5

Good grief, how long does it take to get a kid to sleep?” the man complained as Sandy walked into the living room. He’d sat there alone with his memories long enough. This house, which he’d inherited from his mother, hadn’t exactly been a happy home.

“She’s scared, Grayson.” The redhead plopped down on the couch next to him and put her head on his shoulder. “And I don’t blame her. You’re sure this is the only way to get that money he owes you?”

“You bet I am. You got to strike him hard, right where it hurts. That’s the only way to get him to cooperate.” He stroked Sandy’s hair. When he’d met her a month ago he knew right away she was the perfect person to help him carry out his plan. He needed someone just like her—a woman desperate for attention and not too bright, but attractive enough for him to be with. He’d sat through boring chick flicks to learn how to touch a woman, how to talk to her, how to be a man around her. He’d watched couples in bars and cafés. He’d eavesdropped on their conversations. And he’d mined the Internet for more intimate information. He’d done his homework and could play the game.

“I dunno about this, Gray, I mean, she’s just a kid.” Sandy yawned.

“And we’re not going to hurt her. I wouldn’t do that.” Zoe’s not my target, he thought. Who was she? A bratty kid. Nothing. But Grable, now, he was something else, a star. A powerful man, made powerful by the unacknowledged and unappreciated efforts of one Grayson Chambers. And payback time had arrived.

“But Gray, she knows you! She can identify you.”

He sighed with exasperation. “How many times do I have to explain it to you? By the time Grable finds her, we’ll be long gone. Safe in Jamaica. No extradition. Sitting pretty there for the rest of our lives—white beaches, palm trees, turquoise water, everything you’ve dreamed of. And I’m going to give it to you, baby. Yes, I am, because you deserve it.” He kissed her on the mouth. He was so tired of listening to her!

She nestled down, her head on his shoulder. “Can we go to bed now?”

“In a few minutes. I have some work to do first.”

“Oh, Gray!” she protested, but obediently she flipped on the TV and within minutes got engrossed in a television show, one of those Washington political dramas he hated so much. They weren’t realistic at all. Not at all! The thought briefly crossed his mind that maybe he should go to Hollywood and tell them how the Hill really worked. Be a consultant. He could make a big difference for them.

While she watched the TV, he extricated himself, pulled out his laptop, and started scrolling through some files he’d downloaded. Amazing what was available nowadays on the Internet. Just amazing. When he came across one of these sites for the first time, he’d been curious. Now, he found his curiosity almost unquenchable. So interesting, what people did.

A quiet tension gripped the Grables’ house. Kenzie looked at her watch. Three-fifteen a.m. They were five hours into it and still no word from the kidnapper. She and Scott had talked possible scenarios, analyzed information, and outlined strategies until they could no longer think. The senator alternated between hovering over them, pacing, and disappearing for long periods. His wife, sedated, slept upstairs.

Outside in the Mobile Command Unit, agents were monitoring all of the calls going to the Grables’ house and cell phones. Inside, agents subtly kept tabs on the Grables themselves. The investigation seemed so slow. They were waiting for the kidnapper to make a call, waiting for other agents to come up with more leads, waiting . . . waiting.

Scott had left to go outside, into the backyard. Kenzie decided to join him. She stepped out onto the brick patio. He sat on an iron bench, his elbows on his knees, his head bowed. Instantly, she knew he was praying. She stopped in her tracks. She still didn’t know what to do with his overt faith. It seemed so . . . inappropriate.

Scott must have heard her. He turned his head toward her and the light caught in his eyes. He sat up. “Hey.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

He shrugged. “God knows where this little girl is. I just thought I’d ask him.” He picked up his Bible and read, “He reveals deep and hidden things; he knows what is in the darkness, and light dwells with him.”

Really? Kenzie wanted to say. But she didn’t respond. She looked up. The night air seemed unusually clear for August, the stars sparkling like glitter. She remembered making a picture on construction paper, writing “To Daddy” on it in glue, and sprinkling glitter over it. She remembered shaking the excess into the trash, and her mother’s rage over the little bit that she spilled.

She sat down next to Scott. He smelled like lime aftershave. The smell brought back memories of sitting next to her dad in the pew of her childhood church. She remembered his dark suit and the feel of it when she leaned her head against his shoulder while the service went on. She remembered how he’d slip her a mint from his pocket. She remembered praying fruitlessly for God to save him as he lay on the floor, dying from a heart attack.

“It’s kind of quiet,” she said, pulling herself back to the present.

“That’s good. I want a low profile.”

Kenzie took a deep breath. She wanted to ask him if he really thought God knew and cared about Zoe. If he really thought God would guide him in their search for her. But she didn’t. She looked over at him. He looked tired. “Why don’t you go get some sleep?”

He shook his head. “No.” He set his thick, brown leather Bible on the bench. Once, Kenzie had tried to tell him not to be so obvious about his religion; it could work against him. She felt sure it had. But he had just laughed. Scott was Scott.

Kenzie heard a noise. The back door opened. John Crowfeather walked out of the house. He wore his straight black hair short on the sides, slightly longer on top; a shock of it hung over his forehead. He had on khaki cargo pants, a black golf shirt, and boots that were a cross between athletic shoes and hiking boots. A fishing vest covered his gun. Like Scott, his arms were ropey with muscles, but he looked slimmer than Scott, more like a middleweight wrestler or a lacrosse player than a football jock.

Crow pulled a patio chair out, flipped it around backwards, and sat down, propping his arms on the back of the chair. “Just checking in, boss,” he said to Scott.

“We’re counting on you to bust this wide open.”

“You’re in trouble, Kemosabe.”

Scott smiled. “Crow, you know Kenzie?” he asked, nodding toward her.

Crow looked at her. His eyes were so dark. “No.”

“Mackenzie Graham,” she said, holding out her hand. “I work at the Academy.”

“John Crowfeather. I help fulfill the minority quota at the Washington Field Office.” He smiled and shook her hand. Then he pulled a small notebook out of his vest and began thumbing through it. “I’m not coming up with anything, Scott. The plumber’s OK, roofers accounted for, gardener, electrician . . . everything looks legit. I’m headed to the office to start pulling files on the nanny and her family, but I had a couple of questions for the senator and his wife first. That’s why I stopped by.” He put the notebook back in his pocket.

Scott nodded. “All right. Mrs. Grable is sedated. Not sure how much you’ll get from her. But the senator is around.”

“What’s the nanny’s status?”

“Not doing well. Last I heard, she had some kind of reaction to the stuff on that rag—chloroform or whatever it was. She may not make it.”

Crow shook his head and stood up. “I’d sure like to talk to her. You have anything else for me?”

“No. We’re quiet here.”

“All right. I’ll be in touch. Watch for the smoke signals.” Crow winked at Kenzie.

Kenzie watched him reenter the house. “Is he from Arizona?”

“Yes, near Flagstaff. Raised on the Reservation, came to us through the Marine Corps.”

“He seems nice.”

“A great guy. My kids love him. I’m serious. You should get to know him.” He poked her with his elbow.

She rolled her eyes.

Sunrise the next morning revealed the layout of the senator’s backyard. As Kenzie had guessed, it contained an attractive garden with boxwoods, a small pond, and curved beds of perennials on either side of a flagstone walkway. The one nod to the child of the house was an outrageously bright climbing gym with an expensive foam base. The senator clearly didn’t want his little girl hurt.

Her own father was like that—protective of her. But he also wanted her to be physically bold. He took her kayaking and climbing, taught her to throw a ball like a boy. Like her, he loved language, and while they hiked or ran he’d make up word puzzles or tell her about some new word he’d just learned. On dark winter nights, they’d play Scrabble, and she was just getting to the point where she could beat him once in a while, when he died, suddenly, unexpectedly, tragically.

Even now, when she thought about it, she felt a sinking sense of despair. What a shock it had been. Her parents had been arguing; her father had come out to the family room where she stood reaching for a book. He looked pale and shaken. She thought it was just the tension but then suddenly he doubled over, falling onto the Oriental carpet. She’d screamed for her mother, even tried doing CPR, but by the time the paramedics got there, her dad was gone, and she was alone, alone with the mother who’d never wanted her to begin with and in whose eyes she would never be good enough.

Oh, God. The thought of it still sent chills through her.

In response to her father’s untimely death, Kenzie had accelerated her studies. Anxious to escape her home life, she graduated from high school at sixteen and from college at nineteen. By age twenty-three she was one of the youngest PhDs Georgetown University had ever produced. Scott called her the “girl genius.” She thought of herself as an escaped prisoner.

A motion caught her eye and interrupted her thoughts. Kenzie refocused on the screen of the door she’d been looking out of. A small black spider had caught a moth and was spinning a web around and around the moth’s body. The moth, already paralyzed, was about to be hopelessly bound. Kenzie shivered and walked away.

Scott left to organize the teams working in the neighborhood. When he returned at 7:15 a.m., Kenzie was knee-deep in the database, analyzing the reports and making notes. “What’s up?” Scott asked as he walked into the dining room.

“The Grables woke up. They’re in his office. I’m looking for patterns and not seeing any yet. How’d you do?”

“I’ve got teams moving up and down the street, and over onto Wisconsin Avenue. They’re getting security tapes from the businesses. There will be a lot to go through. I brought you breakfast.” He put a bag down on the table in front of her.

She looked inside. “Greek yogurt, fresh fruit, and a granola bar. Good job! Thanks, Scott.”

Kenzie’s Bureau cell phone rang. She answered it and moved out from behind the computer so Scott could sit down. “OK, OK,” she said. “Thanks, Marg.”

Scott raised his eyebrows as Kenzie clicked her phone off. She grimaced. “I’ll be right back.”

Kenzie walked into the kitchen. She dialed her mother’s number from her personal cell phone, wondering what “emergency” she had. Looking down the hallway, she saw Scott walk across the foyer. The next time he tried to talk to her about the sovereignty of God, she would ask him why God would let her father die and let her oh-so-difficult mother live. What kind of God would work that way?

“Hey, Mom, what’s up?” she asked. Just after seven in the morning was too early for a conflict, right? Kenzie pressed the phone to her ear. “Yes, well, I’m on a case. Sorry. I didn’t get your messages until midnight. What’s the problem?” Talking with her mother felt like falling into the churning cauldron at the base of a waterfall. Kenzie had to fight to keep her head above water. “Yes. Yes. I know that. Look, Mom, Dad gave Aunt Cici the stock years ago—I mean, eighteen, nineteen years ago. What’s the big deal? . . . No, no . . . he did it as a gift. He cared for her. She was his sister and he knew . . . Mom, listen, no, I won’t do that.”

In the middle of the battle, Kenzie heard the house phone ring. Scott emerged in the hallway and motioned to her. “C’mon, c’mon,” he said.

“Mom, I’ve got to go. Now. Sorry. Look, I’ll talk to you about this later . . . Mom! I’ll call you later.” Kenzie snapped the phone off. “I’m going to pay for that,” she muttered to herself. She raced to the office.

The senator, dressed in a blue-and-white nylon track suit, stood hovering over the clamoring instrument next to his wife. Beth had on Ralph Lauren jeans and a pink T-shirt. Both of them were gesturing anxiously, talking at the same time.

Scott held up his hands. “Wait . . . wait . . .”

Kenzie dashed in and grabbed a set of earphones. Both she and Scott would monitor the incoming call so they could coach the Grables if the kidnappers were on the line. In the van outside, agents would have recorders going.

On the fourth ring, Scott nodded. “Take it.”

Grable picked up the phone. Everyone else fell silent. “Hello?” he said.

“Beth Grable, please,” a woman’s voice said.

“Just a minute.” The senator swallowed hard and handed the phone to his wife. Scott silently counted down five seconds with his fingers. Then he pointed to her.

“This is Mrs. Grable.” Beth’s voice cracked.

“Mrs. Grable, this is Dr. Pinckney’s office,” the voice continued.

The pediatrician. An innocent call. Scott and Kenzie looked at each other and pulled off their headsets. They turned to leave.

“What? What does that mean?” Beth’s question sounded almost like a wail.

Both agents turned around.

“She can’t go to the hospital! You don’t understand . . .” Beth dropped the phone. Her eyes fluttered back and she began falling. Scott moved quickly, grabbing her before she hit the floor. Kenzie helped him ease her down.

The senator snatched up the phone. “This is Bruce Grable, Zoe’s father. What’s going on?”

His voice became background noise as Kenzie and Scott worked to bring Mrs. Grable out of her faint. Another agent brought a glass of water and a cloth. “Ambulance?” he said.

“No, she’s coming around,” Kenzie replied, dabbing Mrs. Grable’s forehead with the cloth. “Let’s get her feet up.”

“Is she all right?” Grable asked, hanging up the phone.

“She just passed out,” Scott said. “What did the doctor say?” He stood up and faced the senator.

Grable’s face looked drained. “Zoe has diabetes.”

“What?”

“Type 1, insulin-dependent diabetes.” The senator put his hand to his brow. “That’s why the doctor’s office called yesterday. He wanted her admitted to the hospital. Her blood sugar level was over five hundred. Do you know what this means? She could die!” Blood reddened his cheeks. He grabbed Scott’s shirt. “For God’s sake, man. You have to find her! Now!” Alarmed, Kenzie stood up, ready to intervene. “You have to find her!” the senator cried, shaking Scott.

Scott remained calm. “Take it easy, Senator.” He reached up and removed the senator’s hands.

“Bruce!” Mrs. Grable said, reaching for her husband. “Oh, Bruce!”

Grable went over to his wife. He knelt down next to her, grasping her hands in his. “I will not let her die. I swear. I will find her.”

“Senator,” Scott said, “I’d like to talk to that doctor, but I’ll need your permission. Zoe’s life could depend on it.”

The senator took a deep breath. “I’ll give you the number.”