TAKE A CHANCE ON ME

  Rollo flipped open the chart again. "Complete rupture of the bloody membrane, recurrent scrotal pain and atrophy—you ignored the pain, buddy, and by the time you got in here, your body had already had several months to fight off what it considered a virus invading your body cavity—your own sperm. The damage was done. You'd built up antibodies to your own sperm."

  "You told me this already."

  "What I told you, Thomas, is that your semen analysis showed you were far, far below normal ranges and were considered sterile. But I also told you that you had a few healthy sperm left with some motility—not many, but some."

  Thomas was up and out of the chair and his voice was so loud it bounced off the wallpaper and zinged over the surface of the windows. "Are you telling me that I could be the actual goddamn father of that baby?"

  "Sit down, Thomas," Rollo said calmly, and Thomas slammed down into the chair again. His head felt like it would explode.

  "Maybe—just maybe—that's your baby Emma's carrying. She could be telling the truth."

  Thomas rubbed his hand across his mouth and stared at the pocket of Rollo's coat—it didn't say anything about the CVS stock boy. This was not another one of his dreams. This was real.

  The worst fucking nightmare he'd ever had.

  "Oh, dear God."

  "Look, T. You are technically, virtually, medically infertile. But you still produce sperm—and a couple of them still have some get-up-and-go. Maybe you had one real champ and he made the clutch play for you, man."

  "Oh, dear God."

  Rollo shrugged. "As your doctor—and as your friend—I've got to tell you that this isn't about numbers, it's about trust. You can always get an in vitro DNA workup if you have to, but you need to decide right now—you either trust the woman or you don't. Which is it?"

  "Dear God in heaven."

  Rollo reached over the desk and gave Thomas's cheek several quick, light slaps. "Are you hearing what I'm saying?"

  Thomas looked at Rollo and swallowed. "That's my baby, isn't it?"

  "I'm a doctor, not an odds maker, T." Rollo closed the file. "I've seen some strange things in my line of work, and I'll be the first person to tell you that bad shit happens all the time. But I think maybe there's room in the universe for really excellent shit to happen, too."

  Rollo put his hand on Thomas's arm.

  "Maybe this is one of those times—a time for excellent shit. A miracle even."

  "Oh, Emma, baby. Oh, no." Thomas rolled his eyes to the ceiling, then looked down at his pager: six calls from her now.

  He jumped up and Rollo followed him to the door. "What're you gonna do, man?"

  Thomas wasn't sure what to do with his own face—should he be beaming with pride? Crying because he was such a moron? He ended up turning, throwing his arms around his best friend and squeezing as hard as he could.

  Rollo stared at him in shock.

  "I'll tell you what I'm gonna do, man." Thomas planted a big, smacking kiss on Rollo's cheek. "I'm going to get married—that is, if Emma can ever forgive me for what I just did to her—if she can still love me. Then I'm going to be a husband and a father."

  Thomas reached for the doorknob and turned back to Rollo. "Score a few more Cohibas in the meantime, all right? We're gonna need 'em."

  He shut the door, leaving Rollo standing in the middle of his office, laughing, shaking his head, rubbing his cheek.

  "There goes poker night."

  * * *

  Chapter 20

  Kung Fu Fighting

  « ^ »

  She raced down the farm lane, aware of nothing but the panic and dread that churned inside her. Everything was falling apart, breaking into pieces, and if anything happened to Leelee she'd never forgive herself.

  Never.

  The truck cleared the last stand of trees.

  And Emma screamed.

  Aaron had Leelee. She was as limp as a rag doll. He dragged her, her heels cutting into the gravel as he backed toward the open door of some disgusting old car. Leelee's wrists were tied behind her back.

  Emma barely stopped the truck before she jumped out and ran toward them, calling out, begging Aaron to let her go.

  "Get back!" Aaron heaved Leelee onto the back seat and pointed a gun at Emma's face. She skidded to a halt.

  "Please! Aaron! God! Don't—"

  He shoved the gun into her side. "Come on, Em. We're taking a ride."

  Emma's brain went numb from the assault of all the impossible things that were suddenly real. Aaron had a gun. He was drunk—drunk?—when she'd never seen him take a single drink in the thirteen years she'd known him. And the look in his eye was crazed, wild, empty. She tried to reason with him.

  "Aaron—I'll give you anything—"

  He shoved her between the shoulder blades, and as she stumbled toward the front passenger seat, Emma blinked in wonder at what she saw—Hairy had jumped from her truck and was now slinking low in the grass along the drive. She caught the dog's eye just before he skittered between the tires and jumped through the driver's side window of the old car.

  Aaron leaned his back against the rusty door and poked the gun into Emma's belly. He sighed.

  Emma's eyes darted to his face, and she saw that in addition to being drunk, he was exhausted. Thin. And he hadn't shaved or taken a shower in perhaps weeks.

  "Aaron, please—"

  "Don't make this any worse than it has to be, Em."

  She flinched—Aaron was stroking her cheek with his free hand.

  Through the shock and fear, she stared over his shoulder to watch Hairy in action. He snatched Aaron's wallet from the front seat, sailed out the window, and dropped the wallet under a bushy sedum by the porch. Then Hairy hopped back in the car and soared over the front seat and onto Leelee's lap.

  What was the dog doing?

  "I wish I didn't have to kill you, Emma."

  Aaron dragged a finger along her lower lip and she moved her eyes back to him. He came closer. The choking fear and the smell of alcohol and old sweat made her want to vomit.

  "You should've given me the money when I asked nice. And now I have no choice…" Aaron leaned into her, the gun jutting into her navel, and brought his lips to hers.

  Emma's eyes darted back to the car, where Hairy was now nibbling on Leelee's chin, her upper lip, licking her eyelids. Leelee regained consciousness and stared silently at Emma through the window—clearly terrified. Hairy sailed out the window and hid in the grass.

  Aaron ended the kiss, then pulled baling twine out of his pocket and wrapped her wrists tight in front of her, the sharp threads digging into her skin. She hissed with the pain.

  "Get in." He pushed her down on the seat. "If you give me any trouble, I swear I'll shoot Becca's sewer-mouthed little bastard kid, and don't think I won't enjoy doing it. She's a pain in the ass." Aaron glanced at Leelee, who pretended to be out cold. "But damn—she's gonna be as hot as her mom. I can already see it."

  Emma swallowed hard. She was going to be sick for sure.

  As Aaron walked around the front of the car, Emma took a deep breath and told herself to think. Think hard. But all that came to her were the words Don't get in the car, whatever you do… How many times had she read that? Never get in the car with the assailant.

  But what choice did she have? If they ran he'd shoot them—she had no doubt that Aaron was psycho enough to do it. If she tried to fight him, she'd put three lives in danger—her own, Leelee's, and the baby inside her.

  At that realization, Emma began to tremble from head to toe.

  The car moved. She checked the rearview mirror and through her tears saw little Hairy sitting in the lane. He'd witnessed everything—and had Aaron's wallet. Would he try to tell someone what had happened? And who would understand him if he did?

  Thomas would.

  But where was he?

  "Thomas," she whispered, shutting her eyes, blinking back the tears. "I need you."

  Aaron must have heard, because he laughed har
d and poked her in the ribs with the gun.

  "Ain't love a bitch?" he said, pulling out onto the road. "Nobody's there when you really need them."

  * * *

  Thomas put the magnetized blue flashing light on his dashboard and drove like a wild man out to Carroll County.

  Emma wasn't answering any of her phones, so Thomas figured she was in the barn, saddling up Vesta for a nice ride. But maybe she shouldn't ride now because of the baby, especially on a horse as feisty as Vesta. Maybe she'd take Bud. But what if she fell? Would she be careful? Would she take Leelee with her just to be on the safe side?

  Thomas felt his stomach do another round of somersaults—Emma was somewhere thinking he'd turned his back on her and their baby. Wherever she was, her heart had to be breaking.

  He couldn't drive fast enough. Each second that passed was time she didn't know he trusted her, believed her, loved her more than he'd ever guessed a man could love a woman. Every second cut a deeper wedge between them, ate away at their future.

  Oh, Jesus, what had he done?

  His car phone rang.

  "Emma? Baby, is that you?"

  A female snicker wafted through the earpiece. "Sorry, Tommy. It's just me."

  Thomas felt his heart slide to his feet. "Ah, hell, Reg. I'm sorry, but I can't talk right now—I'm in the middle of the biggest crisis of my life, my … how did you describe me and Nina together?"

  "Uh … sour-assed?"

  "Bingo. This is the biggest moment in my sour-assed life. I gotta go."

  "Thomas, wait. I got a voice mail from your Emma. She … she said her ex-husband, some guy named Aaron Kramer, killed Slick. Does this make any sense to you?"

  "What? No! Absolutely no sense, Reg. When did she call you?"

  "About an hour ago. I'm looking through Slick's computer records right now for mention of an Aaron Kramer. And listen, Emma sounded hysterical during the call and now I can't reach her. She's not at either number she left for me, and—"

  "Shit," Thomas hissed.

  Emma must have called Reg soon after he walked away from her. Emma was pregnant. Under stress. Maybe she'd snapped. But Emma wasn't the kind to snap.

  "I don't know what the hell's going on, Reg, but if that's what the lady said, then she had a reason. Bring him in. He's got a vet practice in Annapolis. I'll deal with all this later, okay?"

  "Okay. So what's going on with you? Is everything all right?"

  Thomas laughed into the phone. "God no, everything's not all right. Everything's messed up. I'm an idiot. Reg, look—how does a man convince a woman that he's more sorry than he could ever say, that his life would be nothing without her?"

  Regina sighed. "Lord, Tommy. What have you done now?"

  * * *

  "Either of you move, I start shooting."

  Aaron got out of the car. He backed to the motel room door not two feet away from the parking spot, and inserted the key, never taking his eyes from them.

  He ushered them quickly inside.

  He locked the door and flipped on the overhead light. Then he closed the drapes, making sure there were no gaps in the folds of musty fabric.

  Emma's gut tensed as she scanned the evidence of Aaron's dive off the deep end. Empty Jack Daniel's bottles were knocked over on the dresser and floor. The threadbare room was littered with chip bags and scribbled-on bits of paper—sports bets. A pair of dirty underwear was flung over the lampshade.

  "Nice crib," Leelee said.

  He laughed, then pointed the gun at the floor in front of the dresser and television. "You. Smart-ass. Sit down over there." He put the gun at her temple. "If you move, I kill you."

  Leelee nodded, and slid down onto her bottom.

  "You." Aaron grabbed a scarred wooden chair from near the window and pointed the gun at it. "Here." He held it for Emma.

  "Now listen up, girlies. Here's the game plan." Aaron poured himself a drink with the gun pointed at Leelee and his eyes darting back and forth between the women. He slammed back the whiskey and hissed between his teeth.

  "It's going to be your basic murder-suicide. Leelee kills you—" He pointed at Emma. "Then kills herself. And the insurance money is mine."

  "Insurance?" Emma's mouth fell open. "This is about our life-insurance policies?"

  "Why, yes it is!" Aaron mimicked her surprise. "Thank you again for being kind enough to keep me as your beneficiary."

  "Oh, God." Emma closed her eyes. It was the only thing he'd asked for in the divorce settlement, that they'd remain beneficiaries on each other's policies for two years, a guarantee that at least one veterinary practice would thrive if anything were to happen to one of them. Since they'd gone into debt together in residency and later as business partners, she thought it was equitable.

  And now he was going to kill her for it.

  "You don't have to do this," Emma said calmly. "We can work something out. I won't go to the police. No one has to know—"

  "Shut up!" he screamed, waving the gun in her direction. At that moment, it occurred to Emma that the man in front of her was a stranger. She knew nothing about him. Maybe she never had.

  And she'd be damned if she'd let him hurt two innocent children.

  "This is not going to work, you know," Leelee said from her place on the floor. "They have insurance investigators and criminalistics people like on CSI. It'd be a no-brainer to figure out you did it for the money."

  "Shut … the … fuck … up," Aaron whispered. "Do you want me to blow your head off? Is that it?"

  Emma was trying to get Leelee's attention—because shutting up sounded like a real good idea right about now. But Leelee wasn't looking.

  "Besides, your bitchin' new ride is right outside for the world to see."

  Aaron stalked toward her. Emma willed the girl to be quiet. "And what's my motive?" Leelee continued. "I'm the Carroll County Middle School Geography Bee champion, for crying out loud!"

  Aaron clicked off the safety and stuck the gun to Leelee's mouth. "This will shut you up."

  "I'm pregnant!" Emma screamed.

  Aaron turned his head and stared at Emma. Leelee gasped and sat up straighter.

  "What?" they both yelled at the same time.

  "I'm going to have a baby, Aaron. Please let us go. Don't kill us. I'll give you everything I have if you just let us go."

  Aaron cocked his head, as if considering her offer. "Who's the father?"

  Emma swallowed, her eyes darting from Leelee's shocked face to Aaron. Then back to Leelee—the girl had begun to furiously saw her wrists against the little metal drawer pull behind her back.

  "The father is Thomas, my fiancé."

  "Fiancé?" they both yelled.

  "Yes."

  Aaron stared at her with narrow, ugly eyes, and Emma checked quickly to see that Leelee almost had her hands free.

  "Pops and I will sell the farm and give you all the profit." Emma's voice was soft and steady as she held Aaron's gaze. "It's worth a fortune to developers now—millions, Aaron. Think about it. That would be so much better than whatever my insurance might be worth. And you can have it all."

  As a sickening smile spread across his face, Emma knew she had never been more frightened in her life. It was eerie seeing an Aaron who wasn't Aaron—gutted out and hollow. Her stomach clenched again.

  "You lying whore." With that, his open hand cracked across her mouth, and Emma's head swung around from the force.

  "Buttwipe!" Leelee shot up from the floor and lunged at Aaron.

  In her swimming vision, Emma watched Leelee make a single upward slice with her forearm, knocking the gun from Aaron's grip. The gun went sailing over the bed just as Leelee jumped Aaron, knocked him back on the mattress, and straddled him, hitting and punching wildly.

  Emma was on her feet, ready to do whatever she could to beat Aaron to a pulp and get them out of there, when the door was bashed open and two men stumbled in. They both had guns.

  "Hey—it's a party," said the uglier of the two.


  * * *

  Thomas raced down the lane, gravel and dust flying around the Audi like a swarm of hornets. He saw Emma's truck, and his heart soared—then sank. The driver's side door was flung open, and Beckett was standing in the driveway—in tears.

  "Beck?" Thomas flew out of his car and ran to the old man. He grabbed him by the shoulders.

  "They're gone. Something happened. I think he has them."

  "Emma's gone? Leelee?"

  "Aaron's got 'em."

  "What do you mean he's—"

  "Here." Beckett handed him a fine-grained black leather wallet. "Hairy had it in his teeth when I got back from the Super Fresh just a minute ago. The dog was going nuts—spinning and jumping and crying. I think Aaron has the girls."

  "Did you look—?"

  "House. Barn. Everywhere. They're gone."

  Thomas looked down at the mishmash of tire prints in the gravel. Hell if he could tell if another car had been here. Then he saw the deep cuts in the stones, like somebody's feet had been dragged across the lane.

  "I'm calling in." Thomas ran to the car, yelling over his shoulder. "How long ago, Beck? How long ago do you think?"

  He shook his head. "I've been home no more than five minutes. That's all I can tell you."

  Thomas dialed Reg and told her to get an APB on Aaron Kramer. He flipped open the wallet and started reading from the expired Maryland driver's license.

  "White male, DOB 6–14–67, five-nine, one fifty-five. He's got brown eyes, brown hair. He's—"

  Thomas stopped. He stared at the little picture at the top right corner of the license and turned it in the light. He imagined what that clean-cut man would look like in a scraggly beard and a pair of blue contact lenses.

  "He's Larry. Oh, fuck."

  "Who's Larry?"

  Thomas dumped the contents of the wallet onto the front seat and started looking for something—anything—that might indicate where Aaron had taken them. He found two condoms, two obviously stolen credit cards, a few bucks, and a handwritten receipt for a motel room—paid up until tomorrow.

  Thomas gave Reg the address to the King of Hearts Motor Court in Bowie, then gave her the physical descriptions of Leelee and Emma. "Bring in the STATE team," he said. "Get everyone in position for a possible hostage situation. I'm on my way."