For the Love of Pete

by Julia Harper

  “Zoey, it’s me. It’s okay. It’s Dante.”

  She dropped the plunger and scrambled from the tub, nearly falling on the cold, slick floor tiles. “Dante?”

  “Yeah, bella, it’s me.”

  “Dante, oh, God, Dante.” She was fumbling with the lock on the door, a flimsy little thing that wouldn’t have held off anyone, let alone a bunch of killers, but she couldn’t get it open. Her eyes were flooded with tears that she couldn’t stop, couldn’t control.

  “Bella?” His voice was hoarse, weary.

  Pete let out another banshee yell from the tub.

  “I-I’m sorry, I’ve almost got it.”

  Her fingers slipped on the latch, and then it suddenly sprung open. She opened the door and half fell into Dante’s arms.

  “Oh, God, I thought they’d killed you. I didn’t know what to do, and Pete started having a tantrum, and I couldn’t quiet her, and all I could find was a plunger. I tried, Dante, I tried.”

  “Hush,” he said in his husky voice. “It’s okay, I’ve got you now.”

  Her hands slid across his chilly, wet waist, and then he was kissing her, his lips cold, the stubble on his cheeks scraping her chin. And she didn’t care. He was alive.

  They were all alive.

  He shuddered and pulled her against him, and even with Pete screaming her lungs out in the background, Zoey was aware that they were both nude. She’d grabbed a blanket when she’d run, but it was still in the tub with Pete.

  She pulled back a little, bringing up her hand to stroke his cheek. “I don’t think—”

  She stopped. There was blood on his cheek. She turned her hand to look and the blood was all over her palm.

  Oh, God. “Dante . . .”

  She looked down. Blood was streaked from his waist to his knees, long rivulets running through the hair on his calves and dripping to the floor. There was a dark, ragged gash just over his waist.

  “It’s okay,” Dante said.

  No, this quite obviously wasn’t okay. For a moment she felt dizzy. Then she blinked and made herself think. “Sit down. No, better lie down.”

  “Here?” he asked.

  She looked at him fiercely. “Do you want to fall and hit your head?”

  His exhausted eyes widened. “No, ma’am.”

  Zoey strode to the tub and snatched up the blanket, laying it on the floor of the bathroom. “Here.”

  Dante groaned as he lowered himself to the blanket. Next to him in the tub, Pete went into a paroxysm of grief and rage. She had pulled herself up to stand, holding on to the edge of the tub, and now she flung herself against the side of the tub, screaming.

  “Uh, shouldn’t you pick her up?” Dante asked from the floor.

  “Just a minute.”

  Normally, she didn’t let Pete cry, but at the moment, Pete wasn’t the priority. Zoey slammed through the linen closet in the bathroom, gathering supplies. She whirled and piled a set of fluffy, natural-colored towels on top of Dante. They looked expensive and would be ruined by the blood, but she just didn’t give a damn.

  She handed him another towel, folded into a square. “Press this to the wound and wait here,” she said breathlessly and scooped a still-screaming Pete out of the bathtub.

  She ran to the bathroom door, Pete on her hip, and stopped. Zoey glanced at Dante on the floor. “You’re sure no one’s down there?”

  “Yes.” He looked up at her with steady bitter-chocolate eyes. “Trust me.”

  She nodded, lips pressed together. Outside on the landing above the main room, everything looked normal. The pile of bedding in front of the fire was crumpled and thrown aside where they’d left it in their haste. Early morning sunlight, bluish and weak, was illuminating the room.

  Pete bellowed into her ear as Zoey ran down the stairs. It wasn’t until Zoey got to the bottom of the stairs that she saw the blood. A puddle of blood lay on the tiles, as if someone had stood there and poured blood from a pitcher. There was a streak to one side, leading toward the front door. It looked like a body had been dragged outside. Zoey was frozen for a moment by the sight. Then Pete arched her back and tangled a fist in her hair.

  “Ouch!” Zoey muttered. “Stop that, you little fiend.”

  She turned her back on the blood and hurried to the pile of bedding. She had to set Pete down for a second as she rummaged through the fabric. The baby flung herself down again, screaming as Zoey pulled her sweatshirt over her head and stepped into the pair of silk long john bottoms she’d had on the night before.

  She grabbed Pete and strode into the kitchen. She’d been tending to Pete the night before and had never got the chance to look in the walk-in pantry. A chair was shoved beneath the doorknob. She stared at it a second, but Dante had said everything was safe. She removed the chair and pulled open the stainless-steel and blond wood door. There were shelves running up to the ceiling. A newish-looking step stool stood in the corner to aid in reaching the top shelves. Unfortunately, though, most were bare. There was a row of condiment bottles—ketchup, Worcestershire sauce, soy sauce, three different barbecue sauces—and a bunch of cans. Pete’s crying had died a little bit, but her voice still echoed off the ceiling. She had her hand stuck in her mouth as she wailed. Zoey patted her absently as she stood on tiptoe to look over the cans. In the very back there was a box. Could it be?

  Zoey reached for the box. “Look what I found.”

  Pete blinked tear-stained eyes and stopped midwail to reach for the box of cheese crackers.

  Zoey took her out to the kitchen and set her on the floor with the open box. There hadn’t been any bandages in the upstairs bathroom, and now she made a quick check of the kitchen cupboards. Nothing. If she didn’t find any antibiotic she could just wash the wound with soap and water, but she’d feel better with some bandages. She hurried into the downstairs bath just off the kitchen. The mirrored vanity was empty except for a single toothbrush. She stooped to look under the sink. Ha! There sat a first-aid kit still in plastic shrink-wrap.

  She scooped it up and ran out to the kitchen, where Pete had her entire arm stuck into the box of cheese crackers. The baby squawked when Zoey picked her up, but she quieted quickly enough when Zoey snagged the box of crackers, too. Hauling baby, crackers, and first-aid box, she ran up the stairs.

  To her relief, Dante was still conscious when she rushed into the bathroom.

  “Hey,” he said from the floor. “You’re dressed.”

  “I thought it best,” she muttered as she plopped Pete back in the bathtub. It made a nice makeshift playpen so she could concentrate on Dante.

  “I think the bleeding’s stopped,” he said. His voice was matter-of-fact, but his face was pale under his naturally swarthy skin.

  “Thank God,” Zoey muttered.

  She knelt beside him and for a moment felt overwhelmed. They were out in the middle of nowhere and had just been attacked. Someone had shot Dante. And even if they could call an ambulance or the police, there wasn’t any guarantee that an ambulance could get through the snow. She’d never felt so isolated in her life.

  “It’s okay,” Dante said softly. Some of her panic must’ve shown on her face. “It looks kind of bad, but it’s just a graze. I’m not in shock and I’m not going to die. All you have to do is bandage me up. You can do it. I have faith in you, Zoey.”

  Her gaze met his. His eyes were dark brown and pain-filled. He seemed to be saying something else, something with a deeper meaning than his words. It was significant, she knew, what he was trying to communicate. His trust was a symbol of something more important.

  She inhaled. She wasn’t sure she was ready for what he was telling her with just his eyes, wasn’t sure she was even worthy of his trust. Maybe her own uncertainty didn’t matter. He stared back at her, his eyes unblinking, his faith unwavering.

  It was kind of shattering, actually, to have this much certainty laid at her feet.

  Zoey swallowed. “Okay.”

  Which was a silly, childish thing to s
ay in the face of his declaration. But it seemed to satisfy him. He nodded and finally veiled his disconcerting gaze. He turned his head, closing his eyes.

  And as Zoey tore the plastic wrap from the first-aid kit, she wondered what exactly she’d agreed to.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Sunday, 7:58 a.m.

  This man is insane, I think,” Pratima Gupta whispered to her sister-in-law.

  “Insane?” Savita-di hissed back. “It is obvious that he is completely potty.”

  “Quiet,” the potty man said in a voice that was disconcertingly soft. “Or I will cut your nose off.”

  Savita-di inhaled sharply, her lips pressed together in disapproval. Pratima thought it wise to nudge her sister-in-law in the ribs. Savita-di could be quite imprudent at times, and she would not look at all good with her nose missing.

  In the corner, Mr. Neil Senior grunted. He could not do much more than grunt, because he had been trussed like a goat ready to slaughter and a thick cloth gag had been inserted in his mouth. Over the gag, Mr. Neil’s eyes rolled rather wildly.

  The potty man, meanwhile, had gone back to what he’d been doing before. What he’d been doing all night long, in fact. Sitting in the lone armchair, stroking a very big gun and now and again smiling. It was rather disconcerting how he seemed quite content to do nothing else but fondle his nasty gun and smile.

  He was not a tall man for an American—maybe Pratima’s own height. His hair was a very light blond, cut quite close to his head. Usually such a color was caused by bleaching the hair, but Pratima thought that the color might be natural in this man. He had the ruddy complexion of a northern European, his face full of sharp angles and hard edges that really did not complement each other well. And to top it all off, he had clear gray eyes that were as cold as granite.

  Pratima sat next to Savita-di on one of their motel-room beds. They’d been sitting thus since the evening before, and very soon Pratima would have to make use of the W.C. The potty man had broken into the motel room just after eight p.m. He had demanded the whereabouts of the girl baby, and sadly, the ladies had told him. He was a very frightening man indeed.

  Then the potty man had brought the baby boy and his father to the room and imprisoned them here. Apparently, too, he had threatened to kill them all if Rahul tried to obtain help. Pratima was quite frightened for her nephew and his family. Rahul was a good man. She did not want him harmed because of her and Savita-di. But would the potty man leave behind any kind of witness?

  She very much feared he would not.

  Neil Junior, who had been crawling about the room, now grasped Savita-di’s green and brown sari and pulled his sturdy body to a standing position. He swayed and grinned up at her.

  “Look! The boy is standing,” Savita-di exclaimed as if they were all blind. “What a clever child he is. Do you not think he is young to have learned to stand already, Pratima?”

  The baby turned his wide grin on her, and Pratima had to admit that he was a most attractive baby. “He is very intelligent indeed.”

  “Mr. Neil Senior, look at what your boy does,” Savita-di called to the bound man in the corner. “Is this the first time he has stood by himself?”

  Mr. Neil Senior made a grunting kind of noise that could be taken either as an affirmative or a negative.

  It did not seem to matter to Savita-di in her eagerness to laud the baby. “I think this child is most—”

  But she was interrupted by the potty man’s soft, emotionless voice. “The FBI agent has the other baby.”

  They all turned to stare at him with various expressions of dread. It didn’t seem to be a question, and besides, they had already told him this information earlier in the evening.

  Finally, Pratima Gupta gulped and said, “Yes?”

  The potty man cracked the window curtain and glanced out before looking at her. His light gray eyes held the same interest as if she’d been an insect under his shoe. “The blizzard has stopped. How do I talk with him?”

  The remaining three adults in the room exchanged glances. Even Mr. Neil Senior looked worried behind his gag.

  “I’m not sure—” Pratima began.

  “I’ll start shooting you, one by one, until you tell me how to contact him,” the potty man said without inflection.

  “Ah! This is insanity,” Savita-di exclaimed. “Why do you think we can help you find these people?”

  “Because the woman with the FBI agent came here before,” Mr. Potty said. “Would you like me to begin with your sister?” And he pointed his gun at Pratima’s chest.

  “Sister-in-law!” Savita-di said before Pratima could open her mouth. “And do not shoot her! She is a good woman, even if she did flirt with my husband once!”

  “I did not!” Pratima cried, driven beyond endurance. If she were to die in the next minute, she could at least set the record straight. “Your husband flirted with everything in a skirt, Savita-di. I am sorry to say this, but it is true, and what is more, you know it. And as the elder brother he had control of the family finances, so naturally my husband bade me be polite to him. If I smiled at your husband, it was because I had no wish to offend him when he made terribly improper advances to me. Advances, I should point out, that I turned down. It was a smile, Savita-di, merely that. Please to get over it!”

  There was a silence in the room as everyone stared at Savita-di. Mr. Neil Senior’s eyes had widened over his duct-tape gag, and little Neil Junior was watching the Gupta ladies with interest. Pratima held her breath. Perhaps her dear sister-in-law would strike her now. Perhaps she would publicly scorn her.

  Instead, Savita-di’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Pratima, I am a foolish old woman. You are right, my husband was not as good a husband as he should have been. Please forgive me.”

  “Of course I forgive you, Savita-di,” Pratima exclaimed. “If only—”

  But here she was interrupted by the potty man clearing his throat. A soft sound, but an ominous one, as well.

  “This is almost as good as the movies, but I have work to do,” he said in his awful, low voice. “I’ve decided I should start with you.” He swung the barrel of his nasty gun toward Savita-di.

  “What, me?” Savita-di exclaimed. “Why should you choose me as your victim? Why not—?”

  “My sister-in-law’s phone,” Pratima said hastily before Savita-di became riddled with gunshot holes. “He has my sister-in-law’s mobile phone. You can call him there.”

  “Pratima Gupta!” Savita-di said in a scolding voice. “What are you thinking?”

  But for once Pratima wasn’t paying attention to her sister-in-law’s unnecessary bickering. The potty man had turned his cold gray gaze on her and smiled. Quite the most terrifying smile Pratima had ever seen in her life.

  “Thank you.” He took a mobile phone out of his pocket and dialed.

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Sunday, 8:12 a.m.

  The cell phone rang just as Zoey finished bandaging his side. Dante’d convinced her that he was strong enough to get up off the bathroom floor and limp down the stairs to the pallet of blankets in front of the fireplace. He tried to cover the limp, though. The last thing he wanted to do was let her know that his earlier injury was bugging him. It hurt even more than the furrow in his side. The first thing he’d done was put his sweatpants back on.

  Zoey jerked at the tinkling notes from the cell phone, betraying her frayed nerves.

  “It’s Savita Gupta’s cell,” Dante said. He reached for one of Tom’s sweatshirts that he’d found the night before. “Probably the Gupta ladies want to know when they’re getting their purple minivan back.”

  He pulled the sweatshirt on, careful of the big bandage on his side.

  “Oh,” Zoey gasped. It was a measure of how wigged out she still was that she didn’t even comment about the Guptas’ disabled van. She rummaged in his coat pocket and fished out the phone, frowning at the caller ID.

  “Hello?” She’d turned to look in Pete’s direction—the
baby was cruising the couch again—but suddenly froze. Her eyes were focused inward, on the speaker at the other end of the phone.

  Dante stilled.

  She met his gaze. Her expression was stricken.

  “Who is it?” he demanded, not even trying to conceal his voice.

  She shook her head, then held out the phone to him, mute.

  He snatched the phone out of her hand. “Who is this?”

  “My name doesn’t matter,” the male voice on the other end replied in ridiculous cliché. “I have the old Pakistani women—”

  The caller was interrupted by an indignant squawk on the other end of the phone.

  The caller sighed. “I am corrected. The Indian old women. Also Mr. Janiowski and his baby son. I will kill them if you do not give me what I want.”

  What a pompous prick. Dante felt his jaw tighten, but he kept his voice carefully even. “What do you want?”

  “Ricky Spinoza’s child.”

  The answer was what he’d been expecting, but it was a blow nonetheless. Dante looked to where Pete was squatting on short toddler legs to pick up something miniscule from the rug. “How?”

  “Come here, to the motel where the Indian women are—”

  Dante was already shaking his head. “I can’t get through on these roads. The snow—”

  “Your problem,” the voice said indifferently. “Park outside the motel and call me. I’ll give you instructions.”

  He disconnected.

  “Asshole,” Dante muttered. He rummaged through the pile of clothes next to him, looking for some socks.

  Zoey was staring at him. “What? Who was that?”

  Dante sighed. His leg really did hurt like a bitch, but obviously he wasn’t going to be able to sit around. “Muscle. Probably Tony the Roses’s, but he might be connected to the FBI traitor. That seems unlikely, though. This guy didn’t sound like he was trained by a bureaucrat.”

  He found a pair of socks and pulled them on, conscious that Zoey hadn’t moved. She was watching him intently. If she lost trust in him now . . .

  “But what did he want?”