Forbidden (Southern Comfort) (33 page)

“Oh, hey,” his friend said, pulling a mask off his face.  “Wow, that was quick.  You must have set a new land-speed record.”  He stepped aside and extended his hand.  “Justin Wellington,” he said to Kim, even as he moved to walk with them.

“Kim O’Connell. Under any other circumstances, I would say it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Justin smiled briefly and then turned his attention to Clay.  “I’ll take you to her room.  She’s pretty out of it, but conscious.  Unfortunately I can’t stick around, because I need to get back to the OR.  It’s a zoo around here today.  My last patient got up off the gurney and walked out – with a bullet wound to the leg – before I could get to him.”

Justin paused outside the door to Room 121, laying his hand on Clay’s shoulder.  “I’m really sorry about all of this.  My prayers will be with you and that little boy.”

“Thanks.” Clay’s voice was scratchy with unshed tears. He took a deep breath, glanced at Kim, and rapped his knuckles on the door before entering.  A pretty redhead in a linen suit sat in a chair beside the bed.  No doubt Kathleen, Tate’s cousin.

And on the bed…

Oh, holy God in Heaven.

“You’re here.”  Tate’s face crumpled.  And he was beside her in an instant.  “Oh, thank God, you’re here.  They t…t…took Max. Somebody took m… m…my baby.”

“We’ll get him back.”  It was foolish to make that promise.  The reasonable, federally-trained part of his brain
tsk
ed at the fact that he’d done so.  All sorts of statistics and case files and remembered tragedies flew around in his head.

Most stranger abducted children were killed within twenty-four hours…

No.  He refused to let that happen.  He couldn’t have found happiness only to have it so cruelly snatched away.

“I promise you.” And he meant every bloody word.  Stroking her hair, Clay lifted his head away from Tate’s, turning his gaze on the room’s other occupant.  “You must be Tate’s cousin.”

“Kathleen Murphy.”  The two of them shook.  “I’m glad you’re here.”

“This is Kim O’Connell,” he introduced the two women.  Like Clay, they seemed ramped up with adrenaline, and he guessed that sitting here and waiting had been hell on Kathleen.  Against his chest, Clay felt Tate’s sobs begin to ease.  And her steady, rhythmic breathing told him the sedative had taken effect.    “Tell me what you know,” he requested.

“About one-fifteen several 911 calls started pouring into the system, indicating there’d been some kind of accident at the aquarium.  A man had fallen down the stairs, knocked into a couple of other people, there were injuries, an ambulance was requested, yada, yada, yada. Well, one of the first responders pulled Rogan’s ID, realized it was my brother, and gave me a call.  I said
hell,
and
take care of Max until I get there. 
He says
who’s Max?
”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”  She ran her fingers through her chin length hair.  “No sign of Max anywhere near Rogan.  I bust my ass to get there, have the aquarium put in lockdown in the meantime, and we scour every inch of that place with a fine tooth comb.  No Max.  Rogan’s hauled off to the hospital by ambulance, totally unconscious and unable to tell us what the hell happened, and so we start interviewing witnesses who saw him fall.  A couple of people saw Max being led away from the crowd by the stairs by his
grandma
.”

“What
?” 
Confusion muddled.  “I thought Maggie was going down to St. Simons Island today to visit one of Tate’s sisters.” 
  

“She did.  I spoke with her about thirty minutes ago.  She and Kelly – Tate’s sister – are on their way
back here now.”

What the hell was going on?  “You get a description on the
grandma
?
”

“Gray hair, wrinkles, ugly shoes.  Like every other grandma in the world.  Either tall or stooped, depending on who you talk to.  People see what they expect to see, you know what I mean?”  

Did he ever.  Society’s fringes – the elderly, the homeless, illegal immigrants, and many other marginal classes – were almost like non-people to a large portion of the American public.  Just shades that drifted along at the periphery of their vision, not worth the time or discomfort it took to actually take a good look.

“So I go to the Inn to tell Tate what’s happened because
that’s just not the kind of news you impart over the phone, and my partner and about every other available officer in the department is busting their ass looking for Max.”

“Did anyone see him leaving the building?” Kim asked.

“No, but we have people reviewing footage from the aquarium’s outside cameras, as well as the parking garage which services that area.  As soon as we can get a better description on the woman, and an idea whether or not he was taken from the scene in a vehicle, we’ll issue an Amber alert.”

Clay nodded his head.  The sooner they could get that information out over the radio, the TV, and traffic monitors along the highway, the better chance they stood of locating Max.  “We’re here to offer whatever resources the Bureau has that you might need.  Just say the word.”

Tears, quickly dispatched, shimmered in her blue eyes.  “Since y’all are here with Tate, I’d like to get back to the aquarium.  Just sitting here’s making me crazy.  And when my brother wakes up – he was drugged by the way. 
Damn,
I forgot to mention that.  They found a puncture mark on his right buttocks and GHB in his system.”

“GHB?” Clay repeated. 

“Yeah.  Gamma-… uh, what’s it called, Hydroxybutyric acid. The date rape drug?”

“Yeah, I know what it is.” He tightened his arms on Tate.  The fact that Rogan was drugged meant that the abduction had been planned, not simply a crime of opportunity.  “Did they say how long it would take for Rogan to come out of it?”  He really needed to question the man.

“From what I understand, it could normally take hours, considering the dose he was given.  But I think they were working to try to find a way to counteract the drug and get it out of his system.  Something about a stimulant, but I think it involves some risks.  I’ve been in here with Tate, so I don’t have the whole story.  But he’s down the hall in the recovery room, with my father and my brother.  My sister’s taking care of things at the Inn, and one of the managers is handling Murphy’s.  If you want to walk down and talk to either Dec or my dad, they might be able to tell you more.”

Clay nodded and Kathleen moved to leave. 

“Keep us updated,” he asked plaintively.

“You can count on it.”

Kim shook the taller woman’s hand as she walked past, and then turned to look at Clay.  “I know you’re going crazy, and need to do something, but why don’t you let me go see about the cousin.  Just hold your lady for a little while.  You need each other right now.”

“Alright. But if Murphy’s awake, come get me.”

“Agreed.”

KIM
left Clay in the ER and asked an orderly for the location of the recovery room, where a muffled “come in” followed her knock.

“Mr. Murphy?” An older man lifted his wet face from large hands.  “I’m Kim O’Connell, with the FBI.  I’m a friend of Clay’s.  Is it okay if I come in?”

After wiping one hand across his ruddy face, the man stood and extended the other.  “Ms. O’Connell.  Or rather
Agent
O’Connell.  Sorry. I’m not all together.”

The hand she shook trembled.  “In your place, I’d be in pieces also.”  Then she turned her attention to the bed.

Whoa.

The man was beaten up.  A broken ankle, a broken arm from what she could tell.  Bruises all over one of his cheeks.

His really attractive cheeks.

And okay, that was
so
not appropriate.

“How’s your son?”
Hot. 
She looked at his left hand. 
Single. 
Shit, she really had to stop this.

“Holding on,” his father said, gaze settling with concern on the bed.  “That drug in him, it’s bad news.  Convulsions, vomiting – even when he’s out of it.  I have to watch him to make sure he doesn’t swallow his own tongue.”

“Your daughter mentioned something about a stimulant to counteract the effects of lost consciousness?”

“Yeah.  They tried something, but it doesn’t appear to have worked.  The one that really works is apparently too risky, because it lowers the convulsion threshold.  So he still hasn’t regained consciousness.  Which, uh, might not be such a bad thing, I guess, because he’s gonna blame himself when he wakes up.  You know.  For Max.”  Choked up, he looked her way.  “You’ll be able to find him, right?  I mean, between Katie and the FBI, the bastards that took him don’t stand a chance.”

Katie was obviously his nickname for his daughter.  And if sheer force of will and desire could bring that little boy home, then yeah, the kid would be back by dinnertime.  “We’ll do everything we can.”

And as soon as she left this room, she was going to be on the phone with the local RA, pulling out every stop she could to suit action to words.

Behind her, the door opened, and…

She was pretty much struck dumb.

There were
two
of them, these gorgeous creatures, right here in the very same room.  One in front of her, one behind, like really nifty bookends.

“Oh, hey.  I didn’t realize we had company,” said bookend number two.  He jostled the drinks he was holding into the crook of his arm and flashed a hint of dimple her way.  His hair was shorter than his brother’s but it was obvious they were twins.  “I’m Declan.”

“Kim O’Connell.”

“She’s with the FBI,” said his father.

One masculine eyebrow arched skyward.  “Is that so?”

“I’m a friend of Clay’s.”

For a moment, the bookend looked blank.  But then comprehension dawned.  “Agent Copeland.  Got it.  I didn’t realize he was still around.” 

Something about his attitude – a certain
… nonchalance – turned Kim off.  She started to say something about Clay being right down the hall, holding his traumatized cousin, but a terrible noise erupted from the bed behind her, and she jumped and whirled around. 

The man on the bed, face twisted in pain, stretched his good arm toward his father and brother.  “Max,” he cried, through gritted teeth.  “Ah
God,
that woman took Max!” 

IT
wasn’t very pleasant to watch.

Because of the other drugs in his system, Rogan’s doctor had to be stingy with the painkillers.  And since he needed to be conscious to answer Clay’s questions, putting him under again was definitely out. So he lay there, jaw clenched, sweat rolling off him in waves, trying to concentrate on being as accurate as he could over the pain of three broken bones.

Whoever had dubbed the drug he’d been given
ecstasy
was guilty of a very serious misnomer.

“White hair.  Pulled back in, you know…in a bun.”

“Okay,” Clay continued from his position beside the bed.  “Anything else you can tell me?  Anything that really stood out?”

Pain squeezed Rogan’s eyes shut, determination forced them back open.  “A lot of it’s… fuzzy.”

“It’s a side effect of the GHB,” Clay assured him.  “We’re actually lucky that you can remember anything at all.”

His lips formed a grim smile.  “Yeah.  Lucky.”

From somewhere behind Clay, Declan snorted.

“I remember her shoes,” Rogan continued.  “I saw them as I was going down.  They were… big.  Almost as big as mine.”  He stiffened as a wave of pain washed through him, fist
ing his hands in the sheets.

“Do we really have to do this?” Declan pushed his way to his brother’s side, repressed frustration vibrating.  “I mean, come on.  Big shoes?  It’s obvious he didn’t see anything important, and he’s half out of his head with pain.  Instead of wasting your time grilling him, why not go out there and look for Max?”  

Patrick Murphy laid a hand on his son’s arm, started to pull him away.  But Clay gave a conciliatory wave because he understood the outburst.  “I know it seems like I’m pushing him unfairly, but the first few hours after an abduction are critical.  Our best chance to find Max, and bring him home unharmed, will rely on what information we can gather about his abductor.  And while
big shoes
might not seem all that important, there are a few things you have to consider.  Any information like that, any distinguishing characteristics, helps narrow our suspect pool.  We narrow it down far enough, and it leads us to Max that much sooner.”

“Familiar,” Rogan claimed from the bed.  “Something about her… familiar.”

Clay forgot all about Declan.  “Familiar how?  Like she reminded you of someone or she’s someone you’ve seen before?”

“Not sure.”  Rogan turned an unhealthy shade of gray.  “Sort of like… the old lady that spilled the tea.”

“What?”  Oh, shit, shit,
shit. 

“You know what he’s talking about?” Declan asked.