“Any sign that she’s coming out of the coma?”
“None.” Even as he delivered the grim reply, Patrick squeezed his wife’s hand hoping for a response that never came. “Shortly after she was airlifted to the hospital in a semiconscious state, she became agitated. When I arrived she calmed and lapsed into this deep sleep. Her doctors interpret the shift in her behavior as an indication that, even with the bruising and swelling in her brain, she knew I was with her. We don’t know how much more she hears and understands, or what she remembers of the accident.”
The oblique and unneeded warning did not go unperceived. Rafe wouldn’t openly discuss or question the events surrounding the present situation in any case. Nor did he need to be told that the longer the coma continued, the deeper she sank into it, the poorer Jordana’s chances of recovery.
Touching Patrick’s shoulder again, in an undertone, he said, “We need to talk.”
“Yes.” Releasing Jordana, Patrick bent to kiss her forehead. “I need to speak with Rafe for a bit in private, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I won’t be long, I promise.”
As the two men stepped into the corridor, a nurse, who seemed to appear out of nowhere, slipped quietly into the room to take up the vigil. When Patrick was satisfied that all was well, he led Rafe to a small lounge hidden away in an alcove across from the door that led to Jordana’s suite.
“All right,” Rafe said as he set a cup of steaming coffee before Patrick and took a seat by him at the small table. “Tell me what happened.”
Patrick’s head reared back, his hollow eyes were wild and fierce, and more frightened than they’d ever been. “Jordana’s been hurt, so terribly hurt, Rafe. And our daughter’s been taken. I promised to take care of them and I didn’t!”
“You have. You did.”
“No! Somewhere, somehow, I did something wrong.”
“You did nothing wrong, Patrick. Loving them more and protecting them better than anyone in the world could have isn’t wrong.”
“Except, this time, I failed them.” Patrick’s heavy shoulders slumped. “What if...” His eyes closed against the unthinkable. “Dear God! What would I do without them?”
“Nothing! You would do nothing without them. What you’re thinking isn’t going to occur.”
“Rafe...”
“Tell me what happened, Patrick,” Rafe insisted with a calming air of command. “Start from the beginning, don’t leave out a single detail.”
Patrick gripped the cup as if it were a lifeline, but didn’t raise it to his lips. “There’s not a lot to tell, that’s the damnable part in this.”
“Then tell what there is to tell. Begin with where and how.”
Rafe would not give up, and, Patrick realized, would not let him give up. Drawing a long shuddering breath, he nodded. And, beneath the burden of his grief, shone the first glimmer of the return of the invincible Scot. “Jordana was taking Courtney to her morning dance class. A sort of motherdaughter day for them.”
“Who was driving?”
“Ian, of course.”
“Of course,” Rafe expected that it would be Ian. It would have been unlikely anyone but the wizened Highlander, who had driven for the McCallums for years, would be entrusted to chauffeur Patrick’s blind wife and his only daughter. His precious treasures.
“Was he injured?”
“He was dazed by the impact, and he’ll be a little sore for a while, but nothing more.”
“What did he see?” Intent, intense, Rafe leaned forward. “What can he tell us?”
“There was very little time to see anything. He was just turning onto the highway from the ranch when they were broadsided by a car hidden and waiting in a service road.”
“Jordana’s side taking the brunt of the impact,” Rafe ventured the obvious.
As if he didn’t hear, Patrick’s voice droned on, relating the little he knew. “Three things happened almost consecutively. Ian unlocked the doors of the car and dashed to the back passenger’s side, to Jordana. A passenger in the other vehicle bailed out and ran, leaving the driver who had not survived. While Ian was at the opposite side, a third accomplice ran from the underbrush. He grabbed Courtney from the back seat, shoved her into yet another hidden vehicle, and sped away. Presumably, with the one who escaped the crash and any one else who was involved.”
“Son of a bitch!” Grave and troubled, Rafe’s voice was strained. As he thought of his namesake, how tiny she was at four years, how frightened she would be, his look was laced with venom. “When did the ransom note arrive? How?”
“It didn’t arrive, Rafe. It was left on the seat where Courtney sat.”
“Planned down to the last hellish detail, with nothing left to chance.” There was fire blazing in the normally cool Creole as he asked, bitterly, “How much?”
Patrick lifted a stricken gaze. “Not a penny.”
Cold dread, gathering like a sickness in him, marked the harsh quirk of Rafe’s lips. “Then what? And, damn their souls, why? Who are they? What do they want?”
“Why and what they want was outlined in excruciating detail in the note. Courtney was taken by members of a radical group that calls itself Apostles for a Better Day. She was chosen because of my friendship with Jim Brigman, and what they perceive as my prominence and political influence because he’s governor.” The Scot’s face grew grimmer, paler, in startling contrast to the dark auburn of the curling, shaggy mane that framed it. “In exchange for my daughter they’ve demanded that, by that influence, I arrange and expedite the release of their leader from death row.”
“Death row!” Shock upon shock levied its toll on an unprepared Rafe. “They must be out of their collective minds. Who is this man? What the hell is he?”
“A mad dog,” Patrick said levelly. “A mad dog who calls himself Father Tomorrow and who kills in the name of his cause without a qualm.”
“Zealots!” Rafe’s decree was accompanied by a string of heated epithets. “Fanatics who twist whatever religion and whatever doctrine they espouse to accommodate themselves. The most deadly and unpredictable element in society.”
Pushing away his cup and kicking back the chair too small for his bulk, Patrick lurched to his feet. Despite the vicious motion, helplessness and defeat were apparent in every line of his body. “I’ve spoken with Jim.”
Something in his look and tone chilled Rafe even more. “And?”
“No go.” Arms crossed over his chest, his back to the lounge, Patrick glared out a window at a night as black as his thoughts. “A proven killer can’t be released. Even if there was a question of guilt, the man is unstable and too dangerous. Granting his freedom would be tantamount to unleashing a monster. Jim has pledged his help in any way possible, but he dares not turn such an unconscionable creature loose on the public.” His arms crossed tighter, his fingers crumpled the fabric of his shirt. “Not for Courtney. Not for anyone.
“I could give them millions, castles, islands.” There were tears on Patrick’s face, but he made no effort to wipe them away. “An empire is theirs for the asking, with not one regret for its loss. Yet, with all I have, I can’t give what they’ve demanded. The one thing that would free my little girl.”
“All right. If we can’t give them what they want for Courtney, we do it the hard way. We take her back without it.” Rafe would not waste another thought on bitter recriminations, or sympathy that Patrick neither wanted nor needed. He addressed the crux of the situation instead. “How much time do we have?”
“We had five days.”