Ransomed Dreams (6 page)

Things with Beth had been rocky since the accident. After counseling pushed her past the initial grief, Gracie had chosen to cling to God and her parents’ teaching. But Beth had taken the loss of her godchildren and namesake and run from faith of any kind.

She’d run all the way to California, following a man Gracie still despised.

“To what do I owe this out-of-the-blue call?”

Sarcasm or surprise. Gracie couldn’t tell. “Because I miss you, Beth. And because I have news about your ‘guy magnet’ car.” That’d get her hopeless romantic of a sister talking.

Beth gasped. “You’re dating again? Who-boy did the cows all come home or what?”

Gracie smiled and flopped onto her just-made bed. California may have claimed her sister as a resident, but nothing could completely remove the Georgia roots, even if none of them had “true Southern” accents. A fact that disappointed her first graders when they learned she was born in the “Deep South,” but after too many military moves, she sounded like a Yankee. No
Gone with the Wind
hoopskirts either.

“The cows on the old Ames’s farm did come home, believe it or not.”

“Whatever. That old man is crazy for pretending he still lives in the country with his cow and his pig and his three-legged hound dog.”

They laughed. And a few drips of the iceberg years melted in the warmth.

“So what’s his name?” Beth flicked off the background noise of some British sitcom. “The boys are napping and Dennis won’t be home ’til way late.”

Dennis, her not exactly brother-in-law, whose political aspirations included legalizing marijuana. But only after he made a million as a pharmaceutical rep. At least he and Beth had talked about marriage after Peter and Rob were born. Gracie would ask Mom about the latest tonight. No use going there with Beth yet.

“His name is Steven Kessler, but we’re not dating.”

“That’s no fun. Why not?”

“He hasn’t asked yet.”

Beth laughed. “So why don’t you? This isn’t the 1950s, you know.”

How could she explain that she wasn’t really ready to date but wanted to return to their teen camaraderie of gushing over
childhood crushes? “He’s tall. Light brown hair and blue eyes. Wears an FBI badge.”

“Ohhh, cool.” That last bit hooked Beth. “It was the Jeep Wrangler, wasn’t it? He saw you cruisin’, pulled you over, and couldn’t take his eyes off of you. Right? Please tell me it was some romantic meeting like that.”

“You watch too many soap operas.”

“Nope, I’m composing scenarios in my head as I chase the dynamic duo around.”

Gracie hadn’t yet seen her nephews, but she’d seen pictures of the toddlers. They had her sister’s strawberry blond locks and brown eyes. Her arms ached to hold them. To again hold a baby that shared her blood.

Her flat stomach ached too. She rubbed the empty place under her flag T-shirt. Pregnancy might not be wine and roses, but she loved being a mom. Wanted that title again. Longed to hold a wiggly little baby who clasped a tiny hand around her finger for all it was worth.

Someday.

“Hey I have an idea. Why don’t you ask Mr. FBI Supersleuth to help you find out who killed your family?”

Beth was nothing if not direct. Maybe this was another olive branch like the car, but Gracie didn’t know if she should go down that path or not. What could it hurt, though? “I might do that. Especially since the police here are too busy to give much time to my case.”

“You gonna keep hounding the cops in Atlanta?”

Gracie sighed. “Probably not. I’m thinking of heading back to DC the end of the month but playing tourist downtown until then.”

“Mom will like that.”

Gracie looked out her blue and white drapes into the clear July sky “I miss you, Beth. Sure wish we lived closer.”

“Me too. I’m glad you called.” The loud noise of a slamming door filled the phone line. “I’d better run. The dynamic duo has awakened and escaped their cribs.”

“I’ll call again soon.”

“Good. And call that handsome FBI guy. I need some vicarious testosterone excitement without diapers and bills to pay.”

As Gracie hung up the phone, a new idea took root. She remembered Steven’s sad eyes as he and his son left Hope Ridge back in June. Maybe he needed a friend too. And his job as a federal agent could prove helpful to her search.

Even if talking to him came to nothing, at least the possibility had given her an inroad into her sister’s heart once more. And that was a place she wanted to be again.

Deep in the heart of her family.

He’d spent a month casing his old college haunts.

Georgia State hadn’t changed much in the two years he’d been in DC. Five long years he’d slogged at this institution for higher learning. Mother Dear had been proud of his MBA with honors and his appointment by her snooty school board to the job of vice principal at her highbrow school.

She didn’t know about the drinking.

Or the DUIs he and his fraternity buddies had narrowly escaped.

Or the accident.

Tom rubbed his brown beard and looked into the rearview mirror. The past should stay in the past. Right where he intended to keep it.

Even his old girlfriend, who still worked in admissions, hadn’t recognized him. Or she’d have slapped him. Hard. Like the last time they talked. The day after her obstetrics appointment when he questioned whether her positive pregnancy test was his concern.

Kimberly still looked good. Slender and young. Not married either.

He took a swig of his Starbuck’s iced frappe. No use wasting good coffee while waiting across the street from Gwinnett
County police headquarters. Gracie Lang shouldn’t be in there much longer.

Far as he could tell, her quest had turned up dead ends. So today’s visit must be to say good-bye. At least Tom hoped that was what her bringing a cake to the station had meant.

He’d snoop through her e-mails later tonight to make sure. A gold mine he’d found from prowling around Georgia State. Meeting with an old frat-budd-turned-computer-instructor and laying on a thick sob story provided the wealth of information he’d needed to tap into Gracie’s ISP With a quick trip to the electronics store, he was in business. And with paying cash, they didn’t care to learn his name or anything else.

He loved technology. And all the information money could buy.

Gracie exited the police station without wet cheeks this time. His top-dollar binoculars gave him a sharp picture of her peaches-and-cream face.

His coffee gone, he decided to follow her home once again. Then he’d head back to DC, mission accomplished.

Gracie had found nothing. And once she settled back into DC life, he could keep an eye on her from the comfort of his office desk chair. Far away from her stupid, too-observant dog.

He’d invent extra work for her to do if the sleuthing bug bit her again. He’d dream up ways to scare her if that didn’t work.

Or worse.

He had all sorts of ideas and lots of time to perfect them. But that didn’t matter. For now, the past was safe.

As long as her search ended here.

N
auseating described the Baltimore club scene before him.

Pulsating strobe lights distorted the two giggling girls flitting round and irritated Gordon’s throbbing temples. As did the smell of sweltering bodies dancing to American “oldies.” The late July heat ramped up the displeasure of his chosen assignment.

Olivia Kensington. Daughter of his brother’s killer.

While he kept vigilant watch, he drank his bitter with the chill off. Just like home.

Olivia and her seventeen-year-old American friend wouldn’t even use the lavatory without hooking arms. Interesting turn of events that fact could bring.

Almost time to play American and dumb down his language. Something he had to do many a day he spent slaving for. The Regiment. Something his sister, Charlotte, did with ease, living in this uncultured pastureland.

He rang his sister to reestablish specifics. “Petrol up, my dear?”

“Stop it, Gordon. And yes, everything is as you requested.”

A loud wail split his eardrum. “Little one’s not happy trapped in his pram?”

“He’s like Harry always moving.” Charlotte’s words drove his cause. “If you plan to stay out of prison this time, dear brother, I suggest altering your word usage.”

He looked like an American; now he needed to sound like one. No need to rouse suspicions. Though he doubted the estimable Sir Walter Kensington even knew his name.

Or his brother’s.

Intelligence officers were a dime a dozen to the Crown. That’s what Harry had said in their last row on the phone. Too little evidence to send Sir Walter Kensington to jail. Not enough blood to return his brother to him.

Harry’s blood had been spent for the corrupt ambassador. Now Sir Kensington’s daughter would be returned to him in like manner.

“Remind me again why there’s no security for the young beauty queens?” Gordon watched for his moment, when they were too tired to fight and too intoxicated to know the difference. Piece of American cake.

“They’ve outgrown bodyguards. At seventeen, unless there’s a threat, they are on their own.”

“Good for us.”

“Good for you. I’m not laying a hand on those children. I’ll do my part at the embassy.” She huffed into his ear. “I never approved of your gray ways, Gordon. And I don’t still. But Harry’s fresh in his grave, and the ambassador’s got to be stopped.”

“Always loyal to home, eh?”

“Americans believe loyalty is paramount.”

“Be loyal to me, Charlotte. You’ve little else left and no mum to run home to.”

“Be done soon and go home, Gordon.”

He shut the phone and considered his approach. Should he offer to buy Olivia a drink? He shook his head and watched the two recent high school graduates dance the Electric Slide. They were sloshed already and Olivia and her friend, Jordan, were far too young for his nearly forty years. Socializing wouldn’t appear proper. All business was right on.

He straightened his black suit and tie. A regular Secret Service bloke—he stopped himself. Even his thoughts had to be American.

A regular Secret Service agent if there was one. Drinking-up
time for Sir Walter Kensington’s eldest had come.

Weaving through a sea of gyrating bodies, he found his mark at the edge of the mass. “Miss Kensington?” Gordon grabbed her elbow and directed her toward the back door. Jordan followed as predicted. “Your father felt midnight was late enough for your party. It’s time to return home.”

Both teens, dressed in similar black-and-white minis and halter tops, pouted as they moved through the crowd surrounding the dance floor.

“When’s your dad going to figure out all the good stuff happens after midnight?” Jordan drew her overly painted red lips down and huffed her bangs out of her eyes.

Relief that he had no bratty offspring filled him. “Right this way, ladies.”

Jordan covered her red cheeks with matching manicured nails as her eyes grew wide. “Livvie! How’d your dad find out about our fake IDs? He’s gonna kill you and me too.”

“Hush, Jordie.”

They slipped out of the blustering dance club without further chatter and didn’t arouse a bit of suspicion. He even held the door open for them.

The back alley devoid of any cars or bodies, felt muggier than the dance club.

Olivia blinked as the sound and smell of the nightclub was silenced with the clank of the heavy metal back door. “You don’t … look … like …” The woozy youth cleared her throat and stiffened. “You’re not … part of our regular detail. What’s your name? I mean, who are you?”

Gordon broke into a grin. Which passport ID to choose? He had to match the dye job and contacts. “Harry Smith. Now if you’ll step across the way our car awaits.”

Jordon stumbled over a stray glass bottle. “We don’t go out the back way anymore.” She waved a hand in front of her nose. “Besides, it stinks out here.”

Gordon gave the little snot a push as she fell into the backseat
of his rented limo, which was far too easy to land without much of a background check.

Jordan reached out and jerked Olivia’s arm to follow her into the car.

A lanky teen tripped out the club’s back door. “Hey, mister, where are you taking my date?”

Gordon lowered Olivia’s head and thrust her into the car next to Jordon, locking the door with a button’s click. Their giggles ended as they watched out the tinted window.

The boy kept walking toward them. As he scanned the license plate, Gordon knew options were limited.

He pulled his silenced Glock 17 and aimed true.

Jordan screamed. He turned back to the car, and Olivia’s wide eyes searched his face.

The young fool never knew what hit him.

But these two girls would if they didn’t cooperate.

Gordon opened the door, blocking any escape attempt with his body “Give me your purses. Now.”

The two birds turned over their shiny treasures with quivering hands.

Gordon slapped cuffs on both their wrists. All remained quiet as he settled into the driver’s side and pointed the black car into traffic. Before they reached the expressway he threw Jordan’s purse out the window. Clue number one would take federal agents weeks to trace, buying him ample time for step two.

But Olivia’s purse had a message to deliver.

His calling card of sorts.

Right up to the British embassy front door.

T
here a reason you won’t talk about Ryan’s funeral?”

Clint Rollins leaned on the partition and watched his long-time best friend stiffen like a poker. No matter. Steven needed to talk, or he’d be back like he was when Angela left. Clint had given his partner over a month to process Ryan’s death his way. It was time.

“It took all I had to look Ryan’s parents in the eyes.” Steven kept clicking away at his keyboard. “Besides, what good does it do to rehash it? Doesn’t help.”

“Neither does stuffing it.”

Steven looked up at him. “You’re an old mother hen.”

“And a darn good-lookin’ one at that.” He pulled his desk chair near Steven’s and sat down. “I figure pushing you might backfire, but it’s better than watching you close in like you did five years ago.”