Authors: Maree Anderson
“Regrettably, I can’t reach you and Daniel in time to remove you to safety before they arrive,” he told her. “But if you can convince these men you know nothing of Jay’s true nature, then there will be little need for the situation to—” how to put this without scaring her witless and dashing any chance she could put on a convincing act? “—worsen.”
“Get the hell out of my life. I don’t need your help.”
Sixer felt his lips quirk ever so slightly upward. She was wrong: She did need his help. Now, how best to convince her? “Before you hang up in my ear, you might wish to consider the safety of your youngest son.”
“You bastard!” she screeched. “If you lay a hand on Danny again I’ll—”
Sixer brutally cut off her tirade. “I’m not threatening your son, you foolish human. In approximately five minutes, those men are going to be outside your door. Perhaps you’re thinking you can hide and pretend there’s no one home, so let me tell you why that would be foolish: They already know you’re home. Being the professionals that they are, they wish to question you face to face and observe your reactions. If they have reason to believe you know anything all about Jay’s true nature, they’ll wish to question you further. You won’t enjoy the process, Marissa. Believe me when I say these men don’t play by the rules.”
Silence reigned. And then Marissa whispered. “Tell me what to do.”
An excellent decision. “Here’s what you should tell them.”
~*~
Sixer scaled the wall to Marissa Davidson’s home, and entered the master bedroom through an unlatched window. He padded from that room into the nursery, where he could easily eavesdrop without being spotted by the group gathered in the backyard.
The infant Daniel Robert Davidson, AKA Danny, was asleep, and for now unlikely to react to a stranger entering his room. This was fortunate, for the situation could quickly escalate if the men outside were alerted to Sixer’s presence, greatly increasing Marissa’s chances of injury.
Sixer calibrated the infant’s current breathing patterns. Satisfied he would be alerted to any possibility of the infant waking, he broadened his sensory range to include the conversation taking place in the garden below.
“While they were dating, she got a new prosthetic hand and gave Tyler the old one. You know how teens can be when they imagine themselves in love. They’re all so very dramatic.” Marissa’s wry chuckle drifted up to him. “Anyway, they broke up when she moved away, and my son took it really hard. Would you believe he was sleeping with it under his pillow?”
“And the hand is now buried in the yard,” a male voice said.
“That’s right. I nearly had a heart attack when I found it in my son’s room—and I don’t need to be a therapist to know that sleeping with your ex-girlfriend’s artificial, uh,
appendage
under your pillow isn’t going to help you get over her. To be quite honest, it creeped me out, so I insisted he do something else with it.” Marissa heaved a very convincing sigh meant to convey exasperation or some such similar emotion. She could have had a lucrative career as an actress.
“And thanks to his sister getting involved,” she continued, “the ‘something else’ I’d fondly imagined would be a shoebox in the back of the wardrobe, turned out to be a full-blown burial ceremony representing the death of the relationship, blah blah blah. Can you believe that morbid rubbish?” Another laugh—this one exuding an air of mild embarrassment, as though she was to blame for her offspring’s flair for the dramatic. “I figured it was best to let sleeping hands lie, so to speak. If I’d made any more of a fuss, it would only have fed the angst.”
A consummate performance, with embellishments that only served to corroborate the authenticity of the tale—well done, Marissa. Sixer waited to hear the reaction to her convincing piece of fiction.
“Can you show us exactly where the hand is buried?”
“Sure. And again, I’m very,
very
sorry that I didn’t consider what the neighbors must have thought. It must have looked really bad—my kids burying what appeared to be a severed human hand. I feel simply dreadful that you’ve come all this way for no reason.”
“There?” the same male asked. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, under that tree. I’m positive. I watched the kids bury it—they wrapped it in a cloth, from what I recall.”
“The earth around the site has been disturbed recently.” This comment came from a second male.
“Oh gosh, that was probably the puppy my husband brought home. It was a little horror—pooped everywhere, and got into all sorts of mischief. I’m not a dog person.” Another embarrassed laugh. “Don’t judge, but I lasted all of two days before I made Mike give it to my son’s current girlfriend. Honestly, I don’t know what he was thinking—my husband, that is. Anyone with half a brain would realize I have enough on my plate coping with a baby let alone a dog.”
A pause and then, “You really need to dig this thing up so you can close your case file, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I won’t lie: I’ll be glad to see the back of it. Let me get you a trowel.”
She was going to stand by and watch them dig for something that was no longer there. Sixer grinned, appreciating her sangfroid. If Marissa was typical of this particular family of humans, he was beginning to appreciate why Jay found the Davidsons worthy of her attention.
He risked a glance out the window and drew back from view while he analyzed the scene below. One of the men had shucked his suit jacket and now crouched beneath the tree, prodding at the patch of earth with a trowel. Sixer endowed him with label
Digger
. The remaining two men flanked Marissa, who had perched on the bench seat. Despite one man’s features being in profile, Sixer had gotten a good enough look at their faces to confirm they were all members of the same group who had been tracking him.
Marissa appeared tense but not unduly concerned—exactly the reaction Sixer would expect from a woman who knew she’d done nothing illegal, when confronted with “authorities” investigating the burial of a severed limb in her backyard.
“God, I hope the puppy didn’t use that area as a litter box,” Sixer heard her say. And Digger’s murmured response to that sally was, “Shit. That’s all I fucking need.”
Sixer wondered whether the pun had been intentional.
“Can I get you gentlemen a drink? Marissa asked. “Coffee? A soda, perhaps?”
Sixer guessed she intended to use the opportunity to check on her infant.
“No thanks,” Suit One said. “We’re good.”
“Found it yet?” Marissa asked. “Gosh, I don’t remember it being buried
that
deep.”
“There’s nothing here,” Digger announced, his tone conveying disgust.
“Really? That’s so weird. Maybe the puppy dug it up? Though I’m sure someone would have mentioned it—you know, if it was being used as a chew toy.” Marissa laughed. “God, I can’t believe I’m discussing the possibility of a prosthetic hand being used as a puppy’s chew toy with the— Who did you say you worked for again?”
“The FBI, Mrs. Davidson.” Suit One again. He’d done most of the talking.
“Right. The FBI. Sorry, I still have pregnancy brain. Maybe one of the neighbors’ dogs got into the backyard then. Or even one of the neighbors. Could be the person who reported it told someone else about it, and they snuck in and dug it up. You know, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to spot it on eBay or something. It’s astonishing what people will try to sell.”
Suit One began to speak but Marissa cut him short. “The girls from my Mature Mothers group are going to
flip
when I tell them about your visit. No one’s beating
this
story—I’ll be dining out on it for the next year. The FBI. Wow. It’s like I’m living a scene from a movie, or one of those romantic suspense novels. Actually, one of the girls is having a go at writing a mystery. Could I maybe get your number so she can ring you if she needs anything fact-checked? Gosh, she’ll so owe me for this.”
“We’d prefer you keep our visit on the down-low, Mrs Davidson.” Suit Two, this time.
Excellent. Now Sixer had three quality voiceprints to match to their faces.
“Oh, okay. I understand. I can tell my husband, though, right? That you were here?”
“Of course. And we’d appreciate his discretion as well.”
“Roger that.” Marissa giggled. “God, I’ve always wanted to say that.”
Sixer decided it would be prudent to provide a distraction that would separate Marissa from these three men before she overplayed her role. Accordingly, he strode to the crib, reached beneath the light covering and pinched the infant’s big toe, applying enough pressure that the baby would feel it and react. As he’d predicted, Daniel Davidson awoke, scrunched up his face, and loosed a loud wail that left everyone in earshot with no doubts about his discontent.
“I’m sorry, I have to go check on my baby,” Sixer heard Marissa say. “He hates sitting in a dirty diaper, and he’s due for another feed. I could be a while, so is there anything else you need from me?”
“You’ve been very helpful, Mrs Davidson. Would it be all right with you if we had a bit more of a look around the yard? We’ll let ourselves out.”
“Sure,” Marissa said, and Sixer tracked her hurried footsteps as she headed inside. She had the presence of mind to engage the lock on the back door before running upstairs, and bursting into the nursery.
When she spotted him, she jerked to a halt, her pupils dilating, complexion paling to an unhealthy shade of white. Terror poured from her in waves. But there was something else, too—something that stiffened her spine and had her taking jerky steps forward until she’d put herself between him and the child’s crib.
He put a finger to his lips and tilted his chin toward the window, cautioning her to continue playing her role.
When he made no further move, she whirled and snatched the crying infant from the crib. Her gaze darted to the doorway, gauging the distance.
“I wouldn’t recommend trying to run,” he told her, raising his voice just loud enough for her to discern his words. “Where would you go? If you try to leave the house, you’ll only raise their suspicions. You were very convincing, Marissa, but if you go back out there and try to brazen it out, you’ll be putting yourself and your son at risk. You’re safer here, in this room with me, than out there.”
The infant’s cries escalated to wails. Marissa attempted to soothe him by rubbing his back but her eyes flashed at Sixer, their depths churning with hatred and fear.
He couldn’t trust her to be rational. The chances were high that she would attempt something reckless. Best to shut down that possibility. “Consider this, Marissa,” he told her. “If you try to run, I will render you unconscious for your own safety, thus leaving your infant in my tender care. So, run or stay? Your choice.”
Her lower lip wobbled. “Stay,” she whispered.
“Very good. And before you attempt to settle the infant, it is my belief that it would benefit you if he continued to cry. Your visitors may be disinclined to re-engage you in conversation if they believe they will be contending with a distressed infant.”
She gulped but nodded. And then she transferred the baby to a forward-facing hold that he obviously didn’t appreciate, because his cries grew louder.
Sixer turned his back on her, and darted another glance through the window at the men below.
All three now stood in a semicircle around the hole. Sixer pulled back, satisfied for the moment that eavesdropping would suffice for his needs.
“Reckon the MILF’s on the level?” he heard Suit Two ask.
Sixer retrieved a translation of the unfamiliar term and found himself unimpressed with the vulgarity. Somehow, he didn’t believe Marissa would be flattered, either.
“Can’t think of any reason she’d make that shit up,” was Digger’s response. “And it’s one hell of a convincing story considering we showed up unannounced. I think she’s on the level.”
“Worth paying the kids a visit, you think?”
Suit One—the leader—answered. “We knew this lead was a long shot, and Mrs Davidson wasn’t faking surprise the hand was missing. We stick to the plan—we can bring her in later if need be. As for the kids, we question them, the parents are bound to get wind of it and start asking awkward questions. Last thing we need is the Feds launching a real investigation and turning the heat on us. We’ve got eyes on the son. Anything changes, we’ll revisit.”
“You got it, boss,” Digger said.
Suit Two responded with a grunt. He would bear watching. In Sixer’s opinion, he would be the most likely member of the trio to break from the plan and do something impulsive, such as snatching a member of the Davidson family.
Behind him, Marissa paced the floor and jiggled the infant, causing his howls to escalate. And only Sixer could hear the muted sobs she tried to suppress.
He regretted her distress, but it was a waste of energy to attempt to reassure her further. He listened intently as the three men strode from the backyard, shutting the gate behind them. He slid his gaze to Marissa, and gave her a thumbs-up gesture. “Stay here until I confirm they’ve left the premises,” he said, and then sprinted for the door.
He sprinted soundlessly through the house, down the stairs, and into the living room, where he concealed himself from view until he’d confirmed the trio had climbed into a vehicle and driven off. Of course, he noted the license plate of the vehicle for future reference. But first things first.
He jogged back upstairs, anticipating the effusive thanks that Marissa Davidson would doubtless wish to heap upon him.
At the threshold of the nursery he paused, frowning. The infant was still wailing but, surprisingly, had been placed back in his crib. And Marissa Davidson was—
Marissa Davidson was currently swinging a baseball bat at his head.
Sixer leaned back. Swift as his reaction had been, the bat still struck him a glancing blow to the chin.
She had excellent aim. He regained his center of balance and lunged, yanking the bat from her grip and tossing it aside. “They’re gone,” he said. “Correct me if I’m mistaken, but I do not believe attempting to take your rescuer’s head off with a baseball bat is the correct way to thank them.”