Darkness before the Dawn (19 page)

“To my hotel. Unless you were going to invite me to stay?” He knew she wouldn’t, when he put it that way. And much as he wanted to, he had too many things to do to spend the night curled up against her strong, warm body.

She turned away from him. “Good night, Randall.”

Her back was straight and strong; her shoulders weren’t the slightest bit bowed under all she’d been through. He paused in the open doorway and looked back at her, and his hand clenched the knob tightly. “Maggie.”

She didn’t turn. “What?” Her voice was cool, not at all sulky.

“Don’t put on another one of Pulaski’s shirts. I’ll just have to rip it off you again.” And he shut the door before she could respond.

The shrill ring of the telephone shattered Maggie’s sleep. She moaned in her sleep, hating the nagging, insistent ringing, trying to hold on to the fast-disappearing waves of sleep. She reached out in the wide, empty bed, reached out and found no one beside her. The wave of desolation that washed over her wrenched her out of the last bits of sleep.

Still the damned phone rang. With a curse, she threw back the covers and stumbled out into the living room, past the still-burning lamps that she’d left on to defeat the darkness. When she finally reached the phone, it had stopped ringing; the dial tone that met her ear was a taunt. It took all her willpower not to pick it up and heave it through the nearest window, but willpower was something she was slowly regaining. With only the slightest bit of a slam, she replaced the phone onto its cradle, and an only slightly obscene curse left her mouth when she looked at the clock and found it was a quarter past eight in the morning: too early for her to want to get up after her global trek, too late to have any hope for more sleep.

She moved around the room and turned off the lights, shivering in the early-morning chill. The thin cotton nightgown she’d purloined from Kate’s closet provided little protection, and she headed back to her room for a sweater.

She was looking at the empty, rumpled bed with unseeing eyes when she finally realized why she was feeling so unbalanced. It wasn’t lack of sleep or jet lag. With sudden, inescapable
clarity it came to her, leaving her shaken: She hadn’t woken up feeling abandoned by Mack. It was Randall’s body she’d reached for through the mists of sleep; it was Randall she wanted.

Mack’s chambray shirt met her eyes. Countless times she’d worn it for warmth, for comfort. But Mack was gone, beyond her reach, beyond her sorrow. She picked up the shirt and held it in her hands, but it was only a shirt. It was no longer a talisman of the only real love she’d ever known. She dropped it back onto the bed and turned to find a cotton sweater; the increasing chill now came from inside as well as out.

The phone rang again. Maggie forgot about the sweater and raced back out into the living room, stubbing her foot on the desk. The phone clattered off the desk as she lunged for it, and she ended up on her knees on the carpet, clutching the receiver.

“Maggie.” Sybil’s perfect British tones were distraught, and irritation swept over Maggie. Sybil spent half her life in crisis, and she was in no mood to deal with her mother’s histrionics now.

“Yes, Mother,” she said patiently, rising to her feet.

“Thank God, you’re back. Maggie, they’ve taken the baby!”

Maggie no longer felt the chill of the room—every part of her body had turned to ice. She held the telephone in a frozen hand, and it was all she could do to sink her body into the chair. “Explain,” she ordered, and her voice was raw. “No hysterics, no acting, no bullshit. Just tell me what happened.”

For once Sybil’s ego seemed to have deserted her. “She overslept this morning. She usually wakes Queenie up around seven, so Queenie thought she’d better check. When she went into her room, the crib was empty, and there was a message scribbled on the mirror, saying, ‘We have the baby. Don’t call the police, we’ll be in touch.’ ”

“What was it written in?”

“For God’s sake, I don’t know!” Sybil snapped. “What the hell does it matter?”

“It matters. Crayon, Magic Marker—what?”

“Actually, it was the most ghastly shade of fuchsia lipstick, now that I think of it. I can’t imagine anyone who would wear that color.”

“I know someone who would,” Maggie said grimly, thinking of Alicia Stoneham’s wide, fuchsia-colored mouth and braying laugh. And her cold, cold eyes. Would she hurt the baby? “How did they get in?”

“Lord, I don’t know. Probably through the service entrance in this damned hotel suite. Maggie, what are we going to do? They said not to call the police, but I’m terrified for my little Chrissie.”

“Where’s Kate?”

“Off with Caleb McAllister, somewhere in the wilds of Wisconsin.
Apparently, Francis Ackroyd had a brother living in some ridiculous place up there, and they wanted to see if he knew anything. Maggie—”

“Calm down, Sybil. I know who has Chrissie. And I don’t think she’ll hurt her—not unless she’s forced to. We have to be very careful and not make any stupid moves. Just sit tight, and I’ll call you back.”

“Let me speak to Randall,” she said suddenly. “I want him to tell me not to worry—I think you might lie to me just to calm me down.”

“Mother, Randall isn’t here,” Maggie said with ill-disguised impatience.

“He isn’t? Didn’t you go off with him for the weekend?”

“Yes. But he’s not here. He spent the night at his hotel. As soon as you hang up, I’ll call him—”

“You must be a changeling,” Sybil said flatly. “I can’t believe that a daughter of mine could let a man who looks like Randall Carter get away.”

“Maybe I sent him away.”

“Oh, That’s different. Maybe you’re my daughter after all. Did you say a woman has Chrissie?”

Maggie hesitated. Beneath her silly banter, Sybil was clearly distraught, and she owed her that much. “Alicia Stoneham,” she said.

“I knew I’d seen that hideous shade of lipstick before! I’m going to cut that woman’s heart out. How dare she touch my baby!”

“You’re going to sit there and say absolutely nothing, Mother. I don’t think Alicia will hurt her, but I don’t know for sure. She’s desperate, and desperate people do desperate things.”

“But—”

“I’ll call you back.” Maggie slammed down the phone and rose on unsteady feet to go to the hallway. Someone was unlocking the door, and she hoped to God it was Randall.

Kate walked in with a sleepy smile on her face. Her clothing was rumpled, and her short brown hair was a mess. She
looked happier than Maggie had ever seen her, and she ached for her.

“Maggie, you’re back!” she cried cheerfully when she looked up and saw her sister’s silent figure. “Come talk to me while I shower, and we’ll go see Chrissie. I’m not going in to work today, and I want to tell you about—what’s wrong?” The bright chatter faded as she saw Maggie’s eyes.

There was no way to sugar-coat it. “Chrissie’s been kidnapped.”

Kate stood very still, her face deadly white. “Brian?” she croaked, and for a moment Maggie couldn’t even remember who she was talking about.

She shook her head. “Not her father. I wish it were him.”

“Then who?”

“Sit down, Kate, and I’ll explain everything I know, or think I know—”

“Who kidnapped my baby?” she said, her raw voice skirting the edges of hysteria that Maggie badly wanted to forestall.

“Alicia Stoneham.”

That stopped the panic cold. “What?”

“Sit down and I’ll tell you.”

“I don’t want to sit down. I want you to tell me why a woman who’s been like a second mother to me would kidnap my baby.” Her voice was still dangerously close to the edge.

“You want it in twenty words or less?” Maggie inquired grimly. All bets were off with this new development, and Randall would just have to accept it that discretion had gone out the window. “Francis Ackroyd was helping Alicia sell military secrets to Eastern Europe.”

“What?”

“Don’t interrupt. She was getting military secrets from her brother, a retired admiral, and she and Francis were incorporating them into their stupid science-fiction movies and sending them to Gemansk. To—”

“Red Glove Films,” Kate said numbly. “I’ve seen the shipping
orders. That explains a lot of discrepancies. Go on. Did Alicia kill Francis?”

“I don’t know. There’s another man involved in all this, and we haven’t figured out who he is. He’s probably the one who murdered Francis, though why he dumped him here is beyond me.”

“Why would Alicia take Chrissie?”

“She knows we’re on to her. Her brother is being watched closely, and she must know it’s a matter of time before we get her. She must have taken Chrissie as a hostage, to buy her enough time to escape.”

“She won’t hurt Chrissie,” Kate said. That simple assurance took some but not all of the panic from her brown eyes.

“No, I don’t think she will. But we have to be careful and not panic her into doing something she’d regret. And of course, it all depends who’s working with her.”

“I can’t imagine …” Her voice trailed off as she looked with sudden horror into Maggie’s eyes. “You can’t believe it’s Caleb!”

“We don’t know,” Maggie said carefully. “An informant has mentioned his name, but informants aren’t infallible. He has had plenty of opportunity—”

“No!”

“Kate, anything is possible. For Christ’s sake, sit down and let me get us some coffee before I call Randall.”

“What does he have to do with all this?” Kate demanded numbly, not moving from her spot by the door. “Where the hell were the two of you this weekend?”

“Randall’s a consultant.”

“For whom?”

“The CIA,” she said reluctantly. “We were in Gemansk, checking out Red Glove Films.”

“Were they the ones who said Caleb was part of it?”

“No.”

“He’s not, Maggie!” Kate said. “He can’t be.”

“Maybe not,” Maggie said. “For what it’s worth, my instincts
tell me he isn’t. But you can’t rely on instincts when lives are at stake.”

“No, you can’t,” she said dully.

Maggie stared at her, torn in a thousand directions. She wanted to put her arms around her stricken sister and comfort her; she wanted to race over to Sybil’s hotel and see if she could find out anything there; she wanted to go out and confront Alicia Stoneham; she wanted to scour the city until she found Chrissie. And a small, weak part of her wanted to run crying to Randall.

The only logical thing to do was to wait. “Coffee,” she said. “I’ll make the coffee—you sit down and tell me what you found out in Wisconsin.”

“Stop trying to make me sit down,” Kate said in a dead voice. “We didn’t find out a damned thing. It was a wild-goose chase, and don’t tell me that’s more proof that Caleb is involved. He was just as taken in as I was.” She shivered, turning her despairing brown eyes toward the window. “Is there anything we can do?”

“Not at this point. I’ll call Randall and tell him. I’m sure he’ll tell us to sit still and wait.”

Kate shut her eyes, nodding. “I’m going to lie down.”

“Do you want any coffee?”

“Not now. All I want to do is hide for a few moments. …” She let it trail, and Maggie watched her out of aching eyes, watched as she stumbled wearily toward her bedroom. The door closed silently behind her, and Maggie let out her painfully pent-up breath.

In the kitchen, there was coffee and a phone to call Randall. She stood watching the coffee perk as she listened to Randall’s phone ring and ring and ring.

He wasn’t there. At eight thirty in the morning, when she most needed him, he wasn’t there. And she wondered suddenly if she’d been the world’s biggest fool ever to trust him.

Randall was capable of anything. She’d always known that, and the unexpected violence that had surrounded him in Gemansk shouldn’t have surprised her. He would use anything
and anybody to get what he wanted. She’d always assumed that they wanted the same things, but now she began to wonder if she’d been much too gullible.

He’d been in town when Francis had been murdered, been at Francis’s apartment—the scene of the murder—without anyone knowing, when she’d brought the body back. Someone had let the secret police know they were coming; someone had been one step behind them, closing in on them, breathing down their necks. Someone had been involved in this, and she found it hard to believe that Caleb McAllister had such far-reaching power. Randall was the obvious second choice.

He wouldn’t be doing it for the money; Randall didn’t need money. He spent what he had on possessions, rare and precious works of art that could be very expensive indeed. But he had no weaknesses, no obsessions, no drug or alcohol addictions; he wasn’t a gambler or a spendthrift. If he had turned traitor, if he was in this whole mess up to his armpits, then he was doing it for the same reason he started helping out the CIA: For the thrill. To alleviate the boredom that had stalked him most of his adult life, the boredom that didn’t suffer fools lightly.

It was a terrifying thought, and Maggie could understand how Kate would panic at the suggestion of Caleb’s involvement. It felt as if the very ground were sinking away beneath her.

Two cups of coffee helped. Sitting by the kitchen window and looking over the city as it came to life helped. Telling herself that even if Randall was a traitor, it wasn’t the end of the world, as long as Chrissie was all right, helped.

It wasn’t as if Randall meant anything to her, after all. She was immune to him; he had no power over her, no effect on her whatsoever. Sex was merely a biological function that reared its ugly head during moments of stress. She wasn’t going to bed with Randall again, ever. She didn’t like him or trust him, so it didn’t really matter if he was a traitor. Did it?

“You don’t answer doors anymore?” His warm, rich voice broke through her abstraction, and she turned from the city
landscape to look at him. He’d changed into an artfully rumpled beige linen suit. The welt across his forehead had paled with the passing of hours, and his eyes as they looked into hers were oddly warm and concerned.

“I didn’t hear you ring,” she said, moving slowly away from the window, watching him out of curious eyes. Could he have betrayed her once again? Not just her, but his entire country? Not just his country, but humanity, by stealing a helpless infant? Was he as monstrous as she sometimes wondered?

“What’s wrong, Maggie?” His voice was uncharacteristically gentle.

“Didn’t Kate tell you?”

“Is Kate back?” he said, momentarily diverted. “I didn’t see her.”

“Then who let you in?”

“I’ve already told you that locked doors don’t keep me out. I passed the CIA’s course on B and E with flying colors, unlike you. You still haven’t told me what’s wrong.”

“You don’t know?”

He frowned, becoming impatient. “I’m not interested in playing twenty questions, Maggie. Why are you looking at me as if I’m Frankenstein’s monster?”

“Have you been leading me on?”

His reply was an unexpected burst of laughter. “What the hell are you asking me, Maggie? If my intentions are honorable? If I’m going to make an honest woman of you?”

“I’m not talking about sex, Randall. I’m talking about treason. I’m talking about military secrets and Red Glove Films and Alicia Stoneham.”

The light of humor vanished as quickly as it had come. “Maggie,” he said meditatively, “the fact that you’re a woman isn’t enough to stop me from punching you in the mouth for asking something like that.”

“Try it.”

“What’s going on, Maggie?”

“It just occurred to me that I’ve been awfully trusting.
Someone has known just what we were up to, someone has been on our trail from the very beginning. And I wondered if you hadn’t been using me as part of a smokescreen to cover your own involvement.”

“You’ve been doing a lot of thinking. Did you come to any conclusions?” His voice was flat, unemotional.

Maggie watched him out of weary eyes. “Yes.”

“You want to tell me what they are?”

All his defenses were up. He was watching her out of those stormy gray-blue eyes and his expression was blank, slightly wary, waiting.

“I decided that I had no choice but to trust you,” she said, and his expression didn’t change.

“Your vote of confidence is inspiring,” he said, and she suspected he still wanted to punch her in the mouth. “Does that mean you’re going to tell me what the hell is going on?”

“Chrissie’s been kidnapped.”

“No, she hasn’t.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Randall, she most certainly—” The words died in her throat as she stared up at him, incredulity and rage warring within her. “What have you done with her?”

“She’s with my sister. I had her fly in from Boston last night. They’ve got a suite three floors down from your mother at the Mandrake, and Chrissie’s having a wonderful time playing with my three-year-old-nephew.”

“Why?”

“I had to do something to protect the kid, Maggie. This isn’t a parlor game we’re playing. People use real bullets, they’re desperate, and a baby would be a wonderful pawn. It would have been their next move—I just got there first. Would you rather Caleb or Alicia had gotten her? It looked as if it might come to that.”

“So the Almighty Randall decided to make his move, without asking anyone, without telling anyone.” She spat out the words. “You couldn’t trust me enough to tell me, to save my
sister and my mother the anguish of thinking Chrissie might be in danger—”

“It didn’t seem to be a risk worth taking.”