Nothing to Fear (3 page)

Dana nodded. “That’s likely true. But Ruby rejected the idea. You know that.”

“She might have said yes if she’d known she could have new papers.”

New papers. Indeed, some of their residents left Hanover House with newer starts than others. A precious few left with a new identity. New birth certificate, social security card, and driver’s license. Courtesy of Dana Dupinsky, full-time therapist and part-time forger. And she was damn good at both. Her documents had been withstanding scrutiny for more than ten years.

Dana knew exactly where this conversation was going. Still she kept her voice mild. “You know the policy, Evie. A client has to request help in leaving their old home city before we even bring up the possibility of papers.”

Evie’s jaw tightened. On one side. “Your policy.”

Dana sipped more coffee, annoyed and determined not to show it. “My risk. My policy.” What she did was illegal. She provided forged documents. Forged federal documents. Her reasons were pure, but she doubted any judge would take her side. It was critically important that the women she chose to help in this way were discreet, because once they started down the path of a new identity, the secret was out. If any one woman talked . . . It would be my ass in jail. Not Evie’s. Mine.

Evie bristled. “Your policy could be putting our clients in danger,” she said angrily. The baby whimpered and Evie went back to rocking him where she stood. “What about all the women right here in Chicago who have no idea that we could change their lives?” she whispered harshly. “How could you live with yourself if something happened to them?”

Dana drew in a breath. It wasn’t a thought she didn’t have herself. Every damn day. “Evie, I’ll say this only once. You will not breach policy. You will not provide any resident of Hanover House with the possibility of papers. Are we clear?”

Evie’s glare could cut through stone. “Yes, ma’am. We’re very clear.” Evie abruptly turned on her heel, waking Dylan who began to wail loudly. Dana glanced at the clock on the wall as shouts began to flow from the upstairs bedrooms. No, there was absolutely no sense in going back to bed. The day had officially begun.

Chapter Two

Wight’s Landing, Maryland, Friday, July 30,
7:00 P.M.

Ethan Buchanan sat down at the table in the Vaughns’ beach house kitchen and pulled his palms down his face in helpless frustration. He fought back the panic clawing at his gut. Little Alec was gone, as was his live-in interpreter and speech therapist, Cheryl Rickman. Gone. Little Alec who wasn’t so little anymore. He was twelve. Old enough to know what was happening to him, to be terrified. Still too young to fight back.

And physically unable to call for help.

Ethan searched the stunned faces of his oldest friends, wishing he knew what to do next. He’d known Stan Vaughn for twenty-five years, Stan’s wife Randi for ten. Yet the two of them seemed like strangers. Their son was gone, yet Stan and Randi had not called the police or the FBI. Randi sat clutching the phone to her chest and Stan looked as if he’d tackle Ethan when he’d reached for his cell phone.

Only after he’d promised not to call the police did Randi restore the phone to its place on the counter. Stan had taken up residence at the window, looking out at the bay. Ethan looked from Randi’s pale face to Stan’s rigid back. And sighed. “Let’s take this from the beginning. When exactly did you realize Alec was gone?”

Silence. Ethan began to lose his patience. Time was ticking. “Stan?”

Stan leaned his forehead against the windowpane wearily. “Three-thirty this afternoon.”

“Three thirty-five,” Randi whispered.

Stan shot an angry glare over his shoulder and Randi returned it defiantly.

Ethan drew an uneasy breath. So this was how it would be. “Where had you been?”

“Annapolis,” Randi murmured. “Wednesday was our tenth wedding anniversary.”

A picture flashed in Ethan’s mind, happier days. Stan in his tux; Stan’s brother Richard in his dress blues as the best man; Randi, so beautiful in white lace. He himself had been holding wriggling toddler Alec, just hoping to keep his own dress blues free of slobbery Cheerio crumbs until they’d said their “I do’s.” Ten years. Gone by so fast.

Alec was now twelve. And gone, maybe for hours, maybe days. Hours Randi and Stan had done nothing. Nothing except call me.

“We should have come back yesterday,” Randi bit out, angrily. “You said you’d called Cheryl. You said you talked to her.” Randi took a step forward, her body quivering with rage. “You lied to me so you could keep me in—” She broke it off, spun, turning her face away.

Stan’s lips thinned. “I left a message on the answering machine,” he said harshly. “How was I to know? Dammit, Randi, you’re acting like this is my fault.”

“Go to hell, Stan,” was her response. Quietly said, but very sincere.

Ethan cautiously interceded, putting his arm around Randi’s shoulders, guiding her to one of the kitchen chairs where she sat, her hands locked between her knees. Trembling. He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “What happened when you got back here today?”

Stan waved his hand toward the window. “We smelled it as soon as we got out of the car. The first thing we did was check Alec’s room. A note was pinned to his pillow.”

It. The putrid odor of rotting flesh that had nearly bowled him over as soon as he’d stepped out of his car. Stan wouldn’t say what it was. “What did the note say?”

Stan hesitated. Then he turned abruptly, waving Ethan to follow. “Come.”

Together he and Stan walked through the back door that led to the beach. The stench grew stronger with every step as they crossed the sand to the little shed near the dock where they’d kept their summer toys. Stan opened the door. “See for yourself.”

Ethan came up short in the doorway, his empty stomach heaving at the sight before his eyes. It had been a man. Who’d once had a head. A whole head. Buzzing flies now covered what was left. The body was bloated from the heat, nearly unrecognizable.

Shocked, he forced his eyes lower to where a shotgun lay sideways across the man’s naked torso. Lower still to where a length of string ran from the shotgun’s trigger across the man’s boxers to the big toe of his right foot. The man had presumably put the end of the shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger with a wiggle of his toe.

Ethan turned to where Stan stood resolutely looking out at the bay, its serene beauty at diametric odds to the grisly sight in the shed. “Who—” Ethan’s voice caught and he cleared his throat. “Who was he?”

Stan kept his eyes glued to the horizon. “Paul McMillan. Cheryl’s fiancé.” He swallowed, his throat working viciously. “It wasn’t suicide.”

No, Ethan hadn’t thought so. But all he could think now was that whoever had done this had Alec. “What did the note say?”

Stan dug a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Ethan. Wincing at the evidence Stan had likely destroyed, Ethan took the note by the upper corner. The note had been made on a printer. Hard, perhaps impossible to trace.

“‘We have your son,’” he read. “‘Do not call the police or we will kill him. If you doubt our word, look in your shed. We made this look like suicide in case the body is discovered and the police ask questions. Make certain they get no answers. We will contact you with our demands. Do not call the police or any other authority. We’ll know if you do.’”

Stan still stared at the bay. “Now you see why we didn’t call the police.” His whisper was nearly lost on the wind that rippled the water. “We didn’t know what else to do.”

“So you called me.”

Stan turned at that, and in his eyes Ethan saw fear and desperation and hopeless fury. And hate. After two years, Stan Vaughn still despised him. “We called you,” he said deliberately as if spitting each word out of his mouth. “You have to help us find Alec.”

“Stan . . .” Ethan lifted his hands, panic mixing with the shock at what Stan was asking him to do. “I run a security consulting business. I keep hackers out of computer systems. I set up surveillance. I’m not a cop.” The only uniform he’d ever worn had been that of the United States Marines. God only knew how much he wished he were wearing it now.

Stan shook his head. “You have a P.I.’s license.”

“Yeah, because I run background checks on my customers’ contractors. I’m not a cop.”

Stan met his eyes with an icy stare. “You know how to find people.”

The people he’d found had been terrorists hiding in Afghani caves, not little boys kidnapped by monsters. “Stan, look. I don’t have a lab. I can’t do forensics. Anything I touch would be contamination of a crime scene. I’d be destroying evidence the FBI could use to find Alec. Call the FBI and let them do their job.”

In a blinding instant, Stan stepped forward and grabbed Ethan’s lapels in both hands. Shook him hard. Ethan fought the wave of nausea and let him do it.

“Dammit, you have to help us. Whoever did that has my son. They’ll kill him.” He dropped Ethan’s lapels, dropped his chin to his chest, his fisted hands to his sides, and for a long moment neither of them spoke. When Stan did, his voice was hard. “You and Richard tracked Taliban in the desert. He told me so. You know how to find people.” He looked up, his eyes so very angry. “I’d ask Richard, but he isn’t here.” Stan’s eyes narrowed, his jaw clenched. “My brother didn’t come home.”

Because of you. The phrase echoed between them as if it had passed Stan’s lips. It had, of course. The last time they’d seen each other.

“That’s not fair, Stan,” Ethan said quietly and Stan exploded.

“I don’t care if it’s not. Those animals have my son. They did that.” He leaned forward, jerked his finger toward the corpse. “They’ll kill him, Ethan.” Stan straightened slowly. “If you won’t do it for me, then do it for Richard. You owe him that much.”

Ethan drew in a breath. He remembered those last moments before he’d lost consciousness after their vehicle hit the mine on the road out of Kandahar. Richard should have left him there, saved himself. But he didn’t. He’d stayed and fought, his body shielding Ethan’s from the bullets of the enemy, lying in ambush. Richard stayed when he shouldn’t have, and would have for anyone, not just his best friend. Because that’s the kind of man Richard Vaughn had been. Richard would have already been searching for Alec.

Ethan turned only his head to stare at the obscenity that had been a healthy young man. The body left behind to scare them senseless. And though terrified for Alec, Ethan was not senseless. He let the breath out. “All right. But I’m not going to do this alone. You have to let me call my partner. Clay was a cop after the Corps. He’ll know what to do.”

Stan shook his head vehemently. “No. No cops. He’ll report it. He’ll tell.”

“Stan, look. I’m an electronics specialist. I do computer security and surveillance. Coded transmissions, for God’s sake. I don’t do forensics, but Clay did. He was a cop, a damn good one. I won’t live with the guilt if I miss something that could have saved Alec’s life. Clay won’t put Alec in more danger. I promise.”

Stan closed his eyes. “How soon can you get him here?”

“It’s a three-hour drive from D.C.”

“Call him then. Tell him to hurry.”

Wight’s Landing, Friday, July 30, 10:30 P.M.

Ethan stepped out onto the front porch when Clay Maynard’s car pulled into the driveway. The wind had shifted and the intensity of the stench had lessened. Or maybe he’d just become accustomed to it.

Clay got out of the car and flinched and Ethan decided it was the second one.

“This isn’t right, Ethan,” Clay said, his voice hard.

“I know.” He’d thought about it in the hours since he’d summoned his partner. They shared a business and a friendship, both of which Ethan was risking by asking Clay to become involved. “Give me my laptop and go back to D.C. I’ll take it from here.”

“Shit.” Wearily Clay ran his hand down his face, his tan washed pale in the bright light of the moon. “This isn’t going to bring Richard back. You know it as well as I do.”

Ethan tightened his jaw against the flash of anger that Clay could trivialize the situation to a case of common guilt. “This isn’t about Richard. It’s about Alec. Now if you’re not going to help, give me my laptop and get the hell out of my way.”

Clay approached, stopped a few feet from the porch and glared up. “Get a grip on yourself, Ethan. This is a job for the FBI, not us. Every minute we’re silent, Alec is in more danger. If you really care about the kid, you’ll stop this insanity and call the cops.”

Ethan took a breath, smelled McMillan’s rotting corpse. Felt the terror bubble up anew and with it a cold fury. Deliberately he descended the steps until he could see Clay’s eyes. “The kid is my godson.”

Clay’s eyes flickered. “I thought he was Richard’s.”

“That’s right.” He forced the words between his teeth. “He was Richard’s. But Richard’s dead and as you so noted, nothing I do can bring him back. When he died Randi asked me to take his place. And Stan said no, that I wasn’t worthy of the responsibility. But Randi said yes, so I am.” His breath hitched when he remembered the moment two years before, a moment that severed what little had been left of his friendship with Stan.

“My godson has been kidnapped by people who murdered an innocent man. If we go to the police, they will kill him.” Doubt began to creep into Clay’s eyes and Ethan swallowed, unable to keep from thinking about Alec in the hands of monsters. “He’s just a boy, Clay,” he whispered harshly. “He’ll be terrified, confused.” Unable to call for help.

Clay’s eyes hardened again. “If he’s still alive.”

Alec could be dead right now. It was a picture Ethan had to force from his mind. “He is alive. He has to be. Look, if anybody is watching this place, we’re giving them an eyeful. Either stay or go, but we can’t stand out here talking.”

Clay leveled a long stare, then pulled his gym bag and Ethan’s laptop from his front seat with a sigh. “Hell. Please say they have air-conditioning.”

“It’s better inside,” Ethan confirmed, his nerves settling. Clay was in. He led Clay directly to the kitchen where Randi sat with the phone on her lap and Stan paced the floor, a glass of whiskey in his hand.