by Irene Hannon
"No. That's where I'd start"
"Consider it done" Mark folded his arms across his chest and assessed Nick. "I'll need you if this gets dicey. But I'm not willing to put you or any member of this team in danger. If you can't give me total focus, tell me now"
Not once in his years of law enforcement had Nick let personal feelings compromise his ability to do his job. And he didn't want to start now. Mark was implementing the appropriate steps to track down Rachel. Until they had some answers from the police and the hotel, there was no role for him to play. And he owed his team his support. They'd trained together, and they relied on each other. This was where he belonged. For now.
"As long as I know the situation is being checked out, focus won't be an issue." He returned Mark's gaze steadily.
For a few seconds, Mark continued to appraise him. Then he gave a brief nod. "Okay. I'll let you know when I have any information"
Pulling his BlackBerry out of its holder, Mark punched in some numbers and strode away.
As Nick watched him leave, the rest of the team members began to quietly converse or check equipment. He didn't do either. His equipment was ready, and the only conversation he wanted to have could be held in the quiet of his heart.
Lord, please keep Rachel safe.
Something was prodding her in the side. Hard.
With a moan, Rachel pried open her eyes. Blinked. Tried without success to focus. She reached up to adjust her glasses, only to discover she wasn't wearing them.
"Get up"
The order was faint and reverberated like an echo, as if it had come from far away. Rachel blinked again and peered up. Beyond the dim glow surrounding her was darkness. Only the vaguest outline of a shadowy figure suggested the source of the command.
"I said, get up:"
An arm gripped her shoulder. Shook it.
Her head exploded.
Moaning again, Rachel curled into a ball. A shiver convulsed her, and her teeth began to chatter.
Why was her head pounding?
Why was she so cold?
All at once, a face appeared in her field of vision, inches away. The mouth was concealed behind a tweed muffler, but the eyes were visible. Slightly glazed, they looked through her rather than at her.
The muffler jump-started Rachel's memory. She'd been abducted from the hotel parking lot. And when she'd balked at getting into the trunk of a car, this woman had hit her. With a gun.
No wonder her head was throbbing.
"If you don't get out, I'll close the trunk again and drive this car to a bluff by the river." The woman spoke in a singsong voice, as if she were talking to a very young child. "There's a nice high one not far from here. It's a long way down. I doubt you'd survive the fall. Even if you did, the water's very cold. And swift. You'd drown before you got to shore. That's not what you want, is it?"
Another shiver raced up Rachel's spine. And this one had nothing to do with the cold.
"Are you coming or not?"
The woman asked the question as if she were inquiring whether Rachel wanted to go to with her to a movie.
As suffocating panic clawed at her throat, Rachel tried to coax her sluggish brain into operation. She could stay in the trunk and hope that by the time the woman got to the river she'd feel stronger-and better able to defend herself. But what if the woman decided to let the car roll over the bluff without ever opening the trunk again?
Not a good option.
She had to take her stand here.
Wherever here was.
Propelled by fear and adrenaline, she managed to sit up despite the spinning in her head. The woman backed into the darkness, waiting and watching, as Rachel struggled to swing her legs over the edge of the trunk, shredding her hose in the process. She scooted forward. Gripped the metal. Fought back a wave of nausea as her feet touched the ground.
Don't get sick! The woman might get angry and finish you off right here.
"Stand up:"
Bracing herself, Rachel stood on her shaky legs. Swayed. Grabbed the end of the car. Fell. Her shoulder took the brunt of the impact.
She gasped in pain. And gasped again as the woman moved behind her, grabbed her hair, and yanked.
"I said stand up:" She was still using that eerie, singsong, other-worldly voice-a bizarre counterpoint to her violent behavior.
Choking back a sob, Rachel gripped the back of the car and pulled herself to her feet. Before she grasped what was happening, the woman jerked her arms forward and snapped on a pair of handcuffs.
Bile once again rose in Rachel's throat as she stared at her restrained wrists.
Without the use of her hands, she had little hope of defending herself.
"Move. That way." The woman gestured with the gun, slammed the lid of the trunk down, and picked up a tote bag at her feet.
Rachel peered into the night, attempting to focus. Without her glasses, everything was fuzzy. And the bump on her temple wasn't helping. No artificial light broke the darkness, but the three-quarter moon in the clear winter sky illuminated what appeared to be dense woods on either side of a narrow road that was delineated by two gravel tire tracks.
This isolated place was as bad as the river bluff. Rachel's panic escalated.
"I'm not planning to kill you, if you cooperate" The woman waved the gun in her face, and Rachel recoiled. "That way." She gestured again toward the woods.
God, what should I do?
The silent, desperate cry came from deep in Rachel's heart. Lifting her hands toward her chin, she folded them and bowed her head.
"What are you doing?" A note of suspicion changed the tenor of the woman's voice. "Are you praying?"
"Yes"
"That's a waste of time. God doesn't listen:"
"How do you know?" Rachel raised her head.
"I used to pray. A long time ago. It never made any difference."
She sounded more lucid now. And she spoke as if she believed in God. Maybe that was a good sign.
"I have a friend who thinks it does. He says it helps him make decisions'
"I make my own decisions. I don't need God"
"Maybe he could help you make better decisions. You know God doesn't want us to hurt each other"
The woman's expression grew distant again. "I never hurt people. I wouldn't do that. Now move. Down that path:" She gestured with the gun toward the woods.
Rachel didn't see that she had much choice. Whatever brief, rational moment the woman had conjured up was gone. The best she could do was follow her abductor's instructions, buy herself as much time as possible, and try to figure out some way to escape.
Once they left the rutted road, the terrain became more uneven. The heels of her pumps found every hole in the rough ground, and brambles and bare tree limbs snagged at her coat on the overgrown path.
Leave a clue behind.
The words flashed through her mind, like a message. Yes. Good idea. Someone would come looking for her eventually. Lots of someones, if Nick had anything to say about it. She had to leave them some kind of clue to work with.
Tugging off her gloves, she wadded them into a ball and lurched to one side of the trail. Falling to her hands and knees, she shoved them under some leaves.
"What's wrong? Get up"
She felt the gun in her back. Heart pounding, she grabbed a tree trunk and pulled herself to her feet. "I slipped:' She started walking again.
"It's those shoes. Take them off."
She kept walking. Away from the spot she'd dropped the gloves. "But the ground is rocky."
"We don't have far to go. Take them off."
Bending, Rachel slipped them from her feet.
"Leave them on the ground"
Rachel dropped them.
"Move forward a few feet"
Once she complied, the woman bent, retrieved the shoes, and stuffed them into the tote. "Go on"
Sharp rocks and the stubble of dead, ice-encrusted foliage cut into the soles of her feet as she stumbled forwa
rd on the frozen ground.
"Stop"
At the sharp command a couple of dozen yards later, Rachel halted and peered ahead. She thought she detected a small structure in a clearing ahead, but without her glasses, it was impossible to tell for sure.
For a full thirty seconds, they stood in silence. A gust of frigid wind cut through Rachel, and she began to shake even harder. She wasn't dressed for the cold. Her tea attire of slim black skirt and long-sleeved white silk blouse was designed for indoor wear, not winter nighttime hiking. Nor was her dress coat warm enough to provide much protection from sustained cold. And her shredded hose left her bare legs exposed. Rachel could never remember being so cold.
Or so afraid.
"Okay. Go ahead. Toward the shed"
Rachel took a few tentative steps into the clearing. They'd arrived at their destination. Her time was running out. She had to take some kind of action.
"Stand over-"
Before the woman could finish her sentence, there was a sudden crashing in the brush. They turned in unison. A deer emerged from the woods, as startled by their presence as they were by his.
This was her chance, Rachel realized, her adrenaline surging. Probably her only one.
Lifting her arms, she lunged toward her abductor and shoved as hard as she could. The woman fell. The gun flew out of her hand. Rachel dived for it.
Just as her hands closed around the barrel, the woman rolled toward her. Flipped her over. Gripped her neck. Squeezed.
Rachel tried to shake her off, tried to suck in air, but the earlier blow to her head and the intense cold had robbed her of strength. As she thrashed, the woman's fingers tightened on her neck. Waves of blackness began to wash over her, and her struggle grew more feeble.
Her final thought before she lost consciousness was of Nick ... and the promising future they would never have a chance to explore.
Allen Harris settled into the easy chair by the fireplace in his small bungalow and opened the front section of the Tribune. The leisurely perusal of the paper was one of the weekend rituals he most enjoyed. It capped a Sunday that always included church, brunch at his favorite restaurant, and a few hours of woodworking in his basement workshop. After he finished the paper, he would prepare a simple dinner. A turkey or ham and cheese sandwich with chips.
Some might call his routine boring. He found it soothing. These days, he took comfort in-and appreciated-predictability.
The O'Neil kidnapping was in the headlines again, he noted, scanning the front page. Sad case. And the FBI didn't seem to be making much progress, according to the article. The only real piece of news was that the child's Raggedy Ann doll had been discovered in St. Louis, leading to speculation the baby might be in that area. According to an article in a St. Louis paper, quoted in the Tribune, a psychic was involved. The baby's mother had even visited her.
Allen shook his head. When people were desperate, they'd try anything.
The notion of desperate people brought Debra to mind. She'd wanted a baby more than anything in the world. Far more than she'd wanted a husband, as he'd soon discovered.
But he didn't want to think about his ex-wife. It was too painful. That was why he'd cut off the conversation yesterday with Warren and blocked out all thoughts of her once his colleague left.
Yet something in their exchange had struck him as odd. He frowned, replaying Warren's comments. A remark about a baby, that was it. His colleague had said Debra had a baby with her. That his ex-wife had said she was watching the child for a friend.
Except Debra had never had any friends in Chicago. Not one, though she'd lived in the city her whole life. Only later had he understood that was the reason she'd insisted they forego a formal wedding and elope. She'd had no one to invite besides her father, and she'd been estranged from him for years.
He had no idea how long she'd been in St. Louis, but it couldn't have been more than a few months. They'd only divorced a little over a year ago. Given her history, it seemed improbable she'd have formed a friendship already. Especially one strong enough that a mother would trust Debra to take her infant somewhere in the car. Alone.
As Allen stared at the O'Neil story in the Tribune, a single word suddenly flashed through his mind.
Desperation.
Dear God ... was it possible she'd ... ?
No. He cut off that train of thought. What a ridiculous notion. Debra wouldn't resort to kidnapping.
Yet desperate people did desperate things. The use of the psychic in this case by otherwise rational people was clear evidence of that.
And Debra had been desperate. He thought of her wild-eyed hysterics after her final pregnancy had ended in disaster. Recalled the way she'd pummeled him with her fists in the hospital room after he broke the news. The nurses had had to restrain and sedate her.
When he'd taken her home, it had gotten worse. Hour after hour she'd cuddled a doll in the empty nursery, crooning to it. He'd forced her to get psychiatric help, almost physically dragging her to the appointments, and medication had helped-when she took it. But their already fragile marriage had shattered.
More than anything, her indifferent response to his announcement that he wanted a divorce had hurt. She couldn't have cared less that he was leaving. He was dispensable now that he couldn't help her get what she most wanted.
A baby.
He remembered her parting comment the day he'd moved out. She'd glared at him across the room, her eyes flashing, defiant.
"I will get my baby, Allen. With or without you'
But kidnapping-was she even capable of pulling off such a thing?
Maybe, he conceded. She might be a loner, but she functioned fine in her career. And she was smart. She could plan. Only when it came to the issue of children was she obsessive. And delusional.
Still, it was a real leap to connect her to the O'Neil kidnapping based simply on what Warren had seen.
Yet something didn't feel right.
Stymied, Allen shoved his fingers through his hair and sighed. He couldn't very well go to the authorities with a feeling. Although that psychic woman had, after she'd found the child's doll. And they'd listened to her.
But there was a very good chance his suspicions were groundless. He'd trusted his instincts about Debra once, and look where that had led him. He had no confidence this "feeling" about a connection between her and the kidnapping had any merit. He was probably getting himself worked up for no reason.
Better to let this rest. Debra had enough problems already. The last thing she needed was the FBI showing up at her door.
Setting aside the front page, Allen picked up the sports section. And pushed thoughts of his ex-wife and all her issues back into a remote corner of his mind.
Where they belonged.
At six o'clock, after a brief conversation, Mark slid his BlackBerry back onto his belt and moved to the center of the dingy apartment. "Okay, guys. It's a wrap. The negotiator talked the subject out. Let's pack up and head home"
There was an almost palpable release of tension in the room. Taut postures relaxed and serious demeanors eased. Most SWAT team call-outs ended this way. But there were always exceptions, and the team approached every deployment with the assumption it would be one of those exceptions. Adrenaline pumped until the situation ended with either a negotiated or tactical resolution.
As the team members began loading up gear, Mark motioned to Nick and moved into the adjacent room again.
The SWAT team leader's grim expression sent Nick's pulse off the scale as he joined him.
"Steve just gave me an update on Rachel. The police checked out the house. No one was home, and the garage was empty. Our guys talked to the people at the hotel. The doorman saw her leave at four-fifteen. They ran her plates and checked the lot. Her car's still there. We've issued a BOLO alert"
Nick's gut twisted and a muscle in his jaw clenched. "What about security video from the parking lot?"
"It's being retrieved as we speak. Kurt's on it.
I told him to call you with updates"
"I'm out of here" Turning away, he began stripping off his gear as he headed back to the front room. A hand on his arm stopped him, and he looked over his shoulder.
"Want some company?"
"Yeah. If you're up for it after all this:" He gestured around the apartment.
"I'm up for it. Consider it a return favor for a late-night hospital vigil last summer"
Neither man would forget the night Emily had come within minutes of losing her life. Nor the fact that Nick had stuck with Mark through the long, dark hours.
"Thanks." Nick took a deep breath. "We need to get the county K-9 unit on standby too"
With a nod, Mark pulled out his BlackBerry. "Give me five minutes to wrap things up here and talk to Steve. Is your car at the TOC?"
"Yes"
"We'll take yours, then. I bummed a ride to the call-out"
Fifteen minutes later, after huddling with Steve at the tactical operations center to discuss next steps and exchanging their black SWAT team fatigues for jeans, Nick and Mark headed toward Nick's car.
As they approached it, Nick's BlackBerry began to vibrate. He pulled it off his belt and tossed the car keys to Mark. "You drive, okay?"
"We've got some interesting video," Kurt said in response to Nick's clipped greeting. "The victim was approached on the parking lot near her car. It appears the assailant had a weapon, but the clip is too grainy for us to verify that without enhancement. We also can't tell whether it was a man or a woman. A couple of minutes later they walked off the parking lot and out of range of the security cameras:"
Never in his professional career had Nick panicked. Yet he was close to it now.
"You there, Nick?"
Kurt's question helped him regain his balance. He slid into the car. Closed the door. "Yeah. I'm here"
"We need to pull in K-9:'
"They're on standby"
"Okay. I'll put in a call. Can we get our hands on some clothing from the victim?"
"I'll take care of that and meet you at the hotel. Give us half an hour" He jabbed the end button.
As Mark pointed the car toward the highway, he shot Nick a look. "News?"