Hush, little baby, don’t you cry . . .
She had a sweet voice, soft and gentle. And she smelled of baby powder and lotion. He knew her, should remember her name . . .
Ryan came sharply awake, the word boy lingering in his mind, along with an awareness of the sharp change in the General’s voice.
“I don’t like this. You shouldn’t have brought him here this early. The ambassador does not return home until Tuesday.”
“I had no choice.” Although they were both speaking louder now, Trader’s voice was lower, calmer than the General’s. “The boy was a difficult mark. When I saw the opportunity to take him, I did. I might not have gotten a second chance.”
They were talking about Cody. Ryan shifted and pressed his ear closer to the metal grate.
“It is all over the news,” said the General. “The FBI is involved.”
“The media is already bored with the story. It’s the girl they’re talking about now. This boy is nothing. His mother is alone. A whore. The FBI will soon move on to more important people.”
“I hope you are right.”
“I am. When the ambassador leaves, the boy will be on that plane.”
Ryan sat back, a rush of pity churning his stomach.
He’d had a string of owners, but he’d never been sold overseas. The ones like Cody, though, the pretty blonds and redheads, were worth a lot outside the States, in countries where they were an oddity. Once he was lost in one of those places, no one here would ever see Cody Sanders again.
There was a long pause on the other side of the wall. Then the General said, “He will . . .”
Ryan didn’t catch the rest of the sentence. He strained to hear, turning to press his ear against the vent again, but the General was speaking too low.
Suddenly, pain slammed into his temple and sent him sprawling. He groaned and looked up at a dark figure looming over him. The blow had blurred his vision, but he knew . . .
Trader bent down and dug his fist into Ryan’s hair, dragging him to his knees.
Ryan tried to speak, to beg.
The next blow ripped across his cheekbone, a heavy silver ring splitting the tender flesh.
Ryan, falling, hit the floor amid flecks of his own skin and blood. He rolled, fear pumping through his veins, and scrambled back toward the wall.
“Get up.”
Ryan shook his head, terror hammering in his chest, and tried to sink into the wall.
He was going to die. Here. Now.
Trader took a step toward him, and Ryan whimpered, pushing against the wall in an attempt to stand. He was halfway to his feet when Trader’s fist exploded against his chin and put him on the floor again.
He tried to move away, but Trader followed, his booted foot connecting with Ryan’s ribs.
“Please.” Tears washed his face and mixed with blood.
“You want to die, boy?” Trader kicked him again.
Ryan screamed and curled into a fetal position as a knife-point of agony streaked through his chest. He could barely breathe, much less speak, but he got the word out. “No.”
“You could have fooled me. Will I have to repeat this lesson?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” Ryan sobbed . . . the pain. “Never again . . .”
One final kick, and the room blurred and blinked out. Just for a second. Not long enough.
Trader came back into semifocus. “Get back where you belong. If you’re here when I return, I’ll kill you. Do you understand?” His face loomed large, menacing, and all Ryan could do was sob. Then Trader was gone, as silently as he’d appeared.
Ryan was alone. And alive.
He tried to stand, but the pain in his chest crippled him, bringing him to his knees. He inched toward the door, one hand holding the agony in his side, the other dragging himself along the floor, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.
He had to get out of here. Back to his room. He’d been a fool, an idiot. He knew the rules and he’d broken them. He deserved this punishment, and worse. He should be . . .
Then everything went black.
IX
IN HIS STUDY, General William Neville waited.
The big dog, Daimon, sat beside him, ears forward, body tense beneath his hand. The unpleasant sounds from the next room disturbed them both. They heard the eavesdropper fall, heard him whimper and beg, and the low threat of Gage’s voice.
Daimon’s chest rumbled.
William stroked the dog. “Easy, boy.”
Then silence.
With a sigh, William sipped his cognac. He hated violence. Unfortunately, sometimes the situation required it.
A moment later, the study door opened and closed, and Isaac Gage returned, moving at once to the sideboard, where he poured himself a drink. Bourbon was the man’s preference. Very American. At least over the years, William had taught him to appreciate a better brand of the stuff.
Gage threw back the shot, then came over and draped himself into the other wing chair flanking the fire.
“It was the boy, Ryan,” William said. “Was it not?” It could have been no one else. No other member of his staff would dare defy him. Just as only Gage could have picked up the boy’s presence in the next room. The man had a sixth sense about such things.
“He’s become a liability,” Gage said.
“Too bad, it is such a waste.” The boy had been good at handling the younger ones. And loyal. “But his age is a problem. Sixteen. Boys become . . . difficult.”
A flicker of dark amusement distorted Gage’s face. “I’ve never understood your odd attachment to your servants. Why do you care for this boy, especially after he’s defied you?”
William shrugged. “They are like children. No, not children, more like Daimon here. Simple. And while loyal, they are useful.” He let his fingers stroke the big animal. “In exchange, I care for them. Until . . .”
“Until they betray you.”
“I am not a fool, Isaac.” Did he think William would overlook Ryan’s disobedience?
“He must be dealt with.”
William waved away the suggestion, not wanting to think about it just yet. “I am well aware of what must be done.”
He and Gage had had a very long and prosperous arrangement. It was grounded in Gage’s unique talents and William’s contacts in the international community, but neither required details about how the other managed his side of things. It was safer that way, and less offensive to William’s sensibilities.
Besides, they had more pressing problems than the young caretaker.
“I am not happy about any of this, Isaac.” It was not like Gage to make a mistake, and now he’d made two. “First you bring the boy here way too early; now this trouble with the Madden girl.”
Gage’s features tightened at the rebuke. “I explained the situation.”
“Yes, yes, you were recognized. So what would you suggest I tell the customer?”
“Tell him there are other girls.”
“It is not that easy.” Thanks to the Internet and the stupidity of people posting pictures of their children, William’s customers could handpick their merchandise. Which was exactly how the Madden girl had been selected. “These people do not take disappointment well.”
“Offer him two for the price of one.”
“It is not about the money.” Not anymore.
There was far more profitable merchandise than children. He’d completed arrangements for one such transaction this afternoon, the final one before leaving the States. As distasteful as he found such dealings, the children were worse. Bothersome and barely worth the trouble. However, supplying one on occasion was a courtesy, a favor for those whose buying power had made William a very wealthy man. He wouldn’t risk offending them because of one girl. Or some woman Gage claimed had seen him. The man was losing his nerve.
“Tell me about this woman you say recognized you.”
For the first time, Gage looked a bit
uncomfortable. “Her name is Erin Baker. She’s on the faculty at Georgetown, teaching international relations.”
“Baker?” William rolled the name around on his tongue. It had a familiar taste.
“Her sister is Claire Baker. Miami. Nineteen years ago.” Gage handed over a slim folder. “I had some trouble getting information on her, but once I found this, the connection fell into place.”
William studied the contents of the folder, several old newspaper clippings. “Oh, yes. Now I remember. Little Claire. Blond, blue-eyed, a lovely child.” He’d gotten a tidy sum for her. Not as much as he’d get today in the foreign sector. But then, things were different now. “As I remember, the police picked her up in San Francisco a few years later, during a drug raid. Some minor dealer . . .”
“Roland Garth. He cut a deal with the DA and all charges related to the girl were dropped. He’s serving thirty years in San Quentin.”
“And we decided the girl was no threat.”
“You decided. I advised against letting her live.”
William frowned in distaste. “She was in a mental institution. Harmless.”
“A loose end. And now we have her sister to contend with. She was in Miami the day I took Claire, and somehow she made a connection between the two kidnappings.”
“She recognized you?”
“That is what I’ve been telling you.”
It seemed utterly amazing that someone had gotten the better of Isaac Gage. “I didn’t think that was possible. She must be a very special woman, indeed. Either that, or you are slipping, my friend.”
Gage tensed, leaning forward, his humorless face darker than usual. “Be careful, General. I’m not one of your flunkies.”
The big dog growled beneath William’s hand. “Easy, Daimon.” William stroked the dark fur, fighting a grin. “I am afraid I just stepped on Mr. Gage’s ego.” He nodded an apology. “Forgive me, Isaac. It is just that in all these years we have been working together . . .” No one had ever identified Isaac Gage. William wasn’t sure he knew the man’s true identity. Gage was too good at being whoever he wanted. “Well, never mind.”
Gage settled back in his chair, and William wondered why he was so touchy, so easily riled. This woman, this Erin Baker, must have struck a nerve. And again, William seemed to know the name, though in a different context, having nothing to do with the child, Claire. He mulled it around in his head, until it fell into place. And with it, another chord of unease.
“You say this woman is at Georgetown.”
Gage nodded.
Yes, that was it. “I have met her.” Gage’s eyes narrowed, and William brushed aside his suspicions. “At an embassy function, I believe. A tall, dark woman. Very thin. Athletic maybe.”
“Sounds like her.”
An embassy hopper. She might work for the U.S. government—so many of the Americans at such functions did. She could be CIA even. Or a nobody. Just an international-relations academic, as she claimed, looking to hobnob with the rich and influential. Either way, he needed to find out. “So, tell me the rest.”
It took Gage a minute to answer, but when he did, his implacable facade was back in place. “The police think she’s a nutcase.”
“But?”
“There’s an FBI agent who’s listening to her, the same agent working the Cody Donovan case.”
William sucked in a breath. Worse than he’d thought.
“I see you now understand why I had to discard the Madden girl.”
“Yes, of course.” If Gage was caught, it could come back on William. His position in the embassy would protect him, but only to a point. Especially if the woman was CIA, who played by their own rules. “Obviously, we need to find out more about her.”
“I agree.”
“But not you.” They couldn’t risk her spotting Gage again. “You need to stay away from her.” William’s mind raced through the logistics of what he needed to do. “I will have her watched and will find out who she is before taking any action.”
Gage settled deeper into his chair. “Whatever you say. That’s your area of expertise, not mine.”
William eyed him warily. It was not like Gage to agree so easily, particularly when it came to dealing with a risk like this Baker woman presented. Normally he would want her dead, and the sooner the better.
“In the end,” William conceded, “you may have to eliminate her.”
“Both of them. Her and her sister.” It wasn’t a question.
“For once, I agree with you. But wait until we know more and after the boy is out of the country. I have an eager buyer, and I don’t want to have to placate him as well as the girl’s buyer.” He took another drink, the dark liqueur warming him as it slid down his throat. “When I give you the go-ahead, make it look like an accident. Then her already unstable sister will commit suicide.”
With that, he finished the cognac, then patted the dog and stood. He’d had all he could stomach of Isaac Gage for one night. “I assume you will be leaving now.”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be in touch when I know more about the woman.” Then, to the dog at his side, “Come, Daimon, it’s time to turn in.”
“What about the other boy?” Gage asked. “Your caretaker?”
William sighed again. “I am afraid Ryan’s outlived his usefulness. He’s getting too bold. What a shame.” William started for the door. “I hate killing. But business is business.”
X
ERIN SPENT THE NIGHT chasing sleep.
She’d gotten home around midnight, exhausted and wired. So she’d taken a long shower, standing under the hot water until it ran cold. Only then did she climb into bed.
Still, the thoughts scurried around in her head, refusing to give her any rest.
Once the details of Chelsea Madden’s disappearance came out, Erin had looked like a fool. A hysterical bystander who’d jumped to conclusions and dragged an FBI agent halfway across town to interrogate a legitimate businessman. At least that was how Kauffman portrayed the situation, and the detective in charge of the case had bought the scenario. If for no other reason than it got him off the hook.
Chelsea had been found within a mile of the park. Alive.
The official story was that while the girl had been napping in a stroller, her mother had gotten distracted by a younger sibling, a toddler. Chelsea had awakened and wandered off, getting lost and confused. She’d eventually crawled beneath a row of bushes lining the nearby residential street and cried herself to sleep. A passerby spotted her and notified the police.
It had all been a mistake.
The girl was fine, unharmed and safely returned to her family. The man Erin had seen in the park had been selling ice cream. Nothing more, nothing less. Or so the authorities concluded.
Erin wasn’t so easily convinced.
There were too many questions left unanswered, too many leaps in logic the police had eagerly taken in order to tie everything up and mark the case closed. Like how a five-year-old little girl managed to get a mile from the park without some adult noticing her. Like Al Beckwith, who’d admitted handing over his ice-cream cart to another man, a friend of a friend, who’d paid him for its use for the day.
No, Beckwith didn’t know the man personally, nor did his description sound anything like Erin’s. Nor was he the first to rent out his cart in order to take an unofficial day off. And no, neither Beckwith nor the police had located or identified the man who’d borrowed the cart. He’d simply vanished.
Too many coincidences for Erin. Yet the police were okay with it.
Even Donovan had seemed satisfied, attempting to mollify her by claiming he’d check out Beckwith’s story once he got back to Baltimore. She didn’t believe him. Not that she thought he was lying, but he was in charge of the hunt for Cody Sanders, and that case would demand all his attention. Evidently, the only reason he’d become involved with the Chelsea Madden search was that he suspected a connection between the two cases.
That d
idn’t change what she knew. Or what she didn’t.
For instance, she might not know the details of how, but she believed Chelsea had been taken from the park, then abandoned.
Why?
Erin didn’t have a clue, but she had no doubt of the who. She didn’t know his name, and she suspected she didn’t even know what he really looked like, but she knew how he moved. Those quick hands, plucking coins from the air, too graceful and skilled for a simple playground magician. And she would recognize him again.
For now, though, she wanted sleep, which seemed to move deeper into hiding with each passing hour. She had a long day ahead of her tomorrow. Sunday was the day that she took Janie and Marta to visit Claire, and Erin needed a clear head to deal with her sister. Unfortunately, needing something and getting it weren’t always the same thing.
Finally, as the night ebbed toward morning, she resigned herself to the inevitable and got out of bed. She’d go out for an early run. Maybe if she physically exhausted herself, she could still get a couple of hours’ rest before going to see Claire.
It was still dark when she stepped outside. A light rain had fallen during the night, leaving the ground coated in a thin layer of mist. The cool air, with its promise of approaching fall, felt good against her skin. Invigorating. She skipped her warm-up walk and started off at a slow jog, feeling her muscles stretch and revive her blurry mind.
She passed silent streets, an air of expectancy hovering over them like the early morning weather. In another hour, the first stirrings of commerce would begin. The paperboys and street cleaners would emerge, the corner bakery would lift its shades, and early weekend workers would head for their jobs.
For now, though, she was alone, her breath coming out in soft puffs, the slap of her running shoes against the asphalt, and the steady beat of her heart. Running. It was the one constant in her life, grounding her in a way nothing else had ever done.
Arriving at the park entrance, she turned toward the water and the path that lined it. Remnants of last night’s search littered the playground. Coffee cups and cigarette butts flecked the trampled ground. A stray piece of yellow crime tape fluttered from a tree. The grass had been torn up by too many feet and the bushes beaten back.
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