by Irene Hannon
A silencer?
No matter.
It was pointed straight at her head.
Her heart lurched.
“Take the boy inside.”
She scrutinized the shadowed man towering over her. His features were too dark to make out, but his athletic build and the baseball cap pulled low on his forehead were familiar.
Sanders.
He hadn’t waited for them to come to him. He’d come to her—and found the perfect way to lure her out of her secure condo.
This wasn’t how the finale was supposed to play out.
Besides . . . how had the man left his house without alerting Connor?
“I said, take the boy inside.” The man’s voice, though still low, was sharper now—and scored with irritation. “And keep your mouth shut.”
Kate didn’t know much about guns, but she doubted it was wise to try the patience of a man who was holding one.
Bending over her son, she worked her arms under his shoulders and knees and struggled to stand. Four-year-old Kevin, at thirty-seven pounds, had been an armful. But he had to weigh fifteen pounds more now. His head flopped against her chest as she staggered to her feet.
“Move inside.” Sanders gestured with the gun.
Kate shifted Kevin in her arms and glanced at the street. The cul-de-sac was deserted, and air conditioners cranked up to full blast would insulate sleeping residents from a cry for help.
Too bad those noisy neighbors weren’t having a party tonight after all.
“I said move!”
At the sharp command, Kate tottered forward under her heavy load, pushing the front door open with her shoulder while shielding Kevin’s head with her arm.
As she entered the foyer, she heard the door close behind her.
“Put him in the living room. Then go into the kitchen.”
Keeping a tight grip on Kevin, she crossed to the couch and gently lowered his limp form onto the plush seat. When he remained unresponsive despite all the jostling, panic clawed at her throat, and she turned to Sanders. “What did you do to him?”
“Not as much as I’m going to do if you make this difficult. Get into the kitchen.”
In the dim room, she still couldn’t read his eyes—but his tone frightened her as much as the gun. This was the man everyone had called a loving father? There was no evidence of that tonight. But would he actually harm the boy he’d treated as a son for three years?
Maybe.
A man capable of murder was capable of anything.
Hate bubbled up in her heart, intense and visceral, as every instinct in her body screamed at her to dive for his legs and take her chances.
But if she failed, she wasn’t the only one who could die.
With one more look at her son, she forced her shaky legs to carry her into the kitchen.
“Stand over in the corner.” Sanders gestured with the gun to the inside wall.
Once she complied, he circled the room, verifying that all the mini-blinds were tightly closed. Then he flipped on the light over the table and faced her.
“Fill a glass with water and sit at the table.”
Keeping one eye on him, she followed his instructions.
As she perched on a chair, he withdrew a small square of aluminum foil from the pocket of his jeans and tossed it to her. “Take those. Now.”
Tearing her gaze from his latex-gloved hands, she worked the crimped foil loose and folded it back.
Six 5 mg Valium pills stared back at her.
What in the world . . . ?
She shot him a questioning look.
“I said take them.”
Six pills at once? It wasn’t enough for an overdose, but she’d be knocked out cold.
Like Kevin.
She sucked in a breath. “Did you drug my son too?”
A muscle flexed in his jaw, and his eyes narrowed to slits as he pointed to the pills. “Now.”
Her mind raced. What was his game? If he’d come to kill her, six Valium wouldn’t accomplish that. If he was trying to put her out of commission while he fled so she couldn’t raise an alarm, why not just tie her up?
He stepped closer, and the barrel of the gun glinted in the light.
Fingers shaking, Kate picked up one of the yellow pills. If she took all six pills, she’d have less than thirty minutes of lucidity, tops. Tonguing a couple into her gum would reduce the effect somewhat, since they didn’t dissolve very fast. And maybe, if she faked a faster zone out, he’d relax a bit, give her a window of opportunity to knock the gun from his hand and lunge for one of the knives in the rack on the counter.
As far as she could see, that was her only chance—slim as it was.
Putting the yellow tablet on her tongue, she picked up the glass of water and took a drink.
She took the pills one by one under Sanders’s watchful gaze, managing to secrete two of them in her gums.
After she swallowed the last one, he stepped closer. “Open your mouth.”
Heart thumping, she did so, praying the pills she’d hidden wouldn’t be visible.
The taut line of his shoulders eased slightly.
Thank you, God!
Now if she could get him talking, distract him from the task at hand long enough to lower his guard—and perhaps lower the gun—there might be an opportunity to lunge for the knives two steps away.
“So what’s going on?” She folded her hands to hide the tremors in her fingers, keeping her tone as conversational and nonconfrontational as possible.
He studied her in silence.
One eternal second after another ticked by.
Just when she’d concluded he was going to ignore her question, he lifted one shoulder. “With all the stress you’ve been under, no one would be surprised if you took a few Valium from the secret stash you’ve kept on hand for the past three years in case things got too bad.”
Diane had told him about her addiction.
She hadn’t mentioned that in their tête-à-tête.
Then again, who could have known Sanders would find that piece of information useful?
But the man obviously hadn’t done his homework if he thought six pills constituted an overdose. That was a plus.
His next words, however, chilled her.
“Accidents happen when people do drugs.”
Her lungs stalled.
What kind of accident did he have in mind?
And how could she thwart it?
“I never wanted to hurt you, you know. If you’d left well enough alone, none of this would be happening. Your husband was the one who deserved to suffer.”
An icy clot formed in her stomach. “So you admit you . . . you killed him?”
“I punished him for killing my son.”
A wave of anger surged through her. “John never killed anyone. Everyone knew he was a kind, caring doctor who did his best for every single patient.”
The man’s features hardened. “I know all about his reputation. I did my homework before I had my insurance company contact him. And I did my homework on the treatment in China I wanted for David. But based on your wonderful husband’s input, my insurance denied it.”
Kate swallowed and spoke softly. “Batten disease isn’t curable.”
His eyes glittered. “I know that. But I wanted as much time as possible with my son, and that treatment could have extended his life. The clinic had the statistics to prove it. Statistics your husband dismissed. So I had to raise funds for the trip and the treatment myself. That delayed us for weeks—precious weeks David didn’t have. By the time we went, it was too late.” His words rasped, and he stopped. When he continued, his tone was grim and unyielding. “Your husband had to die—and he owed me a son.”
She stared at him as the pieces suddenly fell into place. “You took my son to replace yours.”
“I only took what was mine.”
As she processed what he’d just told her, a wave of nausea swept over her. “Are you saying you let my son watc
h while you killed his father?”
Sanders moved closer, the gun never wavering. “He saw nothing.”
She frowned, trying to make sense of that. “He was in the boat.”
“Asleep.”
“He slept through what happened?”
“With a little help.”
She cast a glance toward the living room, where her son remained in a drug-induced slumber. “But . . . how did you . . . ?” Her voice trailed off.
Sanders smiled, but the taut stretch of his lips communicated malice rather than humor. “I told you. I did my homework. After following your husband for weeks, I knew all about those Wednesday fishing expeditions. So I rented a boat and happened to run into your husband in the off-the-beaten-path marsh area he favored. He came to my assistance when I had engine trouble. We chatted. I offered your son homemade lemonade or hot chocolate. He picked the hot chocolate. Said it was his favorite. Still is, by the way.”
He leaned a shoulder against the wall, but the gun stayed level. “The next week I ran into them again—armed with a special batch of hot chocolate. I stayed nearby while your son drank it, and once he started to nod off, I headed back to retrieve my mug. The good doctor was quite concerned about your son’s sudden sleepiness, and when he bent over to see what was wrong, I had my hammer ready. It was all over in a couple of minutes. He was too groggy to fight me much while I took off his life vest, dumped him over the side, and held him under the water until the bubbles stopped.”
Bile rose in Kate’s throat, and she gagged.
Sanders was beside her in an instant, the silencer pressed hard against her temple. “Throwing up isn’t going to save you. I have plenty more pills, not even counting the ones I’m going to leave in plain view.”
Struggling to contain her nausea, Kate forced herself to block out the images Sanders’s story had called to mind. She needed to focus on the future, not the past. Because if she didn’t think of some way out of this, she might not have a future.
“Stand up.” Sanders backed off a few paces and motioned with a flick of the gun.
A faint fuzziness was beginning to infiltrate her brain, and as Kate pushed to her feet, the room tilted. Gripping the edge of the table, she drew in a deep breath.
The four pills she’d swallowed were working too fast.
A surge of panic-induced adrenaline temporarily chased away the dizziness—but she needed to pretend it hadn’t. She had to lull Sanders into thinking she was growing too disoriented to present a threat.
“Let’s take a walk upstairs. I don’t want to have to carry you later. We’ll wait up there. Bring the glass with you.”
“Wait . . . for what?”
Instead of responding to her halting question, he motioned her toward the front of the house—away from the knives on the counter.
Her only weapon.
Not good.
As she balked, he gave her a shove.
“Move!”
Stumbling forward, weaving slightly, she aimed for the living room. She could hear him following behind her, but she veered toward the couch rather than the steps.
“I said upstairs.”
“I want to check on Kevin.”
She started toward her son, who hadn’t moved a muscle as far as she could tell—only to have her arm taken in a firm grip.
“He’s fine. And if you want him to stay that way, you’ll follow my instructions.”
She angled toward him, searching his face for some sign of compassion, some sign of the devoted father who’d nurtured her son for the past three years. If it was there, she couldn’t detect it. “I thought you loved him.”
No response.
“I don’t believe you’d do anything to hurt him.” She delivered that statement with far more confidence than she felt.
“Do you really want to test that theory?”
He’d called her bluff. There was no doubt in her mind, based on what they’d learned over the past weeks, that the man who’d invaded her house had loved Kevin. But if he thought they were closing in on him and had snapped, he might not be that man anymore.
He might be the man who’d murdered John in cold blood.
Who’d watched the life bubble out of him.
Another wave of nausea swept over.
“I’ll g-go upstairs.” Hard as she tried to sound calm and in control, her words came out shaky.
“Now you’re being smart.” He released her and gestured toward the stairs.
As she started up, clinging to the railing for support, she could feel him following close behind her. At least with her back to him, she was able to extract the mushy pills she’d concealed in her gums. And by faking a stumble, she managed to drop them off the edge of the open staircase.
“Keep moving.” Sanders prodded her in the side, and she rose from her knees to continue toward the second floor.
To whatever fate he had planned for her.
Not that she was giving up. She would use every lucid minute she had left trying to think of some way to thwart him without putting Kevin in danger.
But as a bone-deep lethargy began to overtake her, she knew she’d have to think—and act—fast.
Because time was running out.
26
As his cell began vibrating against his hip, Connor twisted his wrist. Eleven-fifty-nine. His replacement was right on time, as usual.
“Hi, Dale.” Phone pressed to his ear, Connor scanned Sanders’s street. The retired detective had obviously approached with lights off and slipped into a surveillance position unnoticed. Good man.
“Hi. How are things on your end?” In the background, classical music played.
Connor flipped off his U2 CD. “Quiet. Lights went out about ten, as usual. Car’s in the carport. I expect you’ll have an uneventful night.”
“No complaints about that. Still expecting this to wrap up tomorrow?”
“If all goes well. I’ll give you a call by four if we need you for another midnight shift.”
“Got it. Drive safe and get some sleep.”
“That’s my plan.”
Slipping the phone back on his belt, he did one more quick canvass of the blue-collar neighborhood. Most house lights were off. There’d been minimal street activity for the past hour. Everyone—including Sanders—seemed to have turned in for the night.
The next item on his own agenda.
He cranked up his CD again, tossed back another handful of pistachios, and started the engine. As the air conditioner kicked in, he guided the van down the street.
But instead of pointing it toward home, he detoured toward Kate’s condo. Professional protocol might have required him to keep his distance for the past week, but there was no rule against drive-bys. And he’d been doing one every night before heading to his own place. Official reason? Security check. Unofficial reason? He liked being close to her. Besides, her place was practically on his way home.
Shaking his head, he hung a right onto the entrance ramp of I-270 and accelerated north. Talk about having it bad.
But according to Cal and Dev, this was what happened when you met the right woman. You knew almost from the get-go she was different. That there was serious potential. Given that both his partners had recently been down this path, who was he to argue with their assessment?
He hummed along with a few tunes as he drove but sat out “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For”—since he was pretty certain he had found what he was looking for—and in less than twenty minutes he was turning into Kate’s condo complex.
After weaving through the tree-lined streets to her cul-de-sac, he slowed as he approached her unit, frowning at the light burning on the second floor. Sleep had eluded her after all—yet she hadn’t taken him up on his offer and called.
He pulled into an empty parking space and drummed his fingers on the wheel. Should he call her? But if he did, he’d have to admit he was lurking outside. That he’d been driving by every night for the past week. It sounded kind
of like . . . stalking.
Would she freak—or be touched?
Hard to say . . . but he was about to find out. Because no way could he drive off and leave her alone to pace the night away worrying about a reunion with the long-absent son who was likely to drop back into her life tomorrow.
Make that today.
He shut off the engine, retrieved his cell, and tapped in her home number.
Her phone was ringing.
As Kate struggled to remain alert, Sanders stopped pacing in the small hall upstairs where she sat propped against the wall. Waiting for what, she still didn’t know. Worse, she was beginning not to care. That’s what Valium could do to a person. But she had to care. Had to fight this. Couldn’t let the man who’d killed her husband and stolen her child win.
The phone rang a second time.
Gun in hand, Sanders loomed over her. “Who would call you this late?”
“I don’t know.” Her reply came out slurred.
“Don’t lie to me!” He leaned down and jabbed the gun into the side of her neck.
She flinched and pulled herself into a protective tuck. “I’m not. No one ever calls me at this hour.”
The echo of the third ring faded, and the condo fell silent again.
Sanders straightened up.
Started to pace again.
Stopped abruptly as a different ringtone broke the stillness.
“What’s that?”
“My cell. It’s in . . . the charger . . . in my bedroom.”
Three rings in, the phone went silent again.
Grabbing her arm, Sanders hauled her to her feet, dragged her down the hall, and dumped her on the bed next to the nightstand. “Play back your voice mail. And put it on speaker.”
Fingers fumbling, she pushed the appropriate buttons.
“You have one new message. Wednesday, August seventeenth, twelve-twenty-five a.m.”
“Kate, it’s Connor. I tried your home number first. I’ll give it ten minutes and try again. If you get this before then, give me a call on my cell.” The message ended with the hum of a disconnected line.
Her spirits soared. Connor was checking on her! And when she didn’t respond to his call, he’d investigate.
“Who’s Connor?” Sanders prodded her with the gun again, his finger twitching on the trigger.