Читать книгу Unbreakable Bond & The Missing Twin: Unbreakable Bond / The Missing Twin - Rita Herron - Страница 15

SLADE LET HIMSELF into the fixer-upper house he’d purchased on the side of the mountain. The wooden two-story needed painting, a new roof, the wood floors needed to be stripped and restained and boards needed replacing on the wraparound porch.

He’d thought doing the work himself would be cathartic, but he’d yet to change a thing. Still, the place had character and at one time was probably a cozy home for some family.

He scoffed. As a kid, he’d dreamed about having a home like this. Now it didn’t seem to matter.

But the place was isolated and offered him privacy, as well as an abundance of wide-open mountain air. Something he’d desperately needed after Iraq and the place he’d been kept when he’d been taken prisoner. Cramped, dark, filthy, bug-infested, the stench, the human wastes…

And the blood from the soldiers who’d died trying to save him.

He inhaled a deep, calming breath, the summer air filling his nostrils with the scent of honeysuckle and wildflowers, chasing away the demons from his past. He had a job to do now, and he’d focus on that. Get through the day.

One hour at a time.

He spotted the bottle of whiskey on the counter, and the temptation to reach for it, to pour himself a mind-numbing shot seized him. Just one drink to erase the images in his head.

No… He was done burying his pain. He’d have to learn to live with it or it would destroy him. Then he couldn’t atone for his sins.

Instead, he strode to the workout room he’d created off the garage, yanked on boxing gloves and began to pound his punching bag. The faces of his bleeding and dying men haunted him, and he hit the bag harder, the rage eating his soul, chipping away at his sanity.

He had to learn to control it. Focus. Forget.

No, he couldn’t forget. Forgetting would mean dishonoring the sacrifices they’d made.

He wished to hell they’d just left him to die and saved themselves.

And their wives and families…three wives left alone now because of him.

His sister dead.

His mother gone.

He’d failed them all.

He would not fail Nina Nash.

Her story echoed in his head as he punched and slammed his fists into the bag, over and over, venting his anger over his own past and the anguish he’d heard in her voice.

But you might fail her, a voice taunted. You might because she wants you to find her daughter alive.

And you might discover she really is dead.

He slammed the bag so hard it swung back wildly, then came toward him and he punched it again. Again and again and again until sweat poured down his back and face, until his body ached and blood oozed from beneath the gloves.

Finally, when he’d purged his anger, he ripped off the gloves, went to the bathroom, showered then booted up his computer. He nuked a slice of leftover pizza and wolfed it down with a bottle of vitamin water while he searched news reports regarding infants’ and children’s deaths reported during the past eight years.

He specifically searched for any cases regarding premature births or babies found dead following the hospital fire.

Three different cases caught his eye, one baby who’d been found in a Dumpster two weeks to the day after Peyton had gone missing.

* * *

NINA JERKED AWAKE, the sound of the little girl’s singing echoing in her head.

The angelic voice… A song from Mary Poppins…

It had to belong to her daughter.

Or was she imagining it as the therapist had said? Creating a voice that she thought her daughter might sound like and playing it in her head because she couldn’t bear to let her go?

She closed her eyes and burrowed beneath the quilt, willing herself to fall back asleep so she could hear the voice again. Sometimes, the little voice sounded so close that it seemed the child was in the room with her. Sometimes, she knew that if she slept long enough, she would see her face in her dreams, that maybe Peyton could tell her where she was so she could find her.

Instead of the beautiful little girl’s song though, William’s threat reverberated in her head. Dr. Emery had wasted no time in calling him. He’d probably phoned her father, as well.

They’d probably all sighed and made sympathetic noises and lamented over her mental state. For all she knew, they were planning another intervention to convince her to check herself back in to the loony bin.

She would not go back there. She wasn’t crazy or demented.

She was simply a mother who needed to find her child.

A noise startled her, and she clenched the covers, certain she’d heard someone outside. The wind whistled, a tree limb scraped her window and an animal howled somewhere in the distance.

She sighed, willing herself to calm down.

She couldn’t lapse into paranoia again, not the way she had after she’d lost Peyton.

But another noise, a creaking sound on the front porch, sent her vaulting up from bed. Outside, thunder rumbled, and the trees shook violently, the sound of rain splattering the windowpanes, making a staticky sound like drums beating in the night.

She grabbed her robe, tied it around her waist and tiptoed to the den, shivering as the air conditioner kicked on. Darkness bathed the room, but a streak of lightning flashed in a jagged line and she froze, her heart pounding.

Had she seen someone on her porch? The silhouette of a shadow?

Fear surged through her, and she reached for the phone.

But the times when she’d called the sheriff flashed back. The way he’d dismissed her fears and ordered her to get some help, then claimed she was inventing shadows in the night.

His calls to her father…the never-ending cycle of his disdainful looks…

She dropped the phone in its cradle, grabbed the umbrella from the stand by the door then slipped the edge of the curtain sheer aside and searched the darkness.

Rain pounded the roof and porch, running in rivulets down the sides of the awning, and down the street a car’s lights floated through the fog, disappearing into the blur.

The streetlight in the cul-de-sac on the other end of the street illuminated wet pavement and another house but its lights were off.

Holding her breath, she listened for signs of someone outside, but the storm raged on, the sound of a cat screeching echoing above the rain. Her heart squeezed, and she slowly unlocked the door.

Keeping the umbrella poised in case someone had been on the porch, she pulled the door ajar and the dripping cat darted down the steps.

Then her eyes widened and a sob gurgled in her throat.

God, no…

A small rag doll lay on the porch in front of the door, a knife sticking through its heart.

A doll just like the one she’d found right before she’d had her breakdown, a doll her father and the psychiatrist had insisted she’d put there as some sort of manifestation of her grief and guilt.

* * *

SLADE RARELY SLEPT and this night was no different. When he did, the nightmares came.

He’d choose fatigue over the memories haunting him any day.

Antsy to get started, he brewed a pot of coffee and was at the phone by six.

The reporter, a guy named Hewey Darby, had quoted a Detective Swarnson from the neighboring county as the lead detective on the Dumpster case, so he punched in his number, anxious to hear what the man had to say.

When the receptionist for the police department answered, he asked to speak to Swarnson. “I’m sorry, sir, but Detective Swarnson is no longer with us.”

“Where can I get in touch with him?”

A moment of hesitation. “I’m afraid you can’t. He was killed last year in a random shooting. What is this about?”

He explained that he wanted information on the Dumpster-baby case. “Oh, then you can speak with his partner, Detective Little. I’ll connect you to her office.”

“Thank you.”

A minute later, a woman’s voice echoed back. “Detective Little.”

“This is Slade Blackburn, Guardian Angel Investigations. I’m investigating the case of an infant who went missing eight years ago in Sanctuary, the same night as the deadly fire and explosion that caused numerous deaths.”

“Right. I read about the arrests.”

“One of the patients in the hospital at the time was told that her baby died, but her body was never recovered, so I’m investigating the possibility that the child might have been kidnapped.”

“I’m not sure how I can help.”

“Actually, I’m not sure you can either, but I’m exploring every possible lead. I found records of a case you and your partner investigated where an infant was found in a Dumpster approximately two weeks after the child in question went missing.”

“Oh, right, I remember that case.”

“What can you tell me about it? Did you ID the child?”

“As a matter of fact, we did.” Her voice warbled. “The mother was a crack addict. She delivered early, but the child wasn’t breathing so she freaked out and decided to get rid of it for fear she’d be caught.”

“Did you arrest her?”

“She’s in prison now.” A long sigh. “I’m sorry. I guess that’s not much help.”

“No, it means that the child I’m looking for might be alive.”

“If it’s been eight years…” Detective Little said. “You know the chances are slim that you’ll find her.”

Slade gritted his teeth. “I know. But everyone assumed she died in that fire. The fact that there was no body or proof means there might have been foul play.”

“Good luck, Mr. Blackburn. I have a soft spot for kids myself, that’s why I work Special Victims. If I can help you any other way, just let me know.”

He thanked her, then spent the next hour chasing down the other two instances he’d read about, but both turned out to be dead ends, too.

The rain died, the morning sun fighting through the storm clouds. His phone buzzed, and he checked the number. Nina.

He punched the connect button. “Nina?”

“Slade…can you come over?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Someone left a rag doll with a knife in its heart on my doorstep.”

Slade cursed, grabbed his weapon, shoved it in his holster, threw on a jacket and rushed outside.

* * *

NINA’S HAND TREMBLED as she hung up the phone. Nausea rolled through her as she stared at the doll, and her chest ached so badly it was as if that knife had been plunged into her own heart.

Someone had put the doll on her doorstep to taunt her with the past.

Who would be so cruel?

She rushed upstairs and threw on some clothes, then made coffee and tried to sip it while she waited.

Five minutes later, Slade’s SUV rumbled up the drive and she inhaled deeply. She had to pull herself together. She finally had someone on her side, and she couldn’t chance losing his services now.

Brushing her hair back into a ponytail, she rushed to the door. The sight of Slade Blackburn on her front porch sent a surge of relief through her.

The wind tousled his hair around his broad face, and the trees shook raindrops from the branches, scattering them across the ground. “Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded. “Yes, just shaken.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Before dawn, I heard a noise outside.” She led him to the sofa table. Her hand shook as she picked up the doll. “Then I found this on my porch.”

His eyes flashed with anger. “Damn sicko. Did you see who put it on your porch?”

“No, but I saw a shadow outside. Then I heard a car leaving down the street.”

Slade’s jaw tightened. “Do you have a bag I can put it in? I’ll send it to the lab for prints and DNA.”

“Sure.” She rushed to the kitchen and returned with one, and he used his handkerchief to seal it in the bag.

The temptation to share what happened in the past taunted her, but she decided to hold off.

Maybe he’d find a lead from the doll and she wouldn’t have to divulge the humiliating details of her breakdown.