by Cindi Myers
She opened her eyes and stared at him, her expression blank. He knew the moment memory of all that had happened returned. Her eyes filled with tears and she struggled to stand. “Carlo! They’ve got Carlo!” she gasped, her voice ragged with terror and pain.
Patrick urged her back into a sitting position. “Tell me exactly what happened,” he said.
“You have to go after them!” She gripped his arm, fingers digging painfully into his skin. “You have to get Carlo.”
He gently pried her hand off his arm and cradled it in his own. Her fingers were ice-cold. “They drove away in a car,” he said. “I promise I’ll do everything I can to track them down, but I need your help. The more you can tell me, the more I’ll have to use in my search.”
The devastation in her eyes touched him. Gone was the cold, uncooperative woman he’d interviewed at the police station. Now she was a mother grieving for her child. She slipped her hand from his grasp and touched the cut on her head. “He hit me with the butt of his pistol.”
Patrick found a washcloth and wet it from the tap, then pressed it against the gash. “Who was he? Did you recognize him?”
“No. I’m sure I never saw him before in my life. But he knew who I was. He called me Mrs. Giardino, and called Carlo by name, too.”
“And you’re sure you didn’t know him?”
“Nothing about him was familiar, but it was dark and I was asleep when they burst in. Everything happened so fast.” She slid her hand under his and took the washcloth. “What are you doing here? When did you get here?”
“I followed you here last night. I’m in the room next door.”
“You were spying on me.” Her eyes flashed with accusation—but that was better than the despair that had filled them seconds earlier.
“You ran away,” he said. “I wanted to see where you were going. Who you talked to.”
“How did you know where to find me? I didn’t see anyone I knew....”
“Your phone gives off a tracking signal even when it’s off.” He sat back on his heels and studied her for signs she might be going into shock. But color was returning to her cheeks and she seemed more alert. “I’m surprised Sam Giardino let you have a standard phone like that.”
“The men used throwaway phones, mostly, but they didn’t care about the women. We weren’t important enough for anyone to be concerned about where we were.”
He took out his own phone. “I’ll call the local police. They can put out an AMBER Alert. We might be able to stop them before they get very far.”
“No!” She clutched at his arm again. “No police. He said if the police came after them they’d kill Carlo.”
“If the police get to them quickly enough they won’t have time to hurt the boy.”
“No, please! I can’t risk it. He said at the first sign of the cops they would cut Carlo’s throat.” She choked back a sob, struggling to keep it together. “Can’t you go after them? You and I?”
“We’d have a much better chance of catching them with the police involved. An AMBER Alert will have everyone in the state looking for them.”
“They’ll see the notices on the news and Carlo will die!” Her voice rose, near hysterics.
He slid the phone back into his pocket. “I won’t call them just yet. Tell me anything else you remember. Even little details might be important.”
She nodded and scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hands. She’d taken off her makeup, so that she looked much younger. More vulnerable.
A gentle tapping sounded on the door. “Ms. Jackson? Are you all right?” someone asked.
“I’ll take care of this,” Patrick said. He rose and moved quickly to the door and peered through the peephole. The desk clerk stood on the other side, looking around nervously.
Patrick opened the door. “Is something wrong?” he asked.
“Oh!” The clerk looked startled. “I, uh, I thought this was Ms. Jackson’s room.” He frowned at the number on the next door over—Patrick’s room.
“Ms. Jackson is fine,” Patrick said. “What did you need?”
“One of the guests called the front desk and said they heard gunshots coming from this room.”
“They must have heard a car backfiring.” The lie came easily; no need to involve this clerk until Patrick had made up his mind how to handle this.
“They sounded really certain.”
“I think I’d know a gunshot, don’t you?”
“Of course. Of course.” He tried to see past Patrick, into the room. “And Ms. Jackson’s okay?”
“She’s fine. But she’s not dressed for company.” He winked and the clerk blushed red. No doubt the guy thought Patrick’s story about conducting surveillance on Stacy had been an elaborate cover for an affair.
“I’ll just, uh, get back to the front desk.” The young man backed away. “If you need anything, just, uh, call.”
Patrick shut the door and hooked the security chain, then returned to the bathroom. Stacy had moved from the shower to the toilet, where she sat on the closed lid, head in her hands. She looked up when he entered the room. “Who was that?”
“The front-desk clerk. Someone reported gunshots.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him it was probably a car backfiring.” He knelt in front of her. “Now tell me everything that happened.”
She took a deep breath. “When I woke up, he was already in the room. He must have had a key or something, because I never heard a thing. Carlo was sleeping beside me and the guy already had hold of him, pulling him out of bed. That’s what woke me.”
She put the washcloth back over the gash, which had slowed its bleeding. “I screamed and he ordered me to shut up. I was terrified, finding a guy in my room like that. ‘Who are you?’ I asked. ‘What are you doing with my son?’
“‘Carlo is coming with me, Mrs. Giardino,’ the guy said. ‘If you know what’s good for you, you won’t interfere.’”
The guy might as well have told the sun not to shine. “Was there anything distinctive about his voice? An accent or anything like that?”
She frowned. “Not really. I mean, he sounded American, but not from anyplace in particular. He told me if I called the police he would kill Carlo—that if anyone followed them, they’d cut his throat.” She bit her lip, fighting fresh tears.
“What did you do?” Patrick prompted.
“I tried to pull Carlo away from him. Carlo woke up and started crying. I wouldn’t let go of Carlo, so the guy hit me.” She winced, whether in real or remembered pain, Patrick couldn’t say. “I staggered back and he grabbed me and threw me in here, then ran out with Carlo. I heard more shooting in the parking lot.”
“He was firing at me. Your screaming woke me. I tried to stop him, but he was using Carlo as a shield. I couldn’t get off a good shot.”
“He wore a mask,” Stacy said. “A ski mask. I couldn’t see his face. But his voice didn’t sound familiar.”
“There were two of them,” Patrick said. “The driver was a big, bulky guy. The one who snatched Carlo was slighter. The car was a dark sedan with mud smeared across the license plate.”
“You saw them! Then you could find them.” Her eyes lit up with hope. “They won’t suspect you—you’re not in uniform, or driving a cop car. They probably don’t even know you’re here. I didn’t, so why should they?”
“Except they shot at me. And I shot back.”
“But they wouldn’t have gotten a good look at you. Please, Patrick. Say you’ll help me.”
Only a colder man than him could have been immune to the pleading in her eyes. He wanted to promise her that he’d find Carlo, and soon. That he would protect them both from whoever was threatening them. He wanted to make that promise, but the knowledge that he might not be ab
le to keep such a vow held back the words.
“Let’s go back to my room and take care of that cut on your head,” he said. “Then we’ll decide what to do.”
He found Stacy’s coat and purse and draped them over her shoulders, then steadied her while she slipped into her boots. The gash had stopped bleeding and though she’d probably have a heck of a headache for a while, he hoped the damage wasn’t more serious.
He led her to his room and shut the door behind them. She sat on the bed he hadn’t slept in. “You’ll be safer here with me,” he said.
“I wasn’t safe tonight. How did they find me?”
“If we can track you by your phone, they can, too.”
She stared at the purse on the bed beside her. “Should I destroy the phone?”
“Not yet. The kidnappers may try to reach you through that number.”
“Do they want money?” she asked. “Is that what this is about—ransom?”
“If they knew the Giardino family, they know Sam had money. Maybe they want to take advantage of his death to get their hands on some of it.”
“Then maybe they won’t hurt Carlo.” Fresh tears filled her eyes and she covered her mouth with her hand, as if to hold back sobs.
Patrick squeezed her shoulder. “I know it’s hard, but you need to pull yourself together. For Carlo’s sake.”
She nodded and made an effort to compose herself. He pulled out his phone again. “Who are you calling?” she asked.
“My office. I want to find out if anyone has noticed any unusual activity related to other people we’re tracking in this investigation.”
“You can’t tell them. The kidnapper said—”
“I won’t do anything I think will endanger Carlo. Why don’t you go into the bathroom and clean the rest of the blood off your face while I make the call.”
She glared at him, but stood and did as he asked. While she was out of the room, he’d talk to his supervisors about getting her into WITSEC right away—before the people who’d come after Carlo decided to come after her, too.
* * *
STACY STARED AT herself in the hotel bathroom mirror. She looked horrible—no makeup, blood matting her hair, an ugly bruise forming above her left eye. But what did it matter, with Carlo gone? Who would have taken him? Some enemy of the Giardinos, intent on revenge? Someone after money? She closed her eyes against the pounding in her head and tried to think, but her mind offered up no answers.
She debated eavesdropping on Marshal Thompson’s phone call, but she didn’t really want to hear what he had to say. And she needed to stay on his good side—he was the only one who could help her find Carlo. He’d seen the men who’d taken her boy, and he had weapons and a car and she presumed some training in tracking people. She wasn’t going to do better right now.
She told herself she ought to be angry he’d followed her to Durango, but if he hadn’t, she’d really be stuck with no one to turn to. And he’d been a decent enough guy. He’d listened to what she’d had to say and hadn’t tried to order her around as if he automatically knew what was best. That was a change from the men she was used to dealing with.
Not that he wasn’t all man. A woman would have to be half-dead not to notice those broad shoulders and muscular arms. He was taller and bigger than any of the Giardino men; she felt like a shrimp next to him. But that was okay. Being around him made her feel...safe. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time.
He knocked on the door as she was washing the last of the blood out of her hair. She grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her head, turban fashion, and opened the door. “What did they say?” she asked.
“They agreed we shouldn’t involve the local police. It might endanger the boy and it could jeopardize our investigation.”
“What investigation? You keep using that word, but what are you investigating—me?”
“Not you. In fact, I want to move you into WITSEC right away. When we find Carlo, we’ll bring him to you.”
“No.”
“I know you don’t like the idea, but it’s the best way to protect you and—”
“No. I’m not going anywhere until we know what happened to Carlo. When you find him, I’m going to be there.”
“I can’t track criminals with you in tow.”
“I’m not going to get in your way, and I can help.”
“How can you help?”
“I know how to shoot. I know how to keep quiet and stay out of the way and most of all—I know my child. In a tense situation, he’ll come to me and I can keep him calm.”
His mouth remained set in that stubborn line, his gaze boring into her, but she refused to let him intimidate her. She was through with men who tried to boss her around. “I won’t go into WITSEC,” she said. “If you don’t let me go with you, I’ll search for Carlo on my own.” With no car, no gun and not even a clear picture of where she was, searching on her own wasn’t a choice she wanted to make, but she could steal a car, buy a gun and read a map if she had to. She’d do whatever it took to find her boy.
“My first job is to protect you.”
“Then you can do that by taking me with you to look for Carlo. Now come on. We’re wasting time talking about it. We need to go after them.”
She tried to push past him, but he stopped her, one hand on her shoulder. “You can’t go out with wet hair. You’ll freeze.”
She pulled the towel from her head. “I don’t care about my hair. It can dry in the car.”
“You won’t be any good to Carlo, or to me, if you catch pneumonia.”
“Fine.” She turned and grabbed the hair dryer that hung by the sink. “But as soon as my hair is dry, we leave.”
She expected him to leave her to the task, but he remained in the doorway, reflected in the mirror, his gaze fixed on her. She tried to ignore him, but that was impossible; even if the mirror hadn’t been there, she could feel his eyes on her, sense his big, brooding presence just over her shoulder. Why had he said that, about her not being any good to him if she got sick? Did he really think she was such as important witness in his mysterious “investigation”? He certainly didn’t need her any other way.
Except maybe in the way men always seemed to need women, a traitorous voice in her head whispered. She shifted against an uncomfortable tightness in her lower abdomen, an awareness of herself not as mother, wife or daughter, but as a young, desirable woman. She’d buried that side of herself when she married Sammy Giardino—that it should resurface now astounded her. She’d heard of people who reacted to stress in inappropriate ways, for instance, by laughing at funerals. Was her response to tragedy and peril going to be this odd state of semiarousal? She couldn’t think of anything less appropriate, especially if she was getting turned on by some big brute of a cop.
She switched off the hair dryer and whirled to face him. “What are you staring at?” she asked.
She expected him to say something about her looks—to tell her she was pretty or sexy or a similar come-on. It was the sort of thing men always said, especially when they wanted to talk you into their bed. Instead, he straightened and uncrossed his arms. “I was thinking how wrong the Giardinos were to take you for granted,” he said, then, not waiting for an answer, he turned away.
She stared after him, confusion and pleasure warring in her. What some cop thought of her shouldn’t matter, but she wasn’t used to compliments—if, indeed, he’d meant the comment to be flattering. The fact that he saw past her physical presence to something in her character left her feeling off balance. She was used to people taking her for granted—not mattering to others was a kind of camouflage. It kept you safe. For this man to really see who she was past her skin felt daring and dangerous.
“Are you coming?” he called.
“Yes!” She grabbed up her coat and purse and followed
him across the parking lot to his car—a black SUV that looked like something a rich tourist would drive, not a federal agent. If Carlo’s kidnappers saw this vehicle behind them, they wouldn’t be suspicious.
“Don’t get your hopes up that this is going to work,” he said as she buckled her seat belt. “If these guys are pros, they’ve already switched cars and headed out of town.”
“But maybe they didn’t,” she said. “There isn’t much traffic this time of night. Maybe we’ll see them. They don’t expect anyone to come after them, so maybe they’ll be careless.”
“That’s a lot of maybes.” He started the engine and put the vehicle in gear. “But criminals have done dumber things.”
They turned onto the dark, deserted street and headed toward the highway. Streetlights shone on dirty snowbanks pushed up on the side of the road. They passed few cars; Stacy studied each one closely, but none contained anyone who looked like the man who had attacked her and taken Carlo.
They drove to the edge of town, then turned back and headed in the opposite direction. Patrick turned into a motel parking lot. “Look for a black sedan with mud on the plates,” he said. “It’s a long shot, but they may have holed up somewhere close.”
Scarcely daring to breathe, she leaned close to the window and studied each vehicle they passed: old trucks, new SUVs, brightly colored sports cars. But no black sedan.
They checked four more motels with the same results. Patrick cruised through a silent shopping center. “I think they’ve left town,” he said.
Profound weariness dragged at her. If she closed her eyes, she might fall asleep sitting up. Yet how could she sleep when Carlo was out there, frightened, held captive by strangers? “What do we do now?” she asked.
“We need a plan.” He turned the car back toward their motel. “And we need more clues.”
She took out her phone and stared at it, willing it to ring. “If they’d just call and tell us what they want,” she said.