In Harm's Way (Heroes of Quantico Series, Book 3) (18 page)

Soft color suffused her cheeks, and the hint of a smile softened
her lips. "I'm glad"

He played with her fingers, examining their delicate grace as
he summoned up the courage to continue. "Would you like to
know the story behind it, Rachel?"

His question was met with a moment of silence, followed by
a gentle squeeze of his hand that pulled his gaze back to hers.
Her eyes were warm, inviting, empathetic, and her voice was
husky and not quite steady as she responded. "Very much"

She waited in the silence that followed, giving him space to
gather his thoughts-and his nerve. That was another thing
he liked about her. She didn't push. And she was tuned in to
nuances. He sensed she understood how difficult this was for
him and would give him as much support and encouragement
as she could. Still, this wasn't going to be easy.

"I should warn you that my story isn't pretty, Rachel:"

"I didn't think it was going to be."

He nodded and swallowed. "Okay. I'll give you the abridged
version. Straight up. My father was an out-of-work drunk who
thought the world owed him a living and who vented his anger
and frustration on my mother and me. In an effort to shield me,
she took the brunt of his wrath. I went to sleep most nights curled
into a ball and trying not to cry while I listened to my father yell
at her. Then the abuse would switch from verbal to physical. I
could hear the punches and slaps through the thin walls, and
my mother's sobs as she pleaded with him to stop"

Nick lifted an unsteady hand and wiped it down his face.
"Mom died when I was five. She fell down the basement steps.
An accident, my father told everyone. But I knew different. I
saw him grab her as she started down with a load of laundry.
She tried to pull away, to tell him she had chores to do, and he
said, `Fine. You want to go down the steps? Let me help you.
And then he pushed her" His voice grew raspy, and he sucked
in a harsh breath.

"It's okay, Nick:" Rachel cocooned his hand between hers,
stroking his fingers in a steady, comforting rhythm at odds with
the shakiness in her voice. "Take your time"

He downed a swig of his cold coffee, trying to wash the bitter taste from his mouth. It didn't work. It never did. "He knew I
saw what had happened. He grabbed me and said if I ever told
anyone, he'd take me out some night and drop me off the bridge
into the Detroit River."

At Rachel's gasp, he tightened his grip on her hand and
searched her eyes. "I told you this wasn't pretty."

"I know. It's just hard for me to imagine a father doing such
a thing to his son" Tears laced her words.

"Maybe I should stop"

"No. Please ... tell me the rest"

Her sincerity was impossible to question. She might be disturbed by his story, might prefer not to know any more, but she
had realized that to really understand him, she had to hear it.

The lady had guts. And determination.

More sterling qualities to add to her growing list.

"Okay." He gave a curt nod. "With my mother gone, I became
the target of my father's wrath and bad temper. I tried to stay
out of his way, to do everything he told me to. But I could never
satisfy him. He kept raising the bar until there was no way I could
succeed. I think he got some kind of perverse pleasure from
tormenting me. One of my jobs was to clean the bathroom, and
I remember one night it wasn't good enough. As punishment,
he forced me to scrub the toilet with my toothbrush-and then
brush my teeth"

"Oh, Nick." Distress contorted Rachel's features, and her voice
choked.

He tightened his grip on her hand. "I'll spare you all the other
similar episodes. And the details of the physical abuse, except
to say he put his belt to good use on the parts of my anatomy
that were always covered in public. Until one night, in a fit of
drunken rage over some minor infraction, he began yelling and
pushing me around. The next thing I knew he was chasing me
around the house with a carving knife. I dove under his bed, knowing he couldn't follow. It was too low to the ground. But
he had a long arm. He reached under and started to swing the
knife back and forth. It clipped me before I could get out of the
way. If the neighbors hadn't heard a ruckus and called the police,
I doubt I would have survived the night:'

"Is that when you went into foster care?"

"Yes. The authorities took me away from him that night. My
head healed, but the scar remained-along with all of the invisible scars. For months I struggled with fear and insecurity
and a feeling of unworthiness. I stopped talking and withdrew
into myself. The experts began to think I might have autistic
tendencies.

"But gradually the fear gave way to anger. I became rebellious
and belligerent and obnoxious. One foster family after another
gave up and sent me back into the system. I became a kid without
a country. No home base, no one who cared. That's why I was
such an easy mark for the group of misfits that recruited me.
I would have ended up on the wrong side of the law forever if
Dan Foley hadn't saved me:"

"How did he manage to get through to you?"

"Persistence. Sincerity. Consideration. He was the first person
other than my mother who took a genuine interest in me and
my future. He's also the one who tapped into my talent for carpentry. He used to invite me to his house on Saturdays to help
with chores, on the pretense of letting me earn a few bucks but
in reality to keep an eye on me. The fall we connected, he was
expanding his one-car garage. I discovered I had a natural ability
for that kind of work, and after we finished the project, he got
me involved in building sets for a play at his church. Before I
knew it, I was in the youth group.

"Dan is also the reason I ended up finding God. He was a
devout Christian, and he lived the values of his faith every day.
He went after the kids who needed the most help, and even when they rejected him, he kept trying. I asked him once why he
didn't just give up on the really tough cases, and I never forgot his
answer. He said that if God never gives up on us, if he's always
willing to offer another chance, how could he do any less?"

There was silence for a moment before Rachel spoke.

"What happened to your father, Nick?"

"He went to jail for a while. I didn't keep up with him as a kid.
I was just glad he was out of my life. But I checked as an adult
and found out he died years ago. He fell down a set of stairs in a
drunken stupor. Ironic, isn't it?" His mouth twisted into a brief,
mirthless smile. "I'm ashamed to say I felt a sense of vindication
at the news. Despite my faith, I'm still working on forgiveness.
One of these days I'll get there, with God's help"

"I'm beginning to understand how important your faith is
to you"

He locked gazes with her. "It's the center of my life, Rachel.
My relationship with the Lord is the most incredible gift I've ever
received. The absolute certainty that I'm never truly alone has
gotten me through some very tough spots:" He gave her hand
one final squeeze and released it. "Thank you for listening."

"Thank you for sharing"

He didn't miss her slight wince as she flexed the fingers he'd
been gripping. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She started to pull her hand toward her lap.

"Let me see." He snagged her hand, appalled by the white
ridges crisscrossing the angry red skin. Swallowing past the
lump in his throat, he began to carefully massage away the evidence of his tight grip as he'd clung to her hand while he spoke
of his ugly past. "I'm sorry, Rachel. You should have told me I
was hurting you"

"I didn't even notice"

"My story was that compelling, huh?" He tried to smile.
Failed.

"In a word ... yes. And I'm intrigued by the power of faith in
your life. Plus, the notion of never being alone is very appealing.
I'll tell you what ... if the invitation to attend services is still
open, I'd like to go with you tomorrow"

This time his attempt to smile succeeded. "I'll pick you up at
nine-thirty. And I promise you won't regret it."

Nor would he. A surge of hope lightened his heart as they
both rose to finish clearing the table. Best case, she'd come to
some understanding of the appeal of Christianity. Worst case,
he'd simply bought himself another couple of hours in her company.

As far as he was concerned, it was a win/win situation all
around.

Do something productive.

Nick had been repeating that mantra since he'd arrived at
his office Monday morning, but it wasn't having much effect.
His thoughts kept wandering to his weekend with Rachel.
They'd ended up spending all of Saturday together. Breakfast
had led to a trip to the Missouri Botanical Garden, where
they'd wandered through the tropical Climatron in defiance
of the frigid cold on the other side of the glass sphere. From
there they'd gone to a movie. A cozy pasta dinner on The
Hill, St. Louis's traditional Italian settlement, had concluded
their day.

Leaning back in his chair, he smiled. Sunday had been as
good, if not better. The morning service had been uplifting, and
afterward Rachel had peppered him with questions that suggested she had a sincere interest in learning more. He'd driven
her to the hotel for her piano gig and hung around for scones
and finger sandwiches. Rachel could no longer say she'd never
seen a man come alone to afternoon tea.

He'd gotten nothing done on his house. By his usual measure, that would mean the weekend was a dismal failure. But
his yardstick had changed.

"I see you spent time this weekend with Rachel:"

At Mark's comment, Nick swung toward the door of his cube.
"Have you been doing surveillance on me?"

"No need. That sappy smile on your face says it all:"

Stretching his legs in front of him, Nick clasped his hands
behind his head. No sense denying the obvious. "It was a good
weekend:"

"Get much done on the house?"

"Nope. I had better things to do:"

Mark grinned. "It's about time. One word of advice, though:"
He shot a glance over his shoulder and lowered his voice. "Look
busy. Steve's on the prowl for someone to follow up on some
leads for a Houston case:"

"Thanks for the heads-up:" Nick sat up straighter and rotated
back toward his desk. The last thing he wanted to do was get
stuck conducting dead-end interviews or checking bogus leads
for another office.

Determined to focus, he zipped through his email, printing
out those that were case-related and required follow-up phone
calls to gather additional information. He quickly skimmed
through the Sentinel system and the bureau-wide teletypes,
emails, and intelligence bulletins on high-profile cases; the information from all those databases seldom had much relevance
to his day-to-day work.

The bulletin on the O'Neil kidnapping, however, caught his
eye, and he scanned the update. Still no breaks. After being
snatched seven weeks ago, the five-month-old infant had vanished without a trace. There had been no contact from the
kidnapper and few leads. The Chicago office continued to ask
agents around the country to keep the case top-of-mind, but
after all these weeks Nick knew there was little hope of a happy
outcome. In general, if a kidnapped baby wasn't found in the
first few days, it wasn't found at all.

To delay starting his real work, Nick clicked on the attached
head shot of the infant. Cute baby. Curly reddish hair, big blue
eyes, a happy smile. He couldn't begin to imagine what the
parents were going through.

His finger was poised on the mouse to close the file when the
orange tufts peeking into the bottom of the picture snagged his
attention. They looked like yarn.

The kind used for hair on a Raggedy Ann doll.

Nick leaned closer for a better look, then swiveled in his
chair to check out the doll smiling back at him from the corner
of his cube. Before it had been dragged through dirty slush,
this doll's hair could have been the same color as the yarn in
the photo.

A sudden jolt of adrenaline nudged up his pulse, but he
tamped it down. Millions of kids had Raggedy Ann dolls. Even
if the material he saw in the photo was yarn, and even if it was
attached to a Raggedy Ann doll, there was nothing to connect
the doll in his office with the one in this photo.

Except, perhaps, Rachel's bad vibes.

Another surge of adrenaline shot through him. This one more
difficult to contain.

Yet Emily had offered a perfectly rational explanation for Rachel's response to the doll. One everyone had accepted, including
Rachel. To think her reaction had been triggered by anything
more than a buried memory was nuts.

So how come he wasn't moving on to his real cases?

The answer came to him as he examined the cherubic face of
the infant on his screen. His own childhood had been shattered.
If there was even one chance in a million the doll in his office
had some connection to this baby, a remote possibility it could
provide the heartbroken parents with answers and a resolution,
he had to check it out.