“That’s not true!” Madeline Byrne gripped the white-painted metal banister for support.
Zara struggled to contain her tears. “I wish to God it weren’t true. We don’t know where they are. We don’t know where he’s holding them.”
Mrs. Byrne stared at Zara, through her really, shaking her head. It was a mechanical gesture, lacking conviction.
Zara forged ahead. “Did Mac ever say anything about a movie prop? A ray gun from an old horror movie?”
Madeline looked at Douglas. He stared back, sending his wife a silent message.
Zara said, “It’s a long story, but someone’s willing to pay two million dollars for that gun. Mac has progressed from theft to kidnapping to attempted murder over it. I just want—” She pressed a hand to her mouth, but it was no use; the fragile thread of her control had snapped. “I just want them to come home,” she managed to say around gulping sobs.
Logan started toward her, but she held him off with a raised palm. With effort she composed herself and took a deep breath. “My mother’s name is Candy. My sister is Emma,” she told the Byrnes, urging them to envision their son’s victims as actual people. “Emma and I were raised without our mother. We reestablished contact with her just five years ago. I’ve barely…barely had time to get to know her.”
If Candy survived this horror, Zara would let her live with her as long as she wanted—no complaints. As far as she was concerned, her mother could wallpaper the place with her preposterous posters. Madeline seemed to deflate, sinking onto the top step, hugging the banister. More than anything, she simply looked tired. “We don’t know where he is.”
Douglas quickly interjected, “We told you. We’re not in touch with him. Mac hasn’t been here in months.”
Logan asked, “Well, one of those times that he wasn’t here, he got my phone number from your message board.” He peered into the kitchen. “It’s still there, I see. I was hoping you’d use it yourselves.”
Douglas glared at his son, his jaw working.
Logan said, “If you have information that can help us locate Mac, and you choose not to share it, you’re responsible for whatever happens to Candy and Emma. It’s unlikely Mac will let them live—they can identify him. He’s attempted murder twice so far that I know of. I don’t imagine he’ll fail a third time.”
Douglas’s expression was stoical—except for the eyes. They gave away his internal torment. After a silent, prayer-filled minute, Madeline said quietly, “We don’t know where he is. He won’t tell us.”
“Maddie…” Douglas warned, but his vehemence had evaporated. Like his wife, he seemed inexpressibly weary.
Logan placed his hand on his father’s shoulder, and the old man flinched. “Help us end this. For your sake. For all of us. And for Mac.”
Douglas’s shoulders slumped. “What can we do? He doesn’t tell us much. He could be—” he raised his arms “—anywhere.”
“Didn’t he say anything to indicate a general location? City? Suburbs? He can’t be too far from the city. He seems to come and go on a regular basis.”
“Nothing,” Douglas said. “Not a hint.”
Madeline said, “He told us he was living at his co-op in Manhattan.”
“Did you believe him?”
Their silence was eloquent. Zara could only imagine Logan’s pain in knowing his parents had, through their unquestioning support, abetted Mac’s criminal activities.
Logan said, “You don’t have a phone number for him?”
They shook their heads.
“How often has he been coming around?”
Madeline said, “About once a week.”
“When was he here last?”
His father’s gaze slid away. “Earlier today.”
Those two words hung in the air like a foul odor. Logan’s features tightened. Zara knew what he was thinking. If his folks had just cooperated with him.
Candy and Emma could be free now. Safe.
Madeline slowly pushed to her feet. “I’ll make some coffee.”
Zara moved aside to let her pass on the stairs. She could have told her coffee was the last thing Logan wanted. He was interested only in answers, but those, unfortunately, were in short supply.
Like a mourner, Mrs. Byrne seemed to be relying on routine activity to keep her mind occupied. Perhaps she, too, was plagued by unwelcome thoughts—guilt at her complicity, regret for the man Mac might have been. The time for self-delusion was past. She could no longer ignore her troubled son’s true nature.
Logan asked, “Has Mac been staying overnight?”
Douglas said, “Sometimes.”
“Dad, you stay with Mom. I’m going to check out the bedroom, see what I can turn up.”
“I don’t think you’ll find much,” Douglas said. “He’s very neat, your brother.”
Logan’s expression gentled for the first time since he set foot in his parents’ home. Despite everything, Zara sensed he was moved by their grief. “Keep Mom company. I think she needs you.”
Zara followed him up the stairs. The room he led her into was small, furnished with twin beds and an eclectic mix of timeworn furniture: desk, dresser, bookcases. The walls were devoid of artwork. If the boys had once hung posters, they were history. No trace of the young Logan remained.
She asked, “Did you share this room with Mac?”
He nodded. “In a dinky house like this, separate rooms were out of the question.”
“That must’ve caused some strain.”
He smiled at the understatement. “You could say that.”
She followed his lead, helping him search the room thoroughly. They scrutinized the contents of every drawer, peered under the furniture, stripped the beds and rolled up the throw rug. Logan pulled Mac’s extensive comic-book collection off the shelves and shook out each one.
“There must be hundreds there,” she said.
He held up one for her to see. The cover art featured an exotic science fiction scenario: a hair-raising alien monster and a half-naked space babe. Claws and cleavage. “He was into these strange comics just like he was into the movies and all that other check-yourbrains-at-the-door stuff. He could sit here in this little room and lose himself for hours in this crap.”
He stuffed the comics back on the shelves. “But the worst was the computer games. Back when home PCs first became available, he pressured Mom and Dad to buy him state-of-the-art hardware, on credit, even though it strapped them.” He grimaced. “They were overjoyed that he was showing intellectual initiative. They had no idea he wanted it just to play his. bizarre games. He quickly got hooked on those. Still is, as far as I know.”
They emptied the closet and refilled it. Nothing. No store receipt. No restaurant matchbook. No clue as to Mac’s whereabouts.
“Your father’s right,” she said. “He’s neat.”
“Intentionally, no doubt. He had to know that sooner or later I’d come here, looking for clues. His calling me was practically an invitation.”
Zara lifted her fingers and smoothed the lines of his face, erasing the fierce scowl etched into his forehead and around his mouth. His gaze settled on her and softened.
She could have this, at least. This closeness, this camaraderie. For as long as it lasted.
Still staring at her, he pressed her palm to his mouth and kissed it. It was a simple gesture, one might even say innocent. But there was nothing innocent about the sparks that shot down her arm and raced over her body. There would never be anything innocent in her response to this man. It was a bittersweet fact of life.
She asked, “Are we going to search the whole house?”
He sighed. “There’s no point. He’s obviously covered his tracks.” He stared around the room, as if he could see through walls. “He’s probably out there somewhere right now, laughing at me.”
“Come on. Let’s get out of here and let your folks get some sleep.”
“There is one more thing I need to check.”
Downsta
irs they found Douglas and Madeline in the kitchen, talking in hushed tones. They held hands across the table. Sudden tears clogged Zara’s throat. Their quiet grief brought to mind, once again, the mourning process.
The analogy was uncomfortably vivid. She couldn’t shake the sense of impending death. Intellectually she knew the mission she and Logan were engaged in was rife with danger, but fear for her fam-’ ily had nudged that unpalatable fact into the recesses of her mind.
However, here, in Logan’s boyhood home, as she watched his parents cope with the horrible reality they helped to create, that gut-clenching, palm-dampening fear resurfaced, stronger than ever. She wanted to flee into the dark, into the dead middle of the night, and not look back, even as she knew she intended to see this thing through to the end, no matter what.
She found Logan staring at her, as if he could read her mind. He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze.
Her rock.
In return, she offered a tentative smile.
He asked, “Dad, have you taken out the garbage since Mac left?”
“Yeah. It’s outside.”
She followed Logan as he let himself out the side door, where the porch light illuminated a beige plastic garbage can. He pushed up the sleeves of his windbreaker, lifted the can and emptied it onto the cracked asphalt driveway.
She said, “Forgive me if I sit this one out.”
He grinned at her. Good heavens, the man could even look gorgeous squatting over a pile of garbage, pawing through grapefruit peels. “Wouldn’t want you to mess up your manicure.”
The clatter of miniblinds drew their eyes to a dim second-floor window next door. Moonlight glinted off blue hair in curlers.
Logan turned and waved jauntily. “Why, hello there, Mrs. Morgan. Glorious night, isn’t it? How’s that enchanting daughter of yours?”
The window slammed shut and the blinds dropped.
Zara shook her head. “You must’ve been one holy terror growing up.”
“Nonsense. The neighbors adored me.” He tossed aside coffee filters and milk cartons.
She imagined poor Mrs. Morgan fretting over the virtue of her enchanting daughter with the twin hellions next door sniffing around.
Logan sat on his heels. He scratched his nose with his clean forearm. “Nada.” Puffing his cheeks with frustration, he grabbed the garbage can to begin refilling it, when something inside snagged his attention. He tilted the can toward the light and peered into it, then snaked his arm deep into the foul thing.
“Ewww…” Zara shuddered with revulsion.
He retrieved a half-inch-long scrap of paper that must have adhered to the bottom of the can. Examining it closely, he called to his mother.
She appeared behind the screen door. “What is it?” Her dismayed gaze took in the trash littering her driveway.
“I don’t recognize this name.” He raised a fingertip, displaying the soiled price sticker. “Abernathy Books. Is that a new store in town?”
“No…” Her brow wrinkled.
“He brought you a book, remember?” Douglas said from behind her. “A cookbook.”
“Yes, that’s right. A Southwestern cookbook. Mac loves my chili. Oh.” She clutched the collar of her robe. The significance of the find had just sunk in.
Cold triumph glittered in Logan’s eyes. “Abernathy Books. Get me the county white pages.”
Chapter Eleven
Abernathy Books wasn’t in the Orange County white pages. The next step was to check the phone books of neighboring counties. Madeline suggested they stay over and visit the library when it opened the next morning, but Logan was already dialing Lou’s number. As a P.I., she had the national directory available on computer software. He knew she wouldn’t complain about being jangled awake in the middle of the night, and she didn’t. He waited a couple of minutes while, yawning, she booted up her Pentium and slipped a disk into the CD-ROM.
He hung up with a smile on his face. “Hobart. Rockland County.”
Rockland was the next county east, closer to New York City. They’d driven through it on their way to the Byrnes’.
In minutes they were on their way. Zara fell asleep almost immediately. He glanced at her, slumped like a rag doll in her shoulder harness. He knew she was still weak. He’d promised both Lou and that ER doctor that he’d take care of her. Perhaps he should have taken Madeline up on her offer and stayed the night.
No. It was better this way. Zara wanted an end to this as badly as he did. And they weren’t going to end it by lazing around the old homestead.
Zara had been right, he thought with wonder. She’d gotten through to his folks when all his efforts had failed. Simply by reaching out to them, expressing empathy with their plight and faith in their basic humanity. It was something he couldn’t have done, being too close to them and at odds for so long.
He punched buttons on his CD pad and Dave Grusin’s “Mountain Dance” wafted softly from the BMW’s speakers. The music was soothing and invigorating at the same time; just what he needed.
THE SHOWER in the Shangri-La Motor Hotel was a forlorn dribble, but cold enough to jazz Logan awake. He wrapped a thin, motel-quality towel around his waist and reentered the bedroom, where Zara lay curled up under the covers of one of the two double beds.
Before leaving the warehouse, he’d called Gage with the news that Mac had Emma. That had been rough. He’d heard in Gage’s Southern-tinged voice the same anguish and impotent rage he’d felt himself when he saw Zara floating facedown in her sister’s pool.
The comparison didn’t sit well with him. Gage and Emma had a relationship. As far as he could tell, they were in love. Whatever Logan felt for Zara, it wasn’t the same thing. It couldn’t be. He wasn’t like Gage. He’d seen too much of life’s unforgiving side, endured too much betrayal. Perhaps he’d once been that kind of man, the kind who could be there for a woman like Zara Sutcliffe. The kind who could offer her the love she needed and deserved. The kind who could help heal the hurts that ate away at her.
For the first time ever, he wished he were still that kind of man.
He sat next to her and watched her sleep. The day was overcast, and anemic light filtered through the drapes, softening her features and making her look heartbreakingly vulnerable. She should be back in her fancy penthouse apartment, he thought as he whisked a strand of hair off her cheek, or behind the cluttered desk in her hectic office. She should never have been touched by this horror.
She made a face in her sleep, one eyebrow arching imperiously. He smiled and stifled a chuckle. Was she reacting to his touch? Even unconscious, she pushed him away. Twice now she’d rebuffed him, and he knew it wasn’t because she was uninterested or unresponsive. The truth was, he’d never known a more passionate, responsive woman. He wished she’d tell him the cause of her panic, though he had a pretty good idea, and it burned a hole in his gut to think about it.
He didn’t want to wake her, but the sun was climbing and he had plenty of legwork to do today. He was itching to get started. They were in the small town of Hobart, and he could practically smell his elusive quarry. Instinct? Or merely wishful thinking? Either way, he felt charged, drunk with the heady scent of blood, like some feral beast stalking its prey in evernarrowing circles.
“Zara…” His touch became firmer as he stroked her sleep-warm face and urged her to open her eyes. “Come on, honey…time’s a-wastin’.”
She rolled onto her back and stretched languorously, ending on a deliciously carnal little grunt. Her eyes drifted open and she looked at him with a drowsy smile.
“Sleep well?” he asked.
Her gaze skipped down his bare torso and lower, to the scant towel held in place by little more than the clingy dampness of his skin. If she was embarrassed to see him in a state of dishabille, she hid it well.
Her voice was morning-husky, practically indecent. “Like a rock. Why is that, do you think?”
“Could be because you’re exhausted, still recuperating. You sho
uld be home resting, not gallivanting around the state.”
“I’m not gallivanting. I’m traipsing.”
“Is there a difference?”
“Yeah, you want to know what it is?”
“Nope.”
She pushed herself to a sitting position. “So what’s on tap for the day? What do we do first?”
“What’s this ‘we’ stuff, Kemo-sabe?”
“Oh, don’t start! I’m in this, too.”
He rose and started rummaging through his duffel lying open on the other bed. He’d brought extra clothes for both of them, though when she’d seen the color combination of the sleep ensemble he’d chosen—olive green undershirt paired with crimson satin boxers—she’d been less than thrilled.
He said, “I’ll start at that bookstore, but something tells me I won’t have much luck there.”
She finger-combed her tousled hair. “You’re hoping someone remembers Mac?”
“Yep.” He pointed to his face. “Or recognizes him.”
Her eyes brightened. “I hadn’t thought of that”
He pulled out underwear, fresh jeans and a black polo shirt. “This is the closest I have at the moment to Mac’s sartorial elegance. It’ll have to do.”
“He wears his hair loose.”
“I know.” He hooked a thumb under the towel and sent her a warning glance. “If your heart can’t stand the shock of my naked stallionlike splendor, you’d better cover your eyes now.”
Her lopsided grin was bewitching. “Stallionlike, huh? See, now you’ve gone and piqued my curiosity.” She settled back to enjoy the show.
Logan whipped off the towel and tossed it on the bed.
And Zara looked. With simple appreciation and, yes, curiosity. Though there was nothing salacious in her regard, he felt the first stirrings of tumescence and made short work of stepping into his briefs.
“Did I lie?” he asked.
A slow smile. “Stallionlike. Is this where I twitch my tail and whinny like a mare in heat?”
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