One Week To Live (2 page)

“You left without saying goodbye.”

The subtle hurt in his words caught her off guard. She’d kept their relationship purely business until the night she learned about the death of Tucker’s boy. She foolishly sought his arms for comfort and immediately regretted the resulting, unforgettable, toe-curling kiss.

“I hope you don’t think there’s anything between us because of that one kiss,” she said.

“But—”

“You’ll never change. You’ll write the damn story no matter what the consequences. I can’t trust that things I say won’t show up in print. Distrust doesn’t make a good foundation for a relationship.”

“Angie,” he said.

“Goodbye.” She pushed the portable phone’s off button.

Within seconds the phone rang again. She shook her head. Giving up wasn’t in his vocabulary.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she announced upon answering.

“Wait, don’t hang up.”

His pleading tone of voice kept her on the phone. He wasn’t one to beg.

“Another child has been abducted.”

“What?” Uneasiness snaked through her. Her recent nightmares flashed in her mind. Getting up, she switched the air conditioner back to low.

“I thought you should know,” he said.

“When?”

“This morning.”

Shit
.

“It’s the same guy. He left a nursery rhyme book in the stroller. The note inside the book said ‘One week to live, then the kid dies.’”

Dread filled her. If he followed the pattern of the last case, a series of convoluted nursery rhymes would arrive. Clues that should lead to the victim’s whereabouts, but never did.

“Last time he didn’t wait the prescribed week,” she said. “He killed Tucker’s little boy on the sixth day.”

“Thanks to your premonitions, the police came close to finding him. That’s why he didn’t wait until the seventh day. He panicked.”

“I feel guilty enough. You don’t need to make it worse.”

“Have you been experiencing visions again?”

She sighed. “Yes, dammit. They started a few nights ago.”

“Tell me about them.”

She thought of the note she’d scribbled after her dream. “Like the last time, the visions are brief, fuzzy flashes. Useless drivel that is of no help to anyone. All I remember is a pink stroller.”

“Then they are connected to this case.”

She groaned, a shiver of fear coursing through her. She hadn’t wanted to hear this.

“You need to believe in your ability,” he said. “The visions will become clearer if you quit fighting them.”

“So now you’re an expert on psychic visions?” She used sarcasm to fight her uneasiness.

“You’ve got to come to San Diego and help find the little girl, Angie."

“No, I won’t! Not after what happened last time. Tucker’s boy would have been better off without my input.”

“I don’t believe that and you shouldn’t either.”

“Because of me a child is dead. I’ll never forget the anguish on Tucker’s face when he saw his son’s body. I never want to see that kind of pain again.”

She still cursed herself for becoming involved in the case. When she’d learned about Tucker’s missing boy, she’d connected with the pain of losing her own baby and foolishly said yes to Ray. Twenty years ago, she’d given up her baby girl for adoption, but the loss continued to haunt her.

“I possess a half-assed gift at best! One easily affected by emotions. The tabloids were right. I’m a charlatan who shouldn’t dabble with something I know nothing about.”

She paced the floor, frustration fueling her every step. “I won’t go back to San Diego.”

“I don’t want to write about another child’s murder,” Brian said.

“I don’t want to be responsible for another death.” She should hang up on him. Damn him for calling her in the first place.

“Turn on your television,” he ordered.

“No.”

“Why? Because if you don’t see a photo of the victim or witness the mother pleading for her three-year-old daughter’s life, you can ignore it?”

“Murphy, that’s hitting below the belt.”

“The media is all over this one. She’s a single mother.”

She thought about the anguish the poor woman must be suffering.
No, she wasn’t going there
.

He remained silent.

“You’re too quiet,” she said. “What aren’t you telling me?”

“The media hasn’t forgotten your involvement in the previous case.”

“Great!” She didn’t need reporters tracking her down.
Damn him and his stupid article.
She punched the phone’s off button.

She padded barefoot into the kitchen, poured herself a cup of day-old coffee, and shoved it in the microwave.

Telling herself she needed the day’s weather report, she switched on the small kitchen television. The smiling face of the noontime weather girl greeted her with a prediction of rain and heavy winds by nightfall.

The microwave beeped and she grabbed her coffee mug. Taking a sip, she scalded her tongue. Swearing under her breath, she continued watching the television. She didn’t wait long for the news bulletin of the kidnapping. Brian had been right about the media circus. Interesting how bad news brought the press out in droves. They gathered like vultures to a feeding frenzy. A camera closed in on a distraught woman with countless microphones shoved in her face.

She stared at the woman in shock. Her lips formed the name Susan, but it took a second to utter the name aloud.
Dear God, it couldn’t be the daughter she’d given up for adoption!
She continued to stare at the TV. It was her. The young woman Angie had tracked to San Diego a year ago. She’d gone to the woman’s house, but never knocked on the door because she feared her daughter’s rejection. The kidnap victim, the little girl she’d seen playing in the park near the house, was her granddaughter.

The coffee cup slipped from her shaking hand and sailed to the white tile floor, shattering into jagged red shards around her bare toes.

Chapter Two

Saturday night/early Sunday morning

The sun slipped lower in the sky and silvery dusk bathed the landscape in shades of gray and black as Brian climbed the stairs to Susan’s second-floor apartment. She’d agreed to an interview even though it must be difficult to face the media right now. He ignored the dirty looks from other reporters who hovered in front of her place hoping to talk with her.

She wanted to get the story of her missing daughter out. She trusted him to do it. More than one missing child had surfaced thanks to a tip from someone paying attention to the news.

After showing his I.D., the female FBI agent who opened the door allowed him to enter. “She’s in her daughter’s room down the hall on the right. The kidnapper just called. She’s pretty upset.”

“Were you able to trace the call?” he asked.

“We’re working on it.” From the agent’s expression, she wouldn’t be volunteering any more information to him.

He walked down the hall and knocked. When no one answered, he quietly let himself in, shutting the door behind him. The room sat in darkness except for the pale light streaming from a small Winnie the Pooh lamp on the dresser. Susan Chapman sat in a rocking chair, clutching a worn teddy bear. As she methodically rocked, she hummed a tune while tears streamed down her face unchecked.

“A lullaby?”

“One of Polly’s favorites,” she choked out looking up at him through red-rimmed eyes filled with pain. “What if I can never sing it to her again? What if I can never feel her baby-soft arms around me or hear her giggles?”

Brian said nothing. He couldn’t deny the possible truth in her words. She sobbed harder and momentarily buried her wet face in the bear’s fur.

“He smells of baby powder,” she sniffed. “Baby powder and Polly.”

Far different circumstances surrounded the last interview with Susan. At that time, she’d held Polly on her lap while she smiled and talked about her future plans after she graduated. Now she faced this interview without her little girl.

“It’s all my fault. I made a mistake when I left her alone.” She mopped at tears with a rumpled tissue. “Dear God, what will I do without my precious baby?”

“Tell me about the call,” he said, attempting to redirect her focus. He’d interviewed many trauma victims and knew they found it difficult to concentrate.

“The police warned me he’d call.”

“In the last case he contacted the victim’s mother within the first twelve hours. Go on.” He was anxious to find out what the kidnapper said, but knew he couldn’t force the words out of Susan. No matter how comfortable she might feel with him, she’d close up if he pushed too hard.

“It was awful to talk to the bastard.”

“I can imagine it was.” He wanted her to see that he understood what she was going through. He understood more than she realized.

“When he called me by name, I nearly dropped the phone. How does he know my name?”

He didn’t reply. Had the man known the mother’s name in the previous case? Brian wasn’t sure.

“His voice sounded odd, garbled.”

“He’s using something over the phone’s mouthpiece to disguise his voice.”

“I asked him where my daughter was. He responded with the most evil, diabolical laugh. Then he asked if I’d enjoyed the nursery rhyme book he’d left.”

“What did you say?”

“I was so frightened, I couldn’t say anything. The man chuckled, obviously enjoying my momentary speechlessness.”

“That’s his game. He loves taunting people, frightening them.”

She took a shaky breath.

“Susan, I admire your strength and perseverance. You need to be strong now,” he said, trying to provide encouragement.

“He warned me to cooperate if I wanted my Polly back alive.” Her voice cracked on these last words. “Even if I do, he won’t return her alive, will he?”

“His game just began, Susan. If he follows the same pattern as before, there’s time to find your child before he harms her.”

“It didn’t help the last little boy, did it?”

He couldn’t argue that. “So what did he say next?”

“The man indicated there will be seven clues in seven days,” Susan said.

“Yes, that’s how he operates.” She didn’t mention that the last victim was killed on the sixth day before the seventh clue appeared. He wasn’t going to remind her.

“If we can’t figure them out and find my daughter by the time the week is up, he said she’ll die.” Susan sucked in another breath. “How can he discuss killing someone in such cold, impersonal terms? It’s my baby he’s talking about. My baby!”

“He’s a monster, a demented soul,” Brian snapped, unable to control his disgust toward the man.

“The kidnapper ordered me to pay close attention to his first nursery rhyme clue because he wouldn’t repeat it. Thank goodness the FBI agent listened in. I couldn’t remember the whole thing.”

He took out his notebook and pencil. “What did he say?”

“It wasn’t a real nursery rhyme, more like his own version of one.”

“Go on.”

She reached for the folded piece of paper on the dresser and began reading. “Goosey, goosey gander, where do I wander? Uphill and downhill and straight into Sin City. There I’ll see a woman who’s not what she claims to be. So I’ll bring her another child and wait for her to see.

“It didn’t make any sense. I demanded he explain it, but he’d hung up on me.” She stared at the piece of paper for another minute and looked at him. “You covered the last case. What does his gibberish mean?”

He glanced at his notes. “I’ll need to study it further before I can hazard a guess. The man talks in riddles, making his clues difficult to decipher. That’s part of his game.”

“I overheard the FBI agent on the phone saying something about Vegas.”

“Sin City is another name for Las Vegas.”

“He’s taking my Polly to Vegas? Why?” Hysteria filled her voice.

Angie lived in Vegas, but how did the kidnapper know that? In the previous case he’d warned her to stay out of his way or she’d be sorry. Luckily, he hadn’t carried out any of his threats. So if he didn’t want her involved, why bring the kid to her this time?

“I’ll never see my baby again,” Susan sobbed, once more losing control.

“You can’t think that.” Long pent-up emotions tugged at Brian. Kidnapping was every parent’s worst nightmare.

Watching the distressed woman nervously plucking at her daughter’s teddy bear, he again questioned how objective he could be when he wrote the piece. He’d always prided himself on his journalistic integrity and objectivity. He’d only lost that objectivity once. Writing this story while keeping his emotions in check wouldn’t be easy.

****

The summer, desert storm emerged quickly. Jagged white lightning bolts speared the night’s blackness accompanied by the deafening boom of thunder. Then the rain arrived—a pounding deluge that turned desert-dry earth into deadly raging rivers of mud and debris.

Above the din a tearful child screamed, “Mommy, Mommy!”

Jolted awake, Angie listened but heard nothing. The noise and fury of the storm vaporized along with her grandchild’s plaintive sobs.

She groaned. What did a storm have to do with her granddaughter in San Diego? A cloud of uneasiness settled over her. Getting up, she went to check her door and window locks. You’re being foolish, she told herself, crawling back into bed. When the unexplained apprehension continued, she suspected she wasn’t.