What Mattered Most (6 page)

The engine fired to life, and brief elation shot through him. This time around, things would be different. Mitchell would not win.

Worry and guilt swallowed the elation as he navigated Cutter’s rain-drenched streets. Patrol cars from the city and county departments as well as unmarked units filled the roads, and he dodged a couple of roadblocks. This needn’t have happened, if he’d refused to let Beth cling to her denial. He’d wanted her to be happy, and he’d been sure he could keep her safe.

He’d failed. Beth’s life was in danger once again, but the worst part was that his failure to protect Beth endangered Lanie.

Remembering the angry pain in her golden eyes twisted his gut.
How could you not see how all of this would hurt her, once it came out? You wanted her, and that was all that mattered to you. Did you ever stop to think about what you were doing?

He was no better than Mitchell. Disgusted fury slammed through him, and he slapped a hand on the steering wheel, welcoming the stabbing pain the sharp movement brought. He’d find a way to make it better. Damp hair fell on his forehead, and he pushed it back. He’d be more supportive of her through the remainder of the pregnancy, and he’d be as active in the baby’s life as she would allow him to be.

If she survived.

John shook his head. Her not surviving wasn’t an option. The idea of a world without Lanie in it cut his breath short. A world without that sassy sense of humor, that beautiful laugh, and those gorgeous golden eyes? A life without Lanie’s touch on his skin?

God, he couldn’t let anything happen to her. He wouldn’t be able to stand the emptiness.

Blind son of a bitch. You really screwed up this time, didn’t you?

His hands trembled on the steering wheel, and he pushed down harder on the accelerator. He couldn’t fail again. He had to get to her before Mitchell.

When Lanie’s eyelids fluttered open, electric lights blazed around her. Pain thudded through her head with her pulse, her teeth chattering with intense cold. Cool tile pressed against her cheek. Her mind working with dazed lethargy, she rotated her head, watching the room come into focus. White tile, white cabinet, seashell prints on the white wall, a glass hurricane globe holding a collection of multicolored sea glass.

The bathroom. The tiny bathroom off the foyer.

Memory returned in a flood, and she straightened, a groan slipping past her lips as the pain stabbed behind her eyes.

“Don’t move.” Gentle hands gripped her shoulders, pressing her back against the wall, and Lanie met Beth’s haunted blue gaze.

Beth’s spiky copper hair was wet, plastered around her pale face, a fresh bruise standing out along her jaw. Blood congealed at the corner of her split lip. Pain and fear tightened her delicate features.

At least John hadn’t chosen Lanie because she looked like Beth. The bitter thought flitted through Lanie’s confused mind. Beth’s petite, curvy build was nothing like the tall, slender, athletic frame Lanie shared with her Falconetti cousins.

She could feel her pulse under her skin, the rapid beat unnerving. Lanie pushed the jealousy aside. They had other things to worry about. “Nicole’s safe,” she whispered, glancing at the closed door. “She’s at the hospital. And John’s alive.”

“Thank God.” Beth’s eyes closed, tears sparkling along her thick lashes. She opened her eyes, fingers curving along Lanie’s jaw. “I was beginning to think you were out for good.”

Lanie tilted her head away from the touch. “I—”

“Lanie, were you bleeding before Doug and I got here?” Hands shaking, Beth folded a towel into quarters.

Finding it hard to concentrate on the question, Lanie glanced down, staring at the folded towel between her thighs, the white terrycloth turning crimson. Her gaze followed a trail of scarlet drops on the tile, finding a small pile of blood-soaked towels in the corner behind the door. The reality of what she saw slammed through the fuzziness in her brain. “Oh my God.”

Beth’s fingers gripped Lanie’s chin, forcing her gaze up, away from all that blood. “Focus. How long have you been bleeding?”

“I—I don’t know.”

A low, rough curse hung in the air between them. “Do you hurt?”

Her head pounded, and her lungs ached as if she’d been running. But the bleeding brought no discomfort—not the burning contractions her childbirth classes described. She tried to shake her head, her eyes slipping closed as pain exploded with the movement. “No.”

“Lanie.” Beth tapped her cheek. “Can you feel the baby? Is he moving?”

Lanie flexed her fingers on her stomach. When was the last time he’d kicked or rolled over? “Not right now.”

Beth touched her forehead. “We’ve got to get you out of here.”

Disconnected, Lanie watched as Beth pushed to her feet, favoring her left ankle. “He’s going to kill us. What is he waiting for?”

Beth glanced over her shoulder. “He’s waiting for John.”

An image of John’s outraged face rose in Lanie’s mind, sparking a weak, inappropriate giggle. “He’s going to be waiting for a long time. John’s cuffed to his bed.”

“I’m not even going to ask why.” Beth rested her ear against the closed door.

Lanie closed her eyes again. Lord, she was tired. An ache pulsed in the back of her head. Slipping away, into the darkness of slumber, seemed so easy. Slipping away from the reality. “He loves you.”

“Did he
say
that to you?” Beth’s horrified voice penetrated the fog. “That stupid son of a bitch.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Weak tears slipped beneath Lanie’s lashes, and her hands rested on her stomach. “I’m losing the baby, aren’t I? That’s probably for the best—”

“Stop it.” Beth’s hands closed on her shoulders with bruising force. “Lanie, listen to me. You are not going to lose this baby, and it would not be for the best. You are the best thing to ever happen to John O’Reilly, and he’s just too freakin’ blind to see it—”

“Isn’t this touching?” Mitchell swung the door open, sneering.

“Doug, do what you want with me.” Beth’s voice trembled over the words, but a note of iron lay beneath them. “But you’ve got to get her some help. She’s bleeding. And her head… Call an ambulance, and we’ll leave. I’ll go anywhere you want, do whatever you want—”

“Nobody’s going anywhere.” Pain edged Mitchell’s voice, and blood oozed from his shoulder. One of her bullets had found its mark. On a wave of woozy satisfaction, Lanie let her eyes drift closed again. “We’re waiting for O’Reilly to join the party. Meanwhile, you’ll do whatever I want anyway, won’t you, babe?”

“You sick bastard.”

The voices wafted away as the darkness swallowed Lanie once more.

Parked up the street, John surveyed the house. Lights blazed in the windows, but the outdoor lights remained dark. The sheer curtains were drawn, and no shapes moved behind them. His gaze zeroed in on the upstairs windows. Even the extra bedrooms were lit.

John’s gut clenched. The two guest bedrooms were shut off to save electricity. Lanie had not turned on those lights; he was sure of it. Mitchell was already in the house, possessing all the advantages. John scanned the street, his gaze lighting on Steve Martinez’s Honda parked a few vehicles away.

Maybe Martinez was in the house as well. John slipped from the truck and eased toward the car, using shadows as cover. Foreboding gripped his stomach as he approached the car and saw the silhouette slumped in the front seat. Martinez wasn’t the type to sleep on surveillance duty.

The streetlight illuminated the front of the car, and John recoiled at the sight of Martinez’s staring eyes, blood spilling from the wide gash at his throat. He didn’t have to check to know that Lanie’s partner was dead or that his weapon was gone.

As badly as he wanted to burst into the house and kill Mitchell with his bare hands, the reality remained that John was barefoot and unarmed. Mitchell wouldn’t have any qualms about killing again. John needed backup, someone who wanted Lanie safe as much as he did.

Easing into the shadows, he slipped back up the street. Around the corner was a small convenience store, and once out of sight of the house, John jogged to the payphone against the store’s wall, ignoring the slice of gravel and broken glass under his feet and the stabbing pain in his ribs. He punched in nine-one-one and waited.

“Haven County Emergency. How can I help you?” The female voice was pleasant, impersonal.

“This is Detective John O’Reilly, Houston P.D., badge number three-zero-four-seven-nine.” His own voice sounded raw, like an open wound. “I need you to patch me through to Agent Caitlin Falconetti.”

“Sir, I’m sorry, but—”

Anger spurted through his veins in a hot rush. “Listen, damn it. Your kidnapping suspect is in my house. Now patch me through.”

Silence clicked over the line. “Please hold.”

In the seconds that passed, images of what could be happening to Lanie surged through his mind. John pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to block the horrific pictures. Nothing would happen to her. He wouldn’t let it.

Wouldn’t let it? He already had. Resting his head against the wall, he swallowed a moan.

“Falconetti.” Even through the static, the ice was apparent.

“Martinez is dead. Mitchell’s in the house,” John grated without preamble. “I think he has Lanie.”

“Where are you?” The ice receded, urgency rising to the foreground.

He rattled off the address. “Don’t bring in the cavalry. I don’t want him tipped off that we’re here.”

“Give me some credit, O’Reilly. I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Lanie?” Strong fingers gripped her chin, forcing her back to awareness. “Lanie, talk to me.”

She lifted heavy lids, staring into Beth’s desperate blue eyes. “Beth, leave me alone.”

“No. You’ve got to stay with me. You could have a concussion. Talk to me. Baby names. Did you and John ever decide on a name?”

What did she mean,
you and John
? Didn’t Beth know there was no her and John? Lanie attempted to collect her scattered thoughts. Names…somewhere upstairs, in the journal in her nightstand drawer, was a scribbled list of first names she’d thought would pair up well with John as a middle name. She’d wanted their son to carry his father’s name.

A sob trembled on her lips, and she fought weak tears again. If they didn’t get out of here, there might not be a baby. She pressed a hand to her motionless stomach. If it wasn’t already too late.

“Lanie,
please
. What name?”

She shook her head, a slow side-to-side roll against the tile wall. “We… I didn’t… He doesn’t have one yet.”

Beth’s hands smoothed Lanie’s damp hair from her face. “Just don’t name him John, Jr. Everyone will want to call him J.J. or something.”

“John is a Jr. He’d be John III if we did that.” Lanie stilled, staring at Beth as a horrible possibility occurred to her. “Do you love him, too?”

Crystal tears washed Beth’s azure gaze, and her lashes swept down, blinking them away. “He’s my partner, my best friend. Of course, I love him. But not the way you mean, no. And he doesn’t love me. God, Lanie, haven’t you ever seen the way he looks at you?”

No, but she’d never
really
seen the way he looked at Beth, either. She’d looked at them and seen close partners, the camaraderie she shared with Steve. Grief reared its head, and she fought it down, touching her stomach once more. No movement greeted the contact. She’d lost John and Steve, all in one night. Would she lose her baby, too?

Gripped by an intense weariness, she leaned her head back, aware of the maddening sensation of her pulse thudding under her skin. “He looks at me like he’s thinking about—”

“No.” Beth tilted Lanie’s chin up with a gentle finger. “Not like that. I’m talking about how he looks at you when he thinks no one is watching.”

A desperate need to ask about that expression tickled her throat, but Lanie swallowed the question. How he looked at her really didn’t matter—what mattered was his expression when he’d awakened and whispered Beth’s name. He hadn’t looked like a worried partner. The agony in his navy blue eyes had belonged to a man facing the loss of the woman he loved.

And that woman wasn’t Lanie.

John pushed a hand through his hair, tension gripping his body, his torso aching with each agonized breath. Not all of the pain was physical. In that too quiet house were the most important people in his life, and God only knew what was happening to them. The only thing worse than not knowing was the awareness that the situation was his fault.

Caitlin tapped his arm, and he glanced over his injured shoulder. Her eyes glittered at him in the dark. “Mitchell called dispatch. He’s asking to talk to you. They bought us some time by saying you were still unconscious.”

His gaze slid back to those bright, empty windows. “Did he say anything about them?”

“No. Listen, I’m not sure letting him talk to you is a good idea. I think we should set up a mobile command center, get an entry team in place.”

He hated to admit she was right. Any conversation between him and Mitchell was hell-bent for disaster. “I guess you want to play hostage negotiator.”

“Me? Hardly. No, I had someone else in mind.”

The events of the next few minutes transpired with smooth, secretive ease. A nondescript van appeared at the end of the street, and dark shadows moved into position around the house. John, relegated to waiting in the back of the van, chafed while the minutes stretched.

Sheriff Dennis Burnett adjusted the radio’s channels, making sure a tape would record all transmissions. He fitted a pair of headphones with an attached mike, then handed John a pair with no microphone. “Thought you might want to listen in.”

While putting on the earphones, John shot him a glance. So Caitlin trusted him enough to put Lanie’s life in his hands. “Are you experienced with hostage negotiations?”

The other man shook his head. “I’ve done it once or twice, though, and completed the FBI’s basic training in handling hostage-takers. The Bureau’s negotiator team from the Houston office is unavailable since they’re at a training seminar. Houston P.D.’s team is already out on a call; they said they’d be glad to assist when they finished that one.”

He’d done it once or twice? Basic training? John didn’t find the thought reassuring. Burnett frowned at Caitlin when she appeared at the van’s open door. The sheriff adjusted another knob and glanced sideways at Caitlin. “I know you don’t think you’re going in on that entry team.”

She smiled a cool, little smile. “I know you don’t think you’re going to try to tell me I can’t.”

“What if I said please?”

“She’s family.”

Burnett sighed, but the sound held more resignation than exasperation. “Which is exactly why you shouldn’t go.”

“Give it up. I’m going.” With one last smile in his direction, she disappeared around the corner of the van.

“I don’t know why I even try to argue with her.” Burnett plugged a phone line into the recorder.

John grabbed the conversation as a way to keep the worry at bay. He pressed a hand against his aching ribs. “How long have you known her?”

A grin quirked at the other man’s mouth. “Since she was ten. Heck, I was engaged to her once. You just have to know how to take her.”

How to take the quintessential arrogant Fed? Falconetti didn’t seem like the easiest person to deal with, but maybe she was different with Burnett. Lanie could be prickly as hell, and John knew she had colleagues who weren’t fond of her. He liked the sharp edges of her honesty, though—a guy always knew where he stood with her. Underneath the razor-sharp exterior lay softer layers, the ones only a privileged few got to see.

An image rose in his mind—Lanie in the small bedroom she’d painted a deep blue for their son, her hands smoothing over a stack of tiny T-shirts and fleecy blankets, her face alight with a joy that had taken his breath. Remorse tightened his throat. She deserved someone to share that joy with, someone better than him. She deserved someone whole.

“So what’s the story with Mitchell, anyway?” Burnett’s quiet question dragged John from his reverie. “Is he a couple of bales short of a full hay loft or just plain mean?”

“He’s not crazy.” John wished the situation was that simple. Obsessed was the only word he could think of to describe Mitchell’s desire to control Beth’s life, to
be
her life. “He wants to own her, and if he can’t have her—”

“Then he’ll fix it so no one else can.” A sickened expression twisted Burnett’s face for a moment. “Where do you fit into the whole mess?”

Mess
pretty much covered it. “She… I helped her get away from him.”

Burnett’s hazel gaze flickered in his direction. “So the way he sees it, you took his wife and his family away from him.”

As he remembered Falconetti’s suspicions, foreboding shivered over John’s skin. “Yeah,” he said, the words hurting his throat, “that’s the way he sees it.”

Arms crossed over his chest, Burnett settled deeper into his seat. “That’s not good. He doesn’t have anything else to lose.”

Anger born of fear curled low in John’s stomach. “Your positive outlook is inspiring, Sheriff.”

Burnett reached out to fiddle with the squelch knob. “And I’m not going to blow sunshine up your rear end, buddy. In that house is a desperate, obsessed man with a freaking vendetta against you, and he has a couple of human bargaining chips. Make that three human bargaining chips. Compared to that, we have squat."

John latched onto his description of Lanie, Beth and the baby. Slight hope rose. “Bargaining chips? You think he’s going to want to bargain?”

“You could say that. Cait thinks he’s going to try to use the women.”

The newborn hope died under Burnett’s ominous tone. “Use them how?”

Burnett fixed him with a look. “She thinks Mitchell will try to force you to choose.”

At the bald statement, John’s stomach churned, bile forcing into his throat. Mitchell would love possessing that power over him, and John knew there wasn’t a real choice to make. Falconetti was right—his own stupidity had thrown Lanie into danger. He couldn’t allow anything to happen to her.

If it hadn’t already happened. He glanced through the windshield at the still, quiet house. Falconetti’s theory remained mere speculation. For all any of them knew, Mitchell may have already taken his revenge. He’d killed once. What was another death if it struck back at John? Lanie could already be dead or dying behind those bright windows.

His fault.

John closed his eyes. Not again. Not Lanie. He’d sworn a long time ago that no other woman would die because of his failures. He hadn’t been able to protect his mother. Even though he’d thought he’d protected Beth, he hadn’t, not really. All he’d accomplished was making everything too easy for Mitchell. He cursed himself in a shaky whisper.

“You don’t look so well. We can handle this. Maybe you should let someone take you back to the hospital.” Genuine concern lingered in Burnett’s voice.

John’s eyes snapped open, and he stared at the house again. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Your shoulder wound is seeping.”

He gave his shoulder a cursory glance. Spots of red dotted the turquoise cotton. “I’m fine. I’m not leaving her.”

“Which her?” The question came in a casual drawl but didn’t fool John for a second. The guy might talk slow, but a quick intelligence lay behind that sharp, hazel gaze. “Which one will Mitchell expect you to choose?”

A pent-up breath escaped John’s burning lungs on a trembling sigh. Agony stabbed at him, and a moment passed while he struggled for breath. “Beth. He thinks I’ll choose Beth, and then he can kill her in front of me.”

“And if you choose Lanie?”

Eyes clenched shut against the images beating in his brain, John swore. “Same thing. Hell, Falconetti’s right. Mitchell wants to take what matters most from me.”

Denim rustled against the tweed seat cover. “I think the real question might be who matters more—your partner or the mother of your child?”

The phone rang, and John jerked in his seat, ignoring the pain that rocketed through him with the action. His gaze locked on the attached caller identification unit. The call came from inside the house, and Burnett drew in an audible breath before picking up the call. “Hello?”

“I want to talk to O’Reilly.” Mitchell’s malevolence crawled through the headphones like a living thing. A chill crept over John’s skin, even as anger heated his gut.

“Detective O’Reilly is still hospitalized.” Burnett’s low voice was even. “Talk to me.”

“You’re one of them. I want O’Reilly.” Chimes rang in the background behind Mitchell’s voice.

Burnett rubbed his palms over his denim-clad knees, the only sign of nervousness John could see. “Then just talk to me until they can get O’Reilly for you.”

“Until I can talk to O’Reilly, I got nothing to say.” The line went dead, the dial tone echoing through John’s head. He wanted to scream, to remove the headset and throw it across the van, to smash something, anything.

He wanted Lanie out of that house. He wanted her safe, with him.

Shoulders slumped, Burnett passed a hand over his eyes. “Well, that was productive.”

John glanced at his watch. Ten to three. “He’s in the foyer.”

Burnett lifted his head. “What?”

“The chimes. The foyer clock runs fast. It was chiming three o’clock. He’s in the foyer.”

“Are you sure?” The other man was already reaching for the handheld radio.

“As sure as I can be.” John let Burnett’s conversation with Falconetti wash over him, his eyes trained on the front of the house.

The pattern repeated through more conversations, but each one was a few minutes longer than the last. Exhaustion and pain tightened Mitchell’s voice, and as the tension grew, Burnett’s patient demeanor deepened.

John was glad one of them could be patient. The forced waiting and not knowing what went on in the house drove him crazy. He wanted to be out of the van and doing something; he wanted to be on the entry team, first in the house, first to see if Lanie was all right.

The hints of light at the horizon added to the stretching of his taut nerves. Instinct whispered that dawn would not only reveal their presence to Mitchell, but would also be his breaking point. The approaching dawn heralded disaster—John was sure of it.

“Cait.” Burnett picked up the handheld once more, and the note of unease in his voice dragged John back to reality.

Her husky voice blended with the static. “What?”

“He’s slowing down. The calls were getting closer together, coming about every five minutes. It’s been twelve since the last one.”

“Sunrise is going to be the crisis point.” Resignation hung in her words. “We can’t wait for that. Is O’Reilly sure he’s in the foyer?”

Burnett glanced his way, and John nodded. “Sure as he can be.”

“It’s all that glass. He’ll see us coming, from the front or the back.”

The phone’s shrill ring cut through the van once more. Without a goodbye, Burnett killed the connection on the handheld. Silence thrummed over the phone line. Burnett rubbed at the back of his neck. “Doug?”

“I want O’Reilly. Now.”

“The man’s been shot. He’s—”

“He’s in the van with you, isn’t he?”

John watched Burnett’s body jerk with surprise before he spoke again. “Yes, Doug, he is. He’s here, like you asked. Now I need something in return.”

“Like what?” Mitchell sounded smug, as if he were finally winning an extended game of Monopoly.

“Let the women go.”

“You know I can’t do that.”

“Then one, Doug. Give us one. I got you O’Reilly, now you return the favor.”

“Fine. I’ll let one of them go.” Taunting satisfaction curled through Mitchell’s voice.

Burnett glanced over his shoulder, and John read the nonverbal message in his sharp gaze.
That was too easy
.

The knowledge lay heavy in the air. Mitchell would release one of the women. The other would die. John closed his eyes—this scenario was worse than any nightmare his mind could devise.

“Just one thing.” Mitchell’s voice snapped John’s eyes open, his entire body back to alertness. “O’Reilly chooses.”

No surprise in that. Body singing with tension, John sat forward, waiting to see how Burnett would handle this turn. “No can do. We’re not letting him call the shots. You choose, Doug.”

Mitchell hadn’t expected that. Silence stretched over the line, and when Mitchell spoke again, anger curdled his voice. “Now, listen to me, you son of a bitch. I said O’Reilly chooses—”

Over the line came the sounds of breaking glass, splintering wood, and multiple shouts. An authoritative male voice barked commands for Mitchell to drop his weapon and surrender. Curses hung in the air, but John didn’t wait to hear more. A hand pressed to his ribs, he bolted from the van and made for the house in a painful, limping run.

His lungs burned, and it took him a moment to realize Burnett was at his side. Still clumsy from the painkillers, John stumbled on the front steps, and Burnett reached out to steady him. The front door stood open, the frame splintered, and light and personnel spilled onto the porch.