Nothing to Fear (22 page)

It wasn’t, but Mia couldn’t blame him for feeling it. Saying it, maybe. Feeling it, no. “I think Caroline would take exception to that,” she murmured. “Get some sleep, both of you. Dana, don’t go home tonight. Give me a key and I’ll check out your apartment.”

“Make sure you step over the drunks and junkies,” Hunter said bitterly.

Because she agreed with Hunter’s sentiment but ultimately understood why Dana kept that apartment, Mia stood up and laid a hand on his arm. “Mr. Hunter, let it go.”

He shrugged her hand away. “I’m taking my mother home, Dana. I’ll be back later.”

Dana went back to stacking blocks. “He’s angry with me,” she said when he was gone. “He has a right to be. Goodman never would have gone after Caroline if it weren’t for me.”

Dana didn’t see the real reason for Hunter’s anger. “So tell me about Ethan Buchanan.”

Dana’s lips curved into a smile that totally filled her eyes. “He’s a really nice guy, Mia.”

Poor David Hunter didn’t have a chance. Mia pulled Dana to her feet. “Abe will be here soon, but until he does, let’s go to the cafeteria, get some fries, and you will dish all, girl.”

Dana shot her a calculating look. “I’ll dish if you get me in to see Lillian’s kids. Soon.”

Mia scowled. “Soon. Now, I want some juicy gossip. My well is low.”

Chicago, Tuesday, August 3, 1:45 A.M.

It was dark, but a light burned in the bathroom down the hall. Alec lifted his head from the pillow, careful not to wake her. Her, the woman with the eyes that he now knew weren’t white at all. They were blue, but so light they were almost invisible. He drew a deep breath, let it out. Testing. But she didn’t wake up.

He was so hungry and thirsty. She gave him a little water—just enough to keep him from dying. How many days had he been gone? It was hard to keep track. She’d made him take twice as much medicine as the doctor prescribed. She’d kept him drugged out of his head. But she was running out of pills. And he was developing a tolerance. That’s what his doctor called it. When the same amount of medicine didn’t do the job anymore.

But he’d pretended to sleep tonight, pretended that he was drugged. He’d lain here on the bed, wondering who she was and why she was doing this. It was money, he knew. His parents had it. She could have it all, he thought. He just wanted to go home, back to his parents.

If they were still alive. The thought made his breath hitch and he sternly controlled it. He couldn’t make a sound. Which was frustrating because he had no idea when he did. He thought about all those times he’d fought Cheryl, not wanting to put on the speech processor, not wanting that ocean of loud, loud sound. He’d been afraid, he thought. Afraid of the sound. Afraid of looking stupid. Sounding stupid. He wished to God he had that little speech processor now. He’d use it to be able to figure out what was happening.

But he didn’t have it so he’d have to find another way. But first, he needed some food. She’d brought food to the room for herself. A few times she’d given him a slice of bread. One piece of cheese. If he didn’t eat soon, he would die.

Alec slid off the bed. And waited. She didn’t wake up.

He was alive. And he was starving. He could only hope his stomach wasn’t growling so loud it woke her up like it used to wake Cheryl. Cheryl. His chest hurt and part of him wished he were still dopey from the medicine. Then he wouldn’t have to think about Cheryl. To see her in his head. Cheryl was dead. He’d seen her body. She’d dumped Cheryl on the side of the road like she was a bag of trash. He’d been so . . . so damn mad. His eyes stung now, thinking about it. About how he hadn’t been able to do anything to stop her.

He had to do something to stop her. He had to do something. Anything.

But first he had to eat or he’d pass out again. Softly he stepped. Waited. He knew that floors creaked in old houses, but he didn’t know if this one did. He’d find out fast enough if she woke up, he supposed. But she didn’t, so he took another step, and another, until he was in the hall, past the bathroom, and on the stairs.

Holding tight to the rail he made his way down, step by step. His head was dizzy and once he almost fell, but he made it to the bottom and let himself cheer inside his head. It was dark down here, too, but there was a light at the end of the hall. Not a lightbulb.

It was a computer. Somebody had a computer and it was on. He could at least find out what day it was. Trying to be light on his feet he walked down the hall and peeked inside.

It was the kitchen. There was a laptop computer on the table. And somebody was using it. Damn. He must have made a sound because the person looked up.

He sucked in a breath. It was her, the lady from his dreams. Or nightmares. He wasn’t sure which. He’d woken a few times to find her sitting next to him, stroking his hair. The first time he’d screamed. Long and loud in his head where only he could hear. She had a scar. An ugly, red, scary scar. But she’d smiled. Kind of. And she’d stroked his hair, just like his mom did. So the next time he woke up, he’d been a little less scared and the time after that, a little less. She might be working with the crazy lady, but she had nicer eyes.

She smiled now, that weird half smile, and put her finger to her lips, pointed to her lap. Alec looked at her, looked at the refrigerator. He needed food and soon. And she didn’t look mad, so he crept in, keeping to the edge of the cabinets until he could see what she was pointing to. A baby. She had a baby. He looked up, met her eyes. Saw her lips move. She was talking to him, but he couldn’t understand anything she said.

He hated that. Hated not knowing what people were saying to him. About him.

Cheryl said he was too paranoid, that people didn’t talk about him. He didn’t believe her, but he didn’t have that problem anymore, did he? Cheryl was gone and if he didn’t get food, he would be, too. Alec pointed at the refrigerator and the scarred lady nodded. It was full of little plastic bowls. And a plate of chicken legs. He thought he could eat them all. He took one, glancing her way. She wasn’t looking at him, just at the computer. So he wolfed down the chicken leg and took another. And another. Then he felt really sick.

It was too much food, too fast. He needed some water. Now. Oh, no. No.

Evie focused on the screen, trying not to spook him. Trying not to watch the way he devoured three chicken legs like he hadn’t eaten in days and didn’t know when he’d eat again. It was a feeling she remembered well. She gave him his privacy, carefully not looking at him until he started to breathe heavily, choking sounds coming from his throat. Then she looked around just in time to see the three chicken legs come flying back out of his mouth. White-faced, Erik crumpled into a heap.

Chicago, Tuesday, August 3, 2:00 A.M.

Ethan started when the cell phone in his shirt pocket buzzed against his chest. He’d only slept for a few minutes, so there wouldn’t be much bus station videotape to rewind. The caller was Clay and nerves grabbed his gut. “It’s two A.M. What’s happened?”

“It’s three here,” Clay replied, his voice weary. “They found Alicia Samson.”

Ethan’s heart sank. The ID used at the copy store in Morgantown. “She’s dead?”

“Yes. Damn, I was hoping she’d just been on vacation. I called the restaurant where she worked to see if she’d come in. Her boss had just heard and was almost hysterical. A group of kids found Samson in some woods. She’d been dead since Thursday morning.”

“When our girl used Samson’s ID to send the first e-mail. Cause?”

“Shot in the head, same as Cheryl Rickman. Ethan, we have to bring the authorities in.”

“I know.” Ethan pressed his thumb into his throbbing temple, weighing the options. Three people were dead because of a woman who seemed to be able to disappear at will. A woman who still had Alec. “We don’t know where she is, or even who she is. It sure as hell would be better to walk into the cops with a picture or some kind of ID.”

“How close are we to finding her on the bus video?”

“I’ve been watching video for hours. I still haven’t found them.”

“They couldn’t just disappear.”

The pain behind Ethan’s eyes was growing. Rapidly. He could feel it coming on and desperately patted his pocket, searching for the little packet of pills he never left home without. He hadn’t had an episode in months. Dammit. “That’s what we keep saying.” He found the packet, fumbled with the clasp as everything went dark. “Dammit all. Hold on.” Ethan placed the pill on the back of his tongue and waited.

“Ethan?” There was fear in Clay’s voice, raw and undisguised.

The pill had dissolved. “Just wait, Clay. I’ll be fine. Just a headache.”

“Can you see?”

“I will be able to in a minute.” He knew it, yet still the panic clawed, and with it, the helpless rage. These blackouts were the reason he’d been medically discharged. The reason he wasn’t on a mission in the desert somewhere. The reason he was here. Here, looking for Alec. He was Alec’s only hope right now. The thought was both humbling and terrifying. Right place, right time or wrong place, wrong time? he wondered, remembering the way Dana had neatly flipped the two the night before. It depended on your perspective. And perspective was attitude. And attitude . . . it could make all the difference between success and failure.

“I didn’t hear the sound of grinding metal so I assume you weren’t driving at the time.”

“No, I wasn’t.” Twinkling lights started to appear at the end of a dark tunnel and Ethan finally started to relax. “I’m sitting here in the damn bus station security office.”

“You seeing now?” Clay asked gruffly.

“Clay, I’m fine. Look, I need to get back to these tapes.”

Clay sighed. “Just be careful.”

“I will.” Ethan hung up, well aware that they’d solved nothing. A man and two women were dead and Alec was still missing. He should go to the police. And he would. He just needed a little more time.

Chicago, Tuesday, August 3, 2:30 A.M.

Viciously Sue pulled the clean shirt over the kid’s head, pushed his arms through the sleeves, shoved him to the bed. Held the note before his eyes. That was most unwise.

The boy nodded at the words of the note, his body drawn up in a ball, still sweaty and trembling. She’d had to clean him up. Had to wipe the vomit from his face. Furious, Sue scrawled another sentence on the paper and made him look at it. Saw him go even paler. Clench his eyes tight. Watched the tears trickle down his face. Your mother will pay.

The boy was obviously not as affected by the medicine as she’d thought. And she was down to only two pills. She’d have to wait until morning to give it to him so that he’d sleep while she was gone doing her errand for Fred. She’d chase it with more Benadryl. That seemed to have more effect. But the boy couldn’t be kept drugged twenty-four/seven anymore. Not when Scarface had seen him lucid. Dammit.

She’d have to find another way to keep him in line. She thought about tomorrow. About her plans for Fred. For the Vaughns. About the little package that would ensure the Vaughns’ compliance. It would make the boy fall into line as well.

Adopt, adapt, and improve. It was a damn good motto.

Chicago, Tuesday, August 3, 5:00 A.M.

Ethan rubbed his eyes, frustrated. He’d replayed the same footage again and again to no avail. Hours of video and there’d been no sign of Alec. Alec and the woman arrived Friday morning and had for all intents disappeared into the crowd. Ethan neatly stacked the videos he’d spent all night viewing. A twelve-year-old boy just didn’t disappear into thin air, so there must be another explanation. Alec was somewhere on these videos. I just haven’t found the right place to look. He’d be back to look again once he’d finished canvassing the area around the copy store Alec’s kidnapper had used yesterday.

For now he needed a break. A long jog would clear his head. But he needed to leave in less than an hour to meet Dana, so a jog would have to wait.

Dana. Ethan eyed his laptop, sitting next to the video monitor, its case closed. Bush had wireless Internet in here, so Ethan could plug into the Web anytime he wanted to. Dana knew Bush. She’d called the security manager by name last night. She ate at Betty’s coffee shop often enough to have the owner remember her favorite meal.

She apparently spent a lot of time at this bus station. More than he’d think she’d need just to pick up a flaky friend. His brows furrowed, Ethan opened his laptop and launched his Internet browser. He’d been putting this off most of the night, a little afraid of what he’d find, if he was honest with himself. Ethan got into the people database he used most often for background checks and stopped, his hands poised over the keyboard. Once he did this, there would be no going back if he didn’t like what he found. But then he thought of Dana’s eyes, so comfortable and wise. She couldn’t be doing anything wrong, of that he was certain. So he typed in her name and waited.

And blinked when information began to appear in the results screen. She was a photographer, it seemed. Sort of. She’d declared only $2,867 income last year on her Schedule C. As a photographer, she sucked. Good thing photography seemed to be a secondary concern. Her name appeared as the director of a nonprofit business. A shelter for runaways. Ethan remembered what she’d said about Evie the night before. She was a runaway. Now, she’s family. Now her poverty made sense. She put her money back into her business, she’d said. That meant she drew little to no salary, leaving more for the runaways she sheltered.

He’d been right. She did listen too well for it not to be a key part of who she was. A sense of relief washed over him and with it a distinct pride. She was exactly who he thought she’d be. A woman who put the needs of others before her own.

The last item of interest was a head turner. It seemed Dana Dupinsky also had a criminal record. One conviction for attempted grand theft auto. More than thirteen years before. Looked like she had turned her life around. And then some.

He thought about the way she lived, her lack of funds, the place she called home. He couldn’t change any of that in the next thirty minutes. But he could make her life a little safer by making sure she had a way to call for help should one of those junkies come a little too close before she was able to close the three deadbolts on her apartment door.