by Ed James
Then a scream tore out behind him, high-pitched and childlike.
No.
No.
No, no, no!
The cop stood by his car, close to hyperventilating. Holliday knew that stance, knew the expression on his face. A bullet shot in anger, the intent not met by the resulting action.
Another scream. Came from somewhere between them. A car, the rear windshield smashed and splintering.
Megan’s Pacifica!
Holliday pushed away from the sedan and shot across the pavement toward the minivan. The crumpled rear windshield fell into the trunk.
The cop leaned against a radio car, muttering to himself, staring at his gun lying on the ground like it was Satan. He didn’t seem to notice Holliday.
A bullet hole punctured the side door, just below the passenger window.
Another scream, louder, ringing in Holliday’s ears now. He stepped toward the car, toward the screams. Felt like he weighed seventy tons, each step like he was underwater, strapped down with weights. He reached for the door, his throat thick.
Behind him, tires squealed and feet pounded toward him. Someone grabbed him, pulled him away. “Sir.” A man’s voice. “I need you to—”
Without even looking at him, Holliday pushed him away. The pressure on his arms released, and he tore at the car door, his shaking fingers fumbling at the handle, but it opened.
Brandon lay in his car seat, his cream-and-navy plaid shirt dyed red.
Mechanical training took over and Holliday kicked into action, jabbing the release button and pulling the corpse away from the car seat, the gray fabric already taking on the color of Brandon’s blood. He tore at the boy’s shirt, snapping the buttons until he was at his undershirt, lifting it over his dead son’s head like it was bath time, like everything was okay and it was all fine and—
A tiny entry hole puckered the right side of Brandon’s chest, surrounded by a bloody spiderweb. He touched his son’s cheek with his left hand, the fingers of his right probing the gunshot wound.
Chapter Eleven
Carter
Carter’s breath came thick and slow as he picked himself up off the ground. His whole right side was damp from the puddle he’d landed in. Holliday had decked him in one shot.
The senator stood by the car, cradling his son in his arms, his face emotionless. Guy was huge, no two ways about it, still had that military look about him. He looked a lot younger than the age on his profile, despite his graying hair.
The boy’s torso was a mess of blood and bone.
Felt like everything twitched in Carter’s body as his brain connected the dead body to Kirsty. The muscles in his arms felt like jelly.
He had to snap himself into focus. This is a murder now. Preserve all the evidence. He assessed the scene, trying to keep everything inside him in check.
No sign of any killers or abductors, just Holliday, cradling his dead son, and a cop leaning against a radio car, muttering to himself. A firearm lay in front of him in an oily puddle.
Carter tried to play it back. Someone ran toward the minivan. Had the cop shot?
In the here and now, a scream curdled his blood. Brandon. Alive.
Carter’s gut lurched, hope breaking free of the despair.
Holliday’s mouth hung open, shock written all over his face.
Carter snapped into action, pressing a finger to the boy’s blood-soaked neck. There, a pulse. And the kid was still breathing.
Holliday laid his son on the minivan’s hood and leaned in to his chest, squinting as he inspected the wounds.
Carter could only watch as the senator worked. Something in Holliday’s file tugged at his brain—Holliday was a trained field medic in his service days, sure looked like he knew what he was doing.
He took in the scene again, reassessing everything. The car was Megan’s Pacifica, but the Oregon plates didn’t match. At least that part of the story checked out.
Then back to his memories. The cop had waved as they approached in their wave of black SUVs, clearly had his gun drawn.
On Holliday? Why?
And what was Holliday doing here?
Sirens snapped Carter back. An ambulance pulled up next to them, the flashing lights reflected in the puddles. An EMT jumped down with a splash and dashed straight over to Holliday. He got a shove for his trouble. The senator wasn’t letting anyone else get at his son.
Carter gripped Holliday’s arms tight and eased him away. “Sir, you need to let the professionals do their jobs.” He gestured at the EMT, eyes wide, forehead creased, begging for trust.
Holliday stepped aside with a nod as the second paramedic joined them. But his hands twitched, like he couldn’t just stand around as they tried to keep his son alive.
Another scream cut out into the morning air.
The EMT cradled Brandon and carried him toward the ambulance, his partner following.
Holliday stood there, his jaw clenching and unclenching. He got a smartphone out of his pocket and focused on it. Then cocked his head to the side. “He murdered my kid!” He marched over to the beat cop, his shouts lost in the rain. He pushed the officer, pinning him against the car, his right hand wrapped around the cop’s throat, his left hand pulled back, ready to strike.
Carter darted over, grabbed Holliday’s arm, yanking it behind his back, his other arm wrapping around his neck. “Let him go!”
Holliday swung around, fire burning behind his eyes, then he went slack.
The cop got up, rubbing at his throat as he scrambled away.
Carter kept them separated by an arm’s reach. “Senator, I need you to stay calm, okay?”
Holliday looked dazed, but compliant, his flash of rage long gone.
Carter let go of him.
Holliday jerked forward, wrapping his fingers around the cop’s throat again.
Carter tried to repeat the grab, but Holliday was wise to it, swapping submission for an elbow to the gut. Carter recoiled, pain flaring up from his stomach, yanking his breath out of his lungs. He stepped back and kicked low, his heel cracking off Holliday’s shin, then pushed a fist into his chest. The big man tumbled backward, twisting as he landed on the car’s hood.
Carter grabbed his wrist and flipped him so he was face down, then snapped his other arm behind his back, the position for cuffing. “You’ve got a choice here, Senator. Keep fighting, and you’ll end up in jail. Stop, and I’ll let you go.”
Holliday made the wise choice. He went prone on the car’s hood.
“Are you going to play nice?”
Holliday nodded.
“Okay, we’re going for a walk.” Carter pulled him up to standing and checked him over. Seemed to be compliant now. Finally. He led him away, back toward his Suburban and the ambulances, their lights still flashing. He tried to make eye contact with the senator. “Take me through what happened here.”
“He shot my son. That cop.” Holliday was looking everywhere but at Carter. He seemed to settle on the beat cop, standing with Elisha, just shaking his head, staring at the ground. “He shot my son!”
“You saw it?”
Holliday nodded, all the answer he was prepared to give.
“Why are you here, Senator?”
Holliday looked Carter up and down. “Who are you?”
“Special Agent Max Carter.” He got out his badge. “We spoke on the phone. You were supposed to—”
“You’re the guy who didn’t do his job and let some whacko kidnap my children?”
Carter decided it was grief talking and gave him the benefit of the doubt. “Sir, I understand what you’re going through.”
“Do you? Someone’s kidnapped your kids, huh?”
“I’ve—”
“You know nothing.” Holliday waved at the ambulance. “My son is dying in that van because that asshole cop fired wild.” His jaw clenched, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. A deep breath and he looked right at Carter. Then he collapsed back against the SUV, looking like he might
go down.
“I can’t even begin to think what you’re going through here, sir.”
“Why did you stop me?” Holliday glared at Carter. “He shot my boy! I saw it with my own eyes.” He looked over at the Pacifica, at the cop and Elisha. “Someone ran away, the cop fired a warning shot, up in the sky. Then he aimed for him. The guy dove out of the way and— You see how high the shot was?” He held his hand level with the SUV’s door handle. “He should’ve been trying to take the guy down, aim for center mass. Aim for the legs, but that asshole was going for a headshot like he was playing a video game. Going for the kill.”
Carter took another look at the Pacifica and tried to replay the path of the bullet. The back glass was shattered, but there was a small bullet hole in the passenger door. He traced it all the way back to the long puddle by the radio car. “Was he lying down?”
“Guy decked him. Must’ve been distracted or something.”
Made sense, given the bullet’s trajectory. “And you’ve no idea who he was shooting at?”
Holliday scowled, like he was being questioned by an insect, someone so far beneath him. “Excuse me?”
“The reason I’m here, Senator, is that we tracked your cell phone to two nearby towers.” Carter pointed at a distant building, then a block of condos. “It let us triangulate your location to here. Problem is, I asked you to return home. You said you were heading home.”
Holliday stood up tall, letting a slow breath out of his lungs.
“Can you explain why you’re at a parking lot and not at home with your wife?”
Holliday took a long look at Carter, face screwed up. Then he collapsed against the SUV, tears mixing with the rain on his face.
Crocodile tears. Precise timing. The guy was hiding something, just what exactly? Not that Carter didn’t have a few ideas.
“Right now I need to find your daughter. Do you know where she is?”
“You really think I’m involved in this?” Holliday dug his palms into his eye sockets. “He shot my boy, and this is how you treat me?”
An EMT dropped out of the back of the ambulance and took a long look at Holliday. “Sir, you can ride with your son in back.”
Holliday looked up, his gray eyes gleaming. “Okay.” He set off, brushing at his cheeks, and stopped by the back of the ambulance and locked his gaze on Carter, the gaze of a pleading politician. “Find my daughter. Please.”
“Believe me, I’ll find who’s behind this.” Carter left a long pause. “I’ll see you at the hospital.”
A fresh scream came from inside the van. Holliday flinched then disappeared inside.
And they were gone, reversing with a high-pitched squeal, then powering over to the freeway, the siren wailing.
Carter took a deep breath. Couldn’t get the boy’s screams out of his head.
Holliday knew more than he was admitting to. But what? Was he really involved in the abduction? Or was someone targeting him?
A phalanx of fresh SUVs headed toward him, the middle two swerving to avoid the ambulance.
Time to get the search started. Find this man, find Avery.
Hopefully alive.
Carter turned back to the vicinity of the shooting. Elisha was already running the crime scene, her efficiency kicking in. A pair of uniformed cops cordoned off the area, enclosing the patrol car and the Pacifica. A forensics team suited up beside the minivan. The rain started washing away the trail of blood.
The K-9 unit’s handler was in the back of the Pacifica, letting his Labrador get a hold of any scents from Brandon or the abductor. They set off toward the woods, his dog straining at the leash, already picking up a trail. “Come on, Dora, let’s get him.” They hit the line of trees, beyond which flashlights glinted deeper in, some calls sounding even farther away.
Carter doubted it would yield anything. Thirty agents and some dogs weren’t going to find a physically fit guy with that much of a head start. The helicopter stood a better chance, but the rain was going to hamper it.
He tried to overlay Holliday’s take on events. He said the cop shot once in the air, then aimed low as a man ran away. Brandon’s abductor, running back to the minivan. Probably saw Carter’s team approaching and panicked, figuring he could get away before they turned up.
But Holliday was the ultimate mystery. What was he hiding? And what kind of man ignored a direct request from the FBI agent investigating his children’s abduction?
And why was he here?
Meeting the man who ran away from the cop was an assumption, but a good one. Finding that man was the key to learning what happened here, but more importantly to finding Avery Holliday.
So Holliday couldn’t be trusted.
His cell rang out. Bill. Wanting to apologize? Or was it just more of his nonsense. He let it ring out and tried to focus on the here and now.
Elisha was over by their Suburban, standing with the cop who’d shot Brandon. White-faced, deep in shock, muttering to himself, staring into the puddles, their oily surfaces dotted with raindrops. J. Calhoun, according to his badge. His navy radio car was standard Seattle Police. He took a halting breath, no doubt replaying the incident again in his head. Over and over and over again. Still muttering, telling himself there was more he could have done, that he could have caught the guy and saved the boy’s life. Or he could’ve let him go and saved the boy’s life.
Carter walked over to join them.
Calhoun looked up at Carter, his thick skull protruding over bushy eyebrows. Mid-forties. Cauliflower ears, like he’d done a lot of Greco-Roman wrestling. Gut like he’d done a lot of drinking—beer, and not the light kind either. His eyes flickered as he tried to focus.
Carter held out his badge. “I’m leading the investigation into Brandon and Avery’s abduction.”
Calhoun stared into space. “Is the kid dead?”
Carter gave a reassuring smile, masking a grimace before it formed. “He’s on his way to the hospital as we speak.” He plotted the likely route in his head, taking the toll bridge over Lake Washington back toward downtown Seattle, and came up with about twenty minutes. Hopefully long enough to keep Brandon alive before he hit the ER. “Your quick thinking rescued the boy from his abductor. Thanks to you, we have him now.”
“What?” Calhoun frowned, lips pinched tight. “I shot a kid.”
“Accidentally, right?” Carter waited for a nod. “That child was kidnapped from outside his home and, thanks to you, he’s back in our care.” He paused, waiting for some reaction. There, a flicker of hope in Calhoun’s eyes. “Now, I need to find Avery, his sister. The best chance I’ve got is for you to tell us exactly what happened here, and I need the truth. Okay?”
“Okay.” Calhoun’s nod was slow and measured. “I pulled up, saw a guy in a car, asked what he was doing here. This is a bit of a hook-up place for hookers and their johns.”
Carter played that through—taking a child to a place like this could mean sex trafficking. So why just bring Brandon? And why meet Holliday here? Two kids, separated, meant one was used as leverage. That was off the table. For now.
Calhoun cleared his throat. “But he had a kid with him. A boy, I think. Didn’t get a good look but, you know, I don’t want to be the guy who ignored it and that SOB gets away, you know? So I asked for title and registration. The guy didn’t have any, so I get him out, took him over to the patrol car and radioed it in.” He patted the SUV. “Right then, you appeared in the distance and… Aw man, I got distracted.”
“It’s okay. I just need to know what happened.”
“The guy hit me, right in the guts, and I went down. He ran for it. I warned him and shot in the air to show I meant it, but the guy didn’t stop.” Calhoun gave a shrug. “So I shot again, aiming for his center mass, you know, trying to take him down. Guy was already diving, so I missed and…” He shut his eyes and swallowed hard. “I hit the minivan. I heard the boy scream.” His voice was shrill and thin. Poor guy was going to be in therapy for months, if not
years.
Carter stood there with him. Didn’t look the sort to appreciate a hug, so he tapped him on the arm. “I’ve worn those shoes.” He flashed back to his own dark past, to a similar shooting in hotter conditions. No less horrific, no less bloody. “It’s not easy but, with the right counseling, you will accept that this wasn’t your fault and you will get over it. Always remember that you tried to take down the guy who abducted those kids. You need to cling to that. Nobody will blame you. And I mean nobody.”
“Senator Holliday did.”
“He’s grieving. He’s angry.”
Seemed to settle him down a bit. “But I didn’t stop that SOB. He got away.”
Carter took another look at the trees, searching for any hope. And seeing none. He gave Calhoun the truth in the form of a nod. “Officer, the man you shot at was probably the kidnapper or an accomplice. He still has Brandon’s sister. Avery. You’ve got her photo. So I need to know everything about him. Any detail at all—maybe seems tiny just now, but it might help. Okay?”
“Okay.” Calhoun huffed in a deep breath. “Guy was white, really pale skinned. Maybe thirty-five, forty? Said he was Canadian, heading home to Vancouver from San Francisco with his son. Spun me some line about his wife taking the Pacifica and wanting to swap it for a Honda.” He sniffed. “But I tell you one thing, he wasn’t a Canuck.”
“You’re Canadian, right?”
“Right. Married a Seattle girl and moved here twenty years back. Believe me, I know a fellow Maple Leaf when I see one.”
“You get a look at his face?”
“Red hair, longish.” Calhoun held his hands below his jawline. “Grunge length, you know? Long enough to mosh, short enough to tie up to look tidy in most professions. All the benefits of a mullet without the obvious downsides.” He frowned. “Guy’s skin was marked, though, like he had bad acne as a kid.”
“What about his eyes?”
“Mid-blue, but kinda bloodshot. Didn’t notice anything about his nose, cheeks, ears. His mouth was small, you know, like that actor? Cusack, or something? The guy smiled but his lips were still tiny. Oh, yeah, I mean, he had a beard, same red as his hair.”