Obsession (2 page)

The fabric ripped and cool air hit her naked belly.

She blinked. Her mother set the knife down. Half of Angie’s nightgown puddled on the floor, covering her bare feet. Hot tears ran down her cheeks. She wasn’t going to die—yet.

The older woman kneaded Angie’s stomach, massaging and twisting the womb, attempting to move the baby’s head into a downward position. She whispered, alternating between begging God for help and urging the child to come out. After an eternity of wobbly legs, wrenching contractions, prayers, and constant belly massage, the baby shifted and her mother shouted, “Thank you, Lord!”

Eyes burning with tears of pain and gratitude, her breath coming in short, searing gasps, Angie attempted to swing her right foot up onto the clammy sheets. Halfway up, her weight-bearing leg gave way. She collapsed onto the cold floor. Lead-limbed, she couldn’t even think about moving.

So tired
. She closed her eyes and slipped away from the pain, away from the sounds and pungent smells of the room, into nothingness. Silence enveloped her like a thick wrapping of cotton batting. Suddenly alert and pain free, Angie opened her eyes and watched the room fall away beneath her. She seemed to be floating upward. The hardwood floors gleamed in the early morning light peeking through the windows. Her mother stood over her inert body, her mouth working—but no sounds coming out. Her father burst into the room, his face twisted into a snarl of rage. Heart heavy, unable to gaze at the scene anymore, Angie turned away and found herself in a long, dark corridor.

At the end of the black tunnel, a blinding light shone. A large, shadowy figure emerged between the darkness and the light. As she watched with wonder, glittering white wings unfurled, and a creature of awesome beauty shimmered and formed before her. Neither male nor female, the intangible, but unmistakable
Divine Messenger
had skin like fine white marble and piercing azure eyes.

Was she having a delusion like her father? Had his ravings finally turned her brain to mush? Despite her trepidations, she wanted to believe—someone, something—that would make her suffering worthwhile. She drew closer to the towering creature. Unable to resist his mesmerizing gaze, she reached up and touched his pale cheek. It was warm—wet. He, it, this being was
real
. Her heart rejoiced. There
were
angels. Despite her father’s dire predictions, she had
not
been thrown to the dark realm. She was going to heaven.

Was he crying? Why? Was he sad or happy?

He grasped her shoulders in his strong hands, turned her, and pointed to the silent tableau below.

Her father and mother lifted her flaccid body and dropped it onto the bed.

Dead
. She was dead. Angie closed her eyes. The realization filled her not with fear and dread, but with peace and relief. Every molecule of her being rejoiced. Her earthly trials were over. No more pain. No more captivity. No more beatings when she tried to escape. Safe at last from her obsessed, delusional father. She sighed—and a thought jolted her back to the moment.

The baby. Was he dead, too? Where was he?

Below, her mother worked with frenzied movements, a bloodstain spreading across the bed sheets. Then she pulled the limp-limbed, mottled gray, blood-slicked infant out.

Angie mouthed the words,
“Save him, dear God, please save him,”
but no sounds came out.

A membrane covered the child’s face. Her mother snatched up the knife and cut a hole in the sac. With swift, sure movements, she swung him by his feet and slapped his back. Thick white mucus flew out of his mouth. The baby took a deep breath, flushed pink, and flailed his arms.

Her mother’s stern expression was erased by a smile of joy. Holding the child as if he was made of glass, she placed him on the bed, tied and cut the umbilical cord, then cleaned him. She left his face for last. With slow, careful motions, she peeled the rest of the gauzy membrane off his nose, eyes, cheeks and ears and placed it on a nearby towel. She then held the child out to his grandfather. Lips tight, a frown creased her father’s brow as he examined the baby’s hands, feet, and abdomen before tracing a crescent-shaped mark on the child’s right side. At last, a radiant grin burst across his face. He held the baby up in the air, his lips moving as he danced around the room. Angie noticed her body lay pale and still, ignored by her parents. She had served their purpose, her body a vessel for their grandchild’s life. Sad to be tossed to the side like road kill, but grateful her baby was safe, she turned back to the angel. She was at peace and prepared for her journey to the next level—but he shook his head—and vanished.

The black tunnel became a tornado, its force sucking Angie down to earth, pulling her back into her body. Heart racing, jumping in her throat, breathless, utter panic at being trapped, held hostage again, overtook her. She wanted to be free of this thing, this heavy weight, the burden of her past life.
No, no, no.
She wanted to be with the angel. The soft silence was shattered by her mother’s exultant voice “—the Chosen One!”

Angie blinked. Her parents stood at the side of her bed, eyes pinched, hands clutched, fervent prayers being raised on high. What happened? One moment she was content to stay with the angelic being—the next thing she was back to reality.

Why couldn’t she stay with the angel?

Her newborn son sucked noisily at her breast, and a fierce swell of protectiveness washed over her. She clutched her baby closer. Her job was here—with her son.
No one
was going to hurt him. Angie counted his perfect fingers and toes and touched his impossibly tender cheek. Bright red hair crowned his head in an exuberant soft thatch. A rush of euphoria overwhelmed her. Hot tears of joy streamed down her face.

She was alive, alert, and oddest of all,
pain free
.

Angie kissed the top of her son’s head and reflected on her fantastic dream. The pain of childbirth must have induced an altered state, one where her father’s religious tirades took over her subconscious and ran riot with her imagination. There was no tunnel, no light, no angelic being. Only the cold, hard reality that she
had
to get her son away from her father and his cult.

Chapter One

Angie Edmonds stood in the open doorway of her Rodgers Forge townhouse and glanced beyond the two men in black on her doorstep. No reporters, no roaming news vans. Good. The last thing she wanted was for the media to get wind of this story. She could just hear the screaming newscaster:
Crazed Cult Leader Escapes From Maximum Security Prison, Kidnaps One-Year Old Grandson.
She nodded, motioned for the agents to come in, and closed the door behind them. These guys were here, in
person,
to give her news.

Not a good sign.

The pulse in her temple tapped like a hungry woodpecker, portending a hellacious migraine. She pressed an index finger to the side of her head.

“Where’s my son?”

FBI Special Agent Warren and ATFE Special Agent Benson exchanged anxious glances. Warren said, “We
think
he’s in Mexico.”

Her vision telescoped and threatened to shut down completely. She staggered back and clutched at the wall with her left hand. The faux grass wallpaper rasped against her fingertips, the tiny paper cuts bringing her back to reality and the present. She could not fall apart when her son needed her.

After Jake’s dangerous birth, it was a wonder he was alive, happy, and extraordinarily healthy. A wretched childhood with her obsessed, delusional father ensured that as soon as she discovered the
real
world outside her father’s religious cult that she’d go a little wild. Before Jake, she had sampled every forbidden fruit, including a long series of sexy but emotionally cold one night stands with strangers—and a red hot love affair with cocaine. But
everything
had changed when she found out she was pregnant. She wasn’t
that
woman anymore. She was Jake’s mommy now, a new and improved version of herself—thanks to a lot of help from her program and from Dan, the father of her son.

Feeling like a boxer on the ropes, she pushed herself away from the wall, shook her head to clear away the tunnel vision, and glared at the agents.

“As soon as I reported my one-year-old son stolen from the day care center, I
told
you my father would try to get out of the country. Why didn’t you
stop
him?”

“We followed established protocol.” Teeth gritted, Benson, the ATFE Agent monotoned, as if he thought removing all emotion from his speech would keep a crazed mother calm. “We’ve been investigating the owner of this ranch, a known member of the Recreationist Cult, for over a year. We tracked all weapons and ammunitions sales to him and tried to get search warrants for probable cause. But the judges in that county said they wouldn’t have anything to do with another Waco.”

Fists clenched, jaw clenched tight, Angie’s muscles thrummed with the tension of her restrained rage. “And?”

Warren cleared his throat and picked up the story. “Using extensive calculations, the joint task force was able to ascertain
exactly
how many guns, rounds of ammunition and explosives the cult had stockpiled in the ranch house, barns, and outbuildings.” He paused, looked up at the ceiling and sighed.

Angie’s stomach rolled. She said nothing.

“There was a truck labeled ‘Water’.” Benson continued the story, his voice somber. “It was, in fact, filled with aviation fuel. The owner of the ranch shot at the Texas Rangers’ helicopter, trying to lead them away from the plane. When the chopper closed in on the tanker, he blew it up.”

She struggled to envision where the little plane had been in relation to the truck-turned-giant flame-thrower. Her teeth clenched and unclenched in sync with the contractions of her arms and legs. Control, that’s what her martial arts training had drummed into her. Fight only when you must. Find the calm within.

“Where was the plane when the explosion occurred?”

“We don’t know for sure.” Benson glanced at Warren. “They didn’t get a tail number, but we do know a small plane matching the description of the one with your son in it crossed the border into Chihuahua.”

Her stomach plummeted in free fall.
Not again
. Last year her crazy father, Reverend Edmonds, had kidnapped her son as a newborn, claiming the child was the Chosen One, the one who would heal the world, as prophesized in the Book of Enoch. After an ordeal and manhunt, the so-called holy man had been imprisoned in Baltimore’s most secure penitentiary, the super max, a prison within a prison. He escaped by feigning a heart attack. Then he and her mother had bee-lined to the daycare center, and with the unwitting assistance of a temporary receptionist, abducted her son—again.

“I’m sorry.” Warren shook his head. “I know it’s not what you wanted to hear.”

As Angie listened to the gray-haired man apologize, she fought to keep her palms at her sides and her feet planted on the ground. This was not a good time for her to be arrested for assault. She bit back the words she really wanted to spit out: “incompetent bureaucrats” and “gutless morons.” The lawmen had underestimated her father and enabled him to escape with Jake under the cover of a martyr’s pillar of fire. How very Biblical. Her father must be so pleased. He’d see this as yet another sign that God was on his side, instead of the truth—his followers were no better than demon worshippers.

“Ms. Edmonds, we’re doing everything in our power to find your son.” Warren wiped sweat off his red face. Benson shuffled his feet and looked away.

“So you’ve contacted the Mexican government?” She stared at Warren, not blinking. He glanced down.
He was hiding something.
What? What could be so awful that he wouldn’t share it with a terrified mother of a kidnapping victim?

Warren exchanged furtive glances with Benson. A long silence filled the foyer. At last he looked her in the eye and said, “Yes.”

Her empty stomach yawed and pitched. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“They said they’d look into it, but the drug wars and murders in Juarez and elsewhere are consuming most of the police force’s time and manpower.”

Rage bubbled up, plucked at her sanity, and threatened to overcome her restraint. This wasn’t happening. Her only hope of recovering her son stood in front of her, telling her they couldn’t help. Was everything reduced to an accountant’s calculations of time and labor costs? How about factoring in a little compassion?

“No,” she shouted. Warren jumped back, as if he expected her to attack him. Keeping her hands balled into fists at her side, she took two steps closer and got into his personal space. His sweaty face was so close to hers, she could smell his pungent perspiration mixed with the odor of minty mouthwash. “
You
are going to Mexico.
You
are going to get my son. Do you understand me?
You
are going to do your job!”

Gray eyes wide, his face now crimson, the FBI agent shook his head. “Once they made it into Mexican airspace, they were beyond our reach. It’s a private kidnapping. We’re working with the State Department. I
swear
we’re doing everything we can.”

Useless. They were completely, utterly, useless
. “Get out of my house.” Warren tried to press a business card into her palm. She let it flutter to the floor. “Leave me alone.” She slammed the door on their retreating backs.

How could drug wars take precedence over her baby? Was she never going to see him again? What had she done to deserve this? She’d paid her dues, made her amends. Where was the justice? Where was the humanity? Where was a divine intervention? Nowhere. If there was going to be an intercession on her behalf, the time was long past. The only thing she could rely on was herself—and her connections. The discovery of her son’s abduction at the day care center had sent her into a tailspin.
Enough.
She’d had enough of being jerked around by her father and the authorities. She had to
stay strong
, channel her hopelessness and helplessness into anger—and action.