Thin Ice (24 page)

So much for any hope the kidnapper might miss the news.

“I can't stay long.” As he spoke, he moved into the living room and claimed a spot on the couch. “I'm helping Mark out with a gang-related case, and I need to follow up on a lead tonight.”

She sat beside him. “It's after seven.”

“Welcome to life as an FBI agent. Anything else happen since you phoned me about the news crew outside?”

“No.” She twisted her fingers into a tight ball. “I'm assuming the kidnapper has gotten wind of this by now.”

“That would be a safe bet. However, I'm convinced he's too close to the payoff to simply walk away.”

Christy frowned. “And the payoff is . . . ?”

“I wish I knew—but it involves you. At this point I think we can conclude the fire and kidnapping were orchestrated to wreak havoc in your life. He can't be happy Ginny's body was found, and he may lie low for a while to regroup, but I doubt we've heard the last from him. This guy has an agenda.”

Despite the warmth wafting toward her from the fire, the room suddenly felt cold. “Don't you think he'll be a lot more careful now that he knows law enforcement is involved?”

“Yes. But on the plus side, once a story like this breaks, new leads tend to surface. Tips get phoned in to our hotline. Most won't amount to anything, but we only need a couple legit ones to give us some traction.”

“And in the meantime?”

“Starting tomorrow, we'll release new details to the press every day. The existence of the notes, the names of the towns they were mailed from, the description we got from Brenda Rose.
There's no sense keeping any of that under wraps anymore.” He pulled his phone off his belt, scanned it, and frowned. “This is my brother from Walter Reed. Give me a minute.”

As he rose and walked back toward the foyer, Christy scooted closer to the fire, trying to give him some privacy. But though he angled away and spoke in a low voice, bits and pieces of the conversation drifted toward her.

“What are they giving him for that? . . . How long will he be in there? . . . Did you tell Mom and Dad?” Lance ran his fingers through his hair. “Yeah, but not till late Friday . . . Unless you think I should come sooner?”

That didn't sound good.

“That makes sense. You getting any sleep?” A soft chuckle. “That sounds like Mom.” Then he stiffened. “Where'd you hear that? . . . Yeah, it broke here today too . . . Long story . . . Coping.” He dropped his volume a few more decibels. “Very funny.” Christy had a feeling they were talking about her. “Call me with an update early tomorrow . . . Yeah, you too.”

Lance slid the phone onto his belt, waited a moment, and swiveled back to her.

“Is there a problem with your brother?” No sense pretending she hadn't picked up his part of the conversation.

He returned to the couch but didn't sit.

That must mean he was leaving.

She stifled a surge of disappointment.

“He's got an infection in his leg, and his temperature spiked to 104. They moved him into the ICU while they pump him full of antibiotics.”

She rose, once more tempted to walk into his arms—this time to comfort rather than be comforted. Again, she held back. “I'm sorry.”

“Thanks. But he's young and strong. The doctors are hopeful this is nothing more than a slight detour on his road to recov
ery. That's what we're praying for, anyway.” He wiped a hand down his face. The dicey situation with his brother and the kidnapping—not to mention the long hours he'd been putting in on other cases—had chiseled lines beside his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. “By the way, Mac saw the story about Ginny online today while he was surfing the net. I figured it would go national at some point.”

Wonderful.

She wrapped her arms around her body. “What if the press shows up again?”

“Stick with no comment.” He twisted his wrist and frowned at his watch. “I need to run. Will you be all right by yourself?”

No.

She wanted him to stay within arm's reach until they caught this maniac.

But that wasn't going to happen. The man was already stretched too thin, and he had more work to do tonight. She needed to suck it up.

Pasting on a smile, she lifted her chin and tried to look stronger than she felt. “Yes. I have solid doors and first-class locks.”

“But no security system.”

Her smiled dimmed. “I've never needed one.”

You do
now.

He didn't voice that comment, but the sudden thinning of his lips communicated the message loud and clear.

“Keep your cell close at hand. Don't venture into dark parking lots alone. Stay alert in public. And call me if anything—and I mean anything—makes you nervous.”

She gave a mock salute, trying to lighten the suddenly tense atmosphere. “Aye, aye, sir.”

Too bad her quip wavered.

The twin crevices on his brow deepened. For a moment she
thought he was going to comment, but instead he walked toward the door and checked the peephole. “All clear, as far as I can tell.”

Swallowing, she tried to psyche herself up for his departure. “Thanks for stopping by. I know you're busy.”

She expected him to reach for the knob.

Instead, he turned, tugged her close, and wrapped her in his arms. “I know this isn't protocol, but somehow a handshake doesn't seem appropriate.” His husky words were muffled against her hair.

Closing her eyes, she held on tight and inhaled the masculine scent of his aftershave as the steady beat of his heart vibrated beside her ear, beneath the worn leather.

“I wish you didn't have to go.” The admission was out before she could stop it.

“I wish I didn't, either.” Exhaling, he slowly extricated himself. “But I'm only—and always—just a phone call away. Remember that, okay?”

Her breath hitched as he lifted his hand and brushed his thumb across her cheek. “Okay.”

“Lock the door behind me. I'll wait until I hear it click.” With that, he slipped outside.

She did as he'd asked, following his progress down the walk through the peephole's distorted view of the world.

Kind of like the warped way the kidnapper must perceive life.

A shudder rippled through her, the feeling of safety she'd enjoyed in Lance's arms evaporating as fast as breath on a frosty night.

He was convinced she was this sicko's primary target—and more and more, she was finding that difficult to refute.

Yet if that was true . . .

Stomach knotting, she gritted her teeth and accepted the hard reality.

If that was true, Ginny had died because of her.

Collapsing onto the sofa, she dropped her face into her hands.

Dear God, how was she supposed to live with that?

Trust in
the Lord with all your heart.

The line from Proverbs echoed in her mind, and she let it resonate, drawing comfort from the advice. Difficult as it was to follow, she had to believe God saw the big picture. Had to believe that with him, all things were possible.

She also had to trust in Lance and the FBI. They were doing their best to track down the kidnapper, to make sense of events that defied logic. They were pros—and one of these days, they'd find a lead that would put this evil man in their cross hairs.

Until then, she needed to stay calm, be careful—and pray the monster who'd taken her sister's life gave them the time they needed to find that lead.

The boyfriend hadn't stayed long tonight.

Unless he wasn't a boyfriend.

Nathan squinted at the tall guy as he slid into the black Cruze in front of Christy Reed's condo. Could he be a cop?

Except cops didn't get cozy with their customers.

Still . . .

He narrowed his eyes as he studied her closed door. The police wouldn't have been able to identify Ginny Reed's body without DNA samples or dental records. Had Christy gone to the authorities, despite his warning? Told them about the letters and filed a missing person report?

Or was there another explanation for the ID?

Whatever the reason, if the body had waited another week to surface, the ID wouldn't have mattered. His grand scheme would have been completed.

Nathan drummed his fingers on the wheel as the guy pulled away from the curb. Maybe he
was
a cop. After all, he'd only
begun showing up in the past few weeks. Sure, it was possible Christy had simply met someone new, that it was all coincidence—but coincidences were suspicious. Just because this guy didn't dress or act like a cop didn't mean he wasn't one. Appearances and behavior could be deceptive.

He watched the taillights travel down the street. Should he follow?

No. What was the point? Whether or not he was a cop, the police were involved. Either way, he needed to be extra careful going forward.

The taillights disappeared, and Nathan lifted the coffee from the cup holder. Took a sip. Very little buzz remained from the three beers he'd downed in quick succession after storming out of the apartment. Three was the perfect number, enough to take the edge off without muddling his thinking. And he needed clear thinking from here on out, especially with the cops crawling all over this thing.

He took another sip, letting the hot java sluice down and warm his insides. Having cops in the picture wasn't ideal, but he should be fine. There was nothing to tie him to Ginny Reed's death or to her sister. He'd left no tracks. Nor would he. He knew how to be careful.

Juggling the coffee cup, he started the engine. No need to hang around here. Christy was safe for tonight.

But not for much longer.

He put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb. He might have to alter his plans and timing slightly, thanks to this glitch—but the end result would be the same.

Christy Reed would die.

Sooner rather than later.

C
lutching the letter, Mevlida leaned on her walker and peered out the front window of the apartment. Where was the mail carrier? He always delivered to the row of boxes outside their door by one o'clock, and it was already . . . she strained to read the clock on the living room wall . . . one thirty.

She bit her lip. He could have taken the day off—but Thursday was an odd choice for that. Too early for what her grandson called a three-day weekend.

Or maybe he was sick. A lot of people had the flu, according to Neven.

Bad news, either way. The substitutes always came at unpredictable times, often late in the day—after Neven was home. If no one showed up soon, she'd have to wait until tomorrow.

And one more day might be too late.

Her heart skipped a beat. Whatever Neven's plan, he could already be . . .

The familiar red, white, and blue truck turned the corner.

She let out a shaky breath, the envelope crinkling in her fingers. No need to delay after all.

Yet on the heels of relief came panic. Once she gave the man this letter, there was no going back.

But what if she couldn't find the courage to complete the last step?

A shudder quivered through her, and she pulled her sweater tighter against the chilling doubts swirling around her.

What choice did she have, though? She'd examined the options, debated the pros and cons through the long, sleepless night, and this was the best solution. The one she was certain Mihad would have chosen had he been in her place. It would send the message that needed to be sent—and protect her from Neven's wrath.

Yes.

She could do this.

She
would
do this.

Pressing her lips together, she shuffled to the front door. Thank goodness the apartment was on the first floor, near the mail slots for all the units.

As soon as she heard the man approach, she twisted the knob and peeked out.

He looked over and smiled. “Afternoon, ma'am.”

She pulled the door wider, maneuvered her walker halfway out, and lifted the envelope, displaying the address she'd carefully copied from the card tucked in her book of prayers.

“You want to mail that?” He moved closer.

She didn't understand every word, but based on his inflection, she was confident he understood her message.

“Yes.” She held out the envelope.

As he took it, she reached into her pocket, pointed to the empty upper right corner of the envelope, then extended her palm to display a selection of coins.

The man smiled again, his demeanor friendly, his eyes kind as he rooted through the change. After selecting several coins,
he indicated the stamp on one of the envelopes he was delivering, pointed to her envelope, and nodded. “I'll take care of this for you.”

English might be difficult for her, but she was certain he knew what she wanted and would send her letter on its way.

“Tank you.”

“My pleasure. Now you'd better get inside where it's warm. You could catch pneumonia out here.” He did a shooing motion toward the door and playacted a shiver.

Such a nice man, to be concerned about her health.

If only her own grandson was as considerate.

Fighting back tears, she retreated a step. Watched him tuck the envelope into his sack. Hesitated on the threshold.

She could still take the letter back.

Be strong, Mevlida! Make Mihad
proud.

Gripping the handles of the walker, she wrestled down her fear.

The man finished sliding the mail into the slots. “Have a nice day, ma'am.” With a jaunty salute, he turned and walked back to his truck. A few seconds later the red, white, and blue van pulled away from the curb and disappeared around a bend.

It was done.

Mevlida slowly closed the door against the frigid wind—but the cold remained in her heart. Never, in all her seventy-eight years, had her courage been tested in this way. Yes, she and her son and grandson had left everything they'd known behind when they'd escaped to this country—but there had been no choice. Staying in her cherished homeland had no longer been possible. As for all the loved ones she'd lost . . . that, too, had been beyond her control. And living with Neven . . . where else could she have gone, except back to a homeless shelter?

But this decision was hers. A difficult one, yes—but hers.
She had taken the initiative, let her voice be heard. For once, she would not be a victim.

And now it was time for the final step.

A bead of sweat trickled down her temple. The room tilted. Her legs threatened to buckle.

No!

She would not weaken!

This was a matter of life and death.

Tightening her grip on the walker, she lifted her chin and set off down the hall to seal her fate.

Nathan tossed the newspaper on the kitchen table, grabbed a beer, and surveyed the contents of the refrigerator.

Odd.

The old woman hadn't eaten the bowl of chili he'd left her for lunch.

Then again, she'd never been a fan of the bean-based dish.

He opened the freezer and took a quick inventory. She liked the stuffed cabbage rolls in tomato sauce. They reminded her of the sarma she'd enjoyed in the old country. Why not surprise her and heat it up for tonight? It was important to keep her off-balance, throw in enough kindness to give her hope life might get better.

As if.

He pulled out the package, removed the serving container, and threw it in the microwave. What a disgusting dish . . . but he could put up with the smell for one night. Besides, the aroma of the barbecue takeout he'd picked up on the way home would overpower it.

Taking a pull from his beer, he walked down the hall and knocked on her door. “Dinner will be ready in five minutes.”

No response.

The can crinkled beneath his fingers. She knew better than to ignore him.

It was possible she was asleep, though. She took to her bed more often these days, especially since she'd fallen and hurt her ribs. Plus, her hearing was starting to go. Soon he'd have to shout if he wanted to communicate with her.

Another reason to end their arrangement once he was finished with Christy.

He knocked harder. “Wake up in there!”

More silence.

Mashing his lips together, he twisted the knob. This is what he got for showing her some courtesy, for knocking instead of barging in. Well, she'd hear about . . .

As he pushed the door open and took in the scene, the air whooshed out of his lungs.

No!

This couldn't be!

She wouldn't do this to him!

But as the reality sank in, as his fingers tightened on the can and sent a geyser of beer spurting through the tab, as the consequences of her actions began to register, he fumbled for the doorframe to steady himself.

The meek old woman had abandoned him in the end, just like all the others—leaving him with a cluster bomb of trouble.

And unless he did some damage control—fast—his plans for Christy would have to be put on ice.

Perhaps for a very long time.

“I still can't believe you talked me into a second trip out here.” Mark pulled on the same ski hat he'd worn during their previous excursion to the cliffside accident site.

Stifling a yawn, Lance did a U-turn, eased as far off the road
as possible, and put on his flashers. “I didn't exactly have to twist your arm. It was either this or the Monday morning staff meeting. You made the wise choice.” He dropped the keys into the pocket of his jacket and scanned the terrain. “Like I said on the ride down, your idea about something being pulled across the road makes sense. Eye level would be most effective.”

“And you think there would still be some evidence of that months later, as careful as this guy's been to cover his tracks?” Mark sent him a skeptical look.

“It's possible.” Barely.

But they didn't need two naysayers on this reconnaissance mission.

Besides, he hadn't been any more keen to attend a boring meeting than his colleague.

Mark didn't comment on his optimistic response. Instead, he inspected the sides of the deserted road. “Eye level means it had to be tallish and not very heavy or it would have been too difficult to maneuver fast.”

“Right.”

“So you're thinking our guy connected it to a wire or rope and positioned it on one side of the road, then pulled it across from the other side once the car got close.”

The more his colleague talked, the less feasible the idea sounded.

“Maybe.” He sized up the road. There was no place on the minuscule shoulder cliffside to conceal anything large, and the bluff sloped directly up from the tiny shoulder on the other.

But they were here now, and he wasn't leaving without another look.

Turning up the collar of his coat, he gestured to the skid marks in front of them. “Given the narrow road and the lack of traffic, let's assume Christy's father was using his high beams that night. So he's seeing three to four hundred feet ahead at
best. Speed might have been forty, given the darkness and curves. That puts stopping distance at about a hundred and fifty feet, not factoring in brake lag, the time from touching to full depression, lock up, or reduced reaction speed due to age.”

Mark arched an eyebrow. “Do you know those numbers off the top of your head or did you do some homework?”

“I'd like to claim the former—but that would be a lie.”

“An honest man.”

He studied the road again. “I'm estimating the distance from the beginning of the skid marks to the point where the car went over the edge is only about a hundred feet.”

“Meaning the object appeared suddenly, sixty or seventy feet in front of the car, close to the cliff—and our guy hoped Christy's father would fishtail out of control and go over before he could stop.”

“That's my hypothesis.”

“So we need to take a lot closer look at the shoulder for the last eighty or so feet of skid marks.” Mark pushed open his door. “Let's do it.”

Lance stepped out into the blustery wind and called over the roof of the car. “You want to take the cliffside?”

“Sure.” Mark pulled on a pair of gloves.

For the next quarter hour they scrutinized the ground, the bushes, the trees as they paced off the route—and with each minute that ticked by, Lance grew more pessimistic. This had been a long shot from the get-go.

Besides, even if they found some validation for their theory, it wasn't likely to help them ID the perpetrator. At best, it could verify the man had a bigger agenda, that the fire and kidnapping were part of a larger, more diabolical plan. But what they really needed was a solid lead that would help them—

“Lance!”

He stopped and turned. Mark had gotten up close and per
sonal with a cedar tree poking above the cliff, parting the dense boughs to examine the trunk.

Lance crossed the road. “What have you got?”

Keeping the branches spread apart, he backed off and tipped his head.

Lance leaned in closer. “I don't see anyth . . .” A metallic glint caught his eye as Mark gave the tree a slight shake, and he frowned. Looked again. A thin band of some sort of reflective material was tied around the trunk, one loose length fluttering in the breeze. “How did you manage to spot that? And what is it?”

“The wind picked up as I was passing, and I saw the reflection.” Mark caught the loose end of the half-inch-wide shiny strip. “This was peeking out of the branches. A second earlier or later, I'd never have spotted it. It looks like VHS tape to me.”

VHS tape tied to a tree in the middle of nowhere.

This had to be relevant—but how?

Lance stuck his hands on his hips. “You have any idea how this might be related to the case?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Mark let the branches snap back into place and folded his arms. “One night when I was a kid, we were driving home late from some family event. Halfway down our street, my dad slammed on the brakes. I looked out the front window and saw what appeared to be a wire stretched across the road at windshield height. My mom screamed. I remember covering my head. The car skidded. The wire got closer. We passed it—and nothing happened.”