Ethan looked up at Stan. “You’re welcome. We’re clear now, too.”
Alec’s eyes fluttered open, widened at the sight of Ethan sitting by his bed.
Ethan took one of Alec’s thin hands in his left hand, gently. The bones in the boy’s hand were like brittle sticks. Regret slashed through him when he realized he couldn’t communicate with his godson face-to-face. He’d had two years. He should have learned sign language by now. It was a mistake he would soon rectify because when this was over, he would be part of Alec’s life. “Randi, can you tell him something for me?”
“Of course.”
“Tell him that I’m proud of him.” He waited while Randi signed the words. Alec’s eyes flew to his, large and gray and haunted. “Tell him that Evie is all right.” Alec sank into the pillows, relieved. “Tell him that Evie told us how he spoke to her, that that was how we found him. Tell him Cheryl would have been proud of him, too.” Alec’s lips trembled and his eyes filled with tears, but he blinked them away, his expression becoming hard. He tugged his hand free of Ethan’s and signed something back to Randi.
“He wants to know if they caught the woman with white eyes.” Randi expelled a breath on a shaky laugh. “He calls her the Bitch. I can’t scold him for it.”
“Tell him not yet. We will, though. Ask him if she kept him anywhere except the motel.”
Alec watched, then shook his head. Signed something, his eyes too old for his face.
“He wants to know why she took him. Why she killed Cheryl and Paul,” Randi said. “I don’t want him to know about Sue, Ethan.”
Ethan looked up at her with a frown. “He’ll know sooner or later, Randi. But when you tell him is your choice. For now, my priority is getting Dana back alive.” He turned back to Alec, met the boy’s wary stare. “Ask if he remembers the lady with short red hair.”
Alec nodded. “She was Evie’s friend. She was nice,” Randi interpreted. “Why?”
“Because she’s gone now, too.” Alec’s eyes flew from his mother’s hands to Ethan’s face, shocked. “I need to know anything else he remembers.”
Alec went still. Then his hands moved slowly. And Randi’s voice thickened as she voiced every vile thing her son had seen. “Ethan, he doesn’t know any more. I’m sorry.”
Ethan squeezed the boy’s arm lightly. “I’ll be back to see you later.” He stood up, met Stan’s stony expression. “I will see him, Stan. I’ve more than earned the right now.” He waited until he and Clay were in the hall. “Later, can you do me a favor?”
Clay looked suspicious. “I’d say anything, but an hour ago that got me in trouble with the nurses for buying you a fresh shirt and helping you out of bed.”
“This one won’t get you in trouble. When the dust clears, can you run to a bookstore and buy me a sign language book? It’s about time I started being that boy’s godfather.”
Clay looked back at Stan. “He’s going to need one. And you’ll be a good one, Ethan. So now you’ll go back to your room and lie down?”
“No, next I’m going to see Evie, then I’m walking out of this place to see Mitchell and Reagan and you’re not going to say a word when I do. In fact, you’ll drive me there.”
“Ethan—”
Ethan was focusing on walking the length of the hall. “I’m serious. I don’t want—”
“Ethan, wait. I have a call coming in.” Ethan turned to see Clay pulling his cell from his jacket pocket. “Mitchell just called,” he said. “They might have a break.”
Chicago, Friday, August 6, 3:55 P.M.
The alarm woke her up. Yawning, Sue hit the snooze. This hotel room wasn’t as nice as the one she’d reserved in the Excelsior, but that place was crawling with cops. This place was still nicer than the dump where she’d stashed the kid. She’d drive out to Gary and get him in a few hours, hide him in the basement where Miranda would meet her end.
Sue felt a tingle of excitement. Soon she’d be able to watch Miranda Cook writhe in pain, forced to commit acts she never dreamed possible with men who had years of anger stored up. Six angry men could do a hell of a lot of damage to one woman. It was smart to have Dupinsky as a second course. Once those guys got started, one victim would not be enough. She’d give them Dupinsky while she went on to deal Miranda her final hand.
Miranda would be broken and bleeding, but conscious. Sue would make sure she was conscious. Because, when it was Sue’s turn, she’d bring out the kid. Sue hoped he’d still be alive after making him take all those pills. She wished she’d shown a bit more restraint, but at the time she’d been so damn mad that he’d tried to escape . . . She lost her head. If he died, though, it wouldn’t matter. Sue could say the kid was alive and make Miranda believe it. She’d always been able to make Miranda believe anything she wanted her to.
Sue would lay the kid where Miranda could see him as she endured her last moments on earth. Sue would torture Miranda as she’d tortured Miranda’s mother in Florida, with small painful slices and bone-crushing blows. Miranda would beg for mercy, but there would be none. And then, when the pain was so great, so . . . immense, she’d give Miranda the most crushing punishment of all.
One little pill. Guaranteed to kill one person quickly. Miranda would then have the choice. End the kid’s life mercifully or her own painlessly. A true “Sophie’s choice.”
If she knew Miranda, the woman wouldn’t make the choice. She’d lie there slowly bleeding to death as Sue sat back and watched. But that would be okay, too, because perhaps worse than the physical pain would be Miranda’s knowing that she would die and that afterward the boy would continue to lie beside her. Unprotected. For hours, days maybe. Alone. Starving, dehydrating. The seizures would come without his meds. The kid would die and Miranda would die knowing she could do absolutely nothing to stop it.
Then, and only then, Miranda would truly know the meaning of being powerless.
It was a good plan, if Sue did say so herself. She hopped out of bed, a spring in her step. The nap had refreshed her. Tonight would be busy and tomorrow she was driving to Toronto where she’d reserved a flight to Paris under the name of Carla Fenton, an ID there was no way the cops could trace. And by five o’clock Eastern time today I’ll be rich.
With the time difference, that was only a few minutes away. Smiling, she pulled her new laptop from her backpack, paid for with cash from the Vaughn trial deposit. The laptop was equipped with everything a wealthy woman would need, including Internet access so she could gain easy access to her own accounts without relying on Internet cafés. And without having to show ID every time she wanted to take a quick peek at her millions.
She’d been careful with the IDs she’d stolen, she thought as she powered the laptop up and plugged it into the phone. She never actually used any of the credit cards, so they couldn’t trace the dead bodies back to her. The Internet cafés just held the card for insurance. They only ran the card through their register if you didn’t pay with cash and she’d always been sure to pay with cash. Therefore, she’d never be traced to the pediatric nurse or the waitress. If Bryce kept his mouth shut, she’d never be connected to any of it.
It was nearly five on the East coast. The Vaughns would have put the money in the first account by now. She got to the bank’s website, tapped in the account number, then Walter1955. Good old dad. If he could only see me now. He’d botched a tiny job, a convenience store for God’s sake. And she had just pulled off a heist worth five million. And better still, Miranda Cook would finally get her just desserts. She’d—
The hourglass stopped turning and Sue frowned. The money wasn’t there. The account was empty. They should have deposited it by now. Her heart started to pound heavily. Maybe they wouldn’t pay the ransom after all. Dammit, she needed that money. Wanted that money. She set her teeth, hard. They owe me that money.
Compulsively she brought up the second account, the one only she knew about. Walter1987. And froze. Stared. Impossible. The account was empty.
Impossi
ble. There had been over nineteen thousand dollars. It was all gone.
They knew. Somehow they’d found her second account. Her blood ran cold as her brain raced. How had they found her? How had they known? She’d told no one about the second account. No one. But somehow they knew just the same. Her stomach settled and once again she knew calm. She needed to get the kid. A promise was a promise after all. The kid would be returned to the Vaughns in five million pieces.
Chicago, Friday, August 6, 4:15 P.M.
“So what has he told you?” Ethan asked as he made his way into the detective’s bullpen, leaning on Clay’s arm.
Reagan looked up from his computer screen and exchanged a look with Mitchell. “You’re only encouraging him, Mia. He needs to be in the hospital.”
Mitchell shrugged. “They were here. It seemed more trouble to send them back to the hospital than to sign them in with a guest pass. Sit down, Buchanan, before you pass out.”
Ethan took Mitchell’s chair, his arm throbbing, but his thoughts were on the slime the police had caught breaking into Randi’s hotel. “What has Marsden told you?”
“Not much,” Reagan said. “He’s got a hotel passkey and won’t say how he got it.”
“Sue gave it to him,” Ethan exploded.
“Of course she did,” Mitchell snapped back. “But he isn’t admitting it.” She softened marginally. “I know you’re frustrated, Ethan. But we’re doing all we can.”
“Marsden’s lawyered up,” Reagan added glumly. “We can’t touch him now.”
Fury seethed and with it sharp panic. “Dammit. He knows something. He must. Give me five minutes with him and you’ll have everything you want to know.”
Mitchell pinned him with a glare. “Control yourself or you go back to the hospital.”
“Easy, E,” Clay murmured behind him. “These guys are on your side. We all are.”
Shaking, his heart thundering, Ethan tried to control himself. “I’m sorry.” He flattened his left hand on his pants’ leg, smeared with blood and grass stains. He refused to close his eyes, because every time he did he saw Dana being dragged away, wide-eyed and terrified. He swallowed hard and grimaced when Clay put a steadying hand on his uninjured shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I . . .” He looked up, met Mitchell’s round blue eyes. “I keep seeing her . . . She was so scared.”
Mitchell flinched. “I understand, but we have to stay calm. If we don’t, we won’t find her.”
“All right. I’m calm.” He wasn’t, but that wouldn’t change until Dana was safe. “This guy, Donnie Marsden. He was one of the guys who got arrested with Conway all those years ago, right? So his breaking into Randi’s hotel room is not a coincidence, right?”
Mitchell nodded. “Right.”
“So he’s part of whatever Sue planned.”
“Maybe. If he is, he’s not saying. Right now, all we can charge him with in relation to this crime is B and E.”
“Unless you can tie him to Sue in the last week,” Clay said. “Then it’s conspiracy.”
“She must have called him,” Ethan said. “Have you checked his phone records?”
“His LUDs from this week,” Reagan said flatly, lifting an inch-thick printout. “Turns out Mr. Marsden is a bookie. Takes hundreds of calls every week. More during basketball season. We’re lucky he’s only running numbers for baseball and the ponies this week. We’re checking his incoming calls to separate out any ‘legitimate’ gamblers from Sue.”
“The old case files show Conway was hiding for two days before they caught her,” Mia added. “We’re trying to figure out where. Dana was sure this would be symbolic, so the hiding place might pan out.”
“And finally,” Reagan sighed, “we asked Sheriff Moore to visit Bryce Lewis in jail once more, to see if there’s anything else she can get out of him. Beyond that, we’ll take any and all ideas that don’t get us in trouble with Internal Affairs.”
Ethan slumped in Mitchell’s chair. “I’m sorry. I know you’re doing all you can.”
“Ethan, I’ve been in your place before,” Reagan said, his eyes intent. “It was hard as hell knowing someone had taken somebody I loved. We want Dana back as much as you do and we understand what you’re going through. But you need to let us do our jobs.”
“Go back to your hotel, Ethan,” Mitchell said softly. “I promise I’ll call you the minute we know something.”
Ethan pushed himself to his feet. “All right.” He let his eyes take one last sweep of Mitchell’s desk, the folder that lay open on her blotter. Then he stopped dead, his heart in his throat. “Clay, look at this.”
Clay looked down at the pictures. “Marsden’s mug shots?”
“Look at the face, the chin.”
“My God,” Clay muttered.
Wincing, Ethan reached to his back pocket for his wallet and fumbled it open, one-handed. “Clay, help me get out the pictures.” Clay did and Ethan flipped through his photos, stopping when he got to a picture of Alec taken last year. Clay pulled the picture out of the plastic casing and put it next to Marsden’s mugs.
Reagan gave a low whistle. “Looks like Sue and Donnie did more than run drugs.”
Mia shuffled the papers in the case file. “Marsden’s statement at the time of his arrest has him swearing the baby Sue used belonged to her friend. He thought the baby was Randi’s because she took care of Alec, even then.” She met Reagan’s eyes with a satisfied little smile. “I bet he doesn’t know he’s a daddy.”
Reagan picked up Alec’s photo. “It might not make a bit of difference if he does, but I say let’s go give the man a cigar.”
Mitchell paused on her way out the door. Frowned. “You guys can’t stay here alone.”
“Then we’re coming,” Ethan said.
“You keep quiet,” Mia warned. “One peep and you’re gone. Got it?”
“Yeah,” Ethan said grimly. “I got it.”
Gary, Indiana, Friday, August 6, 4:55 P.M.
He was gone. Sue clenched her teeth as she drove by the ratty little roadside motel, now strung with yellow crime scene tape. The kid was gone. He’d been found this morning when, according to the guy who’d sold her cigarettes in the convenience store half a mile away, at least ten police cars converged on the motel, dressed in SWAT gear. They’d come out with the kid and airlifted him to County General in Chicago.
Sue stopped at a pay phone, dialed County General, and chose “Patient information.”
“I’d like to get information on an Alec Vaughn, please.”
There was a short pause. “The computer says he’s in stable condition.”
“Thank you.” Slowly Sue hung it up, every dream in her head crashing around her ears. There would be no luring Randi Vaughn from her hotel. There would be no revenge. There would be no watching Donnie and the boys pound Miranda Cook into hamburger. There would be no Sophie’s choice. There would be no cutting and crushing.
Ten years. She’d waited ten fucking years.
For nothing. Nothing. She had nothing.
With a small roar of frustration, Sue turned her car back to Chicago. She had only one more thing. She had Dupinsky. Donnie and the boys would have to make do with her.
Ocean City, Maryland, Friday, August 6, 6:00 P.M. Eastern (5:00 P.M. Central)
Bryce Lewis’s lawyer smacked his briefcase on the table impatiently. “If you don’t have any more deals, Sheriff, we have nothing more to say. You’re wasting my time and yours.”
Lou Moore bit back the urge to tell the public defender to . . . Restraining herself, she leaned forward to snag Bryce Lewis’s gaze. “Bryce, I need your help. Your sister left that little boy for dead this morning. Forced him to take half a bottle of his epilepsy medicine.”
“My client can’t help what his sister has done in the time since they’ve separated.”
“Of course not. But, Bryce, there’s something you need to know about this boy.” She pulled a copy of the Clark County birth certificate proclaiming Erik Conway
to have been a live birth to mother Susan Conway. Father unknown. She slid the birth certificate across the table. “The boy is your sister’s son, Bryce.”
Bryce’s head whipped around, his eyes narrowed as he read the birth certificate. He looked over at his attorney. “Is this legit?”
The defender picked it up. “It’s a faxed copy. I can’t tell.”
“It is,” Lou said. “Bryce, please listen to me. I saw the way you reacted when I told you about Paul McMillan’s body the first time we talked. You aren’t cold like her. A woman tried to help this child. This morning Sue shot the woman’s boyfriend and kidnapped her. We know she intends to kill this woman. She didn’t succeed in killing your nephew. Thanks to this woman and others, we found him in time. But our time is running out.”
“What kind of deal are you offering?” the defender asked.
Lou sighed. “Bryce, you’re involved in a murder and a kidnapping.”
“Wait,” the defender interrupted. “If the kid was his sister’s it wasn’t a kidnapping.”
Lou didn’t take her eyes off Bryce Lewis. “But Miss Rickman was kidnapped, transported over state lines, and murdered, Bryce. You participated in this felony. I can only make recommendations for leniency. The DA makes the final call. But helping us find this woman would go an awful long way.”
Bryce stood up, stiffly. “I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think too long. We think this woman will be dead in a matter of hours.”
Bryce’s stare was cold. A week of jail had hardened this boy. “I said, I’ll think about it.”
Chicago, Friday, August 6, 5:10 P.M.
Ethan frowned at the two-way glass. Reagan and Mitchell had been in with Marsden for twenty-five minutes and not once had they shown the damn picture of Alec or mentioned Alec.
“Why aren’t they telling him about Alec?” Ethan muttered.
“Sshh,” Clay murmured. “Because they’re damn good cops. Hell of an interrogation.”