by Paula Graves
As Craig stepped back and looked down at her, his narrow-eyed expression hard to read, especially with half his face hidden behind the balaclava, she asked, “What are you going to do with me?”
It was Raymond who answered. “You’re leverage, sweetheart.”
About what she expected. But she might as well play it with feigned ignorance. “Leverage for what?”
“You don’t know?” he mocked.
“I don’t,” she said as innocently as she could. “I’m supposed to be on my way home right now. If I don’t get there, my family’s going to come looking for me, you know.”
“Not soon enough.”
Her stomach tightened into a knot at the hard promise she heard in his words. “We don’t have money. It’s all tied up in the company, untouchable. I don’t know what you think ransom will accomplish.”
“We don’t want money,” Raymond said, a mean smile dancing in his hazel eyes.
They want the journal, she thought. But aloud, she asked, “Then what?”
“That’s not your concern.” He nodded for Craig to follow him. “Let’s go. We’ve got things to do before you-know-who gets back.”
As they went through the open door, she called out, “Are you just leaving me here? Where are you going?”
Neither Raymond nor Craig turned around. The door shut behind them and she heard the rattle of a lock engaging.
She sat quietly for a couple of minutes, until she heard the sound of the car engine firing up outside. It purred a minute, then was gone, fading into the distance.
She pulled up the hem of her shirt and slid her fingers under the bra band, retrieving the knife. Listening anxiously for any sound outside the shack that might suggest her captors were returning, she fumbled with the knife, nearly dropping it twice, before she managed to flip open a small but sharp saw blade. She went to work on the cuffs, scraping her wrists a few times when the blade slipped but snapping them open in just a few minutes.
She rubbed her bleeding wrists for a second to soothe the pain, then went to work on the flex cuffs binding her ankles, freeing herself from the chain that held her in place.
Outside, rain was falling harder, but running through a downpour sounded a lot better than holing up inside that shack, worrying about who’d show up next.
She didn’t try the locked door, opting for one of the windows. With a little effort, she climbed out and landed lightly on the ground outside the cabin.
All she had to do was make her way out of these woods and back to some place with a phone.
It was a simple plan. Simple plans were always the best.
But only when they worked.
* * *
THE BATHROOM WINDOW at Margo’s Diner opened to a small back alley used primarily for deliveries and garbage removal. A narrow margin of summer-dried grass lay just beneath the window, giving way to gravel within a couple of feet.
The falling drizzle hadn’t yet penetrated the sun-hardened soil enough to create a muddy surface for footprints. Gideon stared in painful impotence at the open window and tried to picture what had happened.
Someone had ambushed her in the bathroom. Subdued her somehow—force, perhaps, or even something like a knockout drug. Just enough to get her outside without a fight.
How had they known she was in the bathroom?
“Gideon?” Margo’s hesitant voice, just a few feet away, snapped his attention her way. He saw she was standing next to a skinny teenaged girl with lanky dark blond hair and tear-reddened blue eyes.
“What?” he asked, trying not to let his fear and anger show.
“Go on, Deenie, tell him,” Margo urged the weeping blonde. “He won’t bite, I promise.”
Gideon struggled to keep his expression calm. “What is it?”
“This is Deenie Albertson. Tell him what you told me.”
Haltingly, Deenie spoke, her voice hitching with quiet sobs. “I swear, he said it was just a joke! And I needed the money to help pay my way to the choir competition this winter, and I didn’t see any harm—”
“Who said it was a joke?” Gideon curled his fingers into fists.
“He said his name was Ray, and he was so funny about it—told me his girlfriend had been waitin’ and waitin’ for him to pop the question, and he wanted to make it memorable. He was going to jump through the window into the ladies’ bathroom, see, while she was in there and propose right then and there—’cause it would be real memorable, see?” Deenie wiped her eyes.
“How was he supposed to get in there?”
“I went and unlocked the bathroom window. I was supposed to get her in there somehow if she didn’t go alone, but then she just went by herself and I had to hurry outside and tell him she was in there.”
“I didn’t see him in the diner,” Margo murmured.
“He didn’t go inside,” Deenie said. “He caught me outside, pointed her out through the window and then gave me twenty bucks to do it. But I didn’t know it was a lie!”
He said his name was Ray.
Gideon bit back a profanity and turned away, his stomach in a knot. If Raymond Stephens had Shannon, and had any idea of the connection between them, she was in serious danger. Ray’s grudge-holding had been legendary in the marine unit where he’d spent his aborted military career.
How far would he go, what measures would he take, to make sure Gideon suffered for the unforgiveable sin of thwarting Raymond Stephens?
“Did you see what he was driving?” he asked Deenie.
She shook her head.
The faint trill of a phone filtered past his worry, drawing his attention to the ground nearby. He hurried over and found a small black phone—the exact make Shannon used.
He picked it up, saw the name on the display. Jesse Cooper.
He hit the answer button. “Cooper?”
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line, filled with the loud roar of some sort of engine. Jesse’s voice finally came, raised to override the background noise. “Stone?”
“Yeah,” he answered, dreading what he had to say next.
“Where’s my sister?” Already, Gideon heard a tone of accusation in the other man’s voice.
He felt an answering flood of guilt wash through him as he spoke the words he never wanted to say.
“She’s been taken.”
* * *
OVERHEAD, THE SKY was only partly cloudy, the rain easing off for the moment. A watery sun came out, turning the woods into a sauna, but the heat was enough to start drying Shannon’s clothes to a bearable dampness.
Unfortunately, as she headed south in search of civilization, the soft, loamy ground beneath her feet gave way to marshland, soaking her sneakers and bottom half of her jeans. Mosquitoes and flies buzzed through the air around her, a constant nuisance, but she couldn’t take time or attention to bat them away, for with marshlands came far more immediate dangers, like water moccasins and alligators.
All roads south led to the shoreline. If she could get to the shore, she could find civilization, for there were few pieces of the Gulf Coast shoreline left undeveloped. But apparently the only way to get to the Gulf was to wade through the increasingly swampy wetlands she was slogging through. If she didn’t watch her step—
A soft hiss was all the warning she got.
She hit reverse immediately, barely avoiding disaster as a small mossy-backed alligator rose up from a nearby bog, snapping at her with an explosive crash of massive jaws and deadly sharp teeth.
She scrambled backward, splashing across sodden ground. One of her shoes stuck in the muck, threatening to pin her in place, but she jerked it free and scuttled farther back, onto firmer ground, her pulse so thunderous in her ears she could barely hear the ragged rasp of her breath.
The alligator didn’t seem inclined to follow her out of the water, so she backtracked a little farther, deciding to keep to more solid ground on her trek south.
With the rain having abated for now, she could guide herself by
the position of the sun. It was already dipping westward to her right, so as long as she could keep the sun generally on that side of her, she’d be headed south, even if she had to detour now and then to avoid the water.
Gideon had to be wondering where she was by now. Had someone seen her being abducted? Her wrist still ached where her captors had ripped her watch off in the struggle—had they realized it had come off? Had they picked it up and brought it with them?
She also didn’t have her phone, but Ray and Craig may have taken that off her when they took her GLOCK.
Gideon had to be looking for her by now. He’d know she wouldn’t just hare off on him, wouldn’t he?
The sound of whistling slowly entered her consciousness, and a flood of relief washed over her at the first sound of human civilization she’d come across in what felt like hours. But she couldn’t afford to be foolish. For all she knew, one of her captors had doubled back, found her missing, and followed her into the swamp.
She crouched behind a wide bladed palmetto bush and watched cautiously as the whistler hiked into view.
It was a man in his early thirties. Hard to say if he was handsome or not, with his head down and covered with a camouflage baseball cap. He wore a dark T-shirt and faded jeans, with a lightweight olive green slicker-style jacket that still glistened with rain drops from the most recent shower. He carried a long pole with a three-pronged steel gig at the end of it, and a large olive-green rucksack. He continued whistling as he strode unhurriedly past her, deeper into the swamp.
It was a little early in the evening for frog gigging, but maybe he knew a place that took a while to reach. Or maybe he just couldn’t stay out here late at night and preferred, while surrounded by cranky alligators, to be able to see where he was putting his foot as he walked.
Just stand up. Call out. Ask for help.
He looked friendly enough, the pleasant tune he whistled as he strolled through the swamp reminiscent of a song her father had taught her to whistle years ago, when she was just a little girl.
Of course, there were other things her father had taught her when she was a little girl.
Never talk to strangers.
But sometimes a stranger could save your life.
Taking a deep breath, she stood up and called out. “Hello!”
The frog gigger jumped at the sound of her voice, whirling around. He looked alarmed, pressing his hand against his chest.
“You scared the life out of me, ma’am! Are you lost?” He spoke in a thick, nasal country accent, slow and drawling. But his eyes looked friendly and the smile he shot her way made her feel more at ease.
“I’m lost,” she said, deciding to keep it simple. “I need to get back to Terrebonne. Can you help me?”
“Sure.” He walked back to where she stood. “What did you do, wander off from a hiking party or something?”
“Something like that,” she said, not willing to freak out her friendly rescuer with the truth. “If you can just get me to civilization, I can take it from there. Or—do you have a cell phone? I could just call someone to come here to get me.”
“Sure, I’ve got a phone.” He looped the handles of the rucksack over one finger of the hand holding the frog gig and pulled his phone from his pocket with his free hand. He held it out to her.
She reached for the phone, nearly wilting with relief.
Until he whipped the frog gig forward and pressed it against her throat.
She froze, not even wincing as the sharp tip of the gig pricked the flesh at the base of her throat. The man smiled at her slowly, the skin crinkling around his startling blue eyes.
He put the phone in his pocket and caught her arm. “You’re a whole lot of trouble, you know?” The drawl was gone, replaced by a cultured Northeastern accent she placed somewhere in upper New England.
She lifted her chin, fighting the flood of despair rattling her knees. “And you, I presume, must be Leo.”
Chapter Sixteen
“I’m less than an hour from Terrebonne,” Jesse told Gideon over the engine roar, which he explained was the sound of a helicopter rotor. He said his cousin J.D., a former navy chopper pilot, was behind the controls, and he’d brought other reinforcements.
“I thought you said you didn’t want to get involved yet.”
“Changed my mind. What are you doing to find Shannon?”
Gideon didn’t want to admit there wasn’t much he could do. She’d simply vanished from the diner. “I’m trying to find a witness, see if anyone spotted a strange vehicle around—”
“What about prints, evidence—”
“We both know who has her.” Just not what they’d do with her.
Jesse fell silent.
“Do you have a place to land?” Gideon asked.
“J.D.’s friend has a hangar at the local airport. He can set down there and we can meet you.”
“I’m going to be looking for witnesses—maybe we can figure out what sort of vehicle her kidnappers were driving.”
“Stay in touch.” It was a warning, not polite small talk.
J.D. hung up Shannon’s phone and tucked it in the pocket of his jeans. Holding on to it for her, just as he was holding on to the broken watch. Small totems reminding him how essential she’d become to him in such a short amount of time.
She had to be alive. If they wanted her dead, he’d have found her in the bathroom in a pool of her own blood. They needed her alive for some reason, and all she had to do was keep her head down until Gideon could find her.
But would she do that? Would she just sit there and be a complacent hostage, waiting for her rescuer?
Hell, no. That wasn’t the Shannon Cooper he knew. She’d push back. She’d try to escape. And she might well get herself killed.
“Gideon?”
He looked up at the sound of Margo’s voice. She stood nearby, next to a tall, lean man in his early thirties, dressed in a lightweight suit. Cop, Gideon thought.
“This is Doyle Massey, with the Chickasaw County Sheriff’s Department.”
Gideon supposed it was inevitable that someone would call the law. He nodded at Massey. “Gideon Stone.”
Massey walked over slowly, his gaze on Gideon’s face as if assessing the mood. “You want to catch me up on things?”
It was the last thing Gideon wanted to do. “Who called you?”
“Does it matter?”
He supposed not. “My friend went to the bathroom. She didn’t return, and when Margo went to check on her, we found the window open and this lying on the floor.” He showed Massey the broken watch, now safely encased in a plastic zip-top bag.
“Blood?” Massey asked, nodding at the red spot on the watch crystal.
“I think so. Probably scraped her wrist when it tore off.”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“Shannon Cooper.”
Massey’s eyes narrowed. “Kin to J. D. Cooper?” Massey asked.
“Cousin.”
Massey sighed. “This isn’t connected to a South American drug cartel by any chance?”
Gideon shook his head. “No.” Just a group of ruthless, deadly mercenaries.
As Massey was about to ask another question, Gideon’s cell phone rang. Checking the display, he saw a number he didn’t recognize and almost ignored the call. Then he realized whoever had Shannon might contact him with demands.
Excusing himself, he took the call. “Stone.”
The male voice on the other end of the line was smooth and articulate, the accent Northern and educated. His pleasant tone clashed with his words. “Mr. Stone, you have something I want. And I have something you want.”
Gideon felt his muscles contract with rage, but he tried to remain outwardly calm, well aware that Deputy Massey was a few feet away, watching him with deep curiosity. “Who is this?”
“Someone not stupid enough to share that information with you.”
“It’s Leo.” That was Shannon’s voice, strong and angry, close t
o the receiver. “We’re in a swamp—”
A soft gasp cut off her words, and Leo’s voice came over the line again, a little strained. “Now you know what I have. Want to trade?”
“If you hurt her—”
“Yeah, I know, you’ll hunt me down and kill me like a rabid dog.” Leo sounded bored. “Let’s not make this hard, okay? You don’t know what’s in the journal anyway. It’s coded, and you’re not going to find the keys to decode it. So, really, it’s not a hard choice.”
Gideon kept his voice low, acutely aware of Massey’s presence nearby. “Are the Harlowes still alive?”
The question seemed to surprise Leo. He didn’t answer immediately.
“That’s how you know about the journal, right?” Gideon pressed.
“Aren’t you a clever boy?” Leo asked quietly.
“Don’t give it to him!” That was Shannon again.
“Shut up!” Leo snapped.
“Where do you want to meet?” Gideon asked.
“I’ll call back.” The line went dead.
“Was that your friend?” Massey asked, closer than Gideon expected.
He looked at the deputy, wondering how much he’d heard. “No.”
“Let me rephrase,” Massey said quietly. “Was that the person or persons who have your friend?”
“I don’t know where she is.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Gideon took a step toward Massey, crowding him. He had a five-inch advantage on the other man, so he might as well put it to use. “Am I under arrest?”
Massey’s eyes narrowed. “No.”
“Then I’ll be going.” He walked over to where Margo stood, watching with worried eyes, and squeezed her arm. “I have to go.”
“Did you find her?”
“Not yet,” he said grimly.
But soon.
* * *
LEO STILL HADN’T produced a gun, Shannon realized as she walked slowly through the marsh in front of him and his sharp-pronged frog gig. It didn’t mean he didn’t have one on him, but for whatever reason, he’d decided to keep it hidden and rely on the gig pole to keep her under his control.
It was working well enough, she thought bleakly. She was still bleeding a little where he’d pricked her throat with the prongs. It would be just about her luck if that gator she’d passed earlier smelled the blood and came hunting.