Kincaid's Dangerous Game (The Taken Book 4)

by Kathleen Creighton

  “What the hell’s out there?” one of the detectives asked.

  “Uh…Arizona?” somebody said, and got a few snorts of laughter in response.

  Somebody else said, “A whole lotta desert.”

  “Well, there’s Valley of Fire State Park.” This came from out in the middle of the squad room, where Sergeant Sanchez, the only woman on the team, had been staring intently at a computer monitor. She glanced up and added, “Google Maps,” by way of an explanation.

  “Valley of Fire? Never heard of it,” Vogel said.

  “Says here,” Sanchez went on, reading from the monitor screen, “it’s Nevada’s oldest state park.”

  “Where are you gonna hide a kid in a state park? There’s nothing out there.” Vogel ran a hand over the gray stubble of his brush-cut hair, then aimed a question at the group at large. “How’re we coming on the credit card records? Anybody? Jeez Louise…”

  One of the other squad members picked up a stack of papers and waved them as he wove his way around the desks. “We’re going over them now. So far the only thing we’ve got just verifies the general location. The guy got gas at a station off I-15, right around the time he made that call to Ms. Farrell.”

  “Would you mind if I take a look?” Holt asked quietly.

  “Have at it,” Vogel said, and the other detective handed over the printout with a shrug.

  Holt scanned down the list, then went over it again, while the briefing went on, suggestions and questions and reports fading to background noise.

  “Find something?” Wade asked in an undertone.

  Holt looked up at him, frowning. “Maybe.” He tilted the sheet so Wade could see it and pointed. “Look how many times he stopped for gas. Here, here and here.”

  He and Wade looked at each other, then at the rest of the group.

  “Got something?” Vogel asked.

  “I don’t know,” Holt replied. “Seems like he’s using an awful lot of gas. What kind of vehicle burns that much gas? And might be found in a state park?”

  “An RV,” Vogel said, swearing under his breath.

  There was a brief little silence, then everybody shifted into Drive at once. The room seemed to crackle and hum with activity, and Holt felt the excitement like a current of electricity under his skin.

  Vogel was spouting orders in a rat-a-tat-tat voice, like an arcade popgun.

  “Sanchez—find out if there’s camping in that park. Everybody—find out whether the suspect has an RV registered to him. If not, find out if he’s got any friends or relatives, neighbors who own an RV. Find out if there’ve been any reports of stolen RVs in the past forty-eight hours. Come on, people, let’s go! Clock’s ticking!”

  It was late when Holt got back to Billie’s place, but even so, he beat her there. He parked on the street and looked at the dark house and empty driveway and told himself that was a good sign, that it meant she hadn’t gone out of the tournament yet. At least, he hoped that was what it meant.

  He didn’t have a key to her house, so he turned off the engine and headlights and settled down to wait.

  It wasn’t the first time he’d had to sit in his car and wait for someone to show up…for something to happen. He’d been doing stakeouts since his early years on the force. To pass the time back then, he’d think about the case in progress, go over every detail, much the same way he did now when he was battling imsomnia, only in his mind. This time, though, instead of cold facts and hard details, his mind kept filling up with images. Faces. Some of them were hazy and indistinct, some soft-edged, like old photographs. Some were painful, stark and vivid.

  Brenna Fallon, fourteen years old, in a photograph with worn edges…

  Gaunt faces, with empty eyes…the faces of homeless teenagers gathered under an overpass to keep out of the rain…

  Billie sitting in the moonlight on the edge of an empty swimming pool, her face wistful as she talks about the Grand Canyon…

  And not a face, but me, standing with my arms around her and my chin on her hair, looking in awe at the Grand Canyon…

  My mother’s face, not from memory, but from a photograph Aunt Louise had sitting on the piano…

  Wade and Tierney, the way they look at each other…

  Tony and Brooke. And what is it about the faces of people in love? Do I imagine it, or is there something that seems to shine from inside them, like a house with all the windows lit up?

  He wasn’t sure what woke him…hadn’t been aware of falling asleep. He sat up straight and stared at the dark windows of Billie’s house, and the cold seemed to seep into his bones. A cold that wasn’t only from the temperature outside, which was definitely dropping, but also the chill of what he understood was loneliness.

  He was staring at those dark windows when headlights came sweeping across the white rail fence and the still, gray branches of the olive tree, and Billie’s car pulled into the driveway.

  She got out of her car and waited while he climbed out of the Mustang and walked up the driveway to meet her. The chilly desert night reached into the collar of his jacket and coiled around his ears, but he didn’t feel it. She didn’t say anything, just reached for his hand, and he walked with her along the pathway between the flowerpots. His heart was beating hard and fast, and he tried to think of what he could say to her to make her feel better. To let her know whatever happened, it wasn’t her fault, and she hadn’t failed.

  They reached the bottom of the porch steps. She caught a quick breath and turned to him.

  “I made it. Tomorrow…round two,” she whispered, and came into his arms in a rush that left him without breath.

  Chapter 10

  “I

  t’ll be a lot different the second night of the tournament,” Billie said. “Quieter.” “Hmm…” Holt’s hand was stroking up and down her back, keeping a lazy rhythm with the slow up and down movement of his chest beneath her cheek.

  Her eyelids drifted down, and she had to fight to make her lips form words. “There’ll still be a crowd, just…most of ’em will be in the spectators’ gallery. There’ll be…I forget how many tables—around twenty, I think—each with nine players. The winner at each table advances to the next round.”

  “So,” said Holt, “I guess there’s twenty players left for that round. How many tables?”

  She managed a feeble head-shake. “Four tables, usually. But that’s when some of the big-name poker stars sit in, so it comes out to six players per table. And from that point on it’ll probably be televised.”

  “And that’s tomorrow night?”

  “Yup. So…even if by some miracle I make it to the semi-final round, that’s still only…”

  “One more day.” His chest lifted, then slowly settled with a long sigh. His arms tightened around her and she felt a stirring in her hair and then the warm press of his lips. “Give us that, love, and we’ll find her.”

  “Promise?” she whispered, smiling because she knew how silly a thing it was to ask. And aching in her throat because he’d said the word love and she knew it didn’t mean anything at all.

  He responded, “Yeah, I promise.” But of course it wasn’t a sure bet and not even in his hands, so how could he make such a promise?

  And yet…it was good to hear, and she felt her eyelids suddenly floating on a film of moisture she didn’t understand at all. It couldn’t possibly be tears, because for one thing, she never shed tears, wasn’t even capable of it. And for another, what she was feeling right then was his nice, solid chest under her cheek and the steady thump of his heartbeat in her ear, and his arms strong and warm around her. So why would something so sweet and good and wonderful make her cry?

  Holt left Billie sleeping and stole out of the house at zero-dark-thirty the next morning. He’d asked Billie for one more day, and he didn’t want to waste a minute of it if he could help it. He picked up some fast-food drive-through breakfast biscuits and coffee and went straight on to police headquarters, figuring he’d be the only one of the tea
m working the kidnapping in the squad room at that hour. Instead, he found Vogel and Sanchez and a couple of the others already there, sitting on desk corners scarfing down doughnuts and slurping coffee out of disposable cups. He handed around the sack of bacon-and-egg biscuits and helped himself to one before he picked a roosting spot on a desk opposite Vogel. He waited while the detective took a huge bite of his sandwich, chewed, then swallowed it down with coffee.

  “Caught a break,” Vogel said, waving what was left of the biscuit in its paper wrappings in the general direction of the rest of the squad. “Sanchez managed to track down a cousin of Todd’s who says she loaned her RV to him the day before the kidnapping. Also gave us his current address.” He took another bite. “Evidently, he’s been bunking with his girlfriend. This cousin said he and the lady showed up asking if they could borrow the RV because they wanted to ‘go camping.’”

  “You’ve been busy,” Holt said, sounding a lot calmer than he felt.

  Vogel nodded as he chewed. “We got a unit sitting on the girlfriend’s place. Car in the driveway, no sign of the RV.”

  Holt drank coffee and cleared his throat. “You figure one’s holed up there and the other’s staying with the kid in the RV?”

  Again Vogel nodded. “According to what Todd told your friend Billie, finding him isn’t going to get us the kid, so my guess would be the girlfriend drew the short straw. Anyway, we don’t want to move on the girlfriend’s place until we know more about who’s where. What we really need is to find that RV.” He nodded toward the big screen in the front of the squad room. “Question is, how? It’s gonna be like looking for the proverbial needle in all that.”

  Holt stared at the screen with narrowed eyes. He assumed what he was looking at were satellite photos of the search area. The Valley of Fire. A turbulent sea of red and gold, carved by wind and water over millions of years. Incredibly beautiful, but desolate. And vast.

  “We’ll have eyes in the air at first light—” Vogel looked at his watch “—right about now, actually. But even with choppers and planes, it could take days. There must be a million places out there to hide an RV. And God knows how many RVs are out there right now. How the hell are we gonna know if it’s the right one?”

  “I think I might know somebody who can help with that,” Holt said, reaching in his pocket for his cell phone. Opened it, found his batteries were on life support, shoved it back in his pocket and frowned at the room. “Anybody know the number for the Venetian?”

  Vogel gave him a skeptical look. “You’re thinking the psychic? Even if I believed that stuff—and I’m not sayin’ I do or I don’t—how’s she gonna help?”

  “She’s an empath—picks up on emotions. Figured maybe if she got close enough, she might be able to home in on the vibes of a scared little girl.” Holt gave an offhand shrug and downed the last of his coffee. He wasn’t about to waste breath trying to convince somebody of something he’d seen proof of with his own eyes. Something like that you either believed or you didn’t. “Figured it couldn’t hurt, right?”

  Vogel stared at him for a moment, then tossed his empty coffee cup in the general direction of a trash can and pointed at his squad as he slid off his desk perch. “Sanchez—get me the Ven—”

  “Already on it,” Sanchez drawled, cradling a phone next to her ear.

  “Got another phone I can use?” Holt sent his trash after Vogel’s. “My cell phone’s…”

  “Sure—use that one right there.” The detective was already halfway across the room, yelling at somebody else. “Hey, Turley, those choppers in the air yet? Get me the tower out at—”

  Holt picked up the phone on the desk behind him and tucked it under his jaw while he took out his cell phone again and found the number he wanted in his phone-book. He put away the cell phone and punched in the number. After a couple of rings a sleepy voice answered.

  “This better be Publishers Clearing House…”

  “Tony, it’s me,” Holt said, then listened to some swearing. “Look, you know I wouldn’t call this early if it wasn’t important. Where are you? How soon can you get back to Vegas?”

  “Never left,” Tony said, in the middle of a huge yawn. “Brooke’s on her way here. You didn’t think she was gonna stay away once I e-mailed her those pictures I took—you kiddin’ me?”

  Somebody was definitely on his side, Holt figured. He let out a breath. “Man, you don’t know how glad I am to hear that. Need another favor, my friend. Listen, will that toy of yours carry three passengers?”

  “Three? Sure, if I leave my cameras, and if two of you don’t mind sitting on the floor.”

  “Okay,” Holt said, “get your gear and meet us at the airstrip. Can you be there in an hour?”

  Billie woke up and knew before she opened her eyes that it was later than she’d ever slept before. A sickening lurch in her stomach reminded her she’d not only overslept, she’d also failed to show up for work.

  Too late to worry about that now.

  For a few more minutes she lay in her bed, listening to the silence of an empty house. Wondering why she’d never noticed before that the silence had a weighted, suspenseful quality, as if the house itself was holding its breath, waiting for something to come and fill the void. A voice, a laugh, a country song playing on a radio, the morning news on television, the tinkle of silverware on plates…

  She got up, pulled a T-shirt on and wandered out to the kitchen, where she found the light blinking on her message machine. Three messages, the digital readout on the police recorder said. She punched the button, heard two hang-ups, then Holt’s voice.

  “Mornin’, sunshine. Don’t worry about going in to work. I called your boss. In case he asks, you’re having stomach problems. I figured that covers a lot of territory, so you can fill in the blanks however you want to. So…rest up, whatever you need to do, for…you know, tonight. I don’t know if I’m supposed to wish you luck, or not. So…break a leg, or whatever you say in the world of professional poker. Just hang in there, darlin’. And…I’ll call you later. Okay…’bye.”

  She stood for a moment, her finger poised to play the message again, just to hear his voice. Told herself that was stupid, and went to make coffee instead. She was measuring coffee into the basket when the phone rang, making her jump so that the grounds went all over the countertop instead. She wiped most of them into the sink, brushed her hand off on the front of her T-shirt and picked up the phone, her heart already lifting into a quicker, more hopeful cadence, knowing it must be Holt, calling her back as he’d said he would.

  “Hey,” she said with a softness in her voice she hadn’t even known would be there.

  “Where you been? I been callin’ you all morning.”

  Cold rage washed over her. She wrapped her arms across herself and shivered. “Miley.”

  “Yeah, it’s me—who did you think? So, you did it, didn’t you? Went to the cops. I told you—”

  “Don’t be stupid. The cops, the FBI—they’re all over it without any help from me. What did you think was going to happen? You grab a little girl off the street and her parents aren’t going to notice? Jeez, Miley, what were you thinking?”

  “I told you what I’m thinking. You just need to win that tournament and everything’s gonna be okay. I know you made it to the second round, so that’s good. You just keep winning and everything’s gonna work out.”

  “Miley, you know what the odds are of winning that tournament? Even if I was the best player in the world—”

  “You just better be the best. You hear me?” His voice turned menacing. “You better win, Billie.”

  There was a click, and then nothing. Billie looked over at the recorder the police technician had set up, but it had nothing to tell her, either. She carefully returned the phone to its cradle and pressed her knotted fist against the cold flutter in her belly. Stomach trouble—yeah, right.

  Find her, Kincaid. Please…find her.

  Holt shifted, trying to find relief for his back
side without taking his eyes off the tapestry of red, purple and gold unfurling beneath him. On the other side of the plane, Wade was sitting facing backward with one knee drawn up, the other stretched out in front of him, face pressed against the window. In the front seats, Tierney and Tony were also staring down at the incredible desert-scape known as the Valley of Fire. Aptly named, Holt thought, especially considering whoever had come up with the name probably hadn’t had the opportunity to see it from the air, with the sun low in the sky, painting parts of the incredible rock and sandstone formations with scarlet and gold and casting others into purple-and-indigo shadow. He’d heard Tony cussing a few times, bewailing the absence of his cameras, but it had been a long time now since any of them had said anything.

  They were running out of time. Out of daylight, and out of time. The odds against Billie making it to tomorrow night’s final table were…what? A thousand to one? He was no math wizard, but it had to be huge.

  Hang in there, love…

  But under that thought, his emotions were so much more. More raw, more complex. He didn’t realize how much more, until Tierney threw him a quick glance and he saw how haggard and strained her face was.

  “Sorry,” he said softly, and she smiled.

  Wade looked up at his wife. “How’re you holding up, babe?”

  Her smile wavered, but she murmured, “I’m fine.”

  “Anything?” Wade asked.

  She shook her head. She’d reported some interesting pickups over the course of the long afternoon, so they knew what they were trying to do was possible, at least. But so far, nothing that might have been the emotions of a frightened little girl.

  “We’re losing the light,” Tony said, telling them all what they already knew. The canyons below were more purple now than gold.