by Lisa Jackson
“But where were you that night?” the man asked again, unbowed.
The lawyer whispered something in Shannon’s ear, but she didn’t pay him any attention. “No comment,” she repeated.
As she ducked down to climb into the waiting car, her gaze shifted to Travis. As if she’d intentionally picked him out of the crowd.
It had probably been his imagination, but the sounds of the street, the reporters, the traffic, the pigeons on the square—all had seemed to hush.
The skin on the back of his neck prickled in apprehension and he felt as if bands had suddenly tightened over his lungs.
He’d been startled at what he’d seen in her expression—pain, worry, and something else, a flash of determination that had cut him to the quick. This woman was no stranger to agony. But neither did she seem to be a half-crazed woman who had snapped and killed her husband. Shannon Flannery seemed to know exactly what she was doing at all times.
She seemed steadfast and sure.
Capable of murder?
Maybe.
Her gaze had been a dare and as she’d stared at him, he’d felt an unlikely emotion steal through his bloodstream, a yearning to know more about her, a concern that went far beyond a casual interest in the birth mother of his child.
Still staring at him, she’d lowered her sunglasses. A long moment passed, then she slid into the open door of the waiting car. He’d felt it then, the slight change in the atmosphere, an altering of his thoughts. For the first time he’d noticed the sweat that was running down his temples and collecting on his palms.
Travis had watched the car drive down the street until it had rounded the corner at the first stoplight. Long after the crowd had dispersed he’d stood and stared at the spot where he’d last seen the Mercedes.
Something inside of him had shifted.
Something dark, something he didn’t understand, something he didn’t want to consider, had thrummed for a heartbeat before disappearing.
In the shade of the tree, he’d thought of Ella, not six months in her grave. Ella, with her short blond hair, wide smile and apple cheeks. She’d been wise and happy, and a friend who had turned into his wife, then his lover. A kind woman. A churchgoing woman. A safe woman. A barren woman.
And a hundred and eighty degrees from Shannon Flannery.
Guilt had driven a painful stake into his heart and from that moment forward, he’d felt a frisson of trepidation whenever he’d heard Shannon’s name. He’d started a file on her that he kept locked in his den, and late at night he would sometimes sort through it.
It sounded crazy now, but that day, nearly three years earlier, he’d had a premonition, an inkling that their paths would cross again. Had it been because of Dani? Or was it something he’d rather not consider?
Whatever the reason, he’d been right.
He intended to chase her down.
Because of his daughter.
Her daughter.
A girl missing.
His muscles tightened as he remembered that after his trip to San Francisco, upon his return, Dani had begun asking dozens of questions about who her birth parents were. She’d never said “real” parents, and she’d always tried to be sly about her questions, never asking them directly, but he suspected her interest ran deep. Though he had no proof, he’d even thought Dani had tried to find the woman, had maybe stumbled upon the documents of her adoption that he’d kept hidden in that locked file. Dani, though the apple of his eye, was smart and sly, could pour on the charm, feign complete innocence, even when she was scheming something behind those wide eyes.
One time he’d caught her on their home computer in a chat room for adoptees searching for their natural parents, and he was certain that, though she’d pretended disinterest since then, she’d found a way to keep searching.
Damn. He should have talked to her, been open about it, but he’d just thought she was too young.
So, even if it wasn’t Shannon Flannery who had come searching for her, perhaps Dani, in her attempts to locate her birth mother, had either taken off, or somehow been lured away.
Don’t even think like that, he warned himself. The truth of the matter was that he could be all wet. Maybe Shannon Flannery had long ago gotten on with her life and had not a whit of interest in the baby she’d given up for adoption. Same with Dani’s biological father, Brendan Giles. But that weak lead was the only one Travis had at the moment.
Of course he knew where Shannon resided. From the moment at the courthouse when he’d seen her in the flesh, Travis had kept up with Shannon’s whereabouts. He’d told himself it was to prepare for the day when his daughter would demand to meet her birth mother, but he wondered now, scooping his shaving gear from the bathroom sink into a small nylon bag, if his fascination with her had a deeper, as yet unfathomable meaning.
He wouldn’t think of that now. Nor would he dwell on the fact that he and Dani had recently celebrated her thirteenth birthday.
Now he didn’t know if he’d ever see her again.
Travis’s guts twisted as he yanked down a duffel bag and threw in a couple pairs of jeans and the first two shirts he found hanging in his closet. Then, with an eye on the door, he reached up to the top shelf and pulled down a locked metal box.
Inside was his gun.
A Glock. Forty-five caliber. Big enough to blow a substantial hole in anyone who got in his way. He probably wouldn’t need to be armed. He was planning on dealing with the birth mother of his child, for God’s sake. And yet, he believed in being prepared. For anything. Maybe Shannon wasn’t in this alone. And hell, maybe she wasn’t a part of it at all. She was just the first and only lead he could come up with.
But someone had his kid.
And when he met whoever it was, he wanted to make certain that he tipped the odds in his favor.
He held the weapon and it felt good in his hands, just the right weight. He curled his fingers over the smooth handle, sticking his index finger through the trigger loop.
The pistol was unloaded.
He found the shells, pocketed them, then tossed the gun into his bag. His pickup was already equipped with everything else he might need: night vision goggles, small telescope, hunting knife, camouflage jacket and other pieces of equipment he’d become familiar with during his stint with the army.
He zipped the bag closed.
He was ready.
One last time he peered through the blinds to the FBI agents standing near their cars.
Useless!
He’d always known that if you want a job done right, you do it yourself.
As soon as Frick and Frack left for the day, he was outta here.
What if you’re wrong? What if Shannon Flannery has nothing to do with Dani’s disappearance?
Then he’d keep looking. Endlessly. Until he found his kid.
Chapter 5
Who was this creep?
Carefully, not daring to let on that she was awake, Dani cracked open an eye and studied her abductor. It was night, he was driving, the features of his face illuminated by the greenish glow of the dash lights, the big tires of the truck humming over the asphalt of the interstate.
She was scared, more scared than she’d ever been in all of her thirteen years, and a part of her wanted to fall into a bajillion pieces and cry aloud, wailing for her father. But she didn’t, wouldn’t give the jerk the satisfaction. Oh, she let him think she was even more terrified than she really was, just to make him believe that she wouldn’t fight back, that she was too much of a wuss to try and figure out a way to escape, but all the while her mind was working and she was intent on not letting her terror paralyze her.
No way.
She knew that if she was going to get out of this alive, she’d have to rely on her own wits and ability.
But she was handcuffed, her wrists bound together in front of her, which really complicated things.
She’d taken tae kwon do since she was four, had a black belt and won a lot of competitions. Sh
e knew how to ride a galloping horse bareback, shoot a .22 pretty straight, and her dad, who’d been with some elite army group, had even demonstrated to her where the vulnerable points were on a man if anyone tried to grab her.
But she’d been stupid, not on her guard when this jerk had nabbed her right outside the cybercafe. The cybercafe! Crap, she’d been an idiot. She felt her face burn with embarrassment. She’d always felt that she was fairly street-smart, that she could hold her own in almost any kind of competition or fight, but this…this weirdo had tricked her. She was convinced that he’d pretended to be BJC27, or had somehow found out about Dani’s e-mailing Bethany Jane Crandall. But how? She’d been so careful.
Now she felt like a complete and utter idiot.
But she couldn’t worry about that right now, not when she had to figure out how to escape. How she’d gotten into this mess was over and done with. She’d made a mistake—maybe even the blunder of a lifetime—but she wasn’t dead yet and she was working on a plan to free herself. She just hadn’t figured out all the details. And she wasn’t going to forget about the bloody knife she’d seen in the back of the van, the one that he’d hidden when they’d pulled over and he’d thought she wasn’t looking. Then there was the huge black trash bag stuffed to the gills—with something. She didn’t want to think there was a small body curled up inside the opaque plastic, or the remains of another child he could’ve nabbed.
She nearly gagged at the thought.
Please, God, help me.
She started to worry her lower lip, a habit that had started when her mom had gotten sick. Now she stopped the gentle gnawing and refused to show any sign of weakness or that she was awake. She had to lull this jerk into complacency.
Through nearly closed eyes, she studied his features in the eerie green glimmer of light. Straight nose, deep-set eyes, hard-as-steel mouth, a beard shadowing his jaw. He kept the speed between fifty-five and sixty. The radio was turned on to an all-news channel. She’d gleaned that the transmission was from a station in Santa Rosa, California, which made sense. She’d been keeping track of the mileage, casting glimpses at the odometer when she could, and she figured, from what she’d seen through the window, that she was somewhere in Northern California.
He hadn’t driven the easy way, though. Originally, he’d headed east, crossing into Idaho where, just after midnight on the outskirts of a tiny little town about forty miles from Boise, if the highway signs could be believed, he’d pulled into a long, rutted lane that led through tall, bleached grass and a straggly thatch of skinny, dead-looking trees. Grass and weeds had brushed the undercarriage and the van had bucked and bounced over rocks and potholes. The long drive had opened to a patch of knee-high yellow grass surrounded by a few desolate and obviously abandoned buildings.
He’d parked near a dilapidated garage with a sagging roof and boarded-up windows. After one swift glance in her direction, he’d climbed out of the van and there, in the weak moonlight, stretched. He was tall. Kind of muscular and she’d figured his age around thirty, maybe even close to forty.
She’d watched him approach the garage, all the while scrounging in his pocket. He had come up with something that glinted in the weak light. A key. Quickly he’d unlatched a padlock and the old doors of the garage had creaked open. He’d returned to the van, opened the back doors and pulled out his duffel bag, tool box and two boxes.
Oh, God, she’d wondered, did he plan on the two of them staying here? Her skin had crawled at the thought of spending any time alone with him in the neglected two-storied farmhouse that was, in her estimation, straight out of a horror film.
How would she get away?
Where would she go?
She still had her cell phone, turned off and hidden in her bra. She’d managed to sneak it out of the pocket of these grotty sweatpants when he’d thought she was still knocked out from that awful-smelling stuff he’d used to subdue her and before he’d clicked on the handcuffs. But she worried that if she did reach for it, she might drop it. And, at this point, she hadn’t yet tried to retrieve it for fear that if she managed to turn it on, he might hear the sounds the phone emitted as it engaged. It was an old phone, didn’t have a GPS chip like the new ones.
But it had been risky to try to use it that night, so at first she’d decided to wait to save whatever little battery life it had left until her hands were uncuffed so that she wouldn’t fumble and drop the phone. She’d planned to use it only when she was absolutely certain she’d be alone for more than a few minutes.
At that point, she’d figured, she’d have only one shot at calling her dad.
As she’d sat in the truck, she’d craned her neck just a bit, glancing through the window to the isolated, sagging buildings. Even in the pale moonlight she’d seen that the paint on the farmhouse siding was cracked and peeling, rust running from hinges that were rotting. A screen door banged with the bit of wind that stole over the dry landscape. One corner of the roof had collapsed entirely.
What had once been a shed and pump house was a tumbled pile of bricks and a crumbled roof.
It was so quiet out here.
Aside from the thump of the screen door, Dani had heard nothing over the sound of her own breathing.
It was as if they’d stopped at the very ends of the earth. She shivered despite the heat and swallowed back the fear that had been rising in her throat. How long would she be here with him? she wondered while casting a worried look into the back of the van where the dark plastic bag still lay.
She had the unlikely urge to reach behind, untie the yellow ribbon holding it closed and open the damned thing.
What stopped her was the fear that she would open the sack to display a dead girl, eyes open, staring lifelessly up at her.
Her insides turned to water at the thought, but she was horrifically fascinated with the bag and its contents. The blood that was leaking from it had stopped and coagulated to stain the soiled carpet. Silently, using both hands, since they were locked together, she reached back for just a second and touched the plastic. It gave under her fingertips, so there had definitely been something squishy inside.
Her imagination ran wild.
She had to rein it in.
Don’t do this, she mutely reprimanded herself. Forget about the stupid bag and try to find a way out of here!
She let out her breath and turned her eyes away from the back of the van.
Don’t think about it…at least it doesn’t stink…not yet. Now, find a way to get out of here or get help. Not the phone, you could drop it, you’ll have to wait, but do something!
With her own admonition spurring her on, Dani worked fast.
Eyes trained on the windshield, she tried to open the glove compartment, to search for some kind of papers—like the vehicle registration or an insurance card or anything that would give her some kind of clue as to who he was or what he wanted. Her other hope was that she would unearth some kind of weapon or something that could be used as a weapon. If only she could find a jackknife or a screwdriver…but the glove box was firmly locked.
Time was her enemy. Sweating, feeling the seconds for her chance to escape ticking rapidly away, she frantically searched for some kind of tool in the darkened interior. A hammer, or wrench, or file—some object that she could hide and would give her an edge over the bastard. But there was nothing! Not even a damned fountain pen or pencil to use to poke him in the nose or eyes or throat or anyplace she could reach.
Damn!
Looking up, she spied him heading into the garage.
Go, Dani!
Fumbling with the hem of her shirt, she dug her fingers into her bra. Carefully, one eye on the windshield, she pushed the phone, which was pressing against the underside of her left breast, to the middle of her bra, then up and over the small piece of lace. But the phone, wet from her sweat, slithered into her hands and then slipped, tumbling toward the floor. No! Gasping, she caught the cell in her damp fingers.
Thank God. Her heart ham
mered wildly as she cradled the phone in one hand and flipped it open with the other. The digital display illuminated, music starting before she was able to mute it. Slowly, oh, God, so agonizingly slowly, the phone came to life.
Great! she’d thought, her heart leaping as she peered through the windshield and double-checked the whereabouts of her captor.
He was still in the garage.
She hoped she might have a few minutes free.
The LCD on the phone’s face showed that there was some battery life left. Not much, but some.
She expected to hear that she had a million messages from her dad, but the screen faded before ever coming to life. With mounting dread, she realized there were no bars—there was no cell tower nearby. Her phone wasn’t able to transmit or receive!
No!
That was impossible!
But true.
Her insides crumpled. Damn it. She couldn’t leave the van to move around and try to find if there was any coverage, even roaming coverage, in the area. Wanting to cry she snapped the phone closed, turned it off, managing to worm it back into her bra again where it then stayed lodged safely, if painfully, against her breast.
She hadn’t let her disappointment overwhelm her. She’d wanted to give up, but she’d made herself fight through it. Maybe there would be another moment when she would be able to try and call.
She tried to just sit and wait, but her insides were screaming. She had to do something to help with her own escape! But what? What could she do?
She searched the cab, her gaze scouring the dash, the cup holders and the driver’s seat before landing on the ashtray, where dozens of crumpled cigarette butts were squished into the small container. The tray was so full, it couldn’t shut.