by Sylvie Kurtz
Gray hoped her every breath was a trip to hell. “Make them take away her painkillers.”
“I’ll pass on your request.” The snap of Kingsley’s suspenders popped over the line. “We got a tip on Vanderveer’s location.”
“Yeah?”
“According to an inside source, he’s still in Boston in an abandoned warehouse.”
“The same inside source who’s been whispering sweet information into Vanderveer’s ear?”
“Auclair,” Kingsley said. “Falconer’s watching him like a hawk.”
Suspicions needed the backup of proof.
“I need to know what these things do.” Gray described the gadgets that seemed to operate on a battery backup, since the key wasn’t in the ignition to feed them juice.
“That last one’s a tracking device,” Kingsley said.
“The dot just started moving.” Abbie? Who else? It had to be Abbie. Getting Abbie had been Pamela’s focus from the start. His heart jumped with hope. If the dot was moving, Abbie was alive. He wouldn’t entertain any other possibility until he’d found her again. “I made Abbie get rid of everything she had. How could—” Gray swore and hit the steering wheel with the heels of both hands.
“What?”
“Steeltex,” Gray said, spitting out the word. “How does it work?”
“It transmits visual information about color, light and patterns through the fiber to make whoever wears it nearly invisible against any background.”
“Could it also give information about location?”
“Microdots are woven in to locate a downed soldier. The latest model contains conductive fibers in the chest area that can monitor the vital functions of an injured soldier. This information can be relayed by wireless signal to a remote location like a field hospital.”
He should have figured it out sooner. The only thing that had followed them the whole trip was the piece of Steeltex that had ripped from Pamela’s suit as she’d run from him. He’d picked it up because it was classified material and he didn’t want the locals to question its presence on the island.
“Abbie,” Gray said, searching for keys under the floor mat, in the glove box, under the seat. “I know where she is.”
“Read me the coordinates.”
Gray started reading the numbers and the phone cut off. “Kingsley?”
No answer, just dead air.
He’d run out of minutes.
No keys. No time for finesse. He shoved the car in neutral and pulled up the parking brake. In the toolbox in the trunk he located a flat-blade screwdriver. Under the hood he ran a wire from the positive side of the battery to the positive side of the coil. He crossed the two wires on the starter using the screwdriver. The engine cranked over. Using the screwdriver he unlocked the steering wheel and pushed the locking pin away from the wheel. He nosed the car onto the road and floored the accelerator.
The blip on the radar kept to side roads and meandered as if it had no particular destination. Gray followed, driving as fast as he dared on the winding roads. As long as the blip kept moving, he had a chance to catch up, a chance to get Abbie back. He’d messed up last night by not telling her she still owned his heart, that the address of his real estate didn’t mean anything to him as long as she shared it with him. He could make her happy, and she sure as hell made him feel good.
The prickling feeling at the back of his neck was fire-ant biting and burning. He had to get to Abbie. He had to find his golden girl in time.
Then the blip veered onto a too-familiar path.
Echo Falls.
He mashed the accelerator to the floor, giving all three hundred horses their heads.
But he was still too far away.
THE CAR CRESTED THE HILL, AND below him sprawled the town Rafe had once seen as the answer to his dreams.
“It makes such a picture, doesn’t it?” he said. “Why don’t you ever do landscapes?”
Abrielle simply stared out the window, ignoring him. Her wrists and ankles were bound. She couldn’t escape him. And he pointed the pistol—Reed’s pistol; the irony was so delicious he could barely stand it—at her, insuring her cooperation. For a second he let go of the steering wheel and yanked her face in his direction. “You will look at me when I’m speaking to you.”
Her eyes were topaz-hard, but she obeyed.
All Rafe had worked for had come down to this. This chapter of his life would end where it had started. Echo Falls.
The slice of small-town America had come to him as a blessing. The picture-postcard perfection of it even had the stone bridge he’d seen in his vision. It had a close-knit community where Labor Day parades, winter carnivals, spring maple sugarings and summer straw berry festivals brought everyone outdoors. A perfect little town, with its own first family—the powerful Holbrooks of Holbrook Mills.
“I could have made it great,” Rafe said, admiring the scallop of houses against the horizon and the mountains almost black in the background.
“By what?” Abrielle jeered. “Raping it? Just like you raped me.”
He pried the tip of the pistol between two ribs and pressed. She winced. Instant respect. Why had his father made the notion seem so complicated?
Rafe had seen himself as part of it all, taking in the populace’s adulation at all these functions. Abrielle would have made the perfect wife. She would have borne him perfect sons. And he would have grown this town, shown them what they could become under his guidance.
He would have had all his father had—fortune, family, fealty—and made it better.
His dream had grown on track. Until the preparations to bid for the Steeltex contract had started.
Holbrook had questioned Rafe’s intentions. The fool had insisted on digging himself further into the red, putting peons ahead of profits, and almost lost the mill to his creditors. If Rafe hadn’t been there to make sure things changed, they would never have won the Steeltex contract, never have gotten back management of the mill. They wouldn’t have built up the company back into the black.
“Rape? I raped nothing. Our night of passion was consensual.”
“Except for the part where you drugged me.”
“Simply an unmasking of inhibitions. You were so shy and there was no reason for it. As for your little town, I saved it. I got the mill operating again. Where would all these people be now if I hadn’t found a way to make a profit?”
And if he hadn’t found a way to make terrorists pay for the expensive production start-up costs that went into making Steeltex, the taxpayers would have had to foot a much larger bill.
But did anyone acknowledge his brilliance? No. Holbrook had turned his back on him, demanding his resignation. Abrielle had ignored him, preferring to spend time in her studio. He’d had to do something to get both their attention. He deserved it after all he’d done for them.
Her gaze latched on to his eyes as if she wanted to scratch them out. He rewarded her insolence with renewed pressure from the pistol’s muzzle. Doubling over, she still managed to say, “They’d still be here with their families instead of having to look elsewhere to replace the jobs you cut from underneath them.”
He jabbed the pistol’s muzzle deeper into her flesh and twisted, his finger itching to press the trigger. She gave a satisfying grunt of pain. “It’s a business we’re running, Abrielle, not a charity. Without profit there’s no growth.”
“There are more important things than profit. My father understood that.”
“Your father was a weak man.” And weakness, Rafe had learned from his own father, was always exploited.
“My father was a good man, an honest man.”
Rafe turned onto Mill Road. “I admire your loyalty. It’s a good trait in a daughter. In a wife.”
“I never planned to marry you. Not even after the baby.”
He’d tried to do the right thing. Once he’d found out she was pregnant with his child, he’d asked her father for his daughter’s hand. Holbrook’s answer: “Not as lo
ng as I’m alive.” Well, what choice had Rafe had?
His child had been at stake. He couldn’t let anyone take his son away from him.
Then once he’d been jailed under false pretenses, she’d cheated him out of what was his. She’d gone and aborted their child. His son.
For the anguish he’d suffered, for the time he’d lost, for the perfection of the vision she’d destroyed, he had to punish her.
And once she’d fixed her mistakes with the photographs, gave him back his insurance, he would close this chapter and start new elsewhere.
The detour sign led him away from the bridge and the upper side of town. Soon the stone bridge faded in his side mirror, and he wound down to the lower part of town.
They could take the town, the mill and the girl away from him, but they couldn’t erase all the knowledge he’d collected over the past few years. Technology, intellect and good business-management skills were always in demand. Like his namesake, he would paint himself a new vision.
GRAY SWORE AND EASED HIS FOOT off the accelerator. Too late. Vanderveer had made him and was now taking evasive action. Gray had let impatience and fear drive him, and his lack of control had put Abbie in greater danger.
Narrow roads and kids out playing on the streets forced Gray to slow down even more. He needed to get Vanderveer away from the populated part of town to where he couldn’t hurt any innocent bystanders. His brain mapped out the spider web of the streets he’d raced through all of his youth. He knew them inside and out. Shortcuts and the long way around. Vanderveer was still a newcomer.
Gray cut Vanderveer off at Summer Street, forcing him around Library Road. Anticipating ahead, Gray sped to Mechanic Lane and intersected Library Road in time to convince Vanderveer he wanted to take High Street and go up to the upper village. Watching the horizon, he took in movement in his peripheral vision. A mother trying to juggle two kids, a stroller and a diaper bag, stepped into the crosswalk in front of the library. She froze at the sight of Vanderveer rocketing toward her.
Too late to brake. Look at where you want to go, not what you want to avoid. Gray stared past the woman at the opposite sidewalk, willing Vanderveer to do the same.
Vanderveer twisted the steering wheel left and narrowly avoided the woman and her kids. Gray followed suit. A quick peek in his rearview mirror showed the woman huddled safe on the sidewalk, comforting her two crying kids.
Plotting his course, Gray left Library Road at Prospect Street and went around the Pine Grove Cemetery. He popped in front of Vanderveer, compelling him to charge toward Mill Road. There Vanderveer could turn either right or left. Right would take him to the mill, where armed guards stood. Left to the bridge still awaiting repairs. Either way he was toast.
Vanderveer turned left, accelerating now that the road was clear. Nothing but grass fields on either side of the road. Gray followed close behind and prayed Vanderveer didn’t make a mistake. Not with Abbie in the car.
Gray had to get him to stop before the bridge. He ac celerated, edging his right front bumper along the left rear flank of Vanderveer’s car in hopes of sending it spinning onto the grass.
Vanderveer’s car spun around, but he got control and plowed through the orange detour-warning sign and the construction barricade. He picked up more speed, intending to hurtle through the gate on the other side.
Gray braked, cursing Vanderveer. He was going to drive right into the granite blocks piled and waiting for repairs to begin. The bastard was going to kill himself and Abbie rather than face the consequences of his actions.
Vanderveer’s car screeched to a halt, burning rubber. Trapped with nowhere to go but through Gray or into the water.
Gray steered Pamela’s car sideways, blocking Vanderveer’s car on the bridge.
To his relief, too-blond hair on the passenger’s side bobbed through the smoky glass of the windshield. Abbie was alive. But his relief was short lived. Vanderveer could still kill her—especially if he felt he had nothing to lose.
Engine idling, he waited, hands tight around the steering wheel. System in overdrive, everything in him urged for action.
Vanderveer was armed. Even if Pamela hadn’t cached him any weapons, he’d stolen Gray’s. A trapped rat tended to panic, and the last thing Gray wanted was for Vanderveer to use Abbie as a shield.
Vanderveer executed a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and revved the engine as if he was about to ram into Gray’s car. Instead the car crept forward—just out of pistol range. In case Gray had acquired another weapon? Maybe Vanderveer wasn’t as stupid as he looked.
Keeping his focus on Vanderveer’s every move, Gray spared Abbie a glance, and a fist squeezed at his heart. Her dyed hair made a beacon against the smoked glass. He couldn’t see her expression, but her posture was warrior-princess ready. Don’t do anything foolish, Abbie.
Bright sun reflected off rushing water below, making him squint. The day was warm, a stark contrast to the cold icing his gut. Cornering Vanderveer without backup was stupid, but he couldn’t let Abbie out of his sight. He had to get Abbie back. He had to keep her safe.
Using the door as armor—not that it would provide much cover—Gray stood, dangling the flash drive he’d found on his run to Shelburne Falls between two fingers. “I have what you want. I’ll trade you your freedom for Abbie.”
Vanderveer’s side window opened. “Do you take me for a fool? For all I know, that stick simply holds your collection of X-rated calendar girls.”
The bully had aged, but his tactics hadn’t. Once, Gray had feared retaliation, so had turned to carefree posturing and shades. He was never in his own skin. Not at school, not in the Navy, not in the Marshals Service. And most of the time not even at Seekers. Only with Abbie had he been able to risk being himself.
How could he have missed how empty his life was because of his fear of letting anyone see his real feelings? If he’d had the courage to do so earlier, how much richer would his life be now? Why did he have to wait so damn long to figure things out?
This time he had to fight the bully naked—no shades and no posturing. He didn’t care about image, about looking weak, about avoiding being the target. All that mattered was Abbie and keeping her sunshine beaming.
Vanderveer wanted to play games; Gray had been playing this one all of his life. “I take you for a highly intelligent man with a strong survival instinct. You want to live. I want you to live. And this—” Gray waved the flash drive “—holds what you need to get your freedom.”
“Consider the source.”
“Yeah, consider him. He wants the girl. Do you think he’d do anything to jeopardize that? And you want the photographs. We trade. We both win.”
“Why would you want someone who rejected you thirteen years ago?” Vanderveer scoffed.
Because she brightens every life she touches. “Some of us get stuck in the past. For me, life hasn’t been good since I left Abbie behind.”
“What can you possibly offer someone poised and polished like Abrielle?”
Love. Something Vanderveer couldn’t because he couldn’t feel—not love, not anything. If love was a fault, then Gray was a willing victim. “Nothing. I can give her nothing except myself.”
“A loser and a coward. You live with dregs. What kind of a life is that?”
A good one. One that takes scum like you off the streets and puts them behind bars where they belong. “That’s right, Vanderveer. I’m a loser and a coward. But either way I have what you want. And you can have it if I get Abbie back.”
“I don’t need what’s on that flash drive. I always get what I want. With or without the photographs I will go on with my life.”
“Without the photographs, you can avoid jail. With them, you won’t ever get out again. Al-Khafar is ready to sing.”
“Al-Khafar isn’t in custody. He never showed.”
“Because he was stopped before you arrived.”
Even through the smoky glass Gray could see Vanderveer’s derisive shake of the h
ead. “And here I thought that perhaps you did have a modicum of intelligence. I had snipers waiting. How else do you think I got away? Al-Khafar never showed.”
“Can you take the risk?” Gray asked.
“Can you?”
Gray held up Pamela’s BlackBerry. “Dates and times. I’ve got ’em.” He’d hoped he wouldn’t have to play this card. The government needed this data to close the case against Vanderveer—not just for murder but for treason—and to figure out the extent of the damage Vanderveer’s treason had done. Falconer’s voice wavered through his conscience. It’s not just Abrielle, Reed. There’s WITSEC’s reputation and the lives of soldiers at stake. Gray shut off the voice and focused on the situation on the bridge. “It’s all here in Pamela’s appointment book. Every time you met with al-Khafar, what he purchased from you and when.”
“You’re making a big deal out of nothing.” Boredom listed through Vanderveer’s voice.
Gray started reading the information in the data window. “June 13, Pamela notes that you’ve ordered her to shoot anyone guarding her. The date matches the shooting death of a Maine cop. June 12, Pamela notes you ordered her to retrieve a Steeltex uniform from behind the false backing in your bedroom closet. June 10, Pamela notes that you’ve ordered her to shoot the deputy marshal who was guarding Abrielle but to take care not to hit the subject or Phil Auclair—”
“Pamela is simply an overeager assistant. I can’t help her delusions. You have nothing there that can incriminate me in any way. I was in custody at the time. I conducted no business, as per the rules.”
“Oh, okay. Let’s scroll back further then. Let’s see…here we go. March 17 of last year. You met al-Khafar in a Boston pub and for a mere million sold him a sample Steeltex uniform. April 10, you met him at the Public Gardens on the Common and arranged for delivery of half a dozen uniforms. Ah, looks like you got more this time. What, no bulk discount?” Gray tsked as he pressed the button to scroll down. “Need more? Doesn’t look good, Vanderveer. Especially with Pamela in custody. She’s going to want immunity. What do you think she’ll trade for that? It’s such a bitch trying to run with a broken hip and leg. No chance for her to get away. She’ll have to sing.”