by Tami Hoag
Reaching for the can of warm soda she had set on an end table, Ellen froze midgesture as the examination-room door swung open and Mitch emerged. She hustled to meet him.
“Did he name Wright?” she asked.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Mitch propped a shoulder against the wall. “He didn't name anybody. He isn't talking.”
“At all?”
“Not a word.”
Ellen's sinking feeling was the sure-thing conviction sliding away. An instinctive response that had nothing to do with her sense of compassion. They were separate entities—the lawyer in her and the woman. The lawyer thought in terms of evidence; the woman thought about a small boy who had been through God-only-knew what hell in the past two weeks.
“How is he?”
“Physically, he seems pretty good. No signs of sexual abuse.”
“Thank God.”
“He may have been drugged or had blood taken from him. His blood had to get on that sheet some way, and he had no injuries to speak of. We'll know more when the lab results are in.”
“We'll know what?” Wilhelm demanded, rushing up, his proper paisley necktie flipped over his shoulder.
Mitch frowned at him. “We'll meet in my office at seven and I'll go over it all with both of you.”
“What about questioning the boy?” Wilhelm blurted, looking as if he had come all the way to the North Pole only to find out Santa wouldn't grant him an audience.
“It'll wait.”
“But the mother—”
“Is an emotional wreck,” Mitch snapped. “She didn't see anyone, didn't see a car. All she knows is she has her little boy back. You can talk to her in the morning.”
Wilhelm's dark eyes shone bright with temper even though his trademark boyish grin still stretched across his face. “Now look, Chief, you can't shut me out of this. I have the power—”
“You don't have jack shit here, Marty,” Mitch said. “Do you understand me? I don't care if the BCA sent you down here with a golden crown and scepter. You try to push me on this and I'll squash you like a bug. Nobody sees Hannah or Josh until they've had some rest.”
“But—”
Marty's protest was cut off as the emergency-room doors to the street swept back and Paul Kirkwood stormed into the lobby with a pair of uniformed officers at his heels. His brown hair was windblown back from his lean, angular face. Cold and excitement rouged his cheeks. His deep-set eyes fixed on Mitch as he strode down the hallway.
“I want to see my son.”
“Hannah and Josh are being settled in a room.”
“Hannah?” he said peevishly. “What's wrong with her?”
“Nothing having Josh back won't cure. She's just a little rattled, that's all.”
“And what about me? You think I'm not rattled?”
“I don't know what you are, Paul,” Mitch said wearily. “Other than late, that is. Where the hell have you been?” His gaze strayed to the officers who stood behind Josh's father.
“We caught him coming back to his office, Chief.”
“Caught me? Am I under arrest here?” Paul's voice was sharp with indignation. “Should I be calling my attorney?”
“Of course not, Mr. Kirkwood,” Ellen intervened, trying to break the mounting tension between the men. “We wanted to make you aware Josh had been returned, that's all. We also thought you might want to be with your son during the physical examination.”
“I was out driving around.” Paul's mouth turned in a petulant curve. “I haven't been having a lot of success sleeping lately. How is Josh? What did that animal do to him?”
“He's fine,” Mitch said, then amended the overstatement for the sake of his conscience. “He seems fine, physically. I'll walk with you to his room, fill you in.”
As they started down the hall, Wilhelm started after them. Ellen snagged him by the shirtsleeve and held him back. The BCA agent wheeled on her.
“I'd like to hear a better explanation of where he was tonight.”
“So would I. We'll hear it in the morning.”
“What if he's involved? What if he's the one who took Josh home? He could skip.”
“Don't be stupid,” Ellen said impatiently. “If he wanted to skip, do you think he would drop off the son he kidnapped, then drive around town for two hours, then go back to his office, then run?”
Wilhelm wagged a finger in her face. “He owned that van.”
“That van that yielded us nothing.”
“I think we should take Mr. Kirkwood downtown and discuss his whereabouts tonight.”
“Then you feel free to express that opinion to Chief Holt. Push him far enough, and you'll be able to question Dr. Ulrich while he tries to set the broken bones in your face. Personally, I've seen enough of this hospital for one night.”
Wright's bond hearing was less than eight hours away. Garrett Wright, who would be charged with the abduction of Josh Kirkwood. Josh Kirkwood, who had been returned home safe while Garrett Wright sat in a cell in the city jail.
Hannah refused the offer of a patient's gown to sleep in. She ignored the cot that had been set up for her next to Josh's bed. She pulled her boots off and climbed onto the bed with her son.
Josh played with the control switch, slowly raising and lowering the head of the bed, the foot of the bed, bending it in two in the middle. The ride was not unlike the one Hannah's emotions had been on for the past two weeks. The ride they were still on now. The idea that Josh was back safe was a giddy high. The fear of what had been done to him mentally was a crashing, black low. The feelings chased each other inside her, around and around, up and down as the bed went up and down.
She slipped her arm around Josh and settled her hand over the control. “That's enough, sweetheart. You're making me seasick,” she murmured. She smiled softly as one of his sandy-brown curls tickled her nose. “Remember the time we went out on Grandpa's boat and Uncle Tim got seasick after he teased us about being landlubbers?”
She waited for him to roll over and grin at her, eyes bright, giggles bubbling just behind his smile. He would laugh and tell her the whole story, complete with sound effects, and she would feel the most incredible swelling, brilliant, warm rush of love and relief and joy. But he didn't roll over and he didn't laugh. He didn't move. He didn't speak. He just went still. The rush of love was an ache. The joy was tangled in anguish.
The door swung open and Paul stepped into the room looking anxious and hesitant at once. Hannah bit down on the questions she wanted to snap at him. Where had he been? Why hadn't he been here for Josh? How like him to leave the worst moments for her to deal with, then walk in after the fact. And what a sad commentary on their relationship that in this moment that should have been so happy for them both, the first thing she wanted to do was attack him.
He rushed into the room, his gaze fixed on their son.
“Oh, God,” he whispered, struggling visibly with a knot of emotions—disbelief, joy, uncertainty. “Josh.”
Josh sat up and stared at him, unsmiling.
“I tried to call you,” Hannah said softly. “I tried your office—”
“I was out,” Paul said shortly, not taking his eyes off his son. He mustered a smile, reaching out slowly. “Josh, son—”
Josh hurled the bed control at him and flung himself at Hannah.
“Josh!” Hannah cried. Her expression of surprise was directed at Paul.
“Josh, it's me, Dad,” Paul said, confusion furrowing his brow.
He sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out again to touch his son's shoulder. The gesture was batted away. Josh's legs kicked out as if he were trying to run.
“I don't understand this,” Paul said. “Josh, what's the matter? Don't you know me?”
His only answer was a frightened squeal as Paul tried once more to turn Josh toward him. The boy surged against Hannah, pushing her backward.
“Paul, don't try to touch him!” she snapped. “Can't you see you're only making it worse?”
“But I haven't done anything!” Paul stepped back from the bed just the same. “He's my son, for God's sake! I want to see him!”
“No!” Josh's shout was muffled against his mother's body. “No! No! No!”
“Hush, sweetheart,” Hannah murmured against the top of his head. Panic rose inside her.
“What's going on in here?” Dr. Ulrich demanded as he strode in from the hall.
“I wish I knew,” Paul muttered.
“What did you do that upset him?”
“Nothing! He's my son!”
Ulrich raised a hand. “Just calm down, Paul. I'm not accusing you of anything,” he said quietly, turning his back to Josh and Hannah, working his way between them and Paul. “But I think it would be a good idea if you go now and come back in the morning, after Josh has had some time to rest and get his bearings.”
“You're throwing me out?” Paul yelled, incredulous. “I don't believe this! After everything I've done to try to get my son back. After everything I've gone through—”
“This isn't about you, Paul,” Ulrich said, his voice low. “I'm sure this is upsetting to you, but you know we have to put Josh first. We have to realize it's going to take some time to sort out what happened to him and how he feels about it. Let's you and I go down to the cafeteria and have a talk.”
Paul knew a brush-off when he heard one. Ulrich was slowly backing him toward the door, away from Josh and Hannah. Shutting him out. Wasn't that the story of his life? Everything went to Hannah—the glory, the pity . . . their son.
“Jesus, Hannah,” he said, “you could help a little here.”
“What am I supposed to do?” She looked at him as if he were a stranger, someone to be wary of, someone to keep at bay. Anger burned inside him.
“Some support would be nice!”
“No! No!” Josh mumbled, kicking at the covers.
Dr. Ulrich took another step. “Come on, Paul. Why don't you go down to the cafeteria and get a cup of coffee? I'll join you in a few minutes and fill you in on the examination.”
“He doesn't have any reason to be afraid of me!”
“Paul, for God's sake, please,” Hannah pleaded.
“Fine,” he muttered. “Hell of a homecoming.”
Tom McCoy watched from down the hall as Paul Kirkwood stormed into and out of his son's hospital room. His training dictated he try to intervene and smooth things over between family members. His training didn't apply anymore. Not here. Not between Hannah and Paul.
He had tried. Paul resented his attempts, considered it interference rather than help. In the process, Tom's feelings toward Paul had become something less than Christian. It was difficult for him to find understanding in his heart for a man who had married a jewel and treated her like dirt. Paul Kirkwood had so much and was so blind to it—two beautiful children, a comfortable home, a stable career. Hannah.
Therein lay the heart of the problem. Hannah.
Glad for the shadows in the hall, Tom leaned back against the wall and stared up at heaven. He couldn't see it, of course. There was too much in the way—physically and metaphorically.
Hannah had turned to him, the one person she thought she could trust absolutely—her priest. And her priest had committed a cardinal sin. He couldn't for the life of him admit that what he had done was wrong. He hadn't broken any vows. He had kept silent. Locked tight in his heart was the fact that he had fallen in love with Hannah Garrison.
“I could use a little help here, Lord,” he murmured. But as he looked up, all he could see was a faint brown stain in the ceiling where a water pipe had once sprung a leak.
With a weary sigh he walked down the hall to Josh's room and cracked the door open a few inches. A lamp on the far side of the bed washed the room in soft topaz. Josh lay curled on his side with his thumb in his mouth, asleep. Hannah lay behind him, his small body tucked back against hers, her arm around him. She looked like an angel who had tumbled to earth, tendrils of wavy golden hair escaping their band to fall against her cheek.
The picture brought a bittersweet ache. He started to turn away from it, then Hannah opened her eyes and looked right at him. And he could no more walk away than he could stop his heart from beating.
“I just wanted to check on you two before I left,” he whispered, slipping into the room. “It looks like Josh is out cold.”
“The wonders of modern sedatives,” Hannah murmured, raising herself on her elbow.
“How are you doing?”
“I've got Josh back. That's all that matters.”
“Paul didn't stay.”
Careful not to disturb Josh, she sat up and tucked her legs beneath her. “Josh didn't want him here. He acted as if . . . as if he were afraid.”
The words had the bitter taste of blasphemy, as if she were somehow betraying Paul by speaking them, even though they were nothing less than the truth.
“God, I hate Garrett Wright for what he's done to us,” she admitted. “He did more than take our child. Whatever problems Paul and I had before all this, at least we trusted each other. When Josh reacted to him tonight, I looked at Paul like I'd never seen him before, like I actually believed he could have . . . I don't,” she whispered, even as the doubts scrolled through her mind—the lies about the van, the times he had been gone, his answering machine at the office picking up when he should have been there.
Father Tom sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to take her hand. She grabbed hold and hung on tighter than she meant to, wishing with all her heart he would put his arms around her and just hold her for a while. The longing that rose in her soul was for comfort and friendship and compassion. Things Tom McCoy would offer freely with no strings attached. He would never suspect her feelings had grown deeper; she would never tell him. She wouldn't risk losing what they had by asking for more than he could give her.
“Don't add more guilt to the burden, Hannah,” he said softly.
She jerked her head up and looked at him, her pulse quickening at the absurd idea that he had somehow read her thoughts.
“You can't control a reaction like that. Who knows why Josh reacted badly to his father? He's frightened and confused. We don't know what he's been through. We don't know what Wright might have planted in his mind. Josh responded and you reacted to that. You're allowed; you're his mother.”
“And Paul is his father. He would no more hurt Josh than he would—” Hurt me. Which he had done again and again; hurt her in ways that didn't leave obvious bruises or scars. “He wouldn't hurt Josh.”
“I'm sure he wouldn't.”
Tom raised his other hand and brushed a stray tear from beneath her eye. His fingertips threaded into the golden silk of her hair, and she turned her face to rest her cheek against the cool of his palm for just a moment. She held her breath, as if she could hold the moment within it.
“Get some sleep,” he whispered, fighting the urge to lean down and press a kiss to her forehead or her lips. Her hand was still in his. He gave it a squeeze. She answered it back. “We'll talk tomorrow.”
“Thanks for coming tonight. You've gone above and beyond the call through all of this.”
“No,” he said. “You deserve a lot more than what you've been given.” And he wished like hell he could have been the man to give it to her, but he couldn't be—or so he was told. And so he turned and walked away.
And Hannah lay back down beside her child, listening to the rhythm of his breathing and wishing for things that could never be.
CHAPTER 5
There was no way of containing the news that Josh Kirkwood had been returned. The hospital staff told friends, who told other friends who worked nights and stopped into the Big Steer truck stop out on the interstate for coffee and pie. The Big Steer served as restaurant to the Super 8 motel, where four out of five rooms were occupied by reporters.
They were lying in wait like a pack of wolves when Ellen pulled into the City Center lot at five to seven. She promised to give them something later and hurried
into the building, hanging a left into the law-enforcement center.
They met in a conference room that had been dubbed The War Room in the first hours of the investigation into Josh's kidnapping. A time line was taped to one long wall to keep track of everything that had happened pertaining to the case. From a fat red main artery, numerous tributaries branched out in various colors of ink. The notes that had been left by the kidnapper to taunt them were emblazoned across a white melamine message board in Mitch Holt's bold, slanted handwriting. A large cork bulletin board was covered with a map of Minnesota and one of the five-county area. The maps were bristling with pins that marked search areas.
Ellen poured herself a cup of coffee and took a seat at the table next to Cameron. Wilhelm sat across from her, nursing the same lack-of-sleep hangover she was fighting. Sheriff Steiger had claimed the chair at the head of the table, a minor power play in an ongoing pissing contest with Mitch. Steiger was fifty, lean and tough with a narrow face and a complexion like old leather. Adhesive tape across his nose suggested he had lost a battle in the war for supremacy. The looks the two traded were stony.
As much as she disliked Steiger for the sexist jerk he was, Ellen took no pleasure in the seething enmity between the two men. A successful investigation, an investigation that would lead to a conviction, required teamwork and open lines of communication between all team members.
Mitch paced along the time line as he filled them in on Josh's exam and what had transpired later in Josh's room.
“So Paul Kirkwood is still a suspect,” Wilhelm declared.
“Suspect is too strong a word,” Mitch said. “Josh's reaction could have been caused by any number of reasons other than guilt on Paul's part. It could have been that Paul shares some physical characteristics with Wright. Or maybe it was the way Paul approached him or something in the tone of his voice.”