Captured (14 page)

“I just want my son back!” she yells.

“I know.” I take a step closer. My hand is resting on the hilt of my Glock.

She steps back a few more feet, dipping up then down with each swell.

I’m knee deep now myself. I feel the push and pull of the current under my own feet and realize I’d be lucky to get off a clean shot.

Stephanie lifts the pistol. The waves continue to crash against her, making her aim unsteady. At first I think she intends to shoot me.

“I need to be with him.” The words are said so quietly, I barely hear them.

“Just drop the gun!”

She raises it to her temple, still bobbing and weaving in the turbulent surf.

Somewhere behind me, the sound of a single gunshot splits the air.

Stephanie and Cooper fall back, disappearing under a crush of white froth.

I take a deep breath, throw myself over a wave, then dive under the one that swallowed them. I kick, using my arms and legs to pull myself forward. The saltwater is murky, full of sand and silt. My eyes burn. So does my skin. The ice-cold water feels like millions of pinpricks. My jeans and shoes are heavy in the water. I reach out, my arms searching. I’m running out of oxygen. My lungs are close to bursting when my fingertips brush up against something. I grab hold, kick up.

My head breaks the surface of the water. I gasp for air. See that what I have in my hand is the waistband of Coopers jeans. I find my footing, pull the boy close. Zack is by my side.

“You got him?” he asks.

I nod, hugging the little boy. He’s choking, shaking from cold and fear, but a quick check reveals he seems unhurt. The blood on his shirt must belong to Stephanie.

I look up at Zack. “That was some shot. Nice to know you have my back.”

Zack is scooping Stephanie out of the water. She’s coughing and sputtering, but alive. Blood stains her blouse and the surrounding sea.

“I’ll always have your back, Emma,” he says. “Always.”

CHAPTER 12

By the time Zack and I get back to the hotel, it’s after ten in the morning. A gust of wind pushes the car door shut. The rain is coming down hard and fast. My clothes, soaked during my dip in the ocean, are once again sopping wet. What I want more than anything right now is a hot soak and a long nap. The Masons are in custody. Stuart is in jail and Stephanie is in surgery under police guard at MUSC. Most importantly, Cooper is safely home with his parents. Zack and I can finally rest.

We make a run for the lobby doors. Several hotel employees are gathered around the television over the bar. The newsman Anderson Cooper is on, talking about the near-hurricane weather being experienced in the Charleston area—and the exclusive interview he’s going to be doing with Brett Anderson at the top of the hour.

The bartender who’d served us previously waves us over. My eyes meet Zack’s. I can tell he’s no more interested than I am, but ever the polite gentleman he says, “I’ll go. Head on up and hit the rack. You’re exhausted.”

I start to head over. “So are you. We’ll be polite and tell them we’re dead on our feet.”

The bartender pulls out two champagne glasses. “This one’s on us. Looks like the two of you got your man
and
woman.”

I hold up my hand. “That’s really sweet of you. It’s been a really long couple of days. I’m afraid if I drink that before undressing, I’ll fall sleep in these wet clothes.”

He slides the glasses toward me, then pulls out an unopened bottle of champagne. “Take it up to your room then. You deserve it.”

One of the other employees, a tall blonde in a suit, chimes in, “And we’ll be sending up breakfast, compliments of the house. What would you like, pancakes, French toast? We make a terrific crab cake Benedict.”

Zack and I glance at one another. “Surprise us,” he says. “I’m afraid we’re done in. A hot shower, a little food, then what we really need is uninterrupted sleep. Send the breakfast up to Agent Monroe’s room?”

“Will do.” She eyeballs the two of us, trying to figure out if we’re more than partners. “And we’ll make sure you aren’t disturbed. Your breakfast will be up before eleven. I’m sure you don’t want to miss the interview.”

We slink away. I carry the glasses, Zack the champagne.

“I can’t believe the Andersons agreed to an interview,” I say as we step into the elevator.

Zack shrugs. “Brett’s been in this business a long time. He knows that in twenty-four hours the media will be on to the next hot story. I seriously want to get out of these wet clothes and into a hot shower.”

My key card is out before the elevator doors open. My legs feel like lead as we make our way the short distance down the hall. “I’m with you.” I swipe my key through the lock mechanism, then hand it to Zack. “I’m headed for a bath but the chances are 50/50 I’m going to fall asleep in the tub.”

Zack holds up the card. “I could lifeguard. I’ve been certified and everything.”

I push away the image of Zack wet and soapy in my tub.

“Did you bump your head on the ocean floor? That wasn’t an invitation for sex. You have my key because I don’t want to drown and miss breakfast before going into hibernation.” I walk into the room, turn around. “We clear?”

“Crystal.” He bows ever so slightly at the waist. “My apologies.” Zack hands me the bottle of champagne before sliding his card key into the lock next door.

My eyes focus on his hand, which I imagine is strong and sure. I envision it skimming over my breast, grasping my hip. Do I want him? Yes. Throughout this entire case, we’ve kept it professional. Eye on the ball. But the case is over. In less than twenty-four hours I’ll be heading back to the west coast, where there will be no Zack and no danger.

A cold chill passes over me. Is it the wet clothes or a not so friendly reminder from the vindictive goddess who has spent century after century torturing me?

I let my door close.

I’m almost finished towel drying my hair when I hear Zack come in. Seconds later, the cork pops out of the champagne.

“You still awake in there?”

I throw the towel over the shower rail and step into a pair of comfy black yoga pants. “I’ll be right out.”

There’s a knock on the door. I hear the room service cart being wheeled in. Zack and the waiter have a brief conversation. I slide a loose-fitting gray sweater over my head, run a brush through my hair, and tie it up in a topknot. By the time I finish Zack is stretched out on the sofa, a glass of champagne in one hand and what looks like a rolled-up pancake in the other. The television is on. Anderson Cooper is looking directly into the camera.

“In just a moment CNN will be bringing you an exclusive interview with Sophie and Brett Anderson. They’ve just endured what surely is a parent’s worst nightmare. The abduction of their four-year-old son, Cooper.” He smiles, wryly. “Named after yours truly, I’m told. The ordeal began on March 21
st
, when Cooper was abducted from their family home, and ended just a few hours ago, when the FBI rescued him. All of America has been following this story. Now the speculation ends. This morning we bring you a behind-the-scenes report. Stay tuned to CNN and find out what really happened to Cooper Anderson.”

A commercial about erectile dysfunction begins to roll.

Zack sits up to make room for me on the sofa. “Coffee? Champagne?”

“Just the champagne, I don’t want anything that could interfere with my sleep.”

He pops the last of the pancake in his mouth, then pours. “Alcohol and carbs, that’s my plan,” he says as he hands me the glass.

A gust of wind rattles the windows, drawing our attention. The sky is ominously dark. The rain is coming down in torrents. “Gotta give it to South Carolina. Ya’ll have some interesting weather.”

My attempt to properly say “ya’ll” makes Zack smile.

“At least
we
have weather,” he says, giving my shoulder a bump with his.

A loud crack of thunder drowns out my retort. The lights flicker.

Zack picks up the plate with the pancakes and offers it to me. “They’re pretty good.”

“Go for it. I think I’m going to try this French toast.” I pull the dish toward me. It’s piled high with apples, cinnamon, and pecans. “Fork?”

He reaches across the table and hands me one just as Anderson Cooper returns. The camera pulls out and he’s there with the Andersons in their living room. The couple is holding hands. Mrs. Anderson is also holding a tissue. It’s obvious she’s been crying, this time tears of joy. There’s talk about the FBI’s management of the case, for which the couple expressed gratitude.

“They worked around the clock to find our son,” explained Mrs. Anderson. “The agents who set up command in our home, who worked in the field, they lived through this with us. It wasn’t just another job, just another case. The FBI even flew in a specialist from California. I’m so thankful. If it wasn’t for those individuals…” She dabs at her eyes.

The anchorman continues, “I understand they even deployed the Hostage Rescue Team to Bulls Island.” He looks into the camera. “For the people at home who might not be familiar with the HRT, they’re essentially the FBI’s equivalent of an elite Special Forces team. The Boston Marathon bombing. The Hannah Anderson kidnapping. Those, along with hundreds of others, involved the FBI’s HRT.” He turns back to the Andersons. “When were you told they’d been called in?”

“We weren’t. Don’t get me wrong. I think the FBI did a great job of keeping us informed. But they had to be careful toward the end.” Brett pauses as if considering what do say next. “There was a leak at one point. A news station—my news station—aired a sketch of the suspect without the permission of the FBI. That jeopardized the investigation and could have ended my son’s life. I understand the news game, Anderson. I know how important ratings are. But they aren’t as important as a child’s life.”

“Of course not.”

Brett continues, “I can’t work for an organization willing to take those risks.” A beat passes. “That’s why I’m going to be leaving Live5News. After what we’ve been through, I’m going to take some time off. My family needs me right now.” He wraps his arm protectively around his wife’s shoulders. “And I need them.”

I’ve been eating as I’ve listened and made it through an entire slice of French toast and a slice of bacon. My eyes are so heavy I can hardly keep them open. They start to drift shut. Another crack of thunder causes them to snap back open.

Zack takes the plate from my lap and places it back on the table. “I’m losing you. Think we should call it a night, so to speak.”

I nod.

The interview is wrapping up. I realize I must have dozed off for a few seconds and missed some of it. Anderson Cooper is talking about what was found in the Masons’ home—chains and restraints. Brett deftly sidesteps the line of questioning and shuts down any attempts at speculation about the Masons’ motives.

“I understand when something like this happens, it’s human nature to try to pick it apart and understand it. But these are our wounds. The wounds of a real family, real people. We granted you this interview because we want to ask the media to show some compassion, to let us have some privacy. We need time to heal, to sleep, to be together as a family. That’s our focus now. We won’t be doing any other interviews or taking any other calls over the next several days. When or if we’re ready to reveal more, I’d like to reach out to you.” Brett extends his hand.

The famed newsman takes it. “I appreciate the trust you’re placing in us. We’ll be in touch.”

“They’re going to be all right,” murmurs Zack. “We did good, Monroe.”

I release a deep breath. “I think so too.”

The storm outside is raging, but inside a sense of calm has settled over me. My use of power was minimal. We saved the life of Cooper Anderson and stopped what would have likely been the loss of additional lives. Even Demeter couldn’t argue with Zack’s statement.

We did good.

Zack turns off the television. “I’m going to turn in.”

I stand. Stretch. “I’m going to be heading home first thing tomorrow morning. What time will the team from Washington be here to review the details of the shooting?”

“Six tonight.” He looks at his watch, then back at me. “Gives us about five hours to get some sleep. How about we get dinner after?”

“I’d like that.”

Zack opens the door.

There’s another loud crack of thunder.

“Sleep well,” he says before leaving.

I stumble to my bed, not even bothering to pull down the covers. My head hits the pillow. There’s a knock.

“Monroe?”

I grab the pillow next to me and put it over my head.

“Emma?”

I drag myself to the door, open it. “I need to use your phone. My key hard isn’t working.”

“Fine.” On automatic pilot I retrace the steps back to my bed.

The bed shifts. “I’m on hold,” Zack whispers. “Go to sleep. I’ll let myself out.”

He doesn’t have to tell me twice. My eyes close. I inhale deeply, then slowly exhale. I feel myself being carried off on a stream of air. Floating. This is my favorite time, the brief but inevitable time between cases, when my mind and body can rest.

“Really? Well, crap. How long till you can get up here? Yes, I can hold. No, I understand.”

I open one eye. “What’s up?”

“Transformer blew. Electricity went out. They have a back-up generator for most of the vital hotel functions. But it doesn’t cover the door locks, they go to manual override.” He’s still got the phone to his ear. He listens, sighs, and says. “They’ll have to send someone up to open the door for me. It’s going to be about thirty minutes.”

“Hang up.” I roll over. “Sleep here.”

“Here?”

“Yes. Tell the operator we want a wake-up call at five.”

He repeats what I said, places the phone back into the cradle.

“Just…keep your pants on and no funny business,” I say.

A soft chuckle escapes his lips. “I’m too tired for funny business.”

Then he proves it by falling asleep first.

CHAPTER 13

Upon waking I’m faced with the realization that a six-foot-plus werewolf is spooned up against me. His body is flush to mine. Head buried in my hair. Arm draped over my waist. Hand clasping my breast.