Читать книгу Claiming His Family - Ann Peterson Voss - Страница 13

“Gone?” Dex’s heart stuttered in his chest. He shot up from his chair, muscles tensed to fight. “What the hell do you mean?”

Alyson took in a shaky breath as if trying to hold back tears. “I went into Patrick’s room to check on him, and Smythe grabbed me. He pressed a chloroform-soaked cloth over my face. When I woke up, Patrick was gone. Smythe took him.”

“Smythe? Are you sure?” Dex had been living and breathing Andrew Clarke Smythe in the months since the DNA match had been made. But to now learn he had a son, and that Andrew Clarke Smythe had kidnapped him, was too surreal to absorb.

“Smythe called me. Somehow he knew you were Patrick’s father. He took our baby to get back at you for convicting him two years ago.”

Rage, pure and hot, surged through Dex’s blood. Smythe had kidnapped his son. His son. If the son of a bitch wanted to make things personal, he’d succeeded. And he’d soon wish he hadn’t. If Dex had anything to say about it, the scum would be strung up before daybreak. Crossing to the door in three strides, he left Alyson huddled on the porch. His footsteps thundered down the hall, echoing on the hardwood floor like the beat of war drums. Reaching the library, he circled his desk and reached for the cordless phone perched on the credenza.

“Wait.”

Finger poised over the number pad, he looked up into Alyson’s emerald eyes.

“Smythe told me if we got the police involved, I would never see Patrick again.” Her voice broke. Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t let them wind down her cheeks. “If you call the police, he’ll find out. He said he has sources. He could have someone watching us right now.”

She was probably right about Smythe’s sources. Heir to Smythe Pharmaceuticals, the poor little rich boy had endless money at his disposal. And money could corrupt even the purest police department. Or district attorney’s office. Dex had seen it happen.

Expelling a long breath, he set the cordless phone on the desk and studied her face in the library’s bright light. Fine lines framed her mouth and eyes. Shadows lurked in the hollows under her cheekbones, making her normally smooth face appear almost gaunt. He’d seen these signs of stress many times in his work. Hell, he’d grown up surrounded by desperation. “So what else did Smythe say?”

“I have a tape. I recorded part of what he said.” She pulled a tiny cassette from her pocket and held it out to Dex with shaking fingers.

Dex took the tape from her hand. After rummaging through his desk, he produced a microcassette recorder and slipped the tape inside. He pushed the play button.

Andrew Smythe’s voice wound through the library, smooth as a snake’s hiss. Dex had heard it many times in press conferences after court, in pleas from prison, and it always sounded the same. No fear. No pity. Nothing but an unfeeling smugness that set Dex’s teeth on edge.

Much more striking was the sound of Alyson’s voice. So naked. So desperate.

Dex tried to steel himself against the vulnerability in her voice. He tried to focus on Smythe’s words. On what he was saying. Only when the tape ended did he allow himself to look at her.

Her eyes searched his, desperate for answers. Answers he couldn’t give.

He ejected the cassette. “That’s Smythe, all right. But there are no threats on the tape. Nothing I can use to convince a judge to grant an arrest warrant.”

Her gaze fell to the desktop. “I must not have pressed the button soon enough.”

“What did Smythe say? Exactly. Think.”

“He said I should tell you that Patrick is your son.”

He gritted his teeth. If Smythe hadn’t demanded she tell him about Patrick, he never would have known. That was clear enough. And that knowledge stabbed into him with the force of a sharp blade in malevolent hands.

He clamped down on the bleeding. What Alyson would or wouldn’t have done wasn’t important anymore. “What else did he say?”

“That he’d be in touch with us. And he’d let us know what to do next.”

Dex grimaced. That’s what he was afraid of. Leveling her with hard eyes, he shook his head. “I’m not playing a part in any twisted puppet show Smythe has planned.”

Her eyes widened. Leaning toward him, she gripped the edge of the desk. “If we do what he says, he’ll give Patrick back.”

“Smythe has no intention of returning Patrick.”

“But he said—”

“I don’t care what he said. He’s not going to give Patrick back to us, even if we play by every one of his damn rules. Smythe wants to humiliate me, to dominate me, to win. That’s what he’s about. Not fairness. Not keeping his word.”

“He’ll—” She swayed, clutching the desk for balance.

Dex circled the desk. He slipped his arm around her shoulders and propped her up.

After guiding her a few steps, he lowered her into a chair. The soft scents of chamomile and roses surrounded him, a bittersweet memory. Love. Trust. Things he’d once hoped they had together. Things they’d never really had at all. Finally he straightened, spun away from her and paced across the floor.

She gripped the chair’s leather arms and held on. “We can’t take the chance, Dex. We have to do what he says. I can’t lose my baby.”

“We aren’t going to lose him.” Though his voice barely rose above a whisper, it rang with the determination he felt deep in his gut. “I know Smythe. And what I don’t know, I’m damn well going to find out. I’ll get our son back. If you want to help, you’ll have to trust me for once in your life.”

Alyson raised her chin. Tears glittered in her eyes, making them sparkle like emeralds. Her lips tightened. “Why? What do you want me to do?”

Just as he’d thought. She didn’t trust him any more now than she had the day he’d told her that her father was selling plea bargains. An ache crept up his spine and settled in his shoulders. More than a year had passed since he’d last seen Alyson. His feelings of bitterness and betrayal should be dead and buried by now. But they’d returned the moment he’d opened the door tonight and seen her distraught face. Smelling her scent and hearing the vulnerability in her voice had only deepened the ache.

And now to learn he had a son. They had a son. Together…

Pressure constricted his chest, tighter than a steel band. He shoved the thoughts and feelings aside. He couldn’t let himself think about what having a son might mean. He had to focus. He had to formulate some kind of plan. And the first part of that plan was to ensure Smythe didn’t have the opportunity to strike again. “I want you to go home. Try to get some sleep. I’ll arrange for plain clothes officers to watch your house. Smythe and his sources will never know they’re cops.”

Her eyes grew wide with alarm. “You can’t shut me out. I need to help find Patrick.”

“I’m not shutting you out. I’ll call as soon as I learn anything.”

She raised her chin in that determined way of hers and shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You need to be home in case Smythe calls.”

“I forwarded the calls to my cell phone. If he calls, I can answer wherever I am.” She dipped a hand into her pocket and pulled out a phone as an offer of proof. “I know you don’t want to have anything to do with me, Dex. For God’s sake, you didn’t before you knew I didn’t tell you about Patrick. But I can’t just sit at home knowing that monster has him. Surely you can understand that.”

He could understand far too much about how Alyson must be feeling, even after all this time. That was the problem. And it would be even more of a problem if Smythe had figured that out. And from all indications, he had. “If you stay home, I can arrange for protection. The police can turn your house into a regular fortress. If you don’t, you’ll make things much tougher.”

“Protection? For me?”

“Yes, for you. You said Smythe used chloroform on you when he broke into your house tonight.”

“Yes.”

“I’m betting he was also carrying rope.”

He could tell by her expression the answer was yes. She shook her head hard, her auburn hair lashing her cheeks. Obviously she’d guessed where he was going. And she didn’t want to hear it.

Tough. She had to face facts. He had. “Smythe isn’t a kidnapper, Alyson. He isn’t a man who targets children, either. He rapes women. He was planning to get his revenge on me by attacking you.”

Though she seemed to know what was coming, a shudder still shook her.

He fought the need to rush to her side again, to encircle her with his arm and let her lean against him. “Are you okay?”

Gripping the chair until her knuckles turned white, she nodded. “So you think he came after me and stumbled on Patrick.”

“That’s what I’m guessing. He must have figured out Patrick was my child, and that kidnapping him would present an even greater opportunity for revenge.”

“But if that’s true, why didn’t he rape me, too?”

“Do you remember what he did to those other women?”

She pulled back in her chair as if flinching from her own thoughts. “He kidnapped them.”

Dex nodded. “He took them to a private place—a place no one would discover them—and he raped them for hours. His last victim was attacked for days. I’m sure he wanted to do the same to you, but he couldn’t handle kidnapping both you and Patrick at the same time.”

“So he settled for Patrick.”

“For now.” Dex looked her straight in the eye. He hated being this blunt, but Alyson had to face the facts. Smythe had Patrick, and she was next. And who knew what other targets Smythe had on his list? No one or nothing Dex had ever cared about was safe.

“But how did he know about us, Dex? We didn’t exactly announce our relationship from the rooftops. How would he know that you and I were once involved? That Patrick was your child?”

“That’s one of the things I’m going to find out.”

Straightening her spine, she set her chin. “So where do we start?”

“We keep you safe. I’ll post officers outside your house twenty-four seven. And I’ll look into getting you an alarm system. I’ll keep you updated on everything I learn. I promise.”

“No. I’m not going to stay trapped in my house. I don’t care what Smythe is planning. I have to do something to get my baby back.” Tears spiked her lashes, but her voice carried a note of determination.

“Alyson—”

“I mean it, Dex. If you don’t let me help you, I’ll figure something out on my own.”

The thought of Alyson by his side made his shoulders ache like a son of a bitch. But he couldn’t let her walk around without protection.

Thrusting himself to his feet, Dex paced across the room. Damn Smythe and his sick revenge. Damn the governor and his pardons. And damn Alyson for failing to tell him he had a son until the baby was kidnapped.

But most of all, damn him for letting her latest betrayal wound him all over again.

He strode for the door without looking at her. He couldn’t. Looking at her would only make him want to take her into his arms again when he would be far better off to run in the other direction. “There are fresh sheets in the guest room closet. We’ll leave for the prison where Smythe was incarcerated first thing in the morning.”

LOCATED IN GRANT COUNTY, a skip and a jump from the Mississippi River, the Grant Correctional Institute loomed on one of the few plateaus in an area of sharp hills and sweeping gorges—Wisconsin’s unglaciated region. Alyson had always thought the area was beautiful. But today she hardly noticed the scenery whizzing past the car window. She hardly noticed anything except the man sitting next to her, his hands gripping the steering wheel.

Tall and fit, he looked every bit as appealing as the first time she’d met him. The pull of attraction had reached into her chest and grabbed her by the heart when her father had introduced her to his protégé, the newest assistant district attorney in the office. But it wasn’t until she’d talked to him later that night, until she’d seen his intelligence and humor and idealism that she’d lost her heart.

And she still hadn’t recovered it. Of course now it was bloody and wounded. Damaged goods. As was she. Especially in Dex’s eyes.

No matter what had happened between them, she could never regret their time together. She couldn’t even regret her shattered heart. Because if it weren’t for Dex, she wouldn’t have Patrick. And any kind of pain was worth enduring for one moment of holding her little boy in her arms.

Patrick. Her arms ached to hold him. When she’d awakened this morning, she’d felt more alone than the day her father died. Even the months of hiding her pregnancy, going through childbirth and waking at night to care for Patrick hadn’t been as hard. Now Patrick was gone. Now she had no one. And no way of ensuring that her baby was safe and fed and cared for.

She focused on the road ahead. “What are we looking for at the prison?”

“Someone helped Smythe smuggle his blood out. That’s the only way it could have ended up under that woman’s fingernails—the woman who claims she was raped.”

“So we check the prison sign-in sheet?”

“And phone logs. I want to see who he’s been talking to.”

“I assume you’ve questioned the alleged rape victim?”

“The police talked to her when she reported the rape. But she disappeared right after your lab discovered the blood was a match with Smythe’s. Area sheriffs’ departments have been looking for her ever since. That leaves only the person who smuggled Smythe’s blood out of prison.”

“Maybe that person was her. What was her name?”

“Connie Rasula. And it’s doubtful she did the smuggling. The police found nothing to tie her to Smythe. And they looked hard, believe me.”

She could imagine. No one in law enforcement liked to be thrown a curve ball like the one they’d been tossed. If they couldn’t clear up the question about Smythe’s DNA double, DNA evidence could be called into question in courtrooms across the country. But to her, that possibility paled in comparison to the prospect of never seeing her son again. “So we find out who visited him.”

Dex nodded, his gaze glued to the twisting road ahead. “And hope we come away with some answers.”

“Hope? That isn’t very reassuring.”

“It’s all I have. If you have a better idea, spit it out.”

Alyson bit her bottom lip and stared out the windshield as Dex pulled the car up to the outer gate of the prison. Rolls of razor wire glinted in the sun. Sharp and brutal and unforgiving.

She shivered. Just the thought of venturing inside the gates with the kind of men she did her part to put behind bars every day—men like Andrew Smythe—made her skin crawl. But if it meant finding a name on those visitor logs or phone records that would lead them to Patrick, she would walk a gauntlet through the cell blocks alone.

She glanced at Dex. Jaw set and eyes narrowed, he looked ready to fight the world. Despite his anger toward her, despite his judgment of her, despite all that had happened between them, he was with her now. And he would fight with her to find their son.

For the first time in over a year, she didn’t have to fight alone.

DEX LEANED against the stainless-steel counter in the prison vestibule and paged through the visitor’s log, scanning for Smythe’s name in the Inmate Visited column. Alyson stood beside him, close enough to read the names scrawled on the battered pages. Too close. Her body heat made the already warm day that much warmer. Her sweet scent teased his senses. And when she moved her head, wisps of auburn hair trailed across his arm.

Having her sleep under his roof last night had been pure torture. Even though the master bedroom was on the main floor of his house and the guest bedroom was upstairs, she’d been far too close to afford him any semblance of a night’s sleep. And even when he did manage to shut his eyes, dreams of the son he’d never seen haunted him.

He forced his attention to the names in the sign-in book. He had to concentrate. He had to find a lead, any lead, that would take him to Patrick. They’d found nothing of note in the prison’s telephone logs. Only an occasional call to Smythe’s lawyer. He prayed these pages would reveal something. Because they had nothing but Smythe’s word that Patrick would be safe. And Dex knew just how little Andrew Clarke Smythe’s word was worth.

Alyson grasped Dex’s hand before he could turn the next page, her fingers clamping around his. “There.” She pointed to Smythe’s name on the form. Tracing her finger along the page, she landed on the name of the visitor. She exhaled. “Oh. Lee Runyon again.”

Dex nodded, noting several more entries for Runyon on the following pages. “He must have been working on an appeal.” As Smythe’s attorney, Runyon had flooded the appellate court with a constant stream of paperwork on Smythe’s behalf. All the appeals money could buy. It was no wonder he had to telephone and visit his client often.

“That doesn’t mean Runyon isn’t helping Smythe in other ways. Making contacts for him. Helping with arrangements,” Alyson said.

Dex had never liked Runyon much. No district attorney did. He won far too many cases he should lose. He had a way of charming the jury and creating a smoke screen around his client that blurred the truth. And he had an overactive ego. But that didn’t mean he was a criminal. Or that he would cross that line, even for a client with as much money as Smythe. “I suppose it’s possible.”

“But not probable?”

“No. Not unless he has a damn good reason for risking everything he’s built.”

Alyson nodded, but the narrowed look of suspicion in her eyes didn’t let up.

Dex skimmed over the remaining entries in the visitor’s log. He flipped page after page until there were no more pages to flip. Besides Runyon, no other name showed up as a visitor for Smythe.

“Wait.” Alyson grabbed his hand again. “There’s a page missing from the book.”

Dex paged back. Sure enough. The page numbers skipped from twenty to twenty-two. He raised his eyes to the corrections officer behind the bulletproof glass. “There’s a page missing from this visitor’s log. Do you know anything about this?”

The stocky woman shook her head. “No, sir. But I’ll check for it back here.” She disappeared into the office where the visitor logs were archived.

“Wait a second. Maybe we can…” Alyson leaned over the book, straining for a closer look. A wisp of silky hair trailed across Dex’s hand. Her breast pressed against his arm. Heat stirred inside him. Heat he didn’t want to feel. He stepped back, allowing her free access to the log.

She examined the page, her freckled nose mere inches from the paper. Suddenly she shot up from the book and turned to him, her face animated, her eyes glowing like green embers. “There’s an impression of the writing from the missing page on this page. Look.” She moved to the side, allowing Dex to examine the paper.

Sure enough, inkless lines had been etched into the page by the force of the pen writing on the now missing page. Adrenaline spiked his blood. He opened his briefcase, located a pencil and tore a blank piece of paper from a legal pad. Placing the paper over the log page, he traced across it lightly with the pencil until the etched impressions came into focus.

Although the lines jumbled with other writing in the log, he could make out the name “Smythe” in the middle of the page. He kept tracing. Another name took form in the visitor column of the log. His jaw clenched.

“What?” Alyson looked from his face to the book. “What do you see?” She leaned close.

Dex gritted his teeth. “There might be a logical explanation. There had better be a logical explanation.”

Alyson turned wide eyes on him once more. “For what? I can’t make it out. Whose name do you see?”

Dex traced the name with his finger. “John Cohen.”

Alyson’s eyes widened.

Of course she would know the man. John Cohen had worked in the district attorney’s office longer than Dex had. Nearly as long as her father, Neil Fitzroy. And John and Fitz had shared political affiliations.

Alyson swallowed hard and shifted her feet, soles scraping against waxed tile. “Why would John Cohen visit Smythe?”

Dex shoved memories of Neil Fitzroy’s scheme to sell justice to the back of his mind. For now. Maybe John had a good reason for visiting Smythe. Maybe there was also a good reason for the page with his signature on it to go missing. Maybe. But the ache in Dex’s shoulders said something different. “That’s what I’m damn well going to find out.”