Authors: Erin Quinn
He slammed a fist into the wall. “NO!” He pounded again. “NO! I’ll kill her! I’m going to kill her!”
“Give it up. You can’t get away. Not with the girl. Let her go and you stand a chance. Let her go, DC.”
He stared at them for a long minute, his gaze taking in each detail of Jessica’s pale face before switching to Christie, searching for her plan with the high-beam intensity of a prison light. Christie watched as emotions seemed to war on his features. Indecision, resolve, black rage, inconsolable self-pity. The expressions flew in and out of focus before one stuck.
Impaled by the clear cruelty in his eyes, Christie knew that whatever piece of DC she might once have been able to reach was gone. His brain had gone into overload, sizzling components, frying transistors, melting everything into one smoldering hunk of brutality.
“Do you think I don’t know?” he yelled, making Christie and Jessica both jump. Christie shifted her body closer to Jessica’s, acting, without thought, as a human shield to DC’s monstrous wrath. The girl’s small hands clenched her arm.
“Let us go, DC. It’s your only chance.”
A sheen of sweat glistened over his face and ringed his armpits like a brand of ownership, its sour scent cloying in the tight quarters. His suspicious glare darted around the room, lingering on the window. His fingers danced against his thigh, popping, snapping, clenching into tight, fierce fists.
“You think I don’t know what you’re trying to do?” he demanded.
He sounded somehow childish, brandishing his anger like an armor against the unknown. But the child in DC was imprisoned by the body of a cold-blooded murderer.
Christie could see no escape for any of them.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sam felt the darkness pressing against his eyelids and puzzled at it for one hazy second before his memory rushed over him, sucking him up like a wave full of gritty sand and spewing him ashore.
Christie.
He sat up too quickly. The blood pounded at his temples and blackness swam behind his eyes. No, he wouldn’t pass out. The ebony wave retreated to the edges of his consciousness.
Sam eased himself to his feet, swaying like a drunk toward the gaping door of his office. He squinted in the bright light, afraid to look in case he saw her body abandoned in the mess. Relieved, he reached for the phone, the decision to place an anonymous call to the cops already made. If he identified himself, the police would want him to wait around and answer their questions. He didn’t have time for that. He had to get Christie before DC killed her.
He thought of the cop who had visited Christie, Mike Simens. His number was in her purse. Sam found it quickly and dialed, waiting impatiently while the seconds ticked like long, agonizing hours, each one possibly the last that Christie would survive. In moments, Simens answered and, talking fast, Sam filled him in.
“How long ago?” Simens asked.
Sam peered at the shattered face of his watch. “I don’t know—maybe ten minutes ago. He knocked me out, cold. When I came to they were gone.”
“Where are you?”
“Padre Trails, but don’t bother to come here. I’m not hanging around. I’ve got to talk to someone who might know where he’s taken her.”
“Did he say anything about the little girl? Jessica?”
“No, but I’d lay money he’s your guy. He’s got some kind of black market scam going on. Check out the house on Mesa Ridge. I don’t think he’d go there, but—”
“I know the house. I’ll get someone on it right away.”
“Another thing, Mike. I didn’t call the cops—”
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. Where are you going?”
“To see a lawyer.”
“I’ll meet—”
“No, you go see DC’s old boss, Beth McClain.” Sam gave him her business address. “I don’t know where she lives—”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get it when I call the station and brief them. If you find anything out, call Jackson at the station and tell him. I’ll check in with him after I speak with the McClain woman.”
“Got it.”
Sam hung up and grabbed his gun from the locked supply cabinet, cursing himself for not having done it first thing. The pounding in his head beat to the rhythm of his feet against the uneven ground as he raced to the car. His tennis shoes sloshed, making sucking noises with each frenzied step.
He was on the road in seconds, shaky and numb from the pain in his ribs and the jarring agony that used to be his jaw.
Pfeiffer lived in a luxury condominium complex off Friars Road, not far from the golf course. Sam squealed into the parking lot and raced on foot to the security door.
He thumbed the door buzzer down and held it for the count of five.
A voice box showered him with white noise and then Pfeiffer answered, “Yes?”
“Pfeiffer? Sam McCoy—”
The static interrupted him seconds before Pfeiffer’s voice.
“I have nothing to say to you,” he said in a cold tone.
“Too bad, because I’ve got a hell of a lot to say to you. DC just kidnapped my wife. Either you give me some answers or I talk to the cops about what you and Beth McClain have been up to.”
More white noise that grated against Sam’s nerves. He buzzed again. “Pfeiffer! Goddammit, he’ll kill her.”
Another pause and then the door buzzed. “Third floor, 302.”
Sam punched the elevator button, waited two seconds, then vaulted up the stairs, taking them two at a time until he stumbled, whacking his head against the concrete. He felt the
whoosh
of the blackout covering him in its blanket again, and then he was on his feet, pushing it back.
Pfeiffer waited in his open door, barefoot, and looking as if he’d been sleeping between his mattress and box springs. His hair stood up in perfect forty-five degree angles to his head and his worn sweats were twisted and wrinkled.
His eyes widened when he saw Sam, bloody, wet, and smelling of pond water. He sputtered uselessly as Sam brushed passed him and marched inside. Pfeiffer’s place had a temporary feel to it—as if the occupant didn’t plan to be around long enough to bother with pictures or knickknacks. Or maybe they’d all been packed away in anticipation of a hasty disappearance.
A kitchen counter doubled as a bar and Sam made his way straight to it, gripping the edge as another tidal wave of unconsciousness played chicken with his equilibrium.
“You’re bleeding,” Pfeiffer said, pointing as if Sam would need the guidance to locate the blood.
“I’m goddamn dying, asshole.”
Decanters of liquor lined the bar like soldiers in formation. Sam flipped a matching glass right side up and poured from the first one his hand touched.
“Help yourself to a drink,” Pfeiffer said resentfully.
Sam sloshed some more into a second glass and passed it to the attorney.
He shook his head but reached for it anyway. “I don’t care for bourbon.”
Neither did Sam, but its warmth traveled through him, chasing back the pain, stinging his brain into gear. He sucked air through his teeth, biting down on the screaming raw nerves that reported from every bone in his mangled body.
“Where did he take her?” Sam demanded.
“I don’t know.”
Sam gave him a look that bordered on physical violence.
“I’m telling the truth! I don’t know.”
Sam slammed his glass on the counter, pacing his words for the ultimate impact. “Let me tell you what I know. How about I start with black market babies?”
“I’d be fascinated to hear what you have to say, of course, but I don’t see how it pertains to me.”
“You don’t? I traced the house in La Jolla back to its original owners, Leonard. I’m sure you remember the McClowskys. They remember you.”
Pfeiffer took a swig from his glass. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, McCoy, but I’d have to check my files. I have many clients—”
“That’s not what Beth McClain tells me.”
“What?”
“Beth said she was your only client and you were her only attorney. Intimate relationship. She said she keeps you busy with her business.”
Pfeiffer cleared his throat. “I have handled many of her adoptions, but I assure you—”
“All of them, according to Beth,” Sam bluffed. “Even the ones that had to be done in the middle of the night.”
Pfeiffer paled and emptied his glass.
“Where’d he take her, Leonard?”
“I told you, I don’t know. Why don’t you ask Beth?”
“The cops are on the way there now.”
Pfeiffer winced at this news. Sam pressed on.
“Why do you think Beth would know where DC took Christie? Would he go to her for help?”
Pfeiffer began to bounce on the balls of his feet. His hands searched his pocketless sweats for someplace to hide before he gave up and crossed his arms, stuffing his trembling fingers under his armpits.
“I didn’t say she would help him.”
“You’re a lousy liar, Pfeiffer. How’d you ever make it as a lawyer? Why would Beth help DC Porter?”
Pfeiffer sank to the couch behind him, rubbing his hands over the thick shadow of his beard. It rasped in the electric silence.
“You can tell me now or wait for the cops. It’s all going to come out anyway. Either you fill me in on what the hell’s going on, or you keep it to yourself and become an accessory to Christie’s murder. Probably Jessica Jordan’s too.”
Just saying the words put a painful lump in Sam’s throat. He wanted to reach across the room and choke the life out of Pfeiffer, as he should have done to DC. His only chance of finding Christie, though, was in finding the facts and following them. Like it or not, Leonard Pfeiffer was his one source at this point.
“Who are you protecting, Leonard? I hope it’s not Beth, because she already spilled her guts about you.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Am I? Take a good look at me, Leonard. Do I look like I’m bluffing?”
Sam could see his own reflection in the window behind Pfeiffer. Dried blood caked around his ears and hair, its smear tinting his skin a rusted shade. His clothes clung to his body, still uncomfortably damp and slimy feeling. A fierce light gleamed in his eyes and he aimed his glare at Pfeiffer. The taut silence stretched for another moment before the lawyer spoke.
“Beth is DC’s mother.”
“What?”
Pfeiffer held out his glass and Sam refilled it, leaving his own glass, still half-full, on the counter.
“It’s a long story, and I don’t know all of it, but Beth gave DC up when he was a child. Later, he came looking for her.”
“When?”
“Fifteen years ago.”
“I don’t give a damn about fifteen years ago, Pfeiffer. I want to know where DC’s taken Christie tonight.”
“I’m telling you everything I know.”
“Okay. She dumped him—he came back. Why?”
“Revenge? Money? Who knows why DC does anything?”
“Why would he want revenge?”
The lawyer shrugged. “He claimed to have been abused by his foster family.”
“Claimed?”
“Beth never believed him.”
“She sounds like a caring mother. How about you? Do you believe him?”
Pfeiffer sipped at his drink and then, as if making some monumental decision, he gulped down the rest.
“Yeah,” he said. “I believed him. He’s not normal. Something had to make him that way.”
“What did Beth do when he came back?”
“She was just starting her business. Things weren’t going well. Her first adoption fell through. The second baby died in delivery. She was broke and desperate….”
“So she started stealing babies?”
A sweat had formed on Pfeiffer’s face, giving it a shine, like a glazed donut.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about now. You’d have to ask—”
Sam crossed the room, pressing his face close to Pfeiffer’s. The smaller man smelled fusty, like a damp cloth that had been forgotten under a rock. He cowered back, cringing from the coldness in Sam’s face.
“I thought they were legal,” Pfeiffer blurted out. “I swear, I thought they were legal.”
“So you were a victim. Is that the way you want it to read? Keep talking. Who set who up? Did Beth talk DC into it, or the other way around?”
“I never knew. In some ways, they’re a lot alike. I’d say it’s a fifty-fifty bet either way.”
Sam nodded. “Once you figured out what was going on, why didn’t you get out? Report it to the cops?”
“I’d already involved myself.”
“Bullshit. You could have turned her in and not been incriminated.”
“By then she was my only client and I needed her.”
“So you did it for the money. You’re in deep shit, Pfeiffer.”
“It wasn’t just that.”
“Then suppose you tell me what it was?”
“I did a couple of adoptions. The first was a Hispanic infant girl that went to a couple in New York. The second one was also Hispanic, a boy that Beth adopted.”
“Beth stole her own son?”
Jesus this is nuts.
Sam checked his watch, wishing he could hold the passing seconds back, but they ticked by without regard to his feelings. He looked up, glaring at Pfeiffer, who began to talk faster.
“Beth couldn’t have children. She damaged herself while trying to abort DC. She’d never told her husband about DC and didn’t think he’d understand.”
“I wonder why,” Sam said sarcastically.
“He’s a doctor,” Pfeiffer said, as if explaining that a businessman might have understood.
“How do you
know all this?”
“I had an affair with her.”
A disbelieving curse slipped past Sam’s swollen lip. “Had?
When did it end?”
“Four months ago.”
When Christie’s mother died.
Sam shook his head incredulously, wondering how all this would help him find Christie. “I can’t believe this shit!” Speechless, he stood staring at Pfeiffer. “Back up for a minute, just so I’m sure I’ve got this right. You’re telling me that you and Beth have been doing the bump-and-grind while her son was out stealing babies? And this has been going on for fifteen years without any of you getting caught?”
“Good Lord, no. Not all that time. Only that first year, but by the time I realized what was going on, I’d handled over twenty illegal adoptions.”
“Twenty? Twenty? How could you not know? You can’t be that stupid, Pfeiffer.”