Grayson had been called immediately, state PD moving quickly. They felt the pressure, too; they could see the tally of the area’s missing children going up.
Like Grayson, they could hear the clock ticking.
They’d found a gun at the scene, spattered with blood, lying in the small island of grass that separated the sidewalk from the street. Grayson hoped it would yield useable prints and a DNA profile that could possibly lead him one step closer to the answers he was searching for.
He prayed it would, but he wasn’t counting on it.
He’d been to the scene. He’d peered into an abandoned Jeep, lights still on, driver’s door open. He’d opened the victim’s wallet, seen her identification—Laney Kensington, five feet three inches and one hundred ten pounds. He’d gotten a good look at the German shepherd that might have been responsible for stopping the kidnappers before they were able to kill the woman. He’d pieced together an idea of what might have happened, but he needed to talk to Laney Kensington, find out what had really gone down, how much she’d seen. More importantly, he needed to know exactly how valuable that information might be to the case he was working.
Time was of the essence if Grayson had any chance of bringing these children home.
Failure was not an option.
A police officer stood guard outside the woman’s room, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression neutral. He didn’t move as Grayson approached, didn’t acknowledge him at all until Grayson flashed his badge. “Special Agent Grayson DeMarco, FBI.”
“Detective Paul Jensen, Maryland State Police,” the detective responded. “No one’s allowed in to see the victim. If that’s why you’re here, you may as well turn around and—”
He cut the man off. “We don’t have time to play jurisdiction games, Detective. As of tonight, three kids are missing from Maryland in just under six weeks.”
“I’m well aware of that, but I have my orders, and until I hear from my supervisor that you’re approved to go in there, you’re out.”
“How about you give him a call, then?” Grayson reached past the detective and opened the door, ignoring the guy’s angry protest as he walked into the cool hospital room.
The witness lay unconscious under a mound of sheets and blankets, her dark auburn hair tangled around a face that was pale and still streaked with dried blood. Faint signs of bruising shadowed her jaw, made more evident by the harsh hospital lights. A bandage covered her temple, and an IV line snaked out from beneath the sheets. She appeared delicate, almost fragile, not at all what he was expecting given her part in the events of the night. Fortunately, as fragile as she appeared, the bullet had merely grazed her temple and she would eventually make a full recovery.
Unfortunately, Grayson didn’t have the luxury of waiting for her to heal. He needed to speak to her. The sooner the better.
He moved toward the bed, trying to ignore the pine scent of floor cleaner, the harsh overhead lights, the IV line. They reminded him of things he was better off forgetting, of a time when he hadn’t been sure he could keep doing what he did.
He pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat, glancing at Detective Jensen, who’d followed him into the room. “Aren’t you supposed to be guarding the door?”
“I’m guarding the witness, and I could force you out of here,” the detective retorted, his eyes flashing with irritation and a hint of worry.
“What would be the point? You know I’ve got jurisdiction.”
The detective offered no response. Grayson hadn’t expected him to. Policies and protocol didn’t bring abducted kids back to their parents, and wasting time fighting over jurisdiction wasn’t going to accomplish anything.
“Look,” he said, meeting the detective’s dark eyes. “I’m not here to step on toes. I’m here to find these kids. There’s still a chance we can bring them home. All of them. How about you keep that in mind?”
The guy muttered something under his breath and stalked out of the room.
That was fine with Grayson. He preferred to be alone with the witness when she woke. He wanted every bit of information she had, every minute detail. He didn’t want it second-or third-hand, didn’t want to get it after it had already been said a few times. He needed her memories fresh and clear, undiluted by time or speculation.
Laney groaned softly and began to stir. Just for a moment, Grayson felt like a voyeur. It seemed almost wrong to be sitting over her bed waiting for her to gain consciousness. She needed family or friends around her. Not a jaded FBI agent with his own agenda.
He leaned in toward Laney. Though only moments ago she had appeared to be on the verge of waking, she had grown still again.
“Laney?” he said softly. “Can you hear me?”
He leaned in closer. “Laney?”
She stirred, eyes moving rapidly behind closed lids. Was she caught in a dream, or a memory? he wondered.
“Wake up, Laney.” He reached out, resting his hand gently on her forearm.
She came up swinging, her fist grazing his chin, her eyes wild. She swung again, and Grayson did the only thing he could. He ducked.
“Calm down,” a man said, his warm fingers curved around Laney’s wrist. She tried to pull away but couldn’t quite find the strength. Her head throbbed, the pungent smell of antiseptic filled her nose, and she couldn’t manage to do more than stare into the stranger’s dark-lashed blue eyes.
Not the kidnapper’s eyes. Not the eyes of his accomplice. She wasn’t lying on the pavement in the dark. There was no Jeep. No van. No struggling young girl with terror in her eyes. Nothing but cream-colored walls and white sheets and a man who could have been anyone looking at her expectantly.
“What happened? How did I get here?” she asked, levering up on her elbows, the hospital room too bright, her heart beating an erratic cadence in her chest.
“A couple of joggers found you lying on the sidewalk,” the man responded. “Do you remember anything about tonight?”
Anything?
She remembered everything—heading home from Murphy’s training session, seeing the girl and the van, struggling and fighting and failing. Again.
“Yes,” she mumbled, willing away nausea and the deep pain of failure.
“Good.” He smiled, his expression changing from harsh and implacable to something that looked like triumph. “That’s going to help a lot.”
“Help who?” Because her actions tonight certainly hadn’t helped the girl or her family. Overwhelming sadness welled up within her, but Laney forced it back. She had to get a grip on herself. She had no idea how long she’d been unconscious, what had happened to Murphy, or most importantly, if the police even knew a child had been taken.
“I’m Special Agent Grayson DeMarco with the FBI,” the man explained. “I’m hoping you can help with a case I’m working on.”
“I’m not worried about your case, Agent DeMarco. I’m worried about the girl who was kidnapped tonight.” She shoved the sheets off her legs and sat up. Her head swam, the pain behind her eyes nearly blinding her, but she had to get to a phone. She needed to tell Police Chief Kent Andrews what had happened. They needed to start searching immediately if there was any chance to save the child. And there had to be a chance.
“The girl is my case—and several other children like her,” Agent DeMarco responded. “The local police are at the scene of the kidnapping. They’re