Abduction (7 page)

Rene tossed
her towel over the back of a chair. “Those reporters are going to eat her
alive. I’m going over there for a few minutes. I can’t stand by and do
nothing.”

Jeff closed
his Bible, hooked a finger over the top of his glasses, and slid them down to
the edge of his nose. He peered over the top of them. “Be careful.”

Rene blew him
a kiss. “I’ll leave long before he’s home. He’ll never know I was there.”

Pulling the
front door closed behind her, Rene squared her shoulders, ready to storm
through the wall of reporters. No, they didn’t intimidate her. Few things did.
But it hadn’t always been that way. Once upon a time she had cowered in fear
merely from the way her first husband looked at her, knowing that at any moment
his fists would take over.

Afraid,
intimidated, hurt, and wounded, it had taken years to build up the courage to
go to her pastor for help. The Reverend Bennett Reed, then in his early
sixties, had meant well, but he’d clearly been raised in a different era and
was unprepared for the rise in domestic violence. With a pat on her hand and a
warm smile, the old man had sent her home, gently admonishing her to submit to
her husband’s authority.

That advice may have been well intentioned, but it
nearly cost her life. Her husband had found out. Enraged that she had dared
tell anyone, he had beaten her so badly that a neighbor—frightened by the
screams—called the police. Rick was arrested and Rene spent a week in the
hospital. It was in the hospital that she’d met Margaret Elizabeth Brennan—a
woman who not only had survived an abusive marriage but had gone on to open a
shelter for abused women.

Margaret
promised her a new life. Rene had been skeptical. Margaret promised that Rick
would never find her. Rene had listened. When Rene was released from the
hospital, Margaret took her to a private shelter, and slowly, as days passed
into weeks and weeks into months, she began to feel safe. When Margaret helped
her find a job, Rene began to feel independent. And slowly, very slowly, she
began to heal.

She recognized
the cowering fear in Karen Matthews’ eyes, and it drove her crazy. True, she
hadn’t seen any evidence that Ted Matthews beat his wife, but there were more
ways to abuse a woman than with fists.

Circling the
house, Rene climbed the wooden stairs to Karen’s kitchen door and rapped softly
on the window. A few seconds later, Karen pushed back the curtain and then
frowned, slipping the door open a crack. “You shouldn’t be here. I’m sorry,
Rene. It’s just. . .”

“I know. Ted
doesn’t want me here. But do you?”

Rene watched
as Karen chewed on her bottom lip, indecision in her eyes.

“Karen, I won’t
stay long, okay? I’ll leave well before he comes home. I just thought you might
need some help with those reporters. And maybe you could use a friend?”

#

JJ pulled up
in the Matthews’ driveway. Satellite vans lined the streets. Reporters
congregated in little groups, swigging coffee or cold sodas while camera crews
lingered nearby waiting to be called into action.

“Ready to run
the gauntlet?”

“I’ve been
running them for years,” Zoe replied as JJ eased the car through the crowd and
turned into the driveway. Reporters jumped, scrambling across the yard, yelling
to the camera operators, smoothing back hair, and straightening jackets.

JJ got out
first. The minute the reporters recognized him, they shoved microphones in his
face and started asking questions.

“Do you have
any leads?”

“Have the
parents been given polygraphs yet?”

“Are the
parents suspects?”

“Is this case
connected to the other little girl?”

“Do you think
it’s the same kidnapper?”

“What can you
tell us about the Matthews baby?”

JJ turned to look at the reporter, a young woman
with short blond hair and big blue eyes. “Seven-month-old Jessica Matthews is
missing, taken from her crib in the middle of the night. That’s
about
it.”

“What about
the parents?”

“I can’t
comment on that at this time.”

Zoe eased
through the crowd as JJ diverted the reporters’ attention. She was almost to
the front door when one reporter stepped in front of her. “Aren’t you that
famous psychic?”

“No comment,”
Zoe replied as she tried to step around him.

“Have the
police brought you in for the Matthews baby?”

“No comment,”
Zoe repeated firmly.

“Will you be
trying to find Gina Sarentino, too?”

Suddenly JJ
was at her elbow, easing the reporter out of their way. “We have no comment at
this time.”

When they made
it up the steps to the front door, it swung open. Karen Matthews stood there,
looking from JJ to Zoe. She stepped back, swinging the door open wide.

As soon as the
reporters caught sight of Karen, they started screaming out questions again,
but she closed the door firmly behind JJ and Zoe without reply.

Karen was
older than Zoe had anticipated. Standing barely five-foot-two, she looked to be
in her late thirties or early forties. She was a pretty woman with a square
face and large, light brown eyes that looked more gold than brown. The wavering
smile and slumped shoulders made Zoe want to reach out and comfort her.

Zoe followed
Karen into the living room, declining the offer of something to drink. While JJ
spoke quietly to Karen, Zoe walked around the room, looking at the baby pictures
on the wall, on the end table, and on the mantle. She picked up the receiving
blanket tossed across the side of the playpen and fingered it.

She had just
began to feel the pull when she heard a woman ask loudly, “Who is she?”

Zoe turned in the direction of the voice and found
a middle-aged woman staring at her. She was tall, maybe five-ten or
five-eleven, with short, spiky brown hair and big brown eyes that seemed
unusually sharp and observant. They darted everywhere, but Zoe doubted she
missed a thing. And it was those eyes that held Zoe’s attention.

Zoe had the
distinct impression that this woman had her in the crosshairs. A shiver ran
down Zoe’s back.

The woman
smiled, but there was a cool edge to it. “Are you with the police department?”

Karen started
to make the introductions. “Rene Taylor, this is Detective Johnson and. . .”

JJ spoke up. “Miss Shefford. She’s here with the
department to help.”

The woman took
another step forward, eyeing Zoe cautiously. “You’re here to help in what way?”

Zoe turned to
Karen and offered a comforting smile. “I have some success finding lost
children.”

“I thought you
looked familiar.” Rene stepped around the coffee table. She reached out and
slipped the blanket from Zoe’s hands. “You’re that psychic.”

“Yes.”

Rene lifted
her chin. “I’m sorry. This won’t do at all. Karen is a Christian.”

Zoe looked
over at JJ for help, but he seemed as much at a loss as she was. She was going
to have to deal with this herself. “I don’t understand. If I can help. . .”

The woman
shook her head again as she stepped over to Karen and took her hand. “No. You
can’t. It’s nothing personal, but Karen cannot use a psychic to find this
child. As a Christian, she must depend on God, not the devil.”

Zoe smiled
again, speaking slowly, patiently, as if to a child. “I’m not the devil, Mrs.—”

“I know that,
Miss Shefford. But I’m sorry. It’s not right.”

“I admit that
I’m not exactly a religious person,” Zoe replied softly. “But I believe in God,
and I believe my gift is from Him.”

“No,” Rene
argued firmly. “Your gift is
not
from God. And you will
not
use
it on Jessica.”

Rene turned to Karen. “I’m sorry, Karen. Perhaps
I’m overstep
ping here. I know that you don’t attend our church, but as a
Christian, you can’t use a psychic. You know that, right?”

Karen swallowed
hard, looking uncomfortable and confused.

Zoe squared
her shoulders for battle. “If Mrs. Matthews is a Christian, how come she didn’t
have a problem until you
told
her it was a problem? You’re interfering
with police work here. I’ve been called in to help find Jessica. Has it dawned
on you that if you prevent me from doing my job, something terrible could
happen? Could you live with that?”

Zoe turned to
Karen. “Are you going to let this woman dictate what happens to your baby?”

Karen wrung
her hands, looking from Zoe to Rene and back to Zoe. Confusion racked her
pretty features, twisting her face into a portrait of misery. “I want my
Jessica back, but. . .”

“Then let me
do my job, Mrs. Matthews.” Zoe’s voice was soft, cajoling, gently pleading.
Come
on, Karen. Don’t listen to these wackos!

“I can’t,”
Karen whimpered.

Rene nodded
with satisfaction as she turned to JJ. “I’m sorry, Detective. I believe the
matter is settled.”

Zoe was all
but pushed out the door. Reporters immediately surrounded her and JJ, pressing
in with endless questions, camera flashes, microphones, and tape recorders. JJ
shielded her as they ran the gauntlet back to the car.

“Do you have
any leads on baby Jessica?”

“Have the
parents been polygraphed?”

“Do you think
this case is tied to the other missing girl?”

“Do we have a
serial killer on the loose?”

#

Janice Alberry
watched with a cat-like smile as JJ spun around and climbed into his car. She
clicked her tape recorder off and stuck it in her pocket, thinking about the
anger that had flashed in JJ’s eyes when she’d asked him about a serial killer.
He’d whirled on her, nearly knocking her tape recorder out of her hand,
growling an emphatic “No!”

So the
unflappable JJ Johnson was upset. Interesting. And the woman with him—a famous
psychic. Detective Johnson was using a psychic? Even more interesting.

Pulling a
small notebook out of her pocket, she jotted:
Find out about the woman.

“Hey, Jan. Get
anything good?”

Janice glanced
up at Freddie King, a reporter for one of the local television stations, and
closed her notebook. He was an arrogant boob, but his connections made him
worth a smile. She gave him a thousand-watt grin. “Who knows. They’re playing
this tighter than the Green Bay Packers.”

“That’s
because they got squat. You know it’s bad when they bring in that psychic, Zoe
Shefford. Not that she isn’t good; she is. Probably one of the best in the
business. But bringing in a psychic is never good press, no matter how you spin
it.”

“Yeah, I
noticed she was here. They’re really reaching on this one. Good ol’ JJ didn’t
look too happy. You think Harris brought her in?”
Zoe Shefford. Remember
that name.

“I heard it
was the governor himself who wanted her called in. He’ll be campaigning for
reelection in a couple of months—can’t have a serial killer stealing
headlines.”

Janice felt
her fingers itching to write down these particulars, but she couldn’t afford to
let Freddie think she wasn’t on top of all this information.
Old news. Look
a little bored.
“Yeah, ain’t that the truth. Have you ever seen Shefford
work?”

Slipping on
his sunglasses, Freddie graced her with one of those lazy, lopsided smiles that
had women viewers sighing. “You want the headlines, darlin’, you’re going to
have to work for them. I’m not giving you anything. Go do your homework.”

Janice wanted
to kick him in the seat of those finely pressed pants as he turned on his heel
and strolled off to his air-conditioned truck, his cameraman on his heels like
a lap dog.

Fuming, she
yanked out her notebook and wrote.
Zoe Shefford. Psychic. Top in her field.
Called in by governor. Serial killer?

Okay, Freddie.
She closed her notebook and headed for her car.
I’ll do my homework.
I’ll find out everything there is to know about Zoe Shefford and her work. With
any luck, I’ll make a few headlines of my own.

She climbed
into her car and glared at the air conditioner that hadn’t worked in years as
she turned the key. The engine sputtered, caught, and choked as it turned over.

If she was
going to get a headline, she was going to have to dig and see what she could
find on Zoe Shefford. Maybe a little dirt. No one was spotless. You just had to
ferret it out.

#

“Well, what
was that all about?” Zoe propped her elbow on the edge of the car door and,
leaving Karen Matthews and the accusations behind, looked to JJ for answers.

“Got me.”

Curling her
fingers into her hair, Zoe stared blindly out the windshield. “I don’t think
I’ve ever had anyone tell me I was the devil before.”

“Not to your
face, maybe.”

Raising both
eyebrows, Zoe turned to stare at him. “You think I’m in cahoots with the devil?
You can’t be serious.”

“I never said
that.” A devious smile flitted across his face. “I think my exact thoughts were
‘decked-out demagogue of deceit’ or some such thing.”

Zoe couldn’t
help herself. The laugh erupted involuntarily, filling the car with the
pleasant sound of amusement and wonder. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” he
admitted with a smirk.

“And now?” she
asked.

“Now what?”

“Now what
would you call me?”

She could almost feel his gaze taking in
everything from the wild curly hair that tumbled down across her shoulders and
back, nearly reaching her waist, to the soft-pink silk blouse and flowered
skirt, to the dainty leather sandals on bare feet and toes tipped in bright
pink polish. “Delightful-looking decked-out demagogue of deceit.”