Nothing to Fear

by Karen Rose

  “I’m not talking about that one. I’m talking about this one.” Bush squinted and held one of the close-ups of her hands up to the light. “Prison tattoo, right here on her ring finger. See the little cross just below her knuckle? Means she did time.”

  Ethan wasn’t looking at her knuckles. He was looking at her hands. Holding the sign language book that reflected the light off its glossy surface. She wasn’t wearing gloves. The book was very glossy. There would be prints. And if she’d served time, her prints would be in the system. He’d been so intent on seeing her face, he’d neglected her hands.

  They might finally have something for the cops. He needed to talk to Clay.

  Chicago, Wednesday, August 4, 9:00 A.M.

  Well, Ruby was wrong this time, Sue thought as she looked out the window to the street in front of the shelter. Evie was hugging Beverly, the woman due to go to California today. Ruby had assured her that Dupinsky always drove the departing client away from Hanover House in a grand ceremony, but it would seem Dupinsky had become busy with a new boyfriend. How sweet.

  But Beverly would not be singing “California, Here I Come” today. She turned to look at the kid who lay sleeping. Satisfied she’d sufficiently frightened him the day before, she grabbed her backpack and slipped from the shelter.

  Alec waited a long time after the smell of stale cigarettes had lessened. Then opened his eyes a slit. She was gone. And she’d taken her backpack with her. He shuddered once again, remembering what he’d found inside. He struggled not to throw up, taking deep breaths until he felt steady again. She’d been asleep last night and he’d needed to know what she kept inside that backpack. Besides the doctor’s glasses.

  Now he knew. Besides the doctor’s glasses he’d found a little cooler, the plastic kind his mom used when they went to the beach. It was cold. Alec swallowed back the bile that burned at his throat. It was filled with three plastic bags of ice. And one plastic bag of fingers. They’d looked like Halloween props, but they’d been very, very real. Alec drew a deep breath, gagging. Controlling it.

  She’d killed that doctor. And he’d seemed so nice. She’d killed him and cut off his . . . Again he shuddered. Took great gasps of air. He was sweating, soaking wet. Had been all night. He looked down at his hands, made his fingers work if for no other reason than to assure himself they still did.

  She’d killed Paul, and Cheryl, and now that doctor. And she would kill him. He was certain of it. He’d done nothing but think about it all night long. She said she’d kill his mother. Alec filled his lungs until they hurt. He couldn’t be sure that she hadn’t already. His mom could be dead, right now. But his mom wouldn’t want him to die, too.

  He had to do something or he’d die. Alec flexed his fingers. Or worse. He didn’t even want to think about his life without fingers. He’d rather be dead. But he didn’t want to be dead. So do something. Do it now.

  Carefully he removed the one other thing he’d found inside the backpack, the thing he’d hidden under the covers. A plastic bag of white powder. He knew what this was. He’d read enough on the Internet to know exactly what he held in his hands. Cocaine. More than one person could use in a week, he thought. This was cocaine for selling. The bitch who’d stolen him was a drug dealer.

  Alec knew his mother didn’t like the word bitch. But his mother wasn’t here. He was all alone. Well, maybe not all alone. There was the red-haired lady and the girl with the scar.

  The girl with the scar was nice. She’d cried so hard last night and he’d known it was because the doctor was dead. Alec had read the note the doctor left behind. The doctor had cooperated with the white-eyed lady to save Alec’s life. The girl with the scar didn’t suspect the bitch of killing her doctor friend.

  But she’d smiled at him through her tears. She’d washed his face yesterday morning, had stroked his hair the days before. He’d trust her. He flexed his fingers again, thinking of the cooler, of the fingers. He didn’t have much of a choice.

  Summoning the courage he hoped would make his parents proud, he took the bag of white powder and went in search of the girl with the scar. When she saw the powder, she’d call the police. When the police came, Alec would get a pencil and paper and tell them what he knew. The police he knew he could trust. His mother had told him so.

  And if the girl with the scar didn’t call the police and kept the white powder for herself . . . Well, then he’d know he couldn’t trust her after all.

  Ocean City, Maryland, Wednesday, August 4, 10:00 A.M. Eastern (9:00 A.M. Central)

  James sat on the other side of the glass, waiting patiently. Today he’d know where Sue was. What her game was. Her brother should be very ready to talk right about now.

  He tilted his head to one side as Bryce Lewis stumbled into the visitation room, his face one massive bruise. James imagined he had bruises other places as well. He hadn’t really been specific after all. He wanted him hurt, but not so that he ended up in the clinic.

  Lewis sat in the chair across from him, his body stiff, his face a study in stoic acceptance. “She’s in Chicago,” the boy said without preamble.

  “Why?”

  “She’s taken a kid with her. His name is Alexander Vaughn.”

  A connection. The Vaughns owned the beach house where the body had been found. She’d kidnapped their child. Now he had to figure out how the Vaughns connected to the woman he’d tracked to Florida. The woman Sue had killed. “How much is the ransom?”

  “A million dollars.”

  “And your share?”

  “Half.”

  James laughed. “She’d never give you half. Where is she hiding in Chicago?”

  “She was going to hide in my uncle’s house.”

  “Impossible. Their house burned to the ground. Bad habit they had, smoking in bed.”

  “They were innocent old people,” Lewis said hoarsely. “Why?”

  Lewis’s eyes glazed with tears and James stood up. “Same reason your sister did an old woman in Florida and that guy in the shed. Because she could, and so can I.”

  Sue was in Chicago with a kid. She’d go stir crazy if she hid too long. And when she popped her head from her hidey-hole, he’d be there. He checked his watch. He could be in Chicago before dinnertime.

  Chicago, Wednesday, August 4, 10:00 A.M.

  Evie sat staring at the bag of coke on the kitchen table. Erik had brought it to her, saying absolutely nothing, his eyes solemn, but alert. So watchful. As if he was just waiting for what she’d do next. She’d called Dana right away. On that new cell phone that had been a gift. But once again it rang and rang. She’d tried again with no success, only getting the canned message that came with the phone. She’d left messages for Dana. Three times. She’d called Dana’s pager three more times.

  She’d called Mia, but Mia was off-duty and not on-call. Would she like to leave a message? the police operator had asked. No, she would not. She couldn’t call Caroline. Nobody was supposed to stress Caroline right now and Evie imagined this qualified as major stress. The most important thing was getting Erik out of Hanover House and somewhere safe. She rubbed her head. Wished she knew what to do.

  Then she remembered the woman who worked with Dana when they needed to go through Department of Children’s Services. Dana trusted her. Her name was Sandra Stone.

  Evie got through the first time and thought it must be kismet. “Miss Stone, my name is Evie Wilson. I work with Dana Dupinsky.”

  There was a guarded pause, then, “What can I do for you, Miss Wilson?”

  Evie looked at Erik with his big solemn eyes in that pinched, thin face. She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile as he munched on the peanut butter and jelly sandwich she’d made him. “I’ve got a problem, Miss Stone, and I’m hoping you can help me.”

  Chicago, Wednesday, August 4, 10:45 A.M.

  Ethan was switching to the next surveillance tape when his cell phone buzzed in his pocket. He’d called Clay right after seeing the sign language book in t
he woman’s hand, but just got voice mail. Clay was finally calling him back.

  Bypassing salutations, Ethan snapped, “Where have you been?”

  “A little busy.” Clay’s voice was drawn. Tight. “So we finally got something?”

  “Finally, yeah. Yesterday at the bookstore, she touched the book she was reading without gloves. I think we should buy every copy of the sign language book the bookstore had on the shelves. We can get prints. And now we know she’s in the system.”

  “How do you know?” Clay asked, strangely. Almost detached.

  Ethan frowned. Something was very wrong. “She has a prison tattoo on her finger.”

  Clay was quiet for a moment. “Let the police gather that evidence.”

  Ethan frowned as he set the VCR to play. “Why?”

  “Because we have to bring them in now. Sheriff Moore knows Alec’s gone.”

  Ethan slumped back in the chair. “How?”

  “She’s a damn good cop, that’s how,” Clay snapped. “She didn’t believe Stan’s story about Alec being with his grandparents in Europe. She had her office check with the Customs Office and found out this morning that no passport was issued to Alec Vaughn. Therefore Alec can’t be in England with his grandparents. Therefore we lied.”

  “Oh, shit,” Ethan murmured. “What happened?”

  “Stan clammed up. Randi went pale and I stood there and looked at her as if I had no idea what she was talking about. What was I supposed to do? Then Stan got nasty and asked if he needed a lawyer. Moore said no, but that she’d appreciate it if he didn’t leave town. Then on her way out she asked me if I knew a guy named Johnson. He was my captain in DCPD.”

  “So she knows a great deal,” Ethan murmured. “Well, hell.” He sat in silence watching the gray figures move silently across the monitor on the tape from last Friday night. A group had just arrived on the Friday ten-thirty P.M. bus from someplace south. Hillsboro, he thought absently.

  They had four known dead. Kristie Sikorski had been found yesterday in an alley. They had kidnapping, which was a felony in its own right. Transport over state lines, which would have brought in the FBI. And after four days of miserable searching, they finally had something to go on. He’d have to march into the local police department and confess. And hope he hadn’t done too little, too late.

  Ethan sighed. “I’ll go report it now, Clay. Tell Stan and Randi.”

  “It’s the right thing to do, Ethan.”

  “I suppose it was the right thing to do Friday night.” Ironic, he thought. The tape he was looking at was made right about the time he and Clay had traced the first e-mail.

  “You did what you thought was right. I agreed with you. I’m in this as deep as you are.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Just go report all this to CPD before anybody else gets killed.”

  Ethan watched the crowd on Friday night’s tape disperse, then froze. “Wait.”

  “Ethan—”

  Ethan was on his feet. “No, I mean it. Here they are. I see them. It’s Alec.”

  It was the woman, holding Alec by the upper arm, dragging him across the terminal. Practically lifting him to his feet when he stumbled. She was still wearing the damn hat, but he could see Alec. “She’s heading toward the east exit,” Ethan said tightly. Then watched the pair pause.

  And his heart simply stopped.

  For out of the shadows came a woman in a sleeveless polo shirt and a cotton skirt. She went down on one knee in front of Alec, tried to get the boy to look up, brushed at his hair when he didn’t. Ethan tried to breathe.

  He couldn’t.

  “Ethan? Are you still there?”

  “Yes.” He made himself say the word, forced it from his throat.

  “Dammit, Ethan, what the hell’s wrong with you?”

  Ethan blindly sank into the chair. Watched Dana put her arm around the woman that had kidnapped a child and killed four people that they knew about. He watched her tip up the woman’s chin and he blinked at the first glimpse of their kidnapper’s face. It was bruised and battered, unrecognizable. He watched the pain cross Dana’s face as her eyes catalogued every bruise.

  That she could be involved in something so heinous was unthinkable. Impossible.

  Runaways. Dana volunteered with runaways. Runaway women, not teenagers as he’d assumed. The bruises on the woman’s face looked real. Dana sheltered battered women.

  “Ethan,” Clay all but snarled. “What’s happened?”

  Ethan paused the video, freezing the frame as Dana bestowed one of her warm smiles on the woman who’d stolen his godson. The same smile she’d given him just hours before, curled up in his arms. In his bed. “I know where Alec is.”

  Chicago, Wednesday, August 4, 12:00 P.M.

  She should have showered at the Sheraton, Dana thought, toweling her hair. It had to have had better water pressure than the little trickle in her shower. Critically she looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, tilted her head to one side. Saw on her neck the shadows of a small bruise put there by Ethan’s mouth. She swallowed hard. What a mouth that man had. Just the thought of his mouth made her want him all over again.

  She’d come straight to her apartment after dropping Beverly off at the bus station. She couldn’t go to the shelter and she really needed some clean clothes, so she’d chanced a trip to her apartment, looking over her shoulder all the time. Her gun sat on the back of the toilet, just in case. But, she realized as she pushed her skirt into an overflowing hamper, she’d left both her pager and her new cell phone in Ethan’s room. So she’d called the hotel and left a message with the front desk. Call me at home. She left her home phone number—not something she’d ever done with a man before.

  Now she rummaged through the basket under her sink, found the bottle of perfume Caroline had given her for Christmas. She’d never used it. She’d use it today, hoping to please Ethan.

  With a sigh she again regarded her image in the mirror. “What will you do when he’s ready to go home?” she murmured. While under a load of guilt and fear and shock, she’d decided yesterday to leave Chicago. Today, she knew it was still the right decision. She could do her work anywhere. Even Washington, D.C.

  She could live near Ethan. It was a heady thought. Unless . . . She bit her lip. Unless he wouldn’t want her there. What if this was just a fling for him? Was it any more for her? It wasn’t supposed to have been, but it was. Unquestionably. And Dana didn’t lie to herself.

  A brisk knock at her front door made her frown. Nobody knocked on her door in the daytime. Goodman? She shrugged into her robe and slid her gun in its pocket. Walking resolutely to the door, she checked the peephole and gaped for a full five seconds before slowly opening the door.

  Ethan stood before her, his face grim. “Dana, we need to talk.”

  Chicago, Wednesday, August 4, 12:00 P.M.

  “I came as soon as I could get away.” Sandy Stone was a fortyish woman with graying hair and thick glasses. But her eyes were kind and Evie knew Dana trusted her.

  “Thank you. I didn’t know what else to do. I called Dana’s cell phone and her pager and even her phone at her apartment, but it just rang. So I called you.” Evie led her back to the kitchen where Erik sat silently, his large eyes still watching. “This is Erik. His mother goes by Jane Smith.”

  Sandy sighed. “Original.”

  “We get a lot of them,” Evie said. She ran her hand over Erik’s hair, smiled down at him. “Erik’s mother is less attentive than some mothers we get here. I’ve worried that Erik’s not getting enough nutrition and that she might be improperly medicating him. But this morning Erik brought me this.” Evie tapped the table next to the bag of white powder. She’d been loath to even touch it, avoiding it as if it were a snake poised to strike.

  Sandy drew a very deep breath. “This belonged to your mother, Erik?”

  Erik just looked at them, his eyes darting from Evie’s face to Sandy’s. And said nothing.

&nb
sp; “If his mother has brought drugs into his environment, I can take him now and come back for her later.” Sandy tapped the bag with her pen and Erik’s eyes followed the movement. Then Sandy asked again. “Does this belong to your mother?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact it does.”

  With a gasp Evie spun. Standing in the kitchen doorway was Jane. But not the Jane who arrived a few days before broken-spirited and bowed over. This Jane stood tall and strong. And wore Evie’s makeup.

  And this Jane held a gun.

  “You meddling women just can’t leave well enough alone,” Jane said. Her creepy light blue eyes narrowed. She pointed the gun at Evie and for a moment Evie was transported back. Two years. She’d been at the mercy of a man with that same cold, dead look in his eyes. He’d hurt her. She’d never be the same again. She couldn’t fight back that day. Today . . . Evie’s hand tightened on Erik’s thin shoulder, felt the bite of his bone as he pressed closer to her chest. Today there was a great deal more at stake. She thought about what Dana would do and felt her mind settle. Coldly, Evie met Jane’s reptilian stare.

  “I don’t consider it a failing. Who are you?”

  Jane just smiled, and Evie’s blood ran cold. “Get paper and a pen,” she said. “Now.”

  Evie looked at Sandy, who looked shaken. “You should do what she says, Evie,” Sandy murmured. Evie looked down at Erik who was pale and trembling. But there was a resolute tightness to his lips as he stared at the woman with the gun.

  Evie found a piece of paper and pen in the junk drawer, wishing with all her might that Dana kept her gun here at Hanover House. “I have paper and pen.”

  “Then write this down. ‘We’re leaving. If you behave Evie will live.’ Write it.”

  Evie looked at Erik and comprehension dawned. “He’s deaf. That’s why . . .”

  Jane looked amused. “Kewpie doll for you. Now hurry up, I want to get out of here.”

  Evie wrote the words, then pointed to her written name, then to herself.

  Erik’s eyes flashed and his jaw set and he suddenly looked much older than ten. And Evie knew he knew the same thing she did. There was no way Jane was planning to let any of them live. She made her mouth curve and didn’t care that it was only half a smile. “It’ll be okay,” Evie said and hoped Erik could understand.