ROCKY MOUNTAIN RESCUE (15 page)

“That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” Patrick said. “You want control of the Giardino family fortune.”

“Not for my own selfish aims,” Nordley said. “For the good of this country.”

“Right. You’re a true patriot.” Stacy didn’t keep the scorn from her voice.

Nordley looked offended. “It takes millions of dollars to run a successful political campaign. In the past I’ve been obligated to corporate donors and special interests for their contributions. With the Giardino money, I’ll be beholden to no one. I’ll have the ultimate freedom and the political power to do what’s right, without concern for the special interests. And the beautiful irony is that I’ll be using corrupt mob money to do good for the American people. I hope Sam Giardino is spinning in his grave at the idea.”

“You’re crazy,” Stacy said.

“Genius is often confused with insanity,” Nordley said. “The founding fathers were willing to make sacrifices to turn their ideals into reality. I’m willing to do that, too.”

“Killing us isn’t some noble sacrifice,” Stacy said. “It’s murder.”

“Who said anything about killing you? You’re still useful to me.” He turned back to Patrick. “But I have little use for a federal marshal who interfered with things that are none of his business.”

“You don’t think blood on your hands would look bad to the voters?” Patrick asked.

“There won’t be any blood on my hands. If anything, you’ll be a hero. An officer who died in the line of duty.”

“What are you going to do?” Stacy asked.

The senator ignored her. “Abel, you and Stevie take Marshal Thompson out to one of the barns and take care of things.” He motioned toward the door.

“Not the barn,” Abel said. “It would upset the horses.”

Nordley glowered.

“They’re sensitive animals,” Abel said.

“Take him to Timbuktu for all I care,” Nordley growled. “I don’t want to see him again.”

“Don’t you talk to my son that way,” Willa snapped.

Nordley nodded to the old woman. “No disrespect intended.”

“You can’t kill him!” Stacy protested.

“I told you. I won’t be killing anyone,” Nordley said.

“You can’t let anyone else kill him, either,” she said.

“Why not?” Nordley arched one eyebrow, all skepticism.

“You brought me here to sign over control of Carlo’s trust. But I already signed it over to Patrick—to Marshal Thompson.”

The lines around Nordley’s eyes deepened. “Why would you do that?”

“It’s because I was going into witness protection,” she said. “With a new identity, I couldn’t control the trust, so I signed over control to Marshal Thompson. He’ll handle things and see that Carlo and I have everything we need.”

Patrick couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was a crazy idea, but she was doing a good job of selling it. Nordley turned to him. “Is this true?”

“Yes,” he lied.

“What happens if you die?” Abel asked.

“Another agent will take over control of the trust on Carlo’s behalf.” Was that the right answer?

“You’ll spend years in court trying to untangle this,” Stacy said. “By the time you’re done, Carlo will be grown and you’ll be too old to run for president.”

“I think you’re lying,” Nordley said.

“Do you want to take that chance?”

Nordley stuck out his lower lip, considering. “Stevie, you and Ray take these two out to the barn and lock them up,” he said after a moment. “Then help the rest of us search for the boy. I’ll put in a call to my legal team and get to the bottom of this.”

One of the big bruisers grabbed Patrick roughly by the arm and dragged him toward the door. The other man followed with Stacy. Patrick looked into her eyes, intending to offer some reassurance. Instead, she was the one who buoyed his spirits, her eyes shining with triumph over the way she’d tricked the senator.

He wanted to tell her not to get overconfident. Their good luck couldn’t last, and when Nordley figured out he’d been had he was liable to take his anger out on them. But no need to add to her worries now. Let her savor her little victory—she’d had few enough things to celebrate lately, and a little respite from worry would help her prepare for the danger ahead.

Chapter Fifteen

Though Stacy’s every instinct was to struggle against the man who dragged her toward the barn, she forced herself to relax. Her side ached where Abel had kicked her; if he had broken one of her ribs, struggling would only make things worse. And Patrick wasn’t fighting his captor. He had experience in these situations, didn’t he? She should follow his lead.

The icy night air hit her like a slap across the face. A shiver convulsed her body and she clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. As the two thugs led them across the snow she scanned the darkness for some sign of Carlo. He shouldn’t be out in this cold. She prayed he’d find a warm place to hide and stay hidden. She didn’t want any of these people laying so much as a finger on him ever again.

The barn was dimly lit, smelling of sweet hay and warm horse. One of the animals nickered from the horse boxes that lined both sides of a central passageway. Low-voltage lighting glowed along the floor in front of the boxes, but one of the thugs—Stevie, the senator had called him—flicked a switch and overhead fluorescent lighting flooded the space with a harsh white glow. Several of the horses stirred, their feet shifting on the concrete floor.

“Where should we put them?” the other thug, Ray, asked.

“Over there.” Stevie jutted his chin toward a horse box whose door stood open. Half a bale of hay spilled onto the floor inside the box. Stevie led Patrick to an iron ring fastened to one wall in the box and pulled at it. “This should work.” He spun Patrick around and wrapped a plastic zip tie around his already-bound wrists and cinched it tight. He wound a thick rope over this, then fastened the rope to the iron ring.

Ray fastened Stacy’s wrists together behind her back with a plastic zip tie, then bound her ankles. “Sit on the hay,” he told her. “You’ll be more comfortable.”

She doubted it, but did as he suggested. “Should I tie her to the wall, too?” he asked Stevie.

Stevie was fitting a zip tie around Patrick’s ankles. “She won’t go anywhere trussed up like a chicken,” he said. He pulled the tie tight, then stood.

“Should we gag them?” Ray asked.

“Who’s going to hear us if we yell?” Stacy asked.

Stevie looked around, as if searching for a gag, then shook his head. “Forget the gag. We need to go find the kid.”

They left the stall, closing the door behind them. She strained her ears, listening as their steps receded. The overhead lights went out, then the barn door opened, creaking on its hinges. As the door closed again a horse across the aisle kicked at its stall, then whinnied.

Stacy looked at Patrick. His lip and one eye were swollen, and dried blood streaked one cheek. He had to be in pain, but the eyes that met hers were calm. Thoughtful. He wasn’t panicking, so neither would she. “Now what?” she asked.

“Now we get out of these restraints, find Carlo and get out of Dodge,” he said.

“Right. Piece of cake.” She struggled against the plastic ties binding her wrists. “But how?”

He looked down at his bound ankles. “These are just plastic zip ties. They probably came out of Abel’s garage. I can tell you how to get out of them, then you can free me. How are your ribs?”

She shifted on the hay bale gingerly. “A little sore, but I don’t think they’re broken, just bruised.” Looking at his battered face where Abel had beat him, she felt like a wimp to complain. “Just tell me what I need to do and I’ll do it.”

“It’ll be easier if you slide down until you’re sitting on the floor.”

She lowered herself to the floor. The concrete was cold, the chill quickly seeping into her. “Now what?”

“Now you’ve got to bring your arms under your body and around until they’re in the front. It’ll be easier for you because you’re short. How flexible are you?”

“Pretty flexible. I do yoga.”

“Then no problem. Take it slowly.”

But moving slowly only made her ribs hurt worse, so she forced herself to push past the pain. Leaning back, she worked her wrists under her bottom, then scooted back, gritting her teeth as she contorted her spine into a C and worked her bound hands down the back of her thighs. Knees to chest, she made herself as small as possible. She kicked off her shoes and forced her arms down, ignored the protests from ribs and arm sockets. She sucked in her breath and slid her arms around her feet.

From there, the rest was easy. She eased her bound hands up until they rested at her waist in front of her.

“Good girl,” Patrick said. “Now all you have to do is break the cuffs.”

She almost sobbed. “How am I going to do that?”

“You’re a lot stronger than you think. Raise your hands to about chest height and spread your wrists as far apart as you can. Point your elbows out.”

She followed his directions, then looked to him for further instruction.

“Now thrust down with as much force as you can, pulling your arms apart as you do so. Deep breath in.... Now!”

She jerked her arms down, putting everything she had into it, and the plastic snapped apart. She gasped, then stifled a shout of triumph. If any of their captors was close enough to the barn to hear, she didn’t want to give herself away. “It worked!”

“Now see if you can untie me. If not, we’ll have to find something to use to cut me loose.”

Her ankles still bound, she used the wall to push herself to her feet, then hopped awkwardly to him. “I can do this,” she said as she fumbled with the rope. “They didn’t tie it very well.”

“They probably figured with the restraints it was overkill.” He turned sideways to give her more room to work. She bit her lip, concentrating on threading the strands of the coarse rope back through the loops of the knot. “There,” she said as she pulled the last of the knot loose. “The rope’s gone, but what about the rest?”

“Now take off one of your earrings.”

“My earring?” She put a hand to the thin gold hoops.

“Just one. And I can’t promise this won’t break it.”

“It’s just an earring.” She unhooked the bauble and held it out to him.

“Take it and thread the end of the hook between the plastic strap and the little square lock on the zip tie.” He turned his back to her and offered up his bound wrists. “It’ll be a tight fit, but you should be able to force it in.”

She grasped his hand to hold him steady, then wedged the tip of the earring wire into the lock on the cuffs. “I can’t get it to go in without bending.”

“Keep working at it. A little at a time.”

She took a breath, let it out then tried again. This time she was able to ease the wire in a full inch. “What now?”

“Pull on the plastic. See if it will loosen.”

She tugged hard on the plastic strap and it began to slide from the lock until it was loose enough for her to remove it from his hands. “What about the duct tape?” She studied the thick layers of silver tape wrapping his wrists.

“Find an end and rip it.”

She picked at the tape with one nail, idly noting that she was overdue for a manicure. She almost laughed to be thinking of such things at a time like this.

“What are you smiling about?”

She looked up and found his eyes on her, the affection and tenderness in his expression sending warmth through her. To think she had resented him when they’d first met—been afraid of him, even. She looked away. “I was just thinking how different this is from the life I’ve been leading—about how sheltered I’ve been.”

“You’ve done great. I don’t know when I’ve met anyone braver—man or woman.”

His praise made her feel about ten feet tall. She pulled the last of the tape from his wrists. He rubbed them, wincing. “Now the ankle bindings—do yours first.”

Now that she knew how to use the earring to bypass the locking mechanism on the zip ties, she made short work of their ankle restraints. She was even able to slip her earring back into her ear when she was done. Patrick was still rubbing his wrists, grimacing. She took one of his hands between hers and smoothed the angry red flesh, still sticky with tape residue. “Does it hurt much?”

“I’ll live.”

She kissed his wrist, his pulse fluttering against her lips. He slid his hands up to cup her cheek and raised her mouth to his. Closing her eyes, she gave herself up to the kiss, all thoughts of danger and lost children and uncertain futures deliberately shoved aside for this one moment of sweetness.

A moment that ended too soon. Patrick pulled away, though he still cradled her face between his hands. “Whatever happens, I want you to know you’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met,” he said.

“Only because I’m with you.” She rested her hands on his chest, palms flat over his heart. “You make me believe I can do anything.” No one—not her parents or old boyfriends or her husband—had ever had that kind of confidence in her. She could have loved him for that alone.

“That’s because you can.” He kissed her forehead, then turned toward the door. “Come on. We have to find Carlo before they do.” He grasped the doorknob. It turned easily enough, but the door refused to budge. He shoved against it, but the heavy wooden door scarcely moved.

“What is it?” Stacy tried to see around him. “What’s wrong?”

He turned back to her, his face grim. “There’s a bolt thrown over the door from the outside. We can’t get out.”

* * *

C
ARLO
WAS
COLD
. The night air cut through his thin pajamas and his socks were soaked from running through the snow. The snow was cold on his hands, but when he walked now, the snow burned his feet. How could the snow be both hot and cold?

He huddled between the water barrels on the side of the house and looked out at the darkness. He was afraid of the dark. Even in the daytime, he had never been far from the house alone. Uncle Abel said there were wild animals out there—coyotes and bears that would eat little boys.

He could hear people calling his name—Uncle Abel and other men he didn’t know. He didn’t answer them, and tried to make himself smaller in the narrow space between the two water barrels. He’d decided to hide here because he could see the lights of the yard from here. He could see the barn and the cars and other familiar things.

He was so cold. His teeth chattered and his whole body shook. Even with his knees drawn up to his chin and his arms wrapped around his legs, he was still cold. He had lost the blanket somewhere while he was running; he couldn’t remember where. When he breathed out, his breath made little clouds in front of his face.

The voices had moved around to behind the house now. Would they come around here eventually? What would Uncle Abel and the men do if they found him? Uncle Abel was usually nice, but tonight he had looked angry. He’d been very angry at Mommy and the man with her. Carlo didn’t like it when people were angry.

His daddy had been angry a lot, and had yelled at Mommy. Sometimes he’d made her cry, and that made Carlo sad and mad and afraid, all at the same time.

Where was Mommy now? She hadn’t been here for so long, then tonight she had finally come, and then she’d told him to run away. None of it made sense.

He put his head on his knees and closed his eyes. Maybe if he went to sleep he’d dream about being some place warm.

The barn was warm. The horses made it warm. The horses were big, and they scared him a little, but he liked to watch them from a distance. The other day Uncle Abel had put him up in the saddle in front of him and walked the horse around the corral. Carlo had never been so high up before. He loved the feel of the horse rocking beneath him. Uncle Abel had promised to teach him to ride when he was bigger. Carlo would have his own pony and learn to be a cowboy.

He could go to the barn and hide. He’d be warm and if he couldn’t sleep, he could watch the horses.

He stood and peered around the barrels. The yard was quiet and empty. He dashed across the wide strip of blackness between the house and the barn. When he reached the deeper shadows beside the barn, he was out of breath and his side hurt from running. His feet still burned, but the rest of him felt a little warmer.

He felt his way around the side of the building to the door to the feed room. Standing on tiptoe, he could just reach the doorknob. He opened it and went inside. The door from the feed room to the main barn stood open. Low-voltage lights illuminated the central walkway between the horse boxes. The barn cat, Matilda, came up and leaned against his legs. He ran his hand along the soft fur of her back and smiled. “Good kitty,” he whispered. He didn’t want to wake the horses, who were probably sleeping.

He pulled a saddle blanket from a pile by the door and lay down on a bale of hay beside the feed bins. The cat curled up against him. He was warmer now, and sleepy. Maybe in the morning, he’d see Mommy again.