“What’s the plan?” she asked, looking around.
The place looked so typical her father might have used it as a set for one of his movies. Straight ahead was a large sign listing the attractions. Besides the midway, there was a craft show in the barn, an exhibition hall for flowers and vegetables, the local 4-H Club, a ring for dressage, country music in the band shell and food. Bree could smell popcorn and barbecue on the breeze.
Mark absently rubbed Custard’s ears as he studied a map pinned to the side of the ticket booth. “According to this, there’s another parking lot at the far gate. If we go through the fair and out that side, I’m sure we could find suitable transportation.”
He meant steal another car. Shame and anger heated her cheeks. “You make it sound so easy.”
“We’ll make it right,” Mark said quietly. “But we have to get away first.”
Nodding, she pulled Jonathan closer. It really was a matter of life-and-death. That didn’t make her like it any better. She’d done a lot of stupid things in her life but up until now she hadn’t broken the law. Much. But it was her son at stake. She’d steal the Golden Gate Bridge if it got her any closer to a cure.
Still cradling Custard, Mark led the way into the throng of fairgoers, clearing a path with his tall form. Bree gripped Jonathan’s hand tightly in hers. She could feel the boy lagging behind as one thing after another caught his attention. A llama. A juggler. An old man playing the accordion. She picked up her son, hurrying to keep up with Mark’s brisk strides. She knew what would happen after a few minutes; the noise and confusion of the crowd would overexcite Jonathan and he’d be in tears. Not the best option if they were trying to sneak away unnoticed.
The path seemed to wind on and on between rows of vegetable stalls and the modern equivalent of medicine shows. Even growing up on the West Coast she had no idea there were so many remedies for fatty livers and achy chakras.
Nothing for single mothers with a bad case of morning-after jitters.
Someone was selling wind socks. She looked up, her eye caught by a bright orange koi. It was then she saw Ferrel. He was standing a dozen yards away with his back to her, but she knew the set of his head and shoulders. A jolt of dread hit her like an electric shock.
“Mark!” She caught his sleeve, dropping her voice to a whisper. “Over to the right.”
“They saw where we were going and got ahead of us. Clever,” he muttered. With a gentle hand at the small of her back, he turned her toward the nearest barn. Custard began squirming, wanting to see what was going on.
The sign on the side of the barn said it was a livestock exhibit. Even from yards away, it smelled like straw and animals, the sound of bleating sheep and excited children echoing from the dark interior. A man in coveralls and a scruffy beard was sitting on an overturned barrel, watching the door. He held up a hand as they neared. “Can’t go in there, sir, not with a dog.”
Bree swore silently, barely resisting the urge to turn around and see if Ferrel was following them yet. Her back itched, just waiting for a hand to fall on her shoulder and a gun to press into her back.
Meanwhile, Mark pulled off his sunglasses, smiling affably. “No dogs?”
“Nope.”
“Not even one so small as this?”
Bree could see the man waver, obviously falling under Mark’s charm. How does he do that? Bree wondered. Mark had missed a career in sales.
“Look.” Mark waggled one of Custard’s paws. “He’s so short, his legs aren’t even touching the ground.”
The man stepped aside. “Okay, but keep hold of him. He’s smaller than some of the chickens.”
No sooner had they ducked inside than Jonathan squealed with delight. The huge barn was a maze of enclosures. Closest were goats, sheep and miniature horses. Shafts of sun fell through the windows, spilling across the straw-covered floor. Dust motes danced in the light.
Mark started for the exit on the opposite end of the structure, but Jonathan lunged toward the Shetland ponies. Bree hauled him back, wishing Mark would slow down a moment. The boy’s little arms reached for the pint-size steeds, whimpering as though his heart would break in two. Bree took a firmer grip of his hand, feeling like the meanest mother on earth.
A cluster of goats watched them critically. A blue rosette announced they were first-place champions. Bully for you, Bree thought crossly. Smug doesn’t cut it when there’s someone after your bacon. Just ask the pigs.
The moment of distraction was exactly enough time for Jonathan to wriggle away. Bree snatched at the air where he’d been a moment before, but it was too late. “Jonathan!”
Horror shot through her. She dodged toward the ponies, thinking that’s where he would go, but instead he scampered for a pen of sheep. His path went right by Mark, who reached down to pluck the boy from his headlong rush. Instead, Custard bounded out of Mark’s arms, making him lose both boy and dog.
“Jonathan!” Bree’s stomach lurched as the world narrowed to the sight of her boy clambering through the bars of the pen.
Not to be outdone, Custard zoomed across the straw in a kind of darting waddle. On instinct, Bree dove for the trailing leash, but it slipped between her fingers as the puppy ran right under the rail of the pen. An enormous black sheep with curling horns gave a startled bleat and tried to butt Custard, who gave an affronted yap.
The sheep were stamping and shuffling backward into the corner of their pen. Bree fumbled with the gate of the pen, light-headed with panic. There was only a rope loop holding the gate closed, but her fingers were clumsy, numb and tingling with fear. She had no idea if sheep would attack. She didn’t think so, but she was leaving nothing to chance—and all they needed was an animal stampede to blow their escape. Talk about the worst fugitives ever.
The rope loop finally slipped over the post, allowing the gate to swing free. She heard Custard yip when a hand grabbed her arm. “You can’t go in there, ma’am.”
Bree whirled, ready to smack anyone in her way. It was the man in coveralls from the door, his round, flushed face in a stony frown. Fury and frustration made her voice shrill. “My son! He’s in there. He’ll be hurt.”
“Your son?” The frown deepened. “Where?”
Bree whirled around. All the sheep were in a clump in the back corner of the pen, looking worried, but there was no boy and no dog. “Where is he? Where did Jonathan go?” And where was Mark?
“I think you’d better leave the barn, ma’am.”
Her mouth went dry, bewilderment overtaking her. Barely a second had passed. Jonathan was there. He was right there. But there wasn’t a trace of him now. She was completely alone.
“No!” She tried to pull away. If only she could get into the pen, have a better look around. “My son was in there with the sheep. He’s little—he’s not quite four!”
“I can see the whole pen, ma’am, there are no boys in there.” The man gripped her so hard she would surely have bruises. “Come on, let’s go outside. Is there someone we can call for you?”
She saw Ferrel standing in the doorway to the barn, the sun glinting on his fair hair. No! She stumbled, her feet trying to carry her anywhere but straight toward the enemy. Her guard hauled her upright and shoved her into Ferrel’s waiting hands. She started to twist away, but he clamped iron fingers around her wrist.
“I’m very sorry,” he said apologetically, giving a sad smile to the attendant. “We lost our son a year ago. I’m afraid she’s not quite over it.”
He delivered his lines with just a hint of tragedy. It was far more convincing than if he had buttered the lie with too much grief.
Mr. Coveralls looked sympathetic. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir.”
“It’s a lie!” Bree shot back, but neither man paid the least attention. “He’s kidnapping me!”
“Let’s go for a walk,” Ferrel said pleasant
ly, and he marched Bree back into the sunlight.
“Where’s Jonathan?” she demanded.
Ferrel answered through gritted teeth. “Safe. And he’ll stay safe if you cooperate.”
She studied his profile: the sharply ridged brow, the straight nose, the clean angle of his chin. Handsome, in his way, but boiling over with anger. Just like her. Her rage burned like whiskey on her tongue. “It was you in the airport, wasn’t it? Months ago. You drugged us.”
“Yes.” He’d pulled her around the corner of the barn, into the shadows, and forced her back against the wooden siding. Bree took a breath to scream, but he pressed closer.
“Don’t even think about it.” He lowered his head until his face was only inches from hers.
Bree pulled her chin back, trying to see around Ferrel. Panic bubbled inside her, but she forced it down with an act of will. She had to use her head, not just react. What were her options? Did she even have any?
They were off the main footpath here, away from the crowds. To passersby, they’d look just like any couple on the brink of a kiss. It was all she could do not to shrink away.
Where was Mark? She had to believe he was looking for Jonathan. If anyone could get her son back, it was Mark.
Ferrel’s eyes were gray and narrowed with temper. He held up his cell phone. “You make one wrong move and I’ll give the order to kill your brat.”
A stab of terror shot through her, but she swallowed hard, forcing herself to stay calm. “I doubt that. You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to get him.”
“You want to test that theory?”
Bree curled her lip, almost beyond caring what he did to her, if she could only get him to leave her son alone. “What do you want?”
“I want you to stop and think about what you’re doing.”
The sincerity of his tone surprised her. It almost sounded real. “What are you talking about?”
“Marco Farnese.”
“Mark? Dr. Winspear?”
Ferrel’s nostrils flared, as if the name smelled bad. “Call him what you like. He’s a monster.”
“He’s not the one threatening me. He’s not the one who killed my boss.” She pulled her wrist out of his hand.
He let her. “I’m sorry for that, but we want what Lark gave you. It’s imperative that we have it.”
The journal. “Why do you want it so badly?”
“What did you do with it?”
“I don’t have it,” she lied. The book was in the pack hanging from her shoulders, beneath a bag of puppy chow and mere inches from Ferrel’s furious face. She pressed her lips into a hard line so that they would not tremble. She was terrified, but her mind felt razor-sharp. The longer she kept him talking, the more time Mark would have to find Jonathan.
“You didn’t have the journal the last time we met, either.”
That was true. Quite by chance, the book had been in Bree’s carry-on. She’d stashed the bag in an airport locker just before they’d grabbed and drugged her. Weeks later, she’d retrieved it from the airport’s lost and found.
“No, I didn’t have it then, and I don’t have it now. I sense a pattern,” she shot back.
“I repeat, what did you do with it?”
She tilted her head, beyond frightened now. “You know, you dress well enough, but you don’t strike me as all that fashion forward. Why the interest in Jessica’s sketches?”
His look grew suspicious. Bree guessed he knew very well what was beneath the drawings. “Where is it?”
“Gone. We were on the run. I loved Jessica like a big sister, but I lightened my load. The book is in a landfill someplace.”
“You lie.”
“Think what you like.” An abyss of weariness began to suck away her anger. A year of running and hiding took its toll. Bree fought to stay furious. Fury helped her fight.
She wondered what came next. More threats? Torture? He would probably kill them no matter what she said.
That thought made her stomach churn. She twitched involuntarily. Ferrel pushed her back, raising the cell phone like a weapon. Bree barely stopped herself from spitting in his face.
Ferrel was playing a life-and-death game, but she didn’t understand the rules or the prize—and he wasn’t the type to give the game away just because she asked. If she wanted information, she’d have to play it just right.
She lifted her chin, her whole body turning cold at the thought her gambit might go wrong. “There’s no point in taking my son hostage. I can’t give you what I don’t have.”
Ferrel shifted his weight, bringing his face that much closer. She could smell his breath. He’d been drinking coffee not long ago. “The book isn’t all we want. If it were, you’d be dead.”
Bree shook her head in confusion. “What are you saying?”
“Those needles weren’t just for sedatives.”
Her mind groped, trying to make sense of his words, but the pieces were already falling into place. Jonathan’s illness had started after that. “What did you do to my son?”
She frantically wished Mark were there, but he was nowhere in sight.
Ferrel gave a slight laugh. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you? I must sound like a complete babbling lunatic to you. Let’s just say the fact you’d fallen off the grid made everything perfect. An adult and a child nobody would miss and ideal for our needs. Poor Brianna, you’re just too innocent for words.”
Chapter 19
It was the wrong thing to say. Anger turned Bree’s vision red. She stomped on his foot. It wasn’t enough to do more than make him grunt in pain, but it bought her a precious second. Bree slammed the heel of her hand into his nose. It was at just the right angle, and she heard a sickening crunch of cartilage. Ferrel reeled back, and Bree slid out from between him and the wall of the barn. “Sorry, but you didn’t want me to scream.”
Blood gushed freely from his nose. He turned to grab for her, but Bree drove her heel into the side of his knee. Ferrel was a big man, but he toppled with a yelp of pain, dropping his cell phone. She smashed it with her heel.
Bree sprinted for the confusion of the midway. Ferrel’s cry had attracted attention, and bystanders were running to see what was the matter. She dove into the crowd, her shoulder throbbing from the blow. It was the same arm Mark had grabbed when she’d started to slip from the floatplane’s pontoon, and it was done with action-adventure.
She shoved the pain aside, thinking fast. They had her boy. She had to stay free in order to get Jonathan back. She couldn’t let anyone detain her—and if the man in the livestock barn was any indication, Ferrel knew how to use the fairground workers against her. Asking for help would likely backfire. Besides everything else, the police were still looking for the lunatics at the Gleeford Ferry—which included both her and Mark.
She had to find Mark.
Ferrel’s blood had splattered onto the fuzzy pink jacket the doctor had bought her in Redwood. She stripped it off and stuffed it into a trash can as she ran past.
Dodging between the milling people hid her from sight, but it also made her blind. It was chaos, with banging, popping and squealing arcade games all around. Tinny speakers played what passed for music. A traditional calliope accompanied what must have been an antique carousel.
The noise confused her, but Bree didn’t dare stop moving. Where am I going? Where did Mark go? No doubt he’d gone after whoever took Jonathan, but how would she find them and get the blazes out of there?
After that she’d figure out what the hell Ferrel had been talking about—but she needed to focus on survival right now.
She frowned, looking around. High above, the roller coaster swooshed by, happy screams trailing in the air like pennants. Bree shivered despite the warm air. The bright colors and vibrant energy of the fair fel
t like mockery. What would Mark do? What would he expect me to do?
He always had a plan. He’d do something logical. Before everything went wrong they’d been heading for the parking lot on the far side of the fairgrounds. There was a good chance he’d look for her there. Bree craned her neck, trying to figure out where the path she was on would take her.
And there were the men she’d nearly run over at the Gleeford Ferry—all three of them with somber jackets and mirror shades. Bree swore out loud. They looked oddly interchangeable, as if they’d come out of a box. Bad Guy Model 36A—men in black special edition. They slid like sharks through the throng, moving with the same liquid grace she’d seen in Mark. One of them pointed. They’d seen her.
Her stomach plunged, freezing her like a doe in the lights of an oncoming truck. Then instinct took over. She dove into the beer garden, pushing past the guy checking IDs at the gate. The tables were topped with umbrellas that obscured the view enough to give her a little cover. She dashed between the chairs, or tried to. There wasn’t much room and she had to turn sideways, and in some cases that was not quite enough to give her clear passage. She knocked at least one chair hard enough to spill somebody’s beer. Loud curses followed and once a piece of pretzel bounced off her head.
The commotion made her easy to follow. A quick glance over her shoulder said her pursuers were gaining on her, and this time she didn’t have a Lexus to whisk her away from trouble.
There was an empty table right at the back of the beer garden. She used one of the chairs as a step to clear the fence, then sprinted toward the entertainment stage, her backpack bouncing against her shoulder. Her lungs were starting to protest against so much running. She was in good shape, but this was a far cry from a relaxed jog around the park.
The stage was a sturdy raised platform surrounded by a sea of crates, cables and stagehands wearing county fair T-shirts. Towers of speakers sat on the corners of the platform, blasting out enthusiastic bluegrass. Bree couldn’t see the performers from her vantage point, but she wasn’t there for the tunes. She dashed under the platform before the sound crew could stop her. The noise pounded through her bones and teeth, and she covered her ears as she moved. Halfway along, she risked a look back.
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