Silent Rescue

by Melinda Di Lorenzo

  “You killed him?”

  “Yes. And I thought it would be enough.”

  Maryse’s head was spinning, trying to make sense of what the other woman was saying. But she just couldn’t. Her brother had taken motherhood from Dee White? How?

  “Camille isn’t your daughter,” she whispered.

  “No.”

  Thank God.

  For a second, she sagged with relief. But it was short-lived. Then anger took over. This woman had killed her brother. Taken her daughter. Told her a hundred little lies and made her feel sympathetic.

  Without thinking, Maryse lunged forward. She forgot about her tied hands and her injured ankle. She forgot that she needed Dee alive so she could get her daughter back. She just wanted to hurt her, to give her a tiny taste of the pain she’d been enduring for the last day and a half. She’d never felt such a terrible fury. And giving in to the urge to channel it destructively brought her down.

  She fell forward. Her chin smacked the desk. For a second, the world blurred. Then it disappeared.

  Chapter 22

  Brooks spotted the yellow taxi on the horizon, and his fingers clenched. There was nothing nearby, and even from a distance, he could see that the doors were wide-open. He glanced up and down the dusty road, searching. It was fruitless.

  Where are they?

  His foot was pressed to the floor now, trying to close the final distance between himself and the cab as quickly as possible. The car groaned a protest underneath him. Thankfully, though, it kept moving. The bland scenery whipped by, and in under two minutes, he reached his destination. He slammed on the brakes, pushed the car into Park, then leaped from the vehicle. He stopped just short of hollering Maryse’s name into the empty air.

  There was no sign of her, or of Dee White/Anne Black. Obviously, they’d left on foot, but the dust and the wind meant no prints on the ground. He scanned and scanned, then scanned again. He still came up with nothing.

  “What the hell do I do now?” he muttered.

  He wasn’t used to being without a clue. He didn’t like the feeling one bit. With a muted growl, he turned back to his car, thinking maybe he could call Masters for an update. As he spun, something shimmered just a few feet away. Automatically, he stepped toward it. Then he bent down and lifted it from the ground.

  It’s a heart. A little silver one.

  Why did it look familiar?

  Then he remembered.

  “Camille’s bracelet.”

  Hope building, he fanned his gaze out. There, in the distance, another bit of silver glinted.

  Thank God.

  Quickly, he moved back to the car and gathered up his phone and his gun. Then he set out to follow the trail left behind by his very clever woman. The second bead brought him to a hill. The next few led him down it, then to a steep ridge. As he leaned over it, he spotted the rest of the silver trinkets, a set of narrow tire tracks and an abandoned gas station. For a second, he just stared down at it. Then he shook his head and pulled out his phone. He was surprised to see that he had full service.

  He dialed Masters, who answered on the first ring. “Good news or bad?”

  “Good. I hope. You make it to the station?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Think you can run a location for me?”

  “Sure. What location?”

  “Mine.”

  “You that lost, Small?”

  “Ha-ha. I’m in the middle of the desert, Masters, but I’ve got better reception than I get in my living room. Can you find out where the cell tower is and what else is in the area?”

  “Yeah. Hang on.”

  Brooks waited with as much patience as he could muster. His eyes followed the overgrown road in front of the station. The tire tracks ran alongside it, but he imagined that a little farther up, they’d move directly onto the road. Where did it go? He ran his hand over his chin, racking his brain for an idea. One stretch of desert looked essentially the same as another.

  “Small?” Masters’s voice brought him back to the moment.

  “I’m here.”

  “You’re not going to believe this.”

  “What?”

  “You’re about five miles from a brand-spanking-new storage facility for People With Paper.”

  “Of course I am,” Brooks muttered. “Which way?”

  “What’re you near?”

  “A gas station.”

  He heard the telltale tap of the keyboard before his partner spoke again.

  “Okay,” the other man said. “I’ve got it. You can see a road running along in front of the station?”

  “Yep.”

  “Drive west for five miles, then—”

  “I’m on foot.”

  “Well. Damn.”

  “Yeah.”

  The keyboard clacked again.

  “Actually,” Masters said, “you’re in luck. If you were driving, you’d have to go back and forth for about fifteen miles. On foot, you can cut west for a couple miles, where you’ll find the cell tower that’s giving you that great service. From there, you move south. A mile and a quarter’ll bring you directly to the road that leads to the warehouse.”

  “Perfect,” he replied. “Anything else on the Anne Black front?”

  “Nothing yet, man. Sorry.”

  “Well. You know where to find me. Literally.”

  “Sure do.”

  Brooks clicked the phone off and stood in the sand for a second. It was hot and dry, and he was sure he’d need hydration if he planned on walking over three miles. He tapped his phone against his thigh, then moved toward the gas station. A quick search led him from the broken front door to the falling-apart shop. Inside, he threw his gaze around in search of water. The shelves were bare, the fridges long cold and decidedly empty. A quick check of the bathroom told him that the water had been shut off, too.

  “Dammit.”

  He was about to give up when he spotted the swinging door behind the desk.

  Worth a shot.

  He slid behind the counter and pushed through to the service bay. As he did, he immediately realized it’d been used more recently than any other part of the station. The scent of fresh gas filled his nostrils, and as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light, he saw why. Gas cans lined one wall. Tools hung from another. And in a corner, he spotted an old vending machine. Though it wasn’t functioning, the side hung open.

  Hopeful, he stepped toward it. Luck went his way. In the very bottom of the far corner of the machine, he found a full sealed bottle of cola. He pulled it free, tucked it into the rear of his waistband beside his weapon, then strode back out into the sun.

  Shooting a glare at the blink-inducing blaze, he positioned himself to the south. “All right, sweetheart. Whatever you’re doing, sit tight. I’m on my way.”

  * * *

  Consciousness hit Maryse like a tidal wave of cold water. One moment, she was oblivious to the world around her, and the next, a hundred sensations assaulted her senses. She could smell paper. And sweat. She could hear ringing. But she thought that might be in her head. She could feel a throb in her temple. And a tiny hand in her own.

  A tiny hand.

  Maryse’s eyes flew open. For a long moment, she thought she was dreaming. Blue eyes—just the same shade as her own—fixed on her, while a shock of untidy blond hair tickled her shoulder.

  Camille.

  She tried to say her daughter’s name, but all that came out was a croak. She closed her eyes again, thinking that when she opened them, the wishful image of Cami’s face would be gone. But when she was done counting to ten and she forced her lids up, the blue-eyed blonde still knelt beside her, and the warm hand still clasped her own.

  This time, she managed to
speak. “Sweet pea?”

  Her daughter collapsed back onto her knees, her face filled with a relief that was heartbreaking. Her hands flew through the air in a flow of long, disjointed language.

  Mommy. You’re okay. I’m so tired and hungry, and I miss Bunny-Bun-Bun but the lady told me you were gone. I thought she meant gone like dead, but she wouldn’t answer me when I asked. I don’t think she knows how to sign. The lady who doesn’t know how to sign told me you were gone. Why would she tell me you were gone? Why were mom and gone the only two words she could make? Why did she bring me here? I was in a room before. But if you were gone—

  Ignoring the ache in her head, Maryse cut her daughter off by pulling her close. She hugged her as tightly as she could, and she didn’t bother to fight the tears that filled her eyes, then spilled over. Finally, Cami made a small, squeaky noise—a rarity for her at all—and Maryse let her wriggle free. Then she pulled back to examine her daughter more closely.

  Are you hurt? she asked, even though she couldn’t see any sign of outward suffering.

  I wasn’t until you squeezed me.

  In spite of everything, Marsye laughed. That didn’t hurt.

  Camille’s nose wrinkled up. How do you know?

  I just do. Because I’m your mom.

  That’s not a reason.

  It is today. Did the lady who couldn’t sign hurt you?

  No. She made me eat porridge. Cami added a face, emphasizing her disgust.

  The very normal reaction in an anything-but-normal scenario made Maryse’s heart ache. She reached out for another hug, wishing she could hold on to her daughter for a whole lot longer. But she needed to find a way out. From wherever they were.

  She leaned back again, this time to survey their surroundings. Above them, a steel-framed bulb provided the only light, basking the small room in a yellow glow. And it was small. No more than a ten-by-ten square, and stacked with boxes of what looked like computer paper.

  Where are we? Cami asked.

  Maryse shook her head. They had to be somewhere inside the storage facility. She pushed her hands into the concrete ground, then stood up and looked around. Right away, she spotted a door. But before she could even step toward it, Cami tugged her hand, then shook her head.

  Locked, the little girl told her.

  “Dammit,” she swore, then shot her daughter an apologetic look and shrugged. Sorry.

  When we get home, you owe the swear jar a dollar.

  Yes. I do.

  Maryse moved around the room, but other than the locked door, she saw no way of getting out. What had been going through Dee’s mind when she brought them in here? Why bother reuniting them if it was going to be like this? Not that she wanted to undo the chance to see Camille, but she couldn’t come up with an answer that made sense.

  Absently, she tapped one of the boxes. It made a hollow sound rather than a thick, full one. It piqued her curiosity, and she lifted the lid. What she saw inside made her frown. It wasn’t a stack of paper at all. Instead, it was a single file folder with a name and a photo on the outside.

  Maryse lifted it out, and Cami tugged at her shirt.

  What is it? her daughter wanted to know.

  Maryse shrugged. I’m not sure.

  But as she lifted out the folder, she got an idea of what it might be. A complete identity. Quickly, she moved on to the next box. Then the next. In each, she found the same thing. A picture and a name. A list of ID numbers.

  Her mouth went dry as she formed a conclusion. These files aren’t just stolen identities. They’re entire lives.

  What she was dealing with—what Dee White dealt in—was so much more than simple fraud.

  “People with paper,” she muttered, understanding the horrifying play on words.

  Maryse let the lid she held slip from her fingers. She and Camille didn’t just need to get out. They needed to get out now. Feeling desperate but not wanting to show it, she moved toward the door slowly and studied it. Maybe her six-year-old daughter couldn’t get it open. But she was a grown woman. One who’d just been through hell to get where she was at that moment, and she wasn’t about to give up. Her eyes traveled the length of the door in search of a weakness. The handle was seamless. The frame was snug and allowed no light to pass through.

  But the hinges.

  She didn’t realize she’d signed the phrase until Camille tugged her shirt again and repeated it. The hinges?

  Maryse nodded. It was implausible. A little crazy, even. The door was metal and heavy looking, and there probably wouldn’t be anything subtle about their attempted escape. But it was the only option she could come up with. She stepped close, eyeing the screws. Flatheads. Her eyes flicked around the room again. Finding a screwdriver was out of the question. The paper clips in the boxes were too flimsy to be of any use. Then her gaze landed on Camille. Around her neck hung the familiar MedicAlert charm. Stainless steel and emblazoned with the word DEAF on the back.

  Can Mommy borrow that? Maryse signed.

  For the hinges?

  Yes.

  Okay.

  She turned around and lifted her hair up obediently, and Maryse placed a quick kiss on the back of her neck before unfastening the clasp. She slid the charm off quickly, then moved to the door. When she pressed the little piece of metal to the screw head and it fit perfectly, she wanted to cry with relief. But freeing the hinges didn’t prove to be easy work. Loosening the first one made her hands ache. The second set them afire. And the third resulted in a fast-forming blister. But she fought through pain, seizing on every bit of adrenaline her body had to work off.

  You have to do this, she said to herself. Or you’ll both die. You’ll never see Brooks again. He’ll never meet Camille, and she’ll never get to use his slide.

  Now the tears came for a different reason. Still she pushed through. Where she’d previously held on to her daughter’s image to give her strength, she now used Brooks’s face. His worried hazel eyes. His soft but firm lips. The strength in his jaw. She recalled each one perfectly as she worked. And the way he made her feel. That was cemented in her mind, too. When she was with him, she felt like she could rely on someone other than herself. Like she wasn’t alone in the world. Like she had a match.

  Like I’m loved. The thought was so startling that she just about dropped the charm. Loved? Really?

  Carefully, she tested out the idea. Under any other circumstance, it might’ve been far-fetched. But the way Brooks looked at her spoke volumes. The warmth and tenderness in his eyes, his commitment to helping her rescue Camille... All of it fit. And the bright bloom in her own heart matched.

  Loved, she thought again, a little more firmly. And maybe in love, too.

  The admission was enough of a distraction that she almost didn’t notice that she’d freed two complete sets of hinges now. And opening the one at the top wouldn’t even be necessary. Holding the door—which wasn’t quite as heavy as she’d assumed—she pushed it open and ducked down to peer out into the hall. Empty. Satisfied that they were safe for the moment, she turned and gestured for Cami to slip through. Her daughter bit her lip nervously, then nodded and did as she was asked. Then, being careful not to simply drop the door down, Maryse bent and followed her.

  Almost home free, she thought, grabbing her daughter’s hand.

  But they only made it two triumphant steps before a gun clicked from the dark hall in front of them, freezing Maryse—and by extension Cami as well—to the spot. And a soft almost-indistinguishable yelp was the only warning she had before her daughter was snatched from her grasp.

  * * *

  Brooks stood just behind a large sign in front of the squat building. He had no doubt that Maryse was being held inside. The People With Paper sign out front was an ominous reminder of who owned it. So for the last few minutes, he’d be
en doing what he did best. Watching. Assessing. Deciding what the best course of action would be. He took a large sip of his warm, nearly empty soda and studied the various entrances.

  The front wasn’t an option. Too obvious. The back might’ve been good, but his experience with criminals told him that was probably the most closely guarded way in and out. So that left the side door. Which was where he’d been focusing his attention.

  Three men.

  That was how many he’d counted coming in and out. One brought out a garbage can. Another came for a smoke. The third was still there now, leaning up against the wall with a book in his hand. None of them had looked particularly dangerous. Certainly none were armed that he could see. Most important, they hadn’t used a key to get back inside.

  He took another sip and waited a little longer. Five minutes passed. Then the third man closed his book and slipped it into his coat pocket before going back inside, too.

  “All right, door number three,” Brooks said as he set down the empty can. “You’re up.”

  He started to slink forward, but before he could get one foot in front of the other, his phone chimed in his pocket. A glance at the call display told him it was Masters, so he tapped the button and answered.

  “Small.”

  “Are you there?”

  “If by ‘there,’ you mean at the paper place, then yeah.”

  “I’ve got some info for you. And you’re not going to like it.”

  “In a bit of a rush here, Masters.”

  “Remember when I said that some kid turned in Anne Black’s husband?”

  “Kid with a fake ID, yeah.”

  “It wasn’t just some kid, Small. It was Jean-Paul Kline.”

  Maryse’s brother.

  Masters kept talking, saying he’d looked up the name and found out about his connection to the arson six years ago. That his sister had been his next of kin, but that she’d never been found. That her name was Maryse, and that it wasn’t a coincidence, was it? Brooks, though, had gone still. Everywhere but his hand and his mind. The former tightened so hard on the phone that he was surprised it didn’t shatter. The second worked in overdrive to put together the events.