by Tami Lund
What he should do, he told himself maliciously, was pick up one of these women who were all hot and bothered over the guy strutting on stage. He ought to go back to his lifestyle of mindless sex with a continuous carousel of nameless women.
Which was just about the last thing he wanted to do, damn it. It pissed him off that Kennedy had such a hold on him, that he’d fallen so damn hard for a woman who wasn’t even available to fall for. It pissed him off that despite the fact that she was no longer in the picture, he still had no interest in any other women.
“Something’s not right,” Cullen muttered.
Jack shook off thoughts of Kennedy and glanced at his partner. “You getting one of those vibes you tend to get?”
“Yeah,” Cullen admitted. “There is no logical reason she would not be here tonight. Unless someone tipped her off, or she’s planning something else. But what would it be?”
He glanced at his watch. Almost midnight. One more show and they’d call it a night.
“Maybe she’s waiting till after the show,” he suggested. “Maybe she figured out the location of the new hotel, and she’s waiting there for the dancers to return.”
Cullen pulled out his phone, pushed a button, and then paused while it rang. When someone answered, he directed them to get to the hotel and scope it out, searching for one Marie Maloney.
A moment later, Jack felt his phone vibrate against his hip. He slipped it out of his pocket and glanced at the caller ID.
Unknown. He contemplated answering for all of five seconds. Probably, it was a wrong number. Or one of his past flings, hoping to revive something for just one more night.
He wasn’t interested in speaking to either party, so he sent the call to voicemail and slipped the phone back into his pocket.
• • •
“He didn’t answer. I left a message. I guess now we just wait.”
Marie placed the phone on the table situated between her and her prisoner. The prisoner gave her a sullen look.
“Don’t look at me like that, Shannon,” Marie admonished. “This is for your own good. Just as soon as he calls back, I’ll explain the rules of the situation, and then I’ll call my associate, who will meet him at a pre-defined place to retrieve your necklace. Once we have the necklace, we can leave.”
Kennedy glared at the mad woman. Who the hell was Shannon? Had she really been kidnapped because this woman thought she was someone else?
What an idiot she’d been. The woman had showed up at her door a few hours earlier, looking innocent and elderly and clearly upset.
“It’s Jack, sweetie pie,” she’d said in a clear New Orleans drawl. “He’s so devastated, he’s locked himself in his house. I’m worried he’s going to do harm to himself. Maybe you can talk him off the ledge?”
She hadn’t even questioned the woman. Hadn’t thought to ask who she was, how she knew Jack, and why she knew to come to Kennedy when he was in trouble. The woman looked vaguely familiar and she insisted Jack was in trouble, so Kennedy had grabbed her purse and shoes and followed the lady to her car. If Jack were in trouble, she would help, whether he wanted her to or not.
In reality, he probably did not want her help. She was certain he hated her at this point. For as long as she lived, Kennedy knew she would never forget the look on his face when she admitted she was still married to Jerry. It was as if someone kicked his puppy while he sat helplessly and watched. Considering that Jack probably didn’t have a helpless bone in his body, that was saying something.
More important, he looked as if he would never forgive her, ever, no matter what she said or how she explained that she had no idea Jerry hadn’t granted her the divorce. If only Jack would give her a chance to explain. If only.
Although, at the moment, she had more immediate concerns to deal with. Such as the fact that she’d been kidnapped by someone who very clearly knew that she and Jack had some sort of connection.
It was embarrassing how easy she’d made it. She’d simply slid into the front seat of the woman’s car. At that point, the lady had shoved a rag into Kennedy’s face, and of course Kennedy had done what any normal human being would do: she’d tried to suck in air, startled by the sudden lack of oxygen.
The next thing she knew, she was sitting in a chair in what she surmised was a motel room. Her arms were tied together behind the back of the chair, and her legs were tied to the chair legs. There was a gag in her mouth that made it difficult to breathe, especially when she’d come to and initially panicked.
“Breathe,” the crazy old woman commanded harshly. “Breathe. Through your nose. There you go. You’re too valuable to lose just yet.” Her tone had been so different from the gentle, encouraging voice she had used to lure Kennedy from her house.
Panic threatened to well again as Kennedy listened to the batty woman leave a message for Jack, telling him it was imperative that he call her back because she had something he wanted, and he had something she wanted, and she was more than happy to make a trade. If she weren’t gagged, Kennedy would have told the woman not to waste her breath. Jack didn’t want her; not anymore.
After disconnecting her cell phone, the woman began blathering about some impending baby and possible nursery colors, referring to a woman named Shannon, who Kennedy surmised was somehow related. Maybe the woman’s daughter? Strangely enough, when she talked about the baby, she talked in the same soothing voice she’d used on Kennedy when she first kidnapped her. Kennedy had the uncomfortable feeling the woman thought she was Shannon.
Is that why she was kidnapped? Did the loony lady think Kennedy was her long-lost daughter? Was she afraid Kennedy—or Shannon—would run away again? Is that why Kennedy was tied to a chair, with a gag in her mouth?
In an effort to both distract herself from the fresh panic welling, and to try to determine where the hell she was, she tore her eyes away from her captor and had her first, solid look at her surroundings. The walls were a neutral shade. There were paintings of theatre masks, the kind that were readily available in every retail chain within 500 miles of New Orleans. There were two beds—Kennedy hoped that didn’t mean the woman intended to keep her overnight—and both were covered with worn, navy blue bedspreads. The carpet looked threadbare and the sink and a large mirror were outside of what she assumed was the bathroom. Wherever they were, the accommodations were not expensive by any means.
Kennedy didn’t travel very often, and when she did, she usually crashed with a relative, so she did not have nearly enough experience with motels to even venture a guess as to the chain, or even the location of this room. She assumed she was still within the vicinity of New Orleans. Otherwise, how would her captor be able to arrange to meet Jack to trade for whatever he had that she apparently wanted back?
Was Shannon one of Jack’s former lovers? But then what was the old woman’s involvement? Why did she think Kennedy was Shannon? And what the hell did Jack have that was so important this lunatic had been willing to kidnap her just to get it back? Didn’t the woman realize she was dealing with the FBI? Besides the fact that Jack would have no interest in exchanging Kennedy for anything, he would most certainly put the job first and set about trying to arrest the woman more than he was likely to come to Kennedy’s rescue.
It hurt, but it was the truth. Damn it.
Kennedy watched as the woman picked up her phone and fiddled with it. “I should try again,” she announced, and then she pressed the redial button.
• • •
Cullen glanced over as Jack pulled his phone out of his pocket and then replaced it again. “Hoping Kennedy will call?” he suggested, his tone mild.
“No,” Jack ground out. “I’m sure she’s busy cozying up with her husband right now.”
“Did you even give her a chance to explain? Or did you do what you normally do and react without thinking? I bet you just stormed out before she could say a word, didn’t you?”
Jack glowered at his partner and best friend. “Shut the hell up,” he suggest
ed. “And focus on the case.”
“There’s no case to focus on,” he grumbled as the group of oiled and barely-dressed men headed onto the stage for their last performance of the evening. “She isn’t here; she isn’t at the hotel. She isn’t at her house in Oklahoma, although after what the agent told us he found, I’m pretty confident our perp is not all there in the head.”
Jack grimaced. “Yeah, a refurbished crib that’s thirty years old, a baby room when there hadn’t been the likelihood of a baby in two years. That agent said the room smelled like it had been painted just recently.”
“Don’t forget all those hand-written notes he found about Danny and his shows.”
Jack wouldn’t soon forget. He suspected the same batshit crazy woman had been in Kennedy’s house a few days ago, had been the one to cut him with a knife pulled from the block in Kennedy’s kitchen. He fought the urge to call Kennedy, just to make sure she was okay. Whether she wanted to be with him or not was irrelevant. He didn’t want her to die.
“Pretty damn incriminating,” Cullen went on. “If only we had a damn suspect. Where the hell did she go?”
Jack’s phone beeped, indicating he had a message.
“Why aren’t you checking your voicemail?” Cullen asked.
“I’m not interested.”
“How do you know it isn’t Kennedy?”
“I don’t want to talk to her, either,” he lied. “Besides, I know it isn’t Kennedy because the calls are from an unknown number.”
“Check them,” Cullen urged.
“Fine. Jesus,” Jack muttered, as he lifted the phone to his ear and listened to the messages. His mouth went dry and his heart began to race.
“What?” Cullen demanded, watching him intently.
“It’s Maloney. I’m sure of it. Listen.” He offered the phone to Cullen, who snagged it and held it to his own ear.
After listening to the second message, Cullen gave him back the phone. “I think you’re right. What does she have that you want?” he asked, sounding baffled.
“No idea,” Jack said, and then he froze. The attack in Kennedy’s home. “Shit,” he swore as he fumbled with the phone, trying to push buttons with suddenly clumsy fingers.
“What?” Cullen demanded. “What?” he repeated when Jack didn’t immediately answer.
“Kennedy,” Jack snapped, and he finally managed to punch the button to call her phone number. “No answer. Call Sabrina.”
Cullen immediately complied, and hung up after a brief conversation. “She hasn’t seen Kennedy, but she’s calling Vanessa.”
Cullen’s phone rang and he answered it immediately, listened for a moment, and then hung up again. “Vanessa says Kennedy isn’t at her house, she hasn’t seen her all evening, and she found Kennedy’s purse lying in the front yard when she arrived a little while ago.” He began walking as he talked, and Jack didn’t hesitate to fall into step next to him.
“That stupid fucking bitch! Doesn’t she had a goddamn brain cell in her head?”
• • •
“I don’t know,” Vanessa whined a few minutes later in response to the brutal dressing down he gave her while Cullen prowled through the house looking for clues. “I … I didn’t think,” she stuttered, choking on her sobs.
“Her purse was lying on the front lawn,” Jack snapped. “And her car is still in the carport. None of this made you think? It didn’t occur to you that this might be off?”
Vanessa shook her head so vehemently her hair whipped back and forth. She flapped her hand at Jack. “The way you two act together all the time, I … I thought you had just been in the heat of the moment and she was just overwhelmed and … and…” She sank onto the couch and dissolved into shoulder-racking sobs.
Jack turned away from the sight, working to pull his own emotions under control. “Useless,” he snarled. “The killer fucking has Kennedy. Goddamn it, she has Kennedy.” His voice rose with his agitation. Clearly, he’d been lying to himself when he claimed not to want to see her. He desperately wanted to see her. Alive and well.
“Where’s Jerry?” he abruptly asked, turning back to the watering pot sitting on the couch.
“I don’t know,” she wailed. “I don’t know. No one was here when I arrived. No one, I swear!”
Not that he wanted to go there, but it occurred to Jack that had Kennedy been with her ex—no, her husband—she might still be sitting in her own living room right now, and this entire scenario wouldn’t be happening.
In his head, he saw Shannon, floating in a bathtub of blood-tinged water. Kennedy’s face replaced that of the dead woman, and Jack ruthlessly pushed away the thought.
I won’t let her die.
Cullen placed a hand on his shoulder, pulling him out of the self-induced nightmare. “Let’s talk through the voicemails,” he commanded. His voice was calm, and Jack spared a moment to appreciate what he was doing. And then he focused on getting her back.
“Just gave me a number to call. What do I have that she wants? What the fuck could possibly be as important as Kennedy?”
Cullen snapped his fingers. “The necklace,” he said. “The jewelers all said it was old. Family heirloom maybe?”
“I bet it belonged to the daughter.”
“You’re right,” Cullen replied, slapping the wall for emphasis. “Call her. Set up the trade. Try to get her to a place that works to our benefit.”
Five minutes later, Cullen was the one swearing a blue streak. “A goddamned, wide-open cotton field? That’s the best you could do?”
“She didn’t give me much of a choice,” he defended himself. And in truth, he was willing to do whatever the hell the woman said, just so long as she did not hurt Kennedy.
“Let’s go,” Cullen barked. “We’ll barely get there on time since we have to swing by headquarters first.” As they raced from Kennedy’s house, they both held phones to their ears, reporting in, asking for backup, and talking to the evidence room attendant about getting the necklace sooner rather than later.
An hour later, Cullen pulled his truck over to the side of an old, two-track lane that ran through the middle of two massive cotton fields. He and Jack sat side by side on the bench seat, surveying the landscape. The rain that had been threatening all day had recently broken free of the clouds, so now the road was muddy and hadn’t been graded recently—if ever. The clouds hid the moon, lending the area an eerie, almost-pitch blackness.
“How the hell are we supposed to see?” Jack complained.
“If we can’t see, neither can the Maloney bitch. And since we have agents posted all over the damn place, that’s a good thing. Come on, let’s go save your woman.”
“She isn’t mine,” Jack muttered, but he lifted the collar on his FBI-issue rain slicker and climbed out of the truck.
They fanned out, Cullen slipping off into the rain-soaked darkness, while Jack headed straight for the meeting place. The plan, according to Maloney, was simple: They would meet near an old tree stump in the middle of this specific cotton field. Jack would give her the necklace, and Marie would give him Kennedy. The phone conversation had been brief.
“I know you will do the trade, so don’t try to bluff. I’ve been watching you. I know you love her.”
Called out by a goddamned psychopathic killer. He hadn’t even realized he was in love with Kennedy, but Marie Maloney knew. It pissed him off even more that she was right, and that despite the fact that Kennedy wasn’t his to love, he still did, and would do whatever it took to save her.
Jack used a small penlight to help guide him through the rows of wet plants. Creamy white flower petals clung to his pants legs, quickly soaking the material and making it difficult to walk. He flashed his light ahead and saw a lone figure, head ducked down, away from the pelting rain, huddled in a rain slicker with the hood pulled up. Jack approached cautiously, the memory of Marie Maloney’s skill with a knife still fresh in his mind. He knew Cullen and a dozen other agents were hiding in the vicinity, but that d
id not mean he should be a fool and throw caution to the wind.
When he was close enough, Jack flashed his penlight over the huddling person and frowned. The stature was wrong, plus, where the hell was Kennedy? A hand thrust out from under the rain slicker.
“Necklace,” a rough voice demanded. The owner of the voice was very clearly trying to disguise it, but he could still tell he was dealing with a man instead of a woman.
It didn’t make sense. Why was he meeting with a man? Jack’s senses sharpened as every muscle in his body tensed, the instinct to fight riding him hard. He wanted to grab this guy and pummel him, even though he had no idea how involved the guy was in this mess, or whether or not Kennedy was safe. Jesus, he was turning into a freaking caveman.
“Who are you?” he demanded, forcing himself to stay calm.
“Necklace,” the man insisted again. His voice faltered, and Jack thought it sounded curiously familiar.
“Where’s Kennedy?”
“Someplace safe,” the man said. “I get the jewelry first, then I call and have her released. Now give me the damn thing.”
That voice … No fucking way. In two long strides, he reached the man, grabbed the hood of his rain slicker, and jerked it off his head, freeing a handful of hair in the process if the owner’s cry of pain was an indication.
“Jerry Coster,” he said with disgust. “You’re in league with the fucking Stripper Killer?”
Jerry stumbled and almost fell over as he tried to pull himself out of Jack’s grip. Jack twisted Jerry’s arm behind his back, making it impossible for him to flee. Not that it would have mattered. If the chickenshit tried to run, Jack would shout for his backup to take Jerry down.
“Damn, you freaking scalped me,” the little pissant whined.
Jack twisted his arm higher against his back, until the asshole was practically crying.
“I didn’t do anything,” he blubbered. “I’m not in league with anyone. I’m just—I’m just doing a favor for someone. Making a little extra cash.”