I filled in with the I verse, Justin handled the letter A, then we combined for E and U. We had just wrapped up, when I heard, right behind me, Ashlyn break down into total, body-heaving sobs. I turned, caught my daughter as she collapsed and held her against me. Justin moved away from the window, wrapping his larger arms around us, and we stood together, nobody speaking a word.
First family hug we’d shared in months.
I wanted to cry with my daughter, but I didn’t.
EVENTUALLY, I tucked Ashlyn into bed on one of the lower prison bunks. No blanket to cover her. No words to comfort her. I sat on the edge of the squeaky blue vinyl and stroked her hair.
Justin paced. He roamed the tiny cell like a caged beast, running his fingers around the dull edges of the bunk beds, top and bottom. Then inspected the far window, the door, the strangely built stainless steel contraption with a lower half that formed the toilet, while the top half jutted out sideways to serve as the sink.
I turned to give him privacy as he used the facilities. The advantage of years spent sharing a master bath; I didn’t have to sing. When he was done, I peed as well, then rinsed out my mouth with a dribble of water from the sink. I still tasted bile and rust. What I would give for a toothbrush and toothpaste, but apparently, our captors weren’t concerned about such amenities.
When I finished, Justin moved from the far window and sat on the lower bunk across from Ashlyn, his back to the door. He indicated for me to do the same, so I returned to my seat next to Ashlyn, this time turning away from the door and staring at the narrow window.
“No bugs,” Justin said, as if this were great news. I stared at him blankly. He continued, “That means they can see us—there are video cameras everywhere—but not hear us. So as long as we keep our backs to the electronic eyes, we can speak privately.”
The subtleties of this were lost on me, but I nodded, encouraged if he was encouraged.
“This is a state facility. Means our cell door is operated electronically, from the control room. Bad news is that this means there’s no chance of a manual override, or for us to escape by stealing someone’s keys. But it also means they have to split up each time they want to retrieve us. While one or two may come to our cell door, the third has to remain in the control room to work the touch screen.”
I turned my head just enough to stare at my husband. “How do you know all this?”
He turned to regard me curiously. “Libby, the project we wrapped last year in northern New Hampshire? The prison? I built this.”
I blinked my eyes, honestly startled. I knew Justin’s firm had constructed a number of prisons over the years. New Hampshire, West Virginia, Georgia. But somehow, it hadn’t occurred to me…
“Then you know this facility. The whole facility. You can get us out!”
Justin didn’t speak right away. Instead, his expression turned sober. “I do know this facility, honey. Including all the reasons we probably aren’t going to get out. Z was telling the truth. This prison’s state-of-the-art, with all of the state and all of the art designed to keep people wearing these jumpsuits trapped in these cells.”
My shoulders slumped. I leaned against the metal pillar supporting the top bunk. My hands were shaking. I could watch them tremble on my lap, almost like two separate entities, pale, dehydrated, claw-like fingers that belonged to anyone but me.
“Ashlyn,” I whispered, a single word that said enough.
Justin’s jaw hardened. His face took on a fierce expression I knew so well. And because we’d been married eighteen years, years where I’d seen the look in his eyes when he’d held our baby daughter for the first time, watched him patiently balance her tiny hands in his when she was learning how to walk, still caught him standing in her doorway late at night just to check on her, I knew how much pain was behind that rage.
“They’ll demand money,” he said roughly. “I don’t give a fuck what Z says to terrorize us. This is about money. Sooner or later, they’ll issue a ransom demand. Denbe will pay it. And we’ll go home. All of us.”
“Why bring us here?” I asked. “If this is just about money, why bring us this far north, lock us up…”
“Where better to hide an entire family? This place is deserted for now. State’s too busy cutting costs to fund the operating budget of a whole new prison. It’s also remote, with nothing around for fifteen, twenty miles. Local PD probably does an occasional perimeter check, such as what happened when we were first dropped off, then moves along.”
“They’ll see the lights on,” I spoke up hopefully. “Investigate further.”
Justin shook his head. “The whole property is wired with motion sensors. Every time a cop approaches, this place lights up like the Fourth of July. Nothing unusual there.”
“There’s three of them,” I whispered. “A whole…commando team. They have Tasers, weapons, obviously spent some time planning this. If this is about money, they’re going to want a lot of it. And tomorrow’s Sunday, so even if the company is willing to pay…”
Justin thinned his lips. “We’re probably looking at least a couple of days’ internment,” he granted.
I brushed our daughter’s hair. Ashlyn still slept soundly, exhaustion and shock having caught up with her. “How long have we been gone?” I asked now. “Fourteen, sixteen hours? They haven’t even offered food or water.”
“Sink has water. As for food, we can make it a couple of days.”
I watched my hands tremble again. Felt my stomach churn, my headache build. Things I should probably tell him. But I didn’t. Because while we had eighteen years together, we also had the past six months. And that had changed things.
“I don’t want her alone with them,” I said, turning the matter back to Ashlyn.
Justin shrugged away my concern. “They’ve put us together in a single cell. Nicer of them than I would’ve thought, actually.”
He was right. Three separate cells would’ve been worse. Each of us trapped in a separate cage, helpless to assist the others. In that scenario, if they’d come for Ashlyn… What would Justin do? What would I do? Stand by powerlessly while they led our daughter away…
“Whatever happens,” I reiterated, my own thoughts starting to run away with me. “I don’t want Ashlyn alone with them. Especially that one with the checkerboard hair… Mick? Did you see his eyes? Something’s not right there.”
“Not going to happen.”
“Really? Because we’re so in control of the situation? In case you haven’t noticed, they’re the predators, and we’re the prey. And what kind of prey ever gets to choose its own fate?”
I wish I hadn’t spoken the words the second I said them. My voice was too high, verging on hysterical. I fisted my hands on my lap, bit into my lower lip as if that would keep the panic at bay.
“Libby.” Justin’s voice was serious. I looked up, found him studying me. He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he regarded me with a fierceness I hadn’t seen in years, but still remembered well.
“I know things are challenging for us right now. I know I’ve hurt you. If I could go back in time…” He paused, squared his shoulders, soldiered on. “I want you to know, Libby, somehow, someway, I’ll keep you and Ashlyn safe. Nothing and no one is going to harm my family. You can trust me on this.”
And I believed him. Because my husband was that kind of guy. The modern caveman, I’d often called him. He would lay down his life for his daughter, just not remember her favorite foods. And he would slay dragons for me, just not, apparently, remain faithful.
Ironically enough, his alpha male tendencies were one of the things that had first attracted him to me.
Justin held out his hand. His palm was large, ridged with callouses. His nails were short, his skin rough. I’d spent so much of my life admiring those hands. It made it easy for me to place my fingers upon his and make my one request.
“Keep our daughter safe, Justin. That’s all I want. Keep Ashlyn safe.”
His fingers closed
around mine. He leaned forward. I could see his eyes, somber and resolute, and then, his head angled down, and my head angled up…
Clanging, from the steel door. So loud both of us startled, jerked back, then turned around.
The crazy blue-eyed one stood in front of the window, leering at us. Clearly, he’d been watching for a bit. Clearly, he’d liked what he saw.
I couldn’t help myself; I recoiled, reaching for my daughter, as if holding her arm would somehow keep her safe.
“Get up,” Mick barked from the other side of the door. “Think this is some kind of vacay? Come on. Time to work.”
Chapter 14
WYATT DIDN’T CALL THE FEDS. If they wanted to join the party, they knew where to find him. In the meantime, he and his deputies went to work.
Maps. He liked maps. Sure, you could look this stuff up on a computer in this day and age, but there was something satisfying about unfolding a massive, color-coded scale map of mountainous New Hampshire. The dozens of blue blobs of lakes. The endless squiggly lines of hundreds of winding rural roads.
New Hampshire was a funny state. Long, skinny at the top, with a wider base. Nestled like a puzzle piece into the opposing shape of Vermont, as if the two were long-lost friends. New Hampshire wasn’t a very big state as the crow flies. A dedicated driver could make it from the southernmost border with Massachusetts to the northernmost border with Canada in three and a half, four hours tops. Horizontal routes, however, were another matter entirely, thanks to the White Mountains. They jutted up like jagged teeth and bit their way through the middle of the state, forcing east-west roads to zigzag, stair step and generally give way before their greater might. As the locals liked to say when contemplating drives across the state, “Why, you just can’t get there from here…”
Given those dynamics, Wyatt was betting their suspects had continued due north. Mostly, because that’s what drivers did in New Hampshire. You went up, or you went down, but it was too painful to move side to side.
For kicks, he’d sent one deputy, Gina, to drive due north from the diner. Told her to perform basic recon. Note rural turnouts or deserted campgrounds where a driver might pull over to refresh. Stop in at any isolated gas stations or unpopulated grocery stores where a bunch of kidnappers might feel it was safe enough to grab food, water, refuel. Start asking questions, passing along the description of the missing family and getting the locals watching.
She could also mark major turnoff points, or larger towns where they could involve local PDs, but Wyatt was guessing their suspects would do their best to drive through such areas. An entire family was hard to conceal. Why even risk heavily populated areas for stopping, when the North Country had so many safer havens to offer?
Frankly, he respected the kidnappers. When heading for the wilds of New Hampshire, they had picked wisely.
He bent back over the map, tracing Route 16 up the eastern edge of the state, as the feds swept through the door.
He knew it was them without looking up. For one thing, he spotted one pair of low-slung black heels and one pair of glossy brown men’s dress shoes. Only lawyers wore those kinds of shoes in this neck of the woods, and lawyers rarely visited the sheriff’s office on a Saturday afternoon.
The female spoke first. “Wyatt,” she said, and inside, he immediately groaned.
He knew that voice. Crap.
Wyatt straightened. Took his finger off the map. Prepared to give the devil her due.
Nicole Adams, aka Nicky. Except last time he’d used that nickname, she’d been waking up in his bed. He had a feeling he didn’t get to use that nickname anymore. Or, for that matter, remain an intact male in her withering presence.
“Special Agent Adams,” he replied. Seemed the safest answer.
She smiled. It didn’t meet her cool blue eyes.
She wore a dark pencil skirt, matching jacket, high-collared silvery silk blouse. Being one of those tall blondes with upswept hair, the ice-princess look really worked for her. She also carried a thick black leather computer case, which she now dropped to the floor with a heavy thud.
“Sergeant Wyatt Foster, Special Agent Edward Hawkes.” She introduced him to her partner.
Wyatt nodded, shook hands. Special Agent Hawkes also carried a heavy bag. Apparently, they were planning to stay for a bit.
“We understand you found the missing man’s jacket,” Nicole continued.
“Got it wrapped up special in an evidence bag, just for you.”
“So you knew we were coming?”
“Made sense.”
“But you didn’t call with an update.”
“Update implies progress. Not so sure we got progress. Mostly”—he tapped the map—“we got a helluva lot of real estate and no real leads.”
The feds seemed to accept that. They crossed to the table where Wyatt had spread out the map, leaned closer.
“Catch us up,” Nicole ordered briskly. “What are you looking at?”
Wyatt swallowed another sigh and got down to business. This was why he should’ve listened to his gut before getting involved with a fellow member of law enforcement. Except at the time, in the Concord courthouse, about to testify at a trial, he’d spotted this beautiful blonde across the hall and lost common sense. Couldn’t say it was her laugh that got him, because it still wasn’t clear to him that Nicole Adams ever giggled. But he’d gotten it into his head that he needed to meet her, which had led to drinks, which had led to a hotel room. Then, probably to the surprise of them both, they had an on-again-off-again thing that went on a couple months.
Except one day he started to realize he liked the off more than the on. Nothing against her. But she was clearly federal agent to the core: upwardly mobile, urban powered, tightly disciplined. And, as he tried to point out to her when breaking up, he was none of those highly admirable things.
In hindsight, he should’ve waited another week. At which point, she probably would’ve dumped him. Then, this moment would’ve made him laugh, instead of shiver from deep freeze.
He pointed to a spot on the map, midway up the state, closer to Maine, which would be relevant in a moment. “Jacket was recovered here. Abandoned roadside diner, no other businesses or residents around for miles.”
“Witnesses?” Hawkes spoke up.
“No one around to witness. Welcome to the North Country. Now, tire marks show the vehicle resuming a northward course. Which brings us to”—he drew a large circle around the northern tip of the state—“hundreds of square miles of absolute nowhere. In other words, the perfect place for a bunch of kidnappers to hide.”
Nicole was frowning at his map. “You’re assuming they maintained a northern route.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Wyatt explained his logic, the mountains muddling up east-west routes and all. Based on the jacket’s disposal site, the kidnappers had taken 95 into New Hampshire, veering left onto Route 16, which followed the eastern border of the state. Call him crazy, but it seemed to him if you were a bunch of kidnappers with a family of three stashed in the back of your van, you’d go with the most direct route possible. Which would place them squarely in northern New Hampshire, an area remote enough to easily hide hostages that was also conveniently located just three to four hours from Boston, making for easy access come time for ransom drop or hostage exchange.
Special Agent Nicole Adams seemed to accept his logic.
“Large search area,” she commented, her own finger starting to trace the various shaded regions on the map.
“Yeah, and being a rural sheriff’s department, we’re not exactly rolling in manpower, so I called in some backup.”
“Backup?” Hawkes spoke up. He had an accent. Maine maybe? Wyatt was still trying to peg him.
“US Forest Service, as well as Fish and Game. You know Marty Finch, the forest service investigator?”
Both agents nodded. While Finch worked out of Vermont, the federal agent’s territory also included New Hampshire and Maine. Given that US Forest Service lands we
re becoming a haven for drug operations, Wyatt had worked with Finch on a number of cases. He figured the same should be true for FBI agents out of Concord.
“I gave him a ring,” Wyatt continued now. “Gotta figure the largest chunk of real estate we’re facing is the seven hundred and fifty thousand acres of the White Mountain National Forest—Finch’s jurisdiction. At my request, he’s mobilizing the forest rangers, sending them to search parking lots at the various trailheads and campgrounds for a possible transport vehicle—I’m thinking a van based on the tire marks and need to hold at least seven. The rangers will also check out hiking huts, various rest stops. If you want to keep a low profile, hiding out in the various state parks or national wilderness areas would do it.”
“Do the rangers have enough experience to know what they’re looking for?” Nicole asked crisply.
Wyatt rolled his eyes. “Please. In New Hampshire, we all attend the same training academy. Sheriff, state, local, Fish and Game, we all go in, we all come out. Meaning that clearly, we’re all brilliant.”
Nicole raised a brow but didn’t say anything. It went without saying that her precious FBI Academy remained a step above. Wyatt didn’t feel like pressing the point.
“What about the tolls?” Nicole spoke up. “Have you requested video footage? If your assumption about the kidnappers taking Interstate ninety-five to sixteen is correct, then they’ve passed through four major tollbooths.”
Wyatt shrugged. “Have a detective making the request. Can tell you now, given all the privacy concerns, actually obtaining that footage will be a royal pain in the ass.”
“Not like you to back down from a fight.”
“Consider it more like a strategic use of resources. I have two detectives and four deputies. There’s only so many investigative avenues we can effectively pursue. And given the urgency of the situation, I want to deploy my people smart. In my book, that means searching all local, state and federal recreation areas and campgrounds. Now, your turn to share.”
Nicole didn’t volunteer right away, so Hawkes did the honors.