Mending Fences (26 page)

She looked at the clock again. So, now she was fifteen minutes late. Shoot. She hoped the robot building set she bought Robby would buy her forgiveness. She pulled into the drive and parked in front of the garage, her eyes adjusting to the darkness when she jogged to the front porch.

Too dark. The porch light came on automatically when the sun went down. She wondered if there were extra light bulbs in the house or if she’d have to make a run to the store later.

She paused long enough to identify the house key by the moonlight filtering through the gathering clouds, then stepped onto the porch and slipped the key in the lock.

Her skin prickled. Something wasn’t quite right, and it was more than the inherent spookiness of unexpected darkness. She turned the key, and the hairs on her nape rose as she caught movement from the corner of her eye. Her heart jumped into triple-time, and she opened the door. She rushed in, whirled around, shoved the door to close it—

The door stopped, swung inward again. A man stepped over the threshold.

She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. Her heart surged into a desperate racing. She’d left a light on over the stove in the kitchen, and in the feeble light that bled into the living room, she recognized the man who slowly pushed the door closed behind him.

Same surfer-blond hair, same bulky, body-builder physique, made even larger by the black bomber jacket he wore.

Greg Fielder. Nate’s younger brother.

The last time she saw him, he’d lunged at her after Nate’s sentencing, screaming filthy words at her. The family attorneys had to physically restrain him. She fought the fuzziness invading her brain, the nearly overwhelming sensation of fainting when she realized what he held in his right hand.

A gun.

She stared at him, her mind flying. She still had her keys, she knew the layout of the house.

He grinned and took a step toward her and she bolted for the kitchen. She raced through the kitchen into the great room, threw open the lock and tore out through the French doors to the backyard. Somewhere behind her, he cursed. She all but flew around the house to the right, out to the driveway. She ripped off her glove, identifying the car key by feel as she ran. She pulled open the vehicle door—

A crushing pain exploded in the back of her head. The world disappeared in a swirl of blackness.

* * * *

Curran glanced at his watch, then shoved his hands in his pockets and turned his attention to the light snowfall beyond Kelli’s living room window.

Nearly eight. Victoria was an hour late. She had been on the freeway just down the canyon when she called. Finishing the drive and stopping off at home for the gift accounted for about twenty minutes, at most. Where in the hell was she?

The tension in his gut twisted, sparking a craving for a cigarette. Dammit, he was never going to quit if he gave in every time he was stressed about something. He mentally shoved at the need for nicotine, then scrubbed his hands through his hair and turned away from the window.

He picked up the phone he’d left on the piano, dialing her cell. It kicked into voice mail. Not a big surprise. Cell connections in the mountains were always touch and go. She could be two minutes from the house and the call might not go through.

He tried the number to the Campbells’ house. Five rings, then it too went to voice mail. With a curse, he dropped his phone in his pocket then stalked into the kitchen.

Kelli paused in dishing up ice cream and looked at him, her brow knitted, concern in her eyes. He shook his head, then pasted a grin on his face and started handing out ice cream to Rob’s little mates.

Rob himself was engaged in a discussion of ski technique with Jamie and the surprise birthday guest, Ian Garrett, a member of the U.S. Ski Team. Ian’s father was the electrician when Curran’s house was built, and he’d skied with Ian a couple of times since they met. Curran listened for a while until Rob said, “Well, I watched your last race on TV, Mr. Garrett, and I think you should have turned harder on that first gate. I bet that’s where you lost.”

Ian looked very thoughtful. “You know, dude, you might be right. I’ll have to work on that. Thanks for the coaching.”

“No problem. I’m full of good ideas.” Robby shrugged and headed for the ice-cream serving station.

Ian’s shoulders shook with a stifled laugh, and Jamie chuckled, looking up at Curran. “If Rob still has all the ‘good ideas’ when he grows up, let’s put him in charge of the company.”

Curran willed himself to smile. “Good idea.” He held a hand out to Ian as the skier stood. “Thanks for coming, mate. You made Rob’s day.”

Ian grinned. “Hey, glad to do it, Curran. I can’t believe how much that little guy knows about the slopes. He’ll end up on the team himself if he keeps it up.”

“That’s his dream.” Curran forced his feet to stay put, suppressing the urge to pace as he watched Ian say goodbye to Rob and the half-dozen other kindergarteners. A little later, Curran helped wipe faces and hands when everyone finished devouring cake and ice cream. He assisted in finding shoes and coats as mothers came to collect their children.

Finally, Curran stood in the kitchen with Jamie as Kelli herded Rob down the hall to take a bath. The vise around his heart cranked tighter, and butterflies took up residence in his stomach. Where was she?

Jamie crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re worried.”

“Hell, yes, I’m worried. It isn’t like her not to call.”

“Have you called her?”

“Can’t reach her at home or on her cell.” A chill traveled down his spine. “Something’s wrong. I’ve a very bad feeling about this.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to find her.” Curran turned on his heel and strode into the living room, grabbing his coat off the couch. He thrust his arms into the sleeves, checking his pocket for the truck keys.

From behind him, Jamie said, “Wait up. I’ll go with you.”

He turned, glanced at his friend. “No, stay with Kelli. I’ll call when I know anything.”

Jamie nodded, and Curran stalked out of the house into the worsening storm.

He drove down the lane. God, he didn’t have the slightest idea where to begin looking for her. She had to have been in an accident. What else could have kept her away, kept her from calling?

The truck headlights illuminated a dark blue sedan parked on the lane’s narrow shoulder. Stupid place to park, especially when the plows would likely hit it coming through in the morning. He glanced at the Campbells’ house as he passed, then hit the brake, the truck skidding a few feet before the antilock brakes kicked in. He reversed until he could see through the trees. Something pale sat in front of the brick home. He pulled into the curved driveway.

The white SUV, the pale object he’d seen between the spruces, sat before the garage. He stopped the truck beside it and climbed out.

The house was nearly dark, save a light coming from one of the back rooms. The kitchen maybe. He stepped onto the porch and rang the bell, then knocked on the door. Nothing. He knocked and rang again, then strained to hear any sound, any movement within the house.

Nothing.

“Victoria!” He left the porch, went out on the path to the driveway and looked back at the house, staring at the dark windows. The strangest sensation of being watched trickled down his spine and he shivered. He’d have sworn he saw movement in one of the main floor bedroom windows. A cold sweat broke on his skin.

He turned away, passed the SUV, then stopped when a small lump on the concrete caught his eye. He walked between the SUV and his truck, crouched down to look at the ground. The snow was starting to pile up, but even under the thin covering of flakes, the moment he touched the object, he knew what he’d found.

Victoria’s keys.

His stomach churned, his blood froze in his veins. She was in trouble, in that house, if he could believe his gut instinct, and after the years he’d spent relying on it, he had to.

The image of the sedan parked on the side of the lane rose in his mind. A car he didn’t recognize, between this house and his own. The feeling of being watched…dear God. Someone was in the house. She must have stumbled on them when she stopped off for Rob’s gift.

Think, Shaw, think.

He was ill-equipped to mount a rescue, and if whoever had her was watching, the best thing he could do for her would be to play it casual. He stood, walked around to the driver’s side of the truck, climbed in. He backed away from the house, then pulled onto the lane. The second he was beyond sight of the house, he picked up his cell phone. A hundred yards down the lane, the signal spiked high enough to be sure a call would go through.

He stopped the truck, rubbed his damp, shaking hands on his jeans, then dialed 9-1-1.

Chapter Fourteen

“Wake up, bitch.”

Victoria couldn’t see. The world was dark and out of focus. She shook her head to clear it and hissed at the burst of pain behind her left ear.

She blinked hard, raised her hand—no, she couldn’t. Her shoulders ached. Slowly she identified where she was. One of the bedrooms. She lay on her right side, facing the door. Okay, that would make it one of the rooms on the front of the house, facing the lane.

She ran a quick mental inventory. Head painful. Arms damned uncomfortable. Tied behind her. She shivered. Feet, okay. Shifting told her they were bound at the ankles.

Something in the corner moved. A knife of terror slashed down her spine. Gradually her vision cleared, and in the slight glow coming into the room from down the hall, she saw the hulking man come toward her.

Greg. God help her. Nate was the angel of the family in comparison. He smelled of gun oil and some spicy aftershave. He leaned over her.

“You’re awake.”

She couldn’t swallow, her throat was too dry. “How did you find me?”

He swore at her. “Easy. I sent a letter to your old address, asked for address service on it, and the post office sent your updated address to me. Cost me, like, a buck or so.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Stupid, of course you can.” He grinned down at her, looking so very proud of himself. “I gave you more credit. Thought for sure they’d give me a forward to a post office box. But you’re as dumb as Nate always said you were.”

Her meek, downtrodden self nodded its head at that, but she shoved it back down. “Silly me. I never expected anyone named Fielder to show up on my doorstep.”

He grasped the collar of her sweatshirt, yanked her up a foot from the bed, and growled in her face. “If you hadn’t gotten my brother killed, I wouldn’t have a reason to show up, now would I?”

He dropped her. Her shoulder and head simultaneously spiked pain, sending stars through her vision. She waited, breathed slowly, trying not to throw up. He just stood there, staring down at her. She had to keep him talking. His silence scared her. At least if he talked, she might figure out a way to escape.

“You sent a letter to get my address…wait—” Pieces clicked into place in her head and her stomach clenched. “You sent those letters? The package with the toys?”

He snorted. “Like the prison was gonna let notes to you leave Nate’s cell?”

This was getting worse by the second. “He dictated them to you?”

“They were based on his calls to me. I thought I’d help him out a little.”

Oh, God. Nate hadn’t written them. Nate probably hadn’t even known it was happening.

Greg was the pampered baby of the family. She never knew exactly what sort of trouble he got into, but from hearing snippets of Nate’s conversations with his mother, she surmised the family paid out enormous amounts of money over the years to smooth out Greg’s troubles, to victims, to cops. She didn’t know what Greg was capable of, but at the moment, getting out of this alive didn’t seem all that likely.

He was talking. She made herself tune in to his words. “You really should have mourned for him. It would have been better for you. But when Mother saw that you were out partying, she was seriously pissed. Playing around like you’re some star or something, trying to be better than you are.”

Partying?
Confusion added another twist to the fear churning in her stomach. “What are you talking about? When did your mom see me?” She worked her wrists, but they wouldn’t loosen much. Tape. He’d used tape, not rope. How could she wriggle out of tape?

Greg reached into his jacket, pulled out a folded newspaper and waved it two inches from her face. Even in this pathetic light, she could see what it was. Not a newspaper. A tabloid. The tabloid.

“Shoulda left your hair blonde. You were prettier. So what I want to know is how a stupid little skank like you managed to get hot with that Shaw guy. Guess he likes ‘em brainless and obedient, just like Nate, huh?” He dropped the tabloid on the nightstand beside the bed.

She choked on a cry. Curran. She’d give anything to see him one more time.

She sucked in a breath when Greg crouched by the bed, his face on a level with hers. He grinned and her soul shrank from him, but she willed her voice to be steady when she spoke. “What do you want, Greg?”