Lisa Gardner - Touch & Go

And I believed him. Because my husband was that kind of guy. The modern caveman, I’d often called him. He would lay down his life for his daughter, just not remember her favorite foods. And he would slay dragons for me, just not, apparently, remain faithful.

Ironically enough, his alpha male tendencies were one of the things that had first attracted him to me.

Justin held out his hand. His palm was large, ridged with callouses. His nails were short, his skin rough. I’d spent so much of my life admiring those hands. It made it easy for me to place my fingers upon his and make my one request.

“Keep our daughter safe, Justin. That’s all I want. Keep Ashlyn safe.”

His fingers closed around mine. He leaned forward. I could see his eyes, somber and resolute, and then, his head angled down, and my head angled up…

Clanging, from the steel door. So loud both of us startled, jerked back, then turned around.

The crazy blue-eyed one stood in front of the window, leering at us. Clearly, he’d been watching for a bit. Clearly, he’d liked what he saw.

I couldn’t help myself; I recoiled, reaching for my daughter, as if holding her arm would somehow keep her safe.

“Get up,” Mick barked from the other side of the door. “Think this is some kind of vacay? Come on. Time to work.”

Chapter 14

WYATT DIDN’T CALL THE FEDS. If they wanted to join the party, they knew where to find him. In the meantime, he and his deputies went to work.

Maps. He liked maps. Sure, you could look this stuff up on a computer in this day and age, but there was something satisfying about unfolding a massive, color-coded scale map of mountainous New Hampshire. The dozens of blue blobs of lakes. The endless squiggly lines of hundreds of winding rural roads.

New Hampshire was a funny state. Long, skinny at the top, with a wider base. Nestled like a puzzle piece into the opposing shape of Vermont, as if the two were long-lost friends. New Hampshire wasn’t a very big state as the crow flies. A dedicated driver could make it from the southernmost border with Massachusetts to the northernmost border with Canada in three and a half, four hours tops. Horizontal routes, however, were another matter entirely, thanks to the White Mountains. They jutted up like jagged teeth and bit their way through the middle of the state, forcing east-west roads to zigzag, stair step and generally give way before their greater might. As the locals liked to say when contemplating drives across the state, “Why, you just can’t get there from here…”

Given those dynamics, Wyatt was betting their suspects had continued due north. Mostly, because that’s what drivers did in New Hampshire. You went up, or you went down, but it was too painful to move side to side.

For kicks, he’d sent one deputy, Gina, to drive due north from the diner. Told her to perform basic recon. Note rural turnouts or deserted campgrounds where a driver might pull over to refresh. Stop in at any isolated gas stations or unpopulated grocery stores where a bunch of kidnappers might feel it was safe enough to grab food, water, refuel. Start asking questions, passing along the description of the missing family and getting the locals watching.

She could also mark major turnoff points, or larger towns where they could involve local PDs, but Wyatt was guessing their suspects would do their best to drive through such areas. An entire family was hard to conceal. Why even risk heavily populated areas for stopping, when the North Country had so many safer havens to offer?

Frankly, he respected the kidnappers. When heading for the wilds of New Hampshire, they had picked wisely.

He bent back over the map, tracing Route 16 up the eastern edge of the state, as the feds swept through the door.

He knew it was them without looking up. For one thing, he spotted one pair of low-slung black heels and one pair of glossy brown men’s dress shoes. Only lawyers wore those kinds of shoes in this neck of the woods, and lawyers rarely visited the sheriff’s office on a Saturday afternoon.

The female spoke first. “Wyatt,” she said, and inside, he immediately groaned.

He knew that voice. Crap.

Wyatt straightened. Took his finger off the map. Prepared to give the devil her due.

Nicole Adams, aka Nicky. Except last time he’d used that nickname, she’d been waking up in his bed. He had a feeling he didn’t get to use that nickname anymore. Or, for that matter, remain an intact male in her withering presence.

“Special Agent Adams,” he replied. Seemed the safest answer.

She smiled. It didn’t meet her cool blue eyes.

She wore a dark pencil skirt, matching jacket, high-collared silvery silk blouse. Being one of those tall blondes with upswept hair, the ice-princess look really worked for her. She also carried a thick black leather computer case, which she now dropped to the floor with a heavy thud .

“Sergeant Wyatt Foster, Special Agent Edward Hawkes.” She introduced him to her partner.

Wyatt nodded, shook hands. Special Agent Hawkes also carried a heavy bag. Apparently, they were planning to stay for a bit.

“We understand you found the missing man’s jacket,” Nicole continued.

“Got it wrapped up special in an evidence bag, just for you.”

“So you knew we were coming?”

“Made sense.”

“But you didn’t call with an update.”

“Update implies progress. Not so sure we got progress. Mostly”—he tapped the map—“we got a helluva lot of real estate and no real leads.”

The feds seemed to accept that. They crossed to the table where Wyatt had spread out the map, leaned closer.

“Catch us up,” Nicole ordered briskly. “What are you looking at?”

Wyatt swallowed another sigh and got down to business. This was why he should’ve listened to his gut before getting involved with a fellow member of law enforcement. Except at the time, in the Concord courthouse, about to testify at a trial, he’d spotted this beautiful blonde across the hall and lost common sense. Couldn’t say it was her laugh that got him, because it still wasn’t clear to him that Nicole Adams ever giggled. But he’d gotten it into his head that he needed to meet her, which had led to drinks, which had led to a hotel room. Then, probably to the surprise of them both, they had an on-again-off-again thing that went on a couple months.

Except one day he started to realize he liked the off more than the on. Nothing against her. But she was clearly federal agent to the core: upwardly mobile, urban powered, tightly disciplined. And, as he tried to point out to her when breaking up, he was none of those highly admirable things.

In hindsight, he should’ve waited another week. At which point, she probably would’ve dumped him. Then, this moment would’ve made him laugh, instead of shiver from deep freeze.

He pointed to a spot on the map, midway up the state, closer to Maine, which would be relevant in a moment. “Jacket was recovered here. Abandoned roadside diner, no other businesses or residents around for miles.”

“Witnesses?” Hawkes spoke up.

“No one around to witness. Welcome to the North Country. Now, tire marks show the vehicle resuming a northward course. Which brings us to”—he drew a large circle around the northern tip of the state—“hundreds of square miles of absolute nowhere. In other words, the perfect place for a bunch of kidnappers to hide.”

Nicole was frowning at his map. “You’re assuming they maintained a northern route.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Wyatt explained his logic, the mountains muddling up east-west routes and all. Based on the jacket’s disposal site, the kidnappers had taken 95 into New Hampshire, veering left onto Route 16, which followed the eastern border of the state. Call him crazy, but it seemed to him if you were a bunch of kidnappers with a family of three stashed in the back of your van, you’d go with the most direct route possible. Which would place them squarely in northern New Hampshire, an area remote enough to easily hide hostages that was also conveniently located just three to four hours from Boston, making for easy access come time for ransom drop or hostage exchange.