Always Look Twice

by Dawson, Geralyn

  The easiest thing would be to kill them all and that particular idea did have some appeal. He could go in slick and quick and get out before anyone knew he’d been here. He imagined how Callahan would react when he walked into that playroom and found his lover, father, and nieces dead, knowing he’d failed to protect them, aware that their deaths could be laid right at his feet.

  It’d kill him.

  But it would be quick. Too quick.

  Kurtz reached down and readjusted the padding for his boobs and considered the situation further. Callahan needed to hurt. He needed to anguish and ache and be ripped into painful little pieces. He needed to be tortured.

  Kurtz’s gaze flickered over to the old lady snoring in the bed. He plotted; he planned. He pulled his gun from his purse and screwed the sound suppressor onto its barrel.

  Then he ducked into the patient’s bathroom and touched up his makeup. When he decided his disguise would hold, he winked at his reflection in the mirror. ‘‘Torture Callahan? I know just how I want to do it.’’

  Annabelle sat cross-legged on the floor, accepting blocks from Catherine and Samantha. She used the multicolored blocks to build two towers, which the girls knocked over with flailing arms and squeals of glee. Branch Callahan sat in a chair behind her, helpinghis granddaughters choose which colors to add to the stack next.

  ‘‘I’m feeling blue, Mitten,’’ his voice boomed.

  ‘‘Papa boo. Papa boo,’’ Samantha babbled.

  Annabelle’s eyes widened as the toddler picked up a blue block and chucked it at her grandfather. Demonstrating quick instincts for a man his age, Branch caught the blue wooden cube inches before it would have hit his nose. ‘‘Whoa. Look at that. We need to get that girl a softball right away.’’

  ‘‘And gloves for the rest of us,’’ Annabelle replied with a laugh.

  Branch chuckled and gazed at his granddaughters with eyes filled with tenderness and love. He wasn’t what she’d expected. Instead of a powerful, patriarchal villain, she saw a simple old man with arthritic joints who sincerely cared about his family. Watching him interact with Catherine and Samantha, Annabelle couldn’t help but think of another of Branch Callahan’s granddaughters. Considering that his actions all those years ago continued to have a real effect on her own life today, she wouldn’t mind hearing his side of the story.

  His thoughts might have traveled in a similar direction, because the next time he spoke, he said, ‘‘I understand that you and my son Mark are close.’’

  Her lips twisted wryly. ‘‘Sometimes closer than others.’’

  ‘‘You know, he would hate to hear me say this, but of all my boys, Mark is the most like me.’’

  She couldn’t help but laugh. ‘‘You’re right. He would hate to hear you say that.’’

  ‘‘I know, but it’s true. We are both stubborn cusses with heads hard as stone.’’

  Annabelle wouldn’t argue with that.

  ‘‘I like to think I’m a little softer now than I was back in the day, but Mark . . .’’ He sighed. ‘‘Damn near impossible to move him off a position once he’s taken a stand.’’

  She wouldn’t argue with that, either.

  ‘‘I’ve made a million mistakes in my life, missy. Hell, probably a billion. It’s the mistakes I made with my boys that top the list of my biggest regrets. I’d trade my life to change them, but . . .’’ He gave his shoulders a weary, weighted shrug. ‘‘Some things . . . you just can’t fix. Some things are beyond a man’s power, and other times trying to fix ’em would only make ’em worse. I think that’s one of the harder lessons I’ve had to learn in this old life. By nature, I’m a fixer, Ms. Monroe. It’s been a bitch kitty to accept that there are some things in this world I just can’t fix.’’

  A fixer. Annabelle couldn’t help but smile at the irony. Like father, like son. She wondered if he had any clue about Mark’s work with the team. Probably not.

  ‘‘Mark told me about his wife and child, Mr. Callahan.’’

  ‘‘So you know, then.’’ He closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘‘Hell. If I could only live those decisions over again. I never guessed he’d take it so hard.’’

  He raked his hand through his hair, repeating the gesture she’d seen Mark do countless times. Compassion melted a corner of her heart.

  ‘‘Before I die, I hope . . . I pray . . . he’ll let me explain,’’ Branch continued. ‘‘Not excuse, mind you, but explain. I feel a powerful need to make it right with him, but I’m afraid. . . .’’

  ‘‘Mr. Callahan.’’

  ‘‘Call me Branch, please. And, Annabelle? Just in case that doesn’t happen, I want you to know that I’ve written him letters. Been writing them for years. They tell the whole story. If after I’m dead and buried, hell freezes over and he changes his mind . . . well . . . it’ll be there for him.’’

  ‘‘Actually, Branch, I think there might just be a cool breeze knocking at the door to Hades now.’’

  He sat up straight. ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘I think there is a chance he might be mellowing a bit.’’

  The old man’s eyes widened and filled with hope. ‘‘Really? You think he’ll listen to me?’’

  Annabelle’s teeth tugged at her lower lip. She didn’t want to give the man false hope. ‘‘I don’t know that he’s ready to sit down with you right now, but—’’

  ‘‘The letters.’’ Branch gripped the arms of his chair and pushed himself to his feet. ‘‘The letters. Maybe he’ll read the letters. That’s the best way, anyway. I say it all there. Everything. About his wife and the baby. About John.’’

  ‘‘Papa, Papa, Papa,’’ little Catherine said, holding her arms up for him to lift her.

  ‘‘Later, Kitten. Papa’s gotta go now.’’ He grabbed his walker and wheeled himself toward the door, speaking to his assigned security guard as he exited the playroom. ‘‘C’mon, Jeeves. We need to make a quick run home.’’

  ‘‘Papa!’’ Samantha cried out, her bottom lip extended in a pout. ‘‘Papa.’’

  ‘‘Uh, oh.’’ Annabelle winced. She knew an unhappy toddler when she saw one.

  ‘‘Want Papa.’’

  ‘‘I know, sweetie. He’ll be back soon, though.’’ She reached for a red rectangular block. ‘‘What color is this, Samantha?’’

  ‘‘Wed.’’ She plunked her thumb into her mouth. ‘‘Want Papa.’’

  Catherine joined in. ‘‘Papa, Papa, Papa.’’

  ‘‘What color is this, Catherine?’’ Annabelle held up a blue block.

  ‘‘Boo.’’ Sniff . . . sniff.

  Annabelle tossed a ‘‘Help me’’ glance toward the security guard, but he simply shrugged his shoulders and started to turn away as she grabbed a yellow block. ‘‘Your turn, Sam. What color is—’’

  She broke off abruptly when the guard stepped back into the room, his hand reaching. . . .

  It all happened in an instant. Pftht. Pftht. His body jerked. Splotches of red. Annabelle reached for the weapon . . . she wasn’t wearing. The guard fell at the same time the security guard who’d been stationed at the door to the maternity area entered the playroom, followed by a woman. Pftht. Pftht. The second guard fell as the woman shut the door behind her.

  ‘‘Yellow,’’ said the voice from out of her past. ‘‘It’s yellow, Annabelle. I’m not. Wasn’t then. I’m not now. You and your boyfriend made a big-assed mistake.’’

  ‘‘Kurtz,’’ she said, seeing past the disguise. Those eyelashes!

  ‘‘You got it in one. Now . . .’’ He stepped over the guard’s body, swooped down, and picked up Samantha, who let out a surprised and unhappy yelp and squirmed to be put down. Kurtz put the muzzle of his gun against her tummy. ‘‘Get the other kid.’’

  Annabelle’s mind raced as she reached for Catherine. She didn’t have many options at the moment. Were she by herself, she would try to overtake him. If only one child were in danger, she might still give it a shot. But with the lives of two childre
n at stake, she needed to be very careful.

  She took one calculated risk when, hidden by the process of settling a squirming Catherine in her arms, she slipped her hand into her pocket and pressed the call button on her cell phone. At the moment, she couldn’t recall the last person she’d phoned. Was it Tag? Noah? Either one would notice her number, listen to the call, then phone Mark. At least, with any luck, that’s the way it would happen.

  In order to hide any sounds coming from the phone and to communicate the problem, she asked, ‘‘Why are you doing this, Kurtz?’’

  ‘‘Keep your mouth shut until I tell you differently, Monroe.’’ He stooped and disarmed the dead guard, then crossed the playroom and peered outside into the fenced playground. ‘‘Where’s the key to unlock the gate?’’

  Both twins began to cry, so she lifted her voice and said, ‘‘I don’t know. I certainly don’t have it. Please, Kurtz. The gun is scaring the babies.’’

  ‘‘Smart girls.’’ He pondered the problem a moment, then said, ‘‘All right, then. Here’s what is gonna happen. There’s an exit sign above a door to the right. You will walk directly there. Make eye contact with anyone, make a sound, and this little redhead goes the way of her bodyguard. Now, move.’’

  Hoping her call went through, Annabelle patted Catherine’s back and murmured in a calm tone, choosing words that could convey the seriousness of the situation to Tag or Noah without tipping Kurtz off. Either Tag or . . . oh. She bit her lip. It wouldn’t be Tag or Noah. She’d called Paulo Giambelli last. What time is it in Rome right now?

  She took one step, then stopped. ‘‘Leave the children here, Kurtz. You don’t need them. Taking me will make Mark Callahan hurt plenty. He loves me. Losing me will tear him apart.’’

  ‘‘All right. Put her down. I’ll kill them both now. That crying is kinda gettin’ on my nerves anyway.’’

  ‘‘No! We’re moving.’’ She stepped out into the corridor and headed for the door marked EXIT, praying that Luke would decide to check on his twins or that Matt would pick that moment to leave Torie’s bedside in order to spend some time with his newborn son.

  She didn’t dare look around to check, however, but went right through the door and into another short corridor that led to another door with a sign that read EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY.

  Annabelle halted. ‘‘If we use that, we might trip an alarm.’’

  ‘‘Good try, Monroe, but they would have a warning sign for that.’’

  She opened the door and realized they’d entered the emergency-room area. Kurtz moved closer and murmured, ‘‘Keep going. . . . Keep going.’’

  A woman wearing blue scrubs said, ‘‘Can I help you?’’

  Kurtz spoke in a falsetto tone while heading directly for the outside doors. ‘‘Just got turned around trying to take the babies outside. Sorry. We’ll be out of your way quick as a minute.’’

  The automatic doors swished open in front of them, and Annabelle stepped outside into the hot afternoon sun.

  She’d never been so cold in her life.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Mark was in visiting Torie when the cell phone in his pocket vibrated against his hip. He checked the number and frowned. Not one he recognized. ‘‘Sorry, sweetheart,’’ he said to Torie. ‘‘I hate taking a call here, but under the circumstances . . .’’

  ‘‘Answer it,’’ she said.

  He thumbed the connect button and brought the phone to his ear. ‘‘Hello?’’

  Static. Lots of static. Then, ‘‘. . . Giambelli . . . in trouble.’’

  The phone went dead as the call dropped.

  ‘‘Strange,’’ he murmured. He thought the guy said ‘‘Giambelli,’’ but the only person he knew by that name was Annabelle’s Italian Stallion. Why would he . . . ? Wait . . . Noah. Noah was in Europe. In trouble. Shit.

  ‘‘I need to find a spot that has better reception. Be right back.’’

  His thoughts raced as he exited the ICU and headed for the elevators with the intention of leaving the building. He didn’t like this one bit. Why would Kurtz have followed Noah to Europe when he had easier targets here in the States?

  More likely this call had nothing to do with Kurtz and Kincannon. Could be Annabelle called Giambelli to explain that she and Mark were back together and when the Italian mentioned ‘‘in trouble,’’ he was making a wussy, long-distance challenge.

  Weak, Callahan. Something’s wrong. As he waited for the elevator, the phone vibrated again. Same number. ‘‘Hello?’’

  ‘‘Do you know where Annabelle is?’’ the Italian demanded.

  ‘‘She’s with me.’’

  ‘‘So you are both being held at gunpoint?’’

  Mark froze. ‘‘Say that again?’’

  ‘‘It’s a call from her phone. . . . Words are muffled. Sounds like she has a child with her.’’ He explained about receiving the call in the middle of the night, noting Annabelle’s number, and the pieces of conversation he’d been able to decipher. ‘‘I think she might have a rental car. Said something about Hertz.’’

  Not Hertz. Kurtz.

  For a moment, Mark stood frozen in fear before his mind and feet started working again. A child. Luke’s girls were in the nursery. Mark gave up on the elevator and hit the stairs, flying down as fast as humanly possible.

  Hold on, Annabelle. Just hang in there. Help is on the way.

  With her arms wrapped tightly around Catherine while she kept a watchful guard on Samantha, Annabelle studied her surroundings, hoping to identify an opportunity for escape. Ron Kurtz had directed them to follow the drive that went around behind the hospital, their destination a parking lot on the opposite side of the building from the emergency room.

  Heat radiated up from the asphalt, and perspiration dribbled down Annabelle’s spine. She tried to ignore the ‘‘if only’s’’ running through her mind, but they persisted. If only the extra security had already arrived. If only she’d realized that she needed to wear her gun in the children’s nursery. If only they had considered the idea that Ron Kurtz might disguise himself as a woman. If only Torie hadn’t—as Matt put it—busted a gut.

  Regrets were a waste of time and energy, neither of which she could afford. Think, Annabelle. It was difficult to do with squirming, crying children in stereo.

  When the girls paused to suck in a breath, Annabelle heard a car coming up behind them. She glanced over her shoulder.

  ‘‘Don’t even think about it,’’ Kurtz said, stepping closer.

  Oh, she thought about it. Especially when the car slowed and a window came down. ‘‘Whoa, there,’’ said a man wearing a minister’s collar. ‘‘Somebody isn’t happy. Do you ladies need help with the little girls?’’

  Kurtz smiled and shook his head. Annabelle felt the gun barrel against her back. ‘‘No thanks,’’ she told the driver. ‘‘It’s nap time. They’ll be fine once they sleep.’’

  ‘‘Poor things. Those are Luke Callahan’s daughters, aren’t they? I went to high school with the Callahan brothers. I understand Matt’s wife had an emergency today.’’

  Kurtz pulled out his falsetto voice. ‘‘Yes, but thank heavens she’s doing great. If you’ll excuse us, sir. We truly do need to get these sweethearts down for their naps.’’

  ‘‘Certainly. Certainly. I need to move along, myself. I’m supposed to give Communion to Martha Howard in ten minutes and if I’m late, she’ll never let me hear the end of it. Y’all take care now.’’

  Annabelle tensed, visualized throwing Catherine through that open window as she kicked behind her and brought Ron Kurtz down. The car drove forward even as she decided, No, too risky.

  ‘‘Good job, Monroe. You get to live a little longer. Now, see that white van? That’s where we’re going.’’

  Annabelle licked her lips. She absolutely, positively couldn’t allow this killer to get them into the vehicle. As they crossed the hospital’s north-side parking lot toward the van parallel parked on the street, she glanced arou
nd, hoping to see something—anything— she could use to get the drop on him.

  She spied three vehicles slowly crossing the parking lot, two trucks and a black Cadillac. Out on the street where the van was parked, steady traffic rushed in both directions. SUVs. Fords. Nissans. A trash truck.

  A trash truck.

  Her gaze shifted to the Dumpster positioned beside the street some ten feet ahead of them. A metal Dumpster with a lid up. They’d pass it on the way to the van.

  Okay. Okay. It’ll have to do. Might be dangerous for the girls, but if we get into that van, we’re dead.

  She had no choice. Annabelle patted Catherine’s back, then slipped her hand lower onto the toddler’s diapered bottom. She slowed her steps. She’d have to time this just right. She needed to keep Ron Kurtz close.

  Almost . . . almost. Annabelle drew a deep breath, tensed her muscles, and said a quick prayer that neither twin would get hurt. ‘‘Yah-eee!’’ she yelled at the top of her lungs as she pitched Catherine into the Dumpster, and rounded on Kurtz with a hard, high kick.

  A gunshot sounded. Pinged off the metal. Her kick connected and she, Kurtz, and little Samantha went down.

  Kurtz held on to the gun.

  Mark blasted through the door from radiology into the emergency room, shouting his question as he ran toward the outside door. ‘‘Did a woman come through here? With two girls?’’

  The ER personnel looked up from their work with alarm. ‘‘Hold on there, mister.’’

  ‘‘Two down in the playroom. Gunshots. One is still alive. Did my wife come through here with my twin nieces?’’ He was almost out the door. ‘‘With a man?’’

  ‘‘With another woman,’’ someone called after him.

  Outside he paused long enough to survey the area. Nothing. Not headed for the helicopter like he’d thought. He looked right, then left. Kurtz had to have a car. He’d take them around back. Less traffic. Mark took off running again before he’d completed the thought.

  His feet pounded the pavement and he turned the corner at the back of the hospital and spied them. Walking. Alive. She carried one girl, Kurtz the other. Oh, God. Please, God.