Читать книгу Tidings of Fear - Ericka Scott - Страница 8

Chapter 3

It happened so fast. How many times had a victim told her that and she’d scoffed, yes, scoffed at them. Sylvie Morgan had always believed that with the right precautions and forethought, all kidnappings and assaults could be prevented.

She leaned her head back against the wall and wished the cool plaster would cool the heat of her anger. She needed to think calmly, use all the resources available to her, and not panic. This whole situation would have been almost bearable if her captor had only taken her and not Deion. However, that had been part of his plan. He’d purposefully used her child to distract and disarm her.

Her heart clutched in her chest. What would she do if something happened to Deion? What if her one moment of carelessness got them into a situation she couldn’t get them out of? His head rested on her thigh as he slept. Despite her initial panic, she’d managed to stay in control of her emotions and not upset her child. But now what?

The room held no clues as to their whereabouts. The windows were securely boarded up, the walls painted flat black, and a fluorescent light blazed overhead. No sign of a light switch or any way to douse the light. Of the two doors in the room, one led to a tiny bathroom. A state-of-the-art cipher lock secured the other, a steel-reinforced panel, and from the sound she’d heard when her captor left, barred on the outside.

What’s worse, she’d been imprisoned in her own damn house. Well, not the one she lived it, but the one she’d grown up in and still co-owned with her sister, Lia. At least, Sylvie thought she was still in the house. After he’d gassed her, she’d been unconscious for an unknown period of time. Even now, she felt groggy and sick.

No. No doubts. This was her house. It might have been imagination, but the house felt the same, sounded the same, smelled the same as it had growing up. Worse, she didn’t even have to ask herself how this debacle had happened. Since their capture, she’d walked herself through every miserable mistake she’d made. Beaten herself over the head with them, in fact.

She should have simply called the management office to find out why the big pink Victorian mansion no longer operated as a bed and breakfast. Instead, she’d walked in the front door.

Granted, the management office wasn’t open on Sundays, a lame excuse. She should have kept on walking.

Instead, she’d scoped out the place. Watching another woman and her son concluding their portrait session had given her a false sense of security.

On the spur of the moment, she’d decided to have her portrait taken with Deion. A professional portrait to hang in the front foyer as an affirmation of her love for her son.

The photographer had given her the creeps. Old and wrinkly, he’d looked like an ancient vampire with his dyed black hair spiked with gold gel, a glittering diamond stud in his left ear, and eye makeup that would make any Goth sit up and take notice. Only in San Francisco. She’d wondered, just for a moment, if he was gay. At first, it amused her to think he was hitting on her, then she realized he’d shifted to subtly digging around into her past. It sent up big, waving red flags and spooked her enough that she hadn’t shared any personal information with him and paid with cash.

Having the prints mailed to her P.O. box would have been the smart thing to do. Instead, her curiosity had made her vulnerable.

A creak in the hallway made her jump, but she didn’t look over when a small panel in the bottom of the door opened. A tray slid into the room, holding two bottles of water, a sandwich, and an individual pan pizza.

Her mouth salivated at the scent of the greasy pizza. However, she knew better than to eat anything offered to her by a captor.

Deion sat up and rubbed his eyes. He sniffed the air and gave her a wide smile. “Hunny,” he said, rubbing his tummy.

“I’m sorry, baby. I know you’re hungry, but we can’t eat the food.”

His large brown eyes filled up with tears. “Hunny,” he said with a sob in his voice. “Hunny, mommy.” He stood and made his way over to the tray and picked up the slice. Stubborn child. But he did look over his shoulder at her before taking a bite. His eyes begged her to say yes.

If it had just been her, she could have ignored the food, stifled her hunger. But it had been hours since breakfast, and Deion hadn’t eaten much while they were at the harbor. He’d been too busy watching the sea lions. She closed her eyes. What to do?

The look on Deion’s face tugged at her heart. From across the room, she heard his stomach rumble. Simultaneously, hers joined in. Damn.

She crawled over to the tray and pulled it toward them. No suspicious odors or tastes, so against her better judgment, she took the pizza from Deion and took a bite. “Mommy tax,” she teased. It tasted okay, so with a short nod, she let Deion consume the rest of it. They shared the sandwich and drank a few sips of water.

Deion sat down on the floor and his eyes drifted shut. Soon, his breathing sounded labored. Shit. Oh shit. She leaned forward to reach for him and the room spun. She blinked back tears of anger. She’d screwed up again.

A male voice, sounding as if it were miles away and underwater caught her attention.

“Hello, Sylvie.”

She shook her head, trying to dispel the effects of whatever he’d drugged them with. The man looked different, taller, younger. She blinked and her vision blurred. Had he been wearing a mask earlier? Prosthetic faces were astonishingly easy to wear and hard to detect. Had he worn the mask to hide his identity, or to give him a new one?

“Don’t worry. The effects of the drug will wear off in a few hours. I wanted to talk to you without risking life and limb. Some security specialist you are. Seems a bit ironic, doesn’t it? You’re the expert, but you fell into my trap all too easily.”

His voice sounded familiar. Hadn’t her captor had a silly British accent? Her brain refused to focus on details.

“I’ll play fair with the authorities. They’ll have all the clues they need to solve your disappearance. They simply have to solve the puzzles.”

“How?” The word came out so garbled, she wasn’t sure he’d understand.

“I normally don’t tell anyone, but because you are special, I will. The clues are in the crossword puzzles.”

Margaret. Sylvie latched onto the thought of her life partner. Margaret loved crossword puzzles, and excelled at them, too. Would the police make her privy to the information?

While she struggled to stay awake, the man continued to talk, nearly gloating, in fact. “I’ve always been very good at them, making them and solving them. Don’t worry, though. I’ll give the police plenty of time to solve it. What do you think? Should I give them the full eight days? Nah. That’s way too long. Eight minutes, now that would be way too short.”

Her captor reached down to stroke her cheek and she flinched. “Well, don’t you worry your pretty head about it. I’ll keep a careful watch on the time. When that final alarm goes off, you’ll be mine.”

“Deion.” Her heart broke a little as she said his name. What would he do without her?

“Oh, don’t worry about your little boy. He’ll be well loved, if you know what I mean.”

“You bastard.” Sylvie tried to scramble up, but collapsed in a heap next to her son. The floor shook slightly as the man’s footsteps receded.

Tears came unbidden, washing her cheeks and leaving them feeling raw. There had to be something she could do. But what? Put herself in God’s hands? That’s what her ex-lover, Margaret, would say. But Sylvie had seen enough religiously motivated crimes to convince her that God didn’t pay attention to his creations.

She thought about her mom and dad, killed in a robbery attempt while they were on vacation, and her flakey little sister, Lia.

They hadn’t spoken for seven long years. Not since Lia had come to her, professing that she could have prevented their parents’ death if she’d only paid attention to “the signs.”

Sylvie had not only not believed her, she’d ridiculed Lia. As a relatively new agent, she had her eyes on the prize: the top of the career ladder. Having a crazy little sister proclaiming to be psychic embarrassed her beyond reason. As a result, she’d said things she later realized she didn’t mean. After her derogatory remarks, Lia had stormed out. She never came back.

Although pretending disinterest, Sylvie had followed her sister’s career as a photojournalist. It seemed her sister did lead a charmed existence. She’d escaped death on more than one occasion, the most notable on that fateful September morning when Lia had refused to get on a plane. That airplane had later crashed into the Pentagon.

Was Lia psychic, or just damn lucky?

Eyes too heavy to hold open, Sylvie stopped fighting gravity and did the only thing she could do. She focused on the clues she had. Her captor seemed to have a hard-on for the number eight. She pictured the number, seared it in her mind in flaming red letters. Crossword puzzles, the management service’s phone number and the big pink Victorian also held significance. She pictured the images over and over until they seemed to be playing on the back of her eyelids.

Then, she did something she thought she’d never do. She prayed.

* * * *

As he left his office, the hair on the back of Jared’s neck tingled. He looked over his shoulder, expecting to see a plainclothes police detective lurking in the background. Instead, he saw nothing.

Which didn’t add to his peace of mind, especially since he’d experienced this feeling more and more often lately. When had it started? A week ago? Months ago? Hard to pin down an exact date. Harder, still, to isolate this feeling of being watched from any of the other times. Ever since he’d hit puberty, he seemed to give off alluring pheromones that drew women of all types and ages. After a while, he’d learned to ignore the attention he attracted. However, this feeling of being watched held menace. Was it his imagination, or was someone truly watching him? That thought gave rise to a new and even more disturbing question.

Was he a suspect in this case?

Why should he be? He lived a boring and mundane life. Work in the morning, office hours and tutoring in the afternoons, then home to sit in front of his computer or the television. Occasionally, he had a date.

Unfortunately, he had terrible luck with women. No, not luck’s fault. The blame lay solely with him. Those potential relationships failed, because he didn’t put any effort into them. Oh, some of the women were beautiful, cute, funny—all good qualities. But all of them were missing something, that je ne sais quoi that made a woman irresistible and unforgettable. He’d only met one woman who had captivated and enthralled him. She’d been like a drug, an addiction he couldn’t get enough of, and she’d left him without even saying goodbye.

Most disturbing, he fit the profile he’d seen illustrated on numerous crime dramas. He had no close family, no close friends. Quiet, a loner who kept to himself. The perfect suspect.

Damn.

He looked down at the piece of paper clutched in his hand. Mark Powers, The Agency, crossword puzzle question. A consult or an interrogation?

A better question might be whether he should he call a lawyer. Did he even know one? The university probably kept one on retainer; however, the attorney probably only handled business-related issues. Not… He swallowed hard. Not criminal issues.

Tamping down the panic, he found his beat-up gray Volvo in the staff parking lot. Luckily he’d invested in a GPS mapping device for his car. He’d only ever heard of historic Camel Cove.

He followed the computer voice to the correct exit. Traffic congested the freeway and navigating proved challenging enough to keep his mind off all those niggling questions until he pulled up to the address the agent had given him.

Camel Cove had been named for a failed government experiment to use camels as pack animals in the mid eighteen-hundreds. Located along the shore of Southhampton Bay, the picturesque town looked untouched by time. A large white courthouse tucked on a green knoll sat overlooking the blue waters of the bay. An old-fashioned square of historic buildings painted in soft pastels made up the downtown area.

He glanced down at the address on the paper he’d laid on the passenger seat of the car and then looked at the building with a sense of disbelief. A three-story white Victorian mansion that housed a coffee shop on the ground floor and had a sign identifying the second floor as a bridal boutique.

He’d expected an official building, a police station or a high rise. But a coffee shop? All the parking spaces in front were full, so he drove past. As he did, the navigator announced he’d passed his destination, in a tone that almost sounded irritated.

He circled the block, still puzzling. After a few futile attempts, Jared finally found parking a couple of blocks away.

The smell of coffee and baked goods teased his senses when he walked in. Resisting the urge to get straight to business, Jared joined the line instead. He ordered a small black coffee and an enormous cinnamon roll. Hell, if he ended up going to jail he might as well do it on a sugar high.

After the barista handed him his java, Jared quickly isolated the man he was to meet. Although there were several single men sitting alone at various tables, one stood out. Where the other men wore business casual khakis and polo shirts, a man gazing out the window wore a pair of worn jeans, scuffed boots and a blue and white striped polo shirt. Beside him on the table sat a white ten-gallon cowboy hat. It matched the accent on the phone.

“Mark Powers?”

The man looked up at him.

Jared held back an exclamation of surprise. Despite his first impression of a strong, virile man, the face that looked up at him was more wrinkled than Jared’s laundry. “Professor Trimble.”

The man made a show of starting to stand, but Jared waved him down and then dropped into the seat across from him.

“Thank you for meeting with me.” The man took a sip of his coffee and pulled a face.

“Am I a suspect?” Jared winced the moment the words came out of his mouth.

“Suspect? Should you be?”

Well, this had started out well. “No.”

The man grinned. Jared stared. That toothy smile looked so familiar. Did he know a Mark Powers?

“You look familiar.”

Mark nodded. “I’m sure I do. A little over three years ago, I disgraced the government when I single-handedly nearly got the president killed. I made the front page of almost every major newspaper in the country. “

That explained it. Jared remembered all the bad press related to the botched security at a summit meeting in Denmark, or perhaps Sweden? Shots had been fired, but the president had escaped with his life. Had it been three years ago? He could swear he’d seen this man recently and in a different venue. On the campus or in a local restaurant, perhaps? Too bad he had trouble remembering the names that went with faces.

The man must have read the play of emotion across Jared’s face, for he gave a grim smile. “I figured you’d remember.”

“What does this have to do with me? You mentioned something about a serial killer and crossword puzzles.”

Mark nodded. He slid a fax sheet from under his hat and pushed it across the table.

Jared glanced down. A half-completed puzzle.

“Do you want me to finish it for you?”

“No, yesterday I received this fax from a blocked number. That might not be so unusual, except my fax number isn’t published anywhere. Only three people know it. My wife and two of my former employees, Sylvie Morgan and Margaret Fletcher. When I received this, I immediately called the other two. Sylvie didn’t answer her phone, but when I contacted Margaret, I got some disturbing news. Sylvie’s missing. I caught the first flight I could to come out here to assist in her case.” Mark gave Jared a wry smile.

“And?” Jared prompted.

“The detective in charge of the case asked me a few questions, said, ‘Thank you very much,’ and sent me on my way. They don’t want my help, my ideas, and didn’t put any stock whatsoever in this puzzle.”

“But you do. Why is that?”

“For one, I learn from my mistakes, and I don’t believe in coincidences. Within a day of Sylvie’s disappearance, I received this fax. I’m not much of a hand at crossword puzzles, but some of the clues and answers to this one have me concerned.”

Jared glanced down. Most of the questions were pretty common crossword puzzle clues. A four-letter word for organic matter? A three letter word for fish eggs. A four-letter word for bread spread. Nothing unusual until he hit eight across. A six-letter woman’s name. Sylvie had been written in the spot. Eight-down wasn’t a typical clue. A five-letter boy’s name. Most crosswords would ask for a man’s name. Hmmm. Perhaps Mark had stumbled onto something. Especially when the name, Deion, fit both the clue and the remaining letters.

“Who is Deion?” Jared asked.

“Sylvie’s two-year-old son.”

“So they are both missing. Are you sure they haven’t headed off somewhere for the holidays? Christmas is right around the corner.”

Mark shook his head. “Sylvie’s partner lives here in town, and Sylvie doesn’t have an extended family. Just a sister in New York. The police checked with her and she didn’t have any information about Sylvie’s whereabouts.”

“Why are you so convinced that there’s something sinister about her disappearance?”

“My reputation may be shot to hell, but I still have friends who work in the security industry. I had them do a couple of searches.” Mark reached down and pulled up a briefcase. He spun the dials and then popped up the lid.

“Over the past eight months, eight sets of women and their children have disappeared from this area.” He pulled out a sheaf of newspapers. “I requested back issues from this newspaper, encompassing that same time period. What I’ve found is disturbing.”

Jared took the papers. Again, most of the clues were common. In the earliest paper, one across and one down were a woman and a girl’s name.

Mark pointed at the next one. “All of the names coincide with a woman and a child who has gone missing.”

“What did the police say?” Jared asked.

“They didn’t say anything to me. Some bored secretary made a few copies and tucked them into a file folder. From what I’ve been able to find out through other sources, none of the disappearances are being actively pursued. None except Sylvie’s, that is. If you could call the lackadaisical attitude of the investigators active.”

“My God, you’re telling me there are sixteen people missing, and no one’s looking for them?”

“Last year, in California alone, over a thousand children disappeared, supposedly kidnapped by a parent or family member. Eight’s not a very big percentage of that. Additionally, some of the women missing had talked about running away from abusive spouses. I figure that’s the way this bastard has stayed under the radar. Until now, that is.”

“Sylvie,” Jared glanced down at the fax in front of him to confirm her last name before continuing, “Morgan. I know that name from somewhere.”

“So you should. She’s the bestselling author of a personal security book, Safe and Sane Rules for Single Women. Perhaps you’ve read it, the rules work for single men as well.”

Jared shook his head. “No, but some of the women in my class were discussing it last semester. Didn’t Sylvie work for the government?”

Mark cleared his throat. “Well, she did.”

“Won’t they get involved because of her disappearance?”

“Unfortunately, no. Sylvie worked for a rather, um, secret branch of the government. In fact, if anyone were to try to look up her record, the government would vehemently deny she worked for them at all.”

“Wouldn’t they be afraid that some clandestine terrorist group had snatched her?” Jared asked.

“No. All of the security protocols used are outdated. She wouldn’t be able to tell them anything they couldn’t find out on the internet.”

“If there is a serial killer at work, someone needs to know. The police, the government, the press.”

“So far, there’ve been no ransom demands. More importantly, no bodies,” Mark shot back. “Believe me, I’ve jumped through all the hoops and no one cares. Sylvie is on her own. Hopefully she and her son aren’t dead.”

Something about the conversation convinced Jared of the man’s conviction. A woman and child had disappeared and could be in mortal danger. Warming to the idea, he theorized, “Even with no bodies, that doesn’t prove these women and their children are still alive. It could simply mean the killer is smart.” Jared tapped the stack of papers in front of him. “Okay, so the guy left his victims’ names in the paper. Did he leave any other clues?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I want you to find out. Can you tell who devised these puzzles?”

“Did you call the paper?”

“Yes, and hit a dead end. This particular newspaper is a community effort. Residents write the columns, a local psychic does the horoscopes and this puzzle is sent in by a Kris Kross. I ran a check on the name, although it’s obviously fake. The mail is delivered to a post office box.”

“The post office requires identification when they rent those boxes,” Jared offered.

Mark nodded. “Yep, they do. Unfortunately, the box is registered to Sylvie’s partner, Margaret.”

“Did you ask her about the crosswords?”

“I did. She swore she didn’t rent a P.O. box, and that she didn’t compose any puzzles for the paper.”

“And you believed her?” Jared didn’t.

“I did.”

Jared blew out an impatient breath. “So you’re sure the police…” The figure of a woman entering the coffee shop captured his attention. Her heart-shaped face framed by a riot of dark curls reminded him of someone he’d once known. Once loved. She turned and his heart thudded in his chest. Could it really be her?

Without ordering, the woman sank into a seat by the door. Her expression and posture practically shouted her distress. Her almond-shaped brown eyes held unshed tears and her full, very kissable lips, trembled.

Intuitively, he put two and two together. Lia Morgan. Sylvie Morgan. Could the two be related?

He barely had time to finish the thought, for Mark had already stood and was striding with long confident steps toward the woman.

“Lia?”

At the sound of her name, the woman looked up. “Mark? Oh, thank God.” She stood and threw herself into Mark’s arms, sobbing.

It seemed as if the whole world stilled while Jared watched them. He couldn’t seem to draw a breath and his heart clutched so tightly he feared it would never start beating again. It had been seven years since he’d seen her last. A long time to wonder what he’d done wrong and why she wouldn’t answer his calls. Too long to pick up where they’d left off.

Mark made some ineffectual shushing noises and patted her back.

“They won’t tell me anything,” she wailed.

“Who won’t?”

“The police. I went straight to the station this morning. The officer in charge told me they had the case under control and were following some promising leads. But when I asked what those were, he wouldn’t tell me.”

“They don’t want to compromise the investigation,” Mark murmured.

More like they don’t know a damn thing.

Lia pulled back from Mark’s embrace. “Have you seen Margaret?”

“From what I understand, she’s staying at Sylvie’s house, in case the kidnapper calls.”

“What happened to her and Margaret? I didn’t even know Sylvie didn’t work for the government anymore until I did a search for her on the internet. Even then, all I got were hits on her book. I didn’t know who to call. But you’re here, so the FBI or someone should be taking over the investigation. Right?”

“Come, have a seat.” Mark tugged on her arm to turn her toward the table.

She reached up to knuckle the tears out of her eyes as she walked. God, she still hadn’t seen him. What should he do? Run? Or would it be better if he simply dropped to the floor and slithered away? His heart began to beat all too hard now. It hammered against his chest wall and the blood roared in his ears.

What would she say? What would she do?

She stopped.

Mark paused, puzzled, and then looked over at him.

“You know him?” Mark asked.

Lia simply nodded. Then she seemed to pull herself together. The false smile she plastered on her pretty face hurt more than a scowl would have.

“Professor Trimble,” she said. Her voice, the same soft caress she’d used to seduce him years ago, set off a reaction of want and need inside him. Just for a moment, he remembered what it had been like to hear her whisper his name in the dark after they’d made love, or to pick up a voice mail message from her where she’d describe exactly what she planned to do to him with her mouth, fingers and body.

“I haven’t seen you in years,” he managed to croak out. “How are you?”

Only after he’d spoken did he realize how ludicrous the question sounded. Her sister and nephew were missing, how the hell did he expect her to be?

However, she’d interpreted it as polite lip service.

“I’ve been well, up until now.” Her brown eyes shot back to Mark. “I didn’t know you two knew each other.”

“We don’t, didn’t.” Mark said. He pulled up a chair from a nearby table. “I got a strange fax and suspect it’s from Sylvie’s captor. So, I called in an expert.”

“An expert? Shouldn’t you be calling the FBI?” Her voice quavered. “I’m not sure what you think an anthropologist could do.” Her words stumbled to a stop. “Oh, God. You think Sylvie is dead. But I still don’t understand why you’d need him. It’s not like she’s been missing for years and is decomposing somewhere.” Her voice ended in a sob. “And despite what you might think, I know my sister is still alive.”

“No, he didn’t call me in as an anthropologist, but for the crossword puzzles. I…” Jared began, but the moment she looked at him, his mind went blank.

“Professor Trimble has won the American Crossword Puzzle Tournament three times. When I found out he lived in the area, I gave him a call.”

Lia shook her head. With the movement, the scent of her shampoo wafted toward him and elicited yet more memories of her, naked and in his arms. It took every ounce of restraint for him not to touch her, to ask what had happened to her, to him, to them.

“I received this by fax yesterday. Margaret received one too. I think the kidnapper sent them to us as we were the only two unknown numbers Sylvie kept in her cellphone address book.”

“I’m still not sure I understand.” Lia sighed. “Oh, God. I feel so bad. Sylvie and I were never close. I haven’t heard from her in years. It was such a shock to have the police call and tell me she and her son, a son I didn’t even know she had, were missing. It’s been too much. But why would he leave clues in a crossword puzzle?”

“We don’t know, but I’ll find out.” Jared looked down at the stack of papers in front of him. At first glance, he didn’t think solving the puzzles was going to pose much of a challenge. Deducing their meaning, now that was another story. Did the puzzle intimate where the victims were held and for how long? Did information, hidden deep within each puzzle, give any indication to the identity of the composer?

“Wait a minute, you said you know she’s still alive. How is that? Have you heard something from her captor?” Mark put his hand over Lia’s.

Jared felt an irrational jolt of jealousy. He tamped it back down. They were old friends, obviously nothing more. Mark had to be pushing sixty years old, and he had mentioned a wife.

“No, it’s just…” Her gaze shot over to Jared, and just for a second, he felt as if her glance held all the answers as to why she had left him and dropped out of college.

“I just know, that’s all,” Lia said. “Now tell me, what are we going to do to find her?”\