Deceived (Private Justice Book #3): A Novel (30 page)

Less than a minute later, letting Todd keep the lead, he reached the door that provided access to the walk-out basement.

“You won.” Greg fitted the key in the lock and pushed the door open. “You get faster every day.”

Beaming, Todd trotted in ahead of him. “So are we going to eat dinner now? I’m hungry.”

“Next on my list.” Greg followed him past the bare-bones camping gear, neatly piled by the door, and the two small bags of clothing and toiletries he’d packed. They could pick up everything else they needed once they were on the road.

Todd stopped to examine one of the sleeping bags. “Our camping trip is going to be awesome. How come you didn’t tell me about it until tonight?”

“It wouldn’t have been a surprise if I’d told you sooner, would it?” He ruffled Todd’s hair.

“I guess not. Can I watch cartoons while you fix dinner?”

“Sure. I have a couple of things to do first, anyway.”

Once upstairs, Greg dropped the keys to the rental car on the kitchen counter while Todd continued toward the living room. A moment later, cartoon sounds filled the house.

After casting a glance at the little boy sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, Greg moved down the hall to his bedroom and closed the door. From the top drawer of his dresser, he withdrew the bottle of Valium pills, frowning at the tremble in his fingers. Last time he’d used these, he’d been steady. Confident. In control.

Then again, he’d had months, not days, to plan. Plus, he’d been dealing with a four-year-old, not an inquisitive seven-year-old.

But Todd loved him. Trusted him. He’d believe the fabricated story about needing to get a new name like the people on the TV show they’d watched recently who’d entered the witness security program. The important thing was to make it convincing—and
scary enough to seal his son’s lips. The story he’d concocted might lead to another bout of nightmares, but they’d get past those. Once entrenched in a new life and a new city with new identities, the nightmares would fade away.

And they’d be safe at last.

Greg opened the bottle. Shook two of the yellow pills into his palm. Ironic that they had a heart-shaped cutout in the center, considering how they’d helped him secure a new son to love—and how they would ensure that love went unchallenged.

He examined the 5 mg tablets. He’d only used half a pill on that August day in New York—two-and-a-half times the normal dose for a four-year-old, according to the Net—and it had knocked Todd out. But he was older now, and it was important that he stay fast asleep.

Two pills ought to do it.

That would leave him plenty for the doctor’s wife, plus a few to drop on the floor.

Shoving the bottle into the pocket of his jeans, he closed his fist over the two pills and headed back toward the kitchen.

It was time to assemble the ingredients he’d purchased for strawberry smoothies.

A perfect bedtime treat.

Dad was acting really weird.

Todd watched as his father pulled the blender and the recipe for smoothies Diane had given them from the cabinet under the sink. Smoothies were good. At least, the ones Diane made were. But whenever he and Dad wanted a treat, they went to DQ. Why was he making smoothies instead?

And how come they’d watched a movie on a weeknight? Dad never let him stay up this late.

He squirmed in his seat at the kitchen table, giving his teddy
bear a squeeze. He didn’t need the bear anymore, not since he’d turned seven. Teddy bears were for little kids. Still . . . it was kind of nice to hold on to.

Especially when everything suddenly felt creepy—like that day he’d seen the lady with the blonde hair on the escalator.

As his dad pulled stuff out of the refrigerator, he stood and moved close beside him—the place where he always felt safe. “Dad?”

“Yes?” He sounded kind of far away, like he wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention.

“How come you decided to make these?”

“Seemed like a nice way to celebrate our camping trip.” He crossed to the freezer and pulled out a box of ice cream.

“But you never made them before. And it’s a lot of trouble.”

His father kept working. “It’s no trouble. You know I’d do anything for you, David.”

Todd’s stomach started to feel funny, like it had when his dad called him David after that scary nightmare he’d watched from the bedroom door. How come he was starting to do that?

“Why don’t you go wash your hands and face while I finish up?” His dad turned on the blender, and he cringed at the loud whirring sound. It seemed a lot noisier than when Diane made smoothies.

Edging toward the door, he chewed on his lip. It was nice of Dad to make their favorite drink, but he felt kind of like he had when he got the flu last year, right before he threw up. And thinking about drinking a whole smoothie made it worse.

He dawdled in the bathroom, playing with the soap dispenser until his dad called him.

“Todd? The drinks are ready.”

At least he’d used the right name this time.

After drying his hands, he trudged back toward the kitchen. Dad was sitting at the table.

“There you go, champ.” Dad slid the smoothie with the straw stuck in the top in his place. “So tell me what you did today.”

Todd crossed to the table and slid into his chair. Dad seemed okay now, even if the air felt kind of buzzy and crackly, like before a lightning storm. But Mrs. Stein at daycare was always saying he had an overbusy imagination . . . or some word like that. So maybe everything was fine. Maybe Dad’s arm was just hurting or he had a headache from working in the sun all day.

He took a tentative sip of his drink and told him a little about the animal posters they were making in art class. When Dad asked a bunch of questions and paid a lot of attention like he usually did, the drink started to taste better and his stomach stopped wobbling. So he told him about his favorite dinosaur book too, and the airplane pilot who had come to talk to their class, in uniform and everything.

As his dad finished off his drink, he slurped up the dregs of his own.

“That was real good, Dad.”

“I’m glad you liked it.” He stood and took their glasses to the sink. “We’ll make them again sometime.”

A yawn snuck up on him.

“Someone must be getting sleepy.” His dad had that teasing look that always made him feel happy.

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Why don’t you go brush your teeth and I’ll come in to say good night?”

He tried to think of some excuse to stay up later, but Dad wouldn’t listen. Not when he was already up way past his bedtime.

Besides, he was getting really tired. And as he headed for his room, his legs felt the same as they had the day he’d wandered into that patch of mud in Montana that kept sucking his feet down.

Yawning again, he bypassed the bathroom and sat on his bed. Dad wouldn’t care if he lay down for a minute before he brushed his teeth.

He pulled off his shoes and cuddled up with his bear, glad the night had turned out happy after all. They’d laughed and talked like they always did. And tomorrow they were going camping.

Burrowing into his pillow, he let his eyes drift closed. He sure was lucky to have such a great dad.

The only thing that could make his life even better was if he had a mom too.

Maybe someday.

W
hy in the world was her doorbell ringing at eleven-forty at night?

Moving from Kevin’s room to the second-floor landing, Kate paused above the dark foyer. It couldn’t be Connor. He was on surveillance duty until midnight—but who else would have any reason to come to her door at this hour?

Hand on the banister, she hesitated. It was possible those two girls who shared a unit on the other side of the cul-de-sac might be having a repeat performance of last weekend’s wild party, when a drunk twentysomething guy had knocked on her door at two in the morning after losing his bearings.

Except they’d never had a rowdy gathering in the middle of the week before.

The bell rang again.

Hmm.

Better investigate. She had sturdy locks; no one would get in unless she invited them.

She descended the steps, detoured to grab her cell phone out of the charger on the kitchen counter, then pressed her eye against the peephole.

Nothing but shadows.

Why was it so dark out there? Had her dusk-to-dawn porch light burned out? One more chore to add to her to-do list for tomorrow.

She squinted as she surveyed the porch. The corners might be murky, but it was clear no one was standing on the other side of her door. The bell ringer must have been some prankster.

But as she did one final scan and prepared to turn away, a small mound on the floor of the porch, near the steps, caught her eye.

She zeroed in on it.

Froze.

A little blond-haired boy who looked just like Kevin was lying against the railing.

And he wasn’t moving.

No!

Tossing the phone onto the hall table, she fumbled with the locks on her door, her shaking fingers refusing to cooperate. Had Sanders grown tired of playing father to a boy who wasn’t his own and dumped him on her doorstep now that the heat was on?

Or had he flipped out, and in a fit of rage taken more drastic measures to rid himself of his problem?

No!

Denial screamed through her brain as the floor rippled beneath her while she struggled to flip the locks.

Hurry, hurry!

If Kevin was hurt, every second could count.

At last the door swung open and she charged toward the prone figure, kneeling beside him in the dim illumination from the streetlights at the curb.

“Kevin?” She touched his cheek. It was warm.

Yes!

She leaned closer, putting her face near his nose. His breath tickled her cheek.

“He’s alive. For now.”

At the cold, emotionless male voice, she whirled around—and found herself inches from the barrel of a pistol with some sort of apparatus on the end.

A silencer?

No matter.

It was pointed straight at her head.

Her heart lurched.

“Take the boy inside.”

She scrutinized the shadowed man towering over her. His features were too dark to make out, but his athletic build and the baseball cap pulled low on his forehead were familiar.

Sanders.

He hadn’t waited for them to come to him. He’d come to her—and found the perfect way to lure her out of her secure condo.

This wasn’t how the finale was supposed to play out.

Besides . . . how had the man left his house without alerting Connor?

“I said, take the boy inside.” The man’s voice, though still low, was sharper now—and scored with irritation. “And keep your mouth shut.”

Kate didn’t know much about guns, but she doubted it was wise to try the patience of a man who was holding one.

Bending over her son, she worked her arms under his shoulders and knees and struggled to stand. Four-year-old Kevin, at thirty-seven pounds, had been an armful. But he had to weigh fifteen pounds more now. His head flopped against her chest as she staggered to her feet.

“Move inside.” Sanders gestured with the gun.

Kate shifted Kevin in her arms and glanced at the street. The cul-de-sac was deserted, and air conditioners cranked up to full blast would insulate sleeping residents from a cry for help.

Too bad those noisy neighbors weren’t having a party tonight after all.

“I said move!”

At the sharp command, Kate tottered forward under her heavy load, pushing the front door open with her shoulder while shielding Kevin’s head with her arm.

As she entered the foyer, she heard the door close behind her.

“Put him in the living room. Then go into the kitchen.”

Keeping a tight grip on Kevin, she crossed to the couch and gently lowered his limp form onto the plush seat. When he remained unresponsive despite all the jostling, panic clawed at her throat, and she turned to Sanders. “What did you do to him?”

“Not as much as I’m
going
to do if you make this difficult. Get into the kitchen.”

In the dim room, she still couldn’t read his eyes—but his tone frightened her as much as the gun. This was the man everyone had called a loving father? There was no evidence of that tonight. But would he actually harm the boy he’d treated as a son for three years?

Maybe.

A man capable of murder was capable of anything.

Hate bubbled up in her heart, intense and visceral, as every instinct in her body screamed at her to dive for his legs and take her chances.

But if she failed, she wasn’t the only one who could die.

With one more look at her son, she forced her shaky legs to carry her into the kitchen.

“Stand over in the corner.” Sanders gestured with the gun to the inside wall.

Once she complied, he circled the room, verifying that all the mini-blinds were tightly closed. Then he flipped on the light over the table and faced her.

“Fill a glass with water and sit at the table.”

Keeping one eye on him, she followed his instructions.

As she perched on a chair, he withdrew a small square of
aluminum foil from the pocket of his jeans and tossed it to her. “Take those. Now.”

Tearing her gaze from his latex-gloved hands, she worked the crimped foil loose and folded it back.

Six 5 mg Valium pills stared back at her.

What in the world . . . ?

She shot him a questioning look.

“I said take them.”

Six pills at once? It wasn’t enough for an overdose, but she’d be knocked out cold.

Like Kevin.

She sucked in a breath. “Did you drug my son too?”

A muscle flexed in his jaw, and his eyes narrowed to slits as he pointed to the pills. “Now.”

Her mind raced. What was his game? If he’d come to kill her, six Valium wouldn’t accomplish that. If he was trying to put her out of commission while he fled so she couldn’t raise an alarm, why not just tie her up?

He stepped closer, and the barrel of the gun glinted in the light.

Fingers shaking, Kate picked up one of the yellow pills. If she took all six pills, she’d have less than thirty minutes of lucidity, tops. Tonguing a couple into her gum would reduce the effect somewhat, since they didn’t dissolve very fast. And maybe, if she faked a faster zone out, he’d relax a bit, give her a window of opportunity to knock the gun from his hand and lunge for one of the knives in the rack on the counter.

As far as she could see, that was her only chance—slim as it was.

Putting the yellow tablet on her tongue, she picked up the glass of water and took a drink.

She took the pills one by one under Sanders’s watchful gaze, managing to secrete two of them in her gums.

After she swallowed the last one, he stepped closer. “Open your mouth.”

Heart thumping, she did so, praying the pills she’d hidden wouldn’t be visible.

The taut line of his shoulders eased slightly.

Thank you, God!

Now if she could get him talking, distract him from the task at hand long enough to lower his guard—and perhaps lower the gun—there might be an opportunity to lunge for the knives two steps away.

“So what’s going on?” She folded her hands to hide the tremors in her fingers, keeping her tone as conversational and nonconfrontational as possible.

He studied her in silence.

One eternal second after another ticked by.

Just when she’d concluded he was going to ignore her question, he lifted one shoulder. “With all the stress you’ve been under, no one would be surprised if you took a few Valium from the secret stash you’ve kept on hand for the past three years in case things got too bad.”

Diane had told him about her addiction.

She hadn’t mentioned that in their tête-à-tête.

Then again, who could have known Sanders would find that piece of information useful?

But the man obviously hadn’t done his homework if he thought six pills constituted an overdose. That was a plus.

His next words, however, chilled her.

“Accidents happen when people do drugs.”

Her lungs stalled.

What kind of accident did he have in mind?

And how could she thwart it?

“I never wanted to hurt you, you know. If you’d left well enough alone, none of this would be happening. Your husband was the one who deserved to suffer.”

An icy clot formed in her stomach. “So you admit you . . . you killed him?”

“I punished him for killing my son.”

A wave of anger surged through her. “John never killed anyone. Everyone knew he was a kind, caring doctor who did his best for every single patient.”

The man’s features hardened. “I know all about his reputation. I did my homework before I had my insurance company contact him. And I did my homework on the treatment in China I wanted for David. But based on your wonderful husband’s input, my insurance denied it.”

Kate swallowed and spoke softly. “Batten disease isn’t curable.”

His eyes glittered. “I know that. But I wanted as much time as possible with my son, and that treatment could have extended his life. The clinic had the statistics to prove it. Statistics your husband dismissed. So I had to raise funds for the trip and the treatment myself. That delayed us for weeks—precious weeks David didn’t have. By the time we went, it was too late.” His words rasped, and he stopped. When he continued, his tone was grim and unyielding. “Your husband had to die—and he owed me a son.”

She stared at him as the pieces suddenly fell into place. “You took my son to replace yours.”

“I only took what was mine.”

As she processed what he’d just told her, a wave of nausea swept over her. “Are you saying you let my son watch while you killed his father?”

Sanders moved closer, the gun never wavering. “He saw nothing.”

She frowned, trying to make sense of that. “He was in the boat.”

“Asleep.”

“He slept through what happened?”

“With a little help.”

She cast a glance toward the living room, where her son remained in a drug-induced slumber. “But . . . how did you . . . ?” Her voice trailed off.

Sanders smiled, but the taut stretch of his lips communicated malice rather than humor. “I told you. I did my homework. After following your husband for weeks, I knew all about those Wednesday fishing expeditions. So I rented a boat and happened to run into your husband in the off-the-beaten-path marsh area he favored. He came to my assistance when I had engine trouble. We chatted. I offered your son homemade lemonade or hot chocolate. He picked the hot chocolate. Said it was his favorite. Still is, by the way.”

He leaned a shoulder against the wall, but the gun stayed level. “The next week I ran into them again—armed with a special batch of hot chocolate. I stayed nearby while your son drank it, and once he started to nod off, I headed back to retrieve my mug. The good doctor was quite concerned about your son’s sudden sleepiness, and when he bent over to see what was wrong, I had my hammer ready. It was all over in a couple of minutes. He was too groggy to fight me much while I took off his life vest, dumped him over the side, and held him under the water until the bubbles stopped.”

Bile rose in Kate’s throat, and she gagged.

Sanders was beside her in an instant, the silencer pressed hard against her temple. “Throwing up isn’t going to save you. I have plenty more pills, not even counting the ones I’m going to leave in plain view.”

Struggling to contain her nausea, Kate forced herself to block out the images Sanders’s story had called to mind. She needed to focus on the future, not the past. Because if she didn’t think of some way out of this, she might not
have
a future.

“Stand up.” Sanders backed off a few paces and motioned with a flick of the gun.

A faint fuzziness was beginning to infiltrate her brain, and as Kate pushed to her feet, the room tilted. Gripping the edge of the table, she drew in a deep breath.

The four pills she’d swallowed were working too fast.

A surge of panic-induced adrenaline temporarily chased away the dizziness—but she needed to pretend it hadn’t. She had to lull Sanders into thinking she was growing too disoriented to present a threat.

“Let’s take a walk upstairs. I don’t want to have to carry you later. We’ll wait up there. Bring the glass with you.”

“Wait . . . for what?”

Instead of responding to her halting question, he motioned her toward the front of the house—away from the knives on the counter.

Her only weapon.

Not good.

As she balked, he gave her a shove.

“Move!”

Stumbling forward, weaving slightly, she aimed for the living room. She could hear him following behind her, but she veered toward the couch rather than the steps.

“I said upstairs.”

“I want to check on Kevin.”

She started toward her son, who hadn’t moved a muscle as far as she could tell—only to have her arm taken in a firm grip.

“He’s fine. And if you want him to stay that way, you’ll follow my instructions.”

She angled toward him, searching his face for some sign of compassion, some sign of the devoted father who’d nurtured her son for the past three years. If it was there, she couldn’t detect it. “I thought you loved him.”

No response.

“I don’t believe you’d do anything to hurt him.” She delivered that statement with far more confidence than she felt.