by Cindi Myers
“What if they have dogs?”
“They aren’t likely to be roaming around away from the house in this cold. We’ll be on the lookout when we get closer. Are you ready?”
“Yes. Let’s go.”
He led the way down the snow-packed trail. Their tracks would have been clearly visible to anyone who passed by, but there was no way he could think of to hide their passage in the fresh snow. He set a brisk pace, but soon slowed as Stacy fell farther and farther behind. He stopped and waited for her to catch up. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I—”
He put a finger to his lips and shook his head, then handed her a bottle of water. She drank, then he drank and replaced the bottle in the pack and patted her shoulder. You’re doing great, he wanted to tell her. Instead, he gave her a thumbs-up and indicated they should move on.
He shortened his steps and she was better able to match his pace. The track emerged from the woods into open pasture and the drifts grew deeper, their shoes sinking into the soft, untrodden snow. Clearly, no one had passed this way in some time—a good indication that the feds had overlooked this route, too.
After about half an hour they saw the glow from the lights of the house, then they rounded a curve in the trail and spotted the house itself, surrounded by half a dozen outbuildings—horse stalls, a garage and storage sheds. Patrick stopped and she halted behind him, close enough he could hear her labored breathing.
He waited, listening for the barks of dogs or the rev of an engine, for shouts or voices or any indication that they’d been spotted. He pulled the binoculars from the inside of his jacket and scanned the area, wishing for the night-vision goggles he’d used in the military. Still, the outside security lights provided enough illumination for him to determine that the area was deserted.
They were going to have to get a lot closer to the house to find the boy. He touched Stacy’s shoulder and indicated they should remove their snowshoes.
Snowshoes discarded and poles laid aside, he started toward the house, keeping to the shadows, stepping in snow to his knees. Stacy literally followed in his footsteps. Though the snow made for slow going, it also muffled the sound of their approach. The house remained silent, undisturbed by their presence.
He stopped at the edge of the clearing, about a hundred yards from the side of the house, giving them a view of both the front and back yards. Nothing moved, and the only sounds were the hum of what must be a furnace and the rough inhalation and exhalation of their own breath.
Stacy tugged on his arm and he bent to her. She put her mouth against his ear. “The curtains are all closed,” she said. “How are we going to know which room Carlo is in? And how are we going to get to him?”
His original plan had been to hunker down and watch the house until he had a feel for the layout, but arriving so late, they could sit here all night and be no better informed in the morning than they were now. And the longer they stayed, the greater the risk of someone spotting the Jeep or seeing their tracks heading toward the house.
He turned and led her back down the trail until they were far enough away from the house he was sure they wouldn’t be heard. “We’ll have to get inside,” he said.
“How? The doors will be locked, and there will be guards.”
“I can pick a lock. But I don’t think there will be guards.”
“Sam always had bodyguards,” she said.
“But Abel isn’t Sam. He’s a rancher, not a mobster. And there aren’t enough vehicles for very many people to be here. That garage holds two cars, at most, and the only other car is that old truck by the shed—and it’s covered in snow, as if it hasn’t been driven in weeks.”
“Maybe they’re parked somewhere else.”
“Maybe so, but why go to all that trouble? This is Abel’s home. He feels safe here. If he does have guards, they’re probably up by the main gate—the only way in this time of year.”
“It’s still taking a huge risk.”
“Would you rather we went away and left Carlo in there?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Good. Then follow me inside. Stick close and don’t make a sound. From what I could see, there’s a front door, a side door opening to the walkway to the garage and a back door that probably opens into a kitchen or a mudroom.”
“That’s all I saw, too.”
“We’ll try the back door first. If we hear anything, we’ll move to another door, or a window.”
“What do we do when we find Carlo?”
“If he’s alone, we’ll sneak him out the same way we came in. If he isn’t alone, I’ll take care of the guard and you look after Carlo. If we’re separated, meet up back at the Jeep.”
“All right.” She hesitated, then stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For everything.”
She should wait and thank him when her boy was safe, but he didn’t tell her that, merely patted her shoulder then turned to lead the way up to the house. He’d deliberately downplayed the risk of what they were about to do, in order not to frighten her, but he had no such delusions. It would take all his skills—and a great deal of luck—to come out of this unscathed.
* * *
STACY FOLLOWED PATRICK out of the shadows onto the pristine expanse of snow behind the ranch house. Their footsteps made dark holes in the snow, like a row of ellipses leading across the yard. At the bottom of the steps they halted and listened. The furnace shut off abruptly and she strained her ears, listening. From somewhere deep inside the house came the sound of voices, followed by the buzz of canned laughter—the television.
Patrick wiped his feet on the bottom steps and brushed the bottoms of his trousers, trying to remove as much snow as possible. She did the same. His eyes met hers and he nodded, then started up the steps.
The knob turned easily in his hand. Maybe he’d been right about Abel not thinking like a criminal; Sam would never have left a door unlocked, especially not at night.
Her heart hammered painfully as he eased open the door, then slipped inside, moving gracefully despite the bulky pack on his back. A few seconds later, he beckoned for her to follow.
A light over the stove cast a dim glow over scuffed red linoleum floors and white Formica countertops. A dish drainer with four plates, four forks, three glasses and a coffee cup sat beside the sink. She felt a jolt of elation as she counted the dishes. If one of the sets belonged to Carlo, that meant they had only three adults to deal with.
A door from the kitchen led into a darkened dining room. Patrick stopped to one side of the doorway and pulled her alongside him. From here they could look into the living room, where a man and an older woman sat in two armchairs in front of a large flat-screen television. She scanned the room for some sign of Carlo but found none.
They retreated to the kitchen and moved to a second door, which opened into a cramped hallway and a flight of stairs leading straight up. Patrick started up them, keeping close to the railing. She did the same, trying to make each step as light and soundless as possible.
At the top of the stairs they stopped again to listen. A commercial came on the television advertising a fast-food chain. “Is there any more of that ice cream?” a man’s voice asked.
“In the freezer,” a woman answered. “Get me a bowl, too.”
Stacy clung to the stair railing, feeling dizzy. Floorboards creaked below them as the man moved from the living room into the kitchen, where only seconds before, he would have found them. Light poured out from the room as he flicked the switch and she couldn’t breathe. Would he notice anything out of place in the room? Despite their best efforts, had they tracked snow inside?
Patrick’s hand on her arm forced her attention back to him. He indicated they should continue down the hallway to the left of the stairs. On tiptoe, she followed, toward a door beneath which a
light glowed.
The light in the kitchen went out as they reached the doorway that must lead to a bedroom. Patrick put his ear to the door, and she moved past him to do the same.
A woman was speaking. Stacy gasped as she recognized Where the Wild Things Are, one of Carlo’s favorite books. “‘Oh, please don’t go—we’ll eat you up—we love you so!’”
“That’s my favorite part,” a little boy answered.
Stacy bit her thumb to keep from crying out. Patrick put a steadying hand on her shoulder. She nodded, though it took everything in her not to burst in and grab her child to her. She looked to Patrick, her eyes pleading. What do we do? she mouthed.
He gestured they should wait.
The minutes dragged as she listened to the woman finish reading the story. Had the book really been so long when she’d read it? When Max was finally safely home the woman pronounced, “The end.”
“Read it again,” Carlo said when she was done. The way he always did when Stacy read that story to him.
“It’s time for you to go to sleep now,” the woman said.
“Will I see Mommy tomorrow?” Carlo asked.
Stacy let out a moan—she couldn’t help it. Patrick gripped her shoulder more tightly and she nodded.
“Maybe your mommy will come tomorrow,” the woman said. “Now close your eyes and go to sleep.”
“I want a drink of water first.”
Patrick stiffened and moved to the other side of the door. Stacy stepped farther into the shadows on her side.
Steps crossed the room, then the doorknob turned and a shaft of light fell on the hallway floor. A short, middle-aged woman with long gray hair stepped out into the hallway. Before Stacy could even blink, Patrick clamped his hand over the woman’s mouth and carried her into the bathroom across the hall. Stacy slipped into the bedroom.
“Mama!” Carlo shouted.
“Shh! Shh!” She put her fingers to her lips and rushed to him. “You have to be very quiet,” she said. “I don’t want Uncle Abel to know I’m here.”
The boy frowned. “Why not?”
“It’s a surprise.” She tucked the blanket from his bed around him and gathered him into her arms. He wore blue flannel pajamas with little fire trucks on them and she could smell toothpaste on his breath. “I’ve missed you so much,” she whispered, hugging him tightly.
“I’ve missed you, too. Where have you been?”
“Shh. We can’t talk now. Now, promise me you’ll be very, very quiet. A friend and I are going to take you snowshoeing in the woods. Won’t that be fun?”
“But it’s dark.” He looked toward the window. “And it’s cold.”
“Please, baby, it will be all right, I promise. Just be quiet and do what Mommy tells you.”
“Uncle Abel and Grandma Willa won’t like it,” he said.
She hesitated. How could she explain the danger to a three-year-old? “No, they won’t like it,” she said. “And if they catch Mommy here with you, they might hurt us both. So it’s very important that we sneak away without them knowing.”
Unfortunately, this information only confused the boy more. “But Uncle Abel told me you were coming to see me soon. And he promised to take me for a ride on one of his horses.”
“Maybe you can do that soon.” She tucked the blanket more firmly around him. “Do you have snow boots?”
“Downstairs.”
They didn’t have time to search downstairs for boots. She settled for pulling a pair of socks over his bare feet.
The bedroom door opened and Patrick stuck his head in. “We need to go,” he whispered.
“Carlo, this is my friend, Patrick,” Stacy said. “He’s going snowshoeing with us.”
Carlo’s eyes widened. “He’s big.”
“Hello, Carlo,” Patrick said. “Will you let me carry you?”
Carlo shook his head and clung to his mother.
“I’d better take him for now,” she said.
He held the door open wider and motioned for her to go ahead of him.
The kitchen was still dark and the television still blared as they made their way down the stairs. Carlo squirmed and buried his head against Stacy’s shoulder, but didn’t say a word. She pulled the blanket up over his head and stepped carefully down the stairs. Only a few more steps and they’d be out of the house, halfway to safety.
At the bottom of the stairs, Patrick moved ahead of her. He kept one hand in his pocket and she was sure he was holding his gun. She wondered what he’d done with the babysitter but would have to wait to ask him.
They crossed the kitchen, but when he pulled on the door, it refused to yield. He turned the knob back and forth, but the door wouldn’t budge.
“I remembered to lock it this time,” said a voice behind him. “Now turn around, slowly. And keep your hands where I can see them.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Uncle Abel, you weren’t supposed to see us.” Carlo’s childish voice broke the silence of the adults, reminding Patrick of all that was at stake here, far beyond his own safety.
“Your uncle Abel is smarter than some people think,” the older man said. He was clearly cut from the same mold as Sam Giardino, with the same putty nose and jowly chin, more fleshy and older looking than his brother, who had relied on plastic surgery and expensive spa treatments to maintain his youthful looks.
Abel gestured with his pistol. “Young man, take that gun out of your pocket and lay it on the counter there.”
Patrick did as he asked.
“I won’t let you take my son.” Stacy shifted Carlo to one hip and glared at the old man.
“Your son is a Giardino. He belongs with family.” The old woman moved slowly into the kitchen, pushing a walker in front of her. Her sparse gray hair was cut short like a man’s and her spine was bent thirty degrees, but her voice was strong and her eyes blazed with determination.
“He belongs with his mother,” Stacy declared.
The old woman’s mouth twisted into an expression of disgust. “Sam never should have let his son marry you. I knew as soon as I saw you at the wedding that you had no respect for the family. You were trash he never should have bothered picking up.”
Stacy drew herself up taller, eyes sparking. If not for the boy in her arms, Patrick thought she might have flown at the woman. “Your family doesn’t deserve my respect,” she said.
The old woman dismissed her with a wave and turned to her son. “Get rid of the man and we’ll deal with her later.”
“I want to know who he is first.” Abel jabbed the gun at Patrick. “Who sent you?”
“Nobody sent me,” Patrick said. “I agreed to help Stacy retrieve her son.”
“I told you, I’m not stupid.” He waved the gun threateningly. “You’re that marshal assigned to protect her. Thompson.”
Patrick didn’t allow his expression to betray his surprise. No one was supposed to know where Stacy had been since Sammy’s death—or who she was with. Though maybe he had heard the speculation in the news. “My job is to keep her and the boy safe,” he said. “I don’t care about anything else.”
“As if I’d believe that. You work for the feds. Though you’ve got more nerve than most of them, coming right into my house.”
“He’s telling the truth,” Stacy said. “He’s only here to help me. Let us go and we’ll leave you alone.”
“Shut up,” the old woman snapped. “I told you, we’ll deal with you later.”
“I have something that belongs to you,” Patrick said. “Maybe we can agree to an exchange—the boy and Stacy for what I have.”
“What do you have that belongs to me?”
“I have the fifty thousand dollars.”
The old man arched one eyebrow. “Fifty thousand dol
lars that belongs to me? And where did you get that?”
“The two men you sent after us in the canyon had it.”
“Those two idiots,” Willa said. “I told Abel that was a bad idea. He thought we should get you out of the way and bring Stacy here by herself. You were doing fine getting here on your own without those two interfering, and we could have dealt with you when you arrived. But he doesn’t listen to his mother.”
Stacy stared at the old woman. Patrick could read her thoughts from the expression on her face—was the old lady for real?
“You probably think fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money to a man like me,” Abel said.
“Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money to most people,” Patrick said.
“Not to my brother. If you offered fifty thousand dollars to Sam, he’d take it as an insult.”
“I’m not offering the money to your brother,” Patrick said. “I’m offering it to you.”
“What do you think, Mother? Are those two worth fifty thousand dollars?”
“She isn’t worth fifty cents to me, but she’s not getting the boy for any price.”
“Carlo is my son,” Stacy said. “You have no claim on him.”
“Stacy,” Patrick said. He gave her a warning look. They had nothing to gain by antagonizing these people.
She bit her lip and gave a single nod to show she understood, then rested her head against Carlo’s. He whispered something to her and she replied, then smoothed her hand down his back.
“Give me the money,” Abel demanded, a new, harder edge to his voice.
“It isn’t here,” Patrick said. “You let Stacy and Carlo go and once they’re safely away, I’ll take you to the money.”
“And then what am I supposed to do with you?” Abel grinned, showing a missing incisor. “I could kill you, but then I could do that anyway.”
“Patrick, no!” Stacy said. “I won’t leave without you.”
“So that’s how it goes, is it?” Abel’s expression darkened. “My nephew not cold in his grave and you’ve taken up with a fed.”