In Harm's Way (Heroes of Quantico Series, Book 3) (3 page)

One Month Later

Fast food.

What a joke.

Rachel Sutton tapped her foot on the tile floor by the pickup
counter, sighed, and checked her watch. Again. A ten-minute
wait did not qualify as fast. At this rate, she'd have to push the
speed limit and inhale her lunch or risk being tardy for her first
class of the afternoon.

"Rachel!" A harried clerk plopped her order on the counter
as he called her name.

Finally.

Elbowing her way through the crowd, Rachel snagged the
large bag of sandwiches and chips and settled it into the cardboard tray between two soft drinks. Juggling her purchases, she
plowed through the sea of customers and pushed the glass door
open with her shoulder.

Unseasonable spring-like temperatures greeted her, an early
February reprieve from the past month's harsh weather. If the
throng around her was any indication, the nice weather had
brought everyone in St. Louis out of hibernation. And no one
appeared to be in a hurry. Didn't any of these people have jobs?
Commitments? Schedules to keep?

Dodging a stubborn patch of ice, she trudged toward the
last spot in the parking lot, where her older-model Camry was
squeezed in next to the mountain of plowed snow piled beside
the dumpster. Chill out, Rachel, she counseled herself. The world
won't end if you're five minutes late for class.

But the pep talk didn't do much to calm her tense nerves. And
for the dozenth time in the past few weeks, she tried to figure
out why she felt so stressed and on edge. It didn't make sense.
Her life was good, her career fulfilling. She loved teaching music
to grade schoolers. Playing piano during high tea on Sundays
at one of St. Louis's most elegant hotels was a highlight of her
week. Her young piano students were a joy. And she'd found a
way to indulge her artistic leanings by starting a very successful
mural-painting business on the side. There was no reason for
her recent unease.

Yet she couldn't shake it. She hadn't had a good night's sleep
in more than a month, and her patience was at an all-time
low. Ten days ago, she'd nitpicked one of her piano student's
technique until the poor child was almost in tears. Last week,
she'd refused to kitsch up a mural with Victorian curlicues,
much to the annoyance of a well-paying client. Yesterday she'd
snapped at Marta when her co-worker tried to tease a smile
out of her.

That display of bad temper was the very reason she was battling the noontime crowd at this popular outlet. Today's lunch
was a peace offering-even if she'd never felt less peaceful in
her life.

Sidestepping a puddle, Rachel shifted the tray, balancing
it in one hand while she dug in her shoulder purse for her
keys. Marta had meant well yesterday, she conceded as she
edged between her car and the mound of melting snow on
the passenger side. She did need to lighten up. The frown
imbedded in her forehead was fast becoming a permanent addition. And it was out of character. In general, Rachel was
upbeat, patient, and calm. She had no idea why her usual
tranquility had evaporated, leaving an unnerving jumpiness
in its place.

As if to underscore that point, the horn in the car next to
her blared as the owner unlocked it with the remote from
across the parking lot. Rachel's hand jerked, and she watched
in dismay as the drinks tottered. Somehow she managed to
juggle them back to stability, but her luck ran out with the
bag of sandwiches. It took a nosedive into the melting pile
of snow.

Disgusted, she set the tray on her trunk and bent to retrieve the bag. This whole lunch thing was turning out to be
a disaster.

As she snagged the top of the white sack and rescued it
from the pile of dirty, melting snow, a tuft of bright orange
yarn peeked out at her from beneath the mound. A knit cap
perhaps. Or the end of a scarf. No doubt lost in the parking
lot on a snowy, windy night and later swept aside as the plows
barreled through.

After depositing the food on the front passenger seat, she
poked at the orange clump with the toe of her boot. If she
wanted to be a good Samaritan, she could dig it out and add
it to the shop's lost and found collection. But it didn't seem
worth the effort. It may have been buried for a month. The
person who'd lost it would have given up all hope of finding
it by now.

Suddenly her toe dislodged a large chunk of ice, and a button
eye blinked back at her.

So much for her cap and scarf theory. Judging by the patched
face that was emerging as she nicked away the ice and snow, the
object buried under the pile of frozen slush was a well-loved
Raggedy Ann doll. One that would be missed.

That put a whole different light on the situation.

She knew it was foolish, but for some reason Rachel couldn't
bring herself to abandon the doll in the parking lot. On the off
chance a mother was desperately searching for her daughter's
beloved doll, Rachel decided to dig it out and deposit it in the
restaurant's lost and found.

Retrieving the ice scraper from the floor of her front seat, she
went to work on the frozen snow caked around the doll. The
warm sun had softened the surface, but the deeper she dug, the
more ice-like the snow became.

"Excuse me, ma'am ... is there a problem? Can I help you
with something?"

Rachel shifted around. An older man, white sandwich bag in
hand, was regarding her from under arched, shaggy gray brows.
"No. I'm ... uh ... just trying to rescue this doll:"

"Is it yours?"

"No" Warmth flooded her cheeks. "But I imagine the little
girl who lost it would like to get it back"

The man moved closer and bent down to give the jointed
cloth leg an experimental tug. It didn't budge. "I don't know. It's
stuck pretty good" He backed up and regarded the filthy, sodden
doll. "Besides, I'm not sure the little girl's mother would want it
back. It has to be full of germs:" He regarded his damp fingers
with an expression of distaste.

Rachel surveyed the doll, exposed now except one black-
mitted hand. He had a point. The frayed gingham dress was
stained, the threadbare white apron gray with dirt. "You're probably right"

"It was a nice thought, though," the man offered.

"Thanks" Rachel shot him a half smile and rose, tossing the
ice scraper into the backseat.

"Well ... enjoy your lunch" He hefted his bag in salute and
continued toward his car.

Rachel started to close the door. Hesitated. Gave the Raggedy
Ann one more look. It seemed so forlorn, lying there abandoned
in a puddle of muddy water. Yet she doubted the restaurant
would appreciate her hauling a dirty, dripping doll across the
tile floor to the lost and found.

But she could display it in some prominent place in the parking lot. That way, if the mother frequented this restaurant, she
might see it-and could reclaim it if she chose. Scanning the
property, she spotted an air-conditioning unit. Perfect.

Armed with a plan, Rachel chipped the remaining snow away
from the doll's hand with her boot and bent to pick it up. As
her fingers closed around the arm, she was already swiveling
toward the air conditioner. If she hurried, she might be able to
sit for five minutes with Marta and eat part of her-

Two steps toward her destination, Rachel was blindsided
by a sudden rush of adrenaline. Her pulse rocketed, and she
leaned against the car, sucking in a sharp breath as the world
tilted. Her whole body began to tremble, and the doll slipped
from her grasp, falling to the ground.

As quickly as the violent reaction had gripped her, it disappeared. Her pulse slowed, her lungs kicked in again, the world
righted itself.

What on earth had just happened?

Aftershocks rippled through her, robbing her legs of strength.
She clung to the back of her car, scanning the parking lot for
an explanation. Searching for anything out of the ordinary that
could have triggered such an intense reaction.

But the scene appeared normal. People were walking in and
out of the restaurant, talking on cell phones, laughing together,
juggling bags of sandwiches. The sky was blue, the sun was
shining. A convertible drove past, top down in honor of the
unseasonable warmth, the middle-aged driver in sunglasses and
shorts, the radio tuned to an old Beach Boys song.

There was nothing around her to account for what had happened moments ago.

Yet her reaction had been real. And there was only one word
to describe the emotion that had rocked her.

Terror.

But what had brought it on?

And why had it gone away with such dizzying speed after
she dropped the doll?

Her breath hitched in her throat, and she slowly lowered her
gaze to the doll. The innocuous, patched face smiled back up at
her, as innocent as childhood. Was it possible that ... ?

Irritated, she cut off that train of thought. She didn't believe in
that kind of creepy stuff. No sane, logical person did. Whatever
had prompted her reaction had nothing to do with the doll at
her feet.

No way.

And she could prove it. All she had to do was pick up the
doll again.

Except she didn't want to.

Annoyed, she wiped her palms on her black slacks. Now how
ridiculous was that?

Clamping her lips together, she flexed her fingers and snatched
up the doll.

Instantly the terror slammed into her again, gripping her
lungs in a vise.

Fighting for air, Rachel held the doll at arm's length and
stared at it. Sweat broke out on her brow and she began to
tremble. Jarring, disjointed images and sounds crashed over
her. She heard the distant cry of a baby. Sensed danger. Pain.
Anguish.

This couldn't be happening.

She groped for the latch on her back door, fingers fumbling.
Yanked it open. Flung the doll inside.

The panicked sensations abated at once, leaving a residue of
anxiety-and urgency-in their wake.

It was almost like a message.

A call to action.

But what kind of action?

Stumped, Rachel regarded the doll beaming back at her from
the seat. Odd. From a distance, she sensed no danger. Just the
opposite. The doll gave her a warm, happy feeling. Only by touch
did it convey a more ominous aura.

Aura.

She cringed. Now she was even beginning to think in psychic
terms.

Torn, Rachel scrutinized the doll. That man who'd stopped a
few minutes ago had touched the doll and hadn't had any adverse
reaction. Only she seemed to pick up bad vibes.

Why me? she wanted to ask the smiling face. Why pick me
to dump on?

She'd have spoken the question aloud, except people would
think she'd gone off the deep end. Herself included.

Besides, the real question was what to do with the doll.

Leaving it in the parking lot was no longer an option. She
might not understand why it affected her the way it did, but the
feelings of danger it evoked were too real-and too strong-to
ignore.

She supposed she could offer it to the police. They were the
danger experts, weren't they? But she could imagine the reaction she'd get if she showed up at a precinct station and told
them her story.

They'd think she was nuts.

And considering how odd she'd been feeling lately, maybe
she was.

Unsure how to proceed, she slammed the door, circled the
trunk, and slid behind the wheel. As she put the car in gear, she glanced at the forgotten lunch on the seat beside her-and
inspiration struck. Marta's husband was a police officer. She
could run the whole incident by her friend and see what she
recommended. Marta knew she was a serious, stable, intelligent
person who wasn't given to flights of fancy. They'd shared lots
of lunches and laughs over the past two years as they chatted
about the antics of their students.

Marta wouldn't think she was crazy.

At least Rachel hoped not.

Marta stopped eating mid-chew and gaped at her co-worker.
"That's crazy."

The bite she'd taken from the sandwich she no longer wanted
stuck in Rachel's throat. "Look, I know it sounds weird. But it's
true. I feel danger whenever I touch that doll:"

Several beats of silence passed while Marta resumed chewing, her attention riveted on her friend. "You're serious about
this, aren't you?"

"Yes"

"Okay. Let me get this straight. You found a doll, and when
you picked it up it freaked you out:"

"Twice"

"And where is this doll now?"

"In the backseat of my car"

"Get rid of it"

Rising, Rachel began to pace in the cluttered lounge, grateful
now that she'd been running late. All the other teachers had
returned to their classrooms, and she and Marta had the place
to themselves. "I considered that. But I can't. I feel this sense of
urgency to get it to the right person"

"And who would that be?"

"I don't know"

"You know, this is creeping me out" Marta took a long swallow of soda and drummed her fingers on the table. "It's like one
of those late-night sci-fi movies you watched as a kid that gave
you nightmares for weeks. I think I'll be sleeping with the light
on tonight"