by Dinah McCall
As he reached the top of the stairs, he heard a flurry of footsteps, and stopped and looked down. Ruger was heading for the front door with a cell phone to his ear. There were two agents right behind him. The urge to go with them was strong. He wasn’t used to being out of the know, and it made him antsy, but he couldn’t be an active part of the search without compromising the investigation.
Just as the men exited the house, he heard another door opening behind him. He turned just as Rosa exited Macie’s bedroom, leaving the door ajar. Her head was down, and she was dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief as she took the back stairs. Jonah frowned. What now?
Macie sat on the side of the bed, staring at the floor. She’d tried sleeping, but every time she closed her eyes, she kept seeing herself walking into her father’s office, hearing the gunshots on the tape and turning toward the sound, then seeing Felicity’s lifeless body falling headfirst into view and thinking that the blood splatter on the wall looked like an abstract painting. She didn’t know that one of the bullets had hit an artery in Felicity’s body, or that the arterial spray had lasted only as long as her heart had been beating. She didn’t know that the moment the spray had stopped, so had her sister’s heart. All she’d seen was her sister lying headfirst down the stairs and the blood pooling under her head.
She drew a deep breath, then exhaled on a sob, wondering if it had hurt to die. Felicity never could stand pain.
God…this was a nightmare.
Wiping a shaky hand across her face, Macie took the ice bag from her head and laid it on the nightstand. The pain in her head had faded to a dull throb. If only the ache in her heart would subside as easily.
She heard footsteps coming down the hall and looked up just as Jonah walked in. His stride was long and hurried, his voice almost angry. And then he spoke, and the question was almost absurd in content.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
Hysteria bubbled, threatening to explode. “You have to ask?”
“Rosa came out of your room crying.”
Macie sighed. “Oh, that…I was talking to the funeral director about Felicity. She wanted to be cremated. I was…I had to…”
“Never mind,” Jonah said. “I understand.”
Suddenly Macie’s composure broke. Tears rolled unchecked down her face as sarcasm filled her voice.
“How nice for you. I wish I could say the same.”
Taken aback, Jonah did what any normal person would do. He defended himself.
“Damn it…don’t do this.”
Macie’s voice was now close to a shout. “Do what? Do what? What have I done?”
“Make me the bad guy.”
Shame came quickly, replacing anger. Macie’s face crumpled. He was right. She was taking her grief out on him. She reached toward Jonah, but he stepped back, and when he did, her heart dropped. The words she’d spoken in haste and anger had obviously ruined their shaky truce.
“Jonah…please…I’m sorry,” Macie said. “It’s all this…this…Oh God, it’s a nightmare, and it’s making me crazy.”
Jonah wouldn’t look at her—couldn’t look at her. Not without breaking, but he was finding it more and more difficult to remain objective where Macie Blaine was concerned. Every instinct he had was to keep her at arm’s length. Her sister had been beautiful, intriguing—and as deceptive as the devil. The same blood ran in Macie’s veins. He needed to keep his distance, keep his head and find his son. No more. No less.
“Yeah, sure. Forget it.”
The lack of emotion in his voice said it all. With a few careless words, she’d destroyed their tenuous relationship. She needed it and him more than she could say.
“Jonah, I—”
He took another step backward. “I need to make some phone calls.”
“Rosa is serving dinner in about an hour.”
He paused. There was no way to get out of that. He was staying under this roof. He had to eat. With her.
“All right.”
“Jonah?”
The quiver in her voice slowed his exit. Reluctantly he stopped and looked back.
“Don’t be mad at me.”
The tears in her eyes undid him. “I’m not mad at you, honey,” he said gently. “Just at the situation, okay?”
“Promise?”
He almost smiled. “Yeah, I promise.”
“See you at dinner?”
“Yes…at dinner,” he said, and then headed for his room. It was past time to check in with the director and, if he was in a good mood, ask him a favor.
It was getting dark. The only piece of furniture in the room where Evan was being kept was a cot-size bed. The mattress was old and dirty, but not as dirty as the floor. After hours of frustrated pacing and tugging at the boarded-up windows with no success, Evan was hungry. Considering what he’d endured, he would have thought bodily needs would have ceased, but they had not. Frustrated and desperate to quench his thirst, he braved angering his captors by pounding on the door.
“Hey!” he yelled. “Bring me some water!”
He waited for a moment and then repeated the demand, this time pounding harder. Within seconds, the door came open. Startled, Evan staggered backward and then fell. He found himself looking up at an armed man from a sitting position, and feeling foolish and vulnerable.
“You keep quiet,” the man said, and poked at Evan’s belly with the barrel of an assault rifle.
“I just want some food and water,” Evan muttered.
The man sneered. “Why waste food and water on a boy who is already dead?”
For a moment Evan was so frightened he couldn’t speak. But then he remembered what they’d already done to his mother, seeing his grandfather crumpling onto the floor. Evan stood abruptly, startling his captor enough that he took a defensive step back.
Evan held his arms out to his sides, making his chest a perfect target. “If you want me dead, then do it! You’ve already killed the rest of my family, so what are you waiting for?”
The armed man shoved the barrel of the rifle into Evan’s belly.
“We wait for your padre. You sit,” he ordered, motioning toward the bed.
Evan frowned. “I’m not Catholic. What does a priest have to do with it?”
“No, no. Your father…not a priest.”
The notion was so ludicrous to Evan that before he thought, he threw back his head and laughed.
It was the last thing the armed man expected. He struck out at Evan, using the butt of the rifle on Evan’s chin. This time, when Evan fell, he didn’t get up.
“Laugh now,” the bandit said.
Tasting blood, Evan stifled a groan and then reached for his face, wincing as he tested his jaw to see if it would still open. When it did, he couldn’t resist adding, “Fine. I never said you weren’t in charge, but it won’t change the fact that my so-called father doesn’t know I exist. We could pass each other on the street and never know it.”
“You lie,” the man said, and threatened to hit Evan again.
Evan shook his head as he pulled himself upright.
“Beating the crap out of me is not going to change the truth. Someone in your organization messed up big-time, because the man never knew I was born.” Then he held his breath and waited, all but daring the man to hit him again.
To his surprise, the man cursed and left abruptly, slamming the door behind him as he went. Evan raced to the door but was too late. The lock turned just as he grasped the doorknob.
“Bring me some water! Water! I need water!” he yelled, and slapped the door over and over with the flat of his hand.
Shaken by despair and trying not to think about the pain in his fingers, he leaned against the door and tried not to cry. Moments later, the lights went out, and he realized the faint hum he’d been hearing all afternoon had ceased. Whatever had been powering the electricity had been shut off. He spun quickly, peering into the shadows in the ever-darkening room, and then moved toward the bed.
It was
the sound of the generator coming back to life that brought Evan out of a deep, dreamless sleep. With that came the acknowledgment of pain in his jaw, swollen and burning fingertips from his earlier attempt to escape, and something else—something he’d never experienced before in his life—true hunger.
He rolled over on the cot and then swung his legs to the floor, telling himself that hunger was secondary to the fact that he was still alive. The overhead light had come on the moment the generator had started, ironing the shadows from the room, and as it did, he saw the tray of food by the door. But elation turned to shock when he saw a large rat only a few feet away from the tray, lying motionless on the floor. He jumped to his feet and then knelt by the tray. There were bite marks on the fruit where the rat had nibbled, as well as a trail of breadcrumbs from the tray to the partially eaten roll beside the rat.
He stood abruptly, then toed the rat with his shoe. Its limp body rocked gently beneath the nudge, then fell back into a supine position. Evan stepped back in shock. Poison? They were going to poison him? What kind of madman did this? If they wanted him dead, why hadn’t they killed him at the house? Why drag him so far away just to do the deed?
Evan glanced back down at the tray, then picked up the piece of partially eaten fruit and sniffed it, trying to discern a sinister smell. Instead the scent of crisp, sweet apple filled his nostrils and made his belly grumble. The urge to taste it was strong. It would be easy—so easy just to give up. He had no one to live for except himself. Then he remembered his aunt Macie. He wondered if she was okay, or if they’d made her a victim, too.
He dropped the apple back on the tray, then picked up a large bottle of water that had been knocked over during the rat’s foray. He eyed it closely, then ran his fingers around the seal, checking to see if it had been broken. He was overjoyed to find it had not. Thirst overcame hunger as he unscrewed the lid, taking comfort from the pop when the seal broke.
The water was tepid, but to Evan, it couldn’t have been better as he tilted the bottle and drank greedily. It wasn’t until he’d downed almost a pint that it dawned on him that this might be all he would get. Reluctantly he lowered the bottle, replaced the cap and set it down on the floor by his bed. As he did, he glanced toward the door leading into the small bathroom and knew, despite his disgust, he was going to have to make another visit.
But when he got inside, the job of unbuttoning his fly became such an issue that he forgot the stench. The raw places on the tips of his fingers were trying to scab over, while the splinters under his nails had started to fester under the skin. His hands were puffy and sore.
By the time he was through, the scabs had cracked and bled, and he was shaking from pain. Instead of rebuttoning his jeans, he opted to take them off and tossed them on the end of the bed, leaving him dressed in dark, navy blue boxers that looked like gym shorts. He looked down the length of his legs, noting several dark, purpling bruises, and had no memory of how they had come to be there. He wondered if his upper body had fared the same and took off his T-shirt to see. There were none he could see on his belly, but there were several smaller ones on his arms. He guessed they’d happened during his abduction, or when he’d been carried as they’d moved from van to van.
He started to put his T-shirt back on and then impulsively tossed it on the bed with his jeans. The air in the room was close. The last thing he would do was get cold during the day. Tonight—if he was still alive—he could put them back on to sleep.
His belly rumbled, and he glanced back longingly at the tray of food, then gasped with surprise. The rat was up and staggering toward a hole in the floor near the corner of the room. At that point Evan realized the food had been drugged, not poisoned, but it changed nothing for him. Whether it killed him or just put him to sleep was immaterial. He wasn’t going to do anything that would make him any more vulnerable to these people than he already was. He stood, watching until the rat all but fell into the hole, and then he crawled back onto the bed and pulled his knees up under his chin. He wouldn’t let himself think of the man who’d fathered him. He couldn’t afford to hope that the man would somehow find out what had happened and come to his rescue. And so he sat, and as time passed, he slumped over onto his side and fell asleep.
But in his dreams, his father came, kicking in doors and dragging him to freedom with guns blazing. When he woke, the room was hot and airless, and his body was covered in sweat. He had no idea how long he’d been sleeping, but the tray of partially eaten food was no longer on the floor. Instead there were a couple of cans at the foot of the bed where he’d been lying.
He shuddered, thinking of them watching him as he slept, and then hunger overcame revulsion as he grabbed the cans—one was a can of peaches, the other a can of Vienna sausages—both opened by a tab-top. He popped the top on the Vienna sausages and then peeled back the lid. The aroma almost made him cry as he thrust two fingers into the can and pulled out the first tiny wiener. In less than a minute he’d emptied the can. A minute or two later, he’d emptied the can of peaches the same way; then he lifted it to his lips and drank what was left of the juice. Only after he’d finished his makeshift meal did he take a long drink of water. He sat for a moment, wishing he had more, and then picked up the two empty cans and walked over to the corner of the room and dumped the empties into the hole in the floor. It was the first time in his life that he’d “done the dishes,” but the irony of it was lost on him.
The same morning: Bel Air, California
Jonah stepped out of the shower and was reaching for a towel when he heard a knock on his door. Wrapping it around himself toga style, he strode through the room, leaving wet footprints behind him as he went. It was Macie, holding a breakfast tray. At that point he realized he should have been wearing more than a towel.
“Uh…”
“I brought your breakfast,” Macie said, and sailed into the room without waiting for an invitation. She set the tray down on a table, then plopped down in one of the chairs and picked up a piece of toast from his plate and took a big bite. After the cold shoulder he’d given her at dinner last night, she’d made up her mind to change his attitude.
Jonah watched her small white teeth sinking into the bread and glared. She was daring him to react, and he knew it. What angered him most was that his reaction was not one of anger but of lust. He thought about slapping that damned toast out of her hand and taking her there on the floor beside the table. At that point he accepted the fact that his emotions were getting out of hand. Just because he lusted, that did not mean she mattered. She was a beautiful woman, soft in all the right places, and he was in need of a physical release. Nothing more. But then she took another bite, her small pink tongue flicking out to catch an errant crumb lingering on the edge of her lower lip, and he snapped.
Cursing beneath his breath, he dropped the towel where he stood, then turned and walked to the closet to get some clothes. She’d invaded his space. He would be damned if he would let her call the shots.
Macie saw the towel drop and still couldn’t believe what he’d done. She swallowed quickly to keep from choking and told herself she should look away, but it was impossible. The sight of all that bare skin and muscle was too intriguing not to view.
She inhaled slowly and then leaned back in the chair, looking at him as she might have a priceless work of art. The tattoo on his back looked lethal and yet oddly beautiful. His legs were long, the muscles well-defined. His shoulders were wide, his hips narrow, and there was a defiance in his stride that she had to admire. He had called her bluff and then some, so she accepted the inevitable. So she would be careful never to play poker with Jonah Slade. So what.
Then he turned around.
Macie’s gaze centered on the lower half of his body, just as he’d known it would, so he waited until she lifted her gaze.
“Well?” he drawled.
Macie stood. “The toast needs more butter,” she said, then tossed her hair with a lift of her chin and walked out the door with
out saying another word.
The door shut with a distinct thump. Jonah grinned. She had more guts than he’d given her credit for. She’d not only called his bluff, but she’d ignored the challenge, which was the distinct opposite of what Felicity would have done. He dressed quickly, then downed his food, and as he did, he wondered if he was selling her short by blaming her for her last name.
Macie was standing on the terrace, watching three men clipping the intricate hedge that formed the boundary between the clay-surfaced tennis court and the pathway that led to an Olympic-size pool. It had been years since she’d been here, so she didn’t know them by name, and as she watched, it occurred to her that they could even be undercover police.
The thought that her family home had become the scene of a crime seemed absurd, but she only had to walk back in the house to know it was true. Despite the presence of so many federal agents, the place was absent of life. She leaned forward, bracing herself against the waist-high rock wall surrounding the terrace, and dropped her head.
That was the way Jonah found her.
He was still harboring a grudge when he walked out on the terrace, but the moment he saw her, his attitude changed. Staying pissed off at Macie would be like kicking a dying dog. The last thing she needed was another piece of grief. He took a deep breath.
“Ruger said you wanted to go see your father.”
Macie jerked and then turned. “I didn’t know you were there.”
The despair on her face hurt his heart. What hurt even more was that he was responsible for some of it.
“There’s something I need to say,” Jonah said.
Macie waited.
“This morning I—”
“No. Wait,” Macie said, interrupting what he’d been going to say. “I was taunting you. You called my bluff, and rightly so.” Then she took a deep breath. What she was about to say went against everything she’d learned from Declyn Blaine, which was to never show your weaknesses. “Chalk it up to the crush I used to have on you. Not only was it a stupid thing to do, but the timing couldn’t have been worse. We have to focus all our energies on finding Evan. As for visiting my father, I would never expect you to do that.”