“Don’t do this.” Ian kissed her temple. “This isn’t your fault. It isn’t mine. It’s not Moira’s or Gideon’s. It’s on that fucking piece of shite’s head. And I swear to you, Neve, if I’m the one who finds him, I’ll rip his skull off and we’ll both take turns pissing on it the rest of our days.”
The vivid and disgusting image startled a laugh out of her.
“That’s gross.” She turned in his arms and pressed her face into his neck. “That’s really, really gross.”
“I’ll rip his balls off too, straight out through his nose.”
She cringed. “How … macho of you.”
“Moira will be fine.” Ian pressed his lips to her ear. “She’s a canny woman, that one. Even on a good day she can terrify me, and I’m a smart man.”
“I don’t think Charles has the sanity to be afraid of her,” she whispered.
“And that’s where he’ll mess up.” Ian cupped the back of her neck. “I’ve seen her slice off a man’s balls with a simple look. That bampot doesn’t likely have that much sense.”
She sniffed, not certain if that comforted her or not.
“She’ll be alright,” Ian whispered again.
She squeezed her eyes shut tight and chose to believe he was right.
* * *
“If you keep this up, you’re going to pace a hole right through that floor and then you and me are both going to crash right through and you’ll be freaking out because you’ll have to rush me to the emergency department and deal with handling me and what’s going on with Moira.”
At the sound of Hannah’s calm, steady tone, Brannon stopped his pacing and turned to stare at her. He’d heard the words and the tone, but none of the words had made sense.
Except “emergency.”
“Huh? What?” As those words made a deeper impact on his consciousness, he crossed the floor to her and closed his hands around her arms. “Damn it, Hannah, are you okay? Is it the baby? Is it the—”
She rose onto her toes and pressed her mouth to his. “Stop it,” she said after a few seconds. Then, because Brannon was a big believer in tactile persuasion, she took his hand and guided it to her belly. “She is fine. See?”
As if to back her up, the little baby proceeded to do a series of flops and flips, kicking up against Brannon’s hand.
He blew out a breath and pressed his brow against hers. “Then why are you talking about going to the hospital?”
“Never mind.” Hannah cupped his face in her hands. “You need to calm down.”
“I can’t—”
When he would have pulled away, she simply tightened her grip and pressed her lips to his once more. “You can.”
He sighed against her mouth. “Hannah…”
“Calm down. You know this guy, Brannon. You don’t like him, but you know him. You know people, period. Now calm down … think. Stop panicking and think. Moira is smart. She knows him better than anybody and she can buy herself some time, but you need to help her there. Think.”
When Brannon lifted his head and met her eyes, she stared back levelly.
“Since when were paramedics crisis-management types?” He focused on the dark, steady strength he saw in her eyes.
“Seriously?” She laughed up at him as she curled her arms around his neck. “Half the time, all we do is manage crises. It’s either somebody convinced their gas pains are heart attacks—or ten somebodies who wrote off their heart attacks as gas pains. You’d be amazed at how cool I am under pressure. Now … are you ready to think there, big guy?”
“Yeah.” He nodded. Thinking wasn’t exactly what he wanted to do. What he wanted to do involved a lot of blood and pain. But thinking was what would help Moira now.
The blood and pain could come later.
The door opened and Brannon looked away from Hannah’s eyes to see Gideon filling the doorframe. “I’m going to give you an update on what we have so far.”
His eyes lingered on Brannon’s for a moment, then moved to Neve’s.
The look on his face was enough to tell Brannon two things.
Gideon didn’t know where Moira was. And Gideon wanted to kill somebody possibly more than Brannon did.
A few minutes later, Brannon found himself standing in front of a huge whiteboard. In the top middle of the board was a kids’ group photo. If Brannon hadn’t already seen it, he might have been pissed off, but he had. The image had two of the students circled. One of them was Charles—a much younger Charles. His image was circled in red. Off to the side and down a few rows was another youth’s face, circled in purple.
That was Samuel William Clyde.
Brannon had a feeling the bastard had ended up a pawn in whatever game Hurst was playing. And there was a game, Brannon had no doubt. Somehow, that shithead Charles maneuvered Clyde into Neve’s orbit.
“Okay, officers”—Gideon paused to add—“and citizens with a vested interest. Let’s talk about what we know.”
* * *
I’m kidnapping you.
His words were still ringing in her ears, her brain still struggling to process them when Charles casually swung out a hand and smacked it into her mouth.
Blood exploded over her tongue and her eyes began to water.
“Nothing to say there, darling?” he asked. “Did you not understand? I am kidnapping you.”
Moira let a breath shudder in, then out of her lungs.
She wasn’t going to answer him right now. She didn’t dare. Blood pooled in her mouth and she swallowed it before she gave into the urge to spit it into his face.
Had she had her hands free, she would have lunged for him, wrapping them around his neck and damn the fact that he was speeding down the twisting country highway.
It might have been a blessing that she hadn’t quite managed to work her hands loose of the rope just yet.
She could remember telling Ella Sue that she’d find her mad soon.
Charles wasn’t going to be overly thrilled that he’d been the one to trigger that discovery.
Through her disheveled hair, she stared at him.
He cast another glance her way and chuckled. “You look brassed-off, love. I suppose I can understand. Don’t fret, though. You’ll understand what this is all about here in a bit.”
She almost snapped at him, told him she had already connected those dots—not all the way, maybe, but they’d been looking for a connection and now with her ex-husband merrily announcing he was kidnapping her … well … Moira wasn’t exactly an idiot.
So she bit her tongue. Don’t give him any advantage. Keep him in the dark.
She had to buy time. Her family, Gideon, all of them—they had to know she was missing.
Charles might’ve thought he’d have an hour or two, that there would be some confusion, but he wouldn’t have had more than thirty minutes at the most before Ella Sue would sound the alarm.
The efficient older woman had likely already been halfway to town by the time Charles had Moira in the car.
When Moira wasn’t found at Brannon’s, they wouldn’t waste time calling Gideon.
Her heart wrenched at the thought of that. She should have called him first thing.
She should have sent him a text, told him she was sorry, instead of brooding and trying to think of the right way to say it. There was only ever one way.
Now she had to wait for them to find her … or wait for her chance to escape.
They’d piece it together. She had no doubt of that.
When they didn’t find her at the loft, Charles would be one of the first people they checked with. And when he wasn’t found, he’d jump right to the top of the list.
You probably trust him … Gideon’s voice haunted her.
He’d been right. She had trusted him.
Charles had been right there when Gideon threw those words at her, all but begging her to listen, demanding that she understand.
Well, she did now.
* * *
“How could we
have missed this?” Brannon’s voice exploded through the station.
Gideon blocked it out, relying on Hannah to keep Brannon under control. She did, speaking to him in a no-nonsense tone that would cut through his rage far better than any soothing murmur ever could.
Gideon tuned them both out.
Neve sat with her laptop open, her face stark. He wanted to take it away, because he already knew what she was doing. Now that they had a name, she was finding all the connections, all those little pieces that connected Charles Hurst to the Whitehall family. His father’s mother had been a Whitehall and all of them, it seemed, had been twisted by that ugly hate, a seed that was passed down for generations.
“They look alike,” Neve whispered. “This picture … I’ve seen it.” She pointed at something on the screen.
Ian looked and then leaned over and closed the computer. “Let’s focus on your sister, Nevie. We’ll deal with him later.”
As she turned into him, Gideon looked away.
Tank Grainger was already in the station, as were the deputies he’d called in to help.
“I don’t understand exactly what we are doing here,” Deputy Paul Lewis said, his ruddy face twisted in a scowl. Lewis had been on call this weekend and most people knew he spent his weekend on the river fishing. Granted, Lewis’s idea of fishing involved a lot of beer and very little bait—or fish. He didn’t particularly care to have it interrupted for much of anything. “Ms. McKay hasn’t been gone for twelve hours, much less the mandatory forty-eight. And you believe she is with her ex-husband. All we know, they might be … reconnecting.”
To Gideon’s surprise, it was Maris who gave Lewis a withering look and cut the idiot down to size with the impact of that glare alone. “First of all, a woman doesn’t go disappearing anywhere without taking her purse.” When Lewis went to argue, Maris took a step toward him and continued in a flinty voice. “Chief Marshall has already told us that she left without her purse, without her shoes, without her phone. She did it without telling anybody she was going anywhere. Moira McKay is a smart woman and she’s already been attacked once, threatened, with her throat almost crushed.”
Lewis reached up and rubbed at his neck, glancing around the room as if searching for support.
Nobody seemed too keen on meeting his gaze.
Maris wasn’t done. “There’s a fire at the bookstore her brother helped renovate. The museum was targeted. Then a few days ago, a man she worked with is murdered in front of her.” Maris went back to perching on the empty desk of an off-duty patrol officer. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not so big on believing in coincidences.”
“Who said anything about coincidences?” Lewis puffed out his chest, jabbing a finger toward himself. “I’m just looking at this all logical-like. This McKay chick is important—”
“McKay chick?” Maris narrowed her eyes.
“Excuse me, Ms. PC Police.” Lewis pronounced it PO-lice, rolling his eyes for effect. Again, he looked around, a smirking grin on his lips, but it faded when nobody seemed to share in his amusement.
“Lewis, son. You know what? Maybe you should just take yourself back on down to the river.” The sheriff gave himself a slow shake of his head.
Confused, Lewis stared at the sheriff. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, deputy.” Tank looked over at the board. It held stills of Moira, Charles, and, although he was dead, Samuel William Clyde.
There weren’t many details posted as of yet, but Gideon did have information. Thanks to some calls Ian and Neve had made once they had discovered that picture online—what a fucking stroke of luck—Gideon actually had a fairly substantial amount of information, but he wasn’t certain just how much of it would be admissible. None of that was his number one concern—Moira was—but he didn’t want Charles Hurst skating out from under the justice that he had coming his way, either.
Ian knew some cops—bobbies or whatever they were called—over in Glasgow. Neve had called her friend back in Carrbridge, the one she’d described as a big teddy bear. He’d saved her from William once, and his name was Angus Reid. Reid was a security specialist and he’d provided more information than Gideon could have hoped for.
Each piece of it had made Gideon’s gut grow a little more cold.
Charles Hurst was a great deal smarter than anybody had known.
Gideon had known the man was smart—Moira had married him and she’d never been one to tolerate fools or idiots. Even if she’d just married him because he had a pretty face and she’d been looking for … something, she’d hired him to help with the museum and that museum had been her baby.
She wouldn’t let anybody without a sharp mind near her baby.
But Charles was more than just a sharp curator. He was well above genius level. He’d started university at the age of sixteen, had graduated at twenty and continued on another year, pursuing an advanced degree of some sort and had also helped out with several teachers.
During a summer camp, he’d met William. Although there had been an age difference between them, they’d connected.
That was the information Reid had collected so far.
Gideon wasn’t surprised they’d somehow become friends. Like attracted like, and both of them seemed to be evil sons of bitches, and crazy to boot.
Whether they’d stayed tight had yet to be discovered, but Reid was trying to find out if the two of them had connected at some point in New York. Gideon suspected the answer would be yes. He had a feeling Charles had pointed William in Neve’s direction.
But that was low on the priority scale.
One thing he did have confirmed was that Charles Hurst was a direct descendent of George Whitehall, possibly the last direct one in the line. His grandmother had been Elisabeth Whitehall Hurst. She’d raised her son—that would be Charles’ father—alone after her husband had died—cause of death had been listed as suicide.
Her son had been named Charles George Whitehall Hurst.
He’d been ten when his father died.
The father who’d committed suicide had left behind massive amounts of debt. Those debts had cost Elisabeth a house that had been in the Whitehall family for generations.
She’d died less than ten years later.
It seemed that bad luck plagued the Whitehalls.
Behind him, Deputy Lewis continued to delay leaving. “Look, I ain’t trying to cause no trouble, Sheriff. It’s just … well. Everybody knows the chief has a thing for Ms. McKay. On top of that, it ain’t like that family isn’t treated as royalty ’round here. I know they done some important things, but is it right that we circumvent procedure?”
“Are we circumventing procedure? Here I was thinking we were taking the necessary measures when it’s deemed that a citizen of this town is in all likely in danger.” Tank’s level voice was a sharp contrast to his sudden movement. He’d placed his body between his deputy and Gideon.
As explosive as his temper could get, it wasn’t Brannon who might need to be held back if this shit kept up. Gideon sucked in a breath through his teeth and tried to clear the red fog from his brain. Tank’s hand was the size of a dinner plate and it was braced against his chest in a silent, physical warning—think.
Out loud, Tank addressed his officer. “Deputy, I’d like to ask you to turn your attention to the board over there. You see the picture dead center on the top? That would be Moira McKay as I’m sure you are aware. Please take note of the bruises on her throat. That’s from the attack that Deputy Cordell mentioned earlier. We call that assault in our line of work.”
“Sheriff, I ain’t saying there might not be cause for alarm.” Lewis set his jaw, face going red. “But it’s awful early to be saying there is anything wrong—”
“That’s enough.” Gideon shoved past Tank. The sheriff gave him a warning look, but Gideon ignored him. He had his temper under control now. He wasn’t gonna do anything stupid. Doing something stupid would keep him from finding Moira. Nothing was more important than th
at. “We have probable cause and a good reason to suspect Charles first. Maybe you have forgotten the basics of law enforcement, but I assure you that I haven’t. That man that Cordell told you about being murdered? He gave us a confirmation that the McKays were being targeted.
“Now maybe you’ve forgotten something else—but when a woman is a target of violence, more often than not, it’s an intimate partner, an ex-husband…” Gideon let a sneer fill his voice. “Does that ring a bell? If not, maybe you ought to consider whether or not you should be carrying that badge. Regardless, I want your ass out of my station. Now.”
Tank shot him a fulminating look, but Gideon didn’t give a damn.
Lewis turned on his heel and stormed out, muttering under his breath.
Once he was gone, Gideon swung around to stare at the board.
Without looking at any of the men and women in the room, Gideon said, “Anybody else want to imply that my emotions are going to interfere with my job?”
“I think we all know that you have a little more than the typical interest in Moira McKay, but that’s been the case for a long time. During all that time, you’ve never had a problem doing your job. I don’t see that changing now.” Maris cocked a brow at him. “As to Hurst? Well, I can’t say I ever liked that prick. I see the cause for concern.”
Tank caught Gideon’s eyes. “How about we get to that debriefing?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The stupidest thing Charles could have done—aside from kidnapping her—had been casually mentioning that he planned to drug her again. Granted, he’d thought she was still under the grip of whatever shit he’d pumped into her system, but that wasn’t a good enough excuse to talk about his plans, was it?
When he casually reached into the side pocket on the driver side door, she was ready.
He had turned onto a side road not too long ago, and she recognized where they were.
The sight of the trees wrapping around the car like a tunnel made a mad hope flare inside her. Gideon would think to look here—or having somebody look.
Had it really only been a few days since she’d been here with Gideon? Since she’d talked to Kevin right before he’d taken that sip of scotch that had ended his life?
The Right Kind of Trouble Page 26