Read Twin Threat Christmas Online
Authors: Rachelle McCalla
“It’s over. You’re free now.”
“I’m free.” Vanessa hardly sounded as though she could believe it. “Oh, thank God. I’m free.” She let out a long, shaky sob against his shoulder. “I don’t even know what to do.”
“Well,” Eric reasoned in a careful tone, “we’re going to let your girls know everything is okay. And then, I understand you have a son you probably want to see.”
“Yes. I need to see Sammy
and
Alyssa and make sure they’re both okay. Arthur Sherman said something. Remember, I overheard him talking in Jeff’s office building, something about keeping an eye on my sister and doing a job? But I don’t know what a job is.” She rubbed her eyes, looking exhausted as she tried to recall what she’d overheard.
Eric didn’t like the sound of the phrase any more now than when Vanessa had mentioned it earlier. Were Alyssa and Sammy safe? Suddenly, he wondered if perhaps Vanessa should have called her sister the evening before, too. But now that the monster was caught, Alyssa and the baby should be safe, shouldn’t they? How many arms could one monster have?
From what he’d known of this monster, too many. They needed to make sure Alyssa and Sammy were safe—and they needed to do so soon. “We’ll head over there as soon as we pick up your girls. And then you could probably use some real sleep.”
Vanessa sniffled and leaned back from him just far enough to look him full in the face. “I don’t know. I don’t even know
where
I can sleep. This isn’t my cabin. I don’t have anything. I don’t even know—”
“Vanessa.” He held her upright and leaned his face close to hers. “I know this is soon, and everything has happened really fast, but I want you to know—I’m here for you. I will be at your side as much as you want me there. Anything you need—a place to sleep, help getting your life back in order, whatever it is—I will find a way to make it happen. Unless you don’t want me around.”
“Don’t want you around? Eric, I owe you everything. You caught the man who ruined my life. You risked everything. You’re my only friend—you’re all I have.”
He couldn’t help grinning broadly at her words. “You want me around?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because—I thought about telling you this years ago, but I was just a kid. Then you were gone, and I wasn’t sure I’d ever get to say it to you. But you’re okay, and now I can say it.”
“Say what?”
Eric cleared his throat. “This is almost as terrifying as watching that gunman—” he started to confess, then changed his mind. “No, that was more terrifying. I need to tell you, I have loved you since we were teenagers.”
Vanessa’s mouth dropped open, and she looked at him with something like disbelief. “But I’ve been— I’m not— I’m damaged goods, Eric. I don’t know if you know—”
“I know I love you. I know you’re perfect, no matter what you’ve been through. No matter what those guys did to you—I know this. You’re stronger than they are. They are going to jail, and you are getting your life back. You beat them. And I have nothing but respect and love for you.”
Vanessa closed her eyes and a tear trailed down her cheek.
“That may have been more than you wanted to hear,” he confessed. “I can back off, if you want me to.”
“Don’t back off.” She looked up at him and, to his surprise, planted a kiss on his cheek. “It was exactly what I needed to hear. Thank you.”
Eric turned to face her, his every instinct to press his lips to hers, but after all she’d been through, he wasn’t sure if his kiss would be welcome.
Vanessa opened her mouth slightly, leaned closer, then her eyes widened, her expression questioning.
“I want to kiss you,” Eric confessed in a whisper.
To his surprise, she grinned, then looked around the woods self-consciously. The FBI agent had led Sherman away. He could hear the agents in the cabin’s front yard, but for now, he and Vanessa were still alone in the woods.
“May I?” Eric asked.
Vanessa gave him a look that was simultaneously eager and uncertain. “I’d like that,” she whispered.
He intended the kiss to be little more than a whisper of touch between her lips and his. But as he leaned in cautiously, as though she might break or—more likely—shy away if he moved too quickly, he breathed in the scent of her and felt the warmth of her breath, everything real about her that he’d missed all those years, staring at her picture on the missing-person posters.
He brushed his lips against hers, surprised when she leaned into him, extending the contact. He couldn’t pull away then and wrapped his arms more snugly around her.
The kiss lasted several seconds—far longer than he’d intended. “You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked.
“That,” she whispered, looking up at him with affection, “was good for me. Healing. Therapeutic.”
After fearing she might not welcome his touch, Eric was thrilled to hear the kiss had had the opposite effect. “I would be more than willing to provide more...therapy,” he told her, grinning as he gazed into her eyes.
* * *
“I’d really appreciate that,” Vanessa told him honestly. She couldn’t recall a time when she had ever felt so happy. Certainly not in the past eight years, or really, any time for a long while before that. So much of the spark of her friendship with Eric was still there, but there was a new, exciting chemistry between them she wanted to explore.
Eric beamed at her. “Good. Now, let’s talk to these FBI guys and find out what we need to do so we can get going. We’ve got a family to put back together.”
Vanessa smiled at him, overwhelmed, not just that she was finally free or even that they’d captured the men who’d held her captive for so long, but overwhelmed with affection for Eric and his determination to help her reunite her family. She couldn’t wait to see her girls and baby boy again, or to see her sister.
But she also realized that their family was missing something—something it had never really had. Her kids needed a father. Not a kidnapper who kept them locked in the basement in fear, but a real father. Between the love and determination she saw on Eric’s face and the promise in his words, she couldn’t help hoping that he might be willing to fill that void in their lives, as well.
That was a question that would take time to answer, and she wasn’t about to rush things. So much had happened so quickly, and there were plenty of details to attend to now. But for the first time in a long time, she felt hopeful for the future and excited about the days ahead.
And there was something else, too. Something she needed to say that she’d realized as she’d waited alone at the cabin. “Eric?”
“Yes?”
“I’m grateful for all your help and for your friendship. And I know I’m tired, and I’ve been through things that might make you doubt what I’m about to say, but I’ve also realized life is short, and you never know when you walk out a door if you’ll ever walk in again, if you’ll ever see the people you care about again and get a chance to say how you feel, so I’m going to say it.” She took a long breath and looked into his eyes—eyes full of kindness and affection, an affection she’d craved for so long.
“I love you, too.”
* * * * *
DANGER IN THE MANGER
ONE
A
lyssa Jackson knew all the sounds of the concrete statuary grounds because she’d grown up there, raised in the cottage that sat half-hidden behind the concrete beasts that crowded the yard like a cluster of woodland partygoers, frozen in time.
There was the chugging sound of the mail truck at 4:30—no, 4:45; he must be running late. The smooth purr of the local patrol car that came by every half hour or so from two to ten o’clock, five days a week. Only that one officer seemed to have her road on his loop. Maybe he was scoping out her fountains and lawn ornaments for a gift for his mother. Whatever his reason, he never stopped, and she rarely glanced up at the sound of his engine.
Then a long stretch of silence. No customers, as usual, not for a long time. The sun was almost set when finally, rising above the late-autumn chirrup of grasshoppers, Alyssa heard the all-too-rare sound of a potential customer coming to browse.
This evening it was a crunch of gravel under tires slowing to a stop. Alyssa had learned her response from her grandfather.
Don’t look up.
Don’t make eye contact.
Keep your head down, focused on your work, and only catch a glimpse of them, just in case they look impatient and ready to buy—which almost never happens.
Give them time to browse, then slowly, casually, move in. Don’t scare them off by running up and trying too hard to sell anything. These statues may be your livelihood, but they are also your art, part of your soul. Don’t seem overeager to part with them. Bargain hunters can taste desperation, and there’s no sense losing money on a sale, no matter how overdue the utility bill.
The sound of a car door was followed by a shuffle of footsteps—not the sound of approach. Whoever had pulled up was lingering near their car.
Alyssa went inside. This customer might be shy, might want a few moments to browse completely alone. Anyway, Alyssa had the windows open to let in the rare warmth of late October. She could hear if the customer needed anything, and she had work to do inside, too.
Footsteps. More footsteps, faster ones now. Then the car door again. They were leaving?
That was fast. Maybe too fast. Alyssa darted outside and saw a dark SUV down the street. It wasn’t the hooligans again, here to steal the little lambs from her manger scene right out from under the watchful concrete gazes of Mary and Joseph, was it? They’d only ever come at night before, but it was getting on toward evening now. Maybe she could finally catch them.
Alyssa grabbed her phone from her pocket.
If it was the hooligans, she didn’t want them to have a chance to get away. She’d lost too many valuable statues to their antics. She punched in 911 as she turned toward the door.
A new sound wafted through the evening air.
A crying baby? That was a sound she didn’t often hear.
Alyssa froze, one finger poised above the send button. The patrol car had just swung by not five minutes before. If he hurried, he could be back in a minute or two. This might be her only chance to catch the louts who’d been stealing her statues.
She heard the cry again. The sound completely threw her, coming, as it did, from where Mary and Joseph stood guard over the concrete manger. For an instant, she couldn’t imagine why that sound would be in her yard at all.
Then she remembered an old email-forward warning. It was old, old news and so silly she’d hardly paid it any heed. Attackers—thieves, kidnappers, would-be rapists—would place a tape recording of a baby crying outside a single woman’s home to lure her out, alone.
Were they trying that trick on her?
Alyssa pressed Send. Hooligans or would-be rapists, it didn’t matter. The police should come, either way. She hoped they’d hurry. The crying-baby sound was unnerving. It sounded so real.
* * *
Chris flipped a tight U-turn in the middle of the street. He switched his flashing lights on to speed back to the concrete-statuary business.
Finally, an opportunity to check the place out. He’d kept it in his sights ever since the first report from the national wire. Drug residues in broken concrete statuary—but nobody knew the source. It looked like that local girl Alyssa Jackson’s work. He’d never understood how she made a living off her business, but that hunch alone wasn’t enough to warrant taking a closer look. It was just enough to keep him driving by on his regular patrol circuit in hopes that someday he might see something conclusive.
The dispatcher’s words were confusing, though. Something about hooligans, missing statues and a crying baby? It was the baby part that seemed weirdest to him, but he’d know in a few short minutes what that was about.
He made the last corner onto the long, semirural road on the edge of town and immediately saw the clusters of concrete figures that cluttered the sale yard. There were no vehicles nearby, just a Toyota Sequoia driving down the road, almost out of sight.
As Chris pulled into the gravel parking area, he saw a woman standing among the concrete statues in the yard.
Alyssa Jackson. Chris didn’t actually know her. He only knew of her. She was the twin sister of that girl who’d gone missing right after he started work on the local police force. Vanessa Jackson. Chris would never forget her name or her face. She’d been the first big case he’d ever dealt with after joining the department, though as the junior member of the department, he hadn’t been allowed to do more than support the work of those assigned to the case. Vanessa’s sudden disappearance was still unsolved, and her pretty smile haunted him from the missing-person posters that had long ago been shoved to the back of the file drawers.
The sisters were supposedly identical twins, but while Vanessa had been unusually pretty, Alyssa was plain. The face that peered out from behind the screen door was devoid of makeup. Her dark hair was pulled back into a haphazard ponytail, and a couple of dusty smudges highlighted one cheek.
Chris threw the car into Park and hopped out. As he approached from across the far end of the half acre of concrete display yard, Alyssa weaved a path through the statues, going around the front of the house toward a pair of human figures whose gray faces bent nearly together.
Mary and Joseph. Chris recognized the nativity scene and trotted closer, leapfrogging a series of lawn toads and circling wide of a lineup of cast deer, a strange noise carrying through the evening air
Was that a baby crying? The sound seemed out of place, but the dispatcher had said something about a baby.
Chris reached Alyssa just as she bent her head over the manger, reaching for the bundle nestled amid the concrete hay.
“It
is
a baby,” Alyssa murmured. She glanced back at Chris, her face full of confusion and wonder.
“A baby?” he repeated, though he was close enough now to see the child clearly. He looked around for any sign of the hooligans the dispatcher had also mentioned, but there was no one. The SUV he’d spotted in the distance was long gone, and Chris realized with regret he hadn’t thought to note the plates.
“Whose baby?” he asked.
Alyssa only shook her head and fumbled with the latch that kept the baby buckled into the car seat that sat, safe and secure, in the deep well of the manger. The buckle snapped open, and she slid the straps from the infant’s shoulders.
As she did so, Chris spotted writing on the front of the child’s shirt. It looked like words, hastily scrawled with a marker on the cotton knit that stretched across the drum of the baby’s full tummy.
“What does that say?” He took a step closer and reached for the baby as Alyssa carefully lifted the crying child from the seat.
“I don’t know.” Alyssa held the baby awkwardly, clearly unused to handling infants. She glanced about a second, then perched on the edge of the manger, propping the baby on her lap.
Chris was no expert on babies, but he had helped out quite a bit with his nieces and nephews while his brother-in-law was deployed in the army. This kid looked to be a little under a year old, maybe nine or ten months. Strong enough to sit upright on Alyssa’s lap as she eased back the little jacket that obscured the message on his shirt.
Crouching in front of them, Chris held the shirt flat enough to read the words.
A DNA test will prove this is Alyssa Jackson’s son.
* * *
He read the message out loud, then looked up at Alyssa.
Her brown eyes widened.
“I don’t—” she started, then blinked and held the baby backward at a slight angle, staring into his face, her expression incredulous. She squinted at his face, then looked up and all around, as though half expecting someone to appear from behind a statue.
Chris took in everything, the messages sharply conflicting. Alyssa didn’t appear to know how to hold the child. She didn’t seem familiar with him at all. Nor did her slim, wiry figure at all resemble the post-baby pudginess his sister had fought back for years before regaining something of her prebaby figure. Not that all women gained weight after having a baby, but still, Alyssa simply didn’t look or act like a mother.
Moisture sprang to Alyssa’s eyes, but she pinched her lids shut, pulled the baby close to her chest and planted her lips against the downy softness of his fuzzy head.
Unsure what to make of this call, Chris rocked back on his heels. Whatever his hopes of finding evidence of drug smuggling, they took second place to this strange case. The woman before him held the baby close, and the child’s cries stilled. The baby reached for a lock of her hair and pulled her ponytail into worse lopsidedness, but Alyssa didn’t even open her eyes.
Chris looked around. There was still no sign of anyone else nearby. Mary and Joseph looked blankly down at the scene in the manger, their faces frozen in blissful serenity, as though they were pleased with what had just unfolded. Chris didn’t feel nearly so joyful about it.
“Is this baby your son?” he asked, though he felt certain of the answer. He’d been driving by this place for over a year. Alyssa Jackson had never looked pregnant. She’d never stopped lugging heavy statues and bags of cement mix around, as a pregnant woman probably should have when her due date neared and after giving birth. He’d never seen any sign of a baby around here before, and he felt certain he’d have recognized her name had it appeared in the births section of the local paper.
Alyssa opened her eyes but didn’t take them off the baby. She stared at his face in silence for a moment. The little boy’s eyes watched her in wonder. She offered the baby a tentative smile.
He returned a smile that was equally unsure.
The two seemed to appraise one another.
No, this wasn’t a meeting of two familiars, but a first-time introduction. Chris could feel it, would testify to it under oath if he was ever called to do so.
Alyssa didn’t take her eyes off the baby. Her smile grew. “A DNA test will say this is my son.”