Ransomed Dreams (19 page)

Steven shoved the bag and threw down his gloves. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

“Stop the cycle, Steven. Deal with your heart. Talk to Angie. You can make this work without fighting her tooth and nail in an ugly court battle.”

“I’m not letting her take my son.”

“Then pray.”

“You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you? Kids die and it rolls off your back. Angela leaves and then shows up to take my only son away from me and your answer is to pray.” Steven stood toe-to-toe with Clint. “Why? What good will it do? According to you all I have to do is snap my fingers and say a little prayer of forgiveness and it’ll all get better. Right?”

Clint stepped back. “None of our job rolls off my back. Neither does your pain. I care, buddy. That’s the only reason I’m pushing now. I don’t want to see you lose any more years—or your son—to your pride.”

Steven wanted to spit. “My pride didn’t kill Olivia or Ryan. Didn’t make Angela leave.”

“No, but dealing with it could break the cycle inside you. Change things for the people your life touches. Help you see beyond your case and your solution and your focus that doesn’t extend beyond your nose.”

He held back a curse and stomped away.

Clint grabbed his arm. “Pride keeps you from facing the past and dealing with it. It’s stealing your edge to do your job well. You think you can handle it all yourself, make up for all the wrongs, but pride will drive you right off the cliff when it comes to James. It’ll keep you running from him and from yourself.”

“And send him right into Angela’s arms? Is that what you’re saying?”

His partner’s brown eyes were impossible to read. “Don’t feed the hate, Steven.”

“I love my son. And I loved Angela. But it wasn’t enough.”
I wasn’t enough
. Steven grabbed his tow el again. “I’m going to fight. It’s what I do.”

“What if you don’t win?”

Steven narrowed his eyes. “That’d just prove you right, wouldn’t it? And you’d say it serves me right for not doing it your way.”

“You’re believing a lot of lies there.”

“So what? Your way doesn’t touch the pain. Doesn’t fix broken homes or broken bodies.”

Clint took a deep breath. “Talk to God about what you’re believing. What you think will make it work. Then listen. That’ll start the process of healing, and forgiveness will come.”

Steven sat on the weight bench and watched Clint for a few long minutes. He was so sure, so confident all his God-talk could fix everything. Steven shouldn’t have let the conversation get this close.

“I’m praying.” Clint headed upstairs without another word.

No one left to argue with, Steven swallowed hard and rested his forehead in his hands. What if Clint was right? Losing James wasn’t an option. Quitting wasn’t either.

A knock on the front door drained Steven’s last ounce of energy He was in no shape to face Angela’s taunting again. Not today.

He ignored the noise, but the knocking came harder. Deep breath. He walked upstairs and threw open the door.

Justin Moore extended a six-pack. “Came here to share some good news. But you look like you could use a beer first.”

Steven stepped back and opened the door wider. Justin’s offer was far more tempting than Clint’s, but scenes of Angela’s drinking binges and the resulting cleanup invaded his thoughts. “No, thanks. But I’m all ears for something good. Come on in.”

Justin settled himself in the den and took a swig from his
amber-necked bottle. “Met with your girlfriend this morning, and she gave me a sketch I think might bring this case some action.”

Girlfriend? If only.

“She didn’t seem too keen on my suggestion to call you about her dog. Guess you blew your chance.” Justin’s deep laugh filled the room.

“What happened to Jake?”

“She was all shook up about spending last night at the vet’s office. The dog passed out or something. He’s fine now Really scared her, though. She went on and on about how Jake and her family did this, and Jake and her family did that. Talk about a private history lesson. But I think for some reason it shook loose a few other memories too. Helpful memories.”

“And?”

Justin took another drink. “Like I said, I got a good sketch to start circulating. Think I might slam-dunk this cold case after all.”

“Where are you going to circulate it?”

“Gracie thinks the driver might have been a college student. I’ll start with the colleges down in Atlanta and use the Internet too.” Justin stood and finished his beer.

Steven shook his head. “Let’s go shoot some hoops so you can sweat that off.”

“Gonna arrest me if I don’t?”

“Scared I’ll win again?” Steven headed for the back door.

Justin rose to the challenge. But he was better at football than basketball. Three games of one-on-one later, Steven was three for three.

Resting his hands on his knees, Justin bent over double. “I’d better get busy.” He scowled when Steven clapped him on the back. “And you could use a shower, pal. Especially if you’re planning to see your girlfriend today. If not, I’d be happy to step in for you.”

He showed Justin to the door. “Not a chance.”

Steven watched his buddy drive away then walked into the
kitchen and tossed Justin’s empty glass bottle into the recycle bin. He grabbed his drink of choice: water. The picture of Gracie on the fridge caught his attention.

He should give her a call. He’d shared a little about Angela with her on their first date. Maybe Gracie would have some tips. She’d be less preachy than Chnt. Far nicer to look at too.

Steven headed upstairs for a shower. Maybe he’d e-mail before he called. Typing his reasons for missing their date last week felt like an easier path. Then again, maybe he’d just run by his dad’s house to check on things, borrow Sue’s sporty little Saturn SC2, and take it for a spin to see if Gracie wanted to grab ice cream or something.

It was sure better than hanging around here waiting for Angela to attack again.

Or for Clint’s words to catch up with him.

They would, no matter how far and how fast he ran. But not tonight. James would be home tomorrow, and this week would be relegated to that long queue in the back of his mind. Where every other problem took a number and waited for its turn.

Unfortunately, Ambassador Kensington’s case was first in line.

A
full month with ten million dollars to spend and little to show for it.

Except a new plan. He who dares wins, after all.

Gordon leaned back in his desk chair and stared out into the rainy day outside his flat. Leaving London would do him a good turn. Not Charlotte. She wouldn’t be over the moon to see him again. His poor sister still refused his calls and had canceled her cell phone service.

No worries. The little information he’d given to Harry’s old mates in the British Secret Intelligence Service would have Ambassador Kensington arrested before too long. Leaving Gordon with only one more detail to attend to.

He’d lost all sense of conscience years ago. With his first kill. Military service required a quick shot and little time to question a superior’s orders.

Gordon studied the picture of Harry on his desk. Tall, thin, full topper of red hair all blown about in the wind. Clear skies above his little brother and the deep Pacific below. Harry had loved to surf, to sail. A regular fish, the bloke.

Then came Sir Walter Kensington. Too many black market deals, and the SIS was closing in on him. Or gaining his help to take down shady consuls, depending on who told the tale. But the more Harry had uncovered of their British ambassador, the less he’d thought of him.

Then Harry had been snuffed out. Bullet to the brain. Everything covered. Evidence disappeared. Sir Walter Kensington hailed a regular hero by the Queen.

Gordon knew differently. Served Kensington right to have lost his eldest child.

“This is madness. Harry would not approve. Not at all.”
Charlotte’s words filtered through the angry haze, but Harry wasn’t here to stop Gordon’s plans. Not this time. So he dialed the DC number and listened for an answer.

He wouldn’t leave a message. Too traceable, He’d keep calling or catch the next hop back to the States. Either way, his target would become the perfect depository for the ambassador’s money. How fitting. Blackmail and blood money breeding more blood.

It wouldn’t resurrect Harry but it would come closer to evening the score. And that was all that mattered.

Tom eyed the ringing phone’s caller ID. Another Out of Area call. Strange. But he had nothing better to do than torment a telemarketer on the last Monday in August.

Better than studying more poisons on the Internet. Especially after his first failed foray into forensic anesthesiology. Stupid dog. His time would come.

“Hello.”

“Is this the residence of one Thomas Perkins?”

The male voice sounded too highbrow to be a pimpled teen trying to earn a living. “Yes. How may I help you?” Tom settled down into his leather couch, resting his highball on his leg while he clicked through channels on his flat-screened plasma TV.

“I have a business proposition for you.”

Tom clicked the Off button on his television. “Who are you and what type of business?” Nerve endings on the back of his neck felt like icy heat.

“Let’s start with a few facts you might find interesting.” No background noise. Nothing to place this caller beyond a modulated voice. “Gracie Lang’s family is dead and her very busy private investigator is circulating a picture of their killer.”

Tom spit the bitter whisky onto the wood floor. “Who
are
you?”

“A man with a need that you can fill.”

Sweat beaded on his forehead. How had anyone deciphered his connection to Gracie Lang? Better to play it calm and see what the man wanted. He’d find out the rest soon enough. “How so?”

“Supply information on Hope Ridge Academy’s security for 8 September. Not much to ask, is it?”

“Why?” Tom wished for the millionth time he had his mother’s high-tech gadgets that she’d used to track Internet predators and bring down pornography rings. They’d come in handy right about now.

“The less you know about my plans, the better. Fewer bodies to dispose of that way.”

Tom’s mouth felt like the Sahara. He needed some foothold in this spiraling phone conversation. “How do I know you won’t take what you want and kill me anyway?”

“You don’t. But the alternative to not helping me is the loss of everything you hold dear.”

“How do you figure that?”

“It’s my understanding of your law that drunk drivers who kill people go to jail. Especially those who perpetrate a hit-and-run killing of two innocent children.”

Tom’s stomach filled with lava rocks scorching every cell. “What does that have to do with me?”

“Nice try but your picture on the Hope Ridge website bears an uncanny resemblance to a police sketch I happened to notice in researching the backgrounds of your academy staff. Fancy none of your colleagues made the connection.”

“Why me?”

“The rest of your staff tracks squeaky clean. Which leaves you. The only one with a past worth purchasing.”

Tom stood and paced in front of his picture window. A way out. He needed a way out. Removing this mystery man would prove too difficult. Gracie would be an easier target. But he
couldn’t even kill her stupid dog. How would he manage disposing of her? And what good would that do if this caller could ID him as the DUI killer? Maybe he should just up and disappear for a time.

But that would require more money than he had at present. An idea crawled through Tom’s desperate mind. An idea to free himself from both his past mistakes and the future trouble he was sliding into. Along with money to help him forget.

“Since you have a need to fill, what are you offering in return for my help?”

“Besides forgetting your past and not sending you to prison?”

Tom swallowed the bile climbing his throat. “I could deny everything. Besides, I’m your only way into Hope Ridge Academy I get you in, and then you help me disappear afterward.”

Silence.

Tom held his breath.

“I’m offering two million dollars. Everything goes as planned and you will never hear from me again.”

“Three million, one up front, and no further questions,” Tom said. “Once I receive the money, I’ll send you security schematics and code that will get you on and off of our school grounds for one day.” He didn’t want to know what the man would do with them.

“Good. I’ll send you a series of routing numbers to access your new bank account tomorrow. Then another set when my task is accomplished.”

Tom couldn’t squelch the curiosity clawing at him. “Why September?”

“Three million and no more questions. That was our deal.”

“Yes. But September, especially the first week of school, security is extra tight and schedules vary with students settling into new routines. October might be a better choice.”

Silence.

The extra month might give him some clues to this man’s
identity. And more time to set in motion a complete way out of this mess.

Tom had killed three people, but that was an accident. This … this business transaction could be even worse.

He sat back down on his couch and took a long drink of his highball. Appearing too anxious might become a fatal mistake with this caller.

“Very well,” the caller said. “October it is. I’ll be in contact again soon.”

The phone went dead.

Much like his hope for a quick and easy resolution to what used to be a very simple problem. It was simple no longer. But the core issue remained the same.

Gracie Lang’s infernal quest for answers.

A
Saturday morning jog in Chinquapin Park had been just what the doctor ordered.

Or the vet, in Jake’s case. Breathing hard from the brisk run, Gracie inhaled fresh air with a hint of fall whispering through the massive oak trees. Two weeks since Jake’s emergency and she was ready to put the awful experience behind her and return to a normal exercise routine.

She retied her tennis shoes and then gave her beautiful dog a good head-scratching before they resumed their cooldown walk through the park.