“I was in Zane’s room, calling for him,” she offered. “You might have heard that.”
“I don’t think so,” he responded, and her pulse jumped. Hope. That was what it felt like.
“Zane?” she called, leaning closer to the panel, searching for a knob or button. Anything to make it open.
“Did you try sliding it up?” Chance asked as he eased into the small space, his shoulder bumping Carly’s. She moved in response, sliding another couple of inches in Dallas’s direction. They were arm to arm now, and she could feel the firmness of his muscles beneath his coat, feel the heat of his body filling the small area. It reminded her of the early days of her relationship with Josh, how comforting it had felt to be around him, how nice to know she wasn’t alone. She hadn’t known about his lies, his deception, his selfishness then; she’d only known the way he’d made her laugh and helped her carry her books back to her dorm room.
She’d been young and naive and desperate for something she should have known she would never have.
She’d matured a lot since then. She’d learned a lot about herself and what she wanted.
Peace.
That was the beginning and the end of it. No drama. No lies. No tears or anger or harsh words. Just her people—Jazz and Zane—living easily together.
“I tried sliding it up,” Dallas said. “Tried sliding it sideways. I tried pushing it in. It doesn’t budge. Something is moving around in there, though. Listen.”
The attic went silent, and Carly could hear it—a muffled rustling, a soft tap.
“A rat?” Chance suggested, and Carly backed up, bumped a pile of boxes and sent them toppling.
Behind the panel, something thumped loudly enough to make her jump.
Not a rat. It was too big.
But not Zane, either. He was a good kid, a rule follower, compliant in a way she’d never been. He liked routine and order and clear directions.
“It can’t be Zane. He’s not allowed in the attic by himself,” she said. “We keep it locked, and he’s not supposed to touch the key.”
“It was unlocked when I got here. That’s why I came up,” Dallas said, standing up and reaching as far as he could toward the ceiling, sliding his palms along a support beam and frowning. “Nothing there.”
“If we can’t figure out how to get in there, I don’t see how my six-year-old son could.” But that thing that felt like hope was coming to life in her, chasing away some of the fear, making her lean in close to the paneling and shout through the old wood, “Zane! Can you hear me? It’s Mom!”
This time, she heard the response clearly—the faint cry of a child, three hard raps on the wall near her head.
She met Dallas’s eyes.
“He’s in there,” she said, surprised, relieved, terrified.
What if they couldn’t get him out? What if another fire was set and he was trapped? What if—
“Whatever you’re thinking,” Dallas said, meeting her eyes, “stop. He’s fine. We’ll get him out, and we’ll figure out how he got there in the first place.” He leaned close to the panel door and shouted, “Can you open the door, Zane?”
“Aunt Jazz always does. She said to close the panel once I got in. So I did.”
“Your aunt isn’t here. Can you do it this time?”
“I tried, but it’s stuck. Plus, I was only supposed to close the panel. I forgot, and I closed the door, too.” Zane must have moved closer. His words were clearer, and Carly could tell that he’d been crying.
“It’s okay, sweetie. We’ll have you out in no time.” Knowing Jazz, she’d explored every inch of the attic while Zane was at school, discovered the secret room and made it their thing—hers and Zane’s. Which would be fine, except now Carly had no idea how to rescue her son.
“How did you get in there?” Dallas asked.
“The button opens the panel, and the door is behind it. I turned the key and came in. Just like Jazz showed me.”
“Where’s the button?” Chance asked.
“On the wood at the top of the stairs,” Zane responded, finally offering the information they needed.
The right questions produced the right answers. Just like the right cut produced the right facet.
She stood, but Chance was already crossing the large space and studying the wood near the stairway.
“I don’t see anything,” he said.
“Where exactly is it, Zane Timothy?” she yelled, and she felt Dallas tense, his muscles suddenly taut, his body still.
“On the big post! In the flower.”
“Honey, there are no flowers on the big...” Her voice trailed off as the panel slid sideways, revealing the bottom two-thirds of a door. Old, dingy white with a skeleton key hanging from a loop of yarn that someone had hooked over the crystal doorknob.
Teal yarn. Jazz had left a little piece of herself there.
Dallas unlocked the door. “Step away from the door, Zane. I’m opening it,” he called and then pushed inward, old hinges creaking, cold air wafting out as the cavity beyond was revealed.
* * *
Zane didn’t have to be coerced out of hiding.
He ran, his skinny body making a beeline for his mother. Dallas watched as his scrawny arms locked around her waist, his hands fisted in her jacket. He had a dark smudge on one cheek, tear streaks on both, and he was shaking with cold, the thin footy pajamas he wore no match for the frigid air that seeped from the room. He could have frozen in there. Whatever the room had been meant for, it wasn’t insulated. Dallas slid out of his jacket and tucked it around Zane’s narrow shoulders before he ducked into the small opening.
The room was dimly lit, a small window about three feet from the floor letting in grayish light. Bare wood floor, unvarnished and splintering. The walls were nothing but solid support beams and exterior brick. He could hear the wind gusting and feel it blowing through dozens of slivery cracks in the facade. A blanket lay near the door, and a small table had been set up near the interior wall. Little plates and cups sat on top of it. Books were piled on the floor beside it. A small fake tree stood in the corner, a gift wrapped in shiny red paper beneath it.
“Why did Aunt Jazz tell you to come up here, Zane?” Carly asked, her voice muted even with the door open. She hadn’t looked into the small room. She was too busy hugging her son.
He didn’t blame her.
He’d have been doing the same.
“Smoke was coming in the house, so Aunt Jazz said we had to go out the back door. But when I opened it, a man was there. He tried to grab me, so Aunt Jazz beat him up. Like this.”
Dallas ducked back out of the room just in time to see Zane throwing a weak right hook, thumbs tucked into his fingers.
It made him smile.
It also made him worry.
Zane was only six, and he looked small for his age. He’d be no match for anyone who meant him harm.
“Looks like your aunt did a good job protecting you,” Dallas said, meeting Chance’s eyes. No doubt, they were thinking the same thing: a vulnerable child who needed protection.
The team knew how to handle that. They knew exactly how to keep anyone safe. As long as the person they were protecting was willing to cooperate.
He glanced at Carly.
She was watching her son, her jaw tight, her face leached of color. “Did you see the man at the door?” she asked quietly.
Zane shrugged. “Aunt Jazz told me to run to our special place. So, I did.”
“Good for you, Zane. I’m proud of how you handled this.” Carly’s voice was shaking, but she’d pasted a smile on her face.
“Where’s Aunt Jazz? She’ll be proud, too!”
“She’s...at the hospital. She hurt her head, and the doctors are making sure she’s okay.”
&nbs
p; “We better go there. She’ll be scared if she’s by herself. I’ll get dressed, and we can go.” He handed Dallas his coat and darted away, running down the attic stairs.
Carly darted after him, her ponytail bouncing against her back.
“I guess we’re going to handle this?” Chance said before Dallas could follow.
“I’m still on medical leave,” Dallas responded, already moving down the stairs.
“That wasn’t the question.”
“I’m going to handle it.” He jogged down to the third floor, the sound of a high-pitched kid’s voice drifting from somewhere ahead.
Singing.
Amazing Grace.
“Then the team will handle it, too. That’s how it works. I’ll go down and talk to the police. They’ll want to interview Zane. We’ll see if that can happen at the hospital. You keep an eye on the kid. If there’s a problem, let me know.”
They’d reached the second floor.
Carly was standing outside Zane’s door, forehead against the polished wood, ponytail snaking down the middle of her back. She could have been praying or crying, her narrow shoulders tense, her muscles taut.
He knew her fear. He’d felt it, and if he’d known her better, he’d have put a hand on her shoulder and told her everything would be okay.
On the other side of the door, Zane was still singing, the last note of every stanza warbling for a few seconds too long.
“He doesn’t seem any worse for wear,” he said, and Carly jumped, whirling around to face him.
Her eyes were dry.
No tears.
Just a hint of anger flashing from their depths.
“He’s like that all the time,” Carly commented as if Dallas had asked a question she needed to answer. “Always happy and singing and carefree. Everyone who meets him loves him.”
“My brother was like that when he was little. Very charming and sweet. If he’d had the right beginning...” He didn’t finish. There was no sense in it. Josh had been born addicted to drugs. Therapists had concluded that his brain had been damaged from that. Dallas thought his brain had been damaged by an addict mother and dozens of druggies who were in and out of the house at all times of the day and night.
“He was charming and sweet when we met. I guess he knew how to access that part of himself.” She knocked on the door, a quick, soft rap that did nothing to stop Zane’s singing.
“Sweetheart, you need to hurry. I want to go to the hospital to see how Aunt Jazz is doing,” she said patiently.
“I’m done!” Zane responded. The door flew open, and he was there dressed from head to toe in Spider-Man gear.
“Let’s go!” He grabbed Carly’s hand and tugged her toward the stairs, probably rushing in the hopes that she wouldn’t notice his outfit. A choice that—despite the situation—made Dallas smile.
“Not until you put some shoes on,” Carly responded, stopping at the top of the stairs and looking into her son’s face. “Boots are a better idea. It looks like it might snow. Grab your heavy coat and mittens.” She sounded like every mother—a mixture of patient exasperation and love.
“But, Mom, if I wear those, no one will see that I’m a superhero.”
“I’m sure people will see,” she responded with a wry smile.
“I want the bad guy to see. I want him to know he can’t get me or you or Aunt Jazzy!” But Zane ran to his room anyway, returning moments later with his feet shoved in dark blue snow boots, his outfit covered with a thick down coat. He was pulling his hands into mittens as he ran down the stairs, Carly right on his heels.
She didn’t invite Dallas to follow. He did anyway.
If she was going to the hospital, he was, too, whether she wanted the company or not. Whether she thought she needed his help, wanted his help, regretted asking for his help, didn’t matter. What mattered was that Dallas had looked in Zane’s eyes, and he’d seen his brother there.
There could be no turning away from that, no forgetting it.
Dallas had never been able to help Josh. Nothing he’d ever done or said had changed the course of his brother’s life.
But he could keep his child safe. He could be part of Zane’s life. He could introduce him to his grandparents, let him know that he had more than just his mother and his aunt to count on. Family was important.
First, though, Dallas had to find the people who were after Zane, put a stop to whatever forgery operation they were running and throw them in jail with the rest of the scumbags he’d stopped over the years.
A life with purpose. That was what he’d wanted to achieve. But it might just be that he needed more. That he needed something to focus on besides his work and his empty house.
Maybe all the words he’d whispered to God in the middle of the longest nights had been heard, all his angry ranting and accusations, his disgust at the fact that he’d been spared and his family taken, had resulted in this. Maybe meeting his nephew would change his focus, help him figure out exactly what he was missing and why he missed it.
Or maybe it was just another opportunity to help someone who needed it.
Either way, Dallas wouldn’t let Carly and Zane walk away. Not until he knew for certain they’d be safe.
FIVE
She’d opened Pandora’s box and released something unexpected.
Carly couldn’t decide whether it was a good or a bad thing.
Right now, it seemed good. It would continue to seem good as long as there were people who wanted to kidnap Zane.
She wasn’t sure how it would seem when the danger was over.
She’d been convinced Josh’s family knew that he’d been expecting a child. The fact that none of them had come to the funeral, that they hadn’t called, that there’d been no effort to reach out and find out if the baby had been born, had seemed to prove that they didn’t care.
That had been fine with her. She knew she could support herself and a child. She didn’t need Josh’s family, and she hadn’t spent much time thinking about them or wondering if they wanted to know that they had a grandson. She’d been too busy, too distracted by motherhood and work, by moving from place to place for contracted jobs at museums all over the country. She hadn’t had spare time to think about Zane’s extended family—the uncle he didn’t know, the grandparents who hadn’t seemed to care that he existed.
They hadn’t cared because they hadn’t known. That seemed obvious now that she’d met Dallas, seen the way he’d looked at her son, studied his face, searched for pieces of his brother there. He obviously cared, and if he told his parents, they might care, too.
They might want to meet Zane, be part of his life. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that.
She grabbed her winter coat from the closet near the front door. One-handed, because her other hand was on Zane’s shoulder, holding him in place. She didn’t want him going anywhere without her.
She didn’t plan to let him out of her sight. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not a week from now. Which she knew was totally unreasonable and impossible, but it was how she felt.
He could have been kidnapped. He could have frozen to death in the little room in the attic. Anything could have happened and probably would have if they’d arrived at the house a few minutes later.
“It would be easier to put that on if you let go of your son,” Dallas said, taking the coat from her hand and holding it while she shoved one arm in.
“If I have to let go to put the coat on, maybe I don’t need one after all,” she responded, and he chuckled.
“You can’t superglue him to you, Carly, so you may as well get the thought out of your head.”
“We have superglue,” Zane offered as Carly finally released her grip on his shoulder. “But Mom says it’s not for kids.”
“Your mom is right.”
Dallas was doing it again, studying Zane’s face. There was no doubt he could see his brother in Zane’s eyes, in the turn of his nose, in his bowed upper lip. Zane was a couple of shades darker than his father had been—none of the pale Irish Kelley genes—but he had a few freckles on his cheeks and a dimple in his chin.
“She usually is,” Zane said, and Dallas laughed.
“You’re a smart young man.”
“That’s what my teachers say, but I think they just like me.” Zane offered a quick smile, but he seemed to be studying Dallas the same way Dallas had studied him. “Who are you?”
“I’m—” He glanced at Carly, letting her make the decision about how they would be introduced.
“Remember I told you that your father had one brother?” she said. She wouldn’t hide the truth because that wouldn’t be fair to either of them. “This is his brother.”
“Oh. What’s his name?” Zane didn’t look surprised, he didn’t look intrigued, he just looked like his normal self—happy and excited by life.
“Dallas.”
“Like the city in Texas?”
“You really are smart, kid,” Dallas said, and Zane’s smile broadened.
“Aunt Jazz wrote a book about all the states. She gave me a copy, and I read it a lot. Want to see?”
“Sure. After we go visit her at the hospital.”
“Did the bad guy hurt her?”
“We’re not sure what happened,” Carly said quickly. That was the truth, too, and Zane seemed satisfied with it. Which was good, because she didn’t want to give him unnecessary details.
“That bad guy probably did hurt her, but I think she hurt him worse. She punched him right in the nose.” He swung a quick right hook. “She’s pretty tough. Right, Mom?”
He seemed to need reassurance, so she nodded, her throat tight with emotions she wasn’t going to let him see. Relief because he was okay. Worry for Jazz. Fear for both of them.
This wasn’t over.
It wouldn’t be over until they found the people who’d been blackmailing her and threw them in jail.
She didn’t know how many people were involved. She didn’t know how much money they’d invested, but she knew they meant business. If she’d had any doubts before, she didn’t now.
Christmas on the Run Page 6