Love On the Run Page 14

“And the TV would be to show the victim what? Pictures of their families? Of what will happen to them if they don’t participate?”

  “Something like that.” Fred wasn’t too surprised to see a room like this on one of Donelli’s properties, but the fact that it was in his main residence was odd. Still, it proved nothing—and certainly not that Brooke had been interrogated here.

  He was about to leave when he spied something glinting under the stiff chair. Bending, he picked it up gingerly with a gloved hand. “Could be Brooke’s.”

  Justin pulled out a plastic sack and placed it carefully inside. “Is it the same type of ring she wore? I never noticed.”

  “It’s the same.”

  “Maybe it’ll have a partial print we can match with ones in her apartment. It’s not big enough for much.”

  That Fred already knew.

  They went to the next rooms without finding anything out of the ordinary. Fred’s frustration mounted, but he forced himself to be calm and thorough. When he walked into a lady’s dressing room, all his instincts gave him warning, but there was nothing in the closets or on the vanity table. The full-length mirrors lining the walls were clean and free of noticeable fingerprints. The plush carpet revealed nothing.

  “Hey, look at this.”

  Fred went to the vanity where Justin was searching inside a drawer. It was empty except for some odd markings. “Is that lipstick?”

  He bent for a closer look. “It’s writing. Very messy. It says . . .” Fred met Justin’s eyes. “Help Broo—” Nothing more.

  “Could be Brooke.”

  Fred pulled out the drawer, ignoring the stinging in his right arm. Maybe he should still be wearing the sling. “I think our handwriting experts will want to see this. We do have those handwriting samples from her parents, don’t we?”

  “Yeah.” Justin headed from the room.

  The rest of the house revealed nothing, but when they called on Fred’s cell phone to talk to the men who had searched Donelli’s businesses, they learned that Donelli’s private jet had left the airport an hour before.

  “What’s the ultimate destination?” Fred asked. His stomach tightened at the reply.

  “Where?” Justin asked, seeing his face. “Oh, no. Don’t tell me.”

  Fred nodded grimly. “Portugal. But there’s still time to intercept them before they leave the country. I need to know if Brooke is on that plane.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CASSI RUBBED SAMPSON’S ARMS AND legs, and was rewarded by warmth coming into the sleeping boy’s limbs. When her fingers couldn’t rub anymore, she lay down beside him, hoping to keep him warm with her body. The night wasn’t cold, but a gentle breeze made her wet clothes feel cool against her skin. At least down in the soft bed of grasses, she was somewhat protected.

  Her eyes closed in exhaustion. She didn’t notice the stinging sensation in them until it stopped. How long had it been since she’d slept a full night? Of course there had been that drug-induced sleep that had left her brain foggy for so long. No, that wasn’t rest.

  In her mind, she replayed the terrors of the evening: bodies falling in the cabin; the sound of Worthington’s and the mobsters’ guns, mixing in with the muffled sounds coming from the silenced weapons of the attackers; the mad dash to the canoe and the man springing up in front of her. She’d still had Worthington’s gun and instinctively fired. He had gone down, grabbing his leg in pain. It was the second man she’d shot that night, and she felt a heavy burden of guilt for both of them. But what else could she do to protect those she loved?

  Cassi’s eyes flew open. No sense in further reliving the horror of the mad dash to the canoe or the terrible fear that Jared wouldn’t be able to follow them. No, if she couldn’t sleep, there were other things she could be doing.

  Coming to her feet, Cassi began searching for branches she could use to further hide their location. A light sweat broke out on her body as she worked, despite the cool breeze. The heat was welcome. When she was satisfied that her position was well-protected, she returned to Sampson and rubbed his legs again. He appeared so helpless, lying with his head propped up on one of the life jackets, his body partly covered in grass.

  Sampson’s father was dead, his uncle was dead, and he had nearly been killed himself. Tears slipped out of Cassi’s eyes. This little boy was alone in the world, and no one cared. Except for her and Jared.

  Where was Jared? Without a watch or a cell phone, she had no way of knowing how much time had passed. Had he found help? Or had he been captured? If he was able, Cassi knew he would return, but would it be too late for Sampson? Even now his breathing was faint and shallow. Cassi stretched out next to him and laid a gentle arm across his chest. She felt the slow rise and fall as he slept. The motion was comforting, and she kept her arm there. If the movement stopped, she would be ready to give him CPR.

  She closed her eyes and prayed for Sampson, for Jared, and for relief from the visions of horror that kept coming to her mind. Finally the images faded, and Cassi dozed—but always she was conscious of the rise and fall of Sampson’s small chest.

  A sound made her jerk to full alert. Voices and footsteps. Could it be Jared coming to take them to safety? Cassi wanted to run from her hiding place to meet him, but a whisper of caution stopped her from acting. She lay very still in the grass, her heart pounding.

  “Any sign of them?” a voice said in English.

  “Not so much as a hair. This is practically useless until daylight. We’ll have to wait and find them then.”

  “No! We must find them tonight. The boss will soon be here, and you know who will get the blame for losing them.”

  “Don’t you think I know that? At least we got Brohaugh. That’s a bonus.”

  “But we lost the others. This failure will still get us transferred back to the loading docks.”

  “What’s done is done. We’ll find them. And when I do, they’re going to learn a lesson they’ll never forget.” The speaker gave a dark laugh. “We’re supposed to bring them in alive, but they said nothing about a few bruises.”

  Cassi knew these men were talking about her and Jared. No matter what, she couldn’t let them find her. Suddenly her breathing seemed loud in the darkness. She clenched her hands and forced herself to breathe slowly.

  Sampson gave a tiny groan and moved his head from side to side. Cassi put her face next to his and patted his cheek. Not now, Sampson. Not now! The boy began to calm under her touch. But was it too late?

  “Did you hear that?” said one of the men.

  “No. What was it?”

  “Just a sound.”

  “Maybe it was one of our guys.”

  “Yeah, probably. But look at this. Why’s all this grass short here? And look, there’s some wet on it. Maybe they came this way after all.”

  “What, and stopped to pick some grass to eat? Right. It was just some animal. I don’t see any signs of a canoe. Let’s move on.”

  Cassi was relieved until she realized they would be walking next to the clump of trees where she and Sampson hid. Would the branches she arranged be enough to keep the men from finding them?

  In her fear, she had stopping stroking Sampson’s cheek. Now the boy began to move his head again, jerking it from side to side. She reached out her hand. Please, Sampson. Be still.

  * * *

  JARED KNEW HE HAD BEEN colder and more tired at some time in his life than at that moment, but he couldn’t recall the day. He stumbled along almost blindly, wishing his sore body could move fast enough to work up a sweat. His head pounded, and each new bruise on his body ached worse than the rest. Thoughts of Cassi made him push onward. There had to be a cottage or cabin somewhere nearby, and perhaps the owners would have a car to take them into town. Jared checked his pockets and found his wallet missing—it was probably back at the cabin. What could they do without money? Would anyone help them?

  He remembered Sampson and how unmoving he’d lain on his grass bed. The boy was in grave danger. So
meone had to take pity on them. But how would he communicate his need when he didn’t speak any of the language?

  Jared walked on, forcing one foot in front of the other. The exhaustion he felt overwhelmed the coldness until he moved in a daze. He tried to take careful note of landmarks so he could find his way back to Cassi. He put them in a chant in his mind—gnarled tree, boulder, four trees, berry bush, two trees grown together, little pond, and so on. Each time he added a landmark, he recited all the rest. It was something to take his mind off the weariness.

  Then he saw the cabin. At first he wasn’t sure it was anything more than a wish, but it didn’t disappear as he approached. There was still a light in the window, and Jared saw a rusty red car parked in front.

  Taking a deep breath, he hurried on. The cabin had no porch, but did have three wooden steps leading to the door. Jared stumbled up them and knocked. After a few minutes, a dark-haired man with leathery skin opened the door. He wore a gray plaid robe, and around his neck hung a thick silver chain with a large cross pendant.

  “I’m sorry, but I need help,” Jared said. “Please can you help?” He felt the man’s sharp eyes take in his appearance, and hoped his bruised and battered face didn’t cause the man to slam the door in his face.

  “Eu não percebo. Você não fala Português?” The man’s thick mustache moved when he spoke.

  “I don’t understand.” Jared shook his head in frustration. “I’m from America. Do you understand that? America. We had an accident on the water. See?” He touched his wet clothes.

  “Americano?”

  Finally, a word they both recognized. Jared nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes. Please, will you help?”

  The man turned and yelled into the cabin. “Marisa, vem cá! Há alguêm aqui que fala Inglês. Parece um Americano.”

  Jared didn’t know what the man said, but shortly a young girl about Sampson’s age came running. She had long dark brown hair that reached past her waist and soft brown eyes that reminded Jared of Cassi. “Americano?” she said in obvious excitement.

  “Sim, sim.” The man waved a hand at Jared. “Vês se o entendes. Ele está muito animado com qualquer coisa. Talvez precisa de ajuda.”

  The girl turned to Jared and spoke with a decided British accent. “My father say maybe you need help?”

  “Yes! We had a boating accident.”

  “You fell in water?”

  “Yes. My wife and a boy—he needs help. Can you take us into town? To a doctor?”

  The girl turned back to her father and spoke in rapid Portuguese. He turned and went inside. “Come in,” the girl said. “My father will change his clothes.”

  Jared stepped inside the cabin, enjoying the warmth that gradually seeped into his bones. The cabin was very similar to the one across the dam, except that this one had electricity and even a television. He suspected they lived here all year round. Handmade crocheted items were visible throughout the room, giving a strong sense of home. He also saw many pictures, and his eyes were drawn to one of the man and his daughter standing in front of the cabin with a laughing, dark-haired woman. The girl saw him staring and pointed at the picture. “My mother,” she said. “She is . . .” Her school English failed her. “She is gone.”

  “She’s dead?”

  The girl nodded. Jared knew she missed her mother, but he also sensed that her father had taken very good care of his little girl. He was obviously a kind man, willing to help a stranger in the night.

  “You speak pretty good English,” Jared said.

  She smiled and tugged at one of the thin hoops of gold in her ear. “My teacher say I no speak very good, but I will learn.”

  Jared gave a wry smile. “Your English is much better than my Portuguese.”

  When the father returned from the bedroom, dressed in brown work pants and a plaid button-down shirt, Jared turned to lead them outside. But the man shoved a dry shirt into his hands and motioned for Jared to change. Then he spoke again to his daughter, who disappeared into the bedroom. Jared changed quickly.

  The girl returned with several blankets, and gratitude swelled in Jared’s heart. For all they knew he could be a cutthroat, but they were still willing to help. “Thank you,” he said, holding his hand against his heart. The girl turned to her father, translating.

  The man shrugged and gave Jared a slight smile. “Claro que vamos ajudar. É o que o Senhor gostaria que nós fizessemos. Vem.” He turned and strode out of the cabin.

  “My father say the Lord wants us to help. Come.”

  Jared had heard of the hospitality of the Portuguese people. Now he saw that it was more than a rumor. This man likely had few shirts but had willingly given one to Jared without requesting any kind of payment.

  Jared led his new friends into the woods. He feared he might have lost his sense of direction, but the landmark chant served him well.

  Even so, it seemed to take much longer to reach the place where he’d left Cassi, though he knew it was actually less time. Would Sampson still be alive when they arrived?

  At last he reached the place where they’d pulled themselves from the water. Cassi was nowhere to be seen. Was it the right place? The cut grass said it was, but Jared felt uneasy. Where were the trees where he and Cassi had made Sampson’s bed? Everything appeared changed.

  “Look!” The girl picked up something on the grass and handed it to Jared. “Yours?”

  Jared stared at the stub of an airline ticket from England to Portugal. It wasn’t his. The men from the cabin! Jared felt sick. “Cassi?” he called tentatively.

  What if she had been taken?

  * * *

  AS CASSI STROKED SAMPSON’S CHEEK, he calmed, but she knew it was too late. The men had heard and were coming toward her hiding place. Had she been alone, she would have run, but she couldn’t leave Sampson to them.

  Then she heard a male voice. “Found them yet?”

  “No. There’s something weird about the grass over there, though. And we thought we heard a noise.”

  “Sheep,” the newcomer said. “We’ve run into quite a few of them. Come on, you’ve wasted enough time here. Let’s continue the search.”

  Cassi couldn’t believe her luck as she heard them move off into the trees. Now if only they don’t run into Jared, she thought. Sampson was calm now, as long as she stroked his cheek, but he felt hot to her touch. She sat up carefully, wondering what to do. Should she try to find Jared? More footsteps brought Cassi’s thoughts to a quick stop.

  “Cassi?”

  Jared!

  Cassi hesitated a few seconds to make sure he had not been captured by the thugs and was being used as bait to lure her into the open. She stood cautiously and saw that Jared was accompanied by a short, heavyset man and a young girl with long dark hair. “I’m here,” she called.

  Even from this distance, she heard Jared’s sigh of relief. He ran to where she was hiding and began pulling back the dead branches and driftwood she’d used to obscure Sampson’s bed. “No wonder I didn’t recognize it,” he said. “Good thinking.” He cleared the rest of the brush and then pulled her into his arms.

  “They were just here,” Cassi told him. “The men from the cabin. We have to be careful.”

  “I’ve brought some help.” Jared motioned to the people behind him, and the girl came forward, bringing blankets.

  “Thank you.” Cassi wrapped Sampson carefully in the rough wool.

  “You are welcome,” said the girl. She stared at Sampson steadily. “Why is it that he sleeps?”

  “He’s sick.”

  “What is he called?”

  “Sampson.”

  “Samp-son?”

  “Yes, and I’m Cassi. Who are you?”

  “Marisa Santos. And this is my father, José. We take you to our house.”

  Jared started to lift Sampson, but José nudged past him and picked up the boy, cradling him gently in his bulky arms. Jared wrapped the remaining blanket around Cassi, but she insisted on sharing it with h
im. On the way through the dark trees, they quietly exchanged stories. Around them the night sounds were normal, but Cassi couldn’t shake the feeling that unseen eyes followed them.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  FBI AGENTS TELEPHONED FRED WHEN they caught up with Donelli’s plane in New York. Unfortunately, they had nothing on which to hold the plane, nor did they find anyone matching Brooke’s description. All passports, papers, and flight plans were in order.

  “Weren’t there any women on board at all?” asked Fred. The handwriting expert had given his opinion that the scribbled message in the drawer could have been written by Brooke Erickson, although absolute identification was impossible due to the nature of the instrument she had used to make the letters and the brevity of the message. The ring had held equally useless smudged partial prints that had not identified Brooke. Still, the two together made him sure of her involvement.

  “There was one woman,” said the New York agent. “But her hair was different and her eyes were green. She didn’t look much like that picture you sent, and she certainly wasn’t there under duress. She and one of the guys were actually quite cozy.”

  “Giorgio.”

  “Yeah, that was his name.”

  “She didn’t try to send any hidden messages?”

  “None that I could see. I tell you, she’s not the person you’re searching for.”

  “What was the name on her passport?”

  “Let’s see. It’s here somewhere.”

  Fred heard the shuffle of papers and stifled his irritation. He rubbed the bandage on his arm.

  “Found it. The name’s Laranda Garrettson.”

  Fred pulled his hand away from the bandage as though burned. “Garrettson?” he barked. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Laranda Garrettson is supposed to be dead.” Fred let the sentence hang in the air. “Stop that plane.”

  “Too late. It’s gone.”

  “I want a photo or drawing of this woman immediately. And have someone waiting for that plane in Portugal. At the least, the woman is an imposter. At worst, she’s a wanted criminal who faked her own death.”