Deliverer (7 page)

Someone would connect the dots, though. Some ambitious policeman or detective would come along, say to hell with conventions, and put two and two together. "They haven't found your friend's body yet. That will throw them off track; I don't usually deal in homicides." He said the words lightly, as if her death were no big deal. But he felt it, like another rock added to the sack of burdens he carried.

The
Carnicero
's
daughter choked, a soft sound that could have been a sob. She reached for her cup of water and knocked it over.

Truman clenched his fists.
I'm sorry. It never should have happened.
He couldn't say that. Not exactly.

Grey was right. He was too soft, and they would prey on him. "An unfortunate incident. I do regret it." He began to cut his steak, keeping his eyes on his plate now. "Life is cruel. There's no way around it." Damn this whole situation. They shouldn't be here. Yet here they were.

He shoved some of the cut steak into their bowls as if he were feeding Barley. "Eat. I'm not trying to starve you. You're no good to me dead." They fished around in the green muck for the meat he'd left them. They weren't starving yet, but watching them devour the tiny pieces of steak was pathetic. He stood up, pushing his chair away from the table. "Grey."

Grey entered quickly, as if he'd been waiting just outside the room.

"I'm done. Get them back to the attic." Truman strode out of the room, trying to escape the acrid taste in his mouth.

Chapter 11

He went straight to his office. His head pounded with too many thoughts. He shouldn't have eaten with them. He didn't want to know them. He didn't need to know who they were. Suddenly they seemed more real to him, and he resented it.

Out. They had to get out of his house.

Truman settled himself behind the desk, sinking into the padded chair. Where was Barley when he needed him? Sid should be in Canada by now. Truman scrolled through his contacts and pressed send.

"Hello," Sid greeted, his voice smooth and mirthful all at the same time.

How did Sid manage that? He didn't know who was calling. He had no fear, no concern for those who might wish to end his career. "It's Truman."

"Truman." The smile came through the phone. "What can I do for you?"

Truman gritted his teeth, wanting to wash his phone of Sid's sliminess. "Are you in Canada yet?"

"Yes, arrived just yesterday. You ready to enact our deal?"

"I'm ready to discuss things, yes." Truman led out a careful breath, hoping Sid didn’t notice his anxiety. He needed to get these girls out of his house. "I'd like to meet with you tomorrow."

"Certainly. I'm free in the morning. You remember where the house is?"

"I can find it again." Truman had only been to Sid's Montreal residence one time, right after he inherited his father's accounts. Sid had insisted on offering his help to Truman as he established himself.

Truman had rejected his help, and managed to make a name for himself without it. But the fact that the man had built a replica of a South American summer home, complete with palm trees, in the northern part of North America, said a lot about what he expected reality to do for him: Bend.

"Good,” Sid replied. “We'll see you at ten. I'll have breakfast ready."

Truman hung up and drummed his fingers on the desk. Within a week, the girls would be gone, and Truman would have a little bit of extra money, as well. Just a little bit. It made him nervous to leave the girls at the house without him, though.

He opened the desk drawer and scanned the list of phone numbers. Fayande was their contact inside the Montreal police force, and his number topped the list. Truman dialed the number.

French words carried through the receiver, and Truman cut him off with, "Officer Fayande?"

The French stopped, and the man said in crisp English, "Yes. Who is calling?"

"The Canadian White House," Truman said, spouting out their code words.

Fayande didn't miss a beat, but Truman knew he was paying attention now. The tips Truman paid him more than doubled his police salary. "How can I assist?"

"I need two or three of your men to pay me a visit tomorrow morning, about nine a.m. Can that be arranged?"

"I believe so," Fayande said, his voice cordial and unassuming.

"Make sure you know their loyalties." The police would see the kidnapped girls, and he couldn't risk an officer he didn’t know trying to be a hero.

“I will make sure.”

“That’s all, then." Truman hung up the phone, feeling reassured. With the police nearby,
there would be an added level of security for the girls.

He switched on his tablet and opened his online bank account. Finding Fayande's account, he transferred over several thousand. It was the only way to guarantee his silence.

Truman retired to his room early. He'd spent some time in the game room, but the men were skittish. All conversation stopped when he came in, and over card games and movies they shot him surreptitious glances.

Because of the girls. They didn't belong here, and all the men were high-strung, Truman included. He knew Claber had taken charge of them again, finding some project or task that needed to be done around the house.

Truman stayed out of his way. He avoided running into the girls, especially after the disastrous dinner the night before. He cursed himself for meddling. Now they weren't faceless names to him. They were scared girls.

He loaded a movie on his phone, but it didn't hold his interest. Becca. Thoughts of the beautiful blond entered his mind. She'd plagued him ever since he'd seen Sara. He combed his fingers through his hair, remembering the way Becca’s long nails would scrape over his scalp as she played with his hair.

Rising from the bed, he crossed to the balcony and stared out over the descending trees. What if Becca hadn't died? Where would their love be now?

Becca's image merged with Sara's, the kidnapped girl. He knew she wasn't Becca, but at the same time his heart latched on to her, placing all his emotional attachment to Becca on her.

Second chance.

The words whispered past his hair, tickling his face as they carried on the breeze. The wind didn't give advice, but Truman's heart beat in time to the words. Second chance.

Was it possible? He had to talk to her. He'd never know otherwise. He returned to the nightstand and used his phone to call Claber.

"Yes?" Claber answered. He probably suspected it was Truman, but since the number showed up as restricted, he couldn't know for sure.

"Where are the girls?"

"They're washing the dishes and cleaning the kitchen. They should be done soon."

At least his house was getting cleaner. "I want to speak to the blond girl. Sara. Bring her to me." Truman kept his voice professional, cold. He couldn't give away his emotional link to this girl.

"Now?"

"No." The other girls would notice if Sara disappeared right now, and they would likely mutiny. Victims went along almost willingly until they felt threatened. He had to keep them feeling secure. "When you take them to bed. Send the other two up the ladder first, then close the hatch before she follows."

"Got it," Claber said. There was no confusion in his voice, no uncertainty about his orders.

Truman relaxed and hung up the phone. The decision had been made. He would meet her and see what she thought of him.

She arrived twenty minutes later. Claber knocked, and Truman, still dressed in his khaki pants and plaid button-up shirt, opened the door for her. His heart skipped a beat when he saw her, the long blond hair falling over her face as she stared at her feet. She was really here.

Truman met Claber's eyes and gave a short nod, then pulled her into the room. He closed the door, not bothering to lock it. She wouldn't run. She could if she wanted to; he wouldn't force to her stay.

She didn't lift her head, and it was so easy to believe she was Becca. Except Becca would say something. She'd toss her hair, show the dimple in her left cheek as she smiled, her eyes crinkling in happiness.

"I'm not going to hurt you." Truman unfolded a chair by the nightstand and sat, eager to show her his intentions. "I just want to talk to you."

Still she said nothing, and he began to get the uneasy feeling that this was a bad idea. What did he plan on saying, anyway? Sorry for kidnapping you? "Do you go by Sara?"

Silence. He shifted, sweat prickling his hairline. He felt as uncertain and nervous as a grade-schooler. "Would you like anything? Something to eat?" Images of their pea soup dinner flickered through his mind, and he winced. "You don't have to stand there. Sit."

She didn't move. Maybe she didn't know where to sit. True, he had the only chair. Truman exhaled, realizing he'd just have to show her. He stood up and took her hand. Sara flinched and yanked it back, tucking her fists into her side.

His hand ached where he'd touched her skin. He softened his voice. "I won't hurt you. Come on." Taking her forearm in a gentle grip, he guided her to the bed. She didn't fight him, but seemed to take longer to lift her feet with every step. In the end Truman plucked her up and sat her down in the middle of the bed, a little impatient with her fear of him. Then he settled himself down in his chair, several feet away.

"There. I'm not even close to you. I want to help you, Sara."

She clasped her hands in front of her, not meeting his eyes.

Like a little girl. She looked so vulnerable, so scared. He knew in that moment
that he couldn't sell her to Sid. He couldn't bear for someone to take her, to possess her, to strip her of her innocence.

But how? How could he keep her from Sid?

He could claim her as his.

The idea lighted in his thoughts and the room seemed to brighten. He never wanted to be in this world of crime. Here was his chance to pursue a different endeavor.

He got up from the chair and sat cross-legged in front of her on the bed. He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, trying to see her face. Not Becca. Sara. He lifted her chin, but she met his eyes only briefly before closing them. Her lips moved but no sound came out, and then a tear rolled down one cheek, followed by another on the other side. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head, pulling her arms close to her body as if to shut him out.

Her obvious despair tugged at his heart. Truman moved closer and put his hand behind her head. She froze, even the sniffles stopping. With a sigh, he removed his hand. "Sara, don't be afraid of me. I'll do anything for you. You're safe now. You can have anything you want, anything at all."

Even as the words left his mouth, it dawned on him what he was offering her. More than just freedom. He was offering her the chance to be his equal, to be a part of his empire.

He reached over and clasped her hand, but she tightened her fingers into a fist. She whispered something, a tear trailing down her face and dripping from her chin.

"What?" Truman leaned in closer.

"Take me back."

"Back where?" he asked, before comprehension hit him. Hit him hard, like an iron fist to the gut. "Back to the attic?" But certainly she'd rather be with him than in there. Here she had everything. There she was a prisoner.

She only nodded, the tears chasing each other down her cheeks.

He stared at her, a rock in his chest. All his attempts to make her feel safe had failed. She didn't want to be with him. Well, he certainly hoped she adjusted, because he wasn't selling her to Sid. He'd give her some space, wait for her to come around.

Truman picked up his phone and called Claber. His eyes never left Sara as he said, “Come get the girl. You can take her back now.”

Chapter 12

Truman awoke with his stomach churning. In an instant, his failed visit with Sara came back to him, and he grimaced. Somehow he had to gain her trust. Make her not fear him.

But right now he couldn’t worry about her. He needed to clear his emotions and focus on his upcoming meeting with Sid. He selected his wardrobe carefully, wanting to look casual but important, like money was no issue. Khaki pants and a leather jacket.

He opened his bedroom door and nearly tripped over Barley. “Hey boy,” he said, bending to scratch behind his ears. Barley whined in appreciation, pushing his head into Truman’s hand.

“
I haven't seen much of you since the girls got here.” Truman rubbed Barley's golden fur a bit longer as he considered Sara. He looked back at the dog and gave him a pat on his side. Truman ushered Barley into his room, shutting him inside. He’d follow the girls around if left out.

Truman bumped into Sanders on the second landing. "Sanders. You help Claber with those girls today. I'm taking them to a buyer tonight, so I want them all cleaned up."

Sanders nodded, the spike in his blond hair jiggling. "Got it."

"Oh, and the police will be here in about an hour. They'll make sure nothing goes wrong while I'm gone," Truman said. He continued on out to the garage, where Claber and Eli prepped the bright yellow Camaro. Eli filled the car with gas from a portable tank kept in the garage.

"Why don't you just take the girls to Sid now? Get rid of them," Claber murmured close to his ear.

"I want to hear his price first. I can't gamble effectively with them hanging off me."

Claber arched a brow. "How long will this take?"

Truman shrugged. "If he's agreeable, I hope to sign tonight. Unless something comes through with the
Carnicero
."

Claber shifted his weight. “Should we hang on to her longer, just in case?”

Truman shook his head. “No. We'll just sell her for a higher price to Sid. Then he can deal with the
Carnicero
directly.”

Claber nodded. Truman watched his second-in-command. Tonight might not be soon enough. He would breathe a deep sigh of relief when those girls were gone.

Eli put down the gas tank, his fat lower lip poofing out. "Car's ready."

"Let's go, then." Truman gestured for him to get in the driver's side. "I'll direct you to Sid's place."

A motion in his peripheral vision caught his eye. Truman cocked his head and saw Rivera and Murphy peering at him through the small round window in the attic.

Enjoy your little room
, Truman thought.
Soon you'll be elsewhere.
He didn’t try to imagine where “elsewhere” was. He wanted them off his hands. If that meant his hands got a little muddy in the process, so be it.

The engine roared, and Truman climbed in, feeding Eli directions. He lowered the window, feeling the nippy autumn air pull into the car. He watched the tall oak trees fly past and felt the exhilarating freedom that came with taking charge of life. Even the circumstances surrounding the sale couldn't change the fact that Truman would lighten his debt with this. Ridding himself of the girls bought a little more breathing room, and so they had to go.

Except Sara.

Sara. He blinked, taken back by how much emotion the name carried with it. She was worth more than money. He'd make her forget the past, and she'd be happy.

The drive to Sid’s house took a little over an hour. The September sun shone on the red brick driveway, reflecting off the large glass windows surrounding the house. Truman pulled out his sunglasses.

“I’ll have my phone on me,” he said to Eli, “but don’t you dare interrupt us. Not unless it’s an emergency.”

“Yes, sir.”

A servant opened the car door for Truman, and he stepped out. Large palm trees waved in the wind. Truman resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Palm trees. In Canada. Tall lamps blended into the foliage above them, giving them the additional heat and light they needed to live in this climate.

Money to burn. He made a mental note to raise the price of the girls. "Wait here," he said to Eli.

Sid strode to the car, looking comfortable in Bermuda shorts and flip-flops, and greeted him with a large smile.

Truman forced his lips to curl upward. "Sid."

"Never thought I'd be doing business with you," the other man laughed. The gel in his wavy brown hair glistened in the sunlight.

His laugh made Truman's skin crawl. His gut twisted, and he wondered if this was such a good idea. Was it too late? Could he just let the girls go?

No. McAllister had that debt over his head, and he'd hunt Truman down. "The development was definitely unexpected. But I'm sure it will be beneficial for us both." He glanced at Eli, who nodded at him from the driver’s seat. Truman returned the nod before giving all his attention to Sid.

“Shall we?” The other man grinned and extended a hand down the tiled walkway.

Truman followed Sid through the immaculate lawn into the front sunroom. The warmth coming through the glass and the tiled walls made Truman feel like he really was in South America.

"You've got three little ladies, you say?" Sid asked, stopping at an entry room table and opening a drawer.

Truman's jaw tensed, and he cleared his throat. "Just two."

Sid raised an eyebrow. “Oh? I was certain you’d said three.” He placed a silver platter on the table.

"I'm keeping one," Truman said, irritated that he had to say even that much. Sid didn't deserve an explanation.

"Ah." Sid leered. "Never knew what you were missing, huh?" He handed the silver platter to his servant.

This time Truman didn't bother with a response, though his blood boiled at the crass reference.

Sid shrugged, then motioned him into one of his wicker chairs while he sank back into a large black leather couch.

Truman removed his outer jacket and placed it on the table, then sat in the chair.

"Cigar?" Sid offered as the servant returned. Now several cigars decorated the ornate platter.

"Thank you." Truman accepted one and let the servant light it. He inhaled, allowing it to calm his nerves.
Let's get this over with.

His phone began to jingle, and he pulled it out. Eli. Truman's brows knit together and a knot formed in his stomach. He had specifically said not to interrupt him. Why would Eli call him now? He looked at Sid. "May I?"

"Of course."

He answered the call. "What?" He hoped his irritation showed through. This better be important.

"I just got a call from Sanders. There's been a problem." Eli's voice came across restrained, with a current of urgent energy beneath it.

That bad feeling in his gut intensified. "A problem with what?" he hissed. Out of his peripheral vision, he saw Sid lean forward.
Truman forced his body to relax.

Eli's brief hesitation said enough, and Truman interrupted himself. "Never mind. I'll call Claber myself." He disconnected, then stood up. "Excuse me."

Leaving the sunroom, Truman settled himself into a corner of the foyer. Claber answered on the first ring.

"Claber. What happened?"

Instead of Claber, it was Sanders' excited voice that shouted in his ear, and Truman winced. "The girls escaped! They're not in the house!"

Truman stiffened. "What?" He'd expected bad news, but this wasn't possible. "They're gone?" No, no, no. This couldn't be happening. "All of them?" Not Sara. Perhaps she hadn’t been with the others...

"Yes, yes," Sanders said. "All of them."

Truman's mind flashed back to the officers he'd requested to come out to the house. "What about the police? Where are they?"

"They searched too! We couldn't find the girls and they finally had to leave. They said they'd tell the situation to Fayande. They ran out into the forest. Claber’s out there now. He left his phone with me."

“Why didn’t someone contact me sooner?” Truman snarled.

Silence was the only answer, but Truman already knew why. Of course his men had hoped to find the girls before any harm was done. Now when it was apparent that the girls were gone, they were forced to tell him.

His head ached. The web entangling him tightened, strangling the breath out of him. "Keep looking. Send a car to patrol the road beneath the mountain. They have to emerge somewhere." He glanced toward the sunroom and saw Sid leaning back in his seat, touching his fingertips together. “I’ll call again when I leave here.”

Truman flashed Sid a grimace and returned to his chair, eyeing his abandoned cigar as it smoked in the ashtray on the coffee table.

"Well?" Sid asked in an irritatingly mellow voice.

Truman gathered his jacket. "I'm afraid we'll have to continue these arrangements later. Thank you for your time."

Sid chuckled as Truman hurried to the door. "Anytime, my man. Anytime."

Truman didn't respond. Sid’s patronizing tone made the blood rush through his veins. He had to get those girls.