Ryan's Rescue

by Karen Leabo

  “I can send someone out to make a report.”

  That would have to do. Once she got hold of a cop, she could tell her whole story and hope she did a better job convincing him than she’d done with Ryan. Surely they would take her to a police station and put her in touch with whatever detective was assigned to her case.

  Christine waited by the main zoo entrance, keeping in full view of the ticket sellers and the swells of people, in case her terrorist was lurking about, waiting for her to drop her guard. She also kept an eye out for Ryan, halfway hoping he’d come around again. She’d been pretty hard on him, and in hindsight she couldn’t blame him completely for doubting her. After all, she’d lied to begin with, so why should he instantly believe her, especially when the truth was so peculiar?

  Even the police dispatcher had been confused and dubious about her story.

  But Ryan didn’t show. She felt a strange heaviness—regret, perhaps—as she climbed into the patrol car that showed up forty-five minutes later.

  “Oh, yeah, your picture was on the front page of the paper this morning,” one of the officers said, squinting at her when she took off her hat and sunglasses. She would have to return her borrowed “disguise” to Ryan, she realized happily. By then, her story would have been verified by all the papers, and she could apologize for losing her temper with him

  And he could apologize for not believing her.

  “And how did you end up at the zoo?” asked the other officer, who was driving.

  “I escaped from the kidnappers yesterday, but rd been drugged and I was pretty woozy. A Good Samaritan took me in for the night—”

  “But you didn’t call us then?” His voice clearly reflected skepticism.

  Oh, dear. What if no one believed her? “I was out of my mind, and my Samaritan had no idea who I was. He thought I was just drunk.”

  “Okay,” the officer said, “so he took you home with him, you slept off whatever drug you’d been given. That part I understand. Then you got up this morning, and...you went to the zoo?”

  “I was still a little confused,” Christine said. “Look, would you mind awfully much if I waited and told this whole story to Detective—What’s his name? The one in charge of my case?”

  “Her name. Brich. Lieutenant Wilma Brich,” the other officer supplied. “I don’t know, it was just getting interesting.”

  The first officer laughed. The other one joined in.

  “I’m glad you both think this is so funny,” she said huffily. She wasn’t accustomed to being laughed at, at least not to her face. Stan Greenlow was an influential man in the Senate, and it wasn’t wise to offend him, if you wanted to benefit from political favors in the future. He had a memory like an elephant. She thought about informing these two that with one phone call her father could have their jobs. He could, too. But he didn’t normally abuse his considerable clout, and probably wouldn’t in this case, even if she asked him to.

  She decided to ignore the clowns.

  The two officers sobered, even without the threat. “Sorry, Miss Greenlow,” the driver said. “It’s just that we don’t rescue many kidnap victims at the z-zoo.”

  In the rearview mirror, she could see that he was struggling to keep from bursting into laughter again. With a sigh, she leaned back in her seat and tried to mentally prepare herself for the grilling to come.

  Half an hour later, when she finally met Lieutenant Brich, Christine’s situation didn’t improve. The detective assigned to her disappearance was a big, blustery woman with ruler-straight red hair cut in an unflattering pageboy. Her bearing screamed, “Military.” She disliked Christine from the start, solely on the basis of the fact that Christine had been born with money and privilege—at least, that was what Christine was able to infer from the frequent snide comments Brich made about Stan Greenlow’s “mansion” and the two-carat engagement “rock” stolen by the terrorists.

  “You’ll forgive me if I’m having a problem with this,” Lieutenant Brich said, after over an hour of questioning, during which a skeptical FBI agent was called in to participate. “But your story doesn’t exactly jibe with what your father told us. He said no one ever contacted him with a ransom demand—”

  “But they did! I heard them make the phone call myself. Maybe Dad was afraid to tell the police, afraid these loonies would hurt me if the cops got involved.”

  “He was downright uncooperative from the beginning,” Brich said harshly. “It was the maid who finally called us, you know—against his wishes.”

  Good old Connie. Christine had guessed right about that part. “I’m sure he had his reasons.”

  “You called him this morning from a coffee bar in Georgetown. Yet it was several more hours before you called the police—”

  “Look, it doesn’t really matter if you believe me. I’ve told you everything I know. I just want to leave now.” She had no idea where she would go. She could stop by her father’s house and pick up a few things, but she didn’t want to face Stan just yet. He hadn’t even called the police? Hadn’t he been worried at all? Or had he grown to hate her and her threats and ultimatums?

  She toyed with the idea of calling Ryan, if his number was listed. He might still be angry with her, but he’d offered to take her to her sister’s home. He seemed like an honorable man. Maybe he would honor that promise.

  “There is a small problem,” Lieutenant Wilma Brich said, an unpleasant smile threatening the corners of her full mouth. “The police don’t take it too kindly when people waste their time.”

  Oh, dear. “Are you saying you want to charge me with a... a crime of some sort?”

  “How about interfering with a police investigation?” The smile took on malicious proportions.

  “But that’s ridiculous! Everything I’ve told you is the truth.”

  “Yet you haven’t provided us with even a teensy-weensy bit of evidence.”

  “What about the bruise on my face? And the scratches?”

  “That could have happened any number of ways.” Brich cleared her throat. “To me, it sounds like you and your pop have pulled the granddaddy of all publicity stunts.”

  “No.” Christine was out of her chair. “He might be a little flamboyant, at times, but he would never make up something like this. Neither would I.”

  “Then give me some proof. For instance, this supposed ‘Good Samaritan’ who rescued you last night when you were on drugs, wearing ripped clothes and all—what happened to him?”

  She hadn’t wanted to involve Ryan any further, but if the police were going to toss her in jail, she supposed, she had no choice. “His name is Ryan Mulvaney,” Christine said. “I don’t know his phone number, but I think I remember where he—”

  “Mulvaney? The reporter?”

  Christine’s blood went ice-cold. Reporter? Good Lord, what had she done? What all had she told him? “He said he was a mechanic,” she said, almost desperate now to believe what she’d suspected all along was a lie.

  “Tall guy? Late twenties? Dark hair, good-looking enough to make a woman do things she never dreamed of?”

  “That’s him,” Christine said, sagging in defeat. If he wrote about her, about everything she’d said and done over the past twenty-four hours, she wouldn’t have to worry about how to cut the strangling ties between herself and her father. He would disown her in a heartbeat.

  The FBI agent, who’d remained detached throughout, smiled with undisguised amusement.

  “Honey, I think you’ve been hoodwinked,” Brich said. “I know how to get in touch with him. Shall I call, see if he’ll verify that part of your story?”

  Why bother? she thought. He might verify some of the facts, but the ones she really needed verified—the fact that she’d actually been kidnapped, for instance—he didn’t believe, either.

  “No,” she said. Then she had another idea. “What if I could take you to where the terrorists held me captive? If I could show you the pipes where they had me tied up, and the dirty mattress, a
nd the window and the bush—”

  Lieutenant Brich put an impatient hand to her forehead. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? You can actually take me there?”

  “Well, if you could help me find the general area, I could probably find the place. It was a really bad neighborhood.”

  “We got lots of those.” Brich was once again skeptical.

  “There’s a gang that hangs out there. The Pit Bulls?”

  “Ah.” The sergeant nodded as recognition dawned. “I can take us to their territory. But I’m warning you, I don’t have a lot of time to waste with some wild-goose chase. I want some evidence, or I’m tossing your rich little butt out on the street, and I don’t want to hear from you again.”

  “I’ll find evidence,” Christine said, determined to redeem herself. It was a terrible feeling, being falsely accused of making up a wild story as a publicity stunt or as a means of covering up an even uglier truth. No one had ever doubted her word before today. “Can we go now?”

  Lieutenant Brich’s car was a major pigsty, with fast-food wrappers, crumpled, sweaty clothing and odd smells filling up every corner. The FBI agent took one look at it and decided he had pressing business elsewhere.

  The lieutenant cleared a space in the front seat, and Christine gingerly sat down. What had she gotten herself into now?

  Whatever the car lacked in aesthetic virtues, it made up for in performance. The horses under the hood sped them across town in record time. Soon they found themselves in a hideously depressed area that seemed vaguely familiar to Christine.

  “This is it,” Brich said. “Where to now?”

  “There was some kind of barbecue restaurant,” Christine remembered aloud. “Neon lights. Crowded parking, a lot of abandoned cars in weedy vacant lots.” She was surprised at how much was coming back to her, now that the neighborhood was stimulating her drug-impaired memory.

  “That sounds like Peak Street to me. I used to walk a beat there. Rudy’s Barbecue?”

  “That might be it.” The name Rudy rang a bell.

  Five minutes later, they parked in front of the place called Rudy’s. But there Christine’s sense of déjà vu ended. “No, I’m afraid this isn’t right,” Christine said glumly.

  They drove around for a few more minutes, past one boarded-up building after another. Christine couldn’t make heads or tails of anything she saw.

  “Any bells ringing for you?” Brich asked, clearly put out that their field trip was for nothing.

  “I’m sorry, Lieutenant Bitch—” The Freudian slip was out before Christine could stop it. “I mean, Lieutenant Beach—” No, that wasn’t right, either.

  The car screeched to a halt. “You’re real lucky I don’t haul your butt to jail and book you,” the detective said harshly. “If you’re out of my car in ten seconds, I’ll think about forgetting this whole deal.”

  “But what will you tell—”

  “Ten, nine, eight—”

  “I’m sorry,” Christine murmured before climbing out of the car, which sped away almost before she could get the door closed.

  Great. She was in this horrible neighborhood again, helpless as a newborn kitten. She hurried along the street, thinking furiously. She would have to call her father now, she supposed, and pray she didn’t get assaulted before the limo arrived to pick her up.

  If her father would even send someone. Maybe he’d prefer for her to become a crime statistic.

  Swallowing back that thought, she ducked into the first open business she came to, a liquor store. The bored clerk, a starkly gaunt woman of indeterminate age, stared at her when she asked to use the phone.

  “Hey, you’re the one from the paper. That political guy’s daughter.”

  What a time to be recognized. Why didn’t these things ever work in her favor? “Yes, I’m Christine Greenlow, and I really need to use the phone. I’m lost, I’m stranded...” And she was close to tears again.

  “Here, you can use this one,” the clerk said, with more sympathy than anyone had shown Christine all day—not counting Ryan’s false show of concern. The clerk pulled a battered desk phone from beneath the counter.

  With a nod of gratitude, Christine started to dial her father’s private line, then stopped. Why didn’t she call Robert? He was still technically her fiancé, and she could hang out with him until she decided what to do. Maybe he would even arrange for her transportation to Raleigh to see her sister.

  She quickly punched out Robert’s number.

  He answered on the sixth ring. “Hello?”

  “Robert? You’re out of breath.”

  “I was out by the pool, and the cordless picked a hell of a time to run out of batteries—Christine?”

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  If she’d expected to hear relief and concern in his voice, she was sadly disappointed. “Christine, where the hell are you? You know you’ve worried your father and me half to death? We’ve got the cops and reporters breathing down our necks—”

  “I’m in a liquor store on Peak Street,” she broke in. “It’s called Discount Liquors. Could you come get me, please? Then I’ll explain everything.”

  “Have you called your father?”

  “I called him earlier.” This wasn’t going at all the way she’d planned it. “Dad didn’t sound all that pleased to hear from me.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Christine. He must have been ecstatic to know you’re safe.”

  “Yeah, about as ecstatic as you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. For your information, I’m not in a particularly safe position. If you’ll just come get me, I’ll try to explain everything.” She owed him that, she supposed.

  “Where are you again?”

  “Peak and...” She turned to the clerk. “What’s a nearby cross street?”

  “Twenty-third,” said the clerk, who was hanging on Christine’s every word. She was probably the type who liked soap operas and tabloids, Christine thought. And who knew? Tomorrow the woman might be able to read about Christine in some tabloid.

  “Peak and Twenty-third,” Christine told Robert. “How soon can you get here?”

  “Um, that’s a pretty grim neighborhood, sweetheart.”

  “You don’t have to tell me.”

  “I’m not sure I... Can’t you get a cab or something?”

  “There aren’t any cabs down here. Robert, for God’s sake, come get me?”

  “Christine, I drive a Jaguar.” He spoke slowly, as though trying to make a point with a dull child. “The hubcaps alone could get me killed. Be a good girl and call a cab.”

  Christine could not believe her ears. The man who professed to be the love of her life was leaving her stranded in this awful neighborhood? “Robert?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  “I’m really sorry I bothered you. Oh, and by the way, the wedding’s off!” She slammed down the phone hard enough to make the clerk jump. Now what? She had friends she could call. But then she would have to do more explaining, and she didn’t think she was ready. Maybe she should just call a cab and go home. Once she got access to her things—cash, credit cards, her checkbook and a change of clothes—she wouldn’t be helpless anymore. No law said she had to stay under her father’s roof.

  “Got a phone book?” she asked the clerk, who had already hidden the phone away.

  “No, sorry. And if my boss catches me letting customers use the phone, I’ll be in trouble. There’s a pay phone down on the corner.”

  “Okay, thanks.” She didn’t even have a quarter on her. But she supposed the operator would let her charge a call to her home number. Connie would answer Christine’s private line, and she would okay the charge.

  Christine was walking down the street toward the pay phone on the corner, mulling over her options, when she nearly ran right into a man standing in her way.

  “Oops, I’m sor—” The apology died in her throat. It was him. Denny the terrorist. How did he keep finding her?


  “We meet again,” he said, smiling, exposing yellow teeth. “Are you coming easy this time, or do we have to do it the hard way?”

  Chapter 6

  Ryan squinted through the viewfinder of Fran’s camera, which was equipped with a telephoto lens. It worked better than his binoculars. He and Fran were parked around the corner from Discount Liquors, Chrissy’s last stop.

  “She just left the liquor store,” he announced.

  Fran perked up. “She is one busy lady. Where’d she get the money to buy the booze?”

  “She didn’t buy anything. She’s empty-handed. And... Uh-oh.” Ryan’s whole body tensed. “We’ve got trouble.”

  Fran peered out the window. “What?”

  “Someone’s hassling her. Oh, hell, it’s that same jerk from the zoo.”

  “The Pit Bull? Quick, Ryan, we can’t let him hurt her.”

  Ryan already had the Vette’s engine started. He roared up the street, screeched to a halt in a no parking zone and jumped out. He didn’t have a plan in mind. He just knew he couldn’t let that jerk get hold of Chrissy. “Call the police on my mobile phone,” he told Fran before slamming the door.

  The man in the leather jacket, intent on his prey, didn’t notice Ryan’s approach at first. Chrissy, apparently frozen with fear, didn’t look at him, either. Then, before he could do anything, she moved. With a maneuver that would have made Chuck Norris proud, she kicked the guy in the kneecap, then turned and fled.

  Right into Ryan.

  In a blind panic, she tried to get around him. He grabbed her arm. She screamed. He held on more tightly.

  “Easy, Chrissy, it’s me.” He held her fast until she stopped struggling. Even under these dire circumstances, he was instantly aware of her as a woman—the feel of her feminine muscles beneath her sleeves, the smell of her fear, which was strangely erotic.

  She was afraid, yes, but not helpless. After the blow she’d dealt her enemy—he was temporarily incapacitated, clutching his knee—Ryan’s respect for her had eased up a notch.

  “Ryan?” she gasped, peering up at him with those huge emerald eyes.