?” She took another drag and blew the smoke out of the side of her mouth.

  “How long did you fuck?”

  “At a time? I don’t know, two, three hours. Then we’d get high, rest, and go again.”

  She was growing agitated but her posture was still open. She wasn’t crossing her arms, rubbing her face, or fidgeting.

  “How long did the affair last?”

  “A few months.”

  Veronica had said six weeks. Who was telling the truth?

  “Why did it stop?”

  Her brow creased and she leaned forward. Confrontational. “She said she didn’t want to anymore.”

  “And that was it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did you feel about that?”

  “I didn’t care. No biggie.”

  “You weren’t in love with her?” he asked.

  She laughed at the question. “I’m not Cinder-fucking-ella here. It was just fucking.”

  Again the story differed. Veronica claimed that Sloan hadn’t taken the breakup well at all. That she’d been in love with her. Obsessed, even.

  “What about these?” He shoved copies of the threatening letters across the table to her. She glanced at them and then sat straighter in her chair. The anger fell from her face along with the color. Her shoulders relaxed but she was obviously piqued with interest as she spread the letters out, reading each one.

  “W
hat is this?” she asked, dousing her cigarette in the ashtray to focus.

  “Recognize them?” he asked. “Because I happen to know that the breakup wasn’t what you wanted. Ms. Ryan told us you were very upset. That you even followed her for a while.”

  “What are these?” she asked again, acting baffled and seemingly ignoring his accusation.

  “They’re the threatening letters Ms. Ryan’s been receiving.”

  “And you think I did this?” She looked up.

  “You’ve got a reason to.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I’m not into this sort of thing. This is…” She held up one of the letters, studying it. “Way weird. And frankly, they’re too nice. I told V to her face how I felt, and even if I had wanted to, I wouldn’t have been able to find those words in a printed magazine. That must’ve taken hours.”

  “Did you threaten to kill her?”

  “Fuck, yes. I was angry. I threw some shit at her too, some of the gifts she’d given me, and I told her to get the fuck out.”

  “I thought you said it was ‘no biggie’? The breakup.”

  She quickly licked her lips. Anxious. “I got upset, okay? I felt like she was just dumping me, like a piece of trash. The way she did it…it wasn’t cool.”

  “Will you take a polygraph?”

  “If it means you’ll believe me and let me go home, then yes.”

  He was surprised at her willingness.

  “Will you grant us permission to search your home?”

  “Oh hell.” She chuckled all deep and throaty. “You’re a pushy bastard, aren’t you? I’d have to call my lawyer on that one.”

  “Why? Something to hide?”

  “Yes. But it has nothing to do with this.”

  “Illegal substances?”

  She didn’t respond. She fished out another cigarette and lit it. After a long drag she said, “Get a warrant and I’ll welcome you with open arms. But I’m telling you, you’re wasting your time. V and I are finished. She ended it and I got upset. But I finally wised up and accepted it for what it was. Fucking. That’s it.”