by Debra Webb
He grabbed her by the arm and hauled her out of the room. After checking the closet in a second bedroom and finding girl clothes, he moved to the third. This one was a boy’s room. A teenager, considering the clothes in the closet. Garrett picked out a black rock band T-shirt and proceeded to unbutton his grass-stained white shirt.
Lucky lapsed into a barrage of possibilities. Maybe someone in the family would come home and then they’d have to call the office since the homeowners would no doubt call the police. A twinge of pain accompanied the thought that nothing she or anyone else did now would help the driver or that lady Jennifer.
Garrett peeled off his shirt and Lucky’s attention riveted to his back.
She swallowed hard. Scars. Lots of scars. The kind one gets when physically tortured. He turned around to face her as he pushed his arms into the sleeves. There were not so many scars on his chest, just lots of defined muscle. She’d never seen a six-pack like that. Not in real life anyway.
When he’d dragged the tee down his torso, he threaded his fingers through his hair. “You hungry?”
He wouldn’t have startled her more if he’d asked her to remove her own clothes. “Seriously?” He had to be joking. She still had the dead woman’s blood on her clothes, her boss had been kidnapped and he refused her even one phone call. Even criminals got one phone call.
Without further explanation, he grabbed her again and hauled her into the kitchen.
“I can walk without your assistance,” she grumbled. It wasn’t necessary for him to lug her around like a rag doll.
He didn’t spare her a look, much less a comment since to do so would have interfered with his rummaging through the refrigerator. Lucky studied the broken phone, bemoaning the fact that there was no way to repair it.
He withdrew a couple of canned sodas, some sandwich meats and mayo. After setting those items aside, he walked to the sink and washed his hands. Lucky felt like she was in a low-budget movie where not even the stars would survive the impending face-off with the monster. A monster they couldn’t quite see but whose devastation had already left a broad path.
A half-eaten loaf of bread sat on the counter. He opened it, sniffed, then removed four slices. He did the same with the meats, ensuring they were still edible. Hunger pangs attacked her determination. She was hungry. But it just didn’t feel like the right thing to do under the circumstances.
The pop of the soda tab sent her over the edge. She had to eat. Or at least drink something.
At the sink she scrubbed her hands again until her skin felt as if it would peel right off the bone. Then she moved to the counter where he’d laid out all the fixings and reached for the bread, careful not to allow her arm to brush against him. When she’d completed her sandwich, he placed a soda on the counter.
“Thank you.” She didn’t look at him. At this point she had basically bottomed out mentally. Anything she said would be the wrong thing.
He’d inhaled two sandwiches before she’d nibbled away half of hers. He stared out the kitchen window at the woods that bordered the yard. She wanted to ask him what was next. They had to do something soon. Someone had to be doing something. She needed to know, to understand what was happening.
As if her mind simply had to lock on to something, she kept replaying the look in his eyes when she’d asked him if he was insane. She’d hit a nerve. Had someone in his family been mentally unstable? Had he suffered some sort of trauma because of it? Or was he the unstable one? That couldn’t be right. Lucas wouldn’t send a crazy man to back her up. Unless he hadn’t. Lucky just didn’t know about him yet, but she knew more than she wanted to about crazy people. Her mother was way, way on the other side of normal.
Lucky pushed away the troubling memories of her mother and focused on the here and now. The reasons for kidnapping Mrs. Colby-Camp were likely the standard fare. Money, revenge. But why bring her to that foreboding, prisonlike place just down the road? If that place Garrett had called hell was a mental institution, wouldn’t that mean numerous staff members would have to be involved with the kidnapping?
Maybe not. If Mrs. Colby-Camp’s identity was not revealed, she could just be another incoming patient. Now that Lucky thought about it, a place like that would be a handy way to hold a person hostage.
Garrett turned from the window. Lucky put aside the worrisome theories.
“I have to make some calls,” he said. That he didn’t look at her as he spoke escalated the worry already crushing in on her. “Once I have the details I need, I’ll formulate a strategy for the next move.”
“We aren’t going to call the agency? Won’t Mr. Camp need a status?” She bit the inside of her jaw. Seemed like the only right strategy. What was his motive for avoiding that step?
His gaze locked on hers. “That would be a mistake at this point.”
Lucky shook her head, the sandwich turning to rock in her stomach. “Why would that be a mistake? If you work for Mr. Camp—”
“Trust me,” he said as he pushed away from the counter, “even he can’t help your boss now.”
Chapter Eight
Dakota stepped out the back door and into the yard. He needed some air. Lucky Malone hadn’t demanded any additional answers and Dakota was grateful. He almost laughed. Imagine, him grateful for that small concession.
It was this place.
He braced his hands on his hips and closed his eyes.
A cold sweat formed on his skin.
He’d put the past and this place so far behind him that it wasn’t until he’d topped that hill that he’d fully recognized where he was.
How the hell had he ended up here?
Returning to Chicago as Dakota Garrett had been a major coup for him. The past no longer ruled him. He had beaten it. It would never haunt him again, never own him again.
His jaw hardened against the doubt that attempted to slither up his spine. He would not feel that again.
Ever.
His cell vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket. His hand shook, detonating a charge of fury in his gut. Tightening his grip until the phone case nearly cracked, he checked the screen. It was Keaton.
Every instinct stirring inside Dakota warned that this was somehow Keaton’s fault. Couldn’t be coincidence.
He would soon know. “Garrett.”
“The local authorities have responded to the scene where the driver was killed.”
Dakota had figured as much. “And the Colby Agency?”
“They’ve been notified. Two members are on the scene now.”
“My kills were clean,” Dakota assured his boss. “I had no other option.”
“Not to worry. A witness has come forward.”
Dakota stilled. “You don’t say?” He’d doubted that anyone who might be loitering in that neighborhood would come forward for the police unless they were a victim in some way and maybe not even then.
“A bag lady who spends her nights in the building directly across the street,” Keaton went on. “She confirmed that the two armed victims killed the driver and attempted to fire on the hero who came out of nowhere to save the pretty lady trapped inside that old building.” Keaton made a sound that might have been his version of a chuckle. “Those are her exact words.”
“I’ve been called worse,” Dakota retorted with his own jab at humor he didn’t feel. There was nothing amusing about the situation from his perspective.
“So you’re in the clear on that one, but…”
He’d known a but was coming.
“The woman gave a fair description of your vehicle. Blue, two-door, older model truck. She even managed to recall the first three numbers of your license plate.”
Not good, but not the end of the world. Dakota wasn’t worried. He was a licensed investigator and he had a permit to carry a weapon. He didn’t want any part of this official investigation or any other, but he had no call to be concerned. “If they run me down,” he offered, “I’ll deal with that then.”
“Agreed. More
imperative at the moment,” Keaton went on, “have you arrived at any workable scenarios for rescuing Victoria?”
Who was this Victoria that she appeared so damned important to the head of the Equalizers? “The only scenario I’ve arrived at has nothing to do with a rescue.” Dakota didn’t mince words. He wanted Keaton to know he was not happy about this.
“What does that mean, Garrett?”
The hint of warning in the man’s tone didn’t put Dakota off in the least. “It means—” he glanced at Malone who watched him from the kitchen window “—that I’m close to the location of her cell phone, as you likely know.” It wasn’t like he couldn’t view the results of the search. “The location doesn’t work for me.” Something else the boss also no doubt knew.
Tense silence hung in the air between them for two beats. Dakota’s body stiffened with the mounting anticipation.
“You’re familiar with the location?”
Fury boiled up inside Dakota again before he could stop it. “Byrd Institute.” The name left a bitter taste in his mouth. “Oh, yeah. I know the place.”
The silence emanating from Keaton was broken only by the soft but distinct click of computer keys. He was running a search on the name. Uncertainty nudged Dakota. Maybe Keaton didn’t know about the place. Maybe he hadn’t set up this whole screwed-up scenario.
“The sanitarium?” Keaton asked, something like surprise in his voice.
“That’s the place.” Dakota threaded his fingers through his hair. The urge to get the hell out of here was almost overwhelming. He shoved the inkling of fear aside. He hadn’t felt that particular emotion in years.
“You’re certain?”
“Unless the GPS made a mistake,” Dakota snapped. “And I doubt that’s the case.” What was with this guy? The Colby Agency could deal with this. Dakota should drop Malone off at the nearest convenience store and let her call in. This wasn’t
his problem. He couldn’t figure out why it would be Keaton’s. And Dakota still wasn’t convinced that his boss hadn’t somehow set this up.
As for the GPS system they used, it was state-of-the-art even if it wasn’t legal. Tracking cell phones required a warrant inducing the carrier’s cooperation. The cell phone belonging to Victoria Colby-Camp had definitely entered the Byrd facility. It had now fallen off the grid which meant the phone had been shut off and the battery removed. Not even the carrier would be able to track it now beyond the last cell tower it passed.
“I’m pulling up the floor plans of the sanitarium now,” Keaton said, the sound of his hands moving efficiently across the computer keys underscoring his words. “I’ll download them to your phone.”
“Why?”
That was a question few would have dared ask a boss like Keaton. But this was different on a level no one else could possibly comprehend. To understand Dakota’s position would be to know the darkest, most painful details of his past. No one knew those. No one. Whatever Keaton’s motive here, he couldn’t know the specific details.
That file had been closed when Dakota was seventeen, right after his mother’s death.
He had every intention of keeping it that way.
“It’s imperative that you determine who is behind this abduction.”
Dakota shook his head, didn’t care that the man couldn’t see the response. “I think you need a different man for the job.” He wouldn’t do this. And he damned sure didn’t intend to explain his reasons. Keaton’s silence had Dakota pacing in the ankle-deep grass. But the pacing wasn’t related to any intimidation Keaton might attempt. It was about the past—memories he didn’t want to experience again.
“Your personal knowledge of the facility would be invaluable. Based on my findings there are several staff members, including the administrator, with whom you are familiar who still work there.”
Dakota froze. There was no way Keaton could have access to that file. No way in hell. It didn’t exist anymore—at least not the original. Dakota had destroyed it. Copies shouldn’t have existed. Why would Keaton have looked for a file which, for all intents and purposes, didn’t exist? And why hadn’t he brought this matter up before now? Whatever he thought he knew, Dakota wasn’t that person anymore…not in mind or in name.
“Like I said,” Dakota repeated, “you’ll need someone else for this one.”
One, two, three seconds elapsed, then four and five. “I need you for this one. Keep Malone away from the Colby Agency and get me the name and the motive behind this abduction. But, above all else, get Victoria safely out of there.”
Keaton ended the call before Dakota could argue. He stared at the screen a long moment before shoving it into the pocket of his borrowed jeans.
No way.
He scanned the tree line and drew in a deep, steadying breath. No way in hell. He closed his eyes and shook his head as if those simple gestures would somehow make this nightmare go away.
“Well?”
Dakota opened his eyes. Malone had stepped out the back door. She stood on the porch, her arms crossed over her chest. “What?” he demanded. He should never have taken her anywhere. He shouldn’t have gotten involved, direct order or not. If he’d ever met a woman more innocent, more in need of a savior, he had no recall of the encounter. And he was no savior…not even for a woman who stirred those long dead warrior instincts of his.
“I think I should call my agency. I need—”
“Your agency is already on the case. The police are investigating the scene now. Two of your colleagues are on site. You don’t need to be concerned.”
“That means they’ll be coming soon,” she said hope fully.
He walked toward her. “They’re developing their strategy.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Common sense dictated the steps to be taken.
“How much longer are we staying here?” She reached up and tucked her hair behind her ears, visibly growing more nervous as he neared. “I mean, the owners will show up at some point. Shouldn’t we get moving?”
His fingers itched to know if her hair felt as silky as it looked. He should just let her go. It would be better for her and for him. To hell with Keaton. “They won’t be back for three more days.”
She frowned. “How do you know?” She gestured toward the kitchen behind her. “There’s milk in the fridge. Bread on the counter.”
“The mailbox.”
Her frown deepened with confusion.
“These rural routes have substitute carriers as often as not. They keep a note on the inside of the mailbox door reminding whoever happens to be delivering on any given day of the residents at the address. Whenever someone has their mail held for a few days or whatever, the regular carrier notes it in that same place so no one forgets and leaves the mail.”
There were all sorts of ways to determine when people were on vacation versus just away for the day. Like the fact that they clearly had dogs, evidenced by the food and water bowls, but there was no sign of dogs in the house or yard. But the most telling of all was that the shutoff valves to the kitchen and bathroom sinks as well as the toilet were in the off position. Turning them off prevented flooding in the event a leak started when the family was away. He’d had to turn the water on in both the kitchen and the hall bath.
“If the police and my agency are working the case,” she ventured, taking another approach, “why are we hiding out like this? I don’t understand why Mr. Camp would insist we continue to lay low.” The suspicion that flickered in her eyes was unmistakable.
Dakota couldn’t answer her question. Primarily because he didn’t want to come up with another lie. As nuts as it sounded, lying to her felt wrong. He didn’t like this and he was sick of the game Keaton had decided to play. However he had gotten his hands on a copy Dakota’s file—a copy that wasn’t supposed to exist—there had to be a motive behind the move that Dakota wasn’t going to like. Regardless of Slade Keaton’s interest in the Colby Agency and Victoria Colby-Camp, Dakota wanted no part of it. As for Lucky Malone, he suspected that sh
e just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.
He held his palms upward. “I can’t answer any of those questions for you.” He turned his back and strode back into the middle of the yard. He needed to think without her hounding him. Without having to look into those big, hopeful eyes.
Malone moved up behind him, obviously not ready to give up.
“Don’t ask me any more questions I can’t answer,” he said before she could speak again. He didn’t want to talk about this. Dakota had gone to great lengths to ensure he couldn’t be traced to that name…to that life. Somehow Keaton had figured it out. And after he had, why had he hired Dakota? Employers didn’t typically hire applicants with a history of hard-core mental illness.
There could only be one reason. Keaton had an agenda.
Damn him.
“I know you can answer this one,” Malone said as she moved closer still.
His body tensed in reaction to her nearness. To the sound of her voice. What the hell was wrong with him? He should just drop her off somewhere and then he should disappear. Why not? He’d done it before. But his entire being rebelled against the idea. Another path he had no desire to travel a second time.
He’d thought that part of his life was behind him. For good.
“What is it about that place we saw that makes you so nervous?” She glanced in the direction of the institute. “What kind of place is it?”
He laughed; it sounded pained and rusty even to him. “I’m not afraid of anything, lady.” He wasn’t. Not now. Maybe he hadn’t even been afraid then. Dakota swallowed back the denial that attempted to climb into his throat. Why the hell was he even talking to her about this?
“When you saw that place,” she pressed, “your face changed. I saw the terror in your eyes. There’s something you’re not telling me.”
There was a whole hell of a lot he wasn’t telling her. “What’s this? Amateur psychology hour?” He clenched his jaw to restrain any outward expression of the anxiety building inside him. Damn it.