Do not use the steps.
Varick could see at a glance that these stairs would pop like firecrackers if he stepped on them. Bracing his hands and feet against opposite walls, Varick moved forward over the basement stairs. When he got as far as he could, he straightened his legs and used his arms to lower himself toward the ground, dropping the last few feet.
Wayne Casey squinted in Varick’s direction, but the lights worked against him.
“Phil? Is that you? Show yourself!” He nervously gripped his gun, pointing it first into the stairwell darkness and then back at his prisoner.
“Ease up there, mate,” said Varick, as the man’s back turned to him.
Casey started to whirl, but Varick’s straightened fingers jabbed him hard in the throat. He tried to scream but only a garbled wheezing noise came out.
Not one to let a man suffer, Varick put him in a choke hold and pressed on a pressure point until he passed out.
Ten seconds.
Whipping out a small, sharp knife, Varick cut through the tape holding Jonathan Parker’s arms to the chair. He stuck the knife in the chair by Parker’s right arm. He’d have to deal with the rest of the tape on his own. Varick used six of his remaining seven seconds to slip plastic zip ties around Casey’s limbs and relieve him of two knives and a small gun. With his last second, he slipped his tiny knife back into its sheath and left Parker with one of Casey’s larger knives.
“Who?” Parker’s head lolled to one side.
“Sorry, sir, can’t explain now. I’m needed in Maitland.”
Time to go.
Varick exited the house at a swift jog.
“How am I getting there?” He’d come by stolen car, but he wanted to leave that here so if Lawson and Wickerman failed to show up, somebody would find Parker.
Nadia sent him a series of images.
“I think you enjoy this too much,” Varick commented, increasing his speed to a sprint and heading for the gas station at the end of the block.
As predicted, a huge truck started pulling out as Varick reached his destination. He moved farther left to avoid the gas station lights and jumped onto the truck’s bumper, pausing to breathe deeply.
Top or bottom. People can see you there.
Varick didn’t relish either option. The wind shear up top would be brutal, but he didn’t want to spend the next hour clinging to the truck’s undercarriage. Sighing, he chose to climb up to the roof. Varick used the thin metal pipe connecting to the lock and the door hinges to work his way upward. Once he had a good grip on the roof, he simply pulled himself up. Hoping Nadia hadn’t chosen a crazy driver, Varick crawled closer to the front and lay face down on the roof, enjoying the relative coolness of the metal.
Sometime later, Nadia’s voice broke into peaceful dreams.
Varick! Get up.
“I’m awake,” Varick mumbled, shaking his shoulders.
You are approaching the closest spot the truck can get you.
“How much farther to the house?”
About three miles.
“Lovely. Get the driver to slow down.”
Done.
Barely having time to brace, Varick lurched as the truck driver slammed on the brakes and blasted the horn to ward off whatever phantom Nadia had shown him. The noise vibrated through Varick, making his teeth tingle, but he had enough sense to dive off the roof and tuck into a roll before the truck could gain speed again.
“Not amusing,” Varick groused, feeling Nadia’s laughter like a warm glow in his head.
Save your breath for running.
“I can run and correct your questionable sense of humor at the same time,” Varick said. Nevertheless, he fell quiet as he worked his body into a steady rhythm and quick pace. If he pushed himself, he could manage four-minute miles, but he settled on six-minute miles to conserve his energy for the fight ahead.
About seventeen minutes later, Varick slowed to a jog and then to a walk for the last leg of his journey. The house was much bigger than the last one. It had two garages with eight tiny, half-moon windows running along the top. Left of the garage doors stood a wide, inviting door with another string of small, useless windows—rectangles this time—running down the left side. The roof, which lay in easy climbing distance, sported those charming red tiles that give burglars great handgrips and footholds. The tiles ran conveniently beneath gaping windows.
Use the front door, Nadia suggested.
Not wanting to argue with her, Varick slipped up to the front door and tried the knob. It was locked, of course, with a deadbolt, but Varick closed his eyes and touched the lock, using another part of his Gift to slide the bolt free. Satisfied, Varick cautiously entered, found the basement door and executed a similar entrance to the one he’d pulled off in the last house. His feet barely touched down when he scrambled back up the stairs dodging bullets.
***
Jonathan Parker’s Prison
Kissimmee, Florida
“Where’s Rachel?” Jonathan Parker kept moaning the question, despite repeated assurances that Patrick Duncan would get her to safety.
“We should get him to a hospital,” said Cory Lawson. “There’s no way to tell what drugs that guy put in him.”
“We call the locals, and we’ll be here all night answering questions,” Detective Wickerman pointed out. It was the same dilemma they had faced before.
“Let’s split up,” suggested Lawson. “You take the tracer and help Patrick with Mrs. Parker. I’ll stay with Jon and deal with the locals.”
“Rachel.”
“Calm down, Jon. They’ll find her,” Lawson assured him. “Get some sleep.”
“This case bothers me,” Wickerman admitted, stalking around the lit area of the basement. “The boy-wonder leaving us bound gifts troubles me. Is he on our side or not?”
“He keeps helping,” said Lawson.
“He keeps breaking the law.”
“We’ve probably broken a few laws tonight,” Lawson reminded.
“He’s dangerous.”
“Probably, but he’s saved a lot of lives.”
Wickerman couldn’t argue the point. They might have made it to Jon in time, but from Jason Parker’s brief account, it sounded like the kid had single-handedly prevented a triple homicide.
“I still don’t like it.”
“You don’t get a lot of unsolicited help with your cases, do you?” Lawson asked sympathetically.
“Anonymous tips are completely different than zip-tied kidnappers,” Wickerman argued. “Besides, Edinboro’s more a place to chase loitering delinquents than people kidnapping entire families. Why would anyone do this?” He waved to the dingy basement and the still delirious Jon Parker murmuring pleas for somebody to help his wife.
“We don’t have time to speculate,” Lawson said. “We’ve got to get Patrick some backup. Either get up there yourself or call the Maitland PD.”
“You going to be all right here alone?”
Lawson shrugged.
“I might be job hunting by tomorrow, but I’ll manage for now.”
“Why?”
“Boss troubles. Nothing for you to worry about.”
“Trust me, I understand boss troubles. Mine’s been a bear ever since declaring the Green case cold a few years back. He used to be a great detective and started out as a strong leader when he became chief, but it’s like that case broke him.” Wickerman sounded like he was talking to himself. Shaking his head, he refocused on Lawson. “It’s almost a relief when he disappears for a long time, but it stinks that everybody else needs to pick up the slack. Is your boss like that?”
Lawson shook his head.
“Sounds like she’s the opposite, but I’ll tell you about it later. Go find Rachel Parker.”
***
Rachel Parker’s Prison
Maitland, Florida
“Well, that was unexpected.” Varick crouched on the stairs above the point where they ran even with the basement ceiling.
&nbs
p; “Who are you? Identify yourself or I’ll—”
“Patrick Duncan, FBI,” called a man from the basement corner directly below the stairs.
Two gunshots sounded and the bullets slammed into the wall near where the voice had come from, but the man had already moved farther back.
“Lower your weapon so we can negotiate,” said Duncan, sounding calm for a man under fire.
“There’s nothing to negotiate!”
“Let Rachel go. She’s not a threat to you,” Duncan reasoned.
“Wait! What’s your name?”
Varick could almost hear the gunman’s thoughts clicking. He silently queried Nadia for clarification.
Patrick Duncan is married to Ryker’s current target. Do not let a trade happen.
The FBI agent repeated his name and a brief silence ensued.
“All right, new deal. Come forward slowly with your hands up and take her place.” The bad guy’s voice had a triumphant ring.
Cautious footsteps sounded at the bottom of the stairs.
Move.
Before Patrick Duncan could agree to the offer, Varick jumped down and plowed him into the wall. Another bullet hit the wall above Duncan’s head as Varick dove forward, rolled, and came up running. He whipped out a throwing knife and threw it at the attacker’s gun hand.
The man screamed with surprise and pain as the knife struck home, lodging between the bones leading to his third and fourth fingers.
Two steps brought Varick in striking distance. Planting his feet, he slammed a fist into the man’s jaw, straightening his knees and leaning forward to add force to the blow.
The bad guy crumpled.
A quick check confirmed that Rachel Parker had missed the excitement. A groan from Patrick reminded Varick he needed to be quick. Duncan could handle most of the cleanup, but Varick wanted to make sure the Parker woman was safe.
After trussing the kidnapper with fresh zip ties and recovering his throwing knife, Varick checked the woman’s vitals. Her pulse seemed underwhelming, but it would do.
“Don’t move,” ordered Duncan.
“I’m here to help.” Varick didn’t have to turn to know the FBI man’s gun would be leveled at him.
“Help?” Duncan repeated, recalling a rather rude introduction to the basement wall.
Varick straightened, raised his hands, and pointed toward the unconscious man who had been shooting at them.
“Help.”
“What’s going on?” The FBI man sounded grumpy.
Introduce yourself and tell him I sent you. Then, tell him his wife is in danger.
“My name is Varick Ayers. You’ve met my sisters, Jillian and Malia, and heard of Nadia and her … talents. She sent me to aid the Parker family and warn you that your wife is in danger.” He hadn’t even reached the last word before the FBI man’s gun disappeared into its holster and his phone appeared in his hand.
He may not be able to reach her by phone.
“Why not?” Varick demanded.
Ryker has a new toy that diverts calls from his wife’s cell phone and her family’s houseline directly to voicemail.
“What should I do?”
See that Mrs. Parker is safe, send Patrick Duncan to Washington, D.C., and return to Pennsylvania. The timing will be tight, but you may yet stop Ryker.
Chapter 33:
Special Delivery
Tyler Residence
Edinboro, Pennsylvania
As the sun graced Edinboro, Pennsylvania with the first light of a new day, consciousness slowly returned to Karen Tyler. She couldn’t move her arms or legs, and a thick piece of duct tape sealed her lips shut.
What now?
She groaned and forced her eyes open so she could at least see her current location. Her head felt foggy and her body ached like she’d spent the night on a cement surface. Whatever lay beneath her was damp and smelled of fresh rain.
Everything looked sideways. Lifting her head and craning it this way and that, Karen took in the large flowerpot, the edge of a welcome mat, the bottom edge of a door, and some white siding. She had an odd feeling about the place. Ignoring the pain shooting through her numb right arm, Karen tried to roll onto her back so she could see things better. Something large and warm bumped against her back, so she rolled forward again.
Dr. Surhan.
Memories and realizations flooded her, vying for attention and leaving her momentarily stunned. Karen cautiously leaned back against the warm thing and rested her head at an angle that allowed her to stare up at the wooden door. Tears of relief and longing flowed, blurring the sign that made everything all right. It read:
HOME is where family is.
Ellie! Mom! Dad!
Having them so close yet unaware of her presence, hurt Karen more than the tape binding her. Ignoring the discomfort, she struggled onto her back and maneuvered her feet toward the door. Sweat broke out on her brow. Drawing a deep breath and grunting, she kicked the door with her bound feet. They landed with a dull, unimpressive thud. Praying her family would hear, she leaned as far back as she could and whipped her legs forward into the door again. The resulting crash was slightly louder, but Karen knew it would take even louder blows to awaken her parents on a Saturday.
Please be awake! Please be awake! Ellie!
If anyone would be up this early, it would be Ellie, but she had strict instructions not to answer the door or leave the house under any circumstances. Karen continued beating on the door and hoped her sister would wake their parents to investigate.
Go get help! Get Mom! Get Dad! Karen screamed the orders into her sticky gag.
Her legs and arms hurt, but Karen got herself into a steady rhythm. Breathe, lift, pound, rest, repeat. For some reason, Connor Daniels came to mind. He would tell her not to give up. Karen kicked the door with extra force, longing to see her friend again. Maybe they could start over, but she needed to get free first. She lost count of the times she assaulted the door, but at last she heard footsteps on the stairs.
“Door hush!” called Ellie. She sounded like she was standing a few feet away so as not to break the rules.
Desperate to call to her sister, Karen screamed into the tape. The vibrations plus a healthy amount of spit and sweat loosened the tape. Karen gritted her teeth and raked the side of her face over the rough cement of the front stoop. Working her jaw and repeating the frantic scrapping process again and again, Karen succeeded only in hurting her face. Frustrated, she returned to tapping the door with her feet, gently this time.
Go get Mom! Go get Dad! Karen tuned her tapping to the cadence of these two phrases.
“Stop noise!” Ellie screamed. “No more!”
Realizing how frustrating this must be for Ellie, Karen almost stopped, but her need to be free trumped her sister’s discomfort.
“Mommy! Daddy! Door won’t stop!” called Ellie.
Yes, Ellie! Go! Call them!
Karen pounded harder, feeling her legs protest each movement.
“Ellie!” said Karen’s mother. “Hush, baby, you’ll wake the neighborhood.”
“What’s wrong?” called Karen’s father.
“Loud door,” Ellie complained, sniffling.
Karen proved it by kicking with all the force she could muster. The effort left her drained. She let her feet fall and listened for signs that her parents would come free her. Sobs built up in her chest as she entered an agonizing wait.
***
Rebecca Tyler exchanged a worried look with her husband. It wasn’t unusual for Ellie to imagine an inanimate object doing something offensive, but she’d definitely heard something slam against the front door. Zachary rushed down the stairs, whipped open the door and froze. Hot on his heels, Rebecca ran right into him when he stopped suddenly and stared downward.
The sight greeting Rebecca nearly stopped her heart. It was the strangest, most horrific and simultaneously wonderful sight imaginable. Karen lay on her back sobbing, her feet held together by thick tape. The fact that h
er arms were trapped beneath her indicated they too must be bound. The right side of her face bore numerous scraps from where she tried to remove the tape covering her mouth. In short, she was a mess. Rebecca had a hard time tearing her eyes off her daughter. She saw the large figure lying behind Karen’s slender form, but she couldn’t process it.
“Kare-Kare!” cried Ellie, squeezing between Rebecca and Zachary. She made a sympathetic noise. “No cry, Kare-Kare. I help!”
“It’s okay, Ellie. I’ll help her,” Zachary said hoarsely. He dropped to his knees and started peeling the tape from Karen’s face.
Forcing her legs to move, Rebecca ran to the kitchen for some scissors and a damp cloth. She handed the scissors to her husband who made quick work of the duct tape around Karen’s ankles and wrists while she wiped tears, dirt, and blood from their daughter’s face. They huddled in a massive hug, Karen’s arms locked around Rebecca, Zachary’s arms wrapped around both of them, and Ellie’s weight pressing down as she leaned on everybody. The pile shook with sobs. When the moment passed, they looked at each other at a loss for words.
As usual, Ellie solved the problem.
“Kare-Kare back! Get up! Up! Up!”
“Help him,” Karen whispered, speaking of the prone figure still occupying the front of their stoop.
“Who is he?” Zachary picked up the scissors from where he’d dropped them and cut the tape from the man’s arms and ankles.
“Dr. Surhan.” Karen looked like she wanted to say more but lacked the energy.
“Let’s get you inside,” said Zachary, pulling Karen up.
“Help him,” Karen repeated.
“We’ll help him, baby. Go with your father.”
Though barely able to stand, Rebecca helped Zachary support Karen as they brought her into the house and settled her on a kitchen chair. Rebecca knew dozens of details needed to be handled, but she only wanted to keep staring at her daughter.
I can’t let that happen to Ellie!
Zachary left and returned.
“I need help lifting him. He’s still unconscious and should go to a hospital. Karen too.”
The Keres Case (Heartfelt Cases Book 4) Page 23