Tara Quinn - A Son's Tale

“Says who?”

“Washington, D.C.—the U.S. Department of Justice.”

She looked at him—and kept looking—as though the connection of their gazes was holding her upright.

She wasn’t Rose Sanderson. And this time he might be able to help.

* * *

TWELVEHOURSBEFORE, her greatest dream would definitely have included Caleb Whittier as a key player—in her home, with her.

Tonight he was included in her darkest nightmare. And her only dream was holding Sammie, safe and healthy, in her arms again. Her education didn’t matter. The day care and Saturday’s festivities were trivial. Nothing mattered if Sammie was gone.

Someone ordered pizza. The smell made Morgan sick to her stomach. Julie left, going home to be with her husband and twin daughters. Everything else stayed the same. Alarmingly the same.

Nothing was happening.

Until the phone rang just after midnight. Morgan’s body suffused with weakness even while her heart pounded so hard she could feel its beat.

“Wait,” the detective on duty, Rick Warner, said, looking at her. The hand Morgan held suspended over the receiver, ready to pick up, was shaking. The call display flashed Unknown Caller.

“Remember what they told you, Morgan.” George Lowen stood over her, having come in from the business papers he had strewn all over the kitchen table as soon as the phone pealed. “Keep them talking. Stay calm. Be agreeable…”

She tuned out the voice. She couldn’t deal with her father and kidnappers at the same time.

“You’ll do fine.” Cal Whittier dropped quietly onto the couch next to her. Not touching her. Just there.

The detective nodded and Morgan picked up, the call broadcast to the room on a special speaker they’d hooked up. “Hello?”

“Your father killed my wife. I got your kid. Fair trade.” Click.

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

No one spoke at first, as the caller hung up far too soon for anyone to put a full trace on the call.

“What the hell?” George Lowen turned his back just as Grace came into the room. Morgan’s mother had been lying down on Morgan’s bed. Her usually immaculate, tastefully dyed brown hair was mussed. Her eyes were swollen, her lightweight navy slacks and white blouse wrinkled.

“Who was on the phone?”

Detective Warner spoke into a cell phone. And hung up. Caleb Whittier took the receiver out of Morgan’s grasp.

“The call came from a prepaid cell phone. No way to trace it,” the detective said. “But they got the tower the signal came from. First and Main.”

“Fifteen miles from here,” George bit out.

“He’s still in the area?” Hope shot through Morgan even while she was falling apart at the seams.

“We know the area the call came from,” Detective Warner said softly, his brown eyes warm but tired looking. He didn’t try to hide the graveness of the situation from her.

Morgan couldn’t move. “He said he has Sammie.”

“I know.”

“So what do we do now?”

Those dark eyes were so hard to take. “We wait.”

“We wait.” How could her voice sound so calm when she was screaming inside? Seething with panic and dread and anger and fear and… “For what?”

“For him to call again.” Detective Warner’s voice was as calm as hers. Did the man also have feelings underneath? Things she couldn’t see? Or was this all just another job to him? Did he know what his words were doing to her?

Did it matter?

“What about that tower?” George demanded, standing halfway across the room. “I want every inch of that area canvassed. I’ll provide the resources. If you people can’t man the search I’ll hire someone who can.”

Her father’s autocratic tone cut through her—and gave her hope at the same time.

“It’s a multiple base station site. The call likely came within a mile or two of the tower, but the range could extend as much as thirty miles or more, depending on the strength of the phone used. It’s late at night so there are fewer transmissions going out, which means that range is wider.”

Oh, God. Is there no hope?

“Calls connect through to the closest tower.”

So they could narrow the search dramatically?

“Not always. And that depends on the phone’s operator, as well. Cars and alerts are already out, Mr. Lowen. Believe me, we’ve got every resource possible on this one.”

“I want more.”

“We’re doing all we can.”

“Then I’ll do it myself.” Her father’s dismissive tone followed him out of the small living room.

Grace and Morgan exchanged looks but Morgan was no longer sure what they were saying to each other.

“You said we wait,” Grace addressed Detective Warner, who was working at a card table set up along the front wall of the duplex. Morgan’s mother was sitting in the armchair where earlier she’d gone through address files, making notes regarding run-ins her husband had had over the years.

George Lowen, when questioned by Detective Martin, had put his wife on that job.

And apparently Detective Martin had been right on cue, looking for people who had it in for Morgan’s father. Now they could narrow the search more. To a male who’d lost a wife—and blamed her father.

“Right now this guy is in control,” Detective Warner was saying. “Until we know more, we have to wait for the next call.”

Caleb Whittier sat beside Morgan throughout the exchange. It was as though he was her hard drive, taking in everything and storing it in meticulous order for her to call upon later.

“What makes you think he’s going to call back?” she asked Warner.

“Because it fits the profile. This man is out for revenge. One phone call isn’t going to satisfy him.”

Okay. There’d be another call. Another chance. She had to make it count.

“The next time he calls, you need to ask to speak to your son the second you pick up. This guy’s playing with you. He’s letting you know he’s in charge. And now he’s going to bait you. He’s going to wait until he knows you’re on the line, give you another one-liner and hang up.”

“And then what?”

“Profiling suggests that he’ll get around to asking for a ransom. Eventually. When he’s satisfied that you’ve suffered enough. Or when the satisfaction of torturing you runs out. For now, the only chance for communication you’re probably going to get is when you first pick up the call.”

“So instead of saying hello, I ask to speak with Sammie.”

“Right.”

Foggy-headed from exhaustion and stress, Morgan studied the detective. “You think he’ll let me talk to my son?”

“I doubt it. Not at this stage, in any case. He’s not out to give you any comfort. Just the opposite, in fact. So we play on his need to make you and your family suffer by letting him hear how desperate you are to speak to your son.”

“Why would she give this guy what he wants?” Grace asked.

“So he’ll give us what we want, proof of Sammie’s existence. He has to get pleasure out of giving us the information or we aren’t going to get it.”

Morgan’s stomach threatened to give back what little she’d eaten. “What kind of proof?”

“He’ll call back with a tape recording, maybe. Or a description of Sammie’s clothing. The idea is to keep him calling back. Every time we get him on the line we have that much more chance of pinpointing where he’s calling from. And every bit of communication gives us more clues to go on in helping us figure out who this guy is.”

“You said he’d be calling back, anyway.”

“That’s right and we want to take control of his plan.”

She nodded. And would do exactly as she was told.

She wanted to ask what the chances were that Sammie was still alive. Wanted to ask Detective Warner his professional opinion regarding her chances of ever seeing her son again.