“Because it’s not pinging,” he answered. “We tried. Someone’s removed the battery.” Or broke it. Which meant Joyce might be smarter than he’d thought.
Ky had taken the spot on the fender next to Eden. She curled her index finger for Tate to come closer. “Are you sure her mother’s at fault?” she asked, her voice lowered, “because honestly, all I’m picking up from Winslow is concern for her mom, not fear for herself.”
“I’m not sure of anything,” Tate admitted point blank, “but that’s how Winslow rolls. She’s kind and sweet, but she defends her mom every single time, no matter what Joyce does to her. And trust me, Joyce Parrish is not a nice person. She’s lied to her daughter about where she works, and she’s cruel to Winslow’s dog, at least she was before she dumped him. The problem with Winslow is she’s been under her mother’s thumb her whole life. She doesn’t have any friends and they’ve moved around a lot. She’s been sick most of that time, so I can’t blame her. Her mom’s point of view is all she knows.”
Blonde hair dripped over Eden’s shoulder. “So you think Winslow is caught in a toxic codependent relationship?”
Whatever that meant. Tate gritted his teeth, frustrated he didn’t have the masters in psychology that Eden did. “From what I’ve seen in the last twenty-four-hours, I think Joyce is... I don’t know, jealous of her daughter. It’s as if she needs Winslow to be sick.” He ran a hand over his scalp, growing more frustrated trying to explain the mother/daughter relationship he’d witnessed. People were a mystery he didn’t care enough to unravel, and words were not his friends. Talking with Winslow was easy in comparison to explaining his observations to Eden.
“It’s like the prom thing, Eden. Joyce didn’t set that up because Winslow wanted to go dancing. She didn’t know about it until the day before when her mom showed up with a dress and shoes.”
“But Winslow wanted to go to the prom after she met you, right? You did dance with her.” Eden said that like it was a good thing. She was doing it. Reading him. Revealing him.
Tate swallowed hard before he responded. “She wants to live so, yeah. I asked her to dance on the water tower. Just once and—”
“Water tower?” Eden asked, her fingers still tangled in the silky strands of that wig.
Tate chin nodded eastward. “Three blocks that way. The new Silver Spring water tower.”
A smile curved Eden’s lips. “That had to be some dance.”
He didn’t have to look at Ky to know his buddy’s brows had both just arced like the golden arches. So I danced. Get over it. “Joyce pitched a fit when Winslow took off last night,” he offered by way of distraction. “She told the television crew that someone kidnapped her daughter.”
“The media was here?” Eden asked. “Let me guess. Channel Thirteen. That stands to reason. They partner with the Dreams-Come-True people.”
Ky cocked his head. “Why’d her mom jump to that conclusion? How long was Winslow missing?”
Tate shrugged. “Maybe five, ten minutes.” Did mothers really envy their own kids?
Eden’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me more about Joyce.”
Tate growled. He’d already told Ky most of his suspicions, but retelling them brought everything into sharper focus. “Joyce lies,” he stated emphatically. “I’ve caught her several times. Winslow thinks she works at some spa as a beautician.” Tate knew that wasn’t the right word, but it escaped him at the moment. “But she doesn’t. Joyce barhops at a strip joint called Land’s End. She runs with some loser named Ike Pitt and another barhop, Janice. I don’t know her last name, but I’m pretty sure one of them tried to kill me when I was there earlier.”
“And like a bonehead, he won’t let me treat the bullet hole in his arm,” Ky intruded.
Tate shot him a dark look that meant shut the hell up. He’d patched the hole in his bicep. It wasn’t dripping. Case closed. But the more he lined up the mental pool table in his mind, the clearer the shots. “Up there on that tower last night, Winslow belted me a good one when I first came up behind her. I was afraid she was going to jump, so I grabbed her. Yeah, she’s thin, and you can tell by looking at her she’s running on empty, but she seemed healthy—at least healthier—last night.”
He rubbed his jaw remembering. “And get this. The ladder’s a good hundred steps from bottom to top, and that first step up is a good six-feet off the ground. She had to run and jump to reach the bottom rung, and it was cold and windy last night. That had to be a tough climb for a dying woman to make twice in one day.” What he wouldn’t give to have her back in his arms. He’d keep her warm.
“So you think she’s strong and capable,” Ky added. “Not sick? Are you sure she’s not faking it?”
“Absolutely. You should’ve seen her this morning. She seemed healthy last night, but today...” Tate bowed his head. The difference between Winslow’s health from last evening to this morning was cataclysmically different, but why? What happened between then and now? Was Winslow sick because she’d overdone it or because of all her meds?
Tate tapped a finger to his bottom lip, remembering. Joyce had also insisted Winslow was a vegetarian, but she wasn’t. Another lie. All he needed now was the eight ball in the corner pocket to run the table, but it—that final clue—was missing.
“I hate to tell you, but all I’m getting from Winslow at the moment is the sense that she’s given up.” Eden’s brows angled to a delicate V, her gaze on Tate. “She doesn’t want to hurt the people she loves any more, and she’s thinking about you, Tate. She wishes she could tell you that she... she loves you.”
God, kick me when I’m down. Tate jabbed his fingers into his pockets and stalked right up to Eden’s knees. “She only thinks she loves me because she’s naïve and in a bad spot. Where is she?”
Eden shook her head. “No, Tate. She wanted to spend the night with you, didn’t she?”
He admitted nothing. “We hit it off. Where is she?”
“She’s pretty sure you love her, but she also thinks you’re afraid to say it because she’s dying. That you’re afraid you’ll get hurt if you get too close to her.”
Hurt didn’t come close to how he’d feel if she died. He didn’t know when it happened, but he cared about Winslow more than he’d planned to. Her death would destroy him. Yeah. He wasn’t much different than Pepe in the craving, loving, I’ll-do-anything-for-Winslow department.
“She’s a very sick woman, Tate, but she came to life last night when you asked her to dance, didn’t she? That single act of kindness meant the world to her. She’s convinced that was the first time in her life that anyone truly cared whether she lived or died.”
Rrrriiiiiipppppppppp. There went his heart, torn to pieces and the bits tossed to the wind. Now the whole world knew how seriously stupid he was, him, a tough Marine falling in love with a tiny little woman after—hell, less than a day. Because that was precisely what had happened, but did he have the balls to tell Winslow how he felt when he’d had the chance? No, damn it. Like that other woman years ago, he’d let this one down too.
To make matters worse, Tucker had come up behind Tate and now he’d heard everything. What could Tate say or do? Nod like he’d gone mute? He growled instead. “Where the hell is…?”
Tucker cut him off. “Yeah, Eden, where are we going? Don’t keep this man waiting.”
“I’m not sure, Boss,” Eden replied steadily, her eyes still on Tate. “I’m picking up a mishmash of strange patterns from her. It’s as if she’s coherent one moment, the next she’s struggling with something, her guilt most of all. Honestly, I think she believes it’d be better for everyone if she died.”
Eden’s gift: The ability to hone in on a victim despite the miles between that person and her, and now, to make Tate feel like crap. She was doing a bang up job. One more sucker punch like that last one and he’d go ballistic.
“Where is she?” Tate asked One. Last. Time. Just tell me.
Ky chimed in. “I’m catching a drift of antiseptic
and bleach. Men’s cologne, so there’s a male in close proximity to Winslow. A tinge of blood like she bit her lip. She might be in a hospital or a clinic.”
Tate whirled on his brother. “You can?”
Ky’s nose wrinkled. “Yes, I can psychically pick up on smells and odors at a distance. Tastes. Stuff like that. Sometimes it corroborates what Eden’s honing in on. Don’t go psycho on me.”
But Eden hadn’t honed in on anything but feelings so far. As if she sensed Tate’s desperation, she lifted a handful of Winslow’s silky black hair to her nose and closed her eyes. One minute passed. Two. Tate held his breath. Eden he trusted.
Without opening her eyes, Eden said, “Ky’s right. She’s in a medical facility but not a hospital. She’s due north of our location, but she’s invisible to the eye. She’s hidden in plain sight. Most people would walk by the place and not realize what it is. I see a sign in the lower left pane of the front window. But I can’t make it out.”
Chapter Seventeen
“There, there,” Joyce said, patting Winslow’s arm. “It will all be over soon.”
Winslow believed it. Her lungs burned with what felt like crippling acid instead of air sacs. Her heart faltered, skipping to an irregular beat then running too fast, here at the end of time. “Mom,” she rasped, struggling to reach her mother’s arm. “I’m sorry.”
Joyce shrugged out of reach. “I know, but it’s done. I tried my best, now just lay there and be still.”
But Winslow had more to say. “I wish I’d been born… different. You know. Stronger. Healthier.”
“Stop talking,” Joyce murmured. “If this doesn’t work, we’ll head out to the West Coast. You’d like a road trip, wouldn’t you?”
That made no sense. “A road trip? Now?” If what doesn’t work? “Why are we going on a road trip?” In a way, that was kind of sweet, taking a road trip to—die. Maybe she could die on a mountaintop at day’s end, watching the sunset like they did in the movies. Or on a beach with the wind in her nose and the screech of seagulls overhead while the waves lapped over her lifeless body. Anything would be better than lying in this hospital bed and waiting.
“Because Oregon, California, and Washington have assisted suicide laws,” Joyce said sweetly. “If we can’t make it that far, there’s always Colorado.” She spoke out of the corner of her mouth to some blurry figure at her side. “You can get a license there, can’t you? Oh, Vermont too? You’re right, closer is better.”
“W-what?” Winslow shook her head, fighting to make sense of this crazy conversation. Was someone else in the room? If so, she couldn’t see them through her daze. “Assisted suicide? Mom, no. You can’t do that. Do you hear me?” Suicide was never the answer.
“I hear you, but it’s time to finish what I started in Arizona all those years ago. You know. It’s time to move on. To begin anew. A time to be born, a time to die, and all that jazz.”
Winslow struggled to swallow, sure she was hearing things. “Why are you giving up? Because I’m sick? D-dying? Please Mom, don’t do this. You have to go on after I’m... after I’m...” It was so hard to say the words. Dead. Buried. Gone. “You can make a new life for yourself after... it. I know you can. You’re a survivor. Things will be easier for you without…” Me.
This crazy argument was breaking what was left of Winslow’s heart. First she’d lost Pepe, then Tate. Now her mom was planning to kill herself? If there were an easier way to die, she’d gladly do it and spare everyone she loved this misery.
Joyce leaned into Winslow’s face as if she needed to be sure Winslow saw and heard every last word. “Oh, I’m not giving up, Winslow darling. You are.”
“Will you stop pacing? I’ve already set things in motion,” Tucker reassured Tate.
Eden hadn’t yet pinned down an address, but Tate was tired of waiting. “What’s that mean?”
“That I’ve got a six-man team canvassing the neighborhood, knocking on doors, and already looking for Winslow. There’s an APB on the wire for Joyce Parrish’s vehicle. We’ll find her.”
“It’s a blue hatchback,” Tate added.
“Understood, and I’ve got a crew checking every security cam this side of the Potomac.” Tucker’s gaze scrolled to Ky’s wife, still sitting on the hood of the Jeep. “You’re certain Winslow’s north of our location?”
Eden nodded. “She was. I can’t get a clear picture now. Like I said, her brain patterns are all over the place.”
Tate cursed under his breath. Joyce could be in West Virginia by now for all he knew. He clapped Ky on the shoulder and headed for his Jeep. “Time to move, Eden. I’m going hunting.”
Instead of arguing, Tucker nodded. “Isaiah, go with him. Take the neighborhood due north. Ky and Eden, canvass the neighborhood northwest of Maple. Keep in touch.”
“What if she comes back?” Tate asked, his cell buzzing at his hip holster. “Shouldn’t someone stay here?”
Just then everything went sideways. Everyone’s cell phones chirped or buzzed with incoming alerts.
“Higgins,” he answered, his gaze riveted on Tucker as all agents answered the same callout from the FBI switchboard. “Be advised. Maryland PD is in pursuit of a vehicle matching your description. Subject is traveling eastbound on Woodrow Wilson Bridge at a high rate of speed.”
“Copy that,” Tate echoed his teammates. This nightmare could be over with once that Maryland police officer caught up with Joyce. But the WWB was south of their location, not north. What was wrong with Eden’s gift? Had Joyce outsmarted her? Was she on the run?
Tucker glared at him. “You’re not going near that bridge.”
Like hell I’m not. Tate no more than squared his shoulders than his phone buzzed an update. “Be advised the vehicle is in the water. Maryland Highway Patrol and Coast Guard are on the scene. No FBI assistance requested at this time.”
In the water? As in the river?
“Move it, Eden,” Tate ordered as he scrambled into his Jeep. Lead foot to the pedal. Screeching tires. He couldn’t get away from Maple fast enough. Over the Potomac. Dodging busy Saturday traffic to get through Alexandria, Virginia, to the WWB. By the time he hit the George Washington Memorial Highway, he was halfway there and going out of his mind. He checked his rearview for that red Challenger. Sure enough. The Grim Reaper was riding shotgun and the Devil was on his ass.
Faster!
The Woodrow Wilson Bridge was a phenomenal engineering feat, a drawbridge that spanned the Potomac between Alexandria, Virginia, and Maryland. But for a small car like the Spark to have gotten over those guardrails, the driver had to have been traveling damned fast.
It couldn’t have been Joyce. Just frickin’ could not. Eden had placed her north of Maple, not south. WWB was in the opposite direction. All Tate could think was getting to Winslow as fast as he could. Before she drowned. God, maybe she was the one who’d been driving. Maybe this was her way of ending herself.
Gridlock. Damn it! He two-fisted the steering wheel, a cocktail of fear, desperation and anger in his veins, driving him as he glared at the lanes of deadlocked traffic ahead.
Of course, gridlock. The eastbound lanes leading onto the bridge were closed because of the accident. Pulling off the highway, Tate grabbed the first available open parking space in a strip mall and took off running. If Tucker meant to follow, he’d better be in good shape.
Tate cleared the distance in record time. Finally at the scene and his lungs on fire, he caught his first view of the bedlam. Emergency vehicles blocked all traffic lanes. Fire engines, EMTs, police cruisers from both sides of the river blocked the bridge. The Coast Guard had divers in the water, and Tate’s heart sank. No one told him to stand back once he’d flashed his FBI badge, but there was no way to help Winslow now, other than taking a seventy-foot plunge that would rob manpower from the search for her and divert it to his sorry ass.
What could he do but stare over the guardrail at the point of the breach and pray like he’d prayed all those years ago? De
ar Baby Jesus, let her live. Take me. I’m ready and I’m willing, but please. Let her live.
“Survivors?” he barked at the nearest officer on the scene, fearing the worst.
“None so far,” the man replied evenly.
“Witnesses?” Someone had to have seen what happened and who’d been driving that vehicle.
The officer looked up from his tablet long enough to point at the Toyota Camry parked across the concrete divider in the westbound lanes. “Mr. Hamilton over there saw the driver make a hard right from the passing lane. From all we know—”
“Was a woman behind the wheel? Short, dark hair? Thin?” With narrow mean eyes and a nasty temper?
“How’d you know?”
Sucker punch. Murder/suicide?
Tate couldn’t answer, not with his heart splattered to the pavement at his boots. Why would Joyce do this? How could she kill herself and her daughter? Why hadn’t he seen her breakdown coming, if that’s what this was, sooner? How many times had he heard of cases like this, where loved ones took drastic measures to end their suffering spouse or child’s life, rather than watching them die? I should’ve known this could happen.
The whole damned universe narrowed into a spinning vortex that arrowed down on him, pressing him under karma’s wicked boot heel. Tate gripped the guardrail, needing something to hold onto before he passed out or threw up. How dumb was he that he’d missed all the signs? Why hadn’t he taken action sooner or done something—anything!—to save Winslow from her mother?
He bowed his head and closed his eyes to make the nausea climbing up his throat back off. But he couldn’t catch a breath. This was just like—then. He could still see her pretty dark eyes. They always twinkled as if she knew a secret. Soft and brown like his used to be, only at the end, hers were filled with the terror of that one misstep. That one mistake he could never correct.
It could’ve happened to anyone and not been fatal. Yet her fingertips had stretched for his and curled like claws, trying to grab hold of him, but clenching only air. His strong, capable and totally useless hands, as hard as he’d tried, had remained too far away to latch onto and save—her. The backward fall. Shit, the bloody touchdown. The gut-busting wail he’d sent heavenward to a God who seemed to pick and choose whom to save and whom to let—die.
Joker Joker (The Deuces Wild Series Book 2) Page 13