Of course, the kid hadn’t taken the candy – apparently he’d been paying attention to those warnings – so he’d resorted to the syringe. And now the boy lay, peaceful as a little lamb, with his head resting on JR’s lap.
He reached down, stroked the dark hair.
Then looked out the windshield, wondering what Max’s mother was doing. Crying all over her FBI lover? Clutching her poor, distraught cousin’s broken hand?
He laughed again, pulling the truck into his grandmother’s barn, next to the minivan registered to Sean Roberts. The car that would drive him into the next phase of his life.
His life as a responsible, upstanding father. Just him and the kid, day in, day out. They could fish, or toss a ball. Watch movies.
Maybe he could show him a thing or two he’d learned at camp.
Overjoyed, JR couldn’t contain his laughter. He had no idea this would be so much fun.
CLAY strode through the waiting room, which seemed to be filled to capacity, and gripped the edge of the registration desk.
“Excuse me, I’m here to see Tate Hennessey. I need to know what room she’s been taken to.”
The woman at the desk used wildly manicured fingers to tap some information into the computer before frowning up at Clay. “Are you family?”
Clay pulled his badge out and flipped it open. He didn’t have time to play games. “What room is she in?”
The woman harrumphed and went back to her computer. “Emergency suite 121. Go left and around the corner. Then through the swinging doors on the right. Push the button on the wall and I’ll buzz you in.”
“Thanks.”
He and Kim took off at a trot. Clay found the button, shoved it in, and waited for the doors to swing open. When they did, he ran into Justin.
“Oh, hey,” his friend said, pulling a mask off his face. “Wow, that was quick. You must have set a new land-speed record.” He stepped aside and extended his hand. “Justin Wellington,” he said to Kim, even as he moved to walk with them.
“Kim O’Connell. Under any other circumstances, I would say it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Justin smiled briefly and then turned his attention to Clay. “I’ll take you to her room. She’s pretty out of it, but conscious. Unfortunately I can’t stick around, because I need to get back to the OR. It’s a zoo around here today. My last patient got up off the gurney and walked out – with a bullet wound to the leg – before I could get to him.”
Justin paused outside the door to Room 121, laying his hand on Clay’s shoulder. “I’m really sorry about all of this. My prayers will be with you and that little boy.”
“Thanks.” Clay’s voice was scratchy with unshed tears. He took a deep breath, glanced at Kim, and rapped his knuckles on the door before entering. A pretty redhead in a linen suit sat in a chair beside the bed. No doubt Kathleen, Tate’s cousin.
And on the bed…
Oh, holy God in Heaven.
“You’re here.” Tate’s face crumpled. And he was beside her in an instant. “Oh, thank God, you’re here. They t…t…took Max. Somebody took m… m…my baby.”
“We’ll get him back.” It was foolish to make that promise. The reasonable, federally-trained part of his brain tsked at the fact that he’d done so. All sorts of statistics and case files and remembered tragedies flew around in his head.
Most stranger abducted children were killed within twenty-four hours…
No. He refused to let that happen. He couldn’t have found happiness only to have it so cruelly snatched away.
“I promise you.” And he meant every bloody word. Stroking her hair, Clay lifted his head away from Tate’s, turning his gaze on the room’s other occupant. “You must be Tate’s cousin.”
“Kathleen Murphy.” The two of them shook. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“This is Kim O’Connell,” he introduced the two women. Like Clay, they seemed ramped up with adrenaline, and he guessed that sitting here and waiting had been hell on Kathleen. Against his chest, Clay felt Tate’s sobs begin to ease. And her steady, rhythmic breathing told him the sedative had taken effect. “Tell me what you know,” he requested.
“About one-fifteen several 911 calls started pouring into the system, indicating there’d been some kind of accident at the aquarium. A man had fallen down the stairs, knocked into a couple of other people, there were injuries, an ambulance was requested, yada, yada, yada. Well, one of the first responders pulled Rogan’s ID, realized it was my brother, and gave me a call. I said hell, and take care of Max until I get there. He says who’s Max?”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.” She ran her fingers through her chin length hair. “No sign of Max anywhere near Rogan. I bust my ass to get there, have the aquarium put in lockdown in the meantime, and we scour every inch of that place with a fine tooth comb. No Max. Rogan’s hauled off to the hospital by ambulance, totally unconscious and unable to tell us what the hell happened, and so we start interviewing witnesses who saw him fall. A couple of people saw Max being led away from the crowd by the stairs by his grandma.”
“What?” Confusion muddled. “I thought Maggie was going down to St. Simons Island today to visit one of Tate’s sisters.”
“She did. I spoke with her about thirty minutes ago. She and Kelly – Tate’s sister – are on their way back here now.”
What the hell was going on? “You get a description on the grandma?”
“Gray hair, wrinkles, ugly shoes. Like every other grandma in the world. Either tall or stooped, depending on who you talk to. People see what they expect to see, you know what I mean?”
Did he ever. Society’s fringes – the elderly, the homeless, illegal immigrants, and many other marginal classes – were almost like non-people to a large portion of the American public. Just shades that drifted along at the
