Your Heart, My Home

by Linda Mooney

  The thought made him physically ill, and he fought the visions that threatened to overwhelm him. Visions of Sher fighting off Bob and his men. Visions of Sher dead or dying.

  He jumped to his feet. "I gotta go."

  "Paul."

  Before he could tell her not to worry, Cheyenne threw her arms around his waist and hugged him. He returned the hug, adding a kiss to her hair.

  "After I leave, pack a bag and go. I don't care where, just as long as it's some place completely unlike you. Some place Bob can't find you. Promise me, Chey."

  She nodded against his chest, then looked up at him. "All right. But how will I contact you? If they find out who you are, you know they'll tap your calls."

  He grinned. "You'll find a way. You always do. You're resourceful like that. In some ways, you and Sher are a lot alike."

  She smiled back. "Thanks. I'll take that as a compliment, coming from you. Now, go." She gave him a swat on his rump. "Find her. Save her. Then, later, you can introduce me to her, okay? Preferably before the wedding?"

  He gave her another kiss, this time on the cheek, and hurried out of the apartment.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Challenged

  Parkway Boulevard was closed, the traffic rerouted to go down Westboro. Paul was only half-observant as he drove to his apartment. His thoughts were on Sherandar. On where she might be. On what Bob could be doing to her. That thought alone was enough to make his blood boil. If the man planned to starve her like he'd tried to do the first time, Quazar wasn't there to get her out.

  That is, if he wanted to starve her again.

  For some reason, Paul didn't believe Bob would use the same MO. No. He'd vary the punishment, just because he's that kind of man. Always looking for a challenge. Never satisfied with the status quo.

  A car honked impatiently. The light was green. Paul pressed down on the accelerator as he checked his rearview mirror. The street sign at the intersection passed by. Crowley Avenue.

  "Forty-three-oh-fourteen Crowley." Sher's street address was Crowley.

  It was too late to turn. He drove up to the next street to make the block.

  Cheyenne had said she'd seen two suspicious men observing Sher's apartment building, waiting for her to return. One in a silver car parked across the street, and a second guy sweeping a spotless sidewalk at the end of the block.

  Pulling the sheet of paper Chey had given him from his pocket, Paul grabbed a pen from his console and scribbled an address on it. He then proceeded toward Crowley, checked the street number, and turned left until he reached the correct block.

  Traffic was sparse, as he'd hoped it would be, allowing him to cruise slowly, searching for her apartment building. The silver car he'd half-expected to be gone had been replaced with a red sedan, and the guy sweeping the sidewalk was now a pretend drunk sitting on the curb. The man spotted him and yelled out, "What 'cha looking for? Move yer ass! Ain't no hookers here, buddy!"

  Paul held up his paper. "I'm looking for forty-six four forty-seven Crowley."

  The drunk threw an arm in the direction he was going. "Further on down that way."

  "Thanks!" Paul grinned at him and sped on.

  So Bob hasn't called off his dogs. The question now was why not? There's one way to find out.

  He hurried back to the parking garage, taking an extra circuitous route in the event he was tailed. Once he arrived at his apartment, he went straight to the basement to put on his uniform.

  He kept low to the rooftops as he flew back to Sher's building. She'd said it was a loft apartment, which meant she was on the top floor. On a hunch, he flew to the first window he spotted and hovered as he peered inside. He could see a small kitchen on the other side.

  "Okay, Sher. Tell me you don't lock your windows because you don't think it's necessary when you're this high up." He pushed on the sash. The window slid upward with ease.

  He pushed aside the small wooden table sitting against the wall and slipped inside. Pausing, he stood and gazed around the sparsely furnished room.

  "Why did I come here?" he asked himself. "What am I looking for? What am I hoping to find?"

  Maybe the only reason you're here is because you miss her. Because you're worried, and you're looking for anything that might help you discover where Bob has her hostage.

  The kitchen was nondescript. Pitted and scarred green Formica covered the short counter. The cabinets held very few dishes. A check of her refrigerator revealed a carton of eggs, a few containers of strawberry yogurt, and a jar of dill pickles.

  "And that little bit was supposed to suffice for how long, ma cher?"

  A few yards away from the kitchen was a couch and an antiquated stuffed chair, which had seen better days. A console TV with rabbit ears completed the living area. Quazar punched the button to turn it on. As he suspected, it got four stations and a barely visible PBS channel.

  A twin bed, mussed and unmade was against the opposite wall. A dresser with a mirror was beside it. There was no closet or wardrobe, from what he could tell. And the bath was nothing more than exposed pipes clustered in one corner. The footed tub, pedestal sink, and toilet were curtained off for privacy with a sheet.

  By all appearances, the apartment could easily have been the set for a 1950s movie. The only thing out of place was the large wooden table at the furthest end of the apartment.

  He glanced over the jars, canisters, and unidentifiable mish-mash of parts, equipment, and tools, not daring to touch or disturb anything for fear of inadvertently blowing up or setting something off. A laptop computer sat closed at one end. He opened it and turned it on. After a few moments, the simple blue screensaver appeared, along with a request for the password. There was no way he could begin to hack it, so he shut it down and closed it.

  The place smelled clean, but clearly there was nothing new or modern here. Nothing to show that an intelligent and beautiful woman lived in this place. He bet that if he checked out the dresser drawers, he'd find nothing elegant or chic. "She said she bought her clothes at the thrift shop, and she wasn't adverse to dumpster diving. Sher, what kind of childhood did you have? What sort of upbringing taught you how to subsist in such poverty?"

  Shaking his head, he started to turn and leave, having seen enough, when he caught sight of a thick journal sitting on the bare wooden seat of the stool pushed underneath the table. The cracked leather cover made it appear ancient; the paper inside was neither crisp or new. Curious, he leafed through it at random. Diagrams and notes, many of them chemical equations, filled the pages. There were scale drawings of meticulously detailed devices he didn't recognize or understand. And inserted here and there were a few newspaper articles, including one about Quazar, with a three-quarter shot of him in full color.

  He placed the journal back on the stool and took one final look around. "Dear God, Sher. Considering everything you've invented on practically next to nothing, I am in awe of you."

  The thought of her at the hands of Bob and his cretins was like poison being injected into his blood, making him sick with fear. He had to find her, and it had to be soon. He stopped. "Or maybe sooner than that."

  Rushing to the window, he exited the apartment and flew around to the front of the building. As he expected, the burly drunk was still there, this time sitting on the stoop where he kept watch.

  Quazar grabbed him by the back of his olive-drab jacket and hoisted him twenty feet into the air. Snatching the bottle of whiskey before the guy could drop it, he sniffed the contents. "Rather difficult to get plastered on tea, isn't it?" he demanded.

  The man struggled in his grasp, but not too much. Not with the ground moving further and further away from his feet. "Let me go, Quazar!"

  "Not until you tell me where Bob's holding Sherandar. Or else it's going to be a long way down." He gave the guy a little shake to put the fear of falling into him. "Give me a minute, and it'll be a longer way down." Luck was with him, and he smiled as sweat broke out on the man's pasty face.

&n
bsp; "Go ahead. Drop me! If I tell you anything, my life won't be worth shit anyway!"

  Anger formed like dense black clouds in his chest. He fleetingly wished he could slam the guy against a concrete wall, but he knew he didn't have what it took to be vindictive. It simply wasn't in his genetic makeup. He could scare the pants off his enemies, and he could fight them off when attacked, but he couldn't be outright cruel when it came to meting out punishment. If he wanted this guy to crack, Quazar needed someone expert in grilling techniques. Relentless, persistent, and professional.

  A light went off in his head. And I know exactly who that someone is, he realized, and jetted toward the Main Street police station.

  Marching into the receiving room, Quazar tossed the man halfway across the floor. "Cuff him and book him for suspicion of kidnapping," he order the officers and detective who watched in amazement.

  "I didn't take her!" the drunk screamed back. "I didn't do nothing to her!"

  Regardless of his denials, the man was summarily cuffed and hauled away. Quazar addressed another officer who stood nearby. "I need to speak to Captain Warkowski immediately."

  "I'm right here," the woman called out to him. He whirled around to see her standing in the doorway, a manila folder in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. She motioned with her head. "In my office."

  The moment he closed the door behind him, Warkowski minced no words. "What's going on, Quazar? You've been delinquent in your reports back to me."

  "His name's Robert Merriam Duncan."

  She stared at him. "VanderMark Industries Duncan?"

  "Yes. And he has Sherandar."

  "I know we've put out an APB for three suspects impersonating police officers. Are you certain Duncan has her?"

  "As in he tried to kill her and me? Sure," Quazar told her. "This time, I'm afraid he's going to use her as bait, and he won't be gentle in his treatment of her."

  "You realize that the man most likely has an army of slick lawyers to pull him out of any messes he gets himself into, right?"

  Quazar gave her a dark look. "Then it'll be our job that any evidence we find on him sticks like spots on a dalmation. I'm game. What about you?"

  Warkowski sat in her chair and pulled a notepad toward her. "Tell me all of it," she ordered.

  Quickly, Quazar told her about the blown bridge, and of the abduction. The captain nodded as she jotted down the details. "The lab confirmed C-4 was used on the bridge pylons, but we still can't figure out what was used to detonate it. What do you need me to do?"

  Quazar pointed behind her. "I need you to interrogate that guy. He was placed at Sherandar's apartment, waiting for her or me to show up. Which means he works for Bob. I need you to find out what he knows. See if you can get a clue as to where Bob may have her." His eyes went to the clock on the wall. It was nearly noon. So little time had passed, yet it felt like days. And each passing minute could be her last.

  "The interrogation I can handle. However, it's going to be trickier to try to get in and question Duncan at his office and residence," the captain noted.

  "If he's even there," Quazar added. "The man has addresses all over the world. He could be on his way out of the country even as we speak."

  "Hold on. Let me check something." She got on the phone and dialed a number, which was answered immediately. "Yes, this is Police Captain Janet Warkowski at the Main Street Station. Who am I speaking with? Hello, David. It's urgent I speak with your boss. Tell Melville it's me. Yes, I'll hold."

  Quazar couldn't help the little grin that tilted one corner of his mouth. "Melville?"

  "He goes by Mel. He's the head flight controller at the airport. He should be on duty right—Oh, hello, Mel. Thanks for taking the call. I know you're busy, but this is critical police matter. I need to know if any planes under the VanderMark aegis have taken off in the past few hours. Uh-huh. Right. Robert Duncan. Okay. Thanks, Mel. Give Lucy my love." She hung up and sighed. "All VanderMark planes are still grounded. No one's left, or even called to file a flight plan."

  "Which means he could still be around, or he could have hopped a commercial flight," Quazar surmised.

  "If he did, he wouldn't use his real name. On the other hand..." This time she checked her rolodex for a number before calling. Quazar listened as she got in touch with the head of security and explained the situation. When the call was over, she gave Quazar a tired look. "That takes care of the airport, but what about ground transportation. That is, if he's even left the city."

  Quazar groaned softly. The woman was right. Worse, the police had neither the manpower nor the time, or even the ability to check every vehicle leaving town. They had, in effect, reached a stalemate.

  Warkowski lightly banged her desktop with a fist. "I've done all I can from this end. I'll have my men see what they can glean from Duncan's man. Will you be sticking around?"

  "I still have some investigating I need to do."

  She frowned. "How can I get in touch with you if I find out something?"

  That had always been a bone of contention between him and law enforcement. How to reach Quazar in an emergency. In the past, he'd told them that he listened to police band radios and the local news for breaking reports, but Warkowski, as well as other higher ups on the force, argued that there were times the slow response from him cost lives. That they needed a more expedient way to contact him, but he'd never relented.

  Quazar hesitated, at war with himself and his indecision. At the importance of keeping his true identity secret to protect not just himself, but Cheyenne's as well. However, this time Sherandar's life had been thrown into the maelstrom. It was her life he was risking for the sake of anonymity. Every second I lose getting to her could mean losing her forever.

  Grabbing the captain's pen and notepad, he jotted down a number and shoved it toward her. Warkowski glanced at it, then back up at him.

  "I know you have the means to trace this number and discover my real identity," Quazar told her. "But Sherandar's life is on the line, so I'm willing to take that risk. I'm willing to trust that you won't."

  The captain's eyes went back to the notepad. "You must love her very much," she softly remarked.

  Fighting back tears, Quazar replied with a single nod of his head.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Search

  Entering the fallout shelter, Quazar slumped into the nearest chair and bent over, elbows on his thighs and head bowed. He felt drained and discouraged. Defeated.

  His heart was beating, sending blood throughout his body, but there was no life, no single beam of light inside it. The light of Sherandar's presence. The organ was no more than a hollow shell, doing its job with automatic precision.

  It had taken him a while, but he finally understood. Somehow, during those years of teasing and torment, he had come to look forward to their confrontations. To the challenges she presented. To the mental battles they would wage, even though he knew he would come out on the bottom. But he relished the fights, regardless.

  When they had been trapped together in that cell, all he could think about was protecting her. His own survival became secondary.

  "Where are you Sher. Ma cher. Where did that bastard take you?"

  After a few moments, he got to his feet and shucked his uniform, tossing it into the basket where he'd retrieve it later to clean it. Naked, he walked into the basement, closing the wall and tunnel behind him. Seeing his cell phone where he'd left it on the worktable, he grabbed it and went upstairs to put on a pair of jeans. And to think. And wait.

  Fear told him to get back there and look for her. Common sense told him he'd be spinning his wheels. The police were keeping their eyes peeled. Their undercover men would be on the lookout.

  "I'd go look for her, but where would I start?"

  His stomach gurgled, clenching to let him know he'd missed breakfast and lunch. He was probably bordering on dehydration, too. Going into the kitchen, he passed the table, when a familiar piece of paper caught his eye. It was t
he list of Bob's addresses Cheyenne had given him.

  Taking it into the kitchen, he spread it out to peruse it as he poured himself a glass of milk and fixed a quick sandwich. Once he had his meal in hand, he took everything back to the table to sit down. A glance at the mess still on the floor made him wince.

  "What day is this? Wednesday? Anna Marie isn't going to be happy when she comes to clean and sees that tomorrow," he murmured. "All right, Bob. How many of these residences are here or nearby? Hmm, the one on Bettencourt is local. Trafalgar Point is just a short drive up the coast, where you've docked your expensive little houseboat. That's two possibles, not counting the house in Spain. Or the one in London. I see Paris, Newfoundland, Hong Kong, and Sydney."

  He started to take a bite of his sandwich, when his phone went off. Picking it up, he looked at the number but didn't recognize it. But it did have the local area code.

  "Yeah?" he gruffly answered.

  "Quazar? This is Janet Warkowski. I'm using my personal cell phone to call you, in the event the calls at the station are monitored or subpoenaed. Listen, that man you brought in is a tough cookie, but I think he may have accidentally dropped a clue."

  "Which is?"

  "Something about the fact that Duncan was no longer within the long arm of the law. I don't know about you, but to me it sounds like he's out of the country."

  "I agree, but how? Any word from airport security?"

  "So far, they've got nothing. Even if he did manage to board an international flight, there would be an air marshal on board. Our long arm of the law could still take him in."

  "And there's no way he could take Sherandar with him. The woman would give him untold grief if he tried to take her along. Plus the fact that he would arouse suspicion if he had her tied or handcuffed, or gagged."

  "Unless our make-believe cops were escorting her," the captain suggested.

  "And not have her gagged?" he repeated. "You honestly believe she'd keep her mouth shut?"