Desperate Choices (4 page)

Steven paced the floor in front of his kitchen countertop, back and forth, his mind reeling.
What have I done?

He hadn’t stopped to think things through the night he picked Tommy up by the side of the road. He’d fully intended to take him into town, to get his flat tire fixed.

As they drove, though, he started thinking about Becca. Pretty, sweet Becca. She was so alone now, she had nobody but him. Her parents, his sister and brother-in-law, had been killed instantly in a head-on collision six months earlier. Becca had been in the car with them, in the back seat, but had been thrown clear of the wreckage.

He remembered getting the call that horrific night from the doctors at the Baton Rouge hospital. He was the contact person listed on his sister’s identification card, in case of emergency. He recalled the calm detached voice of the physician as he explained the facts, asking if he could come.

Becca lingered, clinging to life. The doctors, who hadn’t expected her to make it, quoted him statistics and gave her less than a twenty percent chance of survival. But he knew she was a fighter.

He thought back to the moment he walked into the ICU room and saw her poor pitiful frame punctuated with all the tubes and machines helping her breathe, keeping her stable. Their incessant beeping, whirring, chirping sounds gave him pause, even as they gave him hope. She wasn’t gone, and he wasn’t letting go of her. She was all he had left, too.

They told him even if she did regain consciousness, Becca would most likely never be the same. The massive injuries to her spinal column and extensive head trauma made that nearly impossible. Her spinal injuries were irreparable. She’d be paralyzed from the waist down for the rest of her life.

The doctors told him taking her off life support would be the most humane thing, that he should “pull the plug” on his little angel. He couldn’t. He would take care of her, no matter what.

He sat by her side for days, waiting, hoping and praying she would wake up.

Miracle of miracles, she finally opened those beautiful green eyes, so like her mother’s, and smiled at him. He knew in his heart that she recognized him, that she wasn’t brain damaged the way the doctors had feared. She was going to get better.

And she had. She had beaten all the odds and survived. That’s when the real struggle began. They waited to tell Becca about her parents for several days, helping her regain her strength, to be strong enough to handle the news.

Standing at his sister’s graveside, Steven had made her a solemn promise. When Becca awoke, he would do everything in his power to make sure she was taken care of for the rest of his life. Whatever it took. She would never want for anything.

Steven blinked, rousing from his memories, and glanced out the kitchen window. He saw the silhouette of the converted detached garage, set back behind the house. He had worked, day after day for the last three months, to get that apartment ready for Becca. He’d made sure it had everything she would need so she could feel self-sufficient. Independent.

When he visited her in the hospital, he told her all about it, using it as an inducement, a bribe, for her to work through the physical therapy sessions. He gave his word she would have everything she needed or wanted, if she would just get well.

Now, that garage apartment contained his living nightmare. Guilt tore at his guts every time his gaze locked on the converted concrete-and-brick structure. Every time he looked at it, it
underscored to him what he had done. How many lives had he torn apart in his own selfishness? Good intentions or not, he had done the unspeakable, crossed a line from which there was no return.

Steven’s abduction of Tommy hadn’t been premeditated; it had been opportunistic. He needed a way to solve his problem and, at that precise moment, Tommy seemed like the perfect answer to his prayers.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.
He hoped it was true, because there was no turning back now. The ball was in play and the game had begun.
God help us all.

A mountain of paperwork waited for Max on his desk. Filing was a gargantuan task in his line of work, a part of the job he despised, so the stack climbed ever higher, threatening to topple. With the skillful hand of a man who had built more than his share of card houses, he slid a single sheet atop the pile. He was pressing his luck, knowing it could explode in a river of misaligned pages. Though it wobbled, the stack remained upright.

He’d thought to come in for a couple of hours, try to get his mind on to something other than his missing godson. So far they had nada, zero, nothing. His foot hit the magazines and newspapers piled high on the available floor space.

Taking a good look around his unkempt, overflowing office, he cringed. Something was going to have to be done and soon, before he was swallowed alive by junk. He plopped down in the leather chair behind his desk, bone-weary from both lack of sleep and worry. As a former cop, he knew what life on the streets was like. Degenerates and lowlifes populated the darker, seedier realms. He prayed Tommy hadn’t fallen victim to somebody like that.

Theresa was trying to help, he’d give her that. He just didn’t believe in all that crap about psychic phenomena. It was all B.S.

Leaning forward, Max turned on the laptop that sat in the midst of the clutter, keying into his favorite search engine as soon as his system booted up. With his unique two-fingered style, he typed in “psychic investigations,” and literally hundreds of listings appeared. Were they all con artists, trying to make a buck, or was anyone legit, he wondered.

Clicking the mouse on the first one, he pulled up an article from a Missouri newspaper. It outlined how the police used a psychic to help in an investigation. The psychic investigator had given them several clues to the whereabouts of a missing woman, tips and suggestions that finally led to her rescue from a brutal ex-boyfriend, who’d tortured her for days.

The next link he clicked was an article by a noted celebrity paranormal investigator who specialized in debunking psychic phenomena to wide public acclaim. He’d proven several so-called psychics were not only charlatans but were bilking people out of huge sums of money in the process.

Well,
he thought,
if there’s one thing you can say about Theresa, she’s never asked anybody for a dime, not for any reason.

He scrolled through site after site, most of them no help at all. One caught his attention with the headline Psychic Abilities Linked to Traumatic Events.

The author of the piece claimed many of the psychics he’d interviewed, while varying in the levels of their abilities, showed a remarkable tendency to have suffered some traumatic event which triggered their “gift.”

Closing down his browser, Max stood and crossed through the cluttered space to stare out the office window, pushing it open and letting in the noise and scents of the French Quarter. The bustling crowds at street level could be heard, laughing and joking as they went about their day, oblivious to the turmoil all around them. The smell of seafood, rich and spicy, filled the air. The enticing scent of freshly baked bread wafted his way, causing his stomach to rumble. He realized it had been a long time since he last ate and decided to grab a bite.

Locking things up tight, he took the steps two at a time heading for ground level. Briskly he walked the cobbled street with long, purposeful strides, as people stepped back to let him pass.

Stopping abruptly, Max found himself in front of Theresa’s shop. He shook his head and started to turn away. It hadn’t been his intention to come here. Still, he grasped the doorknob, turned it and entered the shop.

***

At the sound of the door opening, Theresa looked up from totaling the daily receipts. She’d been expecting Max to show up. The tension emanating from him earlier that morning at the Saunders’s home had been a palpable living thing. On the drive back to town, he barely said a word, though his silence spoke volumes.

“Has there been any news about Tommy?”

“Not a damn thing.”

As always, Max’s presence dwarfed her shop, making everything seem small and insignificant. Though he tried to hide it, she could see the hint of despair in his eyes. Even with his mental shields in place, his body language was easy to read. She’d been studying him for years.

“Something will come up. Whoever took him will slip up and you’ll catch him.” Theresa felt the need to reassure Max. Or maybe it was herself she was trying to convince.

“We don’t have time, though. The longer he’s missing, the less likely we’ll catch this sick bastard and get Tommy home safe.” Stuffing both hands in his pockets, Max paced back and forth.

“Well, if you don’t have any other news, why are you here?”

He barked out a short laugh. “Truthfully, I’m not sure. I was walking from my office, going to grab a bite, and somehow ended up in front of your place.” Max smiled. “Want to get some dinner with me?”

Theresa’s heart raced. Was Max asking her out? After the fiasco nine months earlier, she hadn’t thought he’d ever talk to her again, much less want to see her socially. It was a start. Maybe they could make an attempt at mending their fractured friendship.

“I’d love to. Give me a minute to lock up these receipts and the deposit, and I’m yours.” As soon as the words left her mouth, she cringed inwardly.
Very poor choice of words there, girl. Let’s not open old wounds.

Max sat down in the chair opposite hers, resting one booted foot atop his knee. “Do what you’ve got to do. I’m not in any rush.” He leaned back, tilting the chair on to two legs, balancing precariously.

Locking the money and receipts in the wall safe, Theresa grimaced when she looked down at her attire. Not exactly going out on the town clothes. They were her usual working ensemble of loose unstructured blouse with a billowy, multicolored peasant skirt. Wearing the oversized clothing made her more comfortable around the public, and she shied away from clothes that exposed much skin or emphasized her figure.

Grabbing her purse and keys, she turned back to Max. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

The chair thumped solidly against the gleaming wooden floor as Max stood with an easy, practiced motion, graceful and sexy at the same time. Sometimes just catching a glimpse of him made her desire rise. To have him here, alone with her, made Theresa’s thoughts turn lustful. His long dark hair shone, catching the light, accentuating his steel-gray eyes. Her attraction to him as inevitable as the sun rising in the east each day.

“You in any particular mood?”

“What?” Her voice squeaked. He couldn’t possibly know what she’d been thinking. Could he?

Max grinned, the corner of his mouth tugging up, a calculated gleam in his eyes. “Food. You in the mood for anything in particular?”

She thought for a minute. She was a sucker for seafood, and if he was offering a choice…

“Never mind, I know. Seafood it is.”

“Am I that predictable?”

Max winked. “Nope, I just know what you like.”

***

They walked to a cozy restaurant off Bourbon Street, a place frequented by regulars and tourists alike. Prices were reasonable and the food was superb.

Within minutes they were seated at a secluded table outside in the garden patio. The smells wafting up from the kitchen boasted an aroma of the finest ingredients and made ordering a chore. With so many choices, they finally settled on the special—a jambalaya with rice, a local blend of seafood, spicy and fragrant. Fresh-baked crusty French bread accompanied the meal, and Max ordered a bottle of white wine.

The busy streets of the French Quarter could be heard but the sounds were muted by the bougainvillea-covered wrought-iron fence and the wind whispering through the tree branches, creating a gentle breeze not too cool for the November evening.

They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, enjoying the quality of the food and the company. Theresa’s glance continually swept over Max.

He caught her looking at him, and a smile played around his full sexy lips. Theresa wondered if she’d ever feel those lips kissing hers again. She missed the tingling electric pulse she felt when his skin touched hers, the zing of awareness when his hands caressed her.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to tell you anything more from Tommy’s room today. I’d hoped to get something, but sometimes it’s like that, nothing cooperates.”

Max leaned back in his chair, pushing his plate away.

“Tell me about your psychic ability. I’d like to understand more about it.”

Theresa hesitated before answering. She didn’t like to talk about her gift. She didn’t shun her abilities, but neither did she broadcast the fact she had them.

“Mostly what I have is called psychometric ability or psychometry. That’s where I touch something, like Tommy’s cell phone, and get an image or vision from it. It’s not the full extent of my abilities, but it’s probably my strongest.”

***

“How long have you been able to do this? All your life?” Max studied her face. If he hadn’t been watching for it, he wouldn’t have noticed the slight flinch, the immediate blanking of her expression. After his research earlier in the day, he’d hoped not to see that reaction.

“Not all my life, no. It’s not important.”

“Why isn’t it important? I’d think the longer you’d had your ability, the better you’d be with it.”

Her cynical laugh surprised him. “That’s probably true in most instances. I didn’t always accept what I could do, fought it for a long, long time. So, you’re right, I’m not nearly as strong as some other psychics are. Maybe you’d be better off going to consult with somebody else.”

Max straightened in his chair. He knew he’d struck a nerve, but he didn’t like where this was headed. “Are you backing out on me?”

“I just think you might be better off working with somebody stronger, more focused than I am.” Picking up her purse, she stood and Max rose to his feet, as well.

“Look, I know the only reason you even came to ask for my help was because Remy practically forced you to. I think I’ve given you all the help I’m able to. You’re on your own from here, Max. I really hope you find Tommy soon and that he’s safe.”

She turned and quickly walked away from the table. Max heard the faintest, “I’m sorry” drift back to him as she rushed out of the restaurant.

“I’m on my own now, huh?” Max murmured, signaling the waiter for the check. He’d taken a calculated risk, pushing her that way. He knew she was hiding something and he wouldn’t stop until he found out what.