Facing It (5 page)

Damn it, he was going to buy her a new cell phone and insist she carry it for sure this time.

“Tick.” Caitlin’s voice held a nearly imperceptible tremor, one he was pretty sure only he picked up. Seeing traces of his own fear in her expression didn’t help.

He straightened, calling up the years of training, letting his cop instincts take over for his father and son roles. “I’m going to run out there, make sure everything’s okay.”

“I’m going with you.” His wife was on her feet instantly. He opened his mouth to argue, but she forestalled him with a look. “Don’t even try.”

Urgency pounded under his skin with increasing intensity and he wasn’t going to waste time. “Let’s go.”

Beecham took a step toward the door. “Do you want us—?”

“Don’t care, but I’m not waiting on you to decide.”

Outside, Caitlin’s cell phone rang as they hurried down the department steps. She lifted it to her ear, keeping stride with him across the small parking lot. “Hello?”

She stopped short, listening, and he turned, his impatience slithering into something darker at the look on her face. “Did you hear from her today? When?”

He tossed out his hands and mouthed “What?” at her. She shook her head and held up a palm. Over her shoulder, he caught a glimpse of Beecham and Settles climbing into their car. He jerked a hand through his hair. “Cait, damn it—”

“No, Tick and I are going out there now. We’ll call you. Yes, I’m sure. Let us go, okay?”

“What is going on?” he demanded as she ended the call. She stepped toward him and touched his arm. Apprehension settled harder in his gut.

“That was Deanne. She still has Lee.” The graceful line of Caitlin’s throat moved in a swallow. “Your mom never came and picked him up, and Deanne hasn’t heard from her since this morning. She’s called around and no one else has either.”

“Shit.” He spun and headed for his truck at a near run. Dire possibilities pulsed in his head in a sickening slide show. “Goddammit.”

“I’m driving.” Caitlin made a grab for his keys at the driver’s door. “I don’t think you need to.”

He didn’t argue, but clenched the keys and jerked the door open with his other hand. “Get in.”

She gave him one searching look and did so without further comment, sliding over to buckle her seat belt as he fired the engine. The normally twelve-minute drive took him eight, but they had to be some of the longest minutes of his life. He handled the truck like a patrol car, driving with both hands, taking the curves of the rural highway as tightly as he could at high speeds. Caitlin laid her hand on his thigh, the familiar touch a welcome, comforting weight.

Beecham and Settles pulled into the long driveway mere moments after his truck slid to a stop behind his mother’s car. Twilight had fallen for sure now, but the security lights around the house illuminated the yard in the dimness.

The house itself was dark and the side door stood partially open. Any hope he’d held flickered out. He stepped from the pickup, his stomach in knots, his lungs refusing to cooperate. Nausea trembled in his throat. Caitlin met him at the hood, catching his arm again.

Beecham’s brakes whined as he parked next to Tick’s truck. Caitlin’s easy hold on his arm turned restraining. He started to shake her off, but she grasped tighter, forcing him to turn his attention to her. Loving concern glinted in her eyes. “Settles and I will check the house. Stay here with Beecham.”

He glanced toward the house and tried to shake off her grip. “That’s my mother—”

“Exactly. Which is why you’re staying here.” Her fingers dug into him, but her voice softened. “Let me do this for you.”

He nodded and she looked beyond his shoulder. “Beech, keep him here until we come out.”

She rummaged behind the seat of his truck for his flashlight then signaled to Settles and both women pulled gleaming Sig semi-automatics as they approached the house. They swept the outside first before meeting back up at the side door and slipping inside. Tick stared at his childhood home, a weird buzzing at his ears to match the way his pulse tingled under his skin. The beam of light bounced from window to window, upstairs and down, the interminable minutes stretching into an agonizing eternity. Beecham didn’t speak, something for which Tick was entirely grateful. All his concentration was focused on that house, on what Caitlin might find.

Why the holy hell had he let her talk him into staying outside? He needed to be in there, needed to
know
for himself what—

Caitlin appeared through the door, phone at her ear, Settles on her heels with the heavy MagLite in hand. His wife’s grim expression didn’t induce relaxation; instead he tensed further. A physical throb ran through his shoulders, neck and head as she approached.

“Just hurry, Cookie.” Caitlin closed the phone and stopped before him, laying both hands on his arms, holding his gaze. “She’s not here. The house is empty—”

“Holy hell.” His knees weakened and he closed his eyes.

“Look at me, Tick. Listen.” Caitlin held him tighter and he obeyed, trying to keep his legs under him. “There are signs of a struggle downstairs, a small bloodstain in the hallway, but there’s nothing to indicate she’s…that she’s—”

“Dead,” Tick finished grimly. Oh Lord, not Mama too. He’d never really gotten over his father’s too-early death.

“Yes. Cookie’s on his way and he’s calling out the crime scene unit from Moultrie. There’ll be leads, Tick, and we’ll find her—”

“That son of a bitch is dead. I mean it, Cait, when we find him and she’s safe…” His voice cracked and Caitlin pulled him close, wrapping her arms about him. He held on while the fury and fear roiled through him and left tremors in their wake. “When she’s safe, I’ll kill him for this.”

“Hush,” Caitlin whispered near his ear. She tightened her embrace and stroked the tense muscles in his back. “It’s going to be all right. We’ll find her, I promise. We will.”

“Looks like the last person to have contact with her was Tori, around eleven this morning.” Investigator Mark Cook’s face was as taut with stress as his deep whisper. Jennifer stood just inside the kitchen doorway, listening as Calvert’s partner talked with Falconetti while the GBI’s crime scene technicians went over Lenora Calvert’s home with the proverbial fine-tooth comb. “And that’s not good.”

Falconetti, her expression troubled, glanced toward the living room, where her husband watched every move the CSU guys made. “No. That’s more than seven hours and the statistics are—”

“Yeah.” Cook ran a hand over his mouth. “Maybe he wants to use her as collateral or bait, something to draw Ruthie out.”

“Unless it’s about revenge,” Falconetti murmured. “Punishing her for leaving, for defying him.”

“You could tell us.” Jennifer stepped forward, drawing their attention. She held Falconetti’s gaze. “You know where she is, don’t you? You’re Bureau, one of us. Why won’t you cooperate?”

The agent shook her head, her expression oddly gentle. “I may be ‘one of you’, but he matters more.” She tilted her head toward the living room, in Calvert’s direction. “You think I’m going to undercut him, especially now?”

The impotent frustration scratched at Jennifer. Before she could speak though, the “him” under discussion strode into the room with Beecham close behind. Falconetti moved to Calvert’s side instantly.

He jerked a hand through his already disheveled hair. “We got nothing. No prints outside, no tire tracks, nothing.” His voice verged on cracking. “God, Cait, how are we going to find her?”

“Stanton’s spreading the net.” Falconetti ran a soothing palm down his spine. “He’s called in every available deputy, they’re setting up roadblocks and he’s mobilizing search parties.” She continued stroking his back in a calming up-and-down sweep. “There’s nothing you can do here right now. Why don’t we meet Stanton back at the station and you’ll know everything that’s going on?”

Eyes closed, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “But what if a call comes in here—”

“I’ll be here until the crime scene unit finishes,” Cook said. “Longer if you need me to be.”

A distracted air settling on him, Calvert nodded and allowed Falconetti to pull him outside. Cook disappeared into the living room, leaving Jennifer alone with Beecham. Her lingering irritation and the feeling of exclusion dogged her, and she made sure her voice was cool when he turned to her, his face tense and weary.

She shrugged. “So what do we do now?”

He tucked his hands in his pockets lightly. “Weston wants us to stay here. He thinks it’s likely Chason is behind Mrs. Calvert’s disappearance, and that given the time frame, he’s probably still in the area.”

She’d figured as much on her own. Silence settled around them. She looked everywhere but at him and eyed the technicians moving through the hallway and living room.

“Jen?” He’d stepped closer, but not too close, his voice near her ear. “What’s wrong?”

Hands planted on her hips, she turned. His calm blue gaze made her want to scream, to rail at him, and she didn’t even know why or for what reason, except that when Ruthie had run away, everything had changed. “What was that earlier at the sheriff’s department?”

“What was what?”

“That whole…” she waved an irritable hand in his direction, “…
thing
with you and Falconetti and Calvert.”

“When I kissed her?” His expression cleared. “That was nothing, it never was, except Calvert’s been crazy for her since we were all at Quantico together and I’ve been trying to throw them together for years—”

“I am not talking about that kiss,” she scoffed. “Of course
it
was nothing. I’m talking about what went on in that conference room, when you decided you were going to change sides, change all the rules.”

“Jen, honey.” He stepped forward and laid easy hands on her shoulders. “It wasn’t like that—”

“Don’t touch me.” She shrugged away from his relaxed grasp. His demeanor and actions reeked too much of her false husband. She lowered her voice and cast a quick look at the rooms beyond. “And don’t call me honey. It’s not necessary now.”

He held his palms aloft in a gesture of surrender. “I’m just trying to figure out what’s eating you.”

“Forget it, okay?” Suddenly the whole thing seemed stupid and she didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “It’s nothing. It’s been a crazy day and I’m tired.”

Hands in his pockets again, he studied her and didn’t say anything. She refused to shift under his scrutiny.

“So, we should do what we can to help while we’re here,” she said, grateful that her voice sounded even and normal. “Falconetti said something about search teams?”

His head moved in a slow nod. “Stanton Reed, the sheriff, is working on that now. I already told him I’d help.”

So it was
I
, now. She could deal with that. Posture squared, she bobbed her head. “You know what, I think while you’re involved with that, I’m going back to the hotel and see if I can get in touch with Brookman. I want to know what all they have on Chason’s movements in the last couple of days.”

“All right.” The stiff silence pulsed between them for a couple of long beats. “I’ll drop you off on my way to the sheriff’s department.”

He was socially retarded.

Chris stood on the small porch, watching the bay waters, silvered by moonlight, lap against the stone shore. That had to be the answer. Okay, “retarded” wasn’t PC, so maybe he was socially disabled.

Ruthie’s voice carried from the open windows as she settled the children into bed. He frowned. At work, he got along fine with his fellow deputies. He had friends among his colleagues, even if Troy Lee’s constant chatter got on his nerves sometimes. He didn’t have trouble interacting with other men. Guess he was only socially disabled where women were concerned.

Big surprise there.

It hadn’t really bothered him before, but being unable to carry on a decent conversation with Ruthie got under his skin. Bad.

“You didn’t have to do the dishes.”

He jumped, his skin crawling. She stood right behind him. Blowing out a slow breath, he forced his body to relax. She wasn’t a threat to him; he didn’t need the fight-or-flight reflexes with her.

Turning, he smiled. Maybe she couldn’t see how artificial it was. “You cooked. You didn’t think I’d expect you to clean up too, did you?”

Her little laugh emerged harsh and a tad put-on itself. She stepped up beside him and wrapped both hands around the weathered railing. “I never know what to think anymore.”

He eyed the elegant line of her nape, exposed by her loose topknot. There was something vulnerable about that sweet curve of skin.

“You were right,” he said suddenly, before he’d even thought about speaking. “About being good at cooking. Dinner was excellent.”

Another small laugh bloomed between them, more genuine this time. “Dinner was a simple throw-together, not excellent.”