Thin Ice (17 page)

Lance.

Two whole days had passed since their last phone conversation, after his meeting with Brenda Lee. Unfortunately, she hadn't been able to suggest anyone for him to follow up with who met the description the woman had given him. Had the agent in Rolla had better luck with Ginny's friends and acquaintances?

It was worth ditching the meeting and risking her boss's ire to find out. As far as she was concerned, this qualified for the man's only-leave-for-emergencies rule.

Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, she rose and slipped out of the room. Thank goodness she'd managed to claim one of the chairs closest to the door.

As she stepped into the hall, she put the phone to her ear. “Hi.”

“Hi back.” A serious amount of background noise echoed over the line. “Do you have a minute?”

“Sure.” She skirted a day-glow orange warning cone in the hall, where a maintenance guy was working on a section of carpet, and moved off a few feet. “Do you have some news?”

“Not about the case.”

She listened without interrupting as he filled her in about his brother, then closed her eyes and propped a shoulder against the wall. “I'm so sorry.”

“Thanks.” His words came out ragged.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Pray?”

“That goes without saying.”

“Just so you know, I've been bending God's ear too.”

“I'm glad, Lance.” More than he knew. She wanted to pursue this thing between them once the case was over, but his lapsed faith had been an issue. Yet he'd turned to God in the midst of a crisis. That had to be a positive sign. “When are you leaving?”

“We're getting ready to board a plane now. Mac and I are at the gate.”

That explained the hum of noise in the background.

“How long will you be gone?”

“I plan to be back late Sunday night, unless . . .” His voice grated, and he paused for a moment. “We're hoping he'll be stable and I can leave. Mac's planning to stay on for a while after that.” He stopped while a boarding announcement was made. “I need to go, but feel free to call me anytime. I'll be answering my cell. For immediate help, though, I want you to contact my colleague, Mark Sanders. He's the ex-HRT operator I told you about. He's up to speed on the case and very competent. If you have a pen and paper, I'll give you his cell number.”

“Yes, I do. Go ahead.” She unclipped her pen from the notepad and jotted down the digits as he recited them. “Got it. But if the pattern continues, I doubt there will be any developments on my end until early next week.”

“I agree. Still, just in case, Mark's on standby.”

A final boarding call sounded in the background.

She needed to let the man catch his plane.

The temptation to say “I wish I was there to give you a hug” was strong, the words hovering on the tip of her tongue—but she managed to bite them back. He might have shared a lot with her over chocolate chip cookies the other night, but he'd also made it clear he wanted to keep their relationship professional until the case was over. So she opted for a less personal good-bye.

“You'd better go. I don't want you to miss your plane. Take care of yourself, and let me know how your brother's doing if you get a chance.”

“I will.” He sounded like he was walking. Fast. “Mark will pick up any slack while I'm gone. Talk to you soon.”

The line went dead.

Slowly Christy slid the phone back into her pocket. Rejoining the boring meeting held zero appeal. But there wasn't anything she could do to help Lance or his brother other than pray, and she could do that anywhere. Especially in a boring meeting.

She circled around the guy working on the carpet, which had pulled loose from the baseboard. Too bad all problems couldn't be solved as easily as that one.

But frayed lives were a lot more complicated to fix than a frayed carpet.

And at the moment, her life wasn't the only one that seemed to be unraveling.

T
he man in the bed didn't even look like Finn.

Lance groped for something . . . anything . . . to hang on to as he came to a stop beside his brother's horizontal form in the sterile, antiseptic-smelling hospital room.

He made do with the swivel-armed table that could swing over the bed—which didn't feel any more steady than he felt—and tried to process the disconnects as he gave Finn a swift scan.

Other than the steady, if shallow, rise and fall of his chest, his brother was still as death—and Finn was never motionless.

His complexion was almost as white as the sheet that was pulled up to his neck and the bandage that concealed his auburn hair—and while Finn was fair, he was never ghostly pale.

The skin was stretched taut over his cheekbones, leaving gaunt, shadowy hollows in his face, making him appear ill and frail—and Finn was never sick or weak.

As for all the pieces of high-tech equipment jammed around the bed, their unnerving beeps and whooshes providing the only sound in the room—were they helping Finn recover . . . or merely keeping him alive?

Across from him, on the other side of the expanse of white sheet, Mac muttered a word he seldom used.

It summed up exactly how he felt too.

“You must be the brothers.”

As the voice spoke from the doorway, they turned in unison.

“Brad Owens. I'm handling Finn's case.” The white-coated man moved to the foot of the bed, hand extended.

Mac took it first while Lance pried his fingers off the table and hoped his legs didn't fail him once the support was removed.

“The floor supervisor paged me when you arrived. There's a lounge down the hall. Why don't we talk there?”

Leave Finn when they'd just gotten here?

No way.

But as he started to protest, Mac gave him The Look. The one he'd used since they were kids to keep him in line. To remind him to think before he shot off his mouth.

“It might be better to have this discussion in the lounge so we don't disturb Finn—in case he can hear us.” Mac emphasized the last six words.

He did the translation.

If Finn is listening and the doc
has bad news, hearing it could destroy whatever morale he
has left.

Good thing one of their brains was functioning.

With a nod of acquiescence, Lance followed the two of them down the hall.

The doctor launched into his briefing the instant they took their seats. “I'm sure you both have a lot of questions, but let me give you the basics first and save you having to ask some of them. First of all, your brother was one of the lucky ones. I'm told only two men survived the attack. Both of them are here. Finn picked up some shrapnel and suffered a few second-degree burns, but those were dealt with at Landstuhl. His primary injuries at this point are confined to his leg. The fall from the helo did a number on it.”

Lance called up a visual of Finn's lower torso from the fast inventory he'd taken. There had been two long mounds under the blanket, the left one much larger than the right, indicating some serious dressing—but at least Finn still had his leg. That was a positive sign.

Wasn't it?

Mac asked the question he didn't want to voice.

“How bad is the leg?”

“We're going to do our best to save it, but this is a situation that will require multiple surgeries. Several bones are broken, and his lower right tibia is shattered. Either way, he'll face a long recovery and intense rehab. Best case, he'll make an excellent recovery and go on to lead a very normal life.”

Do our best to
save it.

Shattered.

Either way.

Lance's heart stuttered as the ominous words resonated in his mind.

Several beats of silence ticked by in the deserted waiting room before Mac leaned forward and clasped his hands between his knees. “Why is his head bandaged?”

“He has a large laceration on his scalp. In and of themselves, that and the shrapnel wounds and burns aren't life-threatening.”

The left side of Lance's brain started to kick into gear. “What do you mean, in and of themselves?”

“Your brother suffered injuries beyond the obvious. Blunt force trauma to the abdomen severely damaged his spleen. They removed it at Landstuhl. That injury resulted in rapid and significant internal bleeding, which in turn led to severe shock. During the evacuation from the crash site, he coded.”

The bottom fell out of Lance's stomach.

Across from him, Mac sucked in a breath.

Finn's heart had failed.

Their brother had technically died.

“Was there any . . . don't people get brain damage from that?” Lance managed to choke out the words.

“He was resuscitated very quickly. As far as we can tell, there wasn't any neural or organ damage.”

As far as they could tell.

Not the most comforting response.

Lance swallowed, but his voice still hoarsened on the next question. “Will he be okay without a spleen?”

“Yes. His immune system will be less effective, but other than getting a flu shot every year and pneumonia vaccine, no special treatment is required.”

Mac jumped back in. “How soon do you think he'll regain consciousness?”

“He's being heavily medicated for pain, and that's keeping him very drowsy. However, we're tapering off on those drugs. He could wake up anytime. Do you two plan to be around for the next few hours?”

“Yes.” They spoke simultaneously.

“Good. I know it's late and you've both spent hours in transit, but I'd like him to see a familiar face when he opens his eyes. Any other questions?”

Mac raised an eyebrow at him. He shook his head.

“Not at the moment.”

The physician stood. “There's a recliner in Finn's room. You can take turns grabbing some shut-eye.”

Sleep while Finn was in critical condition?

Was he kidding?

Mac rose and took the doctor's extended hand. “Thanks.”

At his big brother's nudge, Lance stood, too, and returned the man's shake.

“If you need to speak with me, let one of the nurses know.
We're all going to do our very best to help him walk out of here and live a normal life.”

Lance watched the man stride away, then turned to Mac. “Not the most upbeat news, huh?”

“It could be worse. They were able to revive him. He still has his leg. There's a reasonable chance he'll pull through with few long-term effects.”

Had Mac been listening to the same spiel he'd just heard?

“How did you get such an optimistic spin out of all that?”

“I tuned in to the positives—and I have faith. I can't believe God let him survive a disaster of that magnitude only to destroy the rest of his life.” Mac reached over and gripped his arm. Tight. “That's the message we need to communicate to Finn once he's awake, okay? He's going to need all the encouragement and motivation we can offer.”

At the very least.

“Got it.”

Mac winked and dropped his hand. “Just call up that killer smile you save for pretty girls. Finn needs to see that kind of friendly face.”

As Mac headed back to the room, Lance fell in beside him.

Smile, huh?

Tough assignment.

But if it would help Finn, he'd dredge one up. For all the abuse the two of them heaped on their kid brother, nothing would be the same without him. He had to recover.

Mac was right about keeping the faith too—as Christy would surely agree if she was here. They had to believe that if God had brought Finn this far, spared his life when so many others had died, he wasn't going to abandon him now.

As they retraced their steps down the hall, Lance said a silent thank-you for answered prayers and added a plea for the gift of fortitude—for all of them.

Because he had a feeling the trials to come in the days and weeks and months ahead were going to be more daunting than any challenge the McGregor clan had ever faced.

The kidnapper had broken his pattern.

Christy stared at the thin envelope addressed in her sister's hand, tucked in among the gaggle of bills and ads that dominated her mail.

Why had it come on a Saturday instead of the usual Tuesday? Was the kidnapper playing games with her—or was there another, more significant reason he'd mixed things up?

Clutching the mail against her chest, she hurried back inside the condo and shut the door. After locking it behind her, she leaned against it and closed her eyes.

Of all the times for Lance to be gone!

For one fleeting instant she considered calling him. He'd said he'd have his cell and would be available.

But that would be selfish. The man had enough problems without her adding one more. He'd barely arrived at Walter Reed; who knew what he was facing with his brother?

Better to contact his colleague.

She continued to the kitchen, groped through her purse for the slip of paper containing the number she'd jotted down, and placed the call. Mark Sanders answered on the second ring in a crisp, businesslike tone and assured her he'd be over within the hour.

True to his word, thirty-five nerve-wracking minutes later he was knocking at her kitchen door—his suggestion, in case the kidnapper was watching. As he'd pointed out, they didn't want to undermine the boyfriend ruse she and Lance had created.

The guy was sharp, as Lance had said.

He was also tall, lean, and strong-jawed, with a faint hint of
silver in his short, neatly trimmed brown hair. In other words, the classic stereotype of a well-groomed, clean-cut FBI agent.

Except for the frayed, paint-spattered jeans and the spot of pink on his jaw.

As she approached the sliding glass door that led to her patio, he held up his ID.

After a quick glance, she flipped the lock and ushered him in out of the cold, gesturing to his attire. “I must have interrupted a home project.”

His quick grin produced a tiny dimple. “Nursery. We have a new baby who came a little early and caught us unprepared. We were both handling some demanding cases, and somehow the weeks slipped away.”

“Your wife's an agent too?”

“Psychologist.”

A power couple.

“Impressive.”

“I'll tell Emily you said that. She could use a pick-me-up after being on the night shift with the baby until the wee hours this morning. Mark Sanders, as you saw from my ID.” He held out his hand.

She took it, and he gave her fingers a firm squeeze. “Christy Reed.”

“Where's the letter?”

So much for chitchat—which was fine with her.

She led him to the counter in silence.

He pulled a pair of latex gloves out of the pocket of his jeans as he eyed the envelope. “The weekend arrival is out of pattern.”

Lance had briefed him well. “Yes.”

While he removed two folded evidence envelopes from the inside pocket of his jacket, she indicated the knife block off to the side. “Lance always uses one of those to open the envelopes.”

He gave her another quick smile. “I came prepared.” He
removed a pocketknife from his jeans and held it up. “I've never been without one since my Boy Scout days.” With a deft flick of his wrist, he slit the top of the envelope and removed the single sheet of paper.

She edged closer to read the message.

Like the others, it was typed—but this one was much shorter.

You will see your sister soon.

She frowned. “That's weird. It almost sounds like he's through communicating.”

“Yeah. It does.”

“What do you make of it?”

“I'm not sure. In general, developments happen fast in kidnappings, including the ransom terms. This guy waits two months, sends a series of letters, then wraps things up with no demands, no threats, no ultimatums.” He slid the two items into evidence envelopes. “Weird is an appropriate word for it.”

Christy massaged her temple. “I'm totally confused. I mean, what was the point of all this?”

“Since the typical economic payoff of kidnapping wasn't the goal, we have to consider other motives. A power trip, revenge, vindication. And was Ginny the only intended victim? Playing these games, drawing the kidnapping out over an extended period, has thrown your world into a tailspin too.”

“This sounds
like a very deliberate strategy to make life as difficult
as possible for you.”

As Lance's words from the night the second letter arrived echoed in her mind, a shiver ran through her.

“That's kind of what Lance implied early on—and this note seems to support his theory.”

“I assume he warned you to be extra careful until we sort this out.”

“Yes.”

“I'll second that recommendation. In terms of next steps, the lab will have this on Monday, and I'll touch base with Lance today. If this is the kidnapper's last communication, he may play his final card—whatever it is—very soon.”