Glancing at the officers up front, Sean tried to guess their intentions. The cruiser turned onto a gravel drive leading to an old marina consisting of a rusting boathouse and several listing piers. An old fishing vessel bobbed at one pier, manned by two fishermen who seemed to be waiting for them.
Sean couldn’t think of a single viable reason for the cops to bring him here. His heart started thumping. Adrenaline spilled into his bloodstream.
Leaving him locked in the cruiser, the officers walked to the pier to confer with the fishermen. Then with expressions of malicious anticipation, they headed back to collect him, confirming Sean’s suspicions.
He tensed for action. The second his door swung open, he exploded out of it, frustrating their attempt to grab him.
“Halt!” the men yelled as Sean sprinted toward the safety of the sand dunes, running in a zigzag pattern in case they decided to shoot.
Which they did. Bullets pelted the sandy ground at his feet, lending him speed. A third bullet whizzed by his shoulder, prompting him to break left. He had just reached a mound of sand, intending to throw himself over it when—bam—he got tagged on the side of the head, hard enough to send him reeling.
Darkness closed in on all sides.
Chapter Twelve
Owen Dulay reached eagerly for the ringing phone. He’d been expecting this call from the Culprit since Bates advised him earlier that the mission was accomplished. The Navy SEAL had fallen for the ploy, and both he and Ellie Stuart were now in police custody. Provided they hadn’t convinced anyone else of Centurion involvement, they’d no longer be a source of concern.
“What song does the mockingbird sing?”
The Culprit’s voice held a chilling note that put Dulay immediately on edge. What made the man sound so arrogant?
Countering with the expected reply, he asked, “What do you have for me?”
“The Navy SEAL has been silenced. He’s no longer a threat.”
“Excellent. Has the press been informed that he eluded officers on his way to jail?”
“Of course. That was an ingenious solution.” The Culprit’s praise surprised Owen. Perhaps the man recognized his superior intellect after all. “Not only will the public be convinced of his guilt, but it also saves us the necessity of going to trial and risking outside scrutiny.”
“Where are we with the woman?” Owen asked, eager to sink the final nail in Ellie Stuart’s coffin.
“Her polygraph results were inconclusive.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we’d have to amass more evidence than we presently have if we hope to convict her.”
“But you can do that,” Owen insisted. “You’ve done so in the past.”
“I would say there’s no need to convict her,” the Culprit smoothly replied.
“How so?” Owen demanded, glancing through his study window where his new gardener pruned the climbing roses.
“Only in a courtroom does she pose a threat to us.”
“Explain,” Owen demanded.
“She’s a white-trash girl from Mississippi,” said the Culprit with contempt. “What’s she going to do without her boyfriend to help? She has no money. She’ll get nowhere appealing to state or federal law enforcement, who will, at the very least, consider her guilty of convincing her lover to kill her sons. On the other hand, if she’s brought to trial and given a court-appointed attorney, she’d have the chance to defend herself, to imply Centurion involvement. And though she might not be able to prove it, someone somewhere might believe her. I say we’re better off releasing her. Who’s to say some accident won’t befall her later,” he added meaningfully.
Owen had to admit, the Culprit might be right. Why tempt fate in a trial when the woman could be quietly killed at a later time?
“Be sure to advise the media of her release, then,” he instructed. “Let them know the results of her polygraph were inconclusive. That ought to convict her in the public eye.”
“Indeed,” the Culprit agreed, his tone now con- descending.
With a shudder of dislike, Owen dropped the receiver into its cradle, severing the call. Resolved to replace the man in the not-so-distant future, he rose from his leather-back chair to open the cabinet that housed his media center. He programmed his computer to record the evening news, then retreated to his bedchamber. It was time to dress for an evening function at city hall. He had more important things to do than fret over the likes of Ellie Stuart.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Mrs. Stuart. You are free to go.”
The sweat on Ellie’s palms dried abruptly. “I’m sorry?” she asked, confused, suspicious that Butler was simply toying with her. An hour ago, he’d been shaking his head at the algorithmic charts on his laptop, leaving her to think that she had miserably failed the polygraph administered by a bespectacled examiner.
“The results were inconclusive,” he stated with a magnanimous shrug. “You will not be arrested at this time. There’s no need to call your lawyer after all.”
Returning to the door he’d just reentered seconds ago after leaving to confer with his boss, he gestured for Ellie to leave.
Cautious relief washed through her, draining the strength from her limbs as she pushed to her feet. “What about Sean?” she asked, balking at the thought of being released alone.
“Ah, well, that’s a different story,” said Butler, his hand on the doorknob. “I’m afraid there’s been an incident with Mr. Harlan,” he admitted with a troubled look.
“Incident?” Ellie drew up short. Her cheeks turned cold.
“En route to jail, Mr. Harlan escaped his police escorts,” Butler solemnly announced. “Needless to say, there is now a tremendous effort under way to recapture him.”
Ellie just looked at him. “Why would he do that?” she demanded, not believing him. Sean had been understandably frustrated when they carted him away, but his advice to her earlier had been to cooperate. He’d been certain that the testimony of his alibi would resolve the issue of his guilt.
“The evidence against him is overwhelming, Mrs. Stuart,” Butler gently explained. “I cannot stress this enough: If he tries to get in touch with you, you must contact me right away. I would hate to see you drawn into this any more than you already have been.”
The thought of Sean contacting her filled Ellie with mixed hope and fear. On the one hand, Butler had planted tiny seeds of doubt in the soil of her mind. On the other hand, without Sean, she had no idea what to do next in the quest to get her boys back.
Keeping her thoughts to herself, she firmed her lips and brushed past him as he pulled open the door.
“Good luck, Mrs. Stuart,” he called with what sounded like sincere concern.
Shaking her head, Ellie stumbled blindly down the hall toward the stairs. How could he be so certain of Sean’s guilt when every bone in her body screamed that he was innocent? Her footsteps echoed loudly in the stairwell as she fled down the steps toward the exit. By the time she burst through the door, the lens of confusion had fallen from her eyes. She exited the building with indignant certainty.
There was no way on earth Sean had murdered her three sons, just as there was no way she’d written those awful e-mails. He’d been framed—they’d both been framed. Yet for some strange reason, the law was letting her go.
Or was it the Centurions who were letting her go?
Was there any difference?
Edith’s warning echoed in her mind, chasing a chill down Ellie’s spine. There are Centurions everywhere— not just in the South. Their network is complex and far-reaching. And wasn’t that the truth. She’d just witnessed firsthand how manipulative and convincing they could be.
Reeling with fright, stricken with vulnerability, Ellie tottered down the stoop into the sultry heat of early evening. A mockingbird twittered with incongruous joy in the limbs of a magnolia tree.
Now what? She had nothing on her person to aid her circumstances—no money, no car keys, no cell phone. Th
e police had confiscated all of Sean’s goods.
Feeling in her back pocket, she found the card key to her hotel room, along with Reno’s card, both overlooked earlier by the officer who’d frisked her. Thank God she had somewhere to go, someone to call, but the hotel wasn’t blocks away. She’d have to walk miles to get there.
As she stepped onto the sidewalk determining which direction to take, a group of well-dressed individuals standing at the corner caught sight of her. “There she is!” cried one of them, and suddenly Ellie realized the media had caught wind of her release and were looking for a statement.
“Ma’am, can we ask you some questions?” called a heavily made-up woman trotting up the sidewalk to confront her, a mike in her hands and a cameraman on her heels.
Ellie drew back warily. She was tempted to turn tail and flee, only what message would that send to the Centurions? Ellie Stuart was no coward, and now that she’d realized the measures they’d taken to cover up their crimes, she was more determined than ever to find her boys.
She held her ground, planting her heels and raising her chin to meet the cameras thrust in her face as the reporters thronged around her.
“Miz Stuart, we understand your boyfriend was arrested today on charges of carrying a concealed weapon. Were you with him when he was arrested?”
Unable to deny that Sean was her boyfriend, Ellie cleared her throat to give her voice more strength. “Yes. Yes, I was.”
“Are you aware that he has eluded the police and that there’s a statewide manhunt for him?”
“That’s what the police say,” Ellie countered.
The journalist faltered at Ellie’s unexpected retort, and another one, a man, cut in, thrusting his mike toward her. “Is it true that you failed a polygraph concerning the whereabouts of your boys, Miz Stuart?”
“Failed?” Ellie took affront to the word. “The results were inconclusive.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?”
“No, it isn’t. I wouldn’t have been released if I’d failed the test,” she pointed out.
“Do you believe Mr. Harlan killed your sons, Miz Stuart?” asked the woman, elbowing her competitor out of the way.
“Sean Harlan would never have killed my sons,” Ellie retorted definitively. “And my sons aren’t dead. They were brought to Savannah by Centurions so that my ex-husband could secure his legacy.” Righteous anger propelled the words from her mouth.
“The Centurions are a charitable organization,” commented one incredulous journalist. “Are you accusing them of kidnapping your sons?” The others looked intrigued.
With the fatalistic certainty that she was risking her own life, Ellie answered, “Yes.” Then, frightened by the implications of her open challenge, she pushed past them, calling over her shoulder, “I’m done talking.”
“Wait, Miz Stuart! Tell us more about your suspicions.”
But Ellie kept walking. Striding briskly down the sidewalk, she was conscious of the cameras filming her retreat. How pathetic she must look, a lone woman without so much as a purse to carry, wearing blue jeans and a faded pink blouse, with pumps that were worn from waiting tables, the braid in her hair loose and unraveling.
Who was she to take on the Centurions?
But that’s exactly what she’d done.
Fright lent her speed as she hurried under boughs dripping with Spanish moss, following her nose toward the riverfront in order to better gather her bearings.
With a nervous glance over her shoulder, she realized the reporters were following her in their vans. She veered off the sidewalk, cutting through narrow alleys and cramped backyards, only to have a fence force her onto the road again.
What was to prevent the Centurions from sending a hit man now to take her out? With a dry mouth, she realized that was probably exactly what they’d intended all along, only they’d be smart to wait until the media speculation died down, lest viewing audiences put two and two together.
The sun began to sink behind the rooftops, affording her shadows to hide in. The news vans that had been stalking her fell away, discouraged by her evasiveness, by the dwindling sunlight, and by the increased traffic in the historic district.
As she drew closer to the hotel, a longing for Sean rose up in her sharply. What had happened to him? She was certain he hadn’t tried to escape the police. It was far more likely that they’d done something awful to him, something to ensure he’d never threaten the Centurions again. They’d made him disappear, right along with her boys.
They’d gotten rid of him.
The certainty impaled her with its finality, drawing her to a sudden standstill across from city hall. She covered her mouth with her hand, trying desperately to slow her ragged panting. The sound of children playing on the steps of the looming structure reminded her of her sons.
For their sake, she had to keep her wits about her. Fighting her panic, Ellie dragged in a breath of resolve.
Either she thought her way through this, methodically and cerebrally, or she returned home alone, defeated, just the way the Centurions wanted her to.
Over my dead body, she thought, squaring her shoulders.
Straight ahead, the light from the Holiday Inn Express blinked on, urging her forward. Once safe within her room, she’d find a way to contact Reno at last.
Reno would know what to do.
“Now that is a story,” Ophelia Price declared, turning from the monitor where they’d just watched Ellie Stuart implicate the Centurions of Savannah of kidnapping her sons. “I want to go down there and cover it.”
“There are plenty of reporters already covering the abduction,” refuted her boss, Reba, a hard-driving newswoman with decades of experience in field reporting. “The story’s been overdone if you ask me.”
“Not from the angle that I want to take,” insisted Ophelia, tossing her copper curls over her shoulder as she argued her point. “What if Ellie Stuart is telling the truth? Everyone’s been assuming that she had her boyfriend kill the kids. My fiancé, who is close friends with the boyfriend, swears Sean Harlan didn’t do it. So, maybe the ex-husband took them? Why hasn’t the focus been on him? And what about the Centurions? How much does the average American even know about them, anyway?”
“Oh, I’ve heard of them,” admitted Reba, propping red acrylic nails on her bony hips. “I even tried getting an insider’s story to do an exposé, but that was years ago. I never did get anywhere with that,” she admitted bitterly.
“Well, maybe it’s time the media tried again. What if Ellie Stuart is right, and the Centurions are actually behind her sons’ abduction? Just think how exciting it would be to get her side of the story, do a little probing and see what we come up with. Please, Reba? I can sense something huge here.”
Reba pursed thin lips and tapped a toe. “All right, Lia,” she conceded. “Find Ellie Stuart and set up the interview. Take Reggie with you. I’ll get you out on a flight in the morning.”
“Make it an early one,” Ophelia pleaded. “I don’t want someone else picking this up before I do.”
“You’d better guarantee me that Ellie Stuart will talk to you,” Reba warned.
“Oh, she will,” said Ophelia, picturing how Ellie had looked on tape, defiant but utterly alone. “I’ve met her boyfriend, remember?” And she was going to use that ploy to win Ellie’s trust.
But first she’d have to convince Vinny that this was all for Sean Harlan’s benefit, and that would not be easy. Not after that talk they’d had earlier in the week, at which time he’d made her swear on his rosary that she’d drop the Ellie Stuart case completely.
Grabbing her briefcase, she hurried for the exit. Traffic would be hell in Virginia Beach on a Friday night, and she had a lot of work ahead of her to prepare for this trip.
She hoped she wouldn’t regret this. Vinny was usually super supportive when it came to her career. This time, though, he’d been adamant that she stay well away from a story that could ruin the name of a Navy SEAL, a fellow t
eammate, and a good friend.
She got that. She really did. And even though it was probably going to drive a huge wedge between them, she was going to ignore Vinny’s wishes this time. Because the way she looked at it, both Ellie and Sean were going to need her help getting out of this mess.
Regaining consciousness in a cramped space, Sean’s first terrorizing thought was that he’d been shot in Afghanistan and put in a coffin to be shipped home. But then he remembered that he wasn’t overseas anymore. Memories of Ellie, her lost boys, and his subsequent encounter with Savannah police had him wondering where the hell he was now.
His wrists were still cuffed behind his back. He lay with his numb arms trapped beneath him on a sloped wooden surface, in what appeared to be a container of sorts. The smell of salt water and brine and the bobbing of the container all suggested he was on a boat.
That old fishing boat that had been moored at the marina.
He tried shifting his position and discovered his feet were also bound. Peering through the murky shadows, he saw that they were bound with rope. The end of the rope was connected to—he shifted, touching it with his running shoes—an anchor.
A big, thick, fifty-pound anchor.
Oh, crap. Lifting his head to see it better, Sean groaned at the pain that drove deep into his right temple. Gingerly, he lay back down. They’d shot him, he recalled. The bullet must have just grazed the side of his head, leaving a burning gash above his ear. One more inch to the left and he’d be dead right now.
Holy crap.
Perhaps thinking him dead already, they—the cops or the fishermen or both—had stuffed him in this hold with the anchor, obviously intending to place his body on the ocean floor.
That was one way of keeping Sean from being found.
The thought of such a fate awaiting him bathed him in a clammy sweat. Oh, hell no. It wasn’t that he was afraid to die, not in the field of battle, anyway, where death would be a noble sacrifice, done in the name of his country. But drowning at the hands of some scumbag he’d never laid eyes on? No way in hell.
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