Running Scared (37 page)

The man was ripe for a mistake.

And the moment he slipped, Jon would strike.

Somehow, he would escape. He had to get away, because the alternative…

He didn’t want to think about the man chasing him…the killer of his nightmares.

He took a deep breath against the wave of sickness that made him sag against the dark glass of the van’s windows. Although he was too exhausted to be terrified at this point, every muscle in his body was cramped and the burger he’d been given from the fast-food drive-through now burned in his gut like a ball of flame. He stared out the passenger window and noted the acres of wire fences and frosted, plowed-over fields that stretched across the flat horizon. From the road signs, he figured he was in Ohio somewhere, though he never was very good at geography, and except for the lack of hills, the miles of farmland out here didn’t look much different from the countryside back home.

Home. It was hard to believe he could be so desperate to get back to Oregon, back to the life he hated, but then the instinct to survive was a strong one.

Even when all the odds were against you.

As they seemed to be now with this lowlife private detective “returning” Jon to his legal family. A clan of rich people back East, according to VanHorn. That was about as much information as Jon had gotten out of the man, who’d shut down when Jon had asked him what kind of parents would have their own son kidnapped at gunpoint.

Now, with VanHorn’s energy fading, Jon figured it might be a good time to get the guy talking again. “You know, you could let me go right now and no one would have to know anything,” he said, pressing his face to the grill of the divider behind VanHorn’s head. Jon had seen some true crime shows on TV that showed victims who had actually gotten away by talking firmly with their captors. He figured it was worth a shot. “Drop me at a train station or a bus depot or something, and no one would be the wiser. I’ll keep my mouth shut. I can say you kept me blindfolded.”

“Sure, kid.” VanHorn’s grin was almost jovial. “I’ll just drop you off and turn away a bundle of money. Why don’t I just find the nearest airport and you can fly home, first-class?” he snorted. “Thing is, you’ll be flying first-class once you hook up with your real family. First-class all the way, with their kind of money. Believe me, you’ll thank me when you get a load of them.”

“My real family is back in Oregon,” Jon said, thinking of Kate’s dark brown eyes, the way her forehead crinkled when she worried about something. The way she hummed when she baked in the kitchen. He ached to be back there now, safe at home.

“Not so, kid. Kate Summer’s not your mother, remember? That adoption was as phony as a three-dollar bill. You knew that, right?” VanHorn’s eyebrows elevated in mock surprise. “No?”

Jon swallowed hard. “I don’t care if it was legal,” he lied.

“Ooh, got to respect the law,” VanHorn said. “Because, and here’s the thing, if Kate Summers actually isn’t your mother, then she kidnapped you years ago. So what I’m doing now? It’s not kidnapping, per se. I’m just a Good Samaritan bringing a boy home to his real family.”

“Yeah, right.” Jon’s voice was flat. “My parents who decide they need me fifteen years later.”

“Don’t start getting all warm and fuzzy about your long-lost parents,” VanHorn said. “They’re not in the picture anymore.”

“Then who’s paying you to do this?” Jon asked in disbelief.

“Your fat-cat granddad, for one. He wants you to come and rule the family empire. Of course, there’s another bidder in the auction. Your sweet Aunt Alicia. She wants to see you out of the running as heir to the family fortune. Seems your existence screws up her kid’s chances of inheriting the family fortune. Too bad you were born a boy.”

Jon squinted, shaking his head. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Elimination. You ever studied history, kid? Do you know how Henry VIII got rid of some of those bothersome wives?”

A thread of panic seeped into Jon’s veins at the thought. “He killed two of them.” He pretended not to care. “So what…? Are you going to kill me?”

“Nah…I’m just delivering you to the highest bidder,” VanHorn said casually. “I’ll have you know, I never killed a man. But I have done some damage, messed some guys up pretty bad.” He wrenched his neck around to glare at Jon face-to-face. “Which is what I’ll do to you if you ever cross me, kid.”

Jon’s throat went dry at the blatant threat, and his mind opened to the image of running from the man.

Running, running…

Racing through the dark streets, his sneakers slapping against the wet pavement, his heart pounding in his chest.

Running from a killer…

“You’re a fucking liar,” Jon said, shivering despite the heat blasting from the front seat of the van.

“Do ya think?” VanHorn just lifted his eyes to the rearview mirror, his stare as cold as ice. “Maybe I am, kid. Maybe I am.”

The plane landed with a jolt as the first rays of morning were visible in the eastern sky. Kate’s throat caught as she realized she was finally back in Boston, the city where it all started. The flight had been long and nerve-wracking, not because of turbulence or any delays. No, her worries had been focused on her son and the man she’d so recently loved. Jon had been gone over two days and a creeping sense of panic clutched at her throat. She couldn’t lose him, not now. Not ever.

She didn’t know Robert Sullivan, couldn’t imagine what the man had planned for her son, but she was bound and determined that she’d find out. Rather than contact him by phone and let him have the chance to hang up on her or flee, she planned to meet him face to face in his own home, and she wasn’t about to leave until she had answers.

Laura was expecting her, and thankfully her sister had done a little more digging, determining that Robert Sullivan usually spent most of his workdays at his office, sometimes stopped off at his club for a drink or dinner or workout, but was always home by nine in the evening.

Tonight he’d have company.

For a second as the decelerating jet screeched down the runway, she thought of Daegan, just as she had all during the flight, but she wouldn’t let her wayward mind dwell on him. He’d callously used her and toyed with Jon’s emotions. Under the guise of the friendly neighbor, he’d burrowed his way into her home as well as her heart. He’d admitted to flattening her tire, to lying about his need to use her phone that first week, to wanting to get to know her because of Jon.

But he did save Jon from Todd.

He did teach him to ride.

He did laugh so deeply the mountains seemed to ring.

He did touch her as no man, not even Jim, had.

And there was a slight chance that she could be pregnant with his child.

“No,” Kate whispered though the thought wasn’t unpleasant. She’d always wanted another baby, and she was more than willing to raise that baby on her own.

The plane taxied to the gate, and she unbuckled her seat belt. Through the small window she watched snow fall from a pewter-colored sky while a ground crew scurried under the belly of the plane.

She grabbed her single piece of carry-on luggage and filed with the rest of the passengers into the behemoth that was Logan International Airport. Soon, she’d face the grandfather of her son—the rich self-serving son of a bitch who had done everything he could to get rid of Jon fifteen years ago and now wanted him back.

Her fingers tightened over the handle of her bag, and cold determination steeled her. No one was going to take her son away. Not even Robert damned Sullivan.

There was no disputing the fact that Jon Summers would be killed. In Alicia’s mind, the only issue that remained was how best to get the job done.

The question had thrummed in her mind for days, ever since she’d planted the seed in VanHorn’s puny brain. She had expected the man to take on the task, baited by the promise of a tumble in the sack, but VanHorn, like most men, had proved disappointing. Alicia Sullivan McGivens let out an exhausted breath and rolled away from her husband, Bryan, who was hogging the sheets again, damn him.

How difficult would it be to kill a person?

Really…how hard could it be? Just make sure he was dead and get rid of the body…as easy as that. And when the victim was a naive fifteen-year-old, he would certainly be unsuspecting, especially when it came to a woman like Alicia.

Not that Alicia relished the thought of snuffing out a life. She’d always recoiled at having to smash a spider in Wade’s room or, God forbid, swat a fly. The crunch of their fat insect bodies sickened her, and the dark stain left behind on the woodwork was so disgusting. How much worse would it be to kill a person?

Not that Bibi’s bastard was destined to make any great contribution to humanity. Really. An orphan child growing up in some godforsaken pasture out West? His intelligence was probably on par with the pigs rolling in the muddy pigpen. Didn’t VanHorn say the boy had been raised out in the middle of nowhere? A hillbilly misanthrope. Too bad old Robert hadn’t left well enough alone. In any case, she had come to think of the bastard boy as not so much a human being who mattered as a nonperson, a family problem, an obstacle to Wade’s success.

With the bastard under Robert’s wing, the whole chain of inheritance—everything Alicia had worked so hard for—would be ruined. Currently, without a male heir on Robert’s side, the fortune would fall to Frank, then to Collin, who would certainly never have children. Which left her beloved Wade next in line for the Sullivan mantle.

My Little Lord Fauntleroy, she thought, clasping her hands under one cheek as an image of her apple-cheeked prince danced in her head.

Well, she wasn’t about to let the bastard get in the way of Wade’s future. Her son was the crown prince of the Sullivan dynasty, and he was going to rise to power and wealth without this traitor in his kingdom.

Which meant someone would have to get rid of the bastard.

How hard could it be?

She’d spent the last few nights in bed, staring at the crown moldings overhead and fantasizing over the perfect murder as Bryan lay softly snoring beside her. She’d seen enough detective shows to know the pitfalls of murder, the stupid ways people got themselves caught and convicted. Fingerprints, blood and hair samples left behind in cars, witnesses…and motive.

Well, it would be hard to tie her to the bastard, especially since she had never seen his face, never been seen with him. And she would keep it that way.

She hated to dirty her hands, but if Neils VanHorn was going to wimp out on her, she would get the job done. Hiring another private investigator or some sordid contract killer would only widen the path of evidence and cost her another chunk of her son’s inheritance. No, she didn’t need some low-life blabbermouth out there owning a sensitive piece of information about her. It wouldn’t be fitting for the mother of a future CEO, governor, perhaps even president.

If she had to, she would do it herself.

Neils could deliver the bastard to the summer house, blindfolded, of course. If the bastard was bound as well, it would be a piece of cake. She could loosen him up by lacing some of her tranquilizers into a nice soothing drink for him. Then, she would take him on a little lake cruise—after dark. The lake would be empty this time of year, and once she got out to the deepest part, it would be so easy to push him over the side. Of course, she’d need to attach some weights. A couple of those minibarbells she’d been training with would work—wiped clean of fingerprints. She wasn’t about to slip up and leave prints, and fortunately, this time of year, no one would question her wearing gloves.

That settled it. Tomorrow night when she met with VanHorn, she would tell him to deliver the boy to the lake house and she would take care of the rest. What was that old adage? If you want something done right, do it yourself. She took a deep, relaxing breath and felt soothed by the image of the bastard securely anchored to the bottom of the lake. Safely tucked away.

Contented at the thought of all her problems buried in a watery grave, Alicia McGivens stretched out her legs amid the Egyptian cotton sheets, closed her eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

Boston.

It was not the city Jon had seen in movies, not the place he’d imagined when he’d spoken to his aunt on the phone, but then, he didn’t think Laura lived in the rundown neighborhood VanHorn had brought him to when they’d checked into the Ivy Motel. Through the grimy window he’d gotten an occasional view of a dark alley lined with trash cans and the drab shingled building that backed up to the motel. This place was a hell-hole, made worse by the fact that he felt like he was sitting here on death row, waiting for VanHorn to sell him off to the “aunt” who wanted him dead.

A sitting duck, that’s what he was.

But not for long.

If he’d learned anything from Daegan, it was that he didn’t have to cower and take abuse…not from anyone. He was going to fight back, escape, go to the police and Aunt Laura. If everything went according to plan, VanHorn would return to his room tonight to find cops waiting for him. That would be sweet.

But first, he had to get the hell out of here.

Reaching under the mattress, his fingers searched for the small bar of soap he’d tucked away when VanHorn wasn’t looking. It was something of a long shot, but with just one hand cuffed to the bed, he planned to soap his way out of the other manacle. Carefully, he used his free hand to douse his wrist with water from a bottle VanHorn let him keep by the bedside. The soap stung the abrasions on his skin as he worked it into a lather, but he winced and rubbed the bar over the inside of the cuff, trying to make it as slippery as possible.

Then, it was a matter of collapsing his hand, pulling and tugging until the cuff tore into his bruised swollen skin, scraping and pulling despite the excruciating pain.

He tried to block out the pain by reminding himself of the freedom ahead. Escape from the man who was ready to sell him off like a slave; VanHorn had told him as much.