Christmas on the Run

by Shirlee McCoy

  “Someone is stalking your house, taking photos of your son. Seems like a warning to me.”

  “It is, but not because I’m involved in something I shouldn’t be.”

  “Then what do they want?” He started running again, heading away from the police, away from his house. She had to have parked in the west lot, five or six miles from his place. A long run, but she’d had her agenda.

  Now he had his. He wanted to meet Zane. He wanted to look in the boy’s eyes, see if Josh was reflected there.

  “They want me to use old-school techniques to create polished stones out of rough-cut gems.” She was panting, running hard to keep pace with him, and he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right.

  “They want you to cut gemstones?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because?”

  “It’s what I do. I’m a museum conservator, and I specialize in restoring antique jewelry. I’m one of a handful of people in North America who know and use Victorian-and Georgian-era stone-cutting methods.”

  That explained her scars and calluses. It didn’t explain why someone was taking photos of her son.

  “And?”

  “Someone wants me to make replicas of some gemstones in a collection I’ve been working on for the Smithsonian.”

  “That isn’t necessarily illegal.”

  “Not if they want replicas for personal enjoyment, but if that’s what these people want, then why not just pay me to do it?”

  “I’m assuming you’ve thought of a few answers to that.”

  “There’s only one answer, Dallas. They’re going to replace the originals. The gemstones I’m cutting are worth a tenth of what the originals are. On average, we’re talking the difference between five and fifty thousand dollars. If they’ve gotten a metalworker to make facsimiles of the original settings, they’ll be replacing fourteen pieces of jewelry worth one point five million dollars with forgeries.”

  “Seems like a lot of trouble to go through to get you to cooperate. It might have been easier to find someone willing to do the job for a price.”

  “There are only a few people in North America who can do what I do with enough expertise to make new cuts look old.”

  They’d reached the west entrance of the park, still running hard, his knee throbbing in protest, the muscle in his thigh cramping. He didn’t slow his pace, though. Carly was heading for a black minivan parked beneath a streetlight. It looked like a family vehicle, the kind of thing suburbanites everywhere drove.

  She unlocked the doors, jumping into the driver’s seat and starting the engine before he got his door open. He jumped in and yanked it closed as she took off.

  Maybe she’d hoped to leave him behind.

  But even if she could have, he’d have found her again. The story she’d told was interesting, and maybe it was true.

  He’d find out, and while he was at it, he’d get a good look at the kid in the window, because sometimes pictures lied, sometimes memories did—and sometimes what a person wanted to believe made him see things that weren’t really there.

  THREE

  She was terrified. More than she’d ever been.

  They were there. At her house. Nothing but brick and mortar and glass separating them from Zane. It was easy enough to kick in a door, shatter a window, subdue a woman, leave with a little boy. How many stories had she heard of kids being snatched out of their beds? Most of them didn’t end well.

  Her hands tightened on the steering wheel, her heart thundering in her chest as she sped along the interstate. The exit was up ahead, and she took it too quickly, the back of the van shimmying, the tires squealing.

  “Take it easy,” Dallas said.

  “I need to get to my son,” she responded, surprised that her voice wasn’t shaking, that she sounded calm. Years of practicing the art of self-control was paying off, her childhood need to distance herself from chaos, strife and drama creating a habit that was serving her well.

  Too bad it wasn’t doing anything for Zane. Or for Jazz. She’d fight to the death to keep Zane safe.

  Carly shuddered, her stomach churning.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Dallas said, and he sounded so confident, so certain, that she would have believed him if she hadn’t seen the photo, if she didn’t know that the men who’d been threatening to take Zane were right outside her brownstone.

  Had the photographer been standing in the backyard? Had Zane seen him?

  She should have put more than bolts on the front and back doors. Should have changed out the old windows and replaced them with ones that had more secure locks.

  She should have packed her things and run the day she’d gotten the first photo, the first phone call, the first threat. She’d thought she had it all under control. She’d been wrong. Which seemed to be the story of her life, the Achilles’ heel that brought her down time and time again.

  God had the perfect plan, the perfect timing, the unerring knowledge of everything that had been and would be. All she had to do was let Him guide her.

  She’d heard that dozens of times from dozens of well-meaning friends at the dozens of churches she’d attended over the years. She’d chosen to attend church because it had been the one constant she could offer Zane, and because Jazz had insisted they start going.

  Jazz had faith.

  Jazz had joy.

  Jazz had the kind of unfaltering optimism that would have driven Carly crazy if she hadn’t loved her so much.

  Carly had realism, skepticism and a healthy respect for the God of the universe.

  He was there. She’d seen His handiwork too many times to ignore it.

  She hit a red light at the first intersection in the neighborhood, thought about blowing through it. She probably would have, but Dallas spoke again. “Don’t.”

  That was it. One word that said he knew exactly what she was considering. He was right. Killing herself or someone else wouldn’t solve her problems. Getting stopped by the police wouldn’t help, either.

  She braked too hard, her shaking leg refusing to cooperate with her brain.

  “Sorry,” she muttered, feeling the weight of his gaze, knowing that he was watching her.

  She didn’t want to meet his eyes. She didn’t want to look into his face, but she couldn’t stop herself. He was there. She was terrified. It was nearly full light, and she could see him clearly. He looked nothing like Josh. She wasn’t sure why she was noticing or how it mattered, but Josh had been lean and hard, his face cut in steep angles and flat planes. Aside from his eyes, there’d been nothing remarkable about him. Nothing that had made women stop and look. It was his charm that had swept them off their feet.

  And his lies.

  Dallas was exactly the kind of man Carly imagined women noticed—tall, broad shouldered, well muscled. Handsome. He wore confidence like a cloak, and she couldn’t help thinking that he looked like the kind of guy who could hold his own in a fight. He’d be a good ally and a daunting enemy.

  She didn’t want either of those things from him, though. She just needed his help. For now. Once Zane was safe, Dallas could go on with his life and she could go on with hers. No mess. No fuss.

  Only, she wasn’t sure he’d let that happen.

  He hadn’t known about Zane. His nephew. A connection to the brother he’d lost.

  It was possible he’d want to keep in contact, be a part of Zane’s life. Which would mean being part of her life. She didn’t want that. Men were complications she’d removed from her life. It wasn’t that she didn’t sometimes wish Zane had a father to help usher him through childhood and into manhood. But she knew how terrible she was at differentiating good guys from bad ones. She knew how much drama, trauma and chaos the wrong guy could bring.

  She’d lived it, and she wouldn’t repeat i
t. Not ever.

  She turned left into her neighborhood, her hands so tight on the steering wheel that her fingers were numb. Or maybe they were numb from fear.

  Up ahead, a dark cloud swirled across the white-blue sky.

  No. Not a cloud. Smoke. A plume of it, feathery tendrils wafting away as it rose.

  A fire?

  She eyed the dark gray smudge as she turned right, heading deeper into the residential area. A few mansions stood on oversize lots, the lawns manicured and pristine, the brick facades stately looking. A little farther in, mansions gave way to row homes. No shops or business. Just tall, narrow houses that had been neglected for decades and then brought back to life by savvy real estate investors.

  Her brownstone was one of the smaller homes. Three bedrooms. Two bathrooms. A tiny kitchen with an eat-in area. It was an end unit, though, with plenty of natural light and a morning room that she used as a studio. That was where Zane had been this morning, staring out the window of her workroom, still dressed in the pajamas he’d worn to bed—the blue ones with red Corvettes zipping across the fabric.

  He loved those pajamas. Just like he loved cars and trains and anything mechanical.

  She didn’t know where he’d gotten that from. Definitely not from her. She was into nature, the way light played across rocks and gemstones. She liked crafting things, creating something beautiful out of a dusty rough-cut gem.

  The plume of smoke grew larger as she approached her street, the feathery tendrils darkening to charcoal. She could smell the fire—wood and rubber and electrical. A house fire. It had to be. And really close to her place.

  Her heart jumped at the realization, her body going cold with it.

  “No,” she said, as if that could change things.

  “What’s wrong?” Dallas responded, but she couldn’t speak, because she’d turned onto the one-way road that led home, and she could see flames jutting up into the smoke cloud, and she knew...knew before she could even see her pretty little brownstone, knew it was her place that was on fire.

  They wanted Zane.

  They were burning the house to get to him.

  She stepped on the accelerator, running a stop sign, the horrible acrid scent of smoke permeating the van, filling her nose, stealing her breath.

  “Calm down,” Dallas commanded, his sharp tone pulling her back from the edge of panic.

  “It’s my house,” she said.

  “It could be anything, Carly.”

  “It could be, but it’s not. It’s my place. They’re going to burn them out of the house. They may have already done it. Zane...”

  She didn’t finish, because the end of the street was in sight, her house and the narrow lot it sat on suddenly visible. Flames leaped from the front door, smoke swirling beneath the portico and up into the sky.

  “Zane! Jazz!” she tried to shout, but the names came out as a whisper.

  A few neighbors were outside, standing on the sidewalk and speaking into cell phones. They’d called for help, so she didn’t waste time pulling out her phone. She threw the van into Park and jumped out, running toward the house, Dallas’s shouted order to stop ringing hollowly in her ears as she bounded around the side of the building and headed for the backyard.

  * * *

  If he’d had his car, he’d have pulled out the fire extinguisher and put out the flames.

  As bad as the smoke seemed, the fire was small, the flames shooting up from what looked like a pile of rags. Dallas noted that in passing, just like he noted two men standing a couple of hundred feet away, cell phones in their hands, eyes trained on the brownstone.

  Neighbors?

  He followed Carly around the house and through a white picket gate that led into the backyard. Like all the brownstones in the area, it had limited green space, the long yard twenty feet wide and dotted with scraggly winter grass.

  A stone patio stood near an open sliding glass door.

  Carly had already reached it when he grabbed her arm, pulling her back before she could enter the house.

  “Stay here. I’ll go in,” he said, but she shook her head, her eyes wild with fear.

  “They should be out already. Jazz would never stay in the house when there was a fire.”

  “If they’re out, we don’t need to go in,” he responded as she tried to jerk her arm away.

  “Something is wrong.”

  “You going in there won’t make it right.” He could hear sirens as the first responders sped their way. “Go around front and meet the fire crew. Let them know how many people are missing.”

  It was an order, and he expected her to obey it. Clients who didn’t follow directions were a risk he couldn’t take.

  He released her arm and stepped into the house. The lower level of the townhome was large, the room he was standing in narrow but long and set up with comfortable furniture and a coffee table that looked nearly as old as the scuffed floor it was resting on. The kitchen was in front of him, open and spacious. A formal dining room stood just beyond that, and then a wall with partially closed pocket doors. It looked haphazard compared to the neatness of everything else, and he thought Jazz might have tried to close it as she and Zane were fleeing.

  To keep the smoke out? The fire from spreading?

  Or to stop someone from following?

  There was a door to the right of the family room, and he headed for it, glancing into a workshop that had tables, tools, desk lamps. Shelves and tall chests of drawers that probably contained the tools of Carly’s trade stood against the walls.

  No closet. No place for anyone to hide, and he turned back to the family room and kitchen, stepping through the dining area with its old table and spindle chairs. Photos hung on the walls—pictures of Carly’s life, her family, the things that she loved. He didn’t have time for more than a glance; he could smell the fire and smoke, see tendrils of black through the open pocket doors. He pushed them farther apart, walking into a living room that was as neat and orderly as the rest of the house. No toys. No clutter. The furniture was modern and bright. A Christmas tree stood near the front windows. Small and potted, one of those living trees that people planted once Christmas ended.

  Smog-thick smoke hung in the air, the room tinged with gray-black. The front door was intact, the varnished wood staircase leading upstairs untouched. He headed up, knowing that Carly was behind him. He could hear her feet pounding on the wood floor, the rustle of her clothes in the quiet house. The muted scream of sirens was the only other sound.

  It was unnaturally quiet. His body hummed with adrenaline.

  He reached the landing, the rising smoke heavier there, and jogged the rest of the way up, ignoring the photos that lined the wall, because every one of them contained an imagine of Zane. It was obvious the kid was loved and happy, that he had the kind of life every child deserved. The kind of life Dallas had planned to give his children. The kind he’d never had. It was obvious Carly had been doing everything she could to provide a safe environment for him to grow and flourish.

  And now this had happened. Something ugly and mean and dangerous had come into their lives. Whether or not Zane was really his nephew didn’t matter nearly as much as making sure he was okay.

  “Zane! Jazz!” Carly called, her voice echoing through the narrow hallway as she ran up the stairs.

  “If they’re here, they’re being quiet,” he responded, glancing into a bedroom at the top of the steps. Blue walls and white wainscoting, a twin bed with a light blue comforter. Toy box. Cars in a line on the floor near the bed.

  “Zane! Jazz!” she repeated, running past him.

  He thought she planned to look in the other rooms. The house was quiet. There was no sign of either of the people who should have been there. They could have escaped. They could have been kidnapped.

  They cou
ld be in the house and unable to respond.

  He could think of more than one reason why that might be the case. None of them good.

  He followed Carly to the next room, watching as she opened an armoire, peered under a four-poster bed, ran to an attached bathroom and yanked open the shower curtain.

  When she tried to leave the room, he blocked her path.

  “I told you to meet the first responders and let them know how many people are missing.” He spoke conversationally, easily, as if there wasn’t a fire burning on the front porch, filling the house with smoke. As if her friend and son weren’t missing. As if they were reasonable people in a reasonable situation.

  He wasn’t reasonable. Not when it came to his work. There was a way to do things, and there was a way to mess things up.

  “Move,” she growled, her eyes flashing with anger and fear.

  “You came to me,” he reminded her. “You obviously thought I had the expertise that could get you out of the mess you were in. Right?”

  She pressed her lips together and didn’t speak.

  “I’ll take your silence as agreement.”

  “I may need your help, but I don’t need you to tell me what to do or how to do it.” She tried to move past him, frowning when he didn’t step aside. “My life would be easier if you’d move.”

  “Our relationship will be easier if you trust me.”

  “We don’t have a relationship.”

  “Not yet, but if you’re really the mother of my nephew, we will.”

  “Why would I lie?”

  “Why would someone blackmail you into forging antique jewelry?” he replied.

  She frowned, her eyes dark with fatigue and concern. “Greed? Desperation? There are probably a dozen other possible reasons.”

  “Exactly. People do a lot of unconscionable things for reasons that only make sense to them.”

  “And?”

  “Most days, I like to check people out before I agree to help with their problems. I’m here anyway. How about you make my job easier and trust that I know what I’m doing?” He walked into the hall, letting her decide to follow or not. There were two people missing, and he didn’t want to waste any more time chatting about how things should be. Either she’d cooperate, or she wouldn’t. If she didn’t, things would be more complicated but not impossible. He’d worked around plenty of difficult clients. In the end, things usually went the way he wanted.