Vanished (Private Justice Book #1): A Novel (25 page)

“You already have some backup.”

As it was, she whipped toward him, gun aimed his direction. “Identify yourself.”

Pretty gutsy tactic, since she couldn’t see him in the concealing undergrowth and he was armed too. Lucky thing he was on her side.

“I’m a PI, deputy. There are three of us on-site. All former law enforcement—ATF agent, police detective, Secret Service. The former ATF agent behind you is extending his credentials.”

With a gasp, she spun around. Dev was holding out his creds, a small flashlight focused on the license and shielded from Blaine’s view with a cupped hand.

The woman examined the document, and her taut posture relaxed a fraction.

“What are you people doing here?”

“Working a case that just became the purview of law enforcement, now that our subject has fired shots. And according to my colleague behind the cabin, there’s plenty of incriminating evidence back there too. Until your reinforcements arrive, I’m going to try and get a look inside. We have a dangerous subject who’s losing patience and a hostage who’s at high risk.”

“We need to wait.”

“If we wait, the hostage could die.” He rose to a crouch.

“And if you make a mistake, she could also die.”

His stomach bottomed out. “Thanks for reminding me.”

“We need to hold until official reinforcements get here.”

“Sorry. You can arrest me later for refusing to follow instructions. In the meantime, I’d suggest you have an ambulance dispatched as well.”

Without waiting for a reply, Cal began to weave through the woods, speaking into his earpiece as he approached the structure.

“I’m moving to the cabin. If there’s a way in, I plan to find it.”

“I can see a shadow behind the shades in the back.” Connor’s voice was subdued. “I’ll try to get close and check for a crack somewhere that might give me a view inside.”

“That would help.”

So would a whole lot of luck.

Because when you were dealing with someone like Blaine who had obviously cracked, things could go south very, very fast.

And Moira was directly in the line of fire if they did.

“It’s over, Dr. Blaine.” Moira did her best to speak in a soft, understanding, empathetic tone—and to ignore the gun Blaine was juggling as he paced back and forth in the small kitchen. “Too many people know you’ve killed multiple times. All those deaths at the extended care facilities of Let the Children Come donors will be investigated. The best thing to do is give yourself up.”

If he heard her, he gave no indication. When he spoke, it was more to himself than to her.

“Everything will turn out fine. I didn’t do anything wrong. I just helped those people so they could help my children, and helping people is what doctors do. Dad said what I did wasn’t wrong, that it was a blessing, and he never lied to me. Ever. He’d still be proud of me too, like he was that day I did what he asked. When he told me I was strong and courageous.” He paused and looked up again. “You
are
still proud of me, aren’t you, Dad?”

Moira stared at him.

The man was in total meltdown.

Heart thumping, she moistened her lips. Did Blaine even remember she was there? Possibly not. Maybe if she stayed motionless and very quiet, he’d retreat further into whatever world he’d entered and forget she existed—at least long enough for Cal or that deputy to get inside and take the gun away from him.

He started to pace again. To mutter. To grip the revolver. He rambled on about his mother crying. About burying something in the woods—a thing, not a person. About honoring the Hippocratic Oath.

At this point, she was only half listening to his rant. Her focus was on the gun he was kneading between his fingers.

The loaded gun.

The one that was pointed at her whenever he turned to his left.

Two minutes ticked by. Three. Four. He stopped muttering and dropped into a chair to stare at the floor. Quiet descended.

Until the distant wail of a siren shattered the stillness.

Blaine froze. Cocked his head. Listened.

Then he started to shake.

“No!” The agonized word came out in a whisper, and the color seeped from his face.

He swiveled toward her.

She stopped breathing. His eyes were haunted. Hollow. Desperate. But lucid now rather than glazed.

“I never thought it would come to this.” His words were choked.

He looked down at the gun in his hands—and slowly the panic in his demeanor melted into resignation. The taut lines in his face slackened, and a profound sadness settled in his eyes as he lifted his chin and turned her direction again.

“I don’t have any choice, you know. I messed things up, and it’s too late to fix them.”

“No.” Terror clutched at her throat. “It’s not too late. If
you tell people your story, they’ll understand. They’ll help you.” Not necessarily true, but she prayed he’d buy it.

He didn’t.

With a shake of his head, he swallowed. Ran his fingers over the gun. Took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Dad.” The broken words came out on a half sob.

Then he lifted the gun. Aimed it. Hooked his finger in the ready position.

And as Moira screamed, he closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.

M
oira’s scream, followed by the sound of a single gunshot, ripped through the night as Cal was checking a window on the side of the cabin, hoping to find one unlatched that would allow a stealth access.

His heart stumbled.

But his feet didn’t.

Rounding the cabin, he vaulted onto the rough-hewn planks of the porch and sent his partners a terse message. “I’m going in.”

“I’ll take the rear.” Connor’s voice crackled back.

“I’m coming in from the other side in front,” Dev chimed in.

Assessing the wooden front door as he sprinted toward it, Cal angled sideways and smashed his right heel below the lock. The door splintered.

After a second kick sent it flying, he tucked himself beside the frame. Dev took up a position on the other side, pistol poised.

There wasn’t a sound from inside.

Bad sign.

With a quick dip of his head, Cal communicated his intent to Dev. The other man nodded.

Ducking, he entered the living room.

Empty.

He stayed low as he crossed the living room, pausing next to the door that led to the back room. Dev positioned himself on the opposite side.

With a silent plea to God that Moira had somehow been spared, he steeled himself and stole a look around the edge of the frame at the same instant Connor kicked in the back door.

His stomach lurched.

The kitchen was a war zone.

The white refrigerator, along with the tile and counter beside it, were covered with bright red spatters that gravity was already turning into long streaks. A chair had been overturned. Blaine lay sprawled on the floor a few feet from Moira, a large pool of blood forming below his head.

Cal sized up the situation in one quick sweep, came to the obvious conclusion, and turned his attention to Moira.

She was bound hand and foot to a straight chair, face bruised and bloody and white with shock, shaking as if the tectonic plate of the New Madrid fault had just undergone a massive shift.

But she was alive.

Thank you, God!

Blinking to clear the sudden moisture from his eyes, he holstered his Sig and crossed the room, dropping down on one knee behind her to free her chaffed, bleeding wrists while Dev went to work on her ankles.

“You’re okay, sweetheart. Take some deep breaths. It’s over.” His fingers fumbled the bloodied hemp twine, and he didn’t argue when Connor handed him a glass of water, nudged him aside, and slipped a pocketknife under the knots to cut her free.

He circled around to the front of the chair, blocking the grisly view from her sight. Not that it mattered. Her eyes were squeezed shut and her breath was coming in quick, shallow gasps. If she kept that up, she’d hyperventilate. Fast.

The liquid in the glass he was holding sloshed, and he realized he was trembling almost as much as she was.

“You’re safe now. It’s okay to open your eyes.” He leaned down and rested his fingers against the uninjured part of her face with a whisper touch.

She flinched. Sucked in a sharp breath. Slowly opened her eyes.

“Cal?” The word was no more than a rasp as she reached for him.

He grasped her cold fingers. “I’m right here. Drink a little of this, okay?” He pressed the glass to her lips, cupping his own fingers around hers to help steady them as she took several long, greedy swallows.

That’s when he noticed the strip of cloth caught in her hair and hanging near her cheek. A gag. It must have sucked her mouth dry.

“The paramedics are here.”

At the female voice over his shoulder, Cal shifted sideways. Deputy Orr stood in the doorway, slightly green around the gills as she surveyed the carnage. Obviously not a seasoned veteran.

He freed the strip of cloth from Moira’s hair. “We’ll meet them outside, in front.”

The deputy bobbed her head, as if glad to have an excuse to leave the bloody scene for a moment.

Moira clutched at his arm, her pallor still alarming. “He . . . he put the g-gun in his mouth.” Her broken whisper was fraught with horror.

“I know.” The man’s technique had been obvious the instant he’d seen Blaine. That was the most effective way to accomplish his goal, as any physician would know. “But it’s over.” He straightened up, then reached down and drew her to her feet, using his body to shield her from the gory sight. “Let’s get out of here so the paramedics can check you out.”

She wavered as she rose, and he tightened his grip. Keeping one arm around her shoulders, he bent and slid the other under her knees, nestling her against his chest, close to his heart.

“I can walk.”

“Later.”

She didn’t argue.

He bypassed Dev, who’d commandeered one of the kitchen chairs and settled in it as far from Blaine as possible, his back to the scene, and shouldered past one of the many deputies swarming the place. He heard Connor’s measured voice in the background as his partner took charge. Good man.

That left him free to deal with more important things.

The paramedics were waiting at the base of the porch, a deputy standing by with a high-powered flashlight to give them illumination, and Cal carefully lowered Moira to the stretcher.

“I don’t need to go to a hospital.” She clung to his hand, her voice stronger, color seeping back into her cheeks as she tried to rise.

He restrained her with a hand against her shoulder. “I hope that’s true, but do me a favor and let these guys check you out, okay? It will give me more peace of mind.”

Positioning it as a favor to him did the trick. She stopped resisting, then sank back. But she didn’t relinquish her grip on his hand—and he was in no hurry to let her go.

“Can you work around me?” He directed the question to the paramedic across from him.

“We’ll try.”

He moved down the gurney as far as possible to give both technicians access to Moira. His medical knowledge was rudimentary, but he’d been around enough accident scenes to be able to interpret some of the terms they tossed back and forth as they examined her. All of her vitals were good, and based on her own description of her injuries, there didn’t seem to be much chance she’d suffered any internal damage.

Their biggest concern appeared to be the bruise on her jaw and her swollen ankle.

“Nothing’s broken.” Her tone was more forceful now. “The bruise will fade, and my ankle’s just sprained. An elastic bandage and an ice pack will take care of it.”

“There’s no harm in getting an X-ray, though.” The paramedic on the other side of the gurney continued to clean her raw wrists and apply antiseptic.

“I’ll get an X-ray if it still hurts in a few days.”

She was exhibiting more and more of her usual spunk with each passing minute.

That, too, was a blessing.

But it wasn’t going to protect her from the nightmares he suspected would disrupt her sleep for weeks—perhaps months—to come.

“You want to try and convince her to let us take her in?” The lead paramedic beside him directed the question his way.

“I just want to go home.” She locked gazes with him. “I need TLC, not an IV.”

After studying her, Cal gave the paramedic an apologetic shrug. “I have to side with the lady.”

“Okay. We’ll finish cleaning you up and have you sign a release form . . . whoa. Wait a minute.” He eased down the collar of her mock turtleneck and let out a low whistle. “You didn’t mention this.”

Cal leaned closer. Angry purple bruises marred her neck. The kind he’d seen on strangling victims in his previous life.

A simmering anger erupted in his gut. If Blaine wasn’t dead already, he’d do his best to make sure the man suffered for what he’d done to Moira and all his other victims.

“Did you lose consciousness?” The paramedic leaned forward to check out the bruises.

“Very briefly.”

“I’d feel a lot better if you’d let the ER docs check you out. There could be damage to the larynx, trachea, or other bones in the neck.”

“No.” She swallowed with obvious difficulty as the man gently probed her throat. “I’m breathing fine. My throat’s just bruised. Cal?” She looked to him for support.

He wavered. “They might be right, Moira.”

“I want to go home.” Her words quavered, as if she was on the verge of tears, and the plea in her eyes went straight to his heart.

“Will someone be there with you for the next thirty-six to forty-eight hours?” The paramedic stowed his stethoscope in his kit.

“Yes.” Cal answered the man’s question, but his focus never wavered from Moira.

“That’s too much of an imposition.” Her protest came out halfhearted at best.

“Never.”

The paramedic glanced between the two of them. “Okay. If you have any difficulty breathing, or excessive hoarseness, or reddening in the whites of your eyes, get to an ER fast. We’re done here, but the sheriff’s department will want a statement.” He nodded over his shoulder.

Cal twisted around. A deputy was hovering in the background. The last thing Moira needed to do was tax her throat with a lot of talking. Fortunately, he’d conducted enough victim interviews to know how to expedite the process.

And once they were all free to leave, he’d toss the keys to the Explorer to Dev, drive Moira home, and spend the night on her couch as she slept mere footsteps away.

Because until he was convinced she was ready to be left alone, he wasn’t straying far from her side.

Moira fingered one of the velvet petals on the long-stemmed yellow rose, adjusted the fern behind it, straightened the bow. Though the flower in her lap was proof the nightmare had been real—as were her many lingering aches and pains—in the intervening two weeks the whole experience had taken on a surreal quality.

If only her memory of the terror would fade as quickly as the bruises on her body.

As she sighed, Cal sent her a concerned glance from the driver’s seat of the Explorer. “Everything okay?”

She managed to summon up a small smile. “Yes. Thanks in large part to you.”

He dismissed her praise with a self-deprecating shrug. “I didn’t do much.”

Not true. All week, he’d hovered as much as his and her jobs had allowed. He’d slept on her couch for three nights, despite her protests, close at hand to comfort her when she’d awakened in the middle of the night, shaking and crying. He’d also cooked for her, made her laugh, taken her out for ice cream. And when she’d told him her plans for today, he’d volunteered not only to accompany her but to participate.

“Sorry. I disagree.” She braced as he swung between the two gates flanking the entrance to their destination. “I think I’ll be in your debt forever.”

“Consider the debt repaid with this.” He tapped the newspaper tucked beside his seat. “The phone’s been ringing off the hook since the first part of your series ran. I’m sure we’ll have more calls after today’s wrap-up piece, with all those quotes you used from me. Business at Phoenix is booming.”

“I’m glad, after all the pro bono hours you guys put in on the case.”

“That’s not why we took it.” His gaze connected with hers.

“I know. Justice First.” Phoenix truly lived that motto, as she’d learned over the past weeks.

“Always.” He transferred his attention back to the road in front of him. “You said you got directions?”

“Yes.” She snagged a slip of paper from the pocket of her shoulder purse. “Make the first left, then the third right. He said we’d spot it without any problem. It’s the only one in that area.”

In silence, Cal navigated the narrow road. As he swung into the last turn, she leaned forward. “There it is.”

“Yeah. I see it.” As he approached the site, he pulled onto the edge of the road. “Sit tight while I come around.” He
lifted the lid on the storage compartment between their seats, grabbed a small black book, and slid from the car.

By the time he joined her, she had the door open.

“Watch your step. The ground isn’t level and you don’t need another sprain.” He took her arm as she carefully put weight on her elastic-wrapped ankle.

Once she was steady, he closed the door. The grassy knoll was, indeed, on the uneven side, and she was grateful he kept a firm grip on her arm as they crossed the lawn.

They walked in silence until they reached the mound of freshly turned earth—Olivia Lange’s final resting place, paid for by contributions from readers who’d been touched by Moira’s story about the woman who’d had no one to miss her when she’d disappeared.

There would be a marker too. Evidence that in death, if not in life, someone had cared about her. Moira would shoulder the cost herself if there weren’t enough contributions to cover it.

As they stood in the stillness, rays of early morning sun announcing the start of a new day, a cardinal trilled from the branch of a nearby tree. Farther afield, muted sounds filtered through the summer air. A lawn mower hummed. A dog barked. A radio played. Someone laughed.

Life went on.

For some.

Moira blinked back a tear.

An instant later, strong, lean fingers twined with hers.

“Olivia had someone to cry for her after all.”

At Cal’s soft comment, she looked over at him. The tenderness in his eyes was a balm on her heart.