Keeping Watch

by Jan Hambright

  “Did you bring it?” Vincent asked.

  “Yeah. It’s right here.”

  He heard Brooks’s gun slide into his holster.

  “But I don’t know what you want with a filthy old piece of hair. Now they’ve got me on surveillance tape entering the lab. How am I going to explain that to Chief Danbury?”

  Royce watched the nut job who’d waved his gun around like a toy pick it up again from a spot under the table.

  “You’re such a complainer, Brooks. And you made your own problem, seeing how you’re the one who took it in the first place, along with the mask, and sent them to her so she could find out about her momma.” The thug stepped into the kitchen.

  “Now wait a minute.” Brooks’s voice changed in pitch, a sign Royce knew betrayed the increasing level of tension in the situation.

  “What about that, Brooks?” Vincent said, reaching for the gun his crazy buddy was holding. Royce’s gun.

  “Hold on. I’ve been with you all the way. You wouldn’t have half the information about her if I hadn’t told you. Who got close enough to turn her cell phone into a tracking device? Me. You need me.”

  Caution wiggled up Royce’s spine. He was in a hell of a bad spot. Bad guys were one thing, but bickering bad guys were worse. He glanced over at Adelaide, who was still on the floor. They made eye contact.

  “You’ve served your purpose, that’s why we’re done with you.”

  Pop! Pop!

  Royce flinched and turned his head as Brooks dropped next to him. Blood seeped out from under Brooks’s body and oozed across the floor toward him.

  “What about him? Can I shoot him?”

  “No. I’ve got my orders. A Protector has to die watching us take the Beholder right out from under his hand.”

  “I like that.”

  “Search her, would ya? Make sure she doesn’t have the gris-gris on her. I don’t want to touch the damn thing…and get her cell phone. We don’t need it to track her anymore.”

  Adelaide came up off the floor with one focus, to take Royce’s gun and blast some holes in Vincent Getty. But he was ready for her, and he smacked her square in the face with an open palm.

  She saw stars, tasted blood in her mouth.

  The impact sent her stumbling backward and she caught the edge of the bed with the back of her legs and fell.

  Sitting up, she watched in horror as Getty pulled a loaded syringe out of his jacket pocket, flipped the cap off with his thumb and jabbed it into the back of Royce’s leg.

  Royce came around swinging, but slumped to the floor a second later, eyes wide open and locked on the ceiling overhead.

  “Get the Beholder, and let’s get out of here,” Vincent said, his voice laced with menace.

  His cohort grabbed her upper arm and dragged her to her feet.

  “Where’s the gris-gris?” He shook her until her teeth rattled in her head.

  “In my pocket.”

  He rummaged in her pants pocket, jerked out the doll, tore its head off and flung both pieces of it toward Vincent, who ducked away.

  “Dammit, you know I can’t touch that thing.” Getty kicked it with the toe of his boot and the doll skittered into the corner.

  He laughed out loud, fingering the cell phone in her other pocket before he pulled it out, dropping it on the floor and crushing in once with his foot.

  Vincent produced a roll of duct tape and tore off a piece. Walking over to where they stood, he slapped it over her mouth. “Scream through that if you wanna.”

  Tearing off a long piece, he bound her hands behind her back. Grunting as he turned for the door and pulled it open.

  Sticking his head out, he took a look. “It’s clear. Let’s go.”

  Adelaide fought back, kicking and thrashing, even managing to catch Royce’s gun with her toe in the process. It skittered across the floor toward him and hit his shoe, but he didn’t move.

  Anguish welled inside her, stopping up the air in her lungs.

  They dragged her to the door, and she caught one last look at Royce, paralyzed on the floor of the safe house. His system was full of succinylcholine, and he was only minutes from death.

  Nausea swelled inside her as the last horrifying image of him imprinted on her brain along with a reality she’d suspected for some time. She was in love with her Protector.

  She fought the dread that consumed her as the brute dragged her down the stairs, out into the alley, then around the corner to an old clunker of a car idling at the curb with its driver behind the wheel.

  He released the trunk latch.

  Adelaide watched the lid come up in slow motion. It was the stuff of nightmares, her nightmares, her depiction of her own murder, and final resting place in the trunk of a car with her throat slit.

  Horrified, she dared to look inside her tomb, and found herself face-to-face with CSI Gina Gantz.

  Vincent picked her up, stuffed her in the trunk and shut the lid.

  ROYCE COUNTED THE SECONDS IN his head to keep from losing his mind as he stared up at the ceiling, unable to move.

  The insidious drug was creeping into the muscles of his diaphragm, making it hard to suck in air.

  Adelaide. He tried to swallow the saliva that built up in his mouth, triggered by the emotion looping in his head, but he couldn’t even do that.

  What would happen to her if he didn’t make it? Would Hicks and Danbury figure it out in time to save her life? Hell, he hadn’t even been able to figure out who the mastermind behind it was, and he still didn’t know.

  Panic surged inside him as he tried to pull a deep breath in through his nose, but each inhalation was becoming more labored than the one before.

  His lungs burned for oxygen.

  So this was it. This was death? Slow suffocation. Four minutes to go.

  This was hell.

  He hadn’t told her how he felt about her. He hadn’t voiced the sappy words that would be locked on his tongue forever. But worst of all, he couldn’t protect her anymore.

  The sound of footsteps, hammering against metal steps in droves, filtered through his waning recollection.

  Three minutes to go. The light started to dim. He noticed it in the darkness that ringed his peripheral vision and slowly closed in.

  Adelaide.

  “It’s succinylcholine. RSI Intubation protocol. Tube him, bag him, full open O2 line, at sixteen liters. Start an IV, with five milligrams of Midazolam, and contact medical control for permission to administer point-five milligrams of Atropine if he codes en route—”

  The final pinpoint of light he was focused on faded to black. He heard Chief Danbury in the background.

  “Call his family, get them to the hospital ASAP.”

  ADELAIDE GOT HER BEARINGS IN the trunk of the moving car and attempted to roll onto her right side in the cramped compartment.

  A muffled cry resulted and she realized she’d pinned Gina against the spare tire.

  She sucked in a breath and gagged on the stench of stale gasoline and rubber tires.

  Feeling behind her with her limited range of motion, she elicited another cry from Gina as she poked her in the face with her fingers. This was like playing a sick game of Twister.

  Careful to not hurt her again, Adelaide picked at the tape covering Gina’s mouth and peeled it back.

  “Ouch,” she whispered.

  Adelaide mumbled an apology behind the tape on her mouth.

  “I think I can flip around and work on your hands.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How in the hell did they pull this off?” Gina said, an element of hysteria entering her voice as she struggled to maneuver in the tiny space. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Shh,” Adelaide hissed in the dark, fearing the attention Gina could bring down on their heads if Getty heard them.

  They had fifteen minutes at the most if the GPS location in Algiers was their destination.

  Gina kicked her in the head as she leaned forward and wiggled like a
worm, squirming around and ending up pressed against her back. “Hang on, I’ll roll over and I should be able to find your hands.”

  Adelaide listened to the pitch of the engine change as the car slowed down. “Mmm.”

  “Dammit,” Gina ground out as she rocked forward with the braking of the car.

  Adelaide held her breath, praying it was only a stoplight that stood in the way of freedom, and that the car would accelerate again.

  “Adelaide. This could be it. I wasn’t born yesterday and I know these guys aren’t going to stop. They’re going to kill me, but there’s something you have to know.”

  Tears burned the backs of her eyes.

  “I’ve seen the way Royce looks at you. The guy’s got it bad, he’s head over heels in love with—”

  Two car doors opened and closed in unison.

  Adelaide squeezed her eyes shut, almost relieved that she couldn’t tell Gina that Royce was dead.

  The trunk popped open, and she squinted up at the light, making out the dark shape of Vincent Getty silhouetted against a dawn sky.

  “You know where and how to pose her. Do you have the GPS unit?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Call us when it’s done, and get back to the grotto before dark. The ceremony starts at dusk.”

  “Okay.”

  Getty reached into the trunk and pulled her up by the hair.

  Behind the tape she screamed as he locked his arms around her torso and wrenched her from the trunk, then slammed it shut.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Royce opened his eyes, blinked them closed, opened them again and tried to focus, making out shapes and shadows moving around him.

  Someone was inside his head with a sledgehammer pounding out a beat that made him want to puke.

  “He’s waking up.”

  The sound of his mom Rachel’s excited voice snapped him out of the haze he floated in. Maybe he wasn’t dead. He closed his eyes, letting his gut settle. He pulled in one even breath after another, putting succinct thought in front of succinct thought.

  “Adelaide,” he said, tasting her on his tongue.

  “Did he say Adelaide?” His mother’s question dragged him into full awareness, and he opened his eyes, watching everything come into focus.

  “Son?” His dad stood up from a chair to the right of his hospital bed, where he sat next to Royce’s sister, Kimberly. “Thank God you’re awake. We’ve been worried about you.”

  “How long? How long have I been out?”

  “Since four in the morning when they brought you in.”

  He raised his arm and stared at the spot where his watch should have been. “Time?”

  His dad glanced down at his watch. “It’s almost eight in the morning.”

  “I’ve got to get out of here. She could still be alive.”

  “Royce, what’s going on?” his father said. “Push the call button, Rachel, get a doctor in here to make sure he’s all right.”

  Royce stared at the IV line emptying clear liquid into his arm. Reaching for it, he yanked off the tape and almost had the line extracted when a nurse walked into the room with Chief Danbury on her heels.

  “What are you doing, Royce?” Danbury asked, staring at him from the foot of the bed as he tapped a case file against his palm.

  “Getting out of here. They’ve got her, Chief. Vincent Getty and his sidekick killed Brooks with my gun, left me for dead at the safe house and took Adelaide.”

  Reaching out, Royce found the controls and held down the up button. The bed canted him into an upright position, and he attempted to hold still while the nurse took out the IV line.

  “Tell me something I don’t already know, Beckett.”

  “Brooks was dirty. He’s been leaking information about the case to someone, including the press. They’ve been two steps in front of us the whole time.”

  “Any idea who?”

  “No. I’ve got no clue who the mastermind is. Vincent Getty is just the muscle.”

  The chief’s cell phone rang and he answered it, giving the irritated nurse an apologetic shake of his head before turning his back to them and moving out into the corridor.

  Royce rubbed the spot where the tape had been and climbed out of bed, liking the feel of the cool floor under his bare feet.

  “Where are you going, sir?” the nurse asked as she coiled up the IV tubing and looped it over the IV pump.

  “I can’t solve this case from bed. She’s out there and I have to find her.” He attempted to stand, made it up onto his feet, where his dad caught him before he passed out.

  His mother gasped. “I’m going to go and get a cup of coffee. Do you want one, Ted?”

  “Damn.” Royce sat back down on the edge of the bed in frustration, sucking in one labored breath after another until he felt his equilibrium return.

  “Take is slow, sir. You almost died four hours ago.” The nurse turned and left the room, almost colliding with Danbury in the doorway.

  “I’ll go with you, Rachel.” His father rounded the end of the bed and took his mom’s hand.

  He glanced over at his sister and caught her grinning.

  “That was Hicks checking in with an update. They made it to the park out in Algiers a few minutes behind the thugs who kidnapped Gina. They got to her in time. She’s in recovery right now, in better shape than you are, and she says they put Adelaide in the trunk with her, probably at the safe house, but they pulled over before they reached Algiers and transferred her to another vehicle.”

  Royce’s gut fisted, his body responding to the news his heart couldn’t quite take. “Anything else, Chief? Does she remember anything that could help us?”

  “She did get a quick look before the trunk lid closed. She said she saw a dark blue or black sedan, possibly a Mercedes.”

  “Sounds like the car Jane Colby described the night Beth Wendell was taken.”

  “Gina said the motor made a lot of racket, clattering like a truck on the freeway, said she could smell burning diesel fuel. But she overheard Getty say something more ominous.”

  Royce held his breath, waiting for information he knew wouldn’t be good.

  “He told the other driver to be back at the grotto before dark for the ceremony.”

  Caution frayed his nerves. His gaze locked on his sister, Kimberly, a grown woman with the mind of a child. “Have you got the sketch of Getty and the Songe mask that Adelaide drew?”

  “Sure do. Right here.” Danbury laid the file on the end of the bed, opened it and pulled out the two sketches.

  A combination of doubt and hope churned his insides. He knew Getty was the creep who’d entered their bedroom twenty-nine years ago and taken his adopted sister. Hell, he’d been beating himself up about it his whole life, wondering why he wasn’t taken instead. But now it all made sense. They were after her and only her. If he’d offered resistance, he’d be dead.

  Getty and the man behind the mask had believed that Kimberly was a Beholder, and when they discovered her limited mental capacity, they left her wandering in the Quarter.

  “There’s a chance she’s like Adelaide, Chief. That’s why she was taken as a child, and I think she can help us now.”

  A shudder found its way across his skin as he reached for the sketches, took them from Danbury’s hand and slowly stood up. In two steps, he made the chair next to her and sat down.

  “Hey, sis,” he said, patting her arm to get her attention. “I need your help.”

  Kimberly tilted her head to the side and looked at Royce. “Okay.”

  “I don’t want you to be scared. I’m right here, and I would never let anything happen to you.”

  She frowned, drawing her brows together. “Okay.”

  “I want you to look at a picture and tell me if you remember the man in it.”

  She nodded and hunched her shoulders a couple of times.

  Royce held out the sketch of Vincent Getty.

  Kimberly pulled back. “Bad. He’s a bad man.”
>
  Royce’s pulse rate climbed, his senses shifting into overdrive. “Yes. He’s a bad man, and he has someone I love. I want her back, but I need your help to catch him.”

  “Okay,” she said, becoming more agitated with each passing minute.

  “Did you see the man under this mask?” He held out the sketch of the Songe mask, with its gruesome features and distinct high ridge running from forehead to crown.

  “He wants to hurt me, Royce.”

  “Did you see the man wearing this mask?”

  She nodded, her eyes going wide as she began to rock herself in her chair.

  “I need you to look at another man and tell me if you’ve seen him. Can you do that for me?”

  “Yeah.”

  Royce looked up into Chief Danbury’s face. “I need a computer with an Internet connection.”

  Danbury hurried out the door into the corridor and across to the nurses’ station. Two minutes later he returned with an open laptop.

  “Punch in this Web address.” He rattled it off.

  “Done.”

  “Now hit the biography section. There should be a picture of him.”

  “Here it is. Professor Charles Bessette, Cultural Anthropology.” Danbury turned the laptop toward Beckett.

  “Look at him, sis. Have you seen him? Was he the man who tried to hurt you?”

  A low whine rumbled in Kimberly’s throat and grew into a hoarse scream. She clapped her hands over her ears and closed her eyes, rocking so hard in her chair the legs lifted off the ground.

  Royce waved Danbury back and gathered his sister in his arms. Stroking her head to calm her like he’d done to her as a child after the abduction, like he’d done after every terrifying nightmare Kimberly had, up until he’d sworn to catch the man responsible by becoming a cop.

  “It’s Professor Charles Bessette, Chief. He was one of Adelaide’s professors at college. He drives a black diesel Mercedes. He and Getty are responsible for kidnapping Kimberly twenty-nine years ago because he believed she was like Adelaide.

  “Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t. The only thing that matters right now is he’s got Adelaide, and I’m going after her.”

  SECOND CHANCES. Not many people got them, Royce knew as they rolled toward Bayou Gaudin and Bessette’s ten acres of swampland beset with cypress, Tupelo gum and every slimy native creature born to the bayou. Hard to imagine Adelaide somewhere amongst that.