“I know,” he said, trying to remember if he’d ever felt more helpless in his life.
“I’m not sure I can stand much more of this,” she said. “When will he call?”
“Probably tonight,” Jack said. “Or tomorrow night.”
“Mama’s sleeping again,” Sandy said, looking over her shoulder at the house. “She took another pill. I wish I could, too.” She ran a hand across her face. “I must look like forty miles of rough road.”
“Not at all.” Jack hoisted the bag onto his shoulder and took Sandy by the arm. “Listen, it’s not as good as total oblivion, but how about taking a break just for the afternoon? Nothing’s going to happen for hours yet.”
She looked at him with hope shining in her eyes at the thought. “Are you sure?” she asked. “I shouldn’t.”
Jack steered her around to the other side of his car. “You definitely should. This is mental therapy. It’ll do you a world of good. Where would you like to go?”
She sucked in a quick breath. “Would…could you drive me to my hairdresser’s?”
Jack smiled. “Hell, yes, I could.”
In the end, she asked if they could take her Lexus SUV instead of his aging Mitsubishi. Jack tossed the book bag with the ransom money in the trunk. As he was positioning the driver’s seat, she placed a hand on his arm.
“I know this is a ridiculous time for me to realize how I feel about you, Jack. But when we get on the other side of this nightmare I hope you and I can find a reason to be with each other.”
“Well, there’s Twyla,” he said. “That’s a pretty good reason.”
“Yes, there’s Twyla.”
He started the car and heard a lilting melodic seatbelt chime. God, even the car security alerts of the rich are better than for the rest of us.
“Put your seatbelt on, Sandy.”
As she connected her seatbelt, she looked at him and smiled sadly. “How wonderful it must be to have someone to take care of you,” she said. “Someone who cares if you’re wearing your seatbelt or if you’re getting enough vitamin D. I think I could really get used to being taken care of.”
He drove down Northside Drive toward the shopping district of Buckhead. She’d assured him she wouldn’t need an appointment.
“When you have enough money,” she said, the stone facades of downtown Buckhead drifting by the car window, “all the rules are different.”
Jack pulled up in front of a small shop with a brightly colored, green-striped awning over a sidewalk of two cafe tables and chairs. A woman came out of the shop. She waved at Sandy.
“That’s Trinka,” Sandy said, waving back at the hairdresser. “She’ll take care of me.”
“Pick you up in a couple hours?”
Sandy opened her car door and then hesitated, pulled her cell phone out of her purse and handed it to him.
“I know I’ve pushed so much onto your broad shoulders, Jack,” she said. “When you were gone last night, I realized I couldn’t bear even to look at my phone, wondering when he’ll contact us next—at least not by myself.”
“If he calls, I’ll deal with it.”
“Thank you, Jack,” she said, dabbing at her eyes and swinging her legs out of the car. He watched her hug Trinka as if they were old friends and then disappear into the shop.
Jack drove slowly back toward Sandy’s house. It was now seven days since Twyla was taken. Four days since Jack had taken the money to the drop site only to have Eugene not show. Now that Sandy was out of the picture for a few hours, he knew what he really needed to do was get the police involved.
We know it’s Eugene Gilstrap. He’s had her for a week. He’s unbalanced. He’s threatened Sandy, physically attacked me, and possibly Twyla’s boyfriend, too. It all fit. The guy was a psycho and trying to deal with him as if he weren’t wasn’t going to end well for anyone.
This wasn’t the first time Jack was tempted to call Maxwell. But if he did that he was calling in the big guns. There would be no more secrets then. No handling it on their own. If Gilstrap was watching the place, he’d see the FBI and full squads of detectives descend on Sandy’s house. He’d know the game was up then. And one thing the Atlanta police did not do was pay ransoms. If Gilstrap was desperate enough—crazy enough—he might play the only card he had left to play. The only thing of value that he knew would destroy Sandy.
He’d kill Twyla.
How much more of this could any of them take? Sandy was quickly slipping off the deep end, Vernetta was keeping herself sedated more than she was awake, and Jack was systematically dismantling every part of his life that mattered to him in an attempt to get this child found and returned to her mother.
And to him.
How is it I never got a chance to know Twyla until it was too late? How can that really be the way this thing plays out?
Sandy’s cell phone rang in his console, interrupting his thoughts. For a moment, he thought it must be her calling him. He picked up the phone. Unidentified Caller.
“Hello?” he said, his pulse quickening.
A strong Southern accent in a definite African-American voice drawled, “Deliver the five hundred thousand dollars in the book bag to the base of the I-285 overpass at the Roswell Road Exit. Put the bag next to the three, stacked white rocks. They be directions where the girl is.”
Before Jack could speak, the call disconnected. His mind raced. Again, it sounded like Eugene had gotten some random person to read the ransom request from a script. Jack reversed direction and gunned the SUV in the direction of Piedmont Road—the fastest way from where he was to Roswell Road. His heart was pounding. It could be another wild goose chase.
This could be what Eugene is all about, sending us running all over Atlanta whenever he snaps his fingers. Or this could really be it.
Why the hell was the guy going to such lengths to hide his identity when he’d already done everything in his power to identify himself? Has he just watched too many episodes of Law & Order? Does he think by attempting to camouflage his identity with the ransom messages he’ll somehow avoid being nailed for this?
Jack wove through traffic, grateful it was midday and midweek—Atlanta’s notorious rush hour wouldn’t begin until three o’clock. As he approached I-285, he realized he didn’t know which side of the twelve-lane highway he should be on. If he guessed wrong, there was no way he could get across to the other side on foot without losing precious time.
Gambling, he took the exit heading west and pulled onto the verge before the access road connected him to the interstate highway. He grabbed the book bag out of the back. Dodging three cars flying down the exit ramp at speeds in excess of seventy miles an hour, he ran to the towering cement pillars that pinioned the overpass. He prayed this was the right one, prayed Gilstrap was ready to collect his money, prayed Twyla was still alive.
He saw the stack of white stones from thirty yards away and sprinted the remaining distance. The cement sides of the overpass slanted up fifty feet until they gave way to dirt and grass. Jack dropped the bag next to the stones and saw a small tape recorder tucked under the largest stone. He pulled it out and pushed the play button.
A girl’s voice intoned: “You will find your final treasure at Unicoi State Park. Drive through the front gate, stay on the main road until you reach the Big Brook Spur campsite…” Jack turned and ran to his car. Unicoi was an hour north of Atlanta. He’d either have to take Spaghetti Junction and—rush hour or not, it would add another hour to the trip—or Georgia 400. There was no fast way to do this.
How is it a South Georgia native knows North Georgia well enough to plan this?
It didn’t matter. Only speed mattered now. He put the recorder on the console and hit rewind.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Mia didn’t love tuna salad, but she did love not having to make her own sandwiches. She’d stopped only long enough to hit Henri’s Deli before taking up her post down the street from Sandy’s house. It was late afternoon, and the glow from the
dropping sun was glinting off the metal of her car side mirrors. Jack’s car was in the driveway but he wasn’t inside. Mia had watched him drive away with Sandy in the Lexus almost an hour earlier. He hadn’t returned.
I never would have thought you were the kind to be seduced by a flashy car, Jack. She finished her sandwich and took a long, steady breath. It was now or never. She pulled open the glove compartment and put her hand on her Glock. And hesitated. Maxwell didn’t want her using it until she knew what she was doing. But Mia was tired of doing things just because other people said she should.
On the other hand…
Just in case things go south in there… She closed the glove compartment and left the gun inside. Maybe I can do it without involving body bags.
No one had returned in over an hour. Hopefully, that meant they were out for the afternoon. What kind of errand only takes an hour? And what kind of errand requires both people? No, they were at dinner or maybe they caught an early movie.
The bottom line was, they were gone and the house was empty.
She got out of the car.
None of this works if I can’t get my hands on things.
She walked up the street to the driveway without hesitation. Skulking around and looking over your shoulder draws attention. Walking purposefully, like you have a right to be here, doesn’t. Mia hesitated at the mailbox but decided against touching it. A yellow sheet announcing a neighborhood garage sale was wedged next to the metal flag pulley. Between the mail carrier and whoever else might have touched it last, the reading would probably not be helpful. Too many people, too public.
She walked up the driveway and when she passed Jack’s car she put her hand on his driver’s door handle. Immediately the feelings were there: panic, helplessness, fear.
What is going on, Jack?
She looked at the front of the house. There was a narrow brick passageway between the garage and the main house that led to a small courtyard. She hurried through it. A large hard plastic garbage container sat outside a single door. Probably the kitchen. Mia didn’t have to look for signs of a security system. She knew Sandy must have one. She also knew there was a good chance she hadn’t armed it with Jack in residence.
But just in case, she’d enter from the second floor. Nobody ever wired the second floor.
It’s like they think robbers can’t climb or something. She walked to the kitchen door and touched the doorknob. The vibration started in her fingertips and shot up to her elbow like an ice pick, cold and deadly. She pulled her hand back and rubbed her arm.
Something bad is going on here.
Over the door was a small gable to protect the garbage cans from the elements. Mia grabbed the wrought iron railing flanking the door and pulled herself on top of the lidded garbage can. When she grabbed the edge of the gable roof to pull herself up, she felt the can fall away beneath her feet. Hanging in midair for just seconds, she pulled herself up onto the gable and looked down.
The can was on its side but nothing had spilled out. She turned to the small window over the kitchen door and peered in. It looked like a landing of some kind. She pulled a small cotton scarf out of her pocket, wrapped her hand and smashed it sharply against the glass, cringing at the sound in the quiet neighborhood.
She had to move fast now. The sound of breaking glass was bad enough. But seeing somebody perched on the roof of your neighbor’s house was worse. She snaked her hand through the window and flipped the latch to pull it open. She slipped inside before stopping to see how high up she was in the landing.
Luck was with her. She dropped no more than two feet to the soft carpet. She closed the window, leaving it unlatched, and looked down the long hall of closed bedroom doors.
*****
An hour later, Jack broke free of the dense traffic surrounding Atlanta and opened up the Lexus, pointing it toward Dahlonega. Keeping his eyes alert for Georgia Highway Patrol, he tipped his speed on the heavy side of eighty and prayed the Smokies had other fish to barbecue today. He kept the recording on the seat next to him in a continual loop.
You will find your final treasure at Unicoi State Park. Drive through the front gate. Stay on the main road until you reach the Big Brook Spur campsite. Park at the Comfort Station. Cross the dirt road and go into the forest. Follow the path to the first storm shelter you come to. If you reach the ring road, you’ve gone too far.
He sailed past Dahlonega and jumped on I-75A. The fall weather had attracted more cars than usual for midweek in North Georgia and Jack found himself weaving in and out of slower-moving vehicles more intent on photographing the leaf change than driving. His GPS indicated he was still forty-five minutes away from Unicoi. He inched his speed up on the four-lane.
Something was going off in his head but there wasn’t time to examine what it was. He focused on the girl’s voice on the recorder. With the noise in his car of the highway, there was no hope of detecting background sounds on the recording. Plenty of time for that later. After I’ve got Twyla.
By the time he saw the signage for Unicoi, he had the directions memorized. He turned sharply into the entrance and sped down the main drag past the visitor’s center and the conference compound. Although the recording hadn’t indicated distances, Jack knew Big Brook campsite was at the far end of the complex, bordering on the edge of the Chattahoochee National Forest. He saw the Comfort Station from a half mile down the road—a squat cinder block building of showers and toilets that serviced the campsite.
He brought the SUV to a squealing stop in front of the building, gravel flying in a wide arc, and lunged out, leaving his door open behind him.
Cross the dirt road and go into the forest. Follow the path to the first storm shelter you come to.
An image of Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz with houses flying overhead flitted through his mind. It seemed unimaginable they had built storm shelters in a campground. Were they ever used? He jumped over a small creek that niggled through the campsite and bolted through small clearings already inhabited by families erecting tents and getting a jump on the weekend. Big Brook was on the verge of the forest. Mostly firs and pines, there were only a few dashes of color where the errant deciduous tree had snuck into the fall lineup.
Follow the path to the first storm shelter you come to.
He found the path and barreled down it, slipping once on the leaves that lined the trail but keeping himself upright by grabbing a nearby sapling.
Storm shelters in the South were built into the ground, tucked into hillocks or rises. The path widened to a small clearing of brown grass. Across it, the path continued, this time deeper into the forest. He stopped, his sides heaving from his run, sweat dribbling down his face.
There were two small knolls directly ahead of him, looking like burial mounds. He ran to the first one. It had a set of double wooden doors built flat into the ground. There were clear signs of a struggle in the dirt by the opening. His heart pounded in his ears, nearly obliterating the sounds of his labored breathing.
He grabbed the wooden handle in the middle of the right-hand door and wrenched it open.
Chapter NINETEEN
The smell of feces and vomit bombarded Jack as he pulled the wooden doors open. The interior was semi-dark, dimly lit by the weak and wavering beam of a small lantern. A whimper sidled up from the ground; the cry of a wounded animal. His heart pounding with fear and anticipation, Jack jumped down the short wooden ladder into the bottom of the bunker.
She huddled on the floor, her hands tied, a week’s worth of fast-food bags on the ground surrounding her. She blinked up at him and covered her eyes against the daylight behind him.
“Twyla?” He knelt by her and she cowered, attempting to scoot away from him. The stench in the hole was staggering. Jack took the girl as gently as he could and lifted her into his arms. She struggled weakly, moaning as if in pain.
Just have to get her out of this hell.
She started vomiting before he got her fully up the ladder and into the lig
ht, but he didn’t stop. Whatever injury or terror that needed to be dealt with would be dealt with above ground, out of that terrible place. He laid her on the dirt path in front of the bunker and untied her hands. All the while, he spoke to her as he’d heard Mia talk to an agitated horse: softly, reassuringly, his words less important than the crooning tone of his voice.
“It’s alright, Twyla,” he said, pulling the ropes off her. “It’s all going to be fine. I’m going to take you to your mother. It’s all over now.”
She was on her side, unmoving, her eyes open. She still wore the jeans and top she’d been kidnapped in. They were soiled and wet. Her hands were filthy and she was barefooted. She didn’t appear to be hurt.
His body stiffened at the thought of her living entombed in that hole for the last seven days. He looked around as if hoping for assistance, but the forest was quiet, the clearing vacant of any living thing. Even the birds had hushed. He put a comforting hand on her leg, and she recoiled. He pulled out his phone and dialed 911. As he gave directions to where he was, he watched her. When she heard him calling for an ambulance, she seemed to piece together that Jack was her rescuer. She turned her head to look at him, her eyes wild with fright.
“It’s all right, Twyla. It’s over. No one will hurt you any more.”
“Mama?”
“I’m calling her right now, darlin.’” Jack dialed the number of the hairdresser’s and tried to smile reassuringly while he waited for it to connect.
“Trinka’s,” a foreign-sounding voice said.
“I need to speak with Sandy Gilstrap,” he said.
“Minute.”
The seconds ticked by. He could hear the chatter and laughter of the hair salon in the background as he waited. Twyla continued to lie on her side, unmoving. Her eyes were closed. Jack wanted to go back into the storm shelter to look for anything that would definitely tie Eugene to the scene, but he settled for closing the doors to preserve it. He didn’t want to leave Twyla alone.
Complete Mia Kazmaroff Romantic Suspense Series, 1-4 Page 57