Racing Against Time

by Marie Ferrarella

  Walking into the room, Callie saw the pool of blood beneath Jackson’s head. “No signs of a struggle. No forced entry. Either this guy we’re looking for was very good—”

  “Or Jackson knew his killer,” Brent concluded.

  “Or Jackson knew his killer,” Adams agreed. “Provided this is Jackson. Diaz has his DMV photo.”

  “I know what he looks like,” Brent volunteered, moving forward.

  “We can’t move him until the CSI team finishes,” Adams informed him.

  Brent didn’t hear as he squatted down beside the dead man. He didn’t need to move him. He could tell by looking at the side of the murder victim’s face. Jackson had a receding chin and a sandy-colored mustache meant to cover parts of a cleft lip that surgery hadn’t been able to quite fix.

  “It’s Jackson.”

  Brent clenched his hands at his sides as he rose to his feet again. He looked at Callie. His inertia was threatening to drive him crazy. He couldn’t keep following Callie around, seeing things secondhand. He needed to do something. “Look, can you get someone to drive me back to my house?”

  Her hand on his arm, she moved him aside out of Adams’s hearing range. “Sure. I understand.” This was taking its toll on him emotionally. She shouldn’t have brought him with her.

  “No, I don’t think you do. I’m going to go pay Saunders a visit,” he told her. Somehow, some way, he felt that the man was at the bottom of all this. Brent needed to find out how.

  “Diaz is already on his way,” she reminded him. “We can go there once I’m finished here.” She underscored the word we. There was no way she was going to let him go off on his own, not in his present emotional state.

  Impatience threatened to do away with his better judgment and his control. “And just what is it that you’re looking for here?”

  She lifted one shoulder in response, not really aware of what she was seeking, only that she’d know when she saw it.

  If she saw it.

  “Something to talk to me.”

  Pulling on a pair of gloves, she moved about the study methodically, oblivious to the team already working there. They had their job; she had hers. She tried to imagine what had happened here a few days ago. There hadn’t even been an attempt at pretending that this was a home invasion gone bad. Nothing had been taken.

  Nothing appeared to be disturbed except for the man who had died in this room.

  She shook her head, momentarily stumped. “This is like the rest of the house we just walked through. It looks like Ben Jackson was a very precise man who believed that everything had its place.”

  Feeling frustrated, Brent moved out of Callie’s range and nearly backed up into the wastepaper basket. He saw it at the last moment and stopped himself. Looking down, he saw the broken frame inside the basket.

  It looked as if it had been thrown there in anger. “Is this anything?”

  The next moment, both Callie and Adams were behind him, looking down into the same wastepaper basket beside the dead man’s desk. It was completely empty, except for the framed photograph and shattered glass.

  “Maybe.” At least, she hoped it was.

  Taking the tangled frame and glass gingerly out of the basket, Callie carefully placed the contents of the basket on the coffee table. Behind her, the crime scene investigator had moved in to take another roll of photographs of the dead man.

  The sound of the camera rhythmically clicking faded into the background as she looked at the photograph she had retrieved.

  “Obviously happier times.” The photograph was of Saunders and Jackson, both dressed in fishermen’s garb. They were standing before a rustic-looking cabin. Saunders had his arm around a little girl.

  She heard Brent’s short intake of breath. He’d made the same mistake she had. At first glance the little girl looked almost identical to Rachel.

  She turned toward Adams. “Have someone find out where this cabin is.”

  Adams took the photograph from her, the look in his eyes dubious. “Think that’s important?”

  “I don’t know,” she answered wearily. “But right now, until we know different, everything’s important.”

  They went back to work, combing an almost spotless crime scene for clues.

  He couldn’t stay here.

  Everywhere he turned, every place he looked, reminded him of Alice. He could almost hear her laughter echoing about the rooms.

  The memory was too painful for him to handle.

  He wanted to leave.

  Needed to leave.

  He and the little girl who was going to take Alice’s place, to be his new Alice, needed to find a new place of their own.

  That was why he couldn’t sleep, couldn’t think straight. Because of the memories that were here. Haunting him. He’d thought it would be all right here. That the memories would help him bridge what had been to what would be.

  But they didn’t. And he had to leave.

  Except that he couldn’t leave now. She was sick. He’d told her not to be, but she was anyway. He stood in the doorway of the bedroom, watching her sleep fitfully. She had a fever. Children couldn’t control that kind of thing. They weren’t responsible for things.

  Not the way adults were.

  Not the way Montgomery was.

  But Montgomery had paid the ultimate price. And would continue paying it. All the days of his life. The son of a bitch would go on paying while he went on to enjoy what there was left of his own life. With his new Alice.

  He knew they were looking for them. For her. But this time he’d be ready if they came. This time he wouldn’t let them take him away from his little girl.

  He’d kill both of them before that would happen.

  Pacing, he looked at the clock as the minutes dragged along. It was hardly past five in the morning. He’d wanted to be on the road by now, but he couldn’t. Not without risking Alice getting worse.

  Maybe she’d be better by morning. Sure, why not? Kids got sick all the time, then bounced back before you knew it.

  And then they could finally be on their way. Away from here. Away from everyone.

  The thought pleased him, and he smiled to himself.

  Hear that, Judge? We’re going away from everyone. Away from you. You ruined my life. I’m just returning the favor.

  Behind him he heard the little girl stirring. He hurried over to see if she’d finally woken up. The medicine he’d given her had knocked her out for a long time.

  Too long.

  Chapter 14

  “What the hell do you mean there’s been a mistake?” Brent demanded, staring at Diaz. “How could this have happened?”

  Their trip to Pelican State Prison, where Saunders had been sent, had been abruptly aborted before it began with Detective Diaz’s unexpected return. On his way there, the detective had called ahead to the prison to arrange for the meeting when he’d been informed that he was too late.

  Saunders was gone.

  The moment he’d received the news, he’d made a U-turn and returned to Jackson’s house. Now, caught in a circumstance beyond his control, Detective Ramon Diaz looked haplessly at the judge, then turned to Callie to run interference. None of this was his fault.

  He recited what he’d been told. “According to the warden, this kind of garbage does happen. More often than anyone would like. There’s a computer glitch, the wrong papers get processed and suddenly, the wrong man gets released.”

  Brent felt as if someone had just kicked him in the chest. It was surreal. Any minute now he was going to wake up, find out that this was a bad dream. All of it. Except for having been with Callie.

  But he couldn’t afford to focus on that now, even if it gave him the strength to see the rest of it through. He didn’t have that luxury.

  Because this wasn’t a bad dream, it was real, it was happening. Somehow, through a whimsical act of fate, Saunders was free. Had been free for more than three weeks.

  And there was no doubt in his mind that Saunders
had his little girl.

  Shifting restlessly, Brent scrubbed his hand over his face. “Saunders was a wizard when it came to computers, maybe he found a way to hack into the state prison system, get himself paroled.”

  Brent realized he was thinking out loud. And the how didn’t matter. What mattered was that it was a reality. That Saunders was out there somewhere. With his little girl. There were too many fingers pointing in that direction for it to be merely a case of one coincidence on top of another.

  Callie’s brain was whizzing around with different theories. “Okay, let’s go with this. Saunders sprang himself out of prison. He’s ruined, penniless, his wife and daughter are gone.” The coroner’s team went past them with the body bag. She set her mouth grimly. “The only driving force in his life is revenge. Against the people who were instrumental in sending him away.” She turned toward Adams. “Find out who the prosecuting attorney on the case was and send a couple of uniforms to his house to keep watch.”

  Brent shook his head. “Don’t bother. Daryl Watson was the prosecutor. He died eighteen months ago of cancer.”

  Callie assimilated the information. “Robbing Saunders of the pleasure of doing away with him.” She rerouted. “All right, Saunders gets out, finds a way to come up here and pay his old buddy Jackson a visit. Maybe Jackson is so stunned he lets him in, tries to make amends, whatever. Saunders kills him with his own gun.” Adams had already told her the weapon was registered to Jackson. It just increased the irony. “He steals the Mercedes and comes to your neck of the woods,” she looked at Brent, “to settle his last score.”

  “By kidnapping Rachel?” Why hadn’t the man come after him? Why his daughter, Brent silently demanded. She was innocent. He was the one Saunders wanted.

  “You said it yourself. His daughter looks just like Rachel in that photograph. In his mind, you caused him to lose his daughter. It’s only fair that he take yours.”

  “Where? How? He abandoned the Mercedes,” Brent reminded her.

  “A man like Saunders always has a plan. He did that to throw us off. He knew we’d be looking for it. He probably had another car waiting in the vicinity. This was not haphazard, this was carefully thought out.” She raised her eyes to Brent’s. “Off the top of my head, my guess is that he’d be going someplace where he knew happier times.”

  He thought of the photograph in the wastepaper basket. “The cabin?”

  “The cabin,” she agreed. “Adams, how are we doing with finding out where this cabin is?”

  Adams smiled. “I got one of our people to access county records. Jackson owns a cabin fifty miles north of here.”

  “Then that’s where we’ll go.” There was some kind of an emotional connection to the cabin. Otherwise, there was no reason for the photograph to have been thrown away like that.

  Adams hurried to keep pace with Callie and Brent as they headed back toward her car. “Here’s the irony of it. The cabin used to belong to Saunders. Saunders had to sell it to pay his legal fees. Jackson scooped it up after Saunders was convicted.”

  Reaching her car, Callie shook her head. “Looks like Saunders wasn’t the only heartless bastard in the lot.”

  Adrenaline was rushing through her veins, fueled by the coffee Diaz had mercifully shoved into her hand a second before she drove away from Jackson’s house. Dawn had arrived sometime during their trip up here, gently stirring the rest of the world awake.

  The cabin was only several yards ahead. There was a car parked to the side of the building. Someone was staying at the cabin. Saunders, she hoped.

  Standing in the clearing with the woods on two sides and the lake as a backdrop, she saw all the elements of a peaceful, idyllic scene. The kind envisioned by vacationers desperate to get away from it all.

  Except this one contained a kidnapper.

  God willing, she added.

  She and Brent had left her car with the other vehicles less than half a mile up the road. Backup was only a stone’s throw away behind her, but she had decided that to rush the rustic building from all accessible sides could ultimately result in a tragedy. The cabin was exposed as would any group rushing it be. Seeing them coming for him, it would take Saunders less than a heartbeat to end the little girl’s life.

  In this case, Callie reasoned, less was more.

  “Him?” Adams demanded, looking accusingly at the judge before shifting his attention back to Callie. It was obvious he had expected to be at her side. “Why are you taking him with you? You and super-judge expect to just walk right in there and if Saunders starts firing, the bullets will go flying off you?”

  She knew that beneath the sarcastic tone, Adams was actually concerned about her safety. It wouldn’t do to have his ex-partner killed right before his eyes without lifting a finger to prevent it.

  They didn’t have much time. She talked fast. “No. I’m hoping his desire for revenge keeps him from shooting at us until after he finishes gloating and rubbing the judge’s face in it.”

  “And what’s that supposed to do?” Adams growled, glaring at Diaz, who was fitting Brent with a bulletproof vest.

  Callie finished strapping on her own vest, then slid her jacket over it. “Get us inside where hopefully we can keep Rachel from getting hurt.” She looked at Brent. “That’s going to be your job.”

  Adams was far from convinced. “So you expect to catch the bullets with your teeth?”

  She patted his face, knowing that irritated him. She wanted him sharp, alert. And quick to act. “I expect to distract him so that he doesn’t notice you making like the cavalry and coming in to the rescue.” She began to go, then stopped and looked over her shoulder at Adams. “Just one thing.”

  “What?” he snapped.

  “Don’t make it the seventh cavalry.”

  His dark eyebrows drew together as he exchanged looks with Diaz, then glared back at Callie. “What’s wrong with the seventh?”

  “That was Custer’s division,” Brent put in. And they all knew what happened there, he thought.

  That did it for Adams. He put his hand on Callie’s shoulder to keep her from going. “Look, why don’t I—”

  She shrugged off his hand. Her tone was firm, although she was grateful for what he thought he was doing. Keeping her safe. It wasn’t about her safety. It was about the safety of a little girl. “No, I’m primary.”

  But when she turned to go, she found Brent blocking her way.

  He wanted to save his daughter. But he didn’t want to risk the life of the woman he had come to care about a great deal. To him, it wasn’t a trade-off. He wanted both.

  “Callie, he’s right.”

  Of all people, she hadn’t expected him to turn on her. “I don’t remember asking for an opinion poll.” The moment was tense, tempers were on edge. She could feel hers flaring. They were wasting time here. “And you wouldn’t be thinking that if I wasn’t a woman.”

  The look in his eyes told her things he couldn’t say out loud. Not here. Not yet.

  Brent lowered his voice. “If you weren’t a woman, I wouldn’t have been thinking a lot of things.”

  She didn’t have time for her mind to go there, to wonder what he was saying to her. To hope that it meant what she wanted it to. Right now she had a job to do, a child to rescue and a multiple killer to arrest. She was through debating. Squaring her shoulders, she moved forward. “Ready?”

  He’d been ready from the first moment. “You don’t have to ask.”

  Leaving the others behind, Callie and Brent kept to the cover of the brush as long as possible. But the last twenty feet was out in the open. There was a lake at the back of the cabin, the same lake that was in the photograph. She’d already sent two SWAT team members to make sure there wasn’t a boat there, waiting to take Saunders and Rachel away.

  She’d covered all the bases. Now it was time to run for home.

  “What’s the plan?” Crouching beside her, Brent looked out at the exposed terrain. “We just walk up to the front door and
knock?”

  Saunders could easily see them from any one of five windows facing front. Two on the first floor, three on the second.

  “If he doesn’t shoot one of us first, I jimmy it open.” She spared him a glance. “It’s all I got.”

  Brent nodded. The element of surprise was still on their side. Provided that Saunders didn’t see them. “Let’s go,” Brent urged.

  Hurrying the rest of the way in a zigzag pattern, in case Saunders wanted to take a shot at them from one of the windows, they miraculously made it to the front door without incident.

  Miracle or not, Callie had an uneasy feeling as she worked to open the lock.

  The lock gave. She took her service revolver out. “This is too easy,” she whispered to Brent.

  And it was. The moment the door opened, she saw that Saunders was standing there, a gun in his hand. He aimed it at her.

  “Come on in,” he taunted, waving them forward with his revolver. He took care to aim it at her again. “Think I didn’t see you? I see everything.” His eyes narrowed as he cocked his gun. “Drop your gun. Put it on the floor. Now,” he ordered when she made no move to comply.

  Callie had no choice. Never taking her eyes off him, she placed her weapon on the throw rug before Saunders. The man looked like hell, she thought. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin pallor was pasty. She was willing to bet he hadn’t slept in a while. She’d seen an earlier photograph of Saunders in the judge’s file. That man had looked dapper, smug. The man standing before her looked like his own grandfather.

  “Give me the gun, Mr. Saunders,” Callie coaxed softly. “Nobody else needs to get hurt.”

  Her words seemed to infuriate him. “You’re wrong.” For a second he shifted the gun to point at Brent. There was rage in his eyes. “He needs to be hurt. He needs to be hurt like he hurt me.” His movements were jerky, spasmodic. Like a man tottering on the edge, about to fall. Or jump. “And he’s going to be.” Saunders’s voice cracked. “I’m leaving here with Alice.”

  “Alice isn’t here,” Brent told him. Rage tinted Saunders’s pasty complexion. He wanted to bait Saunders, to keep his attention focused on him, not Callie. There was no telling what the man was capable of in his present state of mind. “She left with her mother. But I know where she is. I can place a call and you can talk to her.”