Authors: Cait Jarrod
Kidnapped Hearts (2 page)
She absorbed his words. They made sense.
Right now, not having a means to contact anyone, he was her only defense
against the man at the window.
“Is anyone else in here?” He asked again.
“I don’t know.”
“Stay here.” His hand slid away from her
stomach.
Pamela gauged the darkness in the
kitchen, and panic set in. She’d take the odds of staying with him over being
left alone. “No way.” She spun, running into his back.
“Keep quiet.”
Tiptoeing behind him, she held the back
of his shirt as they walked into the hallway where he covered the emergency light
with one of the kitchen towels from the kitchen, the light in the hallway
dimmed. “Why did you do that?”
He turned to glare at her. “Stay quiet.”
I
need the light. In darkness, bad things happen.
As if he heard her, his words plunged
into her internal rant. “You’re safe.”
The strength of them calmed her, or maybe
the pat on her leg that followed did. Either way, the man personified safety.
Edging toward the storage room, she spotted a gun in his hands, leading the
way. Once there, he said, “Stay.” Before she had a chance to argue, he pulled
her hand off his shirt and added, “Don’t argue.” He disappeared into the
darkened room. Emergency lights should be installed in every room.
Less than a minute later, he reappeared.
Her chewed nails thought he’d been gone a lifetime.
He touched her hand. “Let’s go.”
How
could he see?
They went through the same procedure when
they reached her office. Only this time, she nibbled on the nails on her other
hand.
He stepped out of the office.
She finally asked, “How can you see?”
“Concentrate.”
She’d been concentrating but still
couldn’t see anything. “Did you cover the lights in the dining room, too?”
“No. It must have malfunctioned.”
“Like the ones in the kitchen.” She
didn’t believe it. Someone must have tampered with them. But who? Why?
He crossed to the emergency light in the
hallway. “No one’s here,” he said, removing the towel.
She skimmed his dark hair and five
o’clock shadow.
“What’s your name?”
“Pamela Young, I own this establishment.”
The overhead lights flicked on, shining
brightly. His blue gaze stared into hers. “Are you okay?”
Her hand flew to her chest. She could
lose herself in those eyes.
“You’re pale. Shock will do that to a
person.” He grabbed her hand and tugged. “You need water.”
The kitchen fluorescent lights glowed,
permitting Pamela to see the broken window. He released her hand and walked
toward the sink.
She walked toward the object that had
made the thud. A brick with an envelope tied to it.
Another
one?
She stopped.
Water soaked her back.
“Crap.”
Her eyes were glued to the brick, or
rather the note attached to the brick. She didn’t notice the towel he had in
his hand until he grumbled, “I’ll do it myself,” and started to blot the back
of her shirt.
A glass of water sat on the counter. She
drank it, wishing for something stronger to wash down the burning fear.
“I’ll take care of it.” He plucked a
couple of latex gloves from a box she kept on the counter, slipped them on his
hands, and untied the envelope. After pulling out the note, the agent glanced
up at her.
She shook her head. No way would she read
it.
He unfolded the paper and silently
scanned it. His grim expression confirmed her fear, another note. Her arms
folded across her body.
The first said,
Give back the bonds
.
Two days later and she still didn’t have
a clue about the bonds.
The second read:
Leave the bonds in the trashcan by the City Docks, or your mother will
suffer the consequences.
If the person who made the threat knew
anything about her life, he or she would know Pamela rarely talked to her
mother. She hadn’t since Vivian decided to leave for a career in
The previous notes, Pamela had deemed to
be sick pranks by teenagers. One was in her mailbox and the other under the
windshield wiper on her car. Both were classic juvenile stunts. Judging by the
agent’s expression, this note held more impact. “What does it say?” Her voice
shook, making the words barely recognizable.
Instead of answering her question, the
agent asked, “Are you involved in criminal activity?”
Her mouth opened. The audacity of the
question rendered her speechless.
His eyebrows rose, waiting for an answer.
Dropping her arms, she said, “Of course
not.” Her chin jutted upward. “What does the note say?”
He glanced at the paper, studied her for
a second, then cleared his throat. “It says:
you’ve run out of time. Don’t involve the police.
”
She turned away, clutching her stomach as
bile rose to her throat.
A consoling hand touched her back.
She swallowed.
“If you’ve got yourself in a mess, I can
help, but you’ll have to be honest with me.”
She straightened and looked over her
shoulder. He stood close, too close. “Who are you?”
“Police, is anyone in there?” a voice
shouted from the rear of the café.
Thank goodness, the police arrived
quickly, Pamela thought.
“In the kitchen,” the FBI guy responded.
An officer wearing a blue uniform
appeared. “I didn’t know you were back in town.”
“I just returned tonight.”
The officer chuckled as he shook the
agent’s hand. “Glad to see you, Jake Gibson.”
Finally, she had a name. She looked at
the man named Jake. His name seemed familiar, but not his face. Hands on her
hips, she glanced around the kitchen. Several uniformed police officers
inspected The Memory Café.
“Pamela, you need this.” Pamela glanced
behind her to see Jake holding a towel. “Wrap this around your waist. Your
skirt’s torn.”
It took a few seconds for the words to
register. She touched the ripped material, feeling the fabric separated. It had
torn from the hem to the waist; no wonder the concrete floor felt cold earlier.
At that moment, it dawned on her. Jake stood behind her when she clutched her
stomach, getting a view of her bare butt. Pamela glared at him and accepted the
towel. Deciding to wear a thong to avoid unwanted panty lines had seemed like
the right decision this morning. Next time, she’d go with the lines.
In response, Jake winked.
“Ma’am,” the officer said.
“Sorry, Pamela Young is the owner of The
Memory Café. Ms. Young, this is Sergeant Glenn Harrison.”
Pamela held the towel tightly around her
waist and forced a smile. “Please call me Pamela.”
Sergeant
alarm?”
Jake moved behind the detective, held up
the note and shook his head. The message was clear; he didn’t want her to tell
the police. His blue eyes urged her to listen. She did. Looking away from the
officer and his shadow, she eyed the broken window. “Someone threw a brick
through the window.”
Jake’s hand fisted, but he remained
silent. His gloves had vanished.
The officer glimpsed the brick on the
table then tilted his head toward the window on the far wall. “That window?”
Pamela scanned the table for the rope
that had tied the note to the brick. It had vanished. She shifted her eyes to
the hole in the window. “Yes.”
“So you have a Peeping Tom?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you give me a description of the
person?”
“It was a man. A hood covered his head.
The only thing I could see was his teeth and they shined at me.”
The officer wrote in his notepad. “What
happened to your front door?”
Pamela believed the agent had caused the
commotion in the dining room, but hadn’t asked.
“I broke the glass in the front door when
I heard a female screaming. When no one answered my knock, I broke the glass.”
The officer looked at him. “And you
happened to be near the café during a thunderstorm?”
The agent shoved his hands in his
pockets. “Yep.”
“I don’t see how you could have heard
anything between the thunder and the security alarms, but you’re the agent, not
me.” The officer’s phone rang. “Excuse me.”
When the officer walked away, Jake turned
to her. “Are you holding up okay?”
“I could be better.”
The officer came back into view. “That
was the FBI. They didn’t know you were here, but once I told them, they asked
that you stay. Two FBI agents are en route, a forensic artist, and a field
agent. Know anything?”
Jake shrugged.
The officer hit his notepad against his
thigh. “Typical agent, you guys are never forthcoming.” He turned toward
Pamela. “Ms. Young, do you have anything else that you need to tell me?”
She needed to tell him about the notes,
but for some reason Jake wanted the information kept quiet. She hoped this
vaguely familiar man wasn’t leading her astray. The last thing she needed was
to get in trouble with the police for withholding evidence. On second thought,
she wasn’t the one keeping information from the officer. It was Agent Gibson.
“No.”
Footsteps coming toward them interrupted
their conversation. A woman wearing the same blue uniform as the officer in
front of her, with the exception of the skirt, stopped beside them. “The light
bulb was busted.”
Pamela twisted away from the police. One
hand covered her mouth while the other held the towel like a lifeline. She
mumbled, “This isn’t good.”
The agent touched her shoulder. The
action, although a small gesture, meant a lot.
“If you need anything, give me a call.”
The officer handed her his card, then smacked the agent on the back. “See you
around.”
“Have a good one,” Agent Gibson replied
to the officer’s back, as he handed over an inside out latex glove to the
arriving field agent. The FBI’s forensic artist followed.
The agent separated the material and
looked inside the glove then nodded. “I’ll send the note and string to the
lab.”
“You put them inside the glove?” Pamela
asked, looking up at Jake.
Jake didn’t respond. “I need the lab work
expedited on the note, string, and brick.” Jake pointed at the third item.
The agent placed the evidence in a Ziploc
bag. “Will do.”
The forensic artist led Pamela to a table
in the dining room. She gave the parcel description of the man in the window
while Jake cleaned up the glass by the front door.
Within minutes, the artist packed up the
supplies and the two agents left.
Pamela twirled, looking for Jake. She found
him by the rear entrance, where the doorknob twisted beneath her hands. He
shook hands with the officers as they exited the café. Everyone knew him. She
took in his clothing. He wore jeans and a t-shirt, not a drop of water on him.
He smiled at the last officer leaving the
café before turning his blue eyes on her.
Pamela jammed her hands on her hips. “If
you were outside during the storm, why aren’t you wet?”
He closed the distance to her and jutted
his chin toward the hooks by the front door. A black raincoat hung from a hook,
a puddle of water beneath it. “I can’t move well in the coat.”
She glared at him.
He unbuttoned a couple of buttons on the
back of the jacket. The flap dropped down, and the words FBI appeared. “I am
who I said, except I retired a few days ago.”
She looked him over. “Why were you
outside my café this time of night during a thunderstorm?”
“We’ll get to that. First, we have a few
things we need to take care of, then I’ll escort you home.”
Her eyes widened.
“Your windows first, and then afterwards,
we need to find a way to keep you safe. I’m assuming by your reaction earlier
you’ve received other notes.”
She remained silent. What was she
supposed to say to him? He wanted answers but wouldn’t answer her questions.
“And by the silence, I know I’m right.”
Her mouth gaped open as he walked into
the kitchen. She padded behind him. He was looking through the drawers.
“What are you looking for?”
“Duct tape.”
“It’s in the storage room.” She led the
way through the hall to the storage room, removed the tape from a box, and
turned, running into his chest again. At five-eight, the top of her head
reached his nose. Lifting her chin, she met gentle eyes and swallowed. A warm
surge of heat rushed through her body. “Umm, I think there’s a roll of vinyl
shelf paper in the corner that we could use to cover the holes.”