Seconds to Live (Scarlet Falls) (26 page)

His heart clenched. As much as he respected her abilities, he’d never adjust to watching her walk into dangerous situations.

Chapter Thirty-Six

The farm was in the middle of nowhere, the closest neighbor two miles down the road. A woman could scream her lungs out and no one would hear her.

A driving sheet of rain hit the windshield as they parked. Sweat dripped under Stella’s body armor and rain jacket.

Stella said a silent prayer that Gianna or Janelle or whomever had been abducted was still alive, and that they’d find her before it was too late. Darkness shrouded the O’Neil farm. The driveway was a lopsided spot of mud. She parked next to two black-and-whites.

Patrol Officer Carl Ripton greeted her. Rain poured off the brim of his campaign hat.

“Where’s Lance?” Stella looked over his shoulder at the small group of officers behind him.

“Quit.”

“What?”

“He walked into the chief’s office and quit.” Carl checked his weapon.

“Damn.” Even though she knew Lance had been having trouble adjusting to his return to work, she’d never expected him to quit when she needed him. He had the case in his head. With him gone and Brody wounded, that left Stella and Horner.

“Yeah. Bad timing.” Carl waved toward the house. “Shall we?”

She breathed and scanned the surroundings. The house sat on the right, with a large barn and several smaller outbuildings scattered around the yard. Junk, including the carcass of a rusting convertible and a rotted mattress, dotted the weedy grounds.

“More of a junkyard than a farm,” she said.

Carl tugged the brim of his hat lower. “Ready?”

“Ready.” Nerves dried her mouth, and when she swallowed, it felt like burrs moving down her throat.

They crossed the yard. Her SFPD cap shielded her eyes from the downpour as she crept up the wooden porch steps. They approached the front door, the buzz of adrenaline deafening. The house was two stories of peeling white paint. She glanced at Carl. His hand was poised next to his weapon as he motioned two uniforms around the house to cover the rear exit in case anyone inside decided to bolt. The situation was eerily like the one in November. And with the shooting of Brody so fresh, visions of Brody and Lance, bleeding and pale, flashed through Stella’s mind.

She shook the images away. Lance and Brody were both alive. No uniformed chaplains had visited their loved ones.

“Stella?” Carl stopped her with a hand on her wrist. “You were just in a shooting this afternoon. Are you all right?”

She wouldn’t be sidelined in the search for Gianna. “I’m fine.”

Stella shook off the mental slide show. No one was going to get shot tonight. They weren’t going to be surprised.

Carl took one side of the doorway. Stella stood on the other. The third uniform crouched behind them. She wiped water from her forehead and knocked on the door. No one answered. She rapped again. “Mr. O’Neil? This is the police. We have a warrant.”

The only answer was the sound of rain beating on the porch roof.

Stella gave knocking one more try. “Mr. O’Neil, open the door.”

Next to her, Carl drew his weapon.

Stella shielded her eyes and tried to peer through the glass panes in the door. “I can’t see much. It’s dark in there.”

Carl walked to the end of the porch and looked in another window. “Same here.”

“Are you ready?” Stella asked.

Carl nodded. The uniform brought the battering ram and swung the heavy black rod by the handles. It hit the door next to the lock. The door burst in. Carl and Stella led the entry. The uniforms followed. They swept the house, clearing each room floor by floor. When the entire house was declared empty, they met on the front porch again.

“There’s a vehicle parked in front of the barn. Let’s check it out.” Stella moved off the porch. Their warrant included outbuildings. The rain beat on her shoulders and dripped down the back of her neck as she skirted a mud puddle. The barn doors were closed. The windows were high and boarded over. The two uniforms jogged across the yard.

Stella sniffed. Over the wash of rain, a faint but caustic odor lingered.

“Doesn’t smell like a body. Smells like cat piss.” One of the uniforms wiped his face.

Stella scanned the front of the building. High windows were covered with plywood. “Can you boost me up to the window? Maybe I can see through those boards.”

“Careful,” Carl warned as he moved under the opening.

But they both knew going in blind was dangerous. It was better to know what they were facing than to rush in.

Stella put a hand on his shoulder and stepped into his locked fingers. He boosted her a few feet into the air. She grabbed the sill and got a toehold on a loose board. She put her eye to the space between the boards. A distinct odor wafted through the tiny slit. She recognized the smell with one sniff. Ammonia.

“Can you see anyone?” Carl asked.

“Give me a minute.” She squinted into the dim, but all she could see was piles of junk and shadows. “It’s too dark inside.”

“I’m sorry.” He reached for her hand to help her down, then scanned the front of the barn.

“Can you see anything between the board over the other window?” Stella gestured to the other side of the door.

“Let’s just open the damned door.” Carl reached for the long, metal handle on the sliding door. “There’s probably nothing inside but fertilizer and old junk.” He pointed to the rusted hinges of the barn door. “This barn doesn’t see much action.”

His fingers closed around the handle.

Turning, Stella saw a thin metal wire running along the doorframe.

“Don’t!” Stella shouted.

But it was too late. He was already pulling.

“Get down!” Stella dove at him, looping an arm over his chest and taking him to the ground with her just as the front of the barn exploded.

Mac drove toward Stella’s house. His phone chimed with a text message. Stopping at an intersection, he checked the screen. It was from Gianna.

He pulled over to the shoulder and opened the message.

can’t find stella. can u pick me up?

Stella would have her phone off.

Mac typed back,
yes. where r u?

Bridge Park.

Why would Gianna be sitting at the park where Dena Miller’s body had been found? As if she knew what he was asking, she texted,
was thinking about jumping. Changed my mind. :)

Shit. He pictured her standing on the bridge in the rain, looking over the edge, the water rushing and swirling in the dark below. Gianna was depressed, sick, and suicidal. As Stella had pointed out, without constant intervention, the girl was always a few days from death.

He tried to call her, but she didn’t answer.

On my way
, he answered, then he sent Stella a quick text.
Gianna texted me. I’m going to pick her up at Bridge Park.

She’d want to know Gianna was alive the second she finished her op and turned on her phone. Should he call the station and have them call off the search for the girl? No. Not until he had eyes on her. If she was a no-show, Mac wanted the cops looking for her.

How the hell did she get out to the park? That was a long walk in the rain, but desperation could provide plenty of fuel.

The storm picked up as he stopped before the bridge. Mac squinted through the windshield. His headlights gleamed on wet pavement and driving rain. Gianna wasn’t on the bridge. Where was she? Her text had specified the park. He backed up and turned into the park entrance, drove down the embankment, and parked near the monument. Thunder cracked, and lightning slashed across the sky as the drizzle became a downpour. He didn’t see her, but the rain had increased considerably from when she’d texted him. She must have sought cover under the bridge. He parked the car as close to the stone foundation as possible.

Mac searched in the backseat of the sedan and found a jacket. Wind whipped the rain sideways. He tucked the jacket under his arm. Leaving his phone in the car, he found a flashlight in the glove box and stepped out into the rain. Water drenched his clothes in seconds. He splashed through a puddle, his mind conjuring images of the pale, thin girl under a heap of blankets in her sauna of an apartment. The night was muggy and warm, but if Gianna were wet, she would be freezing.

“Gianna!” he shouted over the storm and jogged toward the bridge. Through the downpour, he saw a figure lean out of the shadow and wave, then duck back under.
Thank God.

Hunching against the wind, Mac ran under the stone arch. Something hit him in the shoulder. A slice of pain, then a paralyzing jolt, rammed through his body. His muscles seized. He saw the ground coming toward his face but was unable to move a hand to catch himself. He hit the dirt like an oak struck by lightning. The flashlight landed next to him, its beam moving as it rolled down the slope toward the river.

Had he been struck by lightning?

The pain eased. Mac twitched. The figure stepped out of the dark.

Up close and out of the driving rain, he could see the person was too big to be Gianna.

Warning blasted through him. Not lightning. Taser.

Mac shook off his paralysis and planted a hand on the ground. He needed to get up. The muscles of his arms trembled as he forced his torso off the packed earth. A second jolt ripped through him. His body went stiff as stone, and his face smacked into the dirt.

A boot landed in the center of Mac’s spine. He struggled, his limbs still twitching, as his hands were yanked behind his back. A third jolt slammed his teeth together. But the most frightening sight was the needle aimed at Mac’s neck. The second his muscles relaxed, the needle bit into his flesh. His muscles went lax in an instant. He blinked. He could feel every inch of his body, but his muscles did not respond to commands. He wanted to protest, but he couldn’t make a sound.

Fear raced through his blood. His heart sprinted inside his chest.

A hood was drawn over his head. Blind and paralyzed, Mac felt his limbs being moved, his wrists and ankles bound. His body was rolled onto a tarp and dragged across the ground. Mac was rolled down the hill and into something metal and concave. His legs flopped uselessly over the edge.

He was in a fucking wheelbarrow.

Probably the same wheelbarrow that had been used to dispose of Dena Miller’s body.

“You have quite the tolerance for pain. We’re going to have an interesting night.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Stella was airborne for a few long seconds then landed facedown in the mud, one arm still looped over Carl. The impact with the ground slammed her teeth together and knocked the breath from her lungs.

Ears ringing, she lifted her head. Carl lay on his back. His eyes were closed, and he wasn’t moving. Blood trickled from a gash on his temple.

No!

A second blast blew the top of the barn into the sky. Stella belly crawled on top of him. Putting her arms over her head, she used her upper body to shield his face and head. Fire roared behind them. She put her fingers to his throat. Relief washed through her as she felt the steady throb of his pulse.

“Detective Dane!”

She turned. Twenty feet away, one of the uniforms lurched to his feet. His body swayed for a second before he ran toward his partner. The second uniform stirred in the center of the space, flat on his back. The blast had thrown him fifteen feet straight backward. He rolled over and crawled away from the blaze.

Stella got her feet under her body. Her legs trembled then steadied. She grabbed Carl by the ankles and leaned into the pull, but she couldn’t budge him. The two uniforms helped her drag him away from the fire and called for backup, fire trucks, and an ambulance.

Stella glanced at the uniforms. “Are you both all right?”

“Fine,” one coughed.

Carl stirred and pressed a hand to his head.

“Hold still.” Stella put a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know how badly you’re hurt.”

He moved his arms and legs. “Just cracked my head.”

“Detective, the fire is spreading.”

Stella followed the uniform’s finger to an outbuilding behind the barn. Embers drifted through the air. Despite the rain, the barn was burning at flash speed.

“That’s one hell of a fire.” Carl nodded toward a nearby shed. “We’d better start clearing outbuildings.”

She lurched to her feet and ran toward the shed. Carl staggered behind her. They cleared the property shed by shed but found no one.

Fifteen minutes later, Stella sat on the bumper of her vehicle staring at the inferno of a barn. Where was Gianna? If she’d been inside the barn . . .

Stella refused to believe Gianna was dead. Needing to hear Mac’s voice, she turned on her cell phone to call him and saw that he’d sent her a text. As she read the message, she was lightheaded with relief. Gianna hadn’t been in the barn. Mac was picking her up at Bridge Park. Stella called him. The line rang five times before switching to voice mail. Stella left a message and then tried texting him. He didn’t respond.

Where was he?

A prickly sensation crawled up the back of her neck and choked her. She tried Gianna’s number, but the call went immediately to voice mail. Gianna’s phone was off again. Stella ran over to Carl, who was talking to the fire chief. Carl met her halfway across the barnyard.

Soot streaked his face. “The fire chief thinks the barn was full of fertilizer and other explosive materials. The door was booby-trapped. They won’t be able to look for remains until tomorrow, but it seems Spivak and his pal were making explosives.”

She quickly explained Mac’s text. “I can’t get either one of them on the phone. I have to find them. Can you handle things here?”

He glanced back at the barn. Fire hoses rained water on the blaze. The scene crawled with emergency responders. “We’re shorthanded. Do you need company?”

“Not necessary. I’m just driving out to Mac’s house. If I don’t find them there, I’ll head over to Gianna’s apartment.” But considering Gianna’s odd behavior, she doubted he’d take her home and leave her. No, Mac would stick with the girl. He’d make sure she got whatever help she needed.

He was a good man. The kind of man she wanted.

She climbed into her car and sped toward his house. Pulling into the clearing, she looked up at the dark cabin. Not here. Just to be sure, she jogged onto the porch and rapped on the door. When he didn’t answer, she returned to her car and tried his cell phone again. Still no answer.

Could he have taken her to the hospital? He would have called Stella. Maybe his phone was dead. She drove to Gianna’s apartment, but it was also dark and empty.

She called Mac’s sister.

Hannah answered. “Stella?”

“Have you heard from Mac?” Stella asked.

“No.” Hannah’s voice hesitated. “What’s wrong?”

“Maybe nothing. I’ll try your brother.”

“Grant is here at the hospital with me. He hasn’t heard from Mac either,” Hannah said.

“This is Grant. Tell me what’s going on,” a deep male voice said.

“Mac messaged me earlier that he’d heard from Gianna and was going to get her,” Stella explained. “Now he’s not answering his phone.”

Grant was quiet for a few seconds. “Don’t panic. He’s not good about keeping his cell charged.” Chair legs scraped. “But I’ll start looking for him.”

“I’ve already been out to his cabin. He’s not there,” Stella said. “I’m going to check Bridge Park. I’ll let you know if I find him. Please let me know if you hear anything.”

“Will do.” Grant ended the call.

Stella called for a backup unit and drove toward the park. On the way, she called Lance’s cell. He answered on the first ring.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“I’m at your house,” Lance said. “I thought, since I didn’t have anything else to do, that I’d hang out here and make sure everything was OK. The patrol car got called away to the explosion.”

“Thanks, Lance.”

“I’m sorry. I—I just didn’t trust myself to keep my shit together tonight.”

“Carl said you quit.”

“Stella, don’t worry about me or your family. I have them covered. Focus on the task. Keep safe, Stella.” Lance ended the call.

Stella put Lance’s emotional state out of her mind. Rain poured onto Stella’s windshield, and the bridge loomed dark. She checked the surface, but there was no one on the bridge. Turning into the entrance, Stella reported her location to dispatch. Six inches of water flooded the grass around the memorial. The river churned well above its normal level. Her high beams swept across her grandfather’s Lincoln parked next to the bridge supports, and ice balled up in her belly.

Where was Mac?

She pulled up next to the Town Car and scanned the area, but the torrential rain limited her visibility. Headlights swept down the entrance ramp, but they were too high to be another SFPD cruiser.

A pickup truck parked next to her, and Grant Barrett got out. He walked to the side of her vehicle. Stella stepped out of her car. Grant didn’t seem to notice the rain soaking his cargo shorts and T-shirt. Within seconds water plastered his short, blond hair to his head. His only response was to blink.

“A backup unit is on the way.” Stella wiped water from her forehead. “He was driving my grandfather’s car.” Stella turned toward her grandfather’s vehicle.

She took a pair of gloves from her pocket and put them on before opening the Lincoln’s door. Mac’s cell phone sat on the console. She grabbed the phone and slid it into her pocket under her jacket.

Grant was headed toward the bridge support. Stella ran to catch up. She grabbed his arm. “Be careful where you step. This could be a crime scene.”

Please let me be wrong.

He nodded grimly, stopping as soon as they were under the protection of the stone arch. The dirt was disturbed.

“Here are footprints.” Grant crouched and pointed to the ground. “Stella . . .”

She bent low. Scattered in the dirt were tiny colored discs the size of confetti. “Taser confetti.”

Her vision fuzzed as the implication settled in. “He was lured here with a message from Gianna’s phone. Then someone tased him.”

Grant’s face went hard. “And took him.”

She nodded, emptiness sliding through her body as if her blood was thinned with anesthetic.

The killer had Mac.

The best man she’d ever known. The man who made her heart thump and her pulse thicken with one blink of his clear blue eyes. The man who would kill or die for her.

“I have to call this in. We can trace the serial numbers on the Taser confetti.”

As she ran for the car, she saw another equally frightening sight on the muddy edges of the dried earth under the bridge: wheelbarrow tracks.

He had to work quickly. Succinylcholine was a fast-acting paralytic commonly used for emergency intubation. The injection would only last fifteen minutes, and he most definitely did not want Mac Barrett able to fight back.

Which was why he’d used the Taser.

He
wouldn’t stand a chance if the fight was fair. Cheating was his only option.

Getting a full-grown man in and out of the trunk proved challenging, and one of the reasons he’d limited his subjects to women until this point.

But this would be worth the effort.

Mac was The One.

Not a victim, but a deeply flawed hero.

He could feel it in his bones. He sped toward his house and opened the bulkhead doors. The specially built ramp led straight down to the basement. He pushed the wheelbarrow through a growing puddle past the heavy wooden door. He didn’t have time to put Mac in the cell. No, he’d have to go straight to the reception room. Mac had to be restrained by the time the drug wore off. Pushing the wheelbarrow through the doorway, he lowered the treatment table and transferred Mac to it, sliding his upper body across the gap first, and then following with his legs. He carefully secured his wrists to the handrails with handcuffs. He didn’t trust simple rope with a strong, healthy man. Leather medical restraint straps buckled across Mac’s hips and around his ankles.

The Hulk couldn’t break those binds.

Satisfied, he stepped back and mopped the sweat from his forehead. The cool of the basement was a welcome reprieve from the muggy summer temperature above ground.

Now to prepare for the first stage. He wheeled the rolling tray to the side of the bed. Mac’s fingers twitched.

“Oh good. You’re waking up.” He mopped his forehead with a cloth. “Got you here just in time.”

He took a pair of scissors from the blue sterile cloth and cut Mac’s T-shirt up the center to reveal a square bandage taped to his ribs. “What’s this?”

Mac grunted. He’d be able to talk soon.

He peeled back the medical tape and exposed a long, stitched wound that wrapped round Mac’s side. “What happened?”

No answer, but Mac’s eyes were angry.

Anger was new. He’d never had a victim get mad. It was a very good sign that he’d finally made the right choice.

“Where should we start?”