Christmas at Twilight (23 page)

“Why not?”

The flight attendant opened the door and the passengers sprang to their feet. Hutch had a window seat and even though every instinct in his body was screaming at him to get off the plane and get to Kimmie, his mission was better served by sitting still for the moment and keeping his niece talking.

“She's in the baffroom.”

He exhaled. “You called me all on your own?”

“Your pitcher is on Mommy's phone, so I pusheded it.”

“That's a good girl. You can call me any time you want.” He strained his ears, listening for background noises. His mind was going to unspeakable places he didn't want them to go, but he knew too much of the dark side of the world to assume the best. He didn't hear anything. No man's voice. No TV noises either.

“Unca Hutch.”

“What is it sweetheart?”

“Can you come get me?”

“I'll be there as soon as I can, but I need to know where you are. Did you and Mommy drive a long way after she picked you up from school?”

“No.”

“And it's just you and Mommy?”

She hesitated again. Why? “Uh-huh.”

Her voice was tense and he was skilled at knowing when someone was lying. Trouble was, four-year-old children had trouble telling fantasy from reality. How the hell was he going to find her? He could drive to every motel in town, but that would take too long.

“Okay. Listen to me, honey. They've been teaching you how to read in school, right?”

“I know my alfybet.”

“Good girl.”

“Wanna hear? A, B, C, D, E, F—”

“That's very good, but for right now, I want you to look around that room and see if you can find something with the name of the motel on it. Is there a drawer in that desk you were telling me about?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Can you go over there and see if you can open the drawer?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I want you to look inside the drawer and see if there's any paper or a pen in it.”

“'Kay.”

She must have put the phone down, because he could no longer hear her soft little breathing. His gut squeezed. He punched up the volume on his cell, heard a drawer creak open. Then the sound of little feet padding across carpet.

“I gotta piece of paper,” she said, breathless.

“Good job. Is your mommy still in the bathroom?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are there letters on the top of the paper?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Can you use your alphabet skills and read those letters to me?”

“'Kay.”

He waited. She didn't say anything. Was he expecting too much of her? Most of the passengers had filed from the plane. He tucked the phone under his chin and stood up to retrieve his bag.

“Kimmie?” he asked, fearful that the connection had been lost.

“T,” she said.

He exhaled.

“Good job. Keep going.”

“W.”

“Is the next letter an I?” he guessed, unable to wait through the agony of her painstakingly spelling out “Twilight.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Is the next one an L?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What's the letter after that?” He hadn't felt this much tension in his Delta Force missions. Igloo. Be cool. He guided her through the rest of the word. “What's the next letter after the T?”

There were three motels in town with Twilight in their name. Twilight Inn, Twilight Arms, and Twilight Sands.

Kimmie made a hissing noise.

“What's that, honey?”

“It's the letter that hisses like a snake,” she said. “Sometimes I forget.”

“An S.”

“Yes.”

She was at Twilight Sands. Sweat beaded his brow as he raced down the Jetway, dodging around slow-moving people, his heart pounding. “I know where you are, sweetheart. Hang on. I'll be there as soon as I can.”

D
riving the distance from DFW airport to Twilight, making the trip that should have taken over an hour in under forty minutes, Hutch pulled into the Twilight Sands Motel.

Mist was rolling in off the lake, deepening the evening darkness to midnight black. He cruised the parking lot, his headlights glaring against the fog, sweeping over the backs of vehicles and the thick privacy hedge of Ashe Juniper shielding the north side of the motel from the highway. At the end of the lot his headlights hit the rear of Ashley's compact powder blue Chevy parked in front of room 127 or 227, depending on whether she was on the first floor or the second. He could go ask the desk clerk, but he didn't want to waste any more time, and he pulled in near the Chevy.

Easy
.

His sister responded best to gentleness, especially after she pulled a bonehead move and her self-esteem was in the gutter.

What he couldn't figure out was why she'd come to a motel instead of going home. Then again, he'd never been able to understand the way her mind worked. Things he considered irrational made perfect sense to her.

Instinct had him unlocking the glove compartment and reaching for his gun. Twelve years as a soldier and he felt naked without a weapon, but he'd stopped carrying it on his person because of Meredith and the children.

His hand wrapped around the grip, but he hesitated. Weapons in a domestic situation were rarely a good idea. He moistened his lip. The male voice he thought he'd heard on the phone still bothered him. What if Ashley's Acapulco bed buddy was in there with them? His mind flashed to a time before Ashley had Kimmie, when she was in crisis and got her hands on his gun. She'd threatened to shoot them both.

He let go of the weapon, closed the glove compartment, and got out of the car. A quick scan of the area revealed routine motel activity—someone at the ice machine, a maintenance worker hustling back to the office with a red toolbox under his arm, an elderly woman bundled in a heavy coat against the January wind coming off Lake Twilight, while her leashed Maltese took a leak under the glow of a streetlamp.

But routine could be a guise for nefarious activity. He had lingered at ice machines, posed as a maintenance worker, and walked dogs that weren't his to hunt down targets. And the dark, foggy night provided great cover.

Debating whether to call Ashley, he lifted the collar of his leather jacket and stuffed his hands into his pockets, waiting until everyone disappeared from the area before walking up and rapping on the door of room 127, even though no lights were on inside. If no one was there, then she was most likely in 227.

He raised his hand, but before he could knock, the door opened inward. The room was completely dark. Suddenly he realized just how vulnerable he was. How had he let himself get into this situation?

His instinct cried out for him to crouch and go for his gun.

From inside the room, a man's voice called out, “C'mon in, Hutch, we've been waiting for you.”

The hairs on the back of Hutch's neck stood up. Who was this guy? Could he be the man Ashley had gone to Mexico with? Or was it someone else? What in the hell was going on here?

A flashlight switched on and he found himself staring into Kimmie's terrified little face.

Wrapped around her throat was a hairy-knuckled masculine hand, and pressed against her temple was the barrel of a 659 Smith & Wesson fitted with a silencer.

I
love you.

The last words Hutch has spoken to her circled Meredith's head.

I love you.

She'd known he was falling in love with her and she was falling in love with him, but hearing him say it out loud changed things. If it had been anyone else saying the words so soon after meeting each other, she would have been terrified; maybe she should have been terrified, but she wasn't.

The only thing she wanted was for Hutch to come home so she could tell him to his face. He'd shown her so much love and kindness that she was no longer afraid of moving fast. When you found your True North, you knew it was right.

She trusted him with her life and the life of her son and that was huge.

He'd sent one terse text at four-fifteen
p.m.
On ground
. She hadn't texted him back because he was driving, and later, she hadn't wanted to interrupt his meeting with Ashley.

But it was seven o'clock. She paced the living room floor, wondering what was going down between him and his sister. Worried if Kimmie was okay. She'd sent Ben over to Flynn and Jesse's until Hutch came home with Kimmie, but now she wondered if that was a mistake. She had nothing to keep her occupied. She tried doing yoga, but she was too agitated to settle.

Her gut told her something wasn't right. Hutch should have called, reassured her. What if Ashley had harmed Kimmie in some way?

Finally, unable to stand the tension any longer, she texted him:
Everything okay?

She waited five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.

He never replied.

H
utch sat in a straight-back chair situated between the two queen-sized beds while Ashley, sobbing how sorry she was and begging his forgiveness, handcuffed his hands behind him as the man with the gun directed her. The cold handcuffs clicked tight around his wrists. The gunman had made him empty the contents of his front pockets on the dresser. His wallet lay there and his cell phone.

Out of reach.

After Hutch had stepped over the threshold, the man, still firmly pressing the gun to Kimmie's head, commanded Ashley to chain latch the door and turn on the light. His niece clung to the flashlight in her hands like it was a lifeline.

“Sit down,” he'd threatened. “Or I'll shoot the girl.”

Kimmie's chin trembled, and seeing the terror in her eyes killed Hutch's soul. What kind of monster was this man?

A very dangerous one.

Frustration mixed with fury, but Hutch did as the man commanded, sitting down in the chair. Dammit, why hadn't he brought his gun? He would have taken the bastard out with one clean shot through the forehead and never blinked.

In front of Kimmie?

Using Kimmie as a shield, the dirtbag maneuvered around the end of the bed, moving between Hutch and the door.

Once Hutch was cuffed to the chair, the man, who looked like he could have come from a cattle call audition for the role of good-looking, smarmy cop, removed the gun from Kimmie's head and used it to motion Ashley away from Hutch.

The creep was as tall as Hutch, and almost as muscular. A bushy, 1970s porn star mustache saddled his upper lip, and even indoors at night, he wore mirrored aviator sunglasses. “We've been waiting for you.”

“Burt Reynolds called,” Hutch said dryly, trying to give no indication how panicked he was to see his four-year-old niece in this ogre's clutches. “He wants his look back.”

The gunman raised a wry eyebrow. “Really? That's the best you can do? A line as dusty as a library book on how to program your VCR.”

“Sorry, I've had a long flight. Best I can do on short notice.”

“Aww, you havin' a rough day, Captain Hutchinson.” The man clicked his tongue. “Or should I called you Igloo?”

The asshole knew who he was. Ashley cowered near the door. She was painfully thin, her hair dirty, her clothes bedraggled, her skin marked with blemishes.

“Oh yeah, Captain, don't give me those surprised eyebrows. I've done my homework. I know exactly who my wife is screwing. But where are my manners? I haven't properly introduced myself. LAPD Detective Vick Sloane.”

This maniac was Meredith's ex-husband? No wonder she'd been so terrified of him, and little wonder she'd been unable to let go of the idea that he wasn't dead. She'd been right to worry. He just wished he'd listened to her.

“And for the record it is Vick, not Victor. Don't ever call me Victor. It pisses me off when people call me Victor.”

“No kidding?” He said it like he was ordering coffee at Starbucks. Multitudinous emotions ripped through Hutch—anger, outrage, grief, regret, sorrow, defeat, remorse, disgust, disbelief—but he couldn't indulge any of them. Not if he wanted to get Kimmie and Ashley out of here alive. “The LAPD labeled you a wanted fugitive.”

“Those boneheads? They couldn't find their ass with both hands. And look how easy it was to shake them.” Sloane snorted.

“We thought you were dead. In fact, Meredith and I celebrated when we got the news.”

Jealous fury crossed Sloane's face, but he quickly tamed it. “Premature of you. The news of my demise has been greatly exaggerated.”

“Whose body was in the car you ran into the oil tanker truck?” Hutch asked, trying to keep Sloane talking, stalling for time.

“Don't worry yourself over it.” Sloane waved the gun. “Some inconsequential homeless guy.”

Hutch fixed his gaze on Kimmie, tried to send her a message with his eyes that everything was going to be all right. That he would get her out of this. Briefly, he flicked a glance over at Ashley. She seemed hypnotized or drugged. It tore him up to think what she must have suffered at the hands of this savage.

“You lured my sister to Mexico just to get even with your ex-wife?”

This time, Sloane could not contain his fury. “You know what she did?” he yelled, spittle flying from his lips. “She took my son away from me. I didn't even know she was pregnant, until I tracked her down in Colorado and the bitch shot me. Now that”—he shook the gun at Hutch for emphasis—“was cold-blooded. You don't treat a man like that. She has to pay for that.”

If only Ashley would snap out of it. He could lunge for Sloane, chair and all, giving her and Kimmie time to get out the door, but not with his sister so dazed.
Snap out of it, Ashes.

“She shot me. You know that? If I hadn't been wearing Kevlar she would be in prison for murder.”

“Too bad she didn't kill you.”

“Now you're just getting nasty.” Sloane yanked Kimmie up tight against him. “Do I need to remind you I can get nasty too?”

Ashley whimpered, covered her head with her arms, and sluggishly swayed closer to the door. Could she be picking up on the mental telepathy he was desperately sending her?

Sloane never even looked around at Ashley. He was too busy ranting against Meredith. “The bitch is wily, I'll give her that. It took me two and a half years to track her down. Of course, faking my own death helped so I could go after her full-time.”

Kimmie was a stone statue in Sloane's embrace. Her little hands seemed petrified around that flashlight. It was big and heavy. How was she still holding it up? Had the child gone into shock?

“Imagine my delight,” Sloane went on, “when I found her living with a stupid, gullible young woman just begging to fall in love.”

Ashley whimpered again.

“Shut up, cow,” Sloane said, but he never took his eyes off Hutch or let go of Kimmie. He wasn't that stupid. He knew Hutch was waiting for any kind of opening to charge him.

“You used my sister to get at Meredith.” The room was so hot. Sweat trickled down his chest. He wished he didn't have the heavy overcoat on.

Sloane smiled like a shark with dolphin flesh in his teeth. “Guilty as charged. I do like a good psychological game of cat and mouse, except you showed up and put a kink in the plans. But that turned into my favor too. I got to spend time getting to know your little sister.” Sloane licked his lips in a lewd gesture, gigging him.

Hutch iced up inside. Igloo cool. Quelling the overriding urge to murder the bastard. He needed complete control over his emotions in order to get Ashley and Kimmie out of this. He kept his face expressionless and his eyes vacant.

“And something magical happened. My dear wife fell in love with you, putting a whole new weapon in my hands. Imagine the pain she'll feel when she learns I killed her lover boy.” He went on in excruciating detail what he intended on doing to Meredith, his lip curling up in sadistic pleasure. “And then I'm going to make her scream for mercy but give her none.”

Hutch's rage was a living thing, a beast inside him, carving up his organs with thick, sharp claws, desperate to leap from his chest and kill Vick Sloane.

From where she stood behind Sloane, Ashley moved in excruciatingly slow motion, reaching up to ease the chain lock off the door. Good girl. Hutch glanced away from her for fear of drawing Sloane's attention to his sister.

“Am I making you mad?” Sloane leered and leaned forward. “You want to kill me, don't you?”

You're not a catfish. Don't snap at the bait.

Hutch's calmness infuriated Sloane. “Did you hear me, soldier boy?”

Great. He'd rattled the bastard.

Quickly, he flicked his gaze to Kimmie to see how she was holding up. Sloane had one elbow hooked around her neck and he kept alternating pressing the gun to her temple and brandishing it at Hutch. Sloane was going to pay for this. Big-time.

His niece's lip quivered uncontrollably. Her eyes stared, empty, unseeing. She'd drawn deep into herself to escape her environment. Poor kid. He wished he could wrap his arms around her and promise her that everything was going to be okay.

But it wasn't going to be okay, was it?

Her chubby little hands were still clutched around the flashlight, but gravity pulled it lower and lower until she was barely holding on to the stub.

“Listen to me,” Sloane roared.

Kimmie startled, lost her grip, and the heavy Maglite dropped directly onto Sloane's instep.

He yelped and let go of Kimmie.

As if equipped with springs on their feet, simultaneously Hutch and Ashley bounced. He leaped up, still handcuffed to the chair, but he did not have clear access to Sloane. He'd have to go either over the bed or around it.

Ashley, however, had a straight path. She yanked the door open and then jumped on Sloane's back. “Run, Kimmie,” she yelled. “Run and hide!”