Taken

  “Sure. A steak sounds good.”

  “Just what I was thinking.”

  Shannon set aside the pillow and pushed her sock feet back into tennis shoes. She had appeared this morning carrying a box of donuts, two black gym bags, and the day’s newspaper. She had apparently acquired or accessed some of her own belongings in the last sixteen days. Her attire for traveling was casual—jeans, beat-up blue tennis shoes, a T-shirt advertising the Mexican Festival Feast at the Tex-Mex Diner. It was such a specific old T-shirt that Matthew had sent a text to Ann to see if she could track down the restaurant location. It sounded like a New Mexico or Texas interstate kind of place, where T-shirts were sold at cost for free advertising. Her choice of purse was an oversized tan canvas bag.

  Her smile, relaxed posture, and calm “Good morning” had given the impression of an unhurried tourist. He’d stayed deliberately light and casual in his own approach, glad to see she appeared to have slept well and that her mood was good. They had shared the donuts, had a brief conversation about the map and the route to take north, debated four audiobook selections, and once the drive began, Shannon had settled in for a nap. Matthew was relieved at her apparent steadiness. He’d been worried that a fine edge of anxious nerves would appear now that events were moving forward, but if anything, she seemed calmer.

  A phone rang. Matthew reached for his pocket an instant before he realized it wasn’t his. Shannon dug deep into the canvas bag and came up with a phone he didn’t recognize, as it had a blue cover. She looked at the screen and held it out to him. “I don’t want to talk with him.”

  Matthew took the prepaid phone, still with store stickers on its back, and answered on the fourth ring, “A woman I know as Shannon just handed this phone to me.”

  “Tell her the two girls are safe.”

  Startled, he looked at Shannon and relayed the message. She gave a jerky nod. “Who is this?” Matthew asked.

  “Adam York with the FBI, Virginia office.”

  “Matthew Dane, retired cop out of Boston.”

  “You’re with Shannon. Where are you?”

  “No comment at the moment. I don’t know you well enough yet.”

  “She’s sent me nine packages over the last six years—photos, addresses, all abducted kids one to four months gone, all entangled in child custody disputes. Eighteen kids in total, from all over the nation. The recent package had this phone number and a note: Call me once you’ve got them.”

  Matthew glanced at Shannon, at the oversized envelope she was holding up for him to see. “Apparently we’re sending you another one. She’s got a manila envelope with your name on it. We’re in Tennessee. I’ll find somewhere to overnight it to you.” He put the phone on speaker.

  “Let me come to you instead. I can be on a plane and be with you in a few hours.”

  At Shannon’s nod, he thought for a moment and said, “There’s a restaurant in Lexington, Kentucky, the Blue Rose, just off Interstate 75. We’ll be there around seven p.m. I’ll meet you with the package; no promises Shannon will be with me.”

  “I’ll take whatever I can get.”

  He glanced over again and saw Shannon wipe at her eyes. “Let me offer some advice. Don’t push too hard. She’s Shannon Bliss. DNA confirmed it a few hours ago. I’m taking her home. And now that you know that fact, forget you heard it. It’s not . . . productive to have that news released just yet.”

  There was a long silence. “I remember that case. What kind of shape is she in?”

  Not as good as she’d be in a few weeks, Matthew thought. “She’ll be fine. Look me up under Dane Investigations, Boston. I’ll tell my staff to forward your calls. I’m shutting off this phone when I hang up.”

  “I’ll see you at the restaurant at seven.”

  He clicked off. “Expecting anyone other than Adam to call you at this number?”

  She shook her head. He powered it off, handed it back to her, and she dropped it into the bag.

  The extraordinary thing right now was that he didn’t find himself surprised to realize what she’d managed to do. He looked at the manila envelope in her hand. “Would that happen to be helpful information on the people who have been doing this?”

  “Yes. There’s no hurry. They’re dead.” She shifted the envelope in her hands, added in a husky voice, “They’d have a photo of who to grab, a location, sometimes even a time, plus an address of where to make the delivery, often a few states away. They seemed to all be child custody disputes. By the time the child was dropped off, they would be terrified. They would warn the child, ‘If you ever talk about us, talk about where you were living before, give this relative any problems at all, we’ll come take you again and keep you with us this time.’ I doubt any of the kids ever talked about what happened with anyone.”

  “You’re talking about people smugglers.”

  “Yes. I never figured out who was hiring them.”

  “Is that what happened to you?”

  The silence lasted to the point he didn’t think she would answer. Then she sighed and said, “A cop car was in the driveway of the address where I was to be dropped off, so they kept driving. They had a fishing trawler in the Seattle area and put out to sea. They tossed me in the ocean to drown—only I swam longer than they expected. Flynn talked them into hauling me back into the boat.”

  The pain that swept through his chest felt like a vice. He glanced over, saw that calm mask slip back in place as she simply buried the emotions of that memory. He instinctively reached over and laid his hand on hers. She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t pull away. When he finally spoke, his own control was running deep, for there was only mild curiosity in his voice. “Your parents were having a custody dispute over you?”

  “Not that I was aware of before I was grabbed.”

  “Did you recognize the address where you were to be dropped off?”

  “No. I’d never been to that town before.”

  “Want to tell me where that was?”

  She shook her head. Having this conversation while driving was getting risky, given how he was trying to focus on her and the road at the same time. “Your parents are divorced now,” he mentioned, “about three years after you were abducted.”

  “I’m aware.”

  “Would you tell me about Flynn?”

  “No. I won’t talk about him. And for now, I’m done talking about this.”

  He stopped his questions, let the silence return, grateful she’d given him as much as she had. She’d opened with one of the hardest points of her story. He briefly tightened his hand on hers, then moved his back to the wheel. “Thanks for what you did say.”

  “Be cautious where you repeat it.”

  He nodded and waited a long moment. “You don’t know what really happened in your family back then, do you?”

  “No. So for now I only want to talk with my brother. He’s . . . safe.”

  “The person behind this—it may not have been someone in your family. It may have been someone using you to bring pressure on your parents. It may be totally unrelated.”

  “Maybe.”

  And that one word summed up his problem. Without knowing what she was facing, without answers for how this had begun, he would be trying to help her, protect her, while navigating in the dark as to the source of the most acute concerns. “Just to be on the safe side, it would be useful to have someone who’s aware of the history watch what your parents, and those around them, do in the days after they learn you’re alive.”

  She looked his direction now. “Someone in my family or around them may have paid to have me grabbed. Would you really want to know that about your own family?”

  The thought made him sick. He finally said quietly, “Whoever arranged it will have reason to fear your return, that you know who did this to you.”

  “When the time’s right I’m going to bluff that I do know what happened, that I’ll be talking about it, and hopefully they’ll tip their hand. But it’s not going to happen
in this first round of conversations. I’ve got too much on my list that has to be dealt with first. I’ll get to who did this to me in good time. But first things first.”

  “Are there more kids to recover?”

  Her hand flexed against her jeans. “None that can be rescued. Just graves to give their parents closure.”

  “How many?”

  “Enough, Matthew. I’m done talking for now.”

  He drove another forty minutes, letting the silence have room to settle between them, giving her space to get her composure back. He found a Longhorn Steak House and hoped the person working the grill was turning a perfect steak today. They both needed good food to distract from the pain caused by the details she’d offered, even if the last thing he felt like doing right now was making light conversation over a meal.

  He parked, and as they both stepped out of the car, he paused to look across the roof of the vehicle. “Do you trust Adam York?”

  She hesitated before shutting her door. “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’s politically wired and ambitious to move up in the FBI hierarchy.”

  Matthew waited for her at the sidewalk curb, pushing aside the instinct of habit to reach out a hand as he would have for most women entering a restaurant with him. “Did you choose him for the packages because of that ambition?”

  “Adam was the most aggressive field agent in the region, where the first photos and kids were located. He got them out. I sent him the next envelope. He got them out too. I don’t have to like him to make use of his skills.”

  Matthew was puzzled by her opinion and curious as to how it had formed. “What if you’ve entirely misread him?” He held the first of the restaurant entrance doors for her.

  She glanced over at him. “You mean what if he’s really a nice guy and will do right by me, even if that comes into conflict with what is best for his career?”

  “Yes.”

  She paused between the two sets of doors, the mostly empty restaurant and hostess waiting to seat them on the other side. “Matthew, you have reason to be altruistic. Your career is dead in terms of advancement, because you stepped away for a decade because of your daughter. You would be welcome back at the Boston PD and given back your rank as a detective, and you could spend the next twenty years working robbery if that was your wish. But you’ll never shift to the political track and work your way up to become the top cop for the city. You don’t need that ambition to reach your life goal. A guy like Adam York still has the hope to rise to the top, and it’s that ambition that causes him to use cases such as this as stepping-stones. He’ll care, but only to a point, because he knows the next case is following behind this one. I’m useful to him, and he’ll be good to me and helpful right up to the point it might complicate his goal.”

  “You would handle someone like Adam York as an ally but not as a friend,” Matthew said.

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know whether to admire your blunt assessment and decision or feel sorry you’ve had to make it. Have you ever met Adam York?”

  “No.”

  He held the interior door for her. “Maybe it’s best if I meet Adam without you tonight.”

  She gave him a glimmer of a smile. “That might be best.”

  Interstate driving was a lesson in monotony. Matthew was thankful Shannon wasn’t napping, if only because she gave him something to focus on. “Hey, would you try to relax? Your brother is going to be overjoyed to see you,” he said, trying to dislodge the frown he could see forming. Shannon had been making notes on a pad of paper headlined with JEFFERY for the last hour back on the road, and Matthew could literally feel her building tension.

  “He remembers someone who looks sixteen,” Shannon muttered. “I’m going to need something better than jeans and a T-shirt.”

  She ignored the real reasons she was tense and had given him the I have nothing to wear answer. He nearly laughed because he’d heard that line of retreat so many times from Becky that he could finish the sentence. At least here was something with Shannon he could understand. “The next town we pass, we’ll stop at a mall and you can shop for something else. You’ll look just right,” he reassured, “because you’re the sister he loves and has hoped and longed to see. Just stay with low heels in case we have to hurry down some stairs to avoid the press.”

  “Contingency planning?”

  “We won’t need it, but it never hurts to be prepared. It’s why you have me helping you out.” Matthew spotted an exit sign ahead that looked promising and changed lanes, glad for a reason to take another break from the drive. “Would you not get insulted if I ask you how you’re set for cash?”

  “I’ll need access to a gym bag in the trunk. I have more than enough for a dress, shoes, and accessories.”

  Matthew nodded. He followed signs and found a reasonably sized mall just off the Interstate. “Which store?”

  “Let me start with Macy’s.”

  He found a parking place near the mall entrance. “I’m going to stretch my legs, make a call and talk to Paul. Call me when you want to meet back at the car, otherwise I’ll be here in, say, an hour and a half?”

  “That works for me.”

  He didn’t look over her shoulder when she opened the gym bag in the trunk. His need for information was smacking up against his desire to give her as much privacy as he could until she chose to tell him facts. She put the phone he had given her in one pocket, cash in another, and didn’t take her bag with her.

  “If you had to suggest a color for me, what would you go with?” she asked.

  “Pink.”

  She glanced over, surprised.

  “Trust me. It’s a good color for you.”

  “It makes me look like that sixteen again.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with looking cute.”

  She laughed. “I’ll see you later.” She headed toward the mall.

  Matthew waited until she had disappeared inside Macy’s, then his smile faded as he dialed Paul’s number. What she had told him so far during the drive was going to make for a grim conversation. And he could use Paul’s take on Adam York.

  Matthew appreciated Paul’s ability to listen and not respond until the information had been fully briefed.

  “They threw her overboard,” Paul repeated, his voice neutral, but each word separated from the next as the image of that hung between them.

  Matthew wasn’t surprised where Paul chose to make his first comment. “I wish you could have heard her voice when she said it. I don’t know how to help her, Paul. It’s different than calm. It’s almost . . . what? Acceptance? She’s icing over the panic she felt, flat-toning the facts.”

  “I’ll put Rachel on the phone and get you some professional advice here. But I’d stay with the basic three rules—listen, try not to react, and keep your reply at the same emotional tone she sets.”

  “That’s instinctive from having dealt with Becky. But Shannon needs something else I can’t define. She’s looking for a reaction, I think. Horror seems to fit, that this is what happened to her.”

  “An easy emotion to feel, given what she described,” Paul said. “There will be the appropriate moment to express that, but it’s not on the first day, not to her first remarks about what occurred. If this turns emotional, she won’t be able to survive the telling, not if it’s the opening card she’s laying down. That deck is going to have some brutally hard info still to come. You have to stay even keel enough to let her play them.”

  Matthew ran his hand through his hair. “I hear you.” He needed to get professional help involved, someone Shannon would trust. He was going to screw this up and do some unintentional damage if he had to fly solo for much longer. He shifted the phone to his other hand. “What can you tell me about Adam York?”

  “I know him by reputation,” Paul replied. “He’s not running a regional office yet, but he’s on the short list to get there. He’s a case guy, with his fingers in a lot of investigations, rat
her than moving up the policy side of the shop. He’s not strayed too far into organized crime, inter-state trafficking, violent serial crimes. He’s aggressive on white-collar crimes—pension fraud, charities that fund someone’s personal account, real-estate schemes, political kickbacks, bribery. Insurance fraud is a favorite. He arrests a lot of lawyers.”

  “That’s not what I expected to hear.”

  “I’ve been scrolling through his personnel file while we talk. Shannon’s envelopes to him on the child abductions seem out of place in his portfolio, but it looks like he’s done an excellent job with the information she provided. He’s exploited every bit of intelligence those mailings have produced. As far as the rest of his career—the people tapping him when something goes across regions are the top guys in the get-it-done side of the bureau. Simply from the ones who are using his time, I can tell you Adam is in the category of being a very good, very solid, agent.”

  “That’s useful to know. Is he the kind of guy willing to share? I’m trying to sort out how to make sure this next package lands on your desk too. There’s a high probability one or more of these people were involved in Shannon’s abduction. You and Theo both need to see the contents as soon as possible.”

  “I’m guessing Shannon put Adam’s name on the package for a reason. Let him open it. Tell him to reach out to me concerning the implications regarding Shannon and Chicago. He’ll take that advice. If he doesn’t . . . well, I’ll just move around whatever is necessary and shift him over to work for me. One way or the other, I’ll have the package details on my desk. Keep your priority with him on keeping the news Shannon is alive under wraps. Imply her further cooperation depends on how he handles what she’s now giving him.”

  “I can play that tune without a problem.” Matthew saw Shannon heading back to the car, carrying a garment bag and two other bags. “I need to go. I’ll call you later tonight, Paul.”