Malia didn’t have to work to make her breath come in raspy gasps.
“Phil’s going to let you up now. You’re going to sit over by the others and try to get some rest. We’ll deliver you to the buyer in the morning. Do you understand?”
She did. A small thrill of relief flooded her. At least they hadn’t killed her outright. That would have ruined her day.
***
Davidson Residence
Fairview, Pennsylvania
Not my favorite week, Ann Duncan thought as she raced home in response to her mother’s frantic call Thursday morning. The toxicology tests on Silas Carver had revealed nothing useful, and the leads on the Tyler case went nowhere. Now Malia had run away. Ann’s mother said she left a note but had been too upset to give any additional information over the phone. The chance for Ann to see her children provided a bright spot in the otherwise grim errand.
“Where’s the note?” Ann barged into the house carrying bags of basics, looking like a harried homeless lady. She had been at the grocery store getting supplies for the hotel mini-refrigerator when her mother’s call derailed her plans. She spotted her mother drinking tea at the kitchen table.
Her father rose, took the bags, and one-arm hugged her before starting to unpack the perishables. Ann paused in the doorway and leaned against it, a habit she had picked up from her husband. Her mother looked at her with red-rimmed eyes. Marina Nardin also sat glassy-eyed at the kitchen table, clutching a relatively untouched cup of tea. Having finished saving the milk, cheese, and cream cheese, Able Davidson returned to the table and retrieved a piece of notebook paper filled with neat, careful script.
Ann took the note from her father and read:
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Davidson (and Marina),
I have gone to find the missing Tyler girl. Someday you will understand. My siblings and I possess Gifts that allow us to help people in need. Before now, I was too young and still in my father’s custody, so I could not use my Gifts in real situations. My sister, Nadia, is convinced that Karen Tyler will die late Friday night if I do not reach her in time. I may be able to extend her lease on life. I have to try.
I am taking Mr. Parker’s tracer. Please have Agent Duncan and her husband use the locator I made for it when the time comes.
It is probably futile to ask you not to worry for me. I feel as if my whole life has led to this. I accept that I am not normal. The Great Creator allowed my father to craft me this way. I can no more turn down this responsibility than I can cease breathing.
Yours respectfully,
Malia Karina Ayers
What kind of child speaks or writes like that?
“You have to find her,” Carol insisted. She had a death grip on her tea mug. “She could get hurt.”
“She seems to have left of her own accord, and she’s very specific about her intentions,” Ann noted.
“She’s not even a teenager yet,” Able stated. “She’s too young for something like this.”
“When did you last see her?” asked Ann.
“Last night around nine-thirty,” replied Carol. “Malia always goes to bed early.”
“She wasn’t up for breakfast,” said Able. “That’s how I knew something was wrong. She usually wakes up before I do. At first, I thought she might be sick, so I checked her room and found her gone. The note was on her pillow.”
“How did she leave? Did you call the police?”
“The window was open,” Able reported.
“No, we haven’t called the police. We called you!” Carol’s voice rose with her stress level.
“I’m sure she’s fine,” Ann soothed. “File a report with the police. Patrick and I will do what we can to find her.”
Marina looked like she wanted to say something but didn’t know how to enter the conversation.
After a brief internal debate, Ann settled on the direct approach with the Russian teen.
“Do you have something to add, Marina?”
“I have spoken with Nadia before,” Marina admitted.
“When?” Able demanded.
“When they found me.”
“Was there something unusual about your conversation with Nadia?” Ann asked, sensing the girl’s struggle. She didn’t know much about Marina’s story, just that she had been rescued from a brothel by a small band of teenagers.
“She was not there,” Marina explained. “She spoke … inside me. She say, ‘Stay calm, help will come.’” Tears glistened in Marina’s eyes. “If Malia can help … she should.”
Carol stood and pulled Marina into a hug.
This case is getting stranger by the second. It’s official. God, I am way out of my depth here. Please protect Malia wherever she’s gone. Help us reach Karen Tyler in time. Amen.
Feeling helpless, Ann found her phone and checked the website for Karen’s ransom. Donations had flowed steadily the first two days after the news feature, but the total read $567,323.50.
A little over half way there. Ann’s eyes fell upon the countdown which said: 1 day 5 hours 35 minutes.
Chapter 14:
New Arrivals
Ryker’s Base of Operations
Elk County, Pennsylvania
Malia Ayers and her fellow captives had been awakened before dawn on Thursday morning, fed two granola bars each, bound together in a line with plastic ties, and loaded into a white van. She did her best to keep the others calm, but their fear buzzed inside her head, making thinking difficult. The drive to their new location took several hours, but Malia didn’t want to activate the locator until she knew for certain it was the right place. If she turned it on too early, the FBI would find her and these kids, but her one chance of finding Karen Tyler would be wasted. The matter was soon ripped from her control.
Upon arrival, Malia and the others were unloaded into an underground garage, blindfolded, forced to their knees, and rebound individually with their hands behind their backs. Malia was on the end, next to the youngest child, Max.
Am I at the right place, Nadia?
Malia couldn’t currently activate the locator, but the sooner she knew this was the correct place, the better she would feel.
“Why do you have six prisoners?” The speaker sounded curious and annoyed.
Malia cautiously reached with her Gift to allay some of the man’s suspicions.
“She knocked on the motel door last night, boss,” said Hank.
“She said her parents live far away and she was looking for her aunt,” Phil added eagerly.
The sudden rage pouring through the man sent chills skittering all over Malia.
“And you believed her.” Though the man’s words were quiet, they vibrated with scorn. “Did you check her for a wire?”
The three beats of silence that followed provided answer enough.
“Search her.”
Malia’s heart fluttered as she braced for the unpleasantness to come.
“She’s just a kid, boss,” Hank protested. “Cops can’t use kids on stings. Take her as a bonus, free of charge.”
Had her arms been free, she might have hugged Hank.
“Free?” repeated Phil in disbelief. “Not free. I expect to be paid for the extra work.”
Hank barked a laugh.
“The kid walked into your arms. The only extra work you did was hand her a few grain bars this morning. Now shut up.”
“Take off the blindfold and lift her up,” ordered the boss. “I want to see her face.”
Somebody removed Malia’s blindfold and yanked her upright. She blinked against the sudden glare, squeezing tears from her stinging eyes. A rough hand thumbed the tears away.
“You want to give her a bottle with that tender loving care, Hank?” mocked Phil.
“Quiet.” The boss had wavy black hair and appeared to be in his late thirties. His glaring green eyes swept over Malia, measuring her physical worth instantly. “Where did you come from?”
“I don’t know. I got lost,” Malia answered, preparing to l
aunch into her cover story. She didn’t like the way the man looked at her. It spoke of too much practice turning lives into amounts of money.
“Who are you? What’s your name? Why are you here?” The questions came out like bursts of gunfire.
“I am a child. My name is Malia. They brought me here.”
The structure of Malia’s answers made Hank and Phil laugh.
The boss stared deep into Malia’s dark eyes, drawing within inches of her. He said nothing for several long moments. When he finally spoke, it came out as a quiet, dangerous whisper.
“Why don’t you fear me?”
His question pointed out Malia’s mistake, but she couldn’t fix that now. Instead, she silently warred with his emotions. The delicate work required immense concentration. If she pushed too hard, his mind would automatically block her. If she pushed too softly, he might give in to the murderous rage building inside.
“You’re just a man,” Malia answered, when she had finished manipulating his emotions.
In truth, he didn’t scare her because she’d faced down much worse than him in her short life. In many ways, her father, Dr. Devya, was a far scarier man. He believed science could provide answers to everything. He and his colleagues had taught her how to flip a person’s emotions completely inside out.
The man’s right hand shot out and gripped her neck. The contact gave her greater access to his emotions, so she gave him a solid shot of shame, anger, and contempt. He abruptly let go, but not before she gained valuable insight about what he believed and how he handled situations.
The man saw himself as an underdog, someone rejected by the world for knowing too much about its dark secrets. He fancied himself a fixer of problems who brought excitement to dull lives, a man who sold people the answers to problems they didn’t know they had. He saw himself as a master manipulator who could make anybody do anything.
He should meet Father.
Only part of him understood how fragmented his emotions had become. If Malia had months and not been preoccupied with staying alive, she might have offered to heal his inner wounds.
“I could kill you,” the man said, struggling to keep the desperation out of his voice.
“You might regret it later,” Malia replied.
Hank and Phil chuckled nervously.
“She’s a strange one,” Hank commented. “That might make the bidding more interesting.”
“Take the others to the holding cell,” the boss ordered.
“What do you want us to do with the strange one?” asked Phil.
“I haven’t decided yet. Keep her unconscious until I make a decision.”
As Hank and Phil led her away to fulfill the boss’s command, Malia worked frantically to prepare her body for the pending onslaught of drugs. She had never worked out a foolproof method of fighting sleeper drugs, but she cleared a space in her mind to continuously reach out to her siblings. Nadia, Jillian, or Varick would help her if they could.
She looked pleadingly at Hank as he plucked a bottle of chloroform off one of the garage shelves and got a clean rag. No amount of begging would help her, but she figured it couldn’t hurt to reinforce the image of helpless captive. Her conversation with the boss had slightly tarnished that image.
“Don’t do this. Please, I’ll be good. I promise. I can pretend to be asleep.”
“Sorry, kid,” Hank muttered. “It’s safer this way.” He held the loaded rag over Malia’s nose and mouth.
She tried to hold her breath, but Phil struck her back, forcing her to gasp and cough. The strong scent crawled into her airways making her dizzy and sapping her strength. She fought the sensation for another few seconds before surrendering to unconsciousness.
Chapter 15:
Linchpin
Ryker’s Base of Operations
Elk County, Pennsylvania
Ryker relished his thinking time playing solo bank pool. He also liked a good game of straight pool or other cue sports, but the pocket calling disrupted his thoughts. The thinking came with ample opportunity to second guess himself, but it also let his creative side weigh, measure, and test new methods of manipulating people. He had to make a decision on the unexpected addition to the last shipment, but she would keep well enough in the holding cells or the workroom for a day or two. He had other things to consider right now.
The teddy bear gift to Detective Wickerman had been surprisingly effective. Part of Ryker had hoped—along with most of the gamblers—that it would take more than one threat to make Wickerman quit. Ryker had Wayne keeping tabs on the detective in case he proved craftier than the sudden family vacation to California indicated. However, if nothing happened with Wickerman soon, Ryker decided Wayne could quit detective-sitting and return to more important tasks.
One down, four to go.
The small town cop had been the relatively weak link. The FBI suits—feddies, as Ryker liked to call them—might prove more difficult to rattle. That made them much more fun to play with. His father had taught him that it’s not a true win unless you can beat your opponent mentally, emotionally, and physically. His old man used to lecture for hours on the point.
It doesn’t take skill to hire one man to beat another. It takes skill to make the man want to beat the other.
Ryker finished one game and racked a new set to begin again.
Who wants to play next?
He paused to study the back wall where he had lovingly arranged the To-Murder-Boards. Cop shows always flaunted elaborate boards where the picture-perfect detectives spend seconds frowning at the unfortunate victims before dashing off to collar their equally good-looking foes. His boards were much more realistic, though he had to admit his new batch of foes did look rather earnest.
Rack momentarily forgotten, Ryker walked over and stood in front of his newest addition: Jonathan Parker, FBI Computer Consultant. The innocuous title hid a respectable amount of skill. Reuben had already complained twice about fending off sophisticated probes into the inner workings of the game servers. The way JP kept his short, blond hair hinted at a military background.
What is your weakness, JP?
The answer was obvious: family.
Beautiful family, but who is the linchpin?
Most people’s weakness turned out to be family, and most families had a linchpin, the cornerstone person who held everything together. In a day and age with many broken families, Ryker found the number of connections between his current enemies intriguing. His gaze lingered on pictures of Mrs. JP, whose soft brown hair looked much better free flowing than held back by clips or ties.
The Parker children were healthy, upper middle class sorts who would sell well overseas, but taking them would be unwise. The elder boy looked like a miniature version of his father with shaggier hair. The younger boy and the girl favored their mother for hair color and facial structure. Their young ages—all under ten—would be enough to set even hardened criminals on his trail, baying for his blood. Increased media attention like that gained through Karen Tyler was acceptable, even desirable, but taking the Parker children would release a media hurricane he didn’t need right now. JP didn’t know that though and the threat alone might prove useful.
Ryker’s attention slid right to Julie Ann and Patrick Duncan. He had given them each their own board but lumped them together since they looked so cute as a couple. Collectively, they possessed a rather impressive resume. Ryker had followed the Kiverson case through the newspapers and his own sources. He would have to check for tracers if he ever invited one of them to be his guest.
Divide and conquer, he thought, leaning on his pool cue.
Remembering his game, Ryker turned to finish it, but his attention snagged on the fine collection of hand-painted role-playing miniatures. He smiled and strolled over to them so he could admire the latest addition, a young, beautiful human peasant with golden hair. The figure’s expression, permanently set in fierce defiance, seemed appropriate. He walked over to the shelf of unpainted figures and po
ndered which to have his helpers finish next. He considered the figure types that would best represent the feddies and company. It came down to rangers or thieves for the women and rangers or knights for the men. He would need to think about the situation more.
When Ryker finally returned to his game, he spent several minutes smacking billiard balls around. He relished the feeling of carefully lining up a complicated shot, drawing the cue stick back, and striking with just enough power and will to send the white ball crashing into his targets. The game focused on angles. Moderate skill could come with time and practice, but an argument could be made for natural-born talent as well.
While playing the game, Ryker allowed his thoughts to examine various divide-and-conquer schemes. He supposed killing one of the key players would be a grand distraction, but common sense told him that the threat of harm often proved more effective than actual harm. Vengeful foes could be amusing but tended to have motivation levels on overdrive. He needed them scared and willing to dance to his tune not angry enough to risk everything to take him down. He concluded that he needed to capture at least one of them.
But which one?
Upon finishing, Ryker retrieved the balls and racked a new game. Once again, his attention returned to the wall. He stayed by the pool table this time, seeing the picture as a whole. The female feddie—Annie—knew Mrs. JP pretty well. Her younger sister, Joy Sara Davidson, planned to marry feddie-lite, whom Ryker thought of as Baked Goods. Annie’s additional connection to the main male feddie, Patty D, made her a prime candidate for team linchpin. However, easy answers made Ryker nervous. The Kiverson case had shown Annie could be easily manipulated, but it also made her cautious.
Ryker moved closer to the wall and poked the largest of Annie’s pictures experimentally with the chalky end of his cue. Blue chalk dots dusted her image.
She’s such an easy mark.
His fingers twitched to hold his knife, but he resisted the urge to skewer a perfectly inspiring photo. A few heartbeats later, Ryker experienced an epiphany. Although the family connections existed, he didn’t necessarily need to exploit them. Friendship bonds were almost as strong as family ties, and in many cases, they proved more useful.
The Keres Case (Heartfelt Cases Book 4) Page 11