The Keres Case (Heartfelt Cases Book 4)

by Gilbert,Julie C.

  “I’m sorry,” said Mrs. Carver for the second time in as many minutes.

  Not helpful.

  Ann wanted to call Baker or the cops for backup, but she didn’t dare take her attention from these two for a moment. She had only brought one pair of handcuffs. While the man seemed to be the bigger threat, he was also the more stubborn of the would-be assailants.

  Judging Mrs. Carver the more likely to obey, Ann said, “Mrs. Carver, I want you to drop the pepper spray, put your hands on your head, and come toward me slowly.”

  Before the woman could move or reply, a new man spoke.

  “Don’t do it, Rita. In fact, don’t move.” A man with sandy brown hair emerged from the surrounding trees midway between Mrs. Carver and the man with the bat and pointed a handgun at Ann.

  “Who are you?” Ann demanded, wondering how many more surprises her heart could handle. Deeming a gun more dangerous than a bat or pepper spray, she shifted her gun’s focus to the newcomer.

  What is this? Bring your favorite weapon to the park day?

  Mrs. Carver turned toward the new man and gasped.

  “Jack!”

  “Who?” asked the annoyed guy with the bat.

  “My husband,” Mrs. Carver explained. “Ex-husband,” she corrected.

  Ann’s mind searched for a way to peacefully end the standoff. If the man got close enough, she could disarm him, but he didn’t look likely to comply with wishful thinking. Bat man over there might help if it proved in his best interest. Mrs. Carver still had that vicious little vial close at hand. Ann’s phone rang.

  Probably Baker warning me this is a trap, Ann thought, ignoring the cheerful tune emanating from her phone. Yup, trap. Got it, Baker. She blinked rapidly, still fighting the pepper spray fumes.

  “Your backup,” replied Jack, speaking to the bat-totting ruffian.

  “He sent you?”

  “Yes, now shut up, Kyte. Let me deal with this.”

  “What are you—”

  “Not now, Rita,” said Jack shortly, never removing his gaze—or gun—from Ann. “Toss your gun to Mr. Kyte, Agent Duncan.”

  Three to one odds. No fair.

  Ann’s arms ached, begging her to agree with the newcomer.

  “Not going to happen,” Ann said to herself as much as Jack.

  Keep him talking. You’ll think of something.

  “Jack, please!” hissed Mrs. Carver. “You can’t kill her. We need her for the trade. He’ll kill Silas if we don’t!”

  The not-killing-her part appealed to Ann. The trading part sounded less promising, and the killing Silas part just confused her. Digging deep in her memory to the early reports in the Tyler case, she remembered that Silas was the child Karen and the others had been looking for in the Erie National Wildlife Refuge.

  Why Silas? The question had always bothered Ann, and the answer stood before her.

  “My boys’ lives depend on that trade,” muttered Kyte. He brought the bat around to a position primed for a swing at Jack.

  “Kyte, so help me, if you get in my way, I will kill you,” said Jack. “I’m trying to help you!”

  “You had your son kidnapped,” Ann accused, hoping for enough of a distraction to take a clean shot at Jack without eating a return bullet.

  “You did what? Tell me you didn’t, Jack. Tell me!” Mrs. Carver sounded frantic. She stumbled a few steps in his direction. “You did this to me?” She waved her bandaged hand. “Why?”

  “Mrs. Carver, stop!” Ann cried.

  Jack’s eyes met Ann’s, drawing the same conclusion. Only where she felt sickening horror, the idea turned him triumphant. A quick sidestep placed Mrs. Carver between Jack and Ann, blocking her shot. Two steps forward, brought Jack within reach of his ex-wife. She screamed with surprise, fright, and pain as he spun her around and pressed his gun to the back of her head.

  “Kyte, go get her gun,” ordered Jack.

  “Kyte, stay put,” Ann countered, shifting her gun to back up the command.

  “Please don’t do this! Jack, think of Silas,” Mrs. Carver pleaded.

  “I’m doing this for Silas,” Jack said. “Now, Kyte! She won’t let me shoot Rita.”

  The rapid changes overwhelmed Ann. She really wanted to shoot Jack. The distance wasn’t that far and she was a good shot, but Mrs. Carver complicated matters. Jack kept his head carefully ducked behind his hostage. Ann had a clear shot at Kyte, who was taking tentative steps in her direction, but that still wouldn’t help Mrs. Carver. When Kyte got close, Ann could probably take him hostage, but that wouldn’t move them toward a peaceable end.

  Besides, imagine the paperwork.

  Dead and wounded civilians kicked up paperwork storms, but Ann had bigger problems right now.

  If I get out of this alive, Morgan’s going to kill me, Ann thought, as she slowly lowered her gun and prepared to run.

  Despite the happy ending to the Kiverson case, Ann’s boss had been livid over her “reckless disregard for her own life” as he put it. Had the gun stayed trained on her, she would have fought these three to the bitter end, but she’d also sworn to protect innocents. Mrs. Carver might be a slightly shady innocent, but Silas needed her.

  “If you make me chase you, I’ll kill her,” Jack said, as if reading her mind. “If you surrender, she’ll be fine.”

  Lowering her weapon but not quite dropping it, Ann continued evaluating the moves left in this strategy game. She felt the situation rapidly approaching checkmate.

  “You don’t want to kill her, Jack.”

  “You’re right,” Jack agreed, “but I will if you make me. This isn’t about her or me. It’s for the children.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” said Ann, shying away from Kyte.

  “You don’t have to understand. Drop the gun and come with us.” Jack shifted Rita a half-step to compensate for Ann’s new angle.

  Kyte’s tackle disrupted Ann’s thoughts. Fight or flight instincts came into play and—since flight seemed impossible with Kyte holding her here—Ann fought. Kyte had height, reach, and muscle mass on his side. Ann had a handful of mud, a smaller frame, and treacherous terrain on her side. Before Kyte could pin her down, Ann flung her left elbow back into his chin then shoved the mud at his eyes and kicked him sideways, scanning the ground for her gun. She spotted it several feet away.

  A bullet struck the mud near her head.

  “That was a warning shot to regain your attention since Kyte’s an idiot. The next one comes through Rita. Kyte, get the agent’s gun, search her, and for heaven’s sake don’t do anything else stupid.”

  Kyte bristled but obeyed. He picked up Ann’s gun and retrieved a backpack hidden by a tree. Setting the bag down next to Ann, he silently dared her to fight back.

  “This isn’t a staring contest, Kyte. Finish the job.”

  Kyte was rougher than he needed to be in subduing Ann. First, he rolled her onto her stomach and pressed a knee into the small of her back. Then, he searched for other weapons. Finding handcuffs in one pocket, he twisted Ann’s arms back and secured her wrists with the cuffs, being sure to cinch them hard enough to hurt. Finally, he pulled her up by the arms.

  “Take the cuffs off, Kyte.” Jack sounded bored. “We need to walk past populated areas. That’s bound to draw too much attention. At least move them around front.”

  “How will we make sure she doesn’t run away?” argued Kyte.

  “With the gun.” Jack looked like he’d rather be elsewhere than dealing with Kyte.

  Muttering curses, Kyte patted Ann’s pockets for the handcuff key.

  Clearing her throat, Ann said, “Upper inside left pocket behind the zipper.” Her mother had modified the suit jacket to have that tiny, inner pocket for things like handcuff keys. Ann had almost mocked it at the time, but it had since proven its use. When Kyte released her wrists, Ann rubbed feeling back into them and fought down the urge to give the man a black eye. It stretched her patience thin to stand still and let him reapply the cuffs
with her arms in front of her body.

  “I expect everybody to be on best behavior,” mocked Jack. “Kyte, you’ll escort the agent, and I’ll escort Rita. You’ll stay ten feet ahead and set a good pace but keep to one side in case I need to shoot her.”

  “Move,” said Kyte, poking Ann in the side with her own gun and shoving her back toward the trail she had followed Rita through earlier. He snatched up his backpack and followed.

  Mrs. Carver and Jack fell in behind.

  Ann hoped somebody would have the sense to track her cell phone and find her before something unfortunate happened. That hope died when they reached their destination, and Jack unclipped the phone and tossed it to the edge of the parking lot. He also stripped off her watch and threw it toward the phone’s landing spot.

  Chapter 35:

  Coming Clean

  Tyler Residence

  Edinboro, Pennsylvania

  Agent George Baker blinked at Mrs. Tyler. Apparently recovering her daughter hadn’t calmed the woman any. In fact, she seemed more frazzled than before.

  “What have you done, Becky?” Mr. Tyler asked. His tone wavered between accusation and plea. He walked over to her and placed his hands on her shoulder. “What do you have to confess?”

  Mrs. Tyler pressed her hands together, rubbing them nervously. Reaching slowly into a pocket she pulled out a pill and dropped it onto the dark brown table. The pill’s brilliant white color made it stand out starkly.

  “It’s just a sleeping pill,” said Mr. Tyler, missing its significance. “It can’t hurt you.”

  Baker’s mind skipped back to a minute before when Mrs. Tyler had seized his coffee and thrown it in the sink.

  “It was in the coffee,” he said.

  Lowering her head onto upraised palms, Rebecca nodded miserably.

  “Becky, why?” asked Mr. Tyler, beating Baker to the question.

  Baker knew they couldn’t press her too hard.

  “Take your time, Mrs. Tyler. Tell us everything when you’re ready.” Waiting was the last thing he wanted to do, but dealing with a weepy woman wasn’t a task to rush. Spotting a box of tissues on the kitchen counter, Baker got up and brought it to Mrs. Tyler.

  She mumbled thanks, took three tissues, and dabbed at her eyes and nose. Mr. Tyler filled a tall glass with ice water and set it down in front of his wife. Sniffling, blowing, and small whimpers were the only sounds one could hear for a few minutes.

  While he waited, Baker considered telling them about Ann’s text message offering up the man’s name. He couldn’t give them the details even if he had them, but the hope of a solid lead might settle Mrs. Tyler.

  “We might have a lead on the man who took Karen,” Baker offered.

  “Who is it?” asked Mr. Tyler.

  “I can’t tell you the suspect’s name, but I trust the agents tracking it down,” replied Baker.

  “He threatened Ellie. That’s why I called you,” said Mrs. Tyler.

  “When did he call? What did he say?” asked Baker. “Please, Mrs. Tyler, tell me as much as you can about the conversation.”

  Slowly the story poured out of Rebecca Tyler.

  “The kidnapper called a couple of times yesterday, once when he made you and Zachary leave and then later at night. He said I had to get you to come here and knock you out any way I could or he’d kill Ellie. He said he’d make me childless. Please, you can’t let him take Karen again.”

  “Karen’s home safe, Becky.” Mr. Tyler squeezed her shoulders. “She’s home.”

  “Why would he want me unconscious?” wondered Baker, more to himself than the Tylers. He worked the problem with desperate speed. Ann’s other text had said she had a meeting in a park this morning. Given the trap-like nature of the Tyler meeting, the odds of Ann’s meeting also being a trap were pretty good. “Excuse me. I have a phone call to make.”

  Taking his phone off his belt, Baker strode into the next room to call Ann. Three steps into the room, he stopped and stared at the odd sight. An unconscious middle age man lay on an air mattress tucked to the left of the dining room table. Thick bands across his wrists spoke of recent, rather violent restraints.

  That could be you, if Mrs. Tyler hadn’t had an attack of conscience.

  “Don’t go in there!”Mrs. Tyler screamed belatedly.

  Both Tylers rushed to the doorway between the kitchen and the room where Baker had halted.

  Drawing his gun, Baker whirled and stood uncertainly, wondering why the Tylers would spare him and not the poor, harmless looking guy.

  “Who is that?” he demanded, keeping his gun pointed toward the floor but at the ready if they moved toward him.

  “Wait!” called Mrs. Tyler.

  “We didn’t harm him,” said Mr. Tyler.

  “We found him like that,” continued Mrs. Tyler.

  Baker held up a hand to stop the flood of words.

  “Wait while I make my phone call. Then you can tell me about Rip Van Winkle over there.”

  They nodded, and Mr. Tyler pulled Mrs. Tyler away to give Baker some privacy.

  Scrolling to Ann’s name on his contact list, Baker placed the call and paced the tiny room through five long rings.

  Pick up. Pick up. Pick up.

  His heart sank when Ann’s voicemail message greeted him. After the beep, he said, “Hi, Ann, it’s been a strange morning. For reasons I’ll elaborate on later, I think your meeting might be a setup. Stay alert and give me a call as soon as you can. Please, please don’t be in trouble.”

  Should I call Patrick?

  Pondering the question, Baker put his phone away, returned to the kitchen, and asked, “Who’s the man in the dining room?”

  “We don’t—” began Mrs. Tyler.

  “It’s Dr. Surhan,” said a young female voice.

  “Karen!” exclaimed Mrs. Tyler.

  “You’re supposed to be sleeping,” scolded Mr. Tyler.

  Baker turned and saw a familiar face. Over the past week, he’d seen that face on posters, internet articles, and TV news spots. Karen’s expression lacked some of the life and spark that the posters had captured, but Baker could forgive her that given the rough week. She wore comfortable sweat pants and a purple T-shirt that said: Ellie loves Kare-Kare.

  Smiling broadly, Baker said, “Welcome home, Karen.” He holstered his gun and gestured to a chair.

  “Please, sit down and tell us about the man in there.” Baker crooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the dining room.

  Joining her parents at the table, Karen shrugged helplessly.

  “I don’t really know much about him. I think he was forced to work as a doctor until his daughter made some sort of deal with the kidnapper.”

  “What kind of deal?” asked Baker.

  “I don’t know,” Karen wailed, “but I think she’s dead!”

  She’s just traumatized, Baker reasoned.

  The girl would probably need a month’s rest before she could talk any sense. Still, there was a man on an air mattress in the other room, and he bore marks like Karen had around her wrists. That lent some credence to her tale.

  “Why do you think she’s dead, dear?” asked Mrs. Tyler.

  “He would never leave without her!” cried Karen.

  It doesn’t look like he actually volunteered to be moved.

  “He might not have had a choice,” Baker noted.

  A huge crash caught everybody’s attention. The front door thudded against the wall. All three Tylers screamed. Karen practically flew across the table into her mother’s lap and trembled.

  A man wearing a black ski-mask burst into the kitchen, pointed a gun at Mr. Tyler, and shouted, “Where is he?”

  Gun back in hand, Baker assumed a comfortable shooting stance.

  “Put the gun down.”

  The man cursed and Baker suddenly recognized his voice.

  “This isn’t your usual gig, Longhue.”

  “You know this man?” Mr. Tyler demanded, looking from Longhue to Baker and ba
ck again.

  “Gun down, hands up,” Baker instructed. “This should be familiar to you.”

  Richard Longhue ripped off the ski mask and threw it to the ground in disgust.

  “Told him this plan was stupid,” he muttered, slowly placing the gun on the table. He raised his hands. “What now?”

  “Turn away from the table, kneel down, and put your hands behind your head,” said Baker. He darted close enough to snatch Longhue’s gun off the table and tuck it into his shoulder holster. He might have asked one of the Tylers to move it back, but he didn’t exactly trust anybody right now.

  Once Longhue had been cuffed, Baker called the Edinboro police department to come pick him up and post an officer at the Tyler place. As he waited, Baker recited the Miranda rights to Longhue.

  “You have the right—”

  “Shut up,” grumbled Longhue.

  “Don’t be rude,” Baker chided. “I’m trying to help you understand your rights. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in the court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed for you. Do you understand these rights?”

  The former private investigator responded with a crude suggestion that made Baker laugh and Mrs. Tyler blush with rage.

  “Careful, Longhue, you’re on thin ice with the lady of the house. I might not always be around to guard your foul mouth from a good soaping.”

  “Get that wretched man out of my house!” declared Mrs. Tyler.

  “I think we’d better wait outside, Longhue,” said Baker. He walked the prisoner out and sat him down on the ground at the bottom of the front stoop.

  “These bricks are wet,” Longhue complained.

  “Deal with it,” Baker remarked cheerfully. “Now be quiet. I need to make a phone call.” He stepped past Longhue into the middle of the front lawn where he could simultaneously keep an eye on him and the Tyler house.

  Longhue kept up a steady stream of complaints which Baker ignored. He dialed his boss’s number and waited to be transferred to her office. He wasn’t sure she’d be working today, but figured she might be because of the Tyler case. For as much as Baker complained about Irina Taggert, he’d found no flaws in her work ethic.