A creak in the hallway made her jump, but she didn’t look over when a small panel in the bottom of the door opened. A tray slid into the room, holding two bottles of water, a sandwich, and an individual pan pizza.
Her mouth salivated at the scent of the greasy pizza. However, she knew better than to eat anything offered to her by a captor.
Deion sat up and rubbed his eyes. He sniffed the air and gave her a wide smile. “Hunny,” he said, rubbing his tummy.
“I’m sorry, baby. I know you’re hungry, but we can’t eat the food.”
His large brown eyes filled up with tears. “Hunny,” he said with a sob in his voice. “Hunny, mommy.” He stood and made his way over to the tray and picked up the slice. Stubborn child. But he did look over his shoulder at her before taking a bite. His eyes begged her to say yes.
If it had just been her, she could have ignored the food, stifled her hunger. But it had been hours since breakfast, and Deion hadn’t eaten much while they were at the harbor. He’d been too busy watching the sea lions. She closed her eyes. What to do?
The look on Deion’s face tugged at her heart. From across the room, she heard his stomach rumble. Simultaneously, hers joined in. Damn.
She crawled over to the tray and pulled it toward them. No suspicious odors or tastes, so against her better judgment, she took the pizza from Deion and took a bite. “Mommy tax,” she teased. It tasted okay, so with a short nod, she let Deion consume the rest of it. They shared the sandwich and drank a few sips of water.
Deion sat down on the floor and his eyes drifted shut. Soon, his breathing sounded labored. Shit. Oh shit. She leaned forward to reach for him and the room spun. She blinked back tears of anger. She’d screwed up again.
A male voice, sounding as if it were miles away and underwater caught her attention.
“Hello, Sylvie.”
She shook her head, trying to dispel the effects of whatever he’d drugged them with. The man looked different, taller, younger. She blinked and her vision blurred. Had he been wearing a mask earlier? Prosthetic faces were astonishingly easy to wear and hard to detect. Had he worn the mask to hide his identity, or to give him a new one?
“Don’t worry. The effects of the drug will wear off in a few hours. I wanted to talk to you without risking life and limb. Some security specialist you are. Seems a bit ironic, doesn’t it? You’re the expert, but you fell into my trap all too easily.”
His voice sounded familiar. Hadn’t her captor had a silly British accent? Her brain refused to focus on details.
“I’ll play fair with the authorities. They’ll have all the clues they need to solve your disappearance. They simply have to solve the puzzles.”
“How?” The word came out so garbled, she wasn’t sure he’d understand.
“I normally don’t tell anyone, but because you are special, I will. The clues are in the crossword puzzles.”
Margaret. Sylvie latched onto the thought of her life partner. Margaret loved crossword puzzles, and excelled at them, too. Would the police make her privy to the information?
While she struggled to stay awake, the man continued to talk, nearly gloating, in fact. “I’ve always been very good at them, making them and solving them. Don’t worry, though. I’ll give the police plenty of time to solve it. What do you think? Should I give them the full eight days? Nah. That’s way too long. Eight minutes, now that would be way too short.”
Her captor reached down to stroke her cheek and she flinched. “Well, don’t you worry your pretty head about it. I’ll keep a careful watch on the time. When that final alarm goes off, you’ll be mine.”
“Deion.” Her heart broke a little as she said his name. What would he do without her?
“Oh, don’t worry about your little boy. He’ll be well loved, if you know what I mean.”
“You bastard.” Sylvie tried to scramble up, but collapsed in a heap next to her son. The floor shook slightly as the man’s footsteps receded.
Tears came unbidden, washing her cheeks and leaving them feeling raw. There had to be something she could do. But what? Put herself in God’s hands? That’s what her ex-lover, Margaret, would say. But Sylvie had seen enough religiously motivated crimes to convince her that God didn’t pay attention to his creations.
She thought about her mom and dad, killed in a robbery attempt while they were on vacation, and her flakey little sister, Lia.
They hadn’t spoken for seven long years. Not since Lia had come to her, professing that she could have prevented their parents’ death if she’d only paid attention to “the signs.”
Sylvie had not only not believed her, she’d ridiculed Lia. As a relatively new agent, she had her eyes on the prize: the top of the career ladder. Having a crazy little sister proclaiming to be psychic embarrassed her beyond reason. As a result, she’d said things she later realized she didn’t mean. After her derogatory remarks, Lia had stormed out. She never came back.
Although pretending disinterest, Sylvie had followed her sister’s career as a photojournalist. It seemed her sister did lead a charmed existence. She’d escaped death on more than one occasion, the most notable on that fateful September morning when Lia had refused to get on a plane. That airplane had later crashed into the Pentagon.
Was Lia psychic, or just damn lucky?
Eyes too heavy to hold open, Sylvie stopped fighting gravity and did the only thing she could do. She focused on the clues she had. Her captor seemed to have a hard-on for the number eight. She pictured the number, seared it in her mind in flaming red letters. Crossword puzzles, the management service’s phone number and the big pink Victorian also held significance. She pictured the images over and over until they seemed to be playing on the back of her eyelids.
Then, she did something she thought she’d never do. She prayed.
* * * *
As he left his office, the hair on the back of Jared’s neck tingled. He looked over his shoulder, expecting to see a plainclothes police detective lurking in the background. Instead, he saw nothing.
Which didn’t add to his peace of mind, especially since he’d experienced this feeling more and more often lately. When had it started? A week ago? Months ago? Hard to pin down an exact date. Harder, still, to isolate this feeling of being watched from any of the other times. Ever since he’d hit puberty, he seemed to give off alluring pheromones that drew women of all types and ages. After a while, he’d learned to ignore the attention he attracted. However, this feeling of being watched held menace. Was it his imagination, or was someone truly watching him? That thought gave rise to a new and even more disturbing question.
Was he a suspect in this case?
Why should he be? He lived a boring and mundane life. Work in the morning, office hours and tutoring in the afternoons, then home to sit in front of his computer or the television. Occasionally, he had a date.
Unfortunately, he had terrible luck with women. No, not luck’s fault. The blame lay solely with him. Those potential relationships failed, because he didn’t put any effort into them. Oh, some of the women were beautiful, cute, funny—all good qualities. But all of them were missing something, that je ne sais quoi that made a woman irresistible and unforgettable. He’d only met one woman who had captivated and enthralled him. She’d been like a drug, an addiction he couldn’t get enough of, and she’d left him without even saying goodbye.
Most disturbing, he fit the profile he’d seen illustrated on numerous crime dramas. He had no close family, no close friends. Quiet, a loner who kept to himself. The perfect suspect.
Damn.
He