Protecting Her Child

by Debby Giusti

  “And Pete?”

  “Was caught between his father and the woman who had cared for him like a mother.”

  “What about his own mother?” Meredith asked.

  “She hemorrhaged giving birth.” Sheila shook her head. “We sometimes forget that childbirth can be life-threatening, despite modern medical science.”

  Heat seared through Meredith, this time brought on by the premonition of what could happen. What had Pete said? VHL could lead to complications during delivery.

  Sheila continued, oblivious to the impact her words had on Meredith. “Pete’s mother’s death added to his father’s ill will toward his wealthy landlords. Seemingly, in his mind, only good followed Eve and her family, while his life was mired in misery.”

  “Sounds like a very unhappy man,” Meredith managed to mumble, trying to focus on Pete’s past and not the medical complications that could compound her delivery weeks from now.

  Sheila raised her brow. “And not one easily prone to show love for his only child.”

  Meredith’s heart went out to Pete, whose youth had to have been difficult. Children needed to be surrounded by affection and goodness, not misery and grief. She knew that only too well.

  “Pete said Eve’s parents forced her to give me up for adoption.”

  Sheila reached out and rubbed her hand over Meredith’s shoulder. “She was young. Of course, Eve would comply with her parents’ wishes. Her only comfort was knowing her child had been adopted by a loving family.”

  A lump of bitterness filled Meredith’s throat. “Undoubtedly, she thought she was doing the right thing.”

  Sheila eyed Meredith as if hearing the ring of disbelief in the statement. “We all make mistakes.”

  “Only some cause more damage than others.” Meredith ran her hand over her face. “For some reason, I’m feeling a bit tired.”

  “Why don’t you find a comfortable chair in the sunroom and curl up with a magazine. I have some work I need to do in the study.”

  Sheila led her through the kitchen to a delightful room filled with windows that overlooked the garden. Bright chintz fabric decorated the overstuffed furniture in a royal blue-and-yellow plaid that invited Meredith to sit and relax. Something she wasn’t accustomed to doing. While the rest of the house was decorated in period furnishings, this room was country chic and inviting.

  “Can I bring you a cup of tea?”

  “Maybe later. Thank you, Sheila.”

  Meredith settled back into the plush cushions. She raised her legs onto the matching ottoman and closed her eyes as the bright sunshine poured through the expansive windows.

  Totally relaxed, Meredith let her mind drift. The sound of Sheila tinkering in the study seemed like a natural backdrop.

  Despite her restful sleep last night, Meredith dozed.

  Her mind filled with thoughts of Pete and, off in the distance, a woman whose face was blurred in the haze of the dream.

  “Meredith…Meredith…”

  Voices pulled her from her slumber.

  Sheila’s was raised in question. “What are you doing?”

  A man’s baritone—insistent and heavily accented—shouted back at her.

  Meredith rose from the chair.

  A movement caught her eye in the garden. The cold, tight grip of fear clamped down on her heart.

  A man stood on the patio.

  Medium height. Dark hair. Eyes that glared at her through the glass.

  She slapped her hand against her pocket, found her cell phone and inadvertently opened the CALLS SENT file.

  Pete’s number was highlighted.

  She punched the green button.

  Sheila screamed from the living room.

  Meredith’s hands seemed stiff as claws, and she almost dropped the small device before raising it to her ear.

  Why was the connection taking so long?

  She glanced once again at the phone just as it began to ring.

  When she looked back into the garden it was empty.

  Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside the sunroom.

  “Hello?” Pete’s voice.

  “The man who ran me off the road is in Sheila’s house.”

  NINE

  Pulse pounding, Pete navigated the restful historic district at mach speed. The brakes screeched in protest as he turned onto Sheila’s street and swerved to the curb in front of the three-story home. Leaping to the sidewalk, he took the stairs to the front porch two at a time and reached for the brass knob.

  The door swung open.

  Sheila lay on the Oriental carpet in the entryway. A pool of blood soaked the rug, turning the elaborate pattern a monochromatic magenta. The smell of copper filled the hallway. Her face was pale as death. Her arms lay at her side, hands curled inward.

  He stooped to touch her neck. A pulse. Faint, but she was alive.

  “Sheila, it’s Pete.”

  Her eyes flickered open. “Mere…dith?”

  “Where is she, Sheila?” He lowered his face to hers, hoping to hear her response.

  Her eyes closed.

  He nudged her shoulder. “Sheila?”

  Blood oozed from a gash in her side. He grabbed a woolen throw from a nearby chair and bundled it around the wound to stop the bleeding. A makeshift tourniquet at best, but the flow of blood eased.

  Stumbling to his feet, he ran to the study.

  “Meredith!” he screamed.

  Grabbing the house phone, he punched 911 and raced on to the living room.

  The doors to the garden stood open.

  He flicked his gaze over the well-maintained courtyard, searching for some sign of her.

  The emergency response operator’s voice sounded in his ear.

  “There’s been a break-in,” he hastened to explain. “A woman’s bleeding heavily from what appears to be a knife wound to her right side.” Pete gave the address. “She’s got a pulse, but it’s faint. Send an ambulance and the police. Tell them to hurry.”

  “How would you describe her condition, sir?”

  Pete didn’t have time for this. He had to find Meredith. “Look, lady, she’s barely alive. I need an ambulance and police now.”

  He threw the phone onto a nearby couch and ran up the stairs to the second floor. The room where Meredith had slept was empty.

  Next he checked the master suite, then Brice’s old room and the fourth bedroom where Pete had stayed. The deadly silence heightened the sound of his own heart pounding in his ears.

  Mouth dry, he flew down the stairs to the sunroom.

  A circular table next to one of the overstuffed chairs lay overturned. A lamp had shattered on the hardwood floor. Spying something under the coffee table, he stooped and retrieved the pocketknife Meredith had used last night.

  Clutching it in his hand, he retraced his steps to the entry where Sheila lay and knelt next to her.

  Her eyes blinked open.

  “Hold on, Sheila. Help’s on the way.”

  “At…lan…ta,” she whispered, her voice raspy.

  “What?”

  “Two men. They…they…” She licked her lips. “Buckhead.”

  The trendy, upscale area north of downtown. “Is that where they’re taking Meredith?”

  Sirens sounded in the distance.

  “Find…find her.”

  Someone shouted. Pete stepped outside. A man ran from the house across the street.

  “I phoned Sheila but didn’t get an answer.” Face flushed, a line of sweat spotted the portly neighbor’s upper lip as he climbed the stairs. “When I saw you race from your Jeep, I thought something might be wrong.”

  “There’s been a break-in. Sheila’s been injured.” Pete indicated the open entryway.

  The guy neared. His eyes widened when he spied Pete’s shirt. “You’re covered in blood.”

  The neighbor glanced inside, then back at the knife Pete still held in his hand. “Oh my God, you killed her.”

  “She’s not dead, but she needs help. The a
mbulance is on the way. There was another woman in the house. They’ve taken her to Atlanta. Tell the police I’m headed for Buckhead.” Pete backed down the steps. “Stay with Sheila until the EMTs arrive.”

  Sirens grew louder.

  Pete jumped into his Jeep and glanced at his rearview mirror. An ambulance and two police cars turned onto the block.

  His BlackBerry rang.

  A photo, slightly out of focus. Apparently taken while in motion through a dirt-streaked window.

  A road sign. INTERSTATE 16.

  Good for Meredith. She was letting him know the route her captors were taking.

  Pete tramped on the accelerator. If Meredith continued to send pictures, he’d be able to find her.

  He glanced once again at the blurred photo.

  Or at least he hoped he would.

  “God, help me,” Meredith moaned as the pickup headed into the interior of the state.

  Shifting her weight, she rolled onto her side to take the pressure off her baby. She hadn’t felt movement since the men had knocked her out.

  Dazed, she’d awakened in the enclosed bed of the pickup with a knot on her crown the size of a lemon. No doubt the reason for the throbbing pain that still threaded across her temples and down her neck. Thankfully, her vision was clear and she could move her fingers and toes.

  Plus she was alive.

  What about Sheila? Recalling the blood that had gushed from the woman’s side as she lay in the entry alcove made Meredith’s stomach roil.

  Please, Lord, let her live.

  She rubbed her hand over her belly. Let my baby live, too.

  Meredith glanced through the double-paned sliding windows that separated the camper bed from the extended cab section upfront. The guy who’d run her off the road sat behind the wheel. A second man slouched against the passenger door.

  Meredith had scooted into the uppermost corner of the enclosed truck bed, hoping the men would have difficulty seeing her there.

  The driver turned to the shorter man, riding shotgun. Above the sound of the engine, she heard him say, “Check on her, Javier.”

  Meredith closed her eyes.

  The windows slid open.

  A hand grabbed her shoulder and rolled her onto her back. Her head cracked against the side of the truck bed. Pain shot down her neck.

  “Dead to the world, Hank.” He slid the window closed and pivoted back into the passenger seat.

  Meredith clenched her teeth, holding back the groan that threatened to escape from her lips.

  Slowly, the pain eased.

  The truck made a series of turns.

  Earlier, fearing they’d hear her if she made a phone call, Meredith had raised her head and peered out the side camper window. Removing her cell from her pocket, she’d taken a photo of a road sign and sent it to Pete’s BlackBerry.

  Interstate 16 ran west out of Savannah toward the interior of the state and far from the coastal low country.

  A succession of turns signaled that they’d changed course yet again.

  Rising on her elbow and hidden from the men’s view, Meredith once more peered out the side window, searching for a landmark. Something to identify the direction they were now headed.

  All she could see were trees and more trees. How would anything stand out in this lonely stretch of back road to pinpoint their location?

  In the distance, an old white church came into view. Two roadside historical markers sat in front of the aged structure.

  She raised her cell and snapped the shot.

  Dropping back to the truck bed, she glanced at the photo displayed on her cell. Only a portion of one of the markers was visible.

  Her heart sank.

  Much as she needed Pete, he would never be able to find her.

  TEN

  Interstate 16 was a well-traveled route, teeming with state patrol cars. Pete checked his speed and kept to within ten miles over the limit. Last thing he wanted was to be pulled over for a moving violation.

  He would need law enforcement’s help once he pinpointed Meredith’s location. But if they stopped him now, he’d be hauled in for questioning. He didn’t want delays to keep him from finding her.

  Hopefully, by now Sheila would be getting the medical care she needed.

  The digital clock on the dash read two minutes after the hour. He pushed the radio dial and hit SEEK until he found a Savannah station.

  “New developments in the historic-district stabbing,” the announcer said. “VHL Institute founder Sheila Hudson remains in critical condition and is currently undergoing surgery at Riverview Hospital. An eyewitness said an overnight guest was seen running from the home. Police are looking for a white male, six feet tall and approximately 190 pounds. Anyone with knowledge of his whereabouts should contact the police.”

  Pete shook his head. Of course, they’d think he was involved. The neighbor had jumped to the same conclusion.

  Once Pete could pinpoint Meredith’s location, he’d call the authorities for help and assure them that they were searching for the wrong guy.

  His BlackBerry buzzed. Pete opened the file and pulled up the photo.

  The corner of a white wooden structure and a portion of a historic marker were visible. He couldn’t make out the words.

  Double clicking on the photo, he zoomed in. The top portion of the marker visible in the photo read, BIG BUC, in uppercase block letters. Underneath, he made out two words: This church.

  Big Buc Church?

  He hit the Internet icon and typed in the name. The search engine sent back an immediate reply.

  Do you mean Big Buckhead Church?

  “You bet I do,” Pete mumbled, clicking on the first URL listed.

  When Sheila heard the guys mention Buckhead, she’d thought of the upscale section of Atlanta known for fine food and late-night frivolity. Instead, they’d referred to a Civil War battle site about eighty miles from Savannah.

  Big Buckhead Church…battle between Northern and Southern cavalry…Sherman’s March to the Sea…Morgan County…historic marker…intersection of U.S. 25 and Big Buckhead Church Road.

  Bingo!

  Pete plugged the information into another program.

  A map scrolled across his screen.

  He was back on track. At least until Meredith sent another photo.

  Meredith’s heart lurched as the pickup made a sharp turn onto a gravel drive and came to a halt.

  A pit stop for gas or food?

  If the men thought she was unconscious, they’d leave her in the truck.

  She raised her head and peered out the dirt-crusted window. A ramshackle farmhouse with a low front porch and two brick fireplaces, one on each side of the building, sat in a small clearing. Tall oaks, sweet gums and pines surrounded the house in a jungle of kudzu.

  Not a filling station or fast-food restaurant in sight.

  Her heart plummeted, but once again, she held her cell phone aloft. A large tree shaded the house and driveway. One of its branches jutted out at a forty-five-degree angle from the trunk.

  She clicked the shot just as the men climbed from the cab, slamming the doors behind them. Sight unseen, she hastily sent the photo to Pete.

  Please, Lord, let him receive the photo.

  Footsteps sounded over the crushed gravel.

  Meredith lowered her head, feeling the cold bed liner against her cheek.

  The back hatch dropped open.

  “Grab her legs.”

  Meredith recognized the driver’s voice.

  Fingers wrapped around her ankles and yanked her toward the tailgate. A raised floor bolt caught her cheek, cutting her flesh.

  “Augh!” she moaned, unable to control the involuntary gasp that escaped from her lips.

  “Ah, señora, you are finally awake.” Dark skin, black eyes, coarse hair that matted against his forehead. A scar slashed across the shorter man’s face.

  He released her legs and dropped them to the ground. Then, grabbing her arm, he pulled her t
o her feet.

  “You can walk, yes?”

  Her knees buckled. He jerked her upright, his grip like steel on her arm. She stumbled back, crashing into the lowered tailgate.

  Balance wasn’t her strong suit at this point in her pregnancy, even on a good day.

  “Get her inside,” the driver demanded. “And be careful, Javier. She’s a tiger.” He glanced down at the makeshift bandage wrapped around his arm.

  Meredith bristled. “I should have aimed for your throat.”

  Javier chuckled. “You’re a little firebrand, aren’t you, señora?”

  His grip tightened as he shoved her toward the house.

  If she had the knife…

  But the only thing in her pocket was her cell phone.

  Please, God, don’t let them find it.

  “What do you want with me?” Meredith demanded, trying to pull free from the Latino’s hold.

  “You need to learn your place, señora. We tell you only what we want you to hear. Your husband was a troublemaker. So are you.”

  “Are you working for the loan shark who owned the fishing boat and killed my husband?”

  “He is in prison because of you.” Javier spat out the words. “But we will make sure you do no more harm.”

  “The cops arrested your buddy when they realized he murdered my husband. I never divulged anything to the police, but I should have.”

  “Your husband knew some of them were on the take.” Javier shrugged. “He learned his lesson. We will teach you as well.”

  The Latino pushed her up the steps and onto the wooden porch, badly in need of repair.

  Grasping her arm with his left hand, Javier stuck a key in the lock with his right and opened the door.

  Stale, musty air rushed past her. Meredith coughed as he shoved her inside. Layers of dust covered the hand-hewn floorboards and steep staircase leading to the second floor.

  A small parlor sat to the right with a brick fireplace. Cobwebs dangled from the central light fixture. Cracks zigzagged along the plastered walls and ran across the ceiling.

  Rippled antique panes of glass in the two windows—almost opaque from years of neglect—dated the aged structure.

  “Sit,” Javier said, ushering her toward three folding lawn chairs arranged in the center of the room. “And don’t give me any back talk.”