Christmas on the Run

by Shirlee McCoy

  To his surprise, she didn’t follow him to the next room. Instead, she ran back downstairs. He’d take that as a sign that she intended to do what he’d asked. Hopefully, it was also a sign that she was being honest about the situation she was in.

  He pulled out his cell phone, dialing Chance’s number as he surveyed the small bedroom. The double bed just fit, a small dresser squeezed in beside it. He opened a closet and looked inside. Empty. This must be the spare room. Like the rest of the house, it was pristine.

  “What kind of trouble are you getting yourself into?” Chance’s voice rang in his ear as he moved to the next room. “Boone and I just reached the address you gave, and there are fire trucks and police cars everywhere. We can’t park anywhere near the house.”

  “Someone set a fire on the front stoop. Lots of smoke. Hopefully not a lot of damage.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question. What kind of trouble are you in?”

  “I’m not in trouble. My sister-in-law is.”

  “The one you haven’t met or spoken to ever?” Chance asked, because he knew just about everything there was to know about every member of HEART. That was the way he ran his business. Every employee knew it, and no one complained. They understood the job—the inherent risks, the emotional toll. They also understood as much about Chance as he did about them. He cared deeply about the men and women who worked for him. He never asked any of them to do something he wouldn’t, and he always had their backs. On the job or off it.

  That kind leadership bred loyalty and there wasn’t a member of HEART who wouldn’t do anything Chance asked.

  “That would be the one,” Dallas responded as he walked into a third room. “She should be coming around to the front of the house. Dark hair in a ponytail, running gear.”

  “I’ve got her,” Chance said. “She’s running toward a fire truck.”

  “Can you keep an eye on her? I’m inside. Looking for her son and friend.”

  Chance was silent for a moment, probably weighing the meaning behind the words, searching through the database in his head and trying to figure out if he’d ever heard anything about Dallas having a nephew.

  “I’ll keep any eye on her,” he finally said.

  “And I’ll fill you in on the details after I finish searching the house. Thanks, Chance.” He hung up, eyeing the interior of the room he’d just entered. It was different from the rest of the house. Eclectic. Not streamlined and free of clutter. There were shelves of books on the walls, an unmade bed, a pile of papers on an old secretary desk. A computer sat in the middle of the mess of pages, turned on, the screen blue. He rounded the bed, moving toward the desk and the small door to its left.

  He saw the foot first—bare and pale—then the leg. Fuzzy pajama pants and dark pink T-shirt. A woman. Facedown. Blond hair cut short, blood seeping from a wound near her ear.

  His heart jumped, and then he was kneeling beside her, feeling for a pulse with one hand while he called Chance, told him to send in the EMTs.

  Pulse thready. Respiration shallow. Wound on the head, a deep cut and a huge knot that could have been caused by just about anything. He suspected metal. He suspected a gun.

  Jazz Rothschild. It had to be her, and she was alone. No sign of Zane.

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs, and he called out to let the emergency responders know his location. He didn’t leave Jazz’s side until they were in the room, crowding around her prone body. Destroying evidence, but he wasn’t the person to point that out. He scanned the room, looking for hiding places that might conceal a six-year-old.

  How big would that be? Forty pounds? More?

  If the twins had lived, he’d know. He’d have seven years of experience to draw.

  If...

  He opened the closet, ignoring an EMT who asked him to step out of the room. Jazz had as colorful a wardrobe as she did a room. If he’d had to guess, he’d have said that she and Carly had opposite personalities and very different ways of looking at the world.

  He checked under the bed, pulled back thick drapes that covered the windows, opened a brightly painted armoire that stood against the wall.

  By the time he finished, the medical crew was carrying in a backboard, and he was getting desperate. Someone had attacked Jazz. That was obvious. It was also obvious that a six-year-old child was missing. He could be hiding somewhere or he could be in the hands of the person who’d been manipulating his mother. Either way, he needed to be found. He needed to be brought back safely. And the person responsible needed to be brought to justice.

  FOUR

  She was wading through mud.

  That was how it felt, anyway.

  Running and getting nowhere.

  She’d seen the EMTs heading around the side of the house, moving at a quick clip. She’d have followed immediately if she hadn’t been answering the fire marshal’s questions.

  Now she was free, all the questions answered, and she couldn’t get to the house fast enough.

  She knew Dallas had found something. Found someone. Jazz or Zane or both. Injured. Maybe worse.

  She couldn’t shake the fear that was crawling along her spine. She couldn’t make herself stop thinking the unthinkable and imagining the worst.

  And she couldn’t seem to run fast enough.

  She finally reached the front of the house, the scent of smoke heavy in the cold air. The fire had been extinguished, and there were a few firefighters snapping photos of the aftermath. The thick wood door was singed, the cement stoop black with soot. She didn’t look up at the portico. She’d worry about that after she found her family.

  A cold breeze whipped through her running gear as she ran into the backyard. The sun had disappeared behind thick gray clouds, and it looked like a winter storm might be blowing in.

  Zane loved rain and snow and ice. He loved winter and playing outside in the cold.

  He loved life, and he trusted everyone. To him, the world was a glorious place filled with friendly people. She hadn’t ever had the heart to tell him differently. Sure, she’d taught him stranger danger and to be cautious; she’d warned him about the tricks adults might use to lure him away. She’d rehearsed scenarios with him, role-playing so that he could practice running, fighting, screaming.

  But it had all been a game to him, and she’d never been sure the lessons were getting through. The world could be an ugly place. She had learned that at a young age. She hadn’t wanted Zane to have to do the same. She’d wanted him protected and sheltered and secure. She’d worked hard to make sure he had everything he needed and some of what he wanted. She paid for Montessori school so that he could be a free thinker, an individual. She’d done everything in her power to give him the life he deserved, but somehow, she’d still failed him.

  She felt cold with the knowledge, sick with it.

  She ran to the sliding glass door, darting past a police officer who was talking into a radio. He shouted something, but she kept going. The EMTs were somewhere on the second floor. She could hear their boots on the wood above her head. Jazz’s room? Or hers?

  She ran toward the front of the house and the staircase, her heart beating frantically.

  “Ms. Kelley?” Someone touched her shoulder, and she jumped, swinging around to face a tall, lean man dressed in black slacks and a white button-up shirt. He looked like a businessman. Or an FBI agent.

  “Yes.” She swung back around and would have kept running, but he touched her shoulder again.

  “I’m Chance Miller.”

  “Okay.” She didn’t care who he was. She was going upstairs. She was going to see whatever was there. She was going to face this head-on just like she had faced everything else in her life. Only this time, she had a feeling that facing it was going to be the toughest thing she’d ever done. This time, she wasn’t sure she’d sur
vive it.

  She couldn’t lose Zane. She couldn’t lose Jazz, either. They were all she had. Her only family.

  “I work with Dallas. This is my coworker Boone Anderson,” he continued, gesturing toward a man who seemed to appear out of nowhere. Redheaded, lean and very tall, he had the kind of boy-next-door look that automatically made you want to trust him.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t have time—”

  “Do you ever play hide-and-seek with your son?” Chance cut her off, and she tried to wrap her mind around what he was asking, tried to make sense of the question.

  “Hide-and-seek? Occasionally, but it’s not a game we play often.”

  “So he doesn’t have a special hiding place? A spot he always goes to when he’s trying to trick you?” Boone spoke this time, his Southern drawl warm and thick, his smile kind.

  She didn’t want his kindness. She wanted her son, her friend and the truth about what had happened to them. “Why are you asking me this? Did Dallas find Jazz?”

  Neither responded, and that was answer enough.

  She bolted, running up the stairs and down the hall.

  Jazz’s room was crowded with people. Carly shoved into the throng, saw her best friend lying on the floor, face chalk white, eyes closed, head bandaged. They’d put a brace around her neck and a blood-pressure cuff on her arm, but she was silent and still, unaware of the chaos around her.

  “Jazz!” Carly knelt beside her, lifting her hand, relieved that it felt warm.

  “Ma’am,” an EMT said, “we’re going to have to transport her to the hospital. She has a pretty serious head injury. You’ll need to step out of the way so that we can move her onto the gurney.”

  She did as she was asked, because she didn’t want to hold up the process. She’d known Jazz for nearly fifteen years, and in all that time, she had never known her to be silent. Even when she was writing, she was loud, mumbling under her breath as she created, talking to herself and anyone else who happened to be around. Artistic, funny, sarcastic, loving, loyal. Those were all words that described her well. Quiet, still, restful were not.

  “What happened to her?” she asked, and the EMT shrugged.

  “Near as we can tell, someone whacked her on the back of the head. Looks like she took the hit right behind her ear. It probably knocked her out instantly.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “We won’t know until she gets a CAT scan. If you could step out of the way...” He moved between her and Jazz, and she had no choice but to take a step back, to see the entirety of the room, the laptop and papers and mug of coffee sitting on the nightstand near the bed.

  There was a car beside one of the pillows. Matchbox size. Blue—Zane’s favorite color.

  “Has anyone seen my son?” she asked, but the EMTs were too busy coordinating their movements and shifting Jazz onto the backboard to hear. Or maybe they heard but had no answer.

  “We’re taking her to DC General. It’s closest,” the EMT said as he and his coworkers lifted Jazz and headed into the hall. Carly wanted to follow, to get in the ambulance and make sure Jazz was okay, but Zane was still missing.

  Kidnapped?

  Hurt?

  Hiding?

  She moved blindly, following the group until they started downstairs. She was frozen there, torn between her loyalty to her friend and her desperate need to find her son.

  “I’ll head to the hospital,” someone said, and she glanced over her shoulder, saw Boone standing a few feet away. He was watching her with a mixture of sympathy and understanding. “Make sure she gets the treatment she needs. Anyone I should call?”

  “Her fiancé. Brett Williams. His number is in her cell phone. That’s in her handbag.” Because, unlike most of the Western world, Jazz wasn’t glued to her electronic devices. She used the phone to communicate, her laptop for email. Everything else she had was old-school and antiquated. It drove Brett crazy. Jazz had admitted that to Carly a few months ago. He wanted her plugged in all the time, easily accessible and quick to answer texts or phone calls.

  Jazz had laughed while she’d told the story. Carly hadn’t found it nearly as amusing. To her, it seemed that Brett was already trying to change Jazz, that he was more interested in making her into what he wanted her to be than accepting her for the woman she was.

  “The handbag?” Boone prodded gently. “Where is it?”

  “I think—”

  “Right here?” Chance walked out of the bedroom, an oversize teal bag in his hand. Just like Jazz, it was loud and beautiful. Carly had bought it for her three Christmases ago, and Jazz never went anywhere without it.

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Want to check it to make sure her phone, ID and insurance card are in it?”

  She wanted to find her son. That was what she wanted. She wanted to go to the hospital and make sure Jazz was okay, too.

  She wanted a lot of things. Digging through her friend’s purse wasn’t one of them, but she did it anyway, pulling out a Power Rangers figurine, a chocolate bar, a small bag of pretzels and, finally, Jazz’s flip phone and wallet.

  “They’re here,” she said.

  “I’ll contact her fiancé,” Boone said, taking the phone, wallet and bag. “Your mobile number is in here, too?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll text when she regains consciousness, and I’ll let you know what they find on the CAT scan.”

  “Thank you—” She’d been told his name. She knew that, but she couldn’t remember it.

  “Boone,” he provided with the same kind smile he’d offered before. “Hopefully, you’ll hear from me soon.” He loped down the stairs, all long legs and lean muscles, and she turned blindly, walking to Zane’s room, standing on the threshold.

  He wasn’t there. She knew that, but she wanted him to be. She wanted to lift the edge of his comforter, look under the bed and find him. She wanted him to jump out of the closet and scream boo! Or step out from behind the thick curtains that were pulled across the windows.

  “Zane!” she called, her voice echoing in the silent room.

  She thought she heard a faint response. It had to be her imagination, but she called again, stepping out into the hall, ignoring Chance’s questioning look.

  “Zane!” She cocked her head to the side, listening but hearing nothing.

  “Zane!” She stepped back into his room and heard the faint whisper again. This time she was sure it was his voice calling for her.

  “Where are you?” she shouted, her heart racing, her pulse pounding in her ears.

  This time, the room was silent.

  “Dallas checked all the rooms on this level and the one above it. He’s up in the attic now.” Chance glanced at his cell phone and frowned. “Says he thought he heard something, but when he called Zane, he got no response. Maybe he heard you?”

  “Maybe.” Or maybe all those lessons on stranger danger had paid off. Maybe instead of making friends with the guys who’d set the fire, Zane had run from them. She walked up to the third floor. Like the one below it, this level had three rooms. They used one as a guest room. The larger of the remaining two was Jazz’s studio. Zane’s playroom was right beside it. Jazz had insisted on having a connecting door put in between the two spaces, and when Zane wasn’t in school, they spent hours moving between the two rooms.

  Carly walked into the playroom and across the scuffed wood floor. Zane’s toys were put away, his books stacked neatly on shelves. On the far wall, a narrow door led to the attic stairs. Usually it was locked, but Dallas must have found the key. Wouldn’t be difficult, since it was hanging from a hook beside the door.

  Or that was where it should have been.

  It was missing. Dallas must have brought it with him.

  Carly ran up the stairs, the boards creaking and gro
aning under her feet. Gray light streamed in from the large dormer windows on the east side of the house. Three smaller windows were to the west. It was a spacious and bright area that she could have used for her workroom if it hadn’t been so filled with other people’s abandoned stuff. She hadn’t had time to change that. Eventually, though, she would. She loved her workroom, but this space had natural light and plenty of square footage. She could set up a study area for Zane in one corner and a work space for herself in another, and there’d still be plenty of room.

  “Dallas?” she called, knowing he was up here but not certain where.

  “Behind the boxes near the east dormer,” he responded, his voice muffled.

  She followed the sound, pressing between stacks of boxes and finding her way into a cleared area near the wall.

  Dallas was a few feet away, crouching near what looked like a small door made of paneling. Even bent low, he looked large, his broad shoulders nearly blocking her view of the panel door.

  Nothing at all like his brother.

  But, then, they’d been half siblings.

  Same mother. Different fathers.

  At least, that was what Josh had told her.

  Maybe, for once, he’d told the truth.

  “Where does this lead?” Dallas asked, touching the panel, his broad palm sliding against the dark wood.

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen it before. Probably nowhere. This place is old. A lot has changed since it was first built.”

  “Someone has seen it before, and I’m almost certain the panel has been opened recently. There’s no dust near it or on it.” He ran his hand across the floor, showed her his clean fingers.

  “You don’t think Zane is in there?”

  “I heard someone calling from behind the panel.” He rapped his fist against the wood.