by Vella Day
Given she had little to lose, she pounded on the door, not caring if she woke up the whole household. She needed answers, but no one showed up to answer her please. She placed her ear to the door but heard no sounds—no clanking of coffee cups or feet stirring.
Okay. She'd at least use the bathroom before waiting until the household awoke. Her knees stung, but she managed to work her way across the room. Once in the bathroom, she locked the door and sat on her butt, her knees near her chest. The cold tiles did little to help her thaw, but the added layer of safety of the locked door between her and the outside world did a lot for her mental well-being.
Back up on her knees, she reached the faucet and gulped down handfuls of water.
Feet pounded down the hallway and into the bedroom. Her muscles stiffened.
Someone stood outside the bathroom and knocked. “Susan? Are you in there?”
Her breath caught in her throat. How did he know her name? She'd been naked and had no identification on her. Oh, shit.
**
Jake's cell roused him from a deep sleep. His hand patted the side table for the phone. Would Susan's kidnapper call this early?
A quick burst of adrenaline woke him, and he pressed the On button, recognizing the familiar number.
“Hi, Peter, what's up?”
“Listen, Maria and I are going out of town for a while. I have to stay in the state because of the ongoing investigation, but I can't take any chances something will happen to her.”
He didn't need to add, like Susan.
“Sure, that's a good idea.” Why was there such desperation in his voice?
“I just wanted you to know.”
The dial tone rang in his ear before he had a chance to respond.
That was odd. His friend was obviously in a hurry. Jake wet his lips and eased out of bed. His head pounded from stress and lack of deep sleep.
The clock told him it was only six thirty in the morning. What had possessed Peter to call him at this hour? Why not wait to call until he reached his destination?
His muscles tensed. Was his friend being threatened? If so, by whom? Nothing would make sense until he took a shower since he needed time to sort things through.
The pulsating water marginally eased the pain thudding through his body. At this point, Susan had been gone close to twenty-four hours. He wished he could steal her pain from her or at least share the burden she was experiencing. She'd already been through too much.
He refused to believe she wasn't alive. She had to be.
Whoever was behind all this mess wanted him, not Susan, and he'd gladly exchange places with her if he could.
His mind raced too fast, and his shower lasted only three minutes, much shorter than his usual morning ritual. He towel dried, changed, and headed into his small office. He booted up the computer, in need of more research on Joseph Francisco.
He clicked on his email and fifteen messages loaded. The one from Peter caught his eye. The subject read: James.
The time was late last night, and he read the contents. Then he read it out loud, hoping he'd missed something.
Jake. Got off the phone with James. I know, I'm surprised too that he called. When was the last time we communicated? I forgot to tell you the bombshell Maria and I were told a few days ago. Apparently, my mother had an affair with Joseph Francisco. She became pregnant and spawned James. I confronted my brother about this a few days ago. He said Dad had told him about the affair the night before he was executed.
Here's the strange part. James was asked by Joseph to kidnap Susan. He refused and decided then and there he wanted nothing to do with any of the Franciscos. Can't say I blame him.
Jake's gaze latched onto Susan's name. He wasn't sure if he should be happy at the clue or panicked at the confirmation Joseph Francisco had her.
He read further.
James said he wants to “make up.” Can you believe that shit? Maria and I decided to get the hell out of dodge for a few days. I need time to sort through things. I know you'll understand.
Stay safe.
Peter
Jake wasn't sure what it was about the letter that didn't ring true. He read it once more, looking for some clue why he wrote instead of calling. Sure, he was in a hurry this morning, but they'd often called each other in the middle of the night if something important came up.
Regardless, the news about James being Francisco's son stunned Jake. James must have gone crazy when he found out. Was all this killing and kidnapping some kind of revenge scheme? Against who though? If he'd been James, he would have been angry with Charles Caravello for not telling him sooner.
If James had been responsible for some of these deaths, had he embraced Dominick as his brother and was willing to work with him? Or had he washed his hands of the Franciscos the day he found out he was his son?
No facts to back up any of the idle speculation, Jake went in search of coffee.
While the cup heated, he printed out the email, hoping a fresh eye could spot something he missed.
The coffee did little to settle his turbulent mind though. He bundled up against the driving snow and headed outside to his car. If he didn't find Susan soon, she might not live long enough for him to tell her he loved her.
**
Susan scooted backwards as the door bowed inward from the pounding.
“Unlock the door.” At first, his voice was pleading. Now he sounded royally pissed.
“Who are you?”
“The person who saved you, God dammit. Don't make me break down my own door.”
He would. “Okay.”
The man could always shoot his way in, and the bathroom wasn't big enough for her to safely hide.
Rolling onto her sore knees, Susan flipped the lock upward, and then pulled open the door. Her heart stuck in her throat when she recognized him. “You?”
He held out his hand, his face softening. “Look, I'm sorry. It's a long story, so why don't you come down for breakfast and I'll tell you what happened.”
The food part sounded good, as did the more information part. Could she eat the food? If he wanted her dead, he'd have already poisoned her. “Okay, but I can't walk. My feet are too numb.”
“Do you think a bath would help?”
Was he kidding? “A bath sounds wonderful.” Maybe he was on the up-and-up. According to Jake, Peter was innocent. Maybe his brother was too.
“Can you run the water yourself?”
Maybe she'd totally misjudged this man. Hell, she'd thought Jake was a killer at one time. Susan definitely needed to work on her people skills. “Yes.”
His gaze slipped to the right. “Take a bath, and I'll have food ready when you're done.”
He spun around and left before she had a chance to say thank you.
She wasn't sure she could get into the tub without help, but she sure as hell would try. She ran her hands over her feet to massage them. The skin was cold but not so dead that she didn't feel anything.
Filling the tub with warm, not hot water, might help ease the transition from frozen to normal. Not wanting him to come in, Susan locked the door again. Not that James Caravello hadn't seen her naked, but why tempt fate? She couldn't remember if he was married, but if he had a wife, he bet she would have provided something more feminine for Susan to wear.
With effort, she eased into the sudsy water. Her feet stung as the blood raced through her veins, but she welcomed the pain as the rewarming meant one step closer to recovery. Not wanting to piss off James by keeping him waiting, she stayed in long enough to stop shivering before she eased out. This time when she stood, her legs held her, and relief washed over her. She'd have breakfast, and then she'd ask to borrow James' phone to contact Jake.
Once dressed in her pajamas, she inched her way across the room, but her toes were still not responding well. Noise from the kitchen and the aroma of strong coffee made the direction evident.
James was at the kitchen counter with a pile of scrambled eggs and Eng
lish muffins beside him. He looked up and smiled.
“You're looking much better.”
“Yes, thank you. The bath helped.” She scooted onto the stool next to him. Her chest and face wound needed some bandages, but she'd cover her injuries once she returned home.
Home. The next time she saw Jake, she'd tell him how she felt, and once Joseph Francisco was behind bars, maybe she and Jake could actually go on a date without having to look over their shoulders.
He slid a cup of coffee toward her. “Sugar and cream over there.”
She took a sip. “Mmm.” She'd eat, and then find out how he'd found her. “The eggs are delicious, thank you.”
He merely nodded as she filled her belly. It was time to learn how she'd come to his house.
“Did you hear my banging on the shed door? Is that how you found me?”
“Actually the dog found you. As if on clue, the pup trotted back inside and barked up a storm. I'm surprised you don't remember him.”
A half filled dog dish sat in the corner, confirming his story. “How did I end up on your property?”
“Peter, my brother, I found out, has been in cahoots with Joseph Francisco. In fact, he plans on marrying his daughter.”
Maria. This was not the story Jake said Peter told him. “Are you saying he kidnapped me and tossed me into your shed?”
“Yes, hoping to frame me. He always wanted to take over Dad's business and was jealous of me.” He drained the rest of his coffee. “Only you were supposed to die. He figured that when the gardener discovered your body the next day and called the police, I would be accused of the murder.”
The news overwhelmed her. Here, she'd thought Peter was the good son and James the bad. Where did Jake fit into this scheme? “Did Peter tell you all of this?”
A noise sounded behind her. She turned around and gasped. A man wearing a ski mask, dressed all in black, came at her.
“I see she didn't die after all.”
Peter?
James jumped up from the stool and lunged at the intruder. The masked man punched James in the gut, who then stumbled backwards and hit his back against the refrigerator. Before she could get even get off the stool to escape, the masked man took two steps toward her and stabbed a needle in her neck.
Not again. The airflow stopped, and her eyes rolled back into her head.
29
The team didn't have squat. After they met with a dead end at the Francisco house, they weren't sure which way to turn. Stanton sat at the head of the large conference table. Tom, William Burroughs and Nancy Darden faced Jake. The missing seat, usually occupied by Richard Thomason remained empty. Jake wasn't ready to address his anger toward the man who started all this mess, nor was he wasn't ready to say he was glad Richard was dead, but the person in charge of finding safe houses for witnesses should have found help the moment his wife and children were threatened.
Twelve people died because of him. Twelve people who were doing their civic duty, who had families who loved them. Life might not be fair, but the deaths could have been avoided.
“You said Peter emailed you this morning?” T-Squared interrupted his internal rant.
His friend was the only one who'd met Peter and understood the childhood connection between them.
“Yes.”
Jake passed out a copy of the email to the team and studied their reactions. Tom's eyes widened, whereas Stanton adjusted his tie, a sure sign of agitation and frustration. Nancy clasped a hand to her chest. William sat stone-faced as if he'd known the information all along.
Stanton looked up. “Any suggestions on how we should proceed? Jake, according to Richard's research, you've been friends with the Caravellos for years. How do you interpret this email?”
Shit. He hadn't wanted his background exposed in this manner. Now they'd reconsider his involvement with the jurors' deaths. The TV commercial where the guy wanted a Twix to stall for time flashed in his mind.
“I knew Peter well, but James wasn't around much when I was at the Caravello's.”
“Can you give us a personality sketch of James?”
What to say, what to say. Jake's phone vibrated at his hip. This was his disposable phone and only Peter and Tom had the number. He pulled his cell from his pocket and checked the number. All it said was Out of Area.
“If you'll excuse me.”
He pushed back his chair and raced out. As the door to the room swung close, William mumbled something that was probably derogatory.
Was this the kidnapper asking for a ransom? “Hello?”
The voice came out distorted. “You have ten minutes to get to Peter's house if you want to see Susan and Peter alive. Bring even one FBI agent and I swear, I'll kill them both. My men are scouting the whole area and will know if you try to pull any tricks.”
He was sure his heart had stopped beating, and no air went into his lungs. Even if Jake had wanted to answer, he'd lost his voice. Then the dial tone rang loud and clear.
A hand clasped on his shoulder. “You okay?”
Stanton. Shit. If he did as the killer asked, he'd be breaking all Bureau protocol. He'd lose his job and be thrown out of the only home he'd ever known—the FBI. Being jobless would suck, but his actions might save Susan. And Peter.
Oh, shit. Would he end up like the chicken-shit Richard, thinking if he just did what the killer asked, all would be okay?
Jake pulled up every ounce of control he had and faced his boss. “It's my aunt. She was in a car accident. I have to go to the hospital.”
Stanton watched him for a long minute. Nine minutes left. Even if he raced out of the building and into his car right now, he might not make it to Peter's in time—especially in this storm.
“I didn't know you had an aunt.”
“She's old. She was the one who refused to take me in when Mom died.” That part of the story was true.
Stanton stepped back. “Hurry back. We need you. And give me the damn number of your new cell.” His gaze shot to the phone in his hand.
“Sure. 555-2385.”
Stanton rushed over to an empty desk, ripped off a piece of paper from the pad and wrote down the number. “2395?”
Stay cool. Ten seconds won't matter. “2385.”
“Keep in touch.”
“Will do.”
Once he ducked into his office to grab his coat, the urge to run nearly toppled him. Jake strode, guessing that if his aunt were in the hospital, his rushing made sense.
The moment he pushed open the front door, his heart sank. White blanketed the ground. Not that Virginia didn't have snow, but blizzards weren't all that common. How could he get to Peter's in less than seven minutes? It was impossible. But that wasn't going to stop him from trying.
His car needed new tires, but they should hold up for the eight-mile drive. Considering the crappy conditions, he prayed the morning commuters would stay home today. Jake slid in and cranked up the engine. Nothing. He slammed his hand against the wheel and worked the key again, and the engine caught on the third try. Breath back into his body, he drove off.
The roads around Quantico were clear, but when he hit the first road that wasn't heavily traveled, the snow was a good inch deep. Jake hit an ice patch, turned toward the skid, and slowed down. He wished his heart would do the same.
Racing to Peter's would only cause him to get in an accident. Jake needed to call the bastard back, to tell him he was on his way—alone.
He punched the redial number while keeping his gaze on the road. The windshield wipers barely kept up with clearing the driving snow.
The phone rang and rang. “Pick up, dammit.”
The ringing stopped. No one had answered. Jake tossed the phone on the seat. Useless piece of crap.
Two cars had skidded off the side of the road, but instead of slowing, he sped up, his grip tight on the wheel. He had to make it; had to save the people who meant the most to him, and then put an end to the killer's life.
With the voice distortion
, he couldn't identify the caller. Was it Joseph Francisco? Only why would he be at Peters? To frame him, again?
Had James found out about Maria and Peter as a couple? Is so, why involve Susan? Or himself?
Jake's tired, tumbled brain wasn't connecting the dots. One street away from Peter's house, he checked the time. Nine minutes had passed since the phone call, and is heart rattled in his chest. Would the killer hold him to the minute?
He needed to think, to plan. If he called Stanton now, the FBI could back him up. But if they showed their faces too soon, the killer might harm Susan and his friend.
He'd already lied to his boss, and that alone might get him canned. He loved his job. It was all he had, but Susan meant more to him than work.
Jake needed to see the killer's face, to help him decide what to do. After exiting the car, he raced toward Peter's house. With his head down, he ducked in between the houses, dodging right then left in case he was caught in a sniper's scope.
He wasn't sure what he'd do once he arrived, but he didn't want the killer to know when he arrived.
Jake patted his pocket for his secret weapon. He'd purchased mace to give to Susan, but she'd refused to take anything into the warehouse that could be construed as hostile.
He'd been a fool not to insist she go in protected, but Stanton had agreed with Susan. No weapons.
While he carried two guns, he figured whoever was after them would be clever enough to find both. The mace might be his only form of defense. With his bad leg, his ability to do hand-to-hand combat was limited, especially if more than one man was inside with her.
Jake stopped at the house next to Peter's, his heart pounding solidly against his ribs. Either he could knock on the front door and shoot the bastard the moment he opened up, or hope to surprise him at the back. He did, after all, have a key to Peter's house, which he bet the killer didn't know.
The back it was. The wind swirled around his feet and the snow fell in silent prayer. Lights blazed inside, but with the shades closed, he couldn't tell who was where. Damn.
Jake took one step at a time, stopping and scouting the area to locate the extra men who were supposedly surrounding the area, but he spotted no one. Had the killer been bluffing? It wouldn't be the first time a criminal lied.