Deliverer (8 page)

Chapter 13

The drive back lasted an eternity. He didn't wait for Eli to put the vehicle in park before he jumped out of the passenger side. He headed toward the front door, where Claber greeted him.

"Well?" Truman clenched his hands. “Did you find them?”

Claber shook his head, his eyes staring at some spot over Truman's head. "We know they escaped into the forest, but I didn’t see any sign of them. We've posted men at different positions along the road; we'll find them when they come out."

"You better," Truman snapped, rabid anger firing through his veins. "Their lives are worth more than yours." Everything was gone. Everything. A momentary wave of grief washed over him, so fierce that Truman dug his fingernails into his hands. Where was Sara now? He had to find her.

Then a sea of rage burned away his sadness. The other two girls had taken his freedom with them. At least he still had the necklace and the jewels.

He hadn't even seen the necklace yet. He'd been so caught up with the girls after the raid party returned, he'd forgotten to ask to see it. Now a safety net of diamonds would give him a little reassurance. "Where's the Swan Lake necklace? Is it in the safe?"

Claber paused just a moment too long, letting Truman know that he hadn't given the necklace much thought after the kidnapping either. "I don't know. Would you like me to check?"

That response didn't sit well with him. "I'll do it myself," Truman grunted, pushing past him.

The safe was hidden in a small utility closet on the second floor. Unlatching the back wall, Truman let himself into a large room, of which the safe took up most of the space. He rubbed his fingers over his palms, noting how clammy they were. Something didn't feel right.
It's in the safe
, he told himself, unable to calm his rapidly beating heart. He grabbed the combination lock and spun it around.

The door unhitched with a click. For once the sight of various boxes and stolen goods only infuriated him. How was he supposed to find anything in this mess? He yanked everything out, dumping the contents on the floor, certain at any second he'd find that necklace.

He didn't. A little more desperate this time, he carefully put everything back in place, searching every box and corner.

Nothing. He stood up and stared at the contents of the safe.

Claber remained in the hallway, a silent observer, his brows knit together. "Is it there?"

A current of unease ran through Claber's voice. Claber knew, as Truman did, that without the girls and the necklace, they had nothing to stand on.
The money would not come in fast enough and they would have wasted the last two weeks. Half their time. There would be no hope.

"No." Truman bit out the word, pouring his rage into the single syllable. His hands trembled with fury, and he took several deep breaths. The room spun for a moment. Spinning out of control.

"We'll check the van," Claber said, a bead of sweat forming along his buzzed hairline. "Maybe it never got moved."

Truman didn't answer. He strode down the hall, letting the safe swing shut behind him. Claber marched to keep up.

The van was safely locked in the garage. At least one thing was where it should be.

“There’s nothing in the back,” Claber said, doing a quick scan before closing the doors to the cargo hold. “Everything in here was put in the safe.”

Truman yanked the passenger side door open and bent to pull out the safety deposit box under the seat. It wasn't even sealed. He opened it, already knowing it would be empty. Swearing viciously, he shoved the box back under the seat and began opening glove compartments, checking cup holders. Claber hovered behind him like a nervous phantom.

"Check the driver's side!" Truman yelled.

Claber did so. He looked a little white as they concluded their search. "It's not here."

Truman paused, breathing heavily, leaning on the open passenger door. He realized from the cold pit in his stomach that he had been expecting that answer. He inhaled as two pieces suddenly clicked together. "The girls were in the cargo hold."

“Yes, that’s where we put them.”

“That’s where you put the stolen jewels, also.”

Claber swallowed and swung his eyes around as if he desired to be anywhere but there. "Yes, sir."

Truman slammed the door shut, his eyes burning. He swatted at them and unclenched his jaw. "Get the men into my office. Tell them the situation."

He ran up the steps to the house, not waiting for Claber's answer. The necklace and the girls were gone, and somebody was going to pay.

He stopped at the kitchen long enough to open a flask of whiskey and take a swig. Hopefully that gave Claber enough time to gather everyone; he wanted them waiting in his office when he got there.

They were perched around the room when he entered, all who weren't on a raid or being held hostage. He scanned them before he entered, noting the way some hunched over as if to appear smaller, and others stood straight with their shoulders back, ready to take it on. He pushed down the feelings of loyalty and camaraderie that he felt for each of them. Somewhere, respect had been replaced by casualness, and now discipline must replace friendship if he were to come out of this alive.

"Who's responsible for this stupidity?" Truman roared, entering the room and unholstering his pistol. He waved it around, eyes landing on the three who had led the raid: Eli, Grey, and Claber. "Why wasn't the necklace in the safe where it should've been?"

Eli gulped, and then stepped forward. "I placed the box in the back of the van with the other stolen goods. I didn't think to move it after we picked up the girls. It happened quickly and I was—a little tired." He waved one hand in a futile dismissal of his actions, his fat lower lip wobbling.

Truman marched forward so quickly that the man was forced to step backwards, rejoining his comrades in line. "Because of that one small mistake, the necklace was in the back with the girls. The girls! And they're gone! And so is the necklace!" Before he could change his mind, Truman aimed the gun at Eli and pulled the trigger. He liked Eli, and he knew he'd regret killing him later.

But he couldn't think of that now. Chaos had taken over, and he needed order. A little fear could work wonders. They'd lost fear and respect. He was going to help them get it back. If the death of one man could do that it would be a purpose well served.

The other men averted their eyes from Eli’s fallen body. Truman had their undivided attention. He lowered his voice. "He wasn't the only one at fault. Who was supposed to make sure the necklace made it safely into the vault?"

With an audible sigh, Grey stepped forward. "That was me, sir," he admitted, his expression flat, his face slightly paler than usual. "I brought in all the boxes that were in the hold and put them in the vault. But I didn't open them and check."

Truman stepped up to him, his nose inches from Grey's cheek, but Grey didn't move. He kept his face forward, unblinking. "I'm not going to kill you. But I will if we don’t get that necklace back. Understood?"

The lines around Grey's eyes relaxed, and he nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll recover those girls."

"I know." Truman stepped back again. Once more his eyes swept over the men before him. "None of us will get any pay if the necklace and the girls are not recovered. Find them. Now!" His men filed out of the room, gingerly stepping around their fallen friend. Truman went behind his desk and sank into the chair, dropping his head into his hands. Weariness and despair flooded him like liquid lead.

The stress was getting to him. He could feel his scruples fading behind necessity.
The bright day is done, And we are for the dark.
Was
he really no better than all the other criminals out there? "Claber!"

He appeared in the empty doorway. "Yes?"

"The blond girl. Sara." He struggled with the words, but there was no delicate way to say this. "I need her back here." He couldn't bear her loss. His chest ached, suffocating him, just like after Becca's accident. He wouldn't lose them both.

Claber jerked his head upward. "We'll get her back."

"That's all, then," Truman murmured, exhaling. He opened a drawer and felt around for his flask of alcohol, only to come up empty. Of course. "And bring me my whiskey."

Chapter 14

Truman swatted at the wet nose nudging him. Barley had been whining in his room when he'd returned there last night. The gunshots had sent a healthy amount of fear and activity into the dog as well as his men.

Barley's soft whine repeated, punctuated by a tapping sound. He groaned and rolled over.
Someone was knocking on the bedroom door.

It took Truman half a minute to realize he'd fallen asleep fully dressed, sprawled across the foot of the bed. He swore and pushed himself off, stumbling toward the door and
tripping over Barley on the way. He had meant to stay awake all night, waiting for news to come in from the search parties.

He unlocked the door and threw it open. Claber stood there, dark rings under his tired eyes, phone extended.

Truman glanced at his watch. Just after four in the morning. He took the phone from Claber and mouthed, "Who?"

Claber inclined his head at the device. Truman glanced down and scowled at the name glowing in the display.

He lifted the receiver and growled, "McAllister. It's four in the morning."

"Oh, right you are," McAllister said, his voice the proper mix of cheer and chagrin. "Good morning, then. How are you this fine day?"

Truman's thoughts raced. Did he know the girls were missing? Had Sid told him something? No, it couldn't be. "Fine. Things are fine."

"I'm so glad to hear it," McAllister purred. "Your days are counting down, right? How many are left?"

Truman gritted his teeth. He didn't want to have this conversation right now. "I don't have time for this, McAllister. You'll get your money."

"Well, if you need any assistance, I have a contact in Montreal. I could lend him to you. But you're not in Montreal, are you? Isn't it... Victoriaville?"

Truman couldn't stop the goosebumps of terror that popped out over his arms. He shuddered, glad McAllister couldn't see him. It was no secret that Truman lived in Canada. Anyone could guess the city was in Quebec. But knowing he lived in tiny Victoriaville wasn't a guess. McAllister was honing in on his location. How much did he know? How was he getting his information?

McAllister kept talking. "Maybe you and my contact could meet up. For some face-to-face encouragement."

"No, it won't be necessary." Truman forced the words out between clenched teeth. "Everything is under control." He disconnected the call and threw the phone on the floor. Adrenaline coursed through his veins.

He couldn't go back to sleep. He needed to prep the evacuation route from the house. Any day now, they might need it.

He went up to his office on the fourth floor and opened the desk drawer, searching for a notepad. Finding one, he began jotting down a few quick sentences. "Wanted for theft. Three housemaids." He quickly made up some information about the girls and added a large, fictitious reward.

He needed some photos. Claber probably had some on that small camera he carried everywhere. He'd send Claber to the twenty-four hour drugstore for some pictures, and then run a flyer in tomorrow’s edition of the Toronto Star.

He'd have to pull some strings to get it run with tomorrow's paper, but those would probably be the easiest strings he'd have to pull for awhile.

The sun rose and still Truman hadn’t slept. His phone buzzed on the table next to him, and he gave it a cursory glance before answering. Claber. "Tell me you've got good news."

"Yes," he answered, triumph in his voice. "We found the girls."

Truman straightened, relief flooding through him and making his insides weak. "Finally. Are they with you? Tie them up and gag them." No more Mr. Nice Guy. That had been a big mistake.

"No, I didn't capture them." Claber kept right on talking before Truman could express his displeasure. "They escaped in a car with a Canadian girl. But I got a picture of the car's license plate. We can track her residence. We've got them now."

Yes, that was something. "Good work. Call Fayande and give him that information. Copy me in on it. Did you get that flyer printed?"

“I did.”

“What happens if someone sees the girls?”

"I saw an ad in the paper. Some college kid offering to be a research assistant. I called him, told him I’d pay him big bucks. All he has to do is answer his phone and take messages. I call him every half hour to get the messages."

Truman grunted. "Make it every fifteen minutes. And make sure you block your number when you call. How much you paying him?"

"Ten bucks every call he takes."

Fair enough. "I assume someone is going to the address right now?"

"I sent Sanders and Grey. They're posing as RCMP."

"Excellent." Truman stared at the door to his study. The barren walls mocked him. Nothing to show for his life except a twelve-year-old labrador.

He needed to start planning his next raid. But he couldn't focus. He had to find Sara. That necklace. The
Carnicero's
daughter.

His phone rang and he snatched it up before it finished. "Yes?"

"Truman? It's Grey."

"Did you find the residence?"

"Yes. The vehicle belongs to Christophe Coton. We found him at home, just returning from work."

Truman glanced at his desk clock. Ten forty-five a.m. blinked at him in digital lines. Christophe must work at night. "And the car? The girls? Were they there?"

"No, sir. He lent the car to his girlfriend, Natalie. We got her address. He also had her cell phone." A smug note entered Grey's voice. "We tapped it."

"Of course." Truman didn't congratulate him. "Are you on your way to Natalie's house?"

"Yes. We will be there in twenty minutes."

"If she's not there, find out where she took those girls."

"Hopefully to the police," Grey said, and he and Sanders laughed loudly.

Truman waited. Their laughter faded off. "Keep me informed."

#

A little after three in the afternoon, Claber called again. "My ‘research assistant’ just contacted me. Someone called the hotline."

Truman moved around the pool table, discarding his solitary game, and leaned over the bar. He tossed aside empty to-go containers until he came across a notepad and pen. "What did they say?"

"It was a woman named Rachel. She said Natalie brought the girls to her house. Grey and Sanders are in route."

"Excellent." Truman swung away from the bar, pen in hand. "Give me her number."

Claber passed along the information.

"As soon as they reach her house, let me know. Where are you now?"

“Sitting at the post office.”

Truman’s phone dinged, and he pulled it back to check the call waiting. "Have to go. Call center's on the other line." He clicked over. "Yes?"

"Truman, I just got a call on one of the lines you tapped." Nigel's voice was barely audible over the sounds of telemarketers and customer support answering and making calls in the background. "I emailed an mp3 to you."

Things were looking up. "Keep monitoring and tell me if anyone else calls."

"Will do."

Truman hung up and opened his email. Sure enough, he had a new message with an attachment. He opened it, letting it play over the speaker. The hurried conversation pratted off in French, and Truman had to play it twice to make sure he understood. But he got it. Natalie, the girl who rescued the kidnapped girls, used a phone to call her own cell phone, which was in her boyfriend Chris’s possession. She wanted him to meet her at a local diner and take the girls somewhere safe.

Truman dialed Sanders’ number.

“Yes—” Sanders began, but Truman interrupted.

"Belay your current destination. Go to Louie's Diner. The girls will be there."

"Yes, sir. We'll get them, sir."

"You better." Truman hung up and tapped his fingers on the counter top, feeling impatient and helpless. Who else was searching? The Bennett brothers. He called them.

"Yello," Danny Bennett said, his customary answer.

"Danny. You and Derek get over to Louie's Diner and provide back-up for Sanders and Grey. They'll be bringing the girls in."

Danny passed the information on to Derek, who yelled, "You got it, boss! We're on our way."

So eager. They all were. Now nothing to do but wait. Truman paced the hardwood floor, resisting the urge to call Sanders for an update. The phone rang, and Truman snatched it up. "Grey? Do you have them?"

"No." Truman heard yelling in the background, and Grey continued, "They drove away. We're chasing them. But I've got a visual. They're driving a dark-gray SUV with brown wood paneling. It's old and slow." Grey swore, then shouted, "Sanders! Watch the traffic!"

"I'll call the police," Truman said, his adrenaline kicking in. "We'll get a patrol to pull them over."

"Slow down, slow down, slow down!" Grey yelled. "Boss, we just lost them over a railroad track."

"Street names," Truman snapped.

Grey spat out the intersection names, and Truman called Officer Fayande. "I need you to get your men on this right away. Pull them over for reckless driving, expired tags, any excuse. Get them to me."

Fayande hesitated. "I cannot do this personally. I will alert the unit closest to them."

For a moment Truman's vision blacked, and red lights flashed in front of his eyes. "I need all your units! Get everyone on them!"

Fayande lowered his voice, the French accent thick in his whisper. "It will blow your cover. I'll be questioned."

Truman hung up. He couldn't handle Fayande's excuses right now, but in the back of his mind he also knew the man was right. He called Claber back. "Claber. What's going on?"

"I'm not sure," Claber said, sounding a bit rattled. "I’m still at the post office. Sanders said you sent them to a diner. The Bennetts said the same thing. I haven't heard anything since then."

"They're chasing the girls," Truman snapped. His mind whirled, trying to find an assignment for Claber. He had the big van and three men with him. Not exactly equipped for car chases. "Stand by for action. I'll call you with an assignment."

Sanders’ number showed on the phone, and Truman clicked over. "What's the news, man?"

"We lost them."