Читать книгу Silent Rescue - Melinda Di Lorenzo - Страница 11

Chapter 1

Maryse swung open the bedroom door, a huge smile on her face. A few minutes earlier, she’d turned on the news and learned that black ice had forced her daughter’s school to close for the day. She knew a lot of moms would be cursing the weather and cursing the school board and wondering what they were going to do with their kids on this extra wintery day. But Maryse was thrilled. She didn’t mind the cold. She didn’t mind a day off. And she didn’t mind an excuse to pull out the ice skates and do loops on the pond with her daughter.

“Rise and shine, Camille!” she called to the lump of blankets on the bubble gum–pink bed.

Not that she thought the six-year-old could hear her, but because old habits die hard. And sometimes, Maryse thought if she didn’t speak out loud now and again, she might lose her voice altogether.

Besides that...though she was deaf, the little girl was impossible to sneak up on. She heard everything in her own way.

You vibrate, Cami signed to her once.

Vibrate? Maryse had repeated, thinking she’d missed something.

Though Cami was a natural ASL speaker and had been taught the proper grammatical rules from the time she was small, Maryse knew her own understanding was sometimes lacking. She tended to try to translate what she wanted to say from English first, and it often mucked things up. But this particular time, she’d got it right.

Vibrate, her daughter confirmed, then giggled and added, Like an elephant walking across the floor.

Maryse smiled at the memory and twisted the blind slats open just enough to let in the sunshine, and with it, a puff of cold air. Because Quebec weather could be deceptive like that. The glowing orb up there in the sky looked so much like it should be warm. Like it wanted to provide some heat. But it was an unforgiving light instead.

For a second, the chill seemed ominous, and a shiver made Maryse wrap her arms around her own body, rubbing her palms against the comforting fuzz of her faux-angora sweater. Then she pushed off her worry and reminded herself that today was going to be a fun day.

“Nothing a jacket won’t fix. Right, sweet pea?” she said as she turned back toward the bed. But the down comforter didn’t move. Not an inch. “Camille?”

She stepped forward and put out a hand, wondering if her daughter was sick. But when she reached for Camille’s shoulder, she found a pillow instead.

Panic didn’t set in right away—the little girl was fond of pranks. And hide-and-seek.

“Very funny!” Maryse said, then gestured, too, in case her daughter was hiding somewhere she could see.

She moved around the room, peeking into the usual hiding spots. The closet. The book cubby. Under the bed, then in the tiny bathroom that adjoined the room. Empty.

She stood in the bedroom’s doorway, put her hands on her hips and turned slowly, searching for her too-clever girl. Stuffed animals and knickknacks galore dominated the shelves.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” she called, her hands moving to make the words come to life.

As Maryse turned to move her search to the rest of the house, her sock-covered foot slipped on something on the floor, and she slid across the carpet, landing on one knee. She bit back a curse—Camille always seemed to know when she let one drop—and reached out to snap up the offending object.

What the— A key card?

She frowned down at the slim piece of plastic.

Maison Blanc.

She flipped it over and found an address in Laval. The city was an hour and a half south of the tiny town, LaHache, where they lived.

“Where’d you get this one, Cami?” she murmured as she pushed herself to her feet, then set the card beside the rest of the odd little trinkets on the nearest shelf.

Collecting things was a Camille habit. Just one of the hobbies that made the kid interesting.

Maryse smiled to herself, then stepped out to scan the hallway. “Okay, kiddo. Give me a hint.”

But the house stayed silent, and as she covered the scant eight hundred square feet of space, her smile began to slip.

All closets. Nope, nope and nope twice more.

Every cupboard large enough to hold a fifty-pound child. Nothing.

Concern crept in quickly.

“Camille!” Maryse called her daughter’s name loudly. Useless, she knew. But she still did it again. “Cami!”

She looked in the laundry basket and up the sooty chimney. With her heart in her throat and thoughts of the subzero temperature outside on her mind, she eased open the only entrance to the house—a door off the living room. But all she found was the same day-old dusting of snow that had coated the patio yesterday. Impossible for Camille to have gone over it without a trace. Relief made her sag temporarily.

But where is she?

Maryse took a breath and made her way back to the bedroom, where she scanned for some hint of something she might’ve missed. Her eyes found the window, then stayed there. Her brain grabbed a thought and hung on to it.

That little blast of cold air...

Woodenly, she stepped closer. She gripped the blinds’ rod and turned. And yes. There it was. Evidence. The childproof lock had been forced across the ridge at the bottom of the window, leaving a nasty groove through the metal. And when Maryse pushed the blinds aside, she could see the sliver of an opening.

Oh, God. Please, no.

Her heart thumped hard against her rib cage as she spun back to the pile of pink bedding. Then she saw it sticking out from under one of the frilly pillows: a slip of familiar notepaper dotted with fluttering butterflies.

Maryse snatched it up, her hand shaking so badly she almost couldn’t read the words that were written there in large, deliberate block letters. She inhaled and forced herself to go still.

Two sentences. Two. And they were enough to take her world, stop it from spinning, then flip it in the other direction.

I TOOK WHAT YOUR BROTHER OWED ME. CONSIDER HIS FATE A WARNING - NO POLICE.

She breathed in. She breathed out.

She fought the threatening blackness and made herself look at Camille’s familiar things. The favorite stuffed bunny, one loose ear and one eye gone. The ribbon she used as a bookmark tucked into the pages of her latest read. The radio she insisted on having even though she couldn’t listen to it.

And then her eyes landed on the single item in the room that she was certain she hadn’t seen before.

The key card for Maison Blanc. A clue. But what did it mean she should do?

The police!

The urge to call them was instinctual. Logical, even. Or it would be under normal circumstances.

Normal.

The word was nearly laughable. There was nothing normal about this. Still. Her feet itched to move. To take her to her cell phone so she could make the “normal” choice. But there was more to consider than simply placing her daughter’s fate in the hands of the police.

For one, there was the not-so-small issue of guardianship. No matter how Maryse sliced it, there was nothing legal about her parentage. Or even her identity. Sure, she had ID that had passed even strict scrutiny over the years. But this was different. This was the police, picking apart all aspects of her life. If they figured out that she was a fraud, it might influence how the case was viewed. Would they throw her in jail? Keep her from the investigation?

Of course, that was actually a small matter compared to the note and its warning. Because Cami’s safety was definitely worth more than protecting her own identity, and there was no getting around what fate her brother had met. He’d died in the fire supposedly set by his own hand.

Maryse swallowed. The idea that something similar might happen to her daughter was unbearable. More than unbearable. Unthinkable.

But she was sure that every kidnapper made the same warning about contacting the authorities. That was what they always showed in the movies, anyway. So did that mean she should just do it anyway? Was calling them worth the risk in spite of the warning? They’d already snuffed out Jean-Paul’s life. Would they hesitate on making this new threat a reality, too?

And what about ransom?

Her rapidly churning thoughts paused for a moment. There was no mention of money. Was it coming later?

No. Because they already took what they wanted. Cami herself.

The thought made her want to go for the phone all over again. Because if they weren’t after anything in exchange, what did she have to negotiate with? The police were surely better equipped to deal with this than she was.

Her head spun even more.

If Cami died and it was because she made the wrong call...

If Cami died and it was because she didn’t make the call...

And besides all of that...would the cops even believe her story?

Probably not.

Not quick enough, anyway. It was too complicated. Too far-fetched. And the nearest police station was an hour away. In the amount of time it would take them to make their way to her, she could get halfway to Laval herself. If she hurried, she could even be there before breakfast.

Maryse exhaled, then squeezed the Maison Blanc card once more. A phone call to the hotel would be pointless. It had taken him—whoever he was—six years to find her and Cami. He wouldn’t have left a clue behind. Not on purpose. He was there. He had Cami.

And Maryse was going to take her back.

* * *

Brooks Small stretched out his long legs, leaned back and attempted to bask in the sun. For about three seconds, it worked. Then a blast of crisp air cut across his face, throwing the hood of his parka down from his head to his shoulders, reminding him a little too thoroughly that it was winter.

Except it’s not winter, growled his inner, surly self. It’s mid-April.

Stubbornly, he reached up to snap his hood back into place, and his elbow snagged on the edge of his wicker coffee-shop chair. He heard a loud tear.

Dammit.

Pulling on every ounce of patience he had, Brooks closed his eyes, counted to twelve—because ten sure as hell wasn’t going to cut it right that second—and eased the jacket away from the chair.

“You hated the coat anyway,” he muttered.

It was true. Mostly because he hated everything to do with being away from his home in the ironically named town of Rain Falls, Nevada. He preferred being minutes from the bright lights of Vegas and he enjoyed the often-scorching summer days.

If he was there, now, in the good old US of A, his neighbors would be opening their pools. Not scraping the snow off their backyard ponds so they could enjoy the supposedly unseasonably cold weather.

As if this frozen city has a season other than winter.

He exhaled noisily, his breath frosty and visible. Brooks had heard on the radio that it was minus eighteen degrees Celsius outside today. Which translated to roughly zero degrees Fahrenheit.

Two months Brooks had been in Laval, Quebec, and he had yet to see anything but snow.

Snowy streets.

Snowy parks.

Snowy everything.

Like nature had whitewashed the entire city.

Don’t forget the icicles, Brooks reminded himself. Actual damned icicles, hanging from actual damned eaves.

“Monsieur?”

Brooks’s head snapped up at the voice, and the teenage waitress attached to the soft-spoken question jumped back. He tried to smooth out his expression, at least into something passably pleasant. He failed. It was evident in the way that the waitress continued to stand a few feet away, cowering just a little. His espresso was still in her shaking hand, and it was cooling rapidly.

Brooks inclined his head toward the demitasse cup. “Mon café?”

“Oui.”

He stifled a sigh. Usually his complete bastardization of the language of love was enough to squeeze the English out of even the most French of the French-Canadian.

Not today, apparently.

“Mademoiselle?” he prodded.

When she continued to stand stock-still, Brooks decided she needed a bit of motivation in a more universal language. He dug into the zippered pocket of his parka and fished out three wide gold-and silver-colored coins. He eyed them skeptically. He didn’t think he’d ever get used to the things, no matter how long his banishment to Canada lasted. The damned coins seemed like toy money to Brooks, and they sure as hell didn’t look like enough cash to pay for his coffee and leave a four-dollar tip on top of that.

When he set them down on the table, though, the waitress finally did snap out of her fear-daze. With something approximating a smile, she slipped the coins into her tiny apron and set Brooks’s coffee—without spilling a drop, he noticed—in its place.

“Merci,” she said, then scurried away quickly, back into the enveloping warmth of the café.

Brooks waited until she’d disappeared before he took a sip of coffee. He knew it didn’t make a ton of sense to sit outside in the freezing cold, but the ritual wasn’t about reason. It was about principle. Like many cops, Brooks got into a groove and stuck to it. He didn’t know if it could be classified as superstitious behavior or if it bordered on compulsive, but he did know it worked for him. He’d even argue that it made him better at his job, because sticking to a routine made it easier to spot the out-of-the-ordinary.

Every morning at home, he sat on the patio, took stock of the day, did the crossword and enjoyed an espresso. He sure as hell wasn’t going to let a little thing like the temperature change that.

Yep. Principles.

Brooks had them.

He suppressed a sigh and glanced down at his watch.

It was 9:33 a.m. on a Tuesday.

In a few minutes, a gray-haired man would come by, light a cigarette, smoke it quickly, then go inside to order something in the largest cup the café offered. Shortly after that, a frazzled mother with her toddler in tow would park illegally, dash inside and come out with her personalized cup steaming. The kid would have a cookie.

Most days were like that. The same people at the same time, fully predictable. Nicely so.

Brooks noted them all, and noted the discrepancies even more.

Like right that second.

A tall, slim brunette was coming up the sidewalk on the other side of the street. She had her chin tucked into the collar of her tan duffle coat, hurrying, but trying to look like she wasn’t. She kept her head still and her gaze forward, but every two or three steps, her eyes would dart first one way, then the other. Maybe the average observer wouldn’t have noticed. Or maybe just assumed she was looking for a certain address. To Brooks, she looked like trouble.

Automatically, he sat up a little straighter, making more detailed mental notes.

Five foot eight, easily. Maybe five-nine.

A hundred and twenty pounds? Bulky jacket, though. Could add a few pounds to her frame.

Too thin, Brooks thought absently. Not eating? Ill, maybe?

Except her face had nothing sallow about it. Her skin was pale, but in a porcelain way rather than a sickly one. Altogether pretty, actually.

She got closer still, and Brooks fleshed out his description even more. Tight bun at the nape of her neck. Thick enough to let him know her hair would be long. A stray curl hung down over one cheek—which he could see now wasn’t quite so pale, but instead, marked with a rosy glow. Likely brought on by the cold, he thought. Her lips were full and nearly crimson, and she was makeup-free.

And not just pretty, he realized. Stand-out-in-a-crowd stunning.

Was that why she wore her hair in that severe style? Did it have something to do with her plain skin? A mask?

She’d reached the corner across from him now, and, for a second, she just stood there, her stare seemingly fixed on the café. Then she lifted a pair of sunglasses from her pocket, placed them on her face and leaped from the sidewalk to the street. Straight into the path of a brave winter cyclist.

Brooks’s heart jumped to his throat, but before he could react—and rush in like some deranged, parka-clad hero—the woman sidestepped lightly, lifted her hand in an apology and moved toward the café. Straight toward Brooks.

* * *

Maryse’s eyes rested on the man sitting in front of the café that neighbored the Maison Blanc.

He was dressed for the weather. But something about him made her think he didn’t belong. And even though he looked away quickly, his gaze had been too sharp, his interest in her too pointed. Did he know something? Or was she being paranoid?

An hour and a half in the car hadn’t done her mind any good. Try as she might to stay focused on making a plan, her brain had insisted on swirling with dark worry, playing out every one of her worst fears.

Cami is alive, she told herself firmly.

She had to be. But the breathless, sick feeling churning through her wouldn’t rest.

From behind her deliberately dark sunglasses, Maryse let herself study the man for another few seconds, while pretending to look at the hotel.

Under his hood, she could just see that his hair was buzz-cut, his face clean shaven. He had a thick build, made even more so by the big, black coat. His face had a certain roughness, too. A fierce mouth and the strongest jaw she’d ever seen. Powerfully handsome. That was how she would describe him. But when he lifted his eyes to her once more, his expression softened him somehow. There was a measure of concern there. Kindness.

So, no. It’s not him, she decided. There won’t be anything kind about whoever took her.

Her gaze stayed on him for one more moment before she moved past him—and his undeniable undercurrent of attractiveness—and past the café toward the brass-framed doors of the Maison Blanc. She pushed her way through, appreciating the blast of warm air that hit her as she did. It took the edge off her hours-long chill. But she didn’t pull off her gloves as she strode toward the counter—she needed them to curb the urge to sign as she spoke.

Hoping she looked more confident than she felt, she approached the concierge desk. But the uniformed man behind the counter was on the phone, speaking in a hushed tone, his brows knit together with irritation. He didn’t turn her way, and Maryse let out a little cough. She didn’t have time to waste. So when he still didn’t look up, she cleared her throat a second time.

He spun, seeming startled by her presence.

For a second, that paranoia reared its head again. She forced it back and dragged her sunglasses from her face to her head.

He set the phone down on the counter, then smiled at her. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” Maryse replied, glad that her voice didn’t shake. “I’m meeting some people—a couple of business contacts—and I think they gave me the wrong room number. The key I have won’t open the door, and no one answered when I knocked.”

“Which room is it supposed to be?”

“Two-twenty-eight?” She lied quickly, hoping there was a room 228.

She tugged the key from her coat pocket and handed it over. He took it and swiped it across the keyboard in front of him, then frowned at the screen.

“Well,” he said. “That explains it. This key is for room eight—no two-twenty in front of it—right here on the first floor. But I’m afraid they’ve asked for calls to be held, and I can’t issue you a new key unless the room is in your name.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice.

The concierge tapped the key card on the counter for a second, then smiled again. “You know what I can do for you, though? I can take you down to room eight myself and we can check if your contact is there. We’ll call it a housekeeping emergency.”

Maryse considered the offer. Then rejected it. She was tempted. She wanted to get to Cami. Badly. But she didn’t want to endanger anyone else.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I’ll just give them a call on my cell and leave a message.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

She slipped away from the counter and moved to the chairs in the lobby area. She perched on the edge of one of them, then pulled out her phone and pretended to dial. But she was really watching the concierge. Waiting for a distraction. And it only took a few moments. He lifted the desk phone again and started up with his hushed conversation, turning away from the lobby in the process.

Thank God.

Moving as swiftly as she dared, she eased herself up. She took another glance at the concierge, then scurried across the tiled floor to the hallway, pausing just long enough to read which direction would lead her to room eight, then hurried to the left. She stripped off her gloves now—she’d need her hands to talk to Cami—and counted off the doors in her head.

One.

Two.

Three.

And that was as far as she got. Something jabbed her in the back, and then a click sounded from behind her, and a man’s gravelly voice spoke right into her ear.

“Move,” it said. “Slowly. Walk with me and act like you’re having a good time. If you scream, run or try anything I think is funny, I’ll make sure your daughter is the one who pays the price. Even think about getting the authorities involved and I’ll make sure the price is extracted slowly. And not from you.”

The threat was more than enough to make her obey.