18

Somewhere far away, a bell was ringing.

Pulling herself back from the exhausted slumber that had felled her after a night of pillow punching, followed by frenzied cleaning, followed by more pillow punching, Christy groped for the alarm clock and jabbed the shutoff button.

Five more minutes. That’s all she needed. Just five more—

The ringing started again.

What the . . . ?

She pried her eyelids open and peered at the clock. Six forty-five? Her alarm wasn’t scheduled to go off until seven.

Another ring—followed by a rush of adrenaline—brought her fully awake.

Someone was calling on her landline.

She threw back the covers, scrambled out of bed, and dashed for the kitchen. Maybe there was news, and Lance had tried to call her on the cell she’d left beside her bed. If she’d slept through the alarm yesterday, she could very well have slept through the chirp of her cell. He could be trying to reach her on her home phone.

By the time she grabbed it out of the charger, her answering machine had already kicked in.

“Hello?” She stopped the recorded message as she issued the breathless greeting.

“Christy Reed?” An unfamiliar woman’s voice.

“Yes?”

“Sorry to disturb you so early, but I wanted to catch you before you left for work. This is Regina Devereaux with the Post-Dispatch. I’m following up on a story that came over the wire about the discovery of your sister’s body in Memphis. I hoped you might answer a few questions.”

Christy stared at her spotless kitchen—one of the few positive results of her restless night—and scrambled to process the unwelcome turn of events.

A reporter was calling about Ginny. The news was on the wire service. This woman wanted to write an article about it for the Post . . . where the kidnapper could see it.

Her stomach twisted.

This was bad.

Very bad.

Lance wanted to keep the news about Ginny under wraps. And during his brief call last night in the middle of a manhunt that had required all FBI hands on deck, he’d assured her the Memphis police were on board with that plan.

So how had the story leaked?

“Ms. Reed?”

Heart banging against her ribs, she pushed her tangled hair back from her face. She needed to talk to Lance. Now. Before she said a word to any reporter.

“This isn’t a convenient time.”

“I only need a quote or two.” The woman’s tone was pleasant but determined. “I’m sure the discovery was quite a shock. Did you have any idea the woman who died in the house fire wasn’t your sister?”

“I’m sorry. I have no comment. Good-bye.” She punched the end button.

The instant she got the dial tone, she called Lance’s cell number.

Two rings in, he answered, sounding as groggy as she’d felt after her own phone had jolted her awake. The man had probably been up half the night too, chasing the high-profile criminal he’d alluded to during their quick conversation.

“Lance, it’s Christy. Sorry if I woke you, but I just had a call from a reporter at the Post. She said there’s a story about Ginny on the wire service.” Despite her attempt to remain calm, her voice hitched on the last word.

A few seconds ticked by. When he responded, he sounded 100 percent alert—and angry. “The leak wasn’t on our end. I’ll call Memphis, but the damage is done. What did you tell her?”

“No comment.”

“Good—although that may not stop the story from running. Who was the reporter?”

She gave him the woman’s name.

“I’ll see what I can find out about her. If we’re lucky, she’s not the go-getter type, and if a story does run, it will be a single paragraph buried somewhere in a back section.”

“She sounded very determined.”

“That figures.” Lance sighed. “Give me an hour. If she calls back, stick with no comment. Go about your normal activities, and if she shows up in person, don’t let her badger you into talking, no matter how persistent she is.”

The sick feeling in the pit of her stomach intensified. “This is a disaster, isn’t it? If the kidnapper knows we’re on to him, he could disappear. We’ll never catch him.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions. Our guy has an agenda. After all the effort he’s put into this, I’m not certain he’ll give up so close to the last act. He may alter his plans, though. Let me call you back after I have more facts. We’ll get this guy no matter what, Christy.”

The steel in his voice bolstered her spirits. “I’m counting on that. Talk to you soon.”

Long after the line went dead, her fingers remained clenched around the phone. Perhaps fate would be kind, as Lance had suggested. The reporter might not pursue the story or, if she did, it might run as a small paragraph in some obscure part of the paper where the kidnapper would never notice it.

Yet as she dropped the phone back into the charger, her hopes dimmed.

So far, all the luck had been on the kidnapper’s side.

And she had an ominous feeling that pattern wasn’t going to change anytime soon.

Lance slammed down his desk phone, banged a drawer shut, and blew out a breath.

“That doesn’t sound positive.”

He turned to find Mark eying him from the doorway of his cube.

“It’s not.” He filled him in as he paced, watching the man’s countenance change from curious to concerned to seriously worried. “According to Officer Drury in Memphis, a reporter from the local paper got the scoop from a newbie in the media relations group before the instruction to keep this quiet was passed along. The media guy assumed once next-of-kin had been notified, he was free to talk to the press. A brief article ran in the Memphis paper this morning and was picked up by the wire.”

“Does the PR guy still have a job?” Mark’s eyes thinned.

“He wouldn’t under my watch. But the real question at this point is what’s our guy going to do if he finds out we’re on to him?”

“You could try convincing the Post reporter to hold off on the story.”

“I could—but if she finds out the FBI is involved, that might make her more eager to get a scoop. I ran some intel. She’s an up-and-coming investigative reporter who’s starting to win some prestigious awards. Her bio describes her as tenacious and fearless.”

“Ambitious too, I’m thinking.” Mark braced one shoulder against the wall.

“Goes without saying.”

“The kidnapper might not be watching the papers.”

“That’s what I’m hoping. But if this went out on the wire, there could be national interest. It’s an unusual case, and some sharp-eyed print or broadcast reporter will see the feature potential.” Lance raked his fingers through his hair.

“Let’s hope we get the kidnapper first.”

“Amen to that.”

“On a brighter note, at least you won’t be pulled away for any more top ten tracking duty. Scuttlebutt says he’s on the run again. If he was here, we apparently missed him.” Mark straightened up. “The last sighting was in Columbia.”

“Fine with me. That will give me a chance to run down to the accident site and scout around. Still up for a road trip?”

“If you can wait until this afternoon. I need to tie up a few loose ends this morning.”

“No problem.” It wasn’t as if whatever they might find on the country road where Christy’s parents had been fatally injured was going to ID their guy, anyway—but it was better than sitting around waiting for the kidnapper’s next move. “We can grab a burger on the way.”

“I’ll swing by about twelve thirty. While I’m out, I’ll stop by my house and change.” Mark flipped his tie. “Not the best attire for a winter walk in the country.” With that, he disappeared down the hall.

Lance dropped into his desk chair and faced his computer. Outdoor reconnaissance wasn’t his favorite way to spend a frigid January afternoon, but it beat doing nothing.

And nothing was an appropriate word for the Ginny Reed kidnapping. His first case with the Bureau, and he was batting zero. Three weeks in, and all he had was a vague description of the probable killer.

In other words, their guy was still calling the shots.

Even worse, there was now a strong chance he’d find out they knew his elaborate ruse was a sham.

Lance rocked back in his chair and played with his mouse, watching the cursor zip around the screen as he pondered the potential fallout.

Most of the scenarios that strobed through his mind weren’t encouraging—but in light of what they knew about their quarry, was there a chance the news leak could work to their advantage?

His hand stilled.

Maybe.

This guy was a planner. He’d pulled off a mind-blowing deception because he’d had time to plot it out in meticulous detail—and the whole scheme hinged on making Christy believe her sister was alive. If he heard about the discovery, he’d have to modify his plans on the fly.

And people often made mistakes when they rushed.

Lance exhaled. That positive spin was a long shot—but he chose to believe it was possible.

Otherwise, barring a mistake, this guy could win the game he was playing—meaning Christy would lose.

An outcome Lance didn’t intend to accept professionally . . . or personally.

Nathan stretched, adjusted his pillow, and opened his eyes to find sunlight streaming in his window—a rare luxury on a weekday morning. Sleeping in was a definite benefit to the night shift work he’d had to pick up after Dennis broke his leg. In truth, other than the rotten timing in terms of his plans for Christy, he preferred having the deserted building almost to himself. No pretense to keep up, no forced smiles, no idle chitchat, no bosses looking over his shoulder.

But you didn’t get promotions working alone at night. That took face time.

He knew all about the games people played.

Swinging his legs to the floor, he homed in on the photo of Christy on the bulletin board, a quiver of excitement zipping through him.

This was the week.

In three days, twelve hours—after she finished with her second student at the rink Friday night—he’d be waiting. And he’d keep the promise he made to her in his last note. Before morning dawned, she’d see her sister again . . . assuming all those platitudes she’d spouted years ago about being reunited with loved ones in death happened to be true.

He snorted.

Good luck with that.

If there was a God, he’d distanced himself from his creation long ago. As far as Nathan could see, humans were on their own. You lived. You died. In between, you tried to survive. The world was a chaotic, survival-of-the-fittest struggle. The powerful prospered; the weak suffered. That was how nature worked.

He rose and strolled over to the photo, barely glancing at the mutilated mouse on the desk as he picked up the paring knife beside it. Instead, he focused on Christy in her glittery skating outfit, arms raised over her head in a triumphant posture, chin high, eyes sparkling as she smiled at the camera.

At him.

Smiling back, he tightened his grip on the knife.

Raised his arm.

And drove the blade straight into her heart.

Lance had no problem finding the accident scene. The sheriff’s report detailed the location, but tire skids also marked the spot.

He put on his flashers and eased as far as possible onto the minuscule shoulder. The rural route was quiet on this cold Tuesday afternoon; partially blocking the road shouldn’t be an issue.

“Ready?” He tugged on a pair of gloves and turned up the collar of his sheepskin-lined jacket, glad he’d followed Mark’s lead and made a quick trip home to change before they set out.

His colleague pulled on a ski hat and opened his door. “Yeah. Boots on the ground is always the best way to get the lay of the land.”

Lance slid out of the car, walked over to where the skid marks began, and assessed the terrain. “The deputy was right about this being the worst possible location to lose control.” He indicated the steep drop-off and the curve ahead.

“Also fishy.” Mark shaded his eyes against the sun and inspected the area.

“Why don’t we walk the road first, down the middle. You work the right side, I’ll take the left. Then we’ll retrace our steps from the shoulders.”

“Makes sense.”

They followed the skid marks from their beginning, to the fishtails as Christy’s father struggled for control, to where the black tracks ended at the edge of the precipice.

Lance stepped to the lip and looked down. He’d seen the photos of the accident, knew where the car had come to rest. But even without the photos, the crushed and broken limbs, naked in the middle of winter, marked the spot.

“I’m surprised either of them survived.” Beside him, Mark surveyed the steep drop-off.

“I bet our guy was too—assuming he was responsible. And if he was, he was also probably sweating bullets in case Christy’s father regained consciousness.”

Mark folded his arms. “I don’t know. Unless he left something at the scene to identify himself or showed himself to her parents—which is doubtful—he may not have cared if one of them survived. In fact, he might have hoped for that outcome. That way, Christy would have had to watch a beloved, seriously impaired parent suffer.”

“That’s sick.”

“Fits what we know about this guy, though.”

True.

Lance flexed his fingers to keep the circulation moving. Despite his thermal gloves, bitter air was seeping in. “You see anything on our walk down?”

“No.”

“Me, neither. Let’s try the shoulders.”

They moved back toward the car, attention fixed on the ground, then repeated the walk several times, scrutinizing the shrubs and trees on the sides of the road.

“I think this was a bust.” Mark tugged his cap down further over his ears as the wind picked up.

Much as he hated to admit it, Lance agreed.

“Before we head out, let’s regroup for a minute in the car. While we warm up, we can do some brainstorming now that we’ve seen the place.”

Mark shot him a skeptical look but didn’t argue.

Once back in his seat, Lance cranked up the heater, tugged off his gloves, and examined the scene through the windshield. “If you wanted to send a car out of control on this road and leave no trace, how would you do it?”

“We already know he’s savvy with GPS. He could have put a device on their car, followed their progress on a cell phone, and known when they’d arrive at this spot.”

“Right. And the deputy said they attended that church dinner every month with Ginny, so there was a pattern.”

“In other words, our guy could pick his night and lay in wait. The real question is what could he quickly put on the road—and get rid of just as fast—in case another car showed up? All without leaving a trace?”

“And without risking his own neck—which leaves jumping in front of the car to startle them out of the equation.” Lance examined the skid marks again.

“It would have to be an object that appeared suddenly at eye level to be most effective.”

“Like a deer darting across the road . . . caught in the beam of headlights on a dark night and disappearing without a trace an instant later, leaving chaos in its wake.”

“Yeah. The sudden appearance is key. If the driver had seen it from a distance, he could have slowed down well in advance.”

“I wonder if he had some sort of object rigged to drop from above as the car approached?” Lance leaned forward and examined the trees through the windshield, then shook his head. “Scratch that. The trees on top of the limestone bluff are too high, and the ones growing on the sides of the cliff are too low.”

“Maybe whatever it was didn’t drop from above. Some of the trees clinging to the side of the bluff are tall enough to climb, and on a dark night, in full spring foliage, the branches would have provided excellent cover for our guy while he waited to pull an object onto the road as the car approached.”

“Like what?”

“I have no idea. All I’m saying is the scenario isn’t that far out in left field. If he was willing to stage a fire with a fake victim, I don’t think this challenge would be beyond him.”

“Yeah.”

“You know, it almost seems as if he has a vendetta against the whole Reed family.” Mark angled toward him. “Either that, or he has a serious gripe against Christy and has gone above and beyond making her pay for whatever she did to him.”

“I don’t buy the family vendetta premise. All of their background checks came back squeaky clean. One family member might have an unknown enemy, but not all of them.”

“Since Christy is the only one left standing, my money’s on her.”

Lance’s grip tightened on the wheel. “How could she have made an enemy this evil without realizing it?”

“That, my friend, is the question of the day—and we’re not going to find the answer here. You ready to head back?”

No, he wasn’t. Now that he’d visited the scene and driven the presumed route, he was more certain than ever the location of the so-called accident wasn’t coincidence. They might not have found anything to prove that theory, but his gut told him the evidence was here if they’d known what to look for.

“I guess so.” He unbuttoned his coat, put the car in gear, and pulled back onto the road.

“You’re coming back, aren’t you?”

Did his colleague have a sixth sense or what?

“I might.”

“If it was my case, I would too. Loose ends bother me. You planning to tell Christy about our speculation that this wasn’t an accident?”

“No. She’s got enough to deal with at the moment. Besides, even if we’re right, it doesn’t change anything. Bottom line, her parents are gone. If you come up with any other theories about the accident, let me know.”

“Will do . . . although I have a feeling this case will break wide open before you get around to making another trip out here.”

So did he. They were still working on the killer’s timetable, and he’d already suggested the end was in sight.

The best they could hope for was that whether or not the news story about Ginny appeared in the St. Louis paper, their guy would somehow stumble and make a mistake that would give them the lead they desperately needed.

Soon.

Because while there were lots of unknowns in this case, Lance was certain of one thing.

They were running out of time.