Читать книгу Lone Witness - Shirlee McCoy - Страница 12

Wind buffeted the windows of Tessa Carlson’s tiny cottage, rattling the glass as she rinsed her coffee mug and set it in the sink. Outside, thick shrubs brushed against the siding, scraping against the old wood shingles, the sound eerie and unnerving. Usually, she didn’t feel unsettled by the solitude of winter in Provincetown, Massachusetts. This morning, she felt a little anxious and a little off, as if all the hard work she’d done healing from the past had been wasted.

Three years, four months, twelve hours.

That’s how long it had been since she’d disappeared from Napa Valley. There’d been no missing person report. No emotional plea for her return. She doubted Patrick had cared that she was gone. Although, he’d cared a lot about his reputation. To have his girlfriend walk away had to have been a blow to his ego.

Or, maybe not.

He’d moved on quickly after she’d gone, stepping into a new relationship within months of Tessa’s exit from his life.

She knew, because she’d kept tabs on him. She had been afraid not to.

The man who had once been her Prince Charming, her path out of abject poverty, had become her worst nightmare. The abuse had been subtle at first. A quick insult. A veiled threat. Eventually, veiled threats had become overt. Words had become shoves and slaps. She had spent eight years believing things would get better and another planning her escape. She had known leaving was the only way to survive, but it had still been the most difficult thing she’d ever done.

She’d grown up tough. She’d had no idea who her father was, and very little idea of what a mother should be. Hers had always been hopped up on drugs or coming down from a high. There’d been nothing stable about the life she’d lived in the Los Angeles projects, but she’d been working to get herself out when she’d met Patrick.

He’d been the antithesis of everything she had hated about her life. Polished and refined, well-mannered and quick to offer compliments, he’d taken advantage of an eighteen-year-old’s desperation. She could see that now. At nearly thirty, she understood that she had been groomed to be his plaything, his prize. He had never loved her. He had loved the control he had over her.

Still, nine years was a long time to be with someone. It was a long time to love someone who didn’t love you.

If that’s what her feelings for Patrick had been.

Even now, three years of contemplation later, she wasn’t sure. She had thought that she’d loved him. She knew that. By the time she’d left, all she had been able to feel was terror. She had planned to run as far as she could and create a new life that he would never be able to take from her. She had done that.

If he found her, he’d be bent on destroying what she had built for herself. Out of spite. Out of a need for revenge.

And, she had unwittingly given him the perfect means to do it, because she’d grabbed everything from the wall safe in his walk-in closet the day she’d left rather than just the items that had belonged to her.

Money. Antique jewelry meant for his Napa Valley antiques store. The valuables were a drop of rain in the ocean of his wealth, but Patrick never forgot an insult. He never forgave a perceived wrong.

She shuddered, stepping away from the sink and the darkness beyond the window.

“He’s married now,” she reminded herself as she grabbed her coat and slid into it.

She wanted to find comfort in that, but she couldn’t. Patrick had become engaged to the widow of his business partner, Ryan Wilder, less than a year after Tessa had left. Ryan had been murdered several months before Tessa fled. She had attended his funeral with Patrick and seen how deeply his widow, Sheila, had grieved. The fact that she and Patrick had married a few months ago surprised Tessa every time she thought about it.

She tried not to think about it.

Just like she tried not to think about Patrick. Skimming online articles from Napa Valley gave her quick glimpses into the high-society life she had once lived and reassured her that Patrick was busy living a life that didn’t include her. She didn’t miss him or the life she’d had with him. She wasn’t mourning what she’d lost. She certainly wasn’t jealous of Patrick’s marriage.

She was worried.

Always. Every day. She lived with the fear that Patrick would find her and use the theft of his belongings as a bargaining tool to force her back into a life she hated.

If she’d been thinking clearly at the time, she would have realized taking anything out of the safe would be a mistake. Even the beautiful and expensive jewelry Patrick had gifted her during their relationship should have been left behind.

She’d been desperate to secure her future, and she had been in a rush to grab all the pricey pieces he’d given her. She’d been terrified Patrick would return home, so she hadn’t taken time to look at each item. She’d taken everything and tossed it into an oversize purse before closing the safe and fleeing.

Her reason didn’t make her feel better.

What she’d done was wrong.

She knew that now.

Then, all she’d known was how afraid she was.

She glanced at her watch and frowned.

Time was ticking away while she worried about a past that she had left far behind. She had a diner to open, and if she was late doing it, her boss would not be happy. Ernie wouldn’t fire her, but he’d be disappointed, and he’d let her know it. He’d taken a chance when he’d promoted her to day-shift manager, and she’d worked hard to ensure that he didn’t regret it.

She grabbed her purse from a hook near the door and stepped outside, locking the door and checking it twice. Just like she always did.

Even with the wind whispering through dry grass and dead leaves, the morning seemed quiet. The distant sound of waves lapping against the shore was the only reminder that Provincetown was a thriving tourist destination. In the spring and summer, the beaches teemed with people, but in the winter, the sandy windswept dunes were nearly devoid of life. That was when Tessa loved it most.

She hurried down the path that led to the road, scanning the area for signs that she wasn’t alone. She didn’t expect to see anyone. In the years that she’d been walking to Ernie’s Diner, she’d only ever run into people during the summer months, when the sun rose early and excited vacationers rose with it. During the coldest months, she enjoyed her solitude, making the walk through the icy darkness as the sun made its way above the horizon.

The dead-end street she lived on was lined with rental cottages, all of them empty in the fall and winter. The one she occupied belonged to Ernie and his wife, Betty. They’d offered it for a good price, and she had been happy to accept.

She had been renting the place for nearly as long as she had been in the Cape Cod town. Some days it felt like home. Other days, it felt like a place to stay for a while. She’d have her nursing degree at the end of the school year. She’d take her RN exam in the summer. If she passed—when she passed—she’d have good job prospects and options for where she wanted to live.

Life was working out the way she’d planned.

Maybe that was why she’d felt so anxious lately. She didn’t expect good things to happen. Even when she was living right, doing right and following the rules, she expected the gavel to fall and her life to be thrown into chaos again.

Betty often told her that God had good things in store, and Tessa wanted to believe it. She certainly believed that He’d brought her to Provincetown and given her the chance she needed to begin again.

As for the rest, she wasn’t sure.

She only knew she had to keep moving forward and hoping for the best.

She turned left at the end of the road, bypassing several empty houses as she walked toward the more populated residential area. Ernie’s Diner was in the heart of Provincetown’s business district. Sandwiched between an art gallery and a small motel, it came alive in the late spring and summer and quieted down as cold weather moved in. A skeleton crew worked through winter, and it was the manager’s job to prep for the morning rush. Tessa didn’t mind. She enjoyed being alone in the diner, setting the tables and sweeping the floor, checking the restrooms and the previous evening’s receipts.

Even in the winter, the diner had a busy breakfast and dinner rush. She enjoyed that, too. There was something cathartic about the routine of small-town life. As much as she thought it might be best to go to a big city once she’d attained her nursing license, she couldn’t help thinking about how much she’d miss Provincetown.

She sighed, the cold wind stinging her cheeks and seeping through her black slacks. She shoved her hands into her pockets, her purse thumping her as she half jogged down a narrow side street.

She could see the Pilgrim’s Monument glowing in the distance, the tower standing tall against the dark morning sky. This area of town was well-lit, lights gleaming from front porches and shining down from streetlights that dotted the road. Just a few more blocks, and she’d turn onto Commercial Street. Ernie’s Diner was ten blocks down. A mile and a half walk from her place but an easy one.

Even in this busier area of town, she wasn’t expecting to see anyone outside before dawn. Not in the winter with the wind chill hovering just above freezing. Most people who commuted to Boston for work were already at the small regional airport, waiting to board the commuter flight. Those that worked in town were still in bed. The shadow that emerged from between two houses was so startling, she jumped back, putting an old elm between herself and the dark figure. Broad-shouldered and moving quickly, it appeared to be a man. That was enough to make her step back again. She was three houses away, frozen in fear, watching as he stepped into the street, a pile of blankets in his arms.

No. Not blankets. A child with long dark hair. One arm flopping out from beneath the covers. She told herself they were father and daughter, off on a long-weekend adventure together. But something about the child’s stillness bothered her. She wasn’t a mother. She had no real experience with kids, but she’d seen plenty of them in the diner—fidgeting, moving, talking... always busy. Even asleep, children seemed to be in a perpetual state of awareness. One little nudge, and they were awake and on the move.

This little girl was still, only one arm swaying with the man’s loping movements. He was heading across the road—a streetlight was shining on his baseball cap, and Tessa could make out pale skin and sunglasses.

And that wasn’t right, either. The sunglasses. Not before dawn.

Tessa told herself that it wasn’t her business. She reminded herself that she had a lot to lose if she called attention to herself or caused any trouble in the quiet neighborhood. She tried to turn her back and pretend she hadn’t seen anything, but she couldn’t live with the consequences of inaction. If the next biggest news story was about a little girl stolen from her home, then what? Would Tessa step forward and give an account of what she’d seen? Too late to stop it? Too late to help?

“Good morning,” she called, stepping out from behind the tree, her heart hammering against her ribs.

A tiny hesitation in his stride was the only evidence the man gave that he’d heard her.

“It’s awfully cold this morning, isn’t it?” she asked, following him up the street toward a Jeep that sat near the corner of the road.

“Too cold for a conversation,” the man finally replied, nearly jogging now.

“Is that your daughter?”

“Mind your business, lady,” he growled, the Jeep just a few yards away.

“So, she’s not.”

He whirled around, the cap flying from his head. He had dark hair and those sunglasses. “I said, mind your business.”

The venom in his voice made the hair on her arms stand on end. She knew the tone. She knew the threat it implied. “It is my business, if she’s not your daughter.”

“She’s my daughter,” he growled, swinging back around and striding away.

She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and dialed 911, because she didn’t dare take a chance that he was lying.

Maybe he sensed what she was doing.

Maybe he just glanced back to make certain she was no longer following. One way or another, he looked back and saw her with the phone pressed to her ear.

“Hang up,” he said coldly.

“Put the girl down,” she countered, the operator’s voice ringing in her ear.

The man lunged, the child held in one arm, his free arm grabbing for the phone. He slapped it from Tessa’s hand, then shoved her so hard she fell backward. She scrambled after the phone, desperate to give her location. He kicked it across the pavement, then sprinted to the Jeep.

Tessa screamed for help as she followed. He reached the Jeep seconds ahead of her, yanking open the back door and tossing the girl inside. He would have slammed the door closed, but Tessa grabbed his arm and pulled him away as she tried to get to the child.

She was tugging the little girl out of the Jeep when his arm snaked around her throat. She tried to scream again, but his grip was too tight and no sound would come. She had no choice but to release the girl, to claw at his arm and shove backward into his thin frame. They tumbled to the ground, his curses ringing in her ears.

She saw the barrel of the gun seconds before it was jabbed into her temple. “Get up,” he ordered.

She did as she was told. Not because she was afraid to die, but because she was afraid of what would happen to the girl if he drove off alone with her.

“Get in the Jeep,” he demanded.

She hesitated, desperate to find a way out of the situation. One that would save her and the little girl.

“I said, get in,” he nearly screamed, slamming the barrel of the gun into the side of her head.

She saw stars, tasted blood, felt herself falling.

She knew he’d lifted her, was shoving her into the Jeep. She thought she heard someone shouting for them to stop, thought she heard the faint sound of sirens. Then the door slammed shut, and she heard nothing but the rev of the Jeep’s engine as the man sped away.

* * *

Special Agent Henry Miller sprinted across the road, his focus on the Jeep that was speeding toward the intersection at the end of the street. His five-year-old daughter Everly was inside the vehicle. He was certain of that. He’d heard a woman screaming for help as he was heading down his in-laws’ hall to check on his daughters. The screams had been faint but audible through the nineteenth-century windows.

He’d run to the girls’ room and found the window open, frigid air wafting in. Aria had been sleeping, huddled beneath her blankets. Everly was gone.

He’d been in the house when she’d been taken.

He hadn’t heard anything earlier. Just the settling of old boards and joists as he carried his overnight bag into the guest room and unpacked for the weekend. His in-laws had been in bed when he’d arrived, the girls tucked in and sleeping. The quiet was comforting, and the house had seemed as much like home as any ever had. Like every other parent who had ever woken to find a child missing, he had had no clue that anything was amiss.

Until he’d heard the scream.

“Everly!” he shouted, his heart thundering, his brain screaming that this had to be a nightmare.

There was no way his daughter could have been taken from her room, carried out a window that had been jimmied open and tossed into a Jeep that was quickly driving away.

But he’d seen the window, the cut screen, the jimmied lock.

He spun on his heels, sprinting back to his in-laws’ house and the car he’d parked in the driveway less than an hour ago. The keys were in the pocket of his jacket, and that was still in the house. He reached the porch at a dead run, then glanced over his shoulder to see which direction the Jeep turned at the end of the road. Left toward Commercial Street. From there, it would be an easy drive out of town.

The front door flew open, and his mother-in-law, Rachelle, stepped outside, her face stark white. “Where’s Everly?” she cried.

“I need my jacket,” he responded, the words as hard and crisp as the winter air.

“Right here.” His father-in-law, Brett, shoved past Rachelle, thrusting the jacket into his hands.

“Call nine-one-one. Report a kidnapping. The vehicle is a black Jeep. Newer model. Four-door. Heading toward Commercial Street.”

He ran to his car and sped out of the driveway, the tires kicking up gravel as he turned onto the paved road. A purse sat near the curb, a phone several yards away from it. He’d seen a woman and man struggling with one another as he’d rounded the side of the house. She’d been shoved into the Jeep. Everly wasn’t alone. That didn’t make the situation any better.

He’d already lost his wife, Diane, in gunfire from a drive-by shooting. She’d been eight months pregnant with Everly and her twin sister, Aria. The surgeon had been able to save the girls, but Diane’s injury had proven fatal.

The heartache of saying goodbye to his wife had brought him to his knees. He didn’t think he could survive losing one of his daughters, too.

He rounded the corner at the end of the street, taking the turn so fast, he wasn’t sure all the tires stayed on the ground. Commercial Street was quiet as the shops that were usually bustling with life were dormant and dark, though a few exterior lights illuminated doorways and outdoor eating areas. Diane had loved Provincetown. It had been her family’s summer home when she was growing up. Now that she was gone, her parents lived there nearly year-round. Henry and the girls visited often, and they always spent the weekend closest to Diane’s birthday in town.

This was that weekend.

He’d had a full docket at work, and he hadn’t been able to take Friday off. His in-laws had picked the girls up after school and made the three-hour drive. He had finally clocked out of work just before midnight. He’d almost spent the night in Boston. He’d been that tired, that ready for sleep. But the girls had been looking forward to their yearly breakfast on the winter-cold beach—blankets spread on the sand, the sun rising above the ocean. All of them bundled up and pink-cheeked, adults sipping coffee. Kids drinking cocoa.

He hadn’t wanted to disappoint them, so he’d made the long drive, stopping a few times to drink black coffee and wake himself up. What if he’d stayed in Boston? Would he have arrived in the morning and been the first to realize Everly was missing?

He shuddered, forcing away that thought, and the fear. He needed to stay focused on the task. Taillights gleamed in the distance, as the car ahead cruised through the business district at a pace that was probably just under the speed limit. The driver had no intention of being pulled over for speeding. If he made it to Route 6, it would be easy for him to find a place to pull off the road and hide. There were small towns dotting the Cape, and plenty of places for someone to disappear if he wanted to. Henry couldn’t let him. For Everly’s sake, and for the sake of the woman who’d been thrown in the Jeep with her, he had to stop the driver before he made it out of Provincetown.

He accelerated to a dangerous speed, whizzing past shops as he closed in on the fleeing vehicle. The driver must have realized he was being followed. He took a hard turn onto a side street, the back wheel bouncing over the sidewalk. Henry did the same, easing up on the accelerator as he rounded the turn.

The Jeep had slowed, as the driver navigated the narrow side street and headed south. Henry’s cell buzzed. He ignored it. The Jeep slowed more, turning into an alley that Henry had walked down dozens of times when he and Diane were dating.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel, his heart galloping, the pace fast and erratic. He’d held Diane’s hand at the hospital after the shooting and promised her that everything would be all right, and that no matter what, he’d take care of their daughters. When the surgeon had told him Diane was brain-dead, he’d sat by her side and told her how much she’d meant to him, how fortunate and blessed he’d been to have her in his life.

And he’d promised her that the girls would be fine.

That he’d make certain they had wonderful lives.

He’d promised that they would know who she was and how much they’d meant to her.

He’d spent nearly six years working to fulfill those promises. He refused to fail now. He refused to believe that Everly would be taken from him, that she’d disappear like so many other children had. That he’d spend the rest of his life searching the faces of strangers, hoping to see his daughter.

The Jeep cleared the alley and bounced onto Conwell Street. Henry followed, the traffic light at Route 6 glowing green. It turned red as the Jeep approached. The driver slowed and then stopped. Perhaps out of caution. Perhaps out of habit.

Henry was closing the distance between them, not trying to hide the fact that he was following. He’d let the guy know he’d been seen, that what he’d tried to do under the cover of darkness had been exposed.

The light turned green as Henry neared the back bumper of the Jeep. He thought about clipping it, but worried that Everly would be hurt.

As the Jeep turned onto the highway, the back door flew open and a woman jumped out, Everly clutched against her chest. She stumbled and fell, skidding across the pavement on her knees, her arms still tight around his daughter.

She was up in a flash, sprinting toward buildings that she probably hoped would offer her cover or a place to hide. Everly hadn’t moved. She was limp as a rag doll, bouncing against the woman’s shoulder.

Henry threw the SUV into Park and jumped out, racing after her. Not caring about protocol, about securing the perpetrator, about doing any of the things he’d been trained to do. He was only worried about how still Everly was. How quiet. How completely unlike the bubbly little girl he knew her to be.

“FBI! Slow down and let me help you,” he called as he sprinted after the woman.

She didn’t believe him, of course.

She’d been traumatized and was running for her life with a child in her arms. He doubted his words had even registered. He’d spoken to victims of violent crimes. He’d interviewed witnesses. He knew how difficult it was to process information when the brain was bent on survival.

He tried again. “Ma’am! Stop! Let me help you!”

She darted between two buildings and entered an alley much too narrow for a vehicle.

He was right behind her, catching up fast. His attention was on Everly’s arm, flopping against the woman’s back. He’d never seen his daughter unresponsive. She was always filled with energy and verve. Unlike her twin, she was outgoing and talkative, her mouth running as often and as fast as her nearly six-year-old feet.

“Everly!” he called as he finally caught up to the woman. He grabbed her narrow shoulder, yanking her backward.

She whirled toward him, her arms wrapped around his daughter, her eyes wide with fear.

“Back off,” she panted.

“I’m her father,” he responded, dragging her farther away from the opening of the alley.

“You said you were with the FBI,” she replied, trying to pull away.

“I am.”

“You can’t have it both ways. You can’t be her father and with the FBI.”

“Why not?”

She scowled. “I already called the police. I can hear the sirens. They’ll be here any minute.”

He could hear the sirens, too, wailing in the distance, shouting that help was on the way.

Only help had no way of knowing where they were, and the perp was still on the loose. “Come on. Let’s get away from the street.”

He pulled her toward the far end of the alley, past a Dumpster and pile of dismantled cardboard boxes.

Something scuffled on the cement behind them.

He glanced at the entrance to the alley as a dark figure stepped into view. Tall and lean, his face hidden by the shadows, he took a step forward and pulled something from beneath his jacket.

Henry jerked the woman sideways, shoving her behind the Dumpster. He followed, throwing himself in front of her and Everly as the first bullet shattered the quiet and slammed into the metal near his head.