Her Last Goodbye (Morgan Dane Book 2)

by Melinda Leigh

  At the foot of the bed, a nurse wrote on a chart and talked in a soothing monotone. “It’s going to rain tonight.”

  Tim shuffled into her room. He stopped, as if afraid to approach her. As if he didn’t want to frighten her. “Hey, Chels. It’s me.”

  Emotions choked Chelsea. She didn’t know what to feel first. Love. Relief. Gratitude.

  She’d wanted to live—to see her husband and her children again—and she had.

  Now what?

  The nurse hung the chart from a hook and moved to Chelsea’s side to take her pulse. “I was just telling your wife how happy everyone is to see her.”

  The artificial pleasantness of the nurse annoyed Chelsea. She swallowed, her throat dry.

  “Tim.” Her voice was a croak.

  He let out an audible breath.

  How did he feel? He must have thought she was dead.

  “I’ll give you a few minutes alone.” The nurse handed Tim a plastic cup of water. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.” With a reassuring nod, the nurse left the room.

  Tim put the straw between Chelsea’s lips. She closed them around it and winced as a scab cracked. How could she even react to a pain so slight after what she’d been through? But her body seemed overly sensitized. Could a person use up her supply of grit?

  “I want to hug you, but I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.” Tim’s eyes shone. Was he crying?

  “It’s OK,” she said, the words slurring through her swollen lips.

  He leaned over the bed and studied her face. “I want to kiss you, but I don’t know where.”

  A tear slipped from her eye and ran down her temple. She took her arm out from under the covers. Tim took her hand, the warmth radiating between them familiar and comforting. She held on.

  This is what she’d prayed for.

  Tim wiped a hand across his eyes. “I don’t have the words for how I feel right now. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

  She squeezed his fingers. “Same here.”

  “I love you.” Tim looked into her eyes. “You are the strongest person I know.”

  His words warmed her from the inside out. “I love you too. The whole time I was . . . there, all I could think about was getting home to you and the kids.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

  “Just be here?” Her next breath shook her to the core. From the scattered, panicked emotions flitting through her mind, she knew that her psychological recovery was going to be harder than her physical healing.

  “I’m not going anywhere.” Tim perched on the edge of the bed.

  She almost couldn’t believe she’d made it.

  A knock startled them both. Chelsea recoiled, a reflex she couldn’t control.

  In the doorway, the sheriff cleared his throat. “Mrs. Clark. I’d like to talk with you for a few moments.”

  “It’s OK, honey.” Tim shot the sheriff a look of warning. “This is Sheriff King.”

  Tim nodded toward a plastic chair against the wall. “Why don’t you sit down, Sheriff?”

  The sheriff turned the chair to face Chelsea’s bed and sank into it. Then he pulled a notebook out of his pocket. “Do you remember what happened last Friday night?”

  Chelsea inhaled, a hitched and unsteady sound that reminded her of William as he came down from a crying jag. She shook her head. “Not exactly. I have flashbacks.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds, memories crowding, intimidating, terrifying her. She pushed them aside. The sheriff would want to find the man who’d kidnapped her. She had to dig deep for courage to help him. “I think he was in the back seat when I got into the car.”

  He’d been waiting for her in her own driveway.

  “He told me to drive to Grey’s Hollow. After we passed the train station, he made me stop the car and drink something. I was in and out of it for days.”

  The doctor had said that the drug had likely affected her memory.

  The sheriff frowned. “What’s the first thing you remember after Friday night?”

  Chelsea remembered waking in the storage container. Her body began to tremble.

  Tim stroked her arm. “It’s OK. You’re safe now.”

  She shook her head. Tears welled up in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “He. He. He.” She couldn’t get the words out between gasps for air. She inhaled and held her breath for a few seconds, then exhaled. “He chained me.”

  The infected sore on her ankle throbbed.

  “Can you describe him?” the sheriff asked.

  Chelsea clung to Tim’s hand as she shook her head, feeling weak and helpless and pathetic. No one was going to find him if she couldn’t even answer a few simple questions. She forced her lips to form the words. “He wore a mask.”

  The sheriff frowned. “Anything you can tell us will help.”

  Tim raised his voice. “My wife—”

  “No, please, Tim. The sheriff is trying to help. I want him caught.” Chelsea tugged on Tim’s hand. “I don’t want him still out there.”

  Above all, she wanted him to be the one who was imprisoned and her to be the one who was free.

  “All right, but tell me if it’s too much,” Tim said.

  She released his hand and picked up her water, taking a slow sip. The water slid down her throat, cool and soothing. She could do this. She lifted her chin and met the sheriff’s gaze. “He wore a ski mask. But he was about six feet tall, maybe a little taller, and strong.”

  “What about his voice?” the sheriff asked. “Was it familiar in any way?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “No accent?”

  “No.”

  “What about the place you were held?” the sheriff asked.

  “It was an old shipping container in the woods.” Chelsea described the inside of the container then detailed how she’d gotten out through a rust hole in the ceiling. “There was a cabin or small house about a hundred feet away.”

  As she talked, her voice grew weaker, her pauses for breath longer. She was physically and emotionally depleted, but she wanted to give the sheriff as much information as she could. “He chased me.” The last three words quivered. “But I just ran. I ran as fast as I could. When I had to stop and catch my breath, I didn’t hear him behind me anymore. I rolled in the dirt. The dress was such a bright yellow. I was afraid he’d see the fabric.”

  Probably why he’d chosen such a bright color, she realized with a cold knot in her belly. Maybe a sedative wasn’t a bad idea.

  She sipped more water. “The trees are so bare and gray this time of year. After that, I just kept moving. I don’t know how far I went, but I knew that if I stopped, I’d stiffen up. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to get going again.”

  “Smart,” the sheriff said.

  “Plus, it was getting colder, and all I had was that blanket.” Chelsea’s hands—and the rest of her body—shook violently.

  The sheriff wrote notes. “Did you see a vehicle?”

  “No.” Chelsea pictured the cabin and container in the clearing. “There should have been, though. He must have had transportation.”

  “What time did you escape?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Chelsea said.

  “Do have any idea how far you ran?” the sheriff pressed.

  She shook her head. The night had been a blur of pain and exhaustion and terror. “I don’t know.”

  Tim took his wife’s hand again. “Chelsea runs almost every day. She’s very fit.”

  The ability to outrun her captor had no doubt saved her life.

  Frustrated, the sheriff tapped a pen on his notepad. “How far do you usually run?”

  Chelsea rested her head back against the pillows, spent.

  Tim jumped in. “Anywhere from five to fifteen miles, and she’s fast too.”

  Sheriff King exhaled hard. “And you didn’t follow a trail or stream?”

  “I just ran. It was dark. Eventually, I had to walk, but everything looked t
he same in the woods.” Chelsea’s words and memories blended together, the pitch of her voice rising as exhaustion weighted her.

  “Did you hear anything while you were in the container or while you were running away?” the sheriff asked. “Any little detail might help us locate him.”

  “No. I don’t know.” Chelsea blinked. Tears spilled from her eyes, and her voice cracked in frustration. “I don’t remember.”

  “Was there a road or could the container be seen from above?” the sheriff asked.

  Chelsea pictured it in her mind. “I didn’t see a road, and there were tree branches overhead, so I don’t know. Maybe? I’m sorry. It was dark and I was more interested in getting away than remembering every detail.”

  The doctor came into the room and frowned at the sheriff. “That’s enough. After she rests, she might be able to recall more information. But you’ve clearly pushed her far enough for now.”

  The doctor held a syringe in her hand. “I know you didn’t want a sedative earlier, but you haven’t slept and you really need to. I think the rest will help.”

  Since the emotions scurrying in Chelsea’s mind were overwhelming, she agreed. “All right.” She turned to Tim. “If you’ll stay?”

  “I’ll be here when you wake up.” He stroked her forehead.

  The doctor injected clear liquid into the IV.

  Within seconds, the tension in Chelsea’s body eased. Her fingers relaxed in Tim’s hand and the room blurred. She barely noticed as the sheriff ducked out of the room.

  The doctor’s voice floated to Chelsea. “As I mentioned earlier, I’m also going to order a psychiatric evaluation. There are techniques that might help her remember details, but right now, she’s been through enough.”

  The sheriff’s voice followed, “I’ll put a deputy outside your wife’s door for tonight. We’ll reassess the situation tomorrow.”

  Chelsea shivered. Her kidnapper had held her for almost a week. He’d tortured her.

  He might not give her up so easily.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Lance and Morgan sat in the hospital waiting room. Morgan silently contemplated the dark-gray carpet. She hadn’t said a word since a nurse had come for Chelsea’s parents ten minutes before. Morgan’s eyes were dark and far away, and Lance wondered what difficult memory was playing in her mind.

  Several hours had passed since they’d seen the video in Tim’s kitchen. A few phone calls had verified that Chelsea had been taken to the hospital. A neighbor had been called to watch the children so that Tim, Patricia, and Rand could go to the hospital.

  Lance reached for Morgan’s hand, interlacing their fingers. Hers were cold. “Are you all right?”

  “When the chaplain came to the house to tell me that John was dead, I was alone. The girls were there, but I was the only adult. Sophie was still a baby. I don’t even remember the next couple of hours. I don’t know who took care of the children. Maybe the chaplain. Maybe the army officer who came with him. Maybe me.” She paused for a slow breath. “Someone called Grandpa because he and Stella just showed up at the house. I have no memory of the rest of that day. Except for John’s funeral, the next few weeks are hazy.”

  Lance squeezed her hand, the pain in her voice breaking his heart. “Maybe that’s for the best.”

  “Maybe it is.”

  “Chelsea is alive.”

  “I know.” Morgan’s voice was soft. “I was just thinking how good it was for Tim to have support. To not be alone. Chelsea is alive, but we have no idea what happened to her. What she went through.”

  Lance was betting it had been pretty horrific. Even without seeing her in person, he’d seen her face on that recording. She’d been filthy and battered, her bruised face the color of a raw steak, her features swollen. It had taken Tim a few seconds to recognize her, and he’d been blown away.

  A shadow darkened the doorway.

  “There you are.” The sheriff walked in. He went to the portable coffeemaker on a table in the corner and brewed himself a cup. He took a chair across from Morgan and Lance. His eyes were troubled, and he held the cup in both hands, but Lance could see the ends of his fingers trembling.

  Sheriff King wasn’t easily disturbed. He’d undoubtedly seen many terrible things in his decades in law enforcement. But Chelsea had gotten to him. Discomfort stirred in Lance’s chest. What had Chelsea told the sheriff?

  “How is she?” Morgan asked.

  “She’s in rough shape, but she’s alive.” The sheriff paused to drink his coffee. “Unfortunately, her captor wore a ski mask, so she can’t describe him other than to say he was six feet tall, maybe a little more, and strong. She didn’t recognize an accent, so maybe he’s from the general area.”

  “That description fits Harold Burns,” Lance said.

  The sheriff shrugged. “Her description fits a good percentage of the male residents of Randolph County.”

  “Do you have men out searching the woods for the place where she was held?” Morgan asked.

  The sheriff nodded. “We do, but we have no idea how long or how far she ran. From the injuries to her feet, we think she covered some ground. Miles. It might have been a house or cabin in the woods, and she was held in a shipping container. It’ll be hard to narrow down the search unless we can get more information from her. We’re looking at satellite photos of the area to see if we can see the container, but Chelsea said there are branches that might conceal it.” His big chest rose and fell. He stared into his coffee. The attempted interview had troubled him. “I wish she remembered more details.”

  “She’s traumatized.”

  “Yes.” He composed his face back into its usual stony mask. “We sent the blanket and the dress she was wearing to forensics. They’ll try and find trace evidence or DNA, but given how far she ran in the woods, I’m not sure how much help anything the techs find will be. When you talk to her, please take notes. Any small piece of information could help us find this guy.”

  “Thanks for the update,” Lance said.

  The sheriff tossed his empty cup in the trash on his way out.

  “What now?” Morgan stood and stretched.

  “I don’t know.” Lance got to his feet. “Sharp and I were hired to find Chelsea, and she’s no longer missing.”

  “I’m not sure Tim will be needing a lawyer at this point. I don’t know where I stand either.” Morgan paced the room. “Let’s give Tim a little more time.”

  They didn’t have to wait long. Tim walked into the room; his eyes looked as if he’d been traumatized. “I only have a few minutes. I want to get back to Chelsea.”

  “Of course you do,” Morgan said. “Don’t feel like you need to give us a report. Go back to your wife.”

  “She’s . . .” He glanced away, then turned and eased into a chair. Resting his elbows on his knees, he dropped his head into his hands and shoved both hands into his hair.

  Morgan moved to take the chair next to him. Without speaking, she put a hand on his back. Tim’s shoulders shook as he cried silently. He lifted his head a few minutes later, his eyes still shocked.

  “She was shaking when I went in to see her. So hard.” Anger glittered in his tear-filled eyes. “But she’s strong. Stronger than I ever realized.” Tim leaned back and wiped his sleeve across his face. His eyes were bleak as he said, “He branded her.”

  “What?” Lance asked.

  “A brand. It looks like an infinity symbol.” Tim sighed. “The doctor said a plastic surgeon will look at it. What if they can’t remove it? Every time she sees it, she’ll be reliving her captivity all over again. She’ll never be able to put it out of her mind.” Tim jumped to his feet and paced the small room. His gaze landed on random spots in the room and flittered away without seeming to register what he was seeing, as if his mind couldn’t process the last few hours. Tim was a man on the edge of the breaking point. “I have to go back to Chelsea. I don’t know what to say to her.”

  Morgan answered, “There’s nothing yo
u can say that will undo what’s been done. Just tell her you love her. She’s going to need you.”

  “You’re right. Thank you.” He headed toward the door.

  “Is there anything we can do?” Lance was just as worried about any immediate physical threat to Chelsea’s life. “Is the sheriff putting a guard on her?”

  Tim nodded. “He’s posting a deputy outside her room tonight.”

  Hopefully, the sheriff would be willing to continue to protect her until the man who kidnapped her was caught.

  “What do you want to do about the press conference?” Morgan asked. “It’s scheduled for seven o’clock.”

  Lance checked the time on his phone. It was after six. His stomach rumbled, as if it had just learned it was time for dinner. Had they eaten lunch? The day was a blur.

  Tim looked unsure. “The sheriff said he’d handle updating the press, but he suggested someone be there to represent the family. I don’t really want to leave Chelsea, and her parents aren’t in any condition to be on camera. But what happens to the reward now that she’s been found?”

  “The primary purpose of the press conference was to appeal to the public for help in finding her. The details of the reward were never publicized, so we can just pull the offer now that she’s been found,” assured Morgan.

  Tim shook his head. “Chelsea’s dad wants the reward to remain in place for information leading to the arrest and conviction of the man who kidnapped Chelsea.”

  “All right,” Morgan said. “I’ll rewrite the statement we drafted earlier.”

  “So, you’ll handle the press conference for us?” Tim asked.

  “Yes,” Morgan said.

  “Thank you. Very much. We really appreciate your help. None of us are thinking clearly right now.” Tim left.

  “I need to get to the press conference.” Morgan picked up her bag.

  “I’ll take you.” He wasn’t happy that she was, once again, volunteering for publicity. But she was going to do her best for her client. And Lance would stick close.

  They left the hospital, making their way through the parking lot. Back in the Jeep, Lance started the engine. “Do you need to stop at the office?”