Nothing to Fear

by Karen Rose

  Alec was now twelve. And gone, maybe for hours, maybe days. Hours Randi and Stan had done nothing. Nothing except call me.

  “We should have come back yesterday,” Randi bit out, angrily. “You said you’d called Cheryl. You said you talked to her.” Randi took a step forward, her body quivering with rage. “You lied to me so you could keep me in—” She broke it off, spun, turning her face away.

  Stan’s lips thinned. “I left a message on the answering machine,” he said harshly. “How was I to know? Dammit, Randi, you’re acting like this is my fault.”

  “Go to hell, Stan,” was her response. Quietly said, but very sincere.

  Ethan cautiously interceded, putting his arm around Randi’s shoulders, guiding her to one of the kitchen chairs where she sat, her hands locked between her knees. Trembling. He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “What happened when you got back here today?”

  Stan waved his hand toward the window. “We smelled it as soon as we got out of the car. The first thing we did was check Alec’s room. A note was pinned to his pillow.”

  It. The putrid odor of rotting flesh that had nearly bowled him over as soon as he’d stepped out of his car. Stan wouldn’t say what it was. “What did the note say?”

  Stan hesitated. Then he turned abruptly, waving Ethan to follow. “Come.”

  Together he and Stan walked through the back door that led to the beach. The stench grew stronger with every step as they crossed the sand to the little shed near the dock where they’d kept their summer toys. Stan opened the door. “See for yourself.”

  Ethan came up short in the doorway, his empty stomach heaving at the sight before his eyes. It had been a man. Who’d once had a head. A whole head. Buzzing flies now covered what was left. The body was bloated from the heat, nearly unrecognizable.

  Shocked, he forced his eyes lower to where a shotgun lay sideways across the man’s naked torso. Lower still to where a length of string ran from the shotgun’s trigger across the man’s boxers to the big toe of his right foot. The man had presumably put the end of the shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger with a wiggle of his toe.

  Ethan turned to where Stan stood resolutely looking out at the bay, its serene beauty at diametric odds to the grisly sight in the shed. “Who—” Ethan’s voice caught and he cleared his throat. “Who was he?”

  Stan kept his eyes glued to the horizon. “Paul McMillan. Cheryl’s fiancé.” He swallowed, his throat working viciously. “It wasn’t suicide.”

  No, Ethan hadn’t thought so. But all he could think now was that whoever had done this had Alec. “What did the note say?”

  Stan dug a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Ethan. Wincing at the evidence Stan had likely destroyed, Ethan took the note by the upper corner. The note had been made on a printer. Hard, perhaps impossible to trace.

  “‘We have your son,’” he read. “‘Do not call the police or we will kill him. If you doubt our word, look in your shed. We made this look like suicide in case the body is discovered and the police ask questions. Make certain they get no answers. We will contact you with our demands. Do not call the police or any other authority. We’ll know if you do.’”

  Stan still stared at the bay. “Now you see why we didn’t call the police.” His whisper was nearly lost on the wind that rippled the water. “We didn’t know what else to do.”

  “So you called me.”

  Stan turned at that, and in his eyes Ethan saw fear and desperation and hopeless fury. And hate. After two years, Stan Vaughn still despised him. “We called you,” he said deliberately as if spitting each word out of his mouth. “You have to help us find Alec.”

  “Stan . . .” Ethan lifted his hands, panic mixing with the shock at what Stan was asking him to do. “I run a security consulting business. I keep hackers out of computer systems. I set up surveillance. I’m not a cop.” The only uniform he’d ever worn had been that of the United States Marines. God only knew how much he wished he were wearing it now.

  Stan shook his head. “You have a P.I.’s license.”

  “Yeah, because I run background checks on my customers’ contractors. I’m not a cop.”

  Stan met his eyes with an icy stare. “You know how to find people.”

  The people he’d found had been terrorists hiding in Afghani caves, not little boys kidnapped by monsters. “Stan, look. I don’t have a lab. I can’t do forensics. Anything I touch would be contamination of a crime scene. I’d be destroying evidence the FBI could use to find Alec. Call the FBI and let them do their job.”

  In a blinding instant, Stan stepped forward and grabbed Ethan’s lapels in both hands. Shook him hard. Ethan fought the wave of nausea and let him do it.

  “Dammit, you have to help us. Whoever did that has my son. They’ll kill him.” He dropped Ethan’s lapels, dropped his chin to his chest, his fisted hands to his sides, and for a long moment neither of them spoke. When Stan did, his voice was hard. “You and Richard tracked Taliban in the desert. He told me so. You know how to find people.” He looked up, his eyes so very angry. “I’d ask Richard, but he isn’t here.” Stan’s eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched. “My brother didn’t come home.”

  Because of you. The phrase echoed between them as if it had passed Stan’s lips. It had, of course. The last time they’d seen each other.

  “That’s not fair, Stan,” Ethan said quietly and Stan exploded.

  “I don’t care if it’s not. Those animals have my son. They did that.” He leaned forward, jerked his finger toward the corpse. “They’ll kill him, Ethan.” Stan straightened slowly. “If you won’t do it for me, then do it for Richard. You owe him that much.”

  Ethan drew in a breath. He remembered those last moments before he’d lost consciousness after their vehicle hit the mine on the road out of Kandahar. Richard should have left him there, saved himself. But he didn’t. He’d stayed and fought, his body shielding Ethan’s from the bullets of the enemy, lying in ambush. Richard stayed when he shouldn’t have, and would have for anyone, not just his best friend. Because that’s the kind of man Richard Vaughn had been. Richard would have already been searching for Alec.

  Ethan turned only his head to stare at the obscenity that had been a healthy young man. The body left behind to scare them senseless. And though terrified for Alec, Ethan was not senseless. He let the breath out. “All right. But I’m not going to do this alone. You have to let me call my partner. Clay was a cop after the Corps. He’ll know what to do.”

  Stan shook his head vehemently. “No. No cops. He’ll report it. He’ll tell.”

  “Stan, look. I’m an electronics specialist. I do computer security and surveillance. Coded transmissions, for God’s sake. I don’t do forensics, but Clay did. He was a cop, a damn good one. I won’t live with the guilt if I miss something that could have saved Alec’s life. Clay won’t put Alec in more danger. I promise.”

  Stan closed his eyes. “How soon can you get him here?”

  “It’s a three-hour drive from D.C.”

  “Call him then. Tell him to hurry.”

  Wight’s Landing, Friday, July 30, 10:30 P.M.

  Ethan stepped out onto the front porch when Clay Maynard’s car pulled into the driveway. The wind had shifted and the intensity of the stench had lessened. Or maybe he’d just become accustomed to it.

  Clay got out of the car and flinched and Ethan decided it was the second one.

  “This isn’t right, Ethan,” Clay said, his voice hard.

  “I know.” He’d thought about it in the hours since he’d summoned his partner. They shared a business and a friendship, both of which Ethan was risking by asking Clay to become involved. “Give me my laptop and go back to D.C. I’ll take it from here.”

  “Shit.” Wearily Clay ran his hand down his face, his tan washed pale in the bright light of the moon. “This isn’t going to bring Richard back. You know it as well as I do.”

  Ethan tightened his jaw against the flash of anger that Cla
y could trivialize the situation to a case of common guilt. “This isn’t about Richard. It’s about Alec. Now if you’re not going to help, give me my laptop and get the hell out of my way.”

  Clay approached, stopped a few feet from the porch and glared up. “Get a grip on yourself, Ethan. This is a job for the FBI, not us. Every minute we’re silent, Alec is in more danger. If you really care about the kid, you’ll stop this insanity and call the cops.”

  Ethan took a breath, smelled McMillan’s rotting corpse. Felt the terror bubble up anew and with it a cold fury. Deliberately he descended the steps until he could see Clay’s eyes. “The kid is my godson.”

  Clay’s eyes flickered. “I thought he was Richard’s.”

  “That’s right.” He forced the words between his teeth. “He was Richard’s. But Richard’s dead and as you so noted, nothing I do can bring him back. When he died Randi asked me to take his place. And Stan said no, that I wasn’t worthy of the responsibility. But Randi said yes, so I am.” His breath hitched when he remembered the moment two years before, a moment that severed what little had been left of his friendship with Stan.

  “My godson has been kidnapped by people who murdered an innocent man. If we go to the police, they will kill him.” Doubt began to creep into Clay’s eyes and Ethan swallowed, unable to keep from thinking about Alec in the hands of monsters. “He’s just a boy, Clay,” he whispered harshly. “He’ll be terrified, confused.” Unable to call for help.

  Clay’s eyes hardened again. “If he’s still alive.”

  Alec could be dead right now. It was a picture Ethan had to force from his mind. “He is alive. He has to be. Look, if anybody is watching this place, we’re giving them an eyeful. Either stay or go, but we can’t stand out here talking.”

  Clay leveled a long stare, then pulled his gym bag and Ethan’s laptop from his front seat with a sigh. “Hell. Please say they have air-conditioning.”

  “It’s better inside,” Ethan confirmed, his nerves settling. Clay was in. He led Clay directly to the kitchen where Randi sat with the phone on her lap and Stan paced the floor, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

  Randi looked up at the sight of them, her face still so pale. “You’re Ethan’s partner. Thank you for coming.”

  “I served with Richard,” Clay replied simply. And that was all he needed to say. Marines took care of one another. Even when they no longer wore the uniform.

  “Richard and I served with Clay during our deployment to Somalia, right out of the Academy,” Ethan explained. Stan’s spine stiffened. Stan had never understood Richard’s dedication to the Marines and it had become a source of division between the brothers. That it was a common bond Ethan and Richard had shared only served to widen the gap between Stan and Ethan. Richard’s death turned that gap into a chasm.

  “Good old Semper Fi,” Stan said bitterly, tossing back what was left of his whiskey. “Hell of a lot of good all that brotherhood and devotion does him now.” He slapped the glass on the countertop and stalked from the room.

  Randi closed her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  Ethan squeezed her shoulder. “It’s okay.”

  Clay crouched down in front of her chair. “Randi, who knew you’d be here on vacation?”

  Randi’s eyes flew open at the implication. “Oh, God. It could be somebody we know.” She covered her mouth with her hand. “I don’t know. I can’t think.”

  Ethan rubbed a comforting hand over Randi’s back. “You sit here and try to think of anybody that knew you’d be here, and more importantly, anybody that knew you’d be gone to Annapolis the last few days. I’m going to take Clay outside, then I’ll trace that e-mail.”

  She flinched at the word outside, but nodded. “All right.”

  Clay waited until they were on the path to the shed. “They got an e-mail? When?”

  “Came through Thursday morning at seven forty-five from Rickman’s e-mail address. It said Alec was alive and reminded them not to call the cops. It came with an attachment.”

  “It came from Rickman’s e-mail address?”

  “Yeah. Her laptop was missing from her room. So was her digital camera.”

  Clay shot him a sideways look. “And the attachment? Picture of Alec, bound, gagged?”

  “Yeah. Taken at night against a background of trees that looked like northern pine.”

  “Ethan, I know this boy is important to you, but this is a job for the FBI. You know it.”

  Ethan knew. He also knew what was inside the shed. “Just wait another minute.” In another minute they arrived at the little wooden shed. “There’s no light inside.” He bent down to retrieve the flashlight he’d left next to the shed. “Use this.”

  Clay opened the door and for a moment there was only the sound of the night wind and the waves gently lapping at the sides of Stan’s boat, moored at the dock. His partner shone the light around, lingering on the body inside.

  “His name is Paul McMillan,” Ethan said quietly. “He was an architect in Baltimore. He and Cheryl Rickman planned to get married next Valentine’s Day.”

  Clay switched off the light. “Any chance Rickman had anything to do with this?”

  “We can’t rule it out, but it seems unlikely. Randi swears Cheryl would protect Alec with her own life and there’s been a hell of a struggle in one of the bedrooms. Lamps smashed, pictures knocked off the wall. There’s a slug in the bedroom wall. From the size of the hole it looks like it came from a nine mil.”

  “The shotgun they used on McMillan is old and rusted, but they didn’t need too much accuracy for this,” Clay said grimly. “They wouldn’t have carried a weapon like that for themselves. It’s useless except in the way they used it. They planned ahead to leave McMillan behind, which means they knew he’d be here.”

  “He was staying with Cheryl while Stan and Randi went away for their anniversary. If they were watching this place, they would have known McMillan was here. They took Alec sometime between Tuesday night at eight and Thursday morning at seven forty-five when that e-mail came through. Randi called Tuesday night and talked to Cheryl, told her to say good night to Alec. He doesn’t use the phone.”

  Clay started walking and Ethan followed, stopping on the dock. “Alec’s deaf, right?”

  “Among other things, yes. Alec got meningitis when he was two, barely a month after Randi and Stan got married. He almost died. As it was, it left him deaf and epileptic. He takes medicine to control the epilepsy. Randi says the bottles are gone from the bathroom. Alec had surgery for the deafness three years ago, when he was nine. They gave him a cochlear implant.”

  “Explain,” Clay bit out. “In laymen’s terms, please.”

  “In layman’s terms it’s a device that’s surgically implanted in the bone behind the ear. It gathers sound like a hearing aid, but instead of amplifying, it translates it into signals that the brain can interpret as speech and any other sound. Alec wears a piece behind his ear that does the gathering and translating. I found it in his bedroom closet. Without it, he’s completely deaf.” And unable to find help. Ethan grimaced. He had to stop thinking that.

  Clay gestured at the air. “Where is this thing now, this . . . piece?”

  “Still on the closet floor. I didn’t disturb anything. I thought we’d want to take prints.”

  “Can Alec speak?”

  “No. That was Rickman’s job—teaching him to use the device to learn to listen and speak. Alec isn’t very receptive to the device. He’s used sign language for a long time.” Ethan thought of the e-mails Alec had sent, complaining about the implant. “He said the implant was too loud, that the sound made his head hurt. The doctors told Randi that he’d get used to it. He hasn’t yet. He ran off his last three therapists.”

  “He’s a bad kid?”

  Ethan shook his head. “Stubborn maybe, but not bad. He’s thoughtful. E-mailed Richard every week when we were at the front. E-mailed me when I was in the hospital.” His throat closed and he cleared it harshly. “He calls m
e Uncle Ethan.”

  “I’m sorry, Ethan. I didn’t realize you two were close.”

  Looking out at the quiet water where he’d spent the best years of his childhood, regret surged, and Ethan sighed. “We should be closer, but when Richard died, everything just seemed to disintegrate, with Alec caught in the fray. We e-mail, but Stan never lets me visit him. I didn’t want to drive a bigger wedge between Stan and Randi, so I didn’t push it. I should have just visited Alec anyway.”

  “Ethan, why does Stan hate you so much?”

  Ethan grunted. “Good question. He says Richard never would have requested Afghanistan if I hadn’t asked him to, that he’d still be alive. But Richard wanted to go. He’d prepared his whole career for it. He spoke Farsi, for God’s sake. We needed him to decode communications. I think Stan hated me a long time before that, though. When we were kids they’d come down for the summers and we were the three musketeers. By the time we were teenagers, Stan’s interests were different from ours. Richard and I were headed for the Academy. Stan bought a motorcycle right out of high school and went cruising. Got into some trouble. A misdemeanor, I think. Nothing too big, but his parents were so disappointed. Stan buckled down in his father’s business and Richard and I went on to the Academy. Nothing was really the same after that. Stan saw me and Richard as his parents’ favorite sons.” Ethan shrugged. “And I wasn’t even his parents’ son.”

  “Alec isn’t, is he?” Clay asked. “He’s not Stan’s biological son.”

  “Not biological,” Ethan answered, again remember back ten years, to happier days. “When Stan met Randi, she was a single mom struggling to make it on a waitress’s salary. She’d never married Alec’s father. Stan married Randi and legally adopted Alec.” He sighed. “They were a happy family once, Clay. Really happy.”