Calder Pride

by Janet Dailey

  “Let’s go. Let’s go!” Lath ripped off the mask, sounding breathless and high all at the same time.

  There was no turning back now. If there had been a chance before, there was none now. Recognizing that, Rollie started the engine, a cold anger welling inside.

  Back on the highway again, they followed it for a short distance, then turned onto a side road that took them to the Triple C’s seldom-used north gate. The last time they’d tried to snatch the kid, Rollie had been a bundle of nerves. This time he felt nothing. It was as if everything inside him had turned to ice. Hot ice.

  He drove straight to the big house and parked behind it, out of sight. In silence, he donned the ski mask and pulled on a pair of thin leather gloves while Lath did the same.

  “Got the tape?” Lath asked.

  Nodding, Rollie patted the bulge in his jacket’s zipped pocket. Lath jammed a clip in the second automatic, its silencer already attached, and passed it to Rollie, then gathered up his own. At a signaling nod from Lath, he slipped out of the van. Quickly they found the breaker switch and cut the telephone line.

  The back door was locked, but the massive front door wasn’t. They stepped inside and closed it carefully behind them. A pulsating silence greeted them, heavy and thick. Lath snapped on his penlight. It lanced the darkness, touched on the rounded back of a sofa in an area directly ahead of them before Lath switched it off.

  The living room. According to their mother, the staircase emptied into it. Their rubber-soled sneakers made only a whisper of sound as they crossed the room to the staircase. Lath went first. Rollie followed, wincing when a board creaked under his weight.

  At the top of the steps, they paused to listen. But all was quiet. Concentrating on the front section of the house, Lath streaked the penlight over the room doors. One was open a crack. Rollie pointed to it. When he was a kid, his mother had always left the door to his room ajar like that.

  Lath nodded, and Rollie wondered if he remembered the same thing. He waited, fingers flexing around the trigger guard, while Lath went to check it out. Within seconds, Lath was motioning him to follow.

  It was the kid’s room. Rollie couldn’t believe their luck. Moonlight flooded through the windows, spreading to the boy lying on his stomach. Rollie handed Lath his gun and quickly got the tape out of his pocket, tore off a wide strip of it and moved to the bed.

  The kid mumbled a sleepy protest when Rollie turned him over, but he didn’t wake up, not until Rollie slapped the tape over his mouth. He grabbed the slender arms that came up to fight him off, held them easily in one hand and wrapped the tape tightly around them, then went to work on the wildly kicking legs.

  Even in sleep, Cat’s hearing was tuned to any sound coming from her son’s bedroom, however faint. She raised up, propping an elbow under her, and struggled to throw off the heaviness of sleep. A muted thump came from Quint’s room.

  Pushing aside the covers, she Swung out of bed and reached to turn on the lamp. The knob clicked under her fingers, but no light came on. Alarm shot through her, jolting her fully awake. Fighting panic, Cat picked up the telephone. The line was dead.

  Her blood went cold.

  She shot off the bed and out of the room, surprising two dark-clad figures near the stairs. One had a wiggling bundle under his arm. It was Quint.

  Cat threw herself at them, screaming, “No, you can’t take him! Let him go!”

  In her haste to reach Quint, she ran into the first man as he wheeled toward her. With a backward shove of his arm, he hurled her away with a force that slammed her against the wall. Stunned by the impact, Cat stumbled to her knees.

  Ty came out of his bedroom. “Hold it—”

  There was a loud, spitting sound. At almost the same instant Cat saw Ty spin back into the door and crash to the floor.

  “Go, go, go,” an urgent voice whispered.

  Feet clumped down the stairs in rapid flight as Cat struggled to her feet, a hand automatically touching the back of her head where the throbbing pain was centered. She started toward the top of the steps, but her father caught her.

  “Stay back,” he ordered. “They have guns.”

  “They took Quint.”

  “Oh, my God, Ty,” Jessy murmured from the far doorway, then called, “He’s been shot.”

  “I’m coming.” Chase released Cat to go to his son. “How bad is it?”

  “I’m not sure,” Jessy answered. “It’s his shoulder. I can feel where the bullet came out the top of it.”

  “…okay,” Ty mumbled.

  Cat ran back into her bedroom, grabbed a pair of tennis shoes from the closet and raced for the stairs.

  “Cat, where are you going?” her father demanded.

  “The lines are dead. There’s a mobile phone in the truck.”

  She flew down the steps and heard a door shut somewhere in the house. The path through the living room was ingrained in her memory. She crossed it without checking her headlong pace. At the front door, Cat paused long enough to push a foot into one of the shoes, then hopped onto the front porch while tugging on the other one.

  The rumbling growl of an engine starting up momentarily froze her.

  It came from behind the house. The kidnappers. It had to be the kidnappers.

  Cat ran to a pillar and flattened herself against it as a van came barreling around the corner of the house, its lights off. She watched to see which direction it went. When it turned onto the north road, she ran to the pickup.

  The interior light flashed on when Cat opened the door on the driver’s side. She snatched the keys off the floor mat and scrambled behind the wheel, driven by only one thought—she had to find out where they were taking Quint.

  Hurrying, she inserted the key in the ignition and started the truck. She reached for the headlight switch, then pulled her hand back. She had been born and raised on this ranch. Cat knew its roads better than whoever had taken Quint. Gunning the motor, she reversed away from the house and sped after the van.

  The lights atop the patrol car flashed their eye-jarring cadence, throwing their jerky glare across the Shamrock ranch yard. Logan spotted the dark, wet glisten of a blood trail that led straight to the house. The hand that had been on the butt of his .45 now drew it.

  “Stay alert, Garcia,” he told the deputy with him. “It could be a trap.”

  Moving parallel to the trail, they followed it to the front stoop and flanked the door. Logan checked to make sure the stocky deputy was ready, then burst onto the porch and into the darkened house, Garcia on his heels. High-powered flashlight beams raked the interior. Then Logan hit the wall switch, flooding the living room with light.

  A scratching sound came from the kitchen. At a nod from Logan, the two men moved toward it with caution. The beam picked out O’Rourke’s body on the floor, the back of his shirt soaked with blood. The telephone was near him, his fingertips touching the beeping receiver off the hook.

  Logan flipped on the light switch, motioned for Garcia to check the rest of the house, then went to the motionless body, sidestepping the blood smears on the floor. Crouching beside him, Logan pressed two fingers to O’Rourke’s carotid artery and found a pulse. It was on the thready side, but it was there.

  “Hang on, O’Rourke. Hang on.” Logan holstered his gun and ripped open O’Rourke’s shirt, exposing two bullet wounds. One appeared to be an exit wound, while the second was an entrance wound, an apparent kill shot, intended to finish off the old man.

  Garcia returned to the kitchen. “We’re clear.” His dark eyes focused on O’Rourke.

  “He’s alive,” Logan told him. “Grab some towels. We need to get a compression bandage going and slow down this bleeding.”

  “How the hell did he drag himself all the way in here, shot up like that?” The deputy moved to the cupboard, pulling out drawers.

  “Sheer force of will.” Logan picked up the receiver on the old rotary dial phone and depressed the cradle’s disconnect button, silencing the irritating beep. A
soft moan came from O’Rourke as his fingers moved in a feeble effort to reach the phone. Logan bent close to his face. “O’Rourke, are you with me? Can you hear me?” Lashes fluttered and lifted, showing him glazed and unfocused green eyes. “Who did this, O’Rourke? Who shot you?”

  “…don’ know…” The words were barely louder than a breath.

  “…mas’…”

  “He had on a mask?” Like the kidnappers. The connection in Logan’s mind was instant.

  Eyes closed in confirmation. “Yeah…Ca’…alone…sorry…” The last faded into a long feathering breath.

  There was a perceptible slumping of his body. Seeing it, Logan thought they had lost him. But, no, the pulse was still there. Gathering up the phone, Logan straightened and moved out of Garcia’s way, then silently cursed the slowness of the rotary dial. He wouldn’t let himself think about the mask yet.

  “Jenna, it’s Echohawk,” he said the instant her voice came on the line.

  “Logan. Thank God, I—”

  “O’Rourke’s alive—barely. Get an ambulance out here double quick. Alert the air-evac while you’re at it.”

  “Right away. I’ve been trying to reach you on the radio,” she rushed. “Your wife called—two men in a van took your son. Ty Calder was shot. I’ve got paramedics headed there now.”

  “When was this?”

  “I’m not sure. She called a few minutes ago.” She paused a beat. “Logan, she’s following them. She called me from the mobile phone in the ranch pickup.”

  “Give me the number.” His mouth tasted tinny and dry. She read it off to him. He hung up and dialed the number with sharp, impatient strokes. When Cat answered on the second ring, Logan wasted no time.

  “Cat, where are you?”

  “Logan. Thank God it’s you.” He heard her voice waver, heard it steady. “I’m on the main north road, almost to the gate. The van is less than a mile ahead of me, heading for the highway. They took Quint. I tried to stop them—”

  “I know, I know—”

  “It must be the same two men, Logan. They wore ski masks and cut the phone line just like before. They shot Ty in the shoulder. I don’t know how bad he is.”

  “Listen to me, Cat—”

  She broke in again. “Logan, they’re turning east on the highway. They’re turning east! They’re in a dark-colored van. I don’t know what the make is. And I haven’t been able to get close enough to get a license number.”

  “Cat, pull over. Do you hear me? Pull over,” he ordered harshly. “I’m only a few minutes away, and the highway south of town is blocked. They can’t go anywhere.”

  “But they could turn onto a side road,” she argued.

  “Damn it, pull over and stay where you are. I’ll find them. Don’t follow them any farther.”

  “Logan, I’m almost sure they don’t know I’m behind them. My lights aren’t on and—They’re slowing down. Logan, they’re slowing down.”

  “Stay back. For God’s sake—”

  “Oh, my God,” she murmured.

  “What is it? What’s happening?”

  “They’re turning off, Logan.” Her voice sounded strange. “They’re turning into the old Simpson place. That’s where Lath Anderson lives.”

  “I’ll handle it from here, Cat,” he spoke carefully and clearly. “You just stay right where you are and wait until I get there.”

  “Logan, hurry. He’s got Quint.”

  “I’ll take care of—” He heard a click on the other end. “Cat? Cat?” She had hung up. He swore viciously.

  About a mile from the head of the rutted lane, Cat swung the pickup onto a section of grassy shoulder and killed the engine. Common sense told her not to go any farther; she didn’t know how long the driveway was. Logan was right, she decided. She should wait until he got there.

  Cat rolled down the window and listened for the wail of a siren. There was nothing. It was impossible; she couldn’t just sit there. She had to go look, see where they were, maybe find out what they had done with Quint.

  When she started to climb out of the truck, her legs became tangled in her long nightgown. Stretching across the seat, Cat rummaged through the glove compartment and found a razor-edged box cutter. Using its sharpness, she sliced through the side seam and started ripping, shortening the nightgown to mid thigh.

  Unimpeded, Cat stepped to the ground, noticed a denim jacket stuffed behind the cab seat, and pulled it out. It looked like one of Ty’s. Knowing it would be miles too big, she put it on and rolled back the sleeves, hesitated, then picked up the box cutter and stuffed it in a side pocket. It was a weapon of sorts, the only one she had. After her last experience with Lath, Cat knew better than to rely on it. Just the same, she felt better having it.

  After a quick scan of the lane behind her, she took off, running alongside the rutted track, following it as it led her toward the old Simpson ranch yard. At the first glimmer of light ahead, Cat slowed and ducked into the trees, her breath coming quick and fast, her heart pounding.

  The sudden, harsh gabbling of guinea fowl momentarily froze her near a tree trunk. Through the trees she could see the lights of a house trailer. An angry mutter came from somewhere nearby. She crept forward with caution.

  “…worry too much, little brother.” Lath’s voice; Cat recognized that cocky drawl instantly. Rage rose up like bitter bile in her throat. “In the first place, ain’t nobody gonna come here lookin’ for him. Even if they did, you aren’t gonna hear a peep out of him. That sleepin’ pill will knock him out in five minutes flat. And they’ll never find him in there otherwise.”

  Where was “in there”? Cat stole a look, glad of the denim jacket’s dull blue color that hid the paleness of her bare shoulders and the satin sheen of her nightgown. The two men were walking toward the trailer, coming from a hillside area off to the left. Both were dressed in ordinary jeans and plaid shirts, the ski masks and gloves gone.

  Rollie mumbled something.

  “Hell, I’ll just stick those guns in the next shipment. If they ever surface again, it’ll be somewhere in Texas,” Lath replied with a strut in his voice. “I tell ya, I got this all figured out. Ma’s got a whole bottle of them pills. We can keep the kid doped up for a couple weeks if we have to.” He thumped Rollie on the back. “Wouldn’t you love to see Calder’s face about now?”

  Laughing, he opened the trailer door. Cat ducked low behind the brush as light poured through the opening. Then the door closed, muting the voices, leaving only the occasional gabble of the still-uneasy guinea hens.

  What were they doing over by that hillside? Cat wondered. Could that be where they had hidden Quint? She didn’t see anything that looked like a building, just trees and some brush.

  “Nobody will find him,” Lath had bragged.

  Maybe she could, if she got there before the sleeping pill knocked Quint out.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Dammit, Cat, why couldn’t you have waited?” Logan clutched the torn swatch of satin from her nightgown. He looked in the direction of the Simpson place, his mind registering the odd noises coming from the pickup’s cooling engine. He was only scant minutes behind her.

  “She can’t be far ahead of us,” Garcia echoed Logan’s thoughts.

  “I know.” His fingers curled into the slick cloth an instant before he tossed it back onto the seat. “Wait here for our backup. I’ll see if I can find her—and get her out of there.” Logan checked his watch. “With or without her, I’ll be back in ten minutes. The state troopers should be here by then, and we’ll move in.”

  “Right.”

  Logan set off at a loping run.

  An old root cellar. Cat stared at the weathered door that lay flush with the hillside slope. This had to be where they had hidden Quint. Hugging the shadows, she crept closer to it, darting wary looks at the trailer.

  The door lifted with barely a sound. She slipped inside and carefully lowered it shut. Blackness swallowed her, total and absolute. She battled back the surge
of panic and reminded herself that she didn’t see either man carrying a flashlight. Somewhere, there had to be a light. She felt along the walls, encountered a string and pulled it. She heard the snick of a chain a split second before a single, bare bulb came on with blinding brightness.

  Eyes narrowed against its glare, Cat looked around the cellar and saw nothing but shelves, a stockpile of canning jars, some empty and some filled. There was no sign of Quint. Her heart sank. She had been certain he would be here. But where? Where could they have hidden him when it was all so open and empty?

  Taking a chance, she called in a loud whisper, “Quint, it’s Mom. Are you in here? If you can hear me, make some kind of noise.”

  Cat held her breath, listening. Two seconds later, she heard a faint thump. She took a hesitant step forward, not sure where it came from.

  “Do it again, Quint.”

  There was a second thump, a little louder. Glass jars rattled on an end wall shelf. He was behind that wall, Cat realized. Somewhere there had to be a door. She tugged at the middle shelf, felt it give a little, heard the rubbing of wood against wood and pulled harder. With a groaning scrape, it swung toward her, almost the whole wall.

  She saw Quint lying in the narrow space behind it, his mouth, hands, and legs taped. Swallowing a sob, Cat rushed to him and yanked the tape off his mouth, then dug the box-cutter out of the jacket pocket and went to work on the tape binding his wrists. Quint turned his head and spit, then spit again. “They tried to make me swallow a pill,’’ he told her, gray eyes blazing. “Yuck, it’s all stuck on my tongue.” He screwed up his face at the taste of it.

  “Use your pajamas to wipe it off.” As soon as his hands were free, Cat moved to his ankles. “Your dad’s on his way here. We’ve got to find him. Okay?”

  “What if those men come back?” Quint sounded as worried as she felt.

  “We’ve got to get out of here before they do.” She rubbed his legs and arms hard just in case the tape had cut off the circulation to them, and resisted the urge to hug him to her. There would be plenty of time for holding him and hugging him once they were safely away from here. Cat stood him up and turned. “Get on my back. We’ll do this just like we did before.”