Angi Morgan - Hill Country Holdup

The opportunity at Johns Hopkins was too important and prestigious to pass up. If she’d stayed in Dallas, she would have regretted it the rest of their lives. He’d gone undercover posing for the next five months as a husband desperate to adopt a child. His team had run the sting trying to stop the illegal sale of abducted children.

Nothing had gone right. His cover had been blown. They’d lost track of the kids. He still wasn’t over that.

But their breakup had been for the best. Jane hadn’t written from Baltimore. He hadn’t heard from her. Not even an e-mail. He couldn’t blame Jane for leaving. He’d pushed her out the door.

Another person gone. But this one had come back and hadn’t called. She’d made her choice.

Enough said.

It took twenty minutes to get to his house, but only ten to get Jane’s address from George. It was close to the University of Texas campus in Arlington. Close to where she’d lived when she’d been in school. Close to where they’d met.

Okay, pal. Build a bridge and get over it. Keep a level head or you’ll give the brass a reason to keep you off the case even longer.

Feeling like warmed-over cow patties, he should have stayed home. But this was Jane.

His gut told him two plus two just didn’t add up to four. Flashing his badge at the officer still at the scene, he ducked under the crime scene tape and entered the totally wrecked apartment. There hadn’t been any reason for his team to be gentle.

Stacks of empty cutesy frames that had filled every nook of her apartment four years ago were dumped from boxes as if she hadn’t unpacked. Jane loved pictures, but she had a habit of buying the frame and forgetting to print the picture to fill it. The knickknacks cluttering the top shelves matched everything he remembered. Nails, but no pictures on the walls. Nothing on the lower shelves.

One bedroom remained completely empty. Odd. The desk was in the living area. Why get a two-bedroom if you’re going to put your desk inconveniently by the patio door? Didn’t make sense. Jane was a scientist and couldn’t live without having access to her files and external hard drive. So where was the computer? She hauled the entire PC with her on a kidnapping?

He still couldn’t believe she was involved.

The same comforter she’d had since she was eleven lay bunched in the middle of her bed. That was more like her—a creature of habit. During their three months together it had been hard to get her to change any routine.

That uncomfortable feeling crept up the back of his neck again. The feeling he got when things were about to go from bad to worse.

Upturned bureau drawers cluttered the floor. Clothes were piled under them. He picked up a picture of a very young Jane with her mother. She still had big sad eyes, as if she carried the fate of the world on her shoulders. Just one lone picture?

It didn’t make sense.

Still slender with dark auburn hair, she hadn’t changed. Well, her bangs were dark. That was all he’d seen under that cap. He ran his finger over her lips. They’d still be soft and luscious.

Opening the drawer in the nightstand, he found the book. Just one. A very used copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

Jackpot.

It had been a challenge to find a book she’d never read. A book she couldn’t quote by heart. He didn’t need to open the cover to see the words written inside, but he did anyway. “My favorite book is yours. Love, Steve.” He’d struggled with the words long enough, wanting them to be meaningful, yet casual.

He’d come here specifically to find this, just in case the reference to one of its characters in his “antidote note” hadn’t been a fluke. He flipped through the pages, finding a Valentine’s Day card with last year’s date and a “Love, Hayden.”

Who was Hayden?

Under the card was a picture of Jane and himself at his parents’ lake house. He flipped it over. Austin Lake Country where Steve assured me I wasn’t alone in the galaxy.

She’d kept the book and his picture.

Dr. Jane Palmer closely guarded a secret about herself. He’d given her his favorite book for her birthday present, then found out she had an amazing memory. She could recite chapters of books she’d read in college.

Shoot, he couldn’t go down memory lane right now. But he could go exactly where Jane had pointed him. Lake Buchanan, near Austin.

He pulled out his cell and had his thumb over the speed dial for George. It was more than a hunch now. Jane had deliberately left him a trail. She needed him.

But why not call the FBI? Why not write on the antidote note that she was in trouble? Why “Zaphod”? Because he’d understand immediately, and no one else would.

What if he were wrong? McCaffrey would have his head if he misdirected the team. He didn’t want to be permanently relieved of duty. Right?

He brought up the directory and retrieved the number for Southwest Airlines. If he were lucky, he could catch the first plane to Austin and bring Jane in alone. It was the safest way to get her to turn herself in and sort out why she was working with kidnappers.

What did he have to lose?

NINE TEDIOUS HOURS and Jane was losing her patience. Driving to Lake Buchanan through heavy rains had been a nightmare. Unexpected flooding in south Texas shut down roads and delayed her by four hours.

Her uncanny recall for details had set her apart for as long as she could remember. But an eidetic memory didn’t help in storms that obliterated the road signs or detours due to flooding.

How she’d wished for her ability to go away so she could be like normal little girls. A normal life full of dolls, playtime and friends. Full of stability instead of university studies. That “special” part of her everyone admired had contributed to her exploitation by her parents, losing her dream job and now the kidnapping of her son.

The formula stored in her unique memory had drawn criminal attention to her. Guess she didn’t blend in well enough after all. If she had, Rory would be safe at home instead of in the hands of coldhearted kidnappers.

Thunder echoed across the landscape, jolting her back to the driving rain beating against the windshield. It had started storming south of Stephenville and never let up. Kingsland had received its share, too. Although it was nearly seven in the morning, the sky remained shrouded in darkness as the rain continued to pour.

She drove past two barricades on the last turn and parked the car in a drive leading to an unused field. The ground was normally a mixture of small pebbles and dirt, but was now mainly water and mud. A couple of steps from the car and she slid to the ground, losing the flip-flops in the dark. She walked the last quarter mile to the lake house, falling time and again.

Her luck had to change. If the FBI understood her message, she could wait for their help here, away from the kidnappers’ view.

If they didn’t show, she’d get a message to them. Somehow. But she was too exhausted to think after driving all night. And if Steve decided to come, what then? She’d thought about how to break the news to him. He deserved to know. But how did you tell a man he was a father and that his son had been kidnapped in the same sentence?

I can’t think anymore. She finally sloshed up the muddy walkway thankful the heavy rains had placed the lake country in a flash-flood warning. There weren’t any cars along the road or in the driveway. No lights on in the house. Hopefully, the family was still at the ranch.

Amanda Woods, Steve’s mother, usually hid a key so her kids could use their weekend retreat at a moment’s notice. Jane hoped it would be that way now, or she’d spend a horrible wet day in the boathouse. She hooked the soggy strands from the wig behind her ears, wearing it just in case someone saw her or if she was stopped.