Forsaken: A Fallen Siren Novella (2 page)

He leans in close, the anger has returned. “I want my memories back.”

After we saved the girls, Demeter granted me a reprieve. Only it wasn’t a reprieve, not really. It was a set up, a web spun by the most calculating spider of them all, and I fell right into it. Giving myself to Zack, opening up fully, letting him see the real me. Believing it could last when it couldn’t. Not when my Siren scent was destined to link back to evidence Zack had that we’d been lovers before and that magic had been used on him to erase those memories.

I watch the clouds pass by. My voice sounds as distant as the land far below. “That won’t change anything.”

“It would restore a measure of trust between us.”

How I wish that were true. I remind myself why I avoided the truth and used the spell to begin with. Zack would never be satisfied with the kind of relationship Kallistos and I had. He deserves more. He would want more and he’d fight for it. He’d fight against a Goddess. He’d fight, he’d lose, and he’d die.

It’s happened before.

I say what’s true, “It would only leave you with more questions.”

“Questions you won’t answer.”

“Can’t answer,” I counter.

“Bullshit. You know, if your goal is to keep me pissed off, I’d say your work here is done.”

“It’s
not
done. You
can
trust me.”

“Trust you to do what?”

“To keep you safe,” the words are flung at him in a hiss. I quickly add, “To do my job.”

“To keep me safe.” Zack grows still, quiet. For a long while, he says nothing. Then, “Kallistos didn’t punish you, but someone did.” He sighs. Shakes his head. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. Whatever rules were broken, whatever dangers or threats remain. The mess that’s been made is as much my fault as yours. Maybe more my fault. I was foolish enough to believe that I’d found a
partner.
That maybe, just maybe, I could escape the past, have a future.”

For as long as I’ve known him, Zack has always said the word partner like it really means something. For the first time, I realize how much significance the word really holds for him, how much he’s wanted a partner in work, in bed, in love, in life. I let my head fall back against the headrest. I’m emotionally and physically exhausted. “Take it from me, the past is inescapable. The future a place of infinite unknowns.”

“What does that leave us with, Emma?” Zack asks.

“What does that leave us with?” I repeat, letting the question roll around in my head even though I already know the answer. I nod at the folder he’s holding in his hand. “That. The job. You and I, together, will find that boy.” I say it with conviction then add, “Until we do, the rest gets pushed aside.”

Zack opens the file and picks up the five by seven photo of a smiling Robby Maitlan in a baseball uniform. “Until we find him,” he agrees. “Eye on the ball.”

“Eye on the ball,” I repeat, grateful to be back on solid ground. Grateful to be doing what I do best: finding the missing.

Zack hands me the photo. “The kid looks just like his dad.”

Just a few weeks ago Roger Maitlan’s photo was on the cover of some magazine at the grocery store’s checkout.

“Sure does,” I agree, silently repeating the same words I do every time I get a new case.
Redemption could be one rescue away
.

I try to hand the photo back. Zack doesn’t notice. He seems to be preoccupied with a note in the file telling us we’re to be met at the airport in New York by an agent from one of the FBI’s Child Abduction Rapid Deployment Teams. When Zack and I first met, he was assigned to one of the CARD teams himself.

“You know her?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I know of her,” he replies. “I was assigned to the Southeast team. She’s in the Northeast division. We never actually worked a case together but we’ve gone to some of the same training classes, attended some of the same debriefings.”

The announcement overhead tells us to put our tray tables up and return our seatbacks to an upright position. I hear the landing gear come down. The ground below is getting closer. Though I know the opposite is true, the further we descend, the faster we seem to be moving. I grow quiet, contemplative.

“You miss it,” Zack says.

“What?”

“Flying.”

He’s right. It doesn’t matter that it’s been scores of centuries since Demeter stripped me of my wings, leaving only a tattoo in their place. I miss the sensation as much today as I did the day I lost the ability to soar on my own. I close my eyes, absorb the rush of the speed, imagine the feel of the wind, and brace for landing.

Chapter Two

We’re gathering our things together to deplane. “So you’ll know her by sight?”

“Oh, yeah.”

The way he says it makes me curious, but the line is moving and I don’t have time to follow up. When we exit the gangway, Zack is immediately swallowed up by the crowd at the gate. Fortunately, his height provides me with an advantage and I’m able to follow past the cramped rows of chairs, kiosks filled with quick meals to go, and hundreds of weary travelers. Welcome to La Guardia. Finally, we spill out into the baggage area. Since we both carried on there’s nothing there for us to collect, only our ride. It takes Zack just a second or two to spot her.

I can see why he’d remembered Regina Torres. She is a striking woman. Tall, dark hair worn loose around her shoulders, beautiful green eyes, light brown skin. Her face is more angular than classic oval, with high cheekbones, a straight nose and a no-nonsense cut to her jaw. Her make-up isn’t exactly subtle, but her overall look remains professional. She’s wearing black slacks and a grey cable-knit, form-fitting sweater. A blazer completes the outfit, expertly tailored to conceal the weapon she no doubt has holstered on her hip or at the small of her back. Agent Torres may have been sent to welcome us, but the expression she throws our way upon spying Zack makes me feel anything but.

She slides the cell phone she’s had in her hand into the pocket of her coat. “I have a car waiting outside.” No smile. No handshake offered. She merely turns on her heels and strides toward the exit. “Follow me.”

“Is Torres always this warm and fuzzy?” I whisper to Zack.

I get the famous Armstrong shrug and with it the impression that Zack’s not quite so surprised by her reaction.

“Let’s not keep her waiting,” he says.

We hurry to catch up and find her outside standing by a standard issue black Suburban parked in a “police vehicles only” space. She opens the rear passenger door, as if expecting Zack and me to climb in the back. Instead, Zack motions me in and takes the front passenger seat. There is a decided ratcheting up of coldness when she slams the door shut behind him.

As soon as she climbs into the SUV Zack tries to make nice. “Thanks for meeting us. I don’t believe we’ve ever officially been introduced. Zack Armstrong. This is my partner, Emma Monroe.”

Left with no choice, she takes his offered hand for the briefest of moments. “I know who you are.” The statement is punctuated by the sound of her seatbelt clicking securely into place.

I lean forward, inserting myself between them. “Normally Zack and I have to actually spend some time in a jurisdiction before pissing off the locals in charge. I’ve had a rough couple of days. So, between us, I’d rather you just come out with the reason for this warm welcome. I don’t have the energy to guess.”

We’re on the road now, but that doesn’t stop Torres from glancing accusingly at Zack. “
You
probably don’t have to guess, do you?”

“You were assigned lead on this case,” Zack says, “and you resent our presence. Maitlin’s request.”

“Is that what you call it?” Torres snaps back. “A request? More like a demand. He insisted that I call you in. No explanation why. And not as a liaison or consultant. No. He expects you to run the show. And son of a bitch if my boss didn’t fold.” She takes her eyes off the road to look at Zack. “Want to explain why? Because this makes no sense to me.”

I’m waiting with bated breath. I’d like to know the answer to that, too. Zack gave me no indication while we were on the plane that we’d be walking into a political nightmare. But from where I’m sitting, he had to have known. I assumed it was Johnson and Torres’ boss that decided we should be involved. Now it seems clear it was Maitlan, the father of the kidnapped kid, that requested Zack, and that it was the powers that be who acquiesced. Pretty un-fucking-heard-of. I’m as interested in the answer as Torres.

But Zack’s response doesn’t appease either of us. “Men like Maitlan are used to getting what they want. It doesn’t
have
to make sense.” His tone loses its edge, “Wouldn’t this time be better spent going over the details of the case? We read the file on the plane but I’d like to hear what happened from you. You must know more by now.”

Torres’ glare softens. From my vantage point in the back seat, I see her shoulders begin to relax. She knows Zack is right, it doesn’t matter why we’re here. A child is missing. That should be our focus. She begins to recite the details as if she’s done it a dozen times by rote, her tone dispassionate. “Friday night, Roger Maitlan hosted his annual black-tie party for cancer research. It’s a once-a-year fundraiser, very exclusive. Maitlan and his millionaire friends get together and open their wallets for a cause that is near to his heart. His wife died of brain cancer two years ago. Since then he’s devoted time and resources to finding a cure. The only thing more important to him is his son.”

“And while Maitlan was using his power and influence for something altruistic, mingling with New York’s upper crust at MoMA, Robby was taken,” Zack interjects.

“What else do we know?” I ask.

“Two masked gunman intercepted the doorman as he entered the building during a change of shift. Normally there’s a doorman on duty at all times and the entry’s kept securely locked. The gunmen had it all timed. I wouldn’t say the job was carried out with military precision, but at least one of them had been inside before, was familiar with the procedure for shift change, the location of the cameras.”

I’m thumbing through the file as Torres is talking. There are photographs of the building and of the views from the lobby security cams before they were shot out. “So, the first thing they did was shoot out the cameras?”

“No,” Torres answers shortly. “The first thing they did was subdue the doorman coming on duty. They held him at gunpoint, forced him to act like everything was normal even though his wrists were cable-tied behind his back. As soon as they gained entrance, one of the gunmen swept his feet right out from under him. Duct tape was used to bind his legs and cover his mouth. He landed hard, got knocked out. Has a pretty bad concussion. They haven’t discharged him yet. He doesn’t remember much.”

Zack nods. “The second doorman sustained some injuries as well?”

“A few cracked ribs and a broken nose while in the lobby. He’s a month shy of retirement, but he went down fighting. According to the surveillance video, he got a punch or two in before the cameras were shot out. Once upstairs, he was cold-cocked but good. When he came to, his hands were cable-tied behind his back, the babysitter dead, and Robby gone.”

“You’ve questioned him?”

“Yeah, but he was in a lot of pain and still pretty shaken up. The babysitter was just a kid, seventeen. She lived in the building and he’d watched her grow up.”

“Any sign that Robby might have been injured?” Zack asks.

“No. There was no evidence of a struggle. Then again, the boy is just over fifty pounds. He could have been easily subdued. The only thing we know for sure is that the kidnappers exited through the parking garage with a large duffle, one big enough for a seven-year-old to fit in. The footage showed only their backs, but it’s clearly them.”

“Why shoot out the cameras in the lobby but not the garage?” I ask.

Torres frowns. “We don’t know. Maybe they didn’t know about the surveillance in the garage. The building manager reported those cameras were just recently installed.”

“One dead, two injured,” says Zack. “Not your normal stealthy kidnapping. These guys wanted to send a message.”

We’re winding through the streets of Manhattan. Despite the traffic, Torres doesn’t miss a beat. “What’s the message?”

“They’re ruthless,” I mutter, still looking at the photographs. “Forensics find anything?”

Torres shakes her head. “Nothing yet. They were in and out quickly. Wore gloves. Likely used silencers. No one reported hearing anything when the girl was shot.”

“Do we have a description of the getaway car?”

 “No. They walked out of the garage. We have no idea which way they went or what kind of getaway vehicle they used.”

“No cameras on the street?”

“Not for a couple of blocks.”

“What about ballistics?”

“The lab is working on that.”

Zack has been quiet during this exchange. Now he asks, “And no ransom demand?”

“Not yet.”

It’s been years since I’ve been in New York. Some things have changed since the last century, but much has remained the same. I recognize that we’re headed toward the Upper East Side—one of the most expensive and exclusive areas in Manhattan.

“How’s Maitlan taking it?” Zack asks.

“Like an ego-maniac who’s used to being in control.”

We’re paused at a light. Torres rolls down her window and shouts at a young couple who decided to stop in the middle of the crosswalk and argue with one another. Rather than move on, they interpret her attempt to chastise them as an invitation and approach.

“Can you point us in the direction of Central Park?” asks the wide-eyed damsel. The accent is Southern, her clothing more appropriate for a church picnic than a late summer trek through the Big Apple.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” mutters Torres, flashing her badge. “Do I look like a tour guide to you?”

Zack, ever the gentleman leans forward. “Morning! Where ya’ll from?”

“Goose Creek, South Carolina,” the man pipes in. “It’s—”

“North of Charleston,” interjects Zack. “I was born and raised in South Cacalacky.” Despite the chorus of horns around us and the steam coming out of Torres’ ears, he quickly points them in the direction of Central Park.