In Harm's Way (Heroes of Quantico Series, Book 3) (35 page)

"What kind of issues?" Nick pressed.

"Episodes of depression. Instability. She also had a nervous
breakdown in college that forced her to drop out. At least that's
what her father told me. I tracked him down when I was desperate to figure out what was going on with her. He wasn't any
more specific than that"

"How long have you been divorced?"

"A year"

"Any chance the baby your colleague saw her with could be
her own child?"

"No. She had a condition called placenta accreta during her
last pregnancy. She lost the baby and had to have a hysterectomy. And she would never be approved for adoption, given
her mental health history."

"Do you know where we can find your ex-wife?"

"No. I had no interest in staying in touch. But she's a paralegal, if that helps. That's the odd thing. She's able to function
on the job. The psychiatrist who saw her called her problem
delusional disorder, just as your profiler did. He said people
who suffer from it can often perform well occupationally, that
their bizarre behavior is confined to their delusion. I assume
she's still working in that field"

Mark, who had been conversing in a low voice, motioned
to Nick.

"Matt, I need to put you on mute for a minute" He depressed
the button and glanced at Mark.

"Mr. Feltrop pulled out the stones with a grappling hook and
lifted up the tarp. He says there appears to be clothing and a
few tools underneath"

"That's it?"

"Yeah"

"What kind of clothes?"

"The only thing he can identify for sure is a greenish-blue
coat"

Rachel's. But at least there was no body.

"Okay." The word came out hoarse, and he cleared his throat
as he turned off the mute button. "Professor Harris, in your
opinion is your ex-wife capable of violence?"

"I don't know. Maybe. If she's angry enough, or delusional
enough"

"Would her father know where she is?"

I doubt it. They've been estranged for years'

"We'd like to check in with him anyway. Do you have a contact number?"

"Yes. As of a year ago, he lived in town. That may have
changed:"

"We'll start there, Matt said. "I'll get the information from
you in a minute. Nick, any other questions?"

"Not now. But Professor Harris, we may need to get back
in touch"

"I'll help in any way I can"

The line clicked, and when Matt spoke again the conferencecall echo was missing. "I'll check out the father."

"And we'll try to track down Debra Kraus. She fits the profile
our people developed. Call me if you come up with anything"

"Will do"

Both Mark and Nick finished their calls within seconds of
each other.

"What do you think?" Mark asked.

"I think Debra Kraus is a key suspect. According to her ex,
she has some very serious mental issues, not to mention delusions about motherhood that could translate to violence if she
feels threatened. What have you got?"

"The ERT and K-9 unit should arrive about the same time we
do. No record of a Debra Kraus in the phone listing. We're trying
utilities now. Both in St. Louis county and outlying areas."

"Her ex says she's a paralegal who is probably employed in
that field. That would be one way to find her"

"Considering the number of legal firms in St. Louis, tracking
her down that way on a Sunday night would take a long time,
Nick"

Too long.

The unspoken message came through loud and clear. In this
weather, exposure to the elements would be deadly for a clothed
person, let alone one who had little protection from the cold. The
classy silk blouse and black skirt Rachel wore for tea provided
barely adequate warmth indoors in frigid winter weather.

"We need to get a helicopter on standby to do a thermal
sweep once we isolate an area, in case she's outside" Nick did
his best to maintain a calm, professional tone, but Mark knew
him too well.

"Already done:" Mark put a hand on his shoulder. "We'll find
her, Nick. We've had two good breaks. I think we're close. And
I'm praying:"

"I am too"

For most of his life, Nick had relied on prayer to guide him,
to comfort him, to sustain him.

Tonight he hoped it would do even more.

He hoped it would save the life of the woman who was fast
laying claim to his heart.

"Hey, Marsha, look at this" Kristal stopped reading her psychology textbook and called over her shoulder to her roommate.

"What?" Marsha picked up her soda and ambled from the
kitchen to the living room.

"It's a story about the O'Neil kidnapping" She motioned to
the TV as a photo of the baby flashed on the screen. "They think
she's in St. Louis:"

"I know. That reporter from St. Louis Scene suggested she
was here a while back"

"But now the psychic from that article has been kidnapped.
Turns out she's the sister of the baby's mother. Identical twins,
separated at birth"

"No kidding:" Marsha sat on the arm of the couch.

"Anyway, don't you think that baby looks an awful lot like the
one you watched this afternoon?"

"Danielle?" Marsha tipped her head and studied the photo on
the screen. "That one's younger. And the hair color is wrong."

"Yeah, but did you notice that brownish stain behind Danielle's ear? I saw it when you were holding her against your
shoulder:"

"I caught a glimpse of it when I put her in her snowsuit.
Why?"

"It looked like hair dye to me." Kristal ran her hand through
her own russet tresses. "Take it from one who knows, that stuff
is insidious. It gets everywhere. And that picture on the screen
must be from Christmas. Her outfit's red and green. Babies
change a lot in a couple of months. Do you know anything
about the mother?"

"She doesn't talk much. But I know she moved here recently
from Chicago" Marsha frowned and swirled the liquid in her
soda can. "You know, when I showed her that first article in St.
Louis Scene about the psychic, she did seem a little upset:"

"According to the FBI, Megan O'Neil has a small strawberry
birthmark on her right hip, the anchorman continued. "The
baby has blue eyes and. . "

"Oh my word" Marsha's mouth dropped open and she froze,
the can of soda halfway to her mouth.

"What?" Kristal tipped her head back to look at her roommate.

"Danielle has that kind of birthmark on her hip"

"Wow" Kristal pulled out her cell phone and handed it over.
"I think you better call the FBI."

The rock slipped from Rachel's numb fingers. Again.

Tears sprang to her eyes, and she fought them back.

Don't cry! Don't give up! Keep working!

She'd been repeating that mantra for what seemed like hours,
but in truth she had no idea how long she'd been nicking away
at the wood around the hinge. She'd lost all sense of the passage of time.

She was losing other things too. Her capacity to think clearly. And her ability to remain upright. There had also been a dramatic
drop in her motor coordination. But at least she wasn't as cold
as she had been, despite the intense shivers that continued to
wrack her body. Nor did she care as much about sticking to her
plan. Her motivational chant was beginning to lose its effect.

Lowering herself to the ground, she considered staying there.
It would be the easy thing to do. She could let herself drift into
oblivion, end the nightmare. Why prolong this agony?

She toyed with that idea. The prospect was tempting. She'd
tried her best, hadn't she? What good would it do to get one or
two more slivers of wood out of the door? She was still on the
first hinge. In the end, her efforts wouldn't matter. There was no
way she was going to work one hinge loose, let alone two.

Hang in and keep movingforward.

The voice urging her on came from somewhere deep inside. It
was the same voice she'd heard through the years whenever life
got rough. Through the emotional upheavals of the foster system,
through the pain of multiple surgeries, through the lonely adult
years without anyone to come home to, she'd listened to that
voice, heeded its directive.

And her stick-to-itiveness had paid off. In self-respect, if not
always in results. Giving up would be a terrible way to end her
life.

Mustering her waning strength, Rachel groped around the
dirt floor until her fingers found the sharp rock.

She willed her uncooperative fingers to close around it.

Lifted it.

And went back to work.

The first thing Nick saw when he arrived at the well was the
blood.

It was smeared on the tarp the ERT technician was pulling out
of the black hole as he and Mark strode across the field toward
the circle of light created by the floods that had been set up.

He stumbled.

Mark gripped his arm.

Nick stopped. Fought for composure. Pulled away. "I'm okay.
Let's see what they have" He moved forward, leaving Mark to
follow.

Clair Ellis, the lead ERT technician, was known for her lead
foot on the gas pedal, and she'd obviously put it to good use
getting from the hotel crime scene to the farm. As he and Mark
stepped into the light, she examined the tarp, her short blonde
hair peeking from beneath her wool cap as she pushed her glasses
higher on her nose.

Stopping beside her, Nick looked at the dark maroon smears.
His only consolation was that there weren't many of them.

"What do you have?" His strained words came out in a puff
of frosty breath.

"The purse is over there" She gestured toward a drop cloth
that had been spread on the ground. "It doesn't appear as if
anything is missing. Wallet's inside, with ID and money. There's
more stuff in the well. We're bringing it up now"

As she spoke, another technician pulled Rachel's coat out of the murky depths. Clair set the tarp aside to join him, holding
the coat carefully in her latex-gloved hands as she examined the
fabric. "No blood. And it's intact"

Meaning a bullet or knife hadn't ripped into it. Nick read
between the lines of her comment.

He stepped aside, watching as other items came up. With
a video camera rolling, Clair slipped them into evidence bags,
sealed the bags, signed them, and recorded the number on the
outside of each in the evidence log.

Nick took a mental inventory as he watched. A pair of black
pumps. A screwdriver. A bolt cutter. A large, rusted padlock.
Each bagged object was laid on the drop cloth, like the pieces
of a puzzle.

Except he had no idea how to put them together. Or where
to find the missing pieces that would lead them to Rachel.

"That lock sure has seen better days"

Turning, Nick surveyed the stocky, late-fiftyish man who
stood just outside the circle of light. His shaggy, gray-streaked
brown hair was visible beneath a knit cap, and a few unruly locks
had fallen across his forehead. He wore a bulky, well-broken-in
work coat, worn jeans, and heavy-duty gloves.