Love Inspired Suspense May 2015 #2 (40 page)

TWO

“C
alm down,” a man said, his warm fingers curved around Laney's wrist. She tried to pull away but couldn't quite find the strength. Her head throbbed, the pungent smell of antiseptic filled her nose, and she couldn't manage to do more than stare into the stranger's dark-lashed blue eyes.

Not the kidnapper's eyes. Not the eyes of his accomplice. She wasn't lying on the pavement in the dark. There was no Jeep. No van. No struggling young girl with terror in her eyes. Nothing but cream-colored walls and white sheets and a man who could have been anyone looking at her expectantly.

“What happened? How did I get here?” she asked, levering up on her elbows, the hospital room too bright, her heart beating an erratic cadence in her chest.

“A couple of joggers found you lying on the sidewalk,” the man responded. “Do you remember anything about tonight?”

Anything?

She remembered
everything
—heading home from Murphy's training session, seeing the girl and the van, struggling and fighting and failing. Again.

“Yes,” she mumbled, willing away nausea and the deep pain of failure.

“Good.” He smiled, his expression changing from harsh and implacable to something that looked like triumph. “That's going to help a lot.”

“Help who?” Because her actions tonight certainly hadn't helped the girl or her family. Overwhelming sadness welled up within her, but Laney forced it back. She had to get a grip on herself. She had no idea how long she'd been unconscious, what had happened to Murphy, or most importantly, if the police even knew a child had been taken.

“I'm Special Agent Grayson DeMarco with the FBI,” the man explained. “I'm hoping you can help with a case I'm working on.”

“I'm not worried about your case, Agent DeMarco. I'm worried about the girl who was kidnapped tonight.” She shoved the sheets off her legs and sat up. Her head swam, the pain behind her eyes nearly blinding her, but she had to get to a phone. She needed to tell Police Chief Kent Andrews what had happened. They needed to start searching immediately if there was any chance to save the child. And there
had
to be a chance.

“The girl
is
my case—and several other children like her,” Agent DeMarco responded. “The local police are at the scene of the kidnapping. They're gathering evidence and doing everything they can to locate her, but she's not the only victim. If you've been watching the local news, you know that.”

Because he seemed to expect a response, Laney nodded, realizing immediately that was a mistake as pain exploded through her temple. Her stomach churned.

“Lie down.” Somehow Agent DeMarco was standing, his hands on her shoulders as he urged her back onto the pillows. “You're not going to do anyone any good if you're unconscious again.” The words were harsh, but his touch was light.

Laney eyed him critically. She'd been working around law enforcement—local as well as Secret Service and DEA—for much of her adult life. She knew how the agencies operated. The FBI wouldn't be called in on an isolated, random child abduction.

“I'm fine,” she muttered, pushing the button on the bed railing until the mattress raised her to a sitting position.

“You came within an inch of dying, Laney. I wouldn't call that fine.” He settled back into the chair, his black tactical pants, T-shirt and jacket making him look more like a mercenary than an officer of the law.

She gingerly fingered a thick bandage that covered her temple and knew Agent DeMarco was right. “Murphy must have thrown his aim off.”

“Murphy is the dog that was found at the scene?”

“Yes, I need to—”

“The local police have him. I was told he was being brought back to the kennel.”

“Told by whom?” she asked. Agent DeMarco was saying all the right things, but she didn't know him, hadn't seen any identification, still wasn't a hundred percent convinced he was who he said he was.

“Chief Kent Andrews. He'll probably be here shortly. He's still overseeing the scene.”

“I'd like to speak with him.” She and Kent went back a couple of years. She often worked with the Maryland State Police K-9 team, correcting training issues with both the dogs and their handlers in an unofficial capacity.

“You will, but I need to ask you a few questions first.”

“How about you show me some ID? Then you can ask your questions.”

* * *

The request didn't surprise Grayson. He'd been told that Laney knew her way around law enforcement and that she wasn't someone who'd blindly follow orders. While working with the state K-9 team as a dog trainer, her skills with animals and the trainees alike had garnered the respect of the police chief and his men. More than that, Grayson got the distinct impression that Kent Andrews really liked Laney as a person and wasn't surprised at all that she would put herself in danger to help another.

“Sure.” Grayson fished his ID out of his pocket, handed it to her.

She studied it, her wavy hair sliding across her cheeks and hiding her expression. She didn't trust him. That much was obvious, but she finally handed the ID back. “What do you want to know?” she asked.

“Everything,” he responded, taking a small notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. “All the details of what happened tonight. What you saw. Who you saw. Don't leave anything out. Even the smallest detail could be important.”

“I was on my way back from Davidsonville Park with Murphy when I saw her.”

“Was she alone?”

“Yes. She was walking by herself. I always hate seeing that. I can't even count the number of kids my team and I have searched for who were out by themselves when they disappeared.” She pinched the bridge of her nose and frowned. “Sorry, I'm getting off track. This headache...” She shook her head slightly and winced.

“Want me to call the nurse and get you something for the pain?” He would, but he didn't want to. He needed her as clear-headed as she could be.

She must have sensed that. She rested her head on the pillow. “That would be nice, but I'm not sure I'll be any good to anyone filled with a bunch of painkillers.”

“Don't suffer for your cause, Laney. If you need pain medication, take it.”

She smiled at that, a real smile that brightened her eyes and somehow made the smattering of freckles on her cheeks and nose more noticeable. She was pretty in a girl-next-door kind of way. He tried to imagine her taking on a guy with a gun. Couldn't quite do it. “I hate taking narcotics,” she muttered. “I'll ask for Tylenol later.”

He wasn't going to argue with her. “You saw the girl walking alone,” he prompted her.

“Yes. I was headed home. A van was coming toward me in the opposite direction. We passed the girl at nearly the same time.”

“Passed her?” He'd assumed she'd driven up as the girl was being abducted.

“Yes. The van made me think of the news reports of other abductions in the area. I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the van U-turn. I did the same.” Laney looked away as if unable to meet his gaze. “Unfortunately, it reached her first. She was texting and didn't even see them coming.”

“Could you see the color of the van?”

“Not initially, but I got a good look at it when I rammed it with my jeep. It was a dark charcoal gray. My front fender probably scraped off some of the paint. It will have a fresh dent on the front passenger side...” Laney's voice faltered.

“Did you see the person who grabbed her? Can you describe him?” he asked, every cell in his body waiting for the answer. If she saw the guy, if she had a description, if there was DNA on the gun, they'd finally have something to go on.

“I had a pretty clear view. There were streetlights and the headlights from my Jeep.”

“Tell me what you remember. Don't hold anything back.” Grayson urged.

“He was about six-foot-one with the build of an ex–football player—beefy but not in great shape anymore. His hair was dark brown and cropped close, like a military cut. He was wearing jeans with a black hooded sweatshirt and black work boots. He had brown eyes and an olive complexion. I saw part of a tattoo on the back of his neck, sticking out from the collar of his sweatshirt, but I didn't get a good look at it.” She paused, frowned. “He wasn't alone. There was another guy in the van. He came out to help. He was shorter—I'd guess about five-foot-ten. Thin—like a runner's build. His hair was light brown, nose slightly crooked. He was the one with the gun.”

Grayson scribbled notes furiously. “What about their ages?”

“Early to mid-thirties. Both of them.”

“Did either speak?”

“Both did, but they didn't call each other by name.”

Too bad. That would have been another lead to follow.

“What about accents?”

“None that I could distinguish.”

“Did the girl seem to know her kidnappers?”

“If she knew them, it didn't show. As far as I could tell, she was an arbitrary target, but the way the van was parked would have made it nearly impossible for anyone on the street to see the kidnappers. It seemed random...but not.”

“How so?”

“Like they were trolling the streets looking for someone, but once they picked a target their actions were deliberate—no hesitation—like they'd done the same thing before. If I hadn't been there, the girl—”

“Olivia Henley. She's thirteen. She was on her way home from her weekly music lesson. Her parents reported her missing shortly after the joggers found you.” He wanted Laney to have a name to go with the face. He wanted her to know that there was a family who was missing a child. Not because he wanted her to feel guilty or obligated, but because he wanted her to understand how serious things were, how imperative it was that she cooperate.

“Olivia,” she repeated quietly. “If I hadn't been there, she would have disappeared, and no one would have known what happened.” She paused, her face so pale, he thought she might lose consciousness again. “If only I had done something differently, maybe she wouldn't have been taken.”

“You did what you could, which is more than most would.”

“But it wasn't enough, was it?” She leveled her gaze at him, surprising him with the depth of anger he saw reflected in her eyes. “That little girl is gone, Agent DeMarco. Her bed will be empty tonight.”

Grayson recognized and understood her frustration. So many children went missing every day, and not all of them would make it home. He knew that better than most. “Not because of you, Laney. Because of the kidnappers.”

“That's no consolation to her parents.” Laney closed her eyes. “I wish I could have saved her.”

“You still might be able to. If you're up to it, I'd like you to meet with a sketch arti—”

“I'm up to it. Let's go.” Before the words were out of her mouth, she was up from bed, the white cotton sheet draped around her shoulders like a cape as she wobbled toward the door, the IV pole trailing along behind her.

“I didn't mean now,” he said, taking three long strides to beat her to the door and slapping his palm against it so that she couldn't open it. “And I didn't mean you should walk out of here with an IV line attached to your arm, either.”

“Then bring the sketch artist here.” She turned to face him, swaying a little in the process. “The sooner you have an image of these guys, the sooner everyone can be on the lookout for them. If you really think Olivia can be saved, there's no time to lose.”

She was right, of course. About all of it. There was only one problem with her plan, and it was a big one.

“We're not bringing the sketch artist here,” he said, leading her back toward the bed. “You'd better lie down before you fall down.”

She dropped into the chair instead, her face ashen, her eyes a dark emerald green against the pallor. “Why
not
bring the sketch artist here?” Her voice had lost some of its strength, but she hadn't lost any of her determination. “We're wasting time talking when we could be—”

“As far as the kidnappers know, you're dead, Laney,” he said, cutting her off.

“What?”

“Dead. Deceased. Gone.”

She rolled her eyes. “I know what you meant, Agent. I want to know
why
they think I'm dead.”

“You were shot. Murphy might have distracted the shooter, but you went down. You were bleeding enough to make anyone think you'd been mortally wounded. The joggers who found you were a couple of teenage girls. They panicked, called 911 and reported a body. No one knows who you are or that you survived except the first responders and the hospital staff treating you, and they've been asked to keep it quiet. As far as the media and the public are concerned, Jane Doe was shot and killed on Ashley Street at approximately seven-thirty this evening. I'd like to keep your identity quiet for as long as possible.”

Laney frowned. “Protecting my identity is the last thing we need to worry about.”

“I disagree.”

“Maybe you should explain why.”

Grayson hesitated. Andrews had assured him that Laney was as good as they came, loyal and trustworthy. Even so, Grayson was reluctant to divulge too much. He was used to working alone. Putting his trust in God and his own abilities above all else. He had this one perfect lead, and he didn't want anything to keep it from panning out. “For now, I need you to trust that I'm making the best decisions I can for you and Olivia.”

“For now,” Laney agreed, struggling to her feet. “But you need to know that I'm not going to spend much time sitting around this hospital room while you make decisions for me. That's not the way I work.”

She jabbed the call button on the bed railing, and he had visions of her walking out of the hospital in the mint-green hospital gown, the bandage on her forehead a glaring testimony to her injury. If the kidnappers were hanging around hoping to hear rumors confirming Jane Doe's death, they might catch a glimpse of Laney and follow her home. That was the last thing Grayson wanted.