Obsession Falls (7 page)

A narrow path led to the closet. There Taylor found and acquired a worn backpack, tossed in the darkest corner, a heavy coat, tossed in the other corner, a pair of heavy socks, smelly and balled up and tossed on a shelf, a knit hat, tossed in a tangled pile of computer cords, a pair of ski pants, tossed in the …

Taylor knew from looking at the bedroom that the girl was so disorganized, the items wouldn’t be so much missed as assumed displaced. Scoldings might follow, but for Taylor, these items were necessary winter wear.

Taylor dressed herself from the skin out, minus a bra since Cissie had not blossomed where Taylor had filled out. Tucked on the upper shelf, she found a faded Disney princesses sleeping bag. In severe conditions, it was never going to keep her warm, but she would take it until she found something better.

Although Taylor assured herself Cissie wouldn’t get in trouble for the missing items, she still felt guilty, so she removed and cleaned the three milk glasses with mold in the bottom and the bowl of rotting green food matter. She refilled a glass with mints and stashed it in the bookcase headboard. She discovered and again covered the well-read copy of
Twilight
hidden under a pile of dirty clothes. No point in betraying the girl’s secret obsession with the ultimate teen romance, or the passionate, scribbled love notes in the margins.

Taylor packed her extra clothing acquisitions into the backpack and turned away from Cissie’s room. And on second thought, turned back.

The kid had something Taylor might need.

At the back of Cissie’s suspiciously well-kept sock drawer, she found what she wanted: a clear baggie filled with weed, two rolled joints, papers, and a lighter. Taylor had first thought to let the kid keep her stash. After all, how much trouble could the girl get into up here where no one but the stars could see her smoke it?

But no matter how desperately Taylor wanted to avoid the idea, she knew that up there, in the mountains, she might hurt herself. She might need a painkiller, and aspirin wouldn’t cut it.

So she stole Cissie’s marijuana, knowing full-well Cissie would wonder if her brother had taken it, or her parents, and were tormenting her by saying nothing … or whether an intruder had sneaked in through the broken window and stolen only things from Cissie’s room. In any case, Taylor figured Cissie couldn’t complain.

Now Taylor searched for camping gear. What she really needed, and did not find, was dried rations, a rated-for-cold sleeping bag, and a handheld can opener. But this family was into skiing and snowshoeing, not camping. So from the linen closet, she took a down blanket. From the pantry she chose fruit roll-ups, whole grain crackers, and pop-top cans of tuna. From the package kept in the file drawer in the desk, she took one unlined legal-sized tablet.

She had managed to hang on to her drawing pencils and sharpener in her waist pack. She could make lists, jot down her thoughts, maybe take a few minutes to draw something …

Immediately, the memory of Dash and Hernandez pulling that child out of the trunk slammed into her mind, and she doubled over in fear. When she opened her eyes, she had to bring her racing heart under control, had to unclench her fists, had to bring herself back up into sitting position. No matter how well she pretended she was dealing with her trauma, the truth was … she was ruled by terror. The memory of Dash chasing her, shooting at her, dominated her nightmares. At night, the fall into the midnight cave replayed again and again.

She wiped tears from her eyes. She had no time for a breakdown. She had to care for herself. No one else would do so.

When she had obtained all she dared, she stashed Cissie’s backpack by the French doors in the master bedroom—if necessary, she would escape that way with her hard-won supplies—and returned to the Internet for some hint of Dash’s employer. She looked for men with the first name of Jimmy or Jim or James who were associated with Dash, and found two—his uncle, James Roberts, and the football player Jimmy Baldwin. Roberts was retired military, living in Chicago with his wife of thirty years. Baldwin was fervently Christian. Neither of them seemed likely to employ a hit man, or to inspire the kind of awe and fear Jimmy inspired in both Dash and Hernandez. But what did she know? What kind of man would employ a hit man? She’d seen the movies. She’d read the books. But in real life? She had absolutely no idea.

She researched Kennedy McManus and found quite a lot … and yet so little.

He was a media darling: tall, handsome, square-jawed, unsmiling. Yet although speculation ran rampant, he guarded his privacy zealously, and after Taylor had waded through speculation and innuendo, all she had was the cold, bare facts of his life.

With his younger sister, Tabitha, he had been removed from his parents’ care when he was ten and she was two. They had been put into foster care, sometimes together, sometimes apart. They lived through years in the system, years when his past, and hers, was unknown and unremarked. But his forte was data analysis, and he had emerged from high school with a scholarship to MIT. He had moved smoothly into college life, had created
Empire of Fire,
a complex role-playing game that required intensive, quick analysis to play and to win.

When McManus graduated, he sold the game for a lot of money, and used the capital to finance his own data analysis company. From all accounts, McManus was intolerant of any kind of crime for any reason. He was a shark, cruising through the business waters, tracking down industrial spies, exposing embezzlers, and doing God knew what for the U.S. government. No wonder this Jimmy person hated Kennedy McManus. Somehow, in some business dealings, McManus had probably ripped the man to shreds.

But how Jimmy had managed to find and kidnap McManus’s nephew, Taylor did not understand. She could discover little about the family; only that Tabitha had been about eighteen when McManus assumed guardianship of her and her two-year-old son, Miles, and they were seldom seen in public.

McManus was thirty-two and unmarried. He never had taken the plunge, nor were his carnal affairs publicized in any way. Yet no one speculated on his sexuality; he was heterosexual, obsessively discreet about his partners, and charismatic, with blue eyes fringed by black lashes, thick black hair, and the bulk of a WWE wrestler. Although Taylor stared with fascination at his picture for a long, long time, she had no desire to sleep with him.

If she had to have a man permanently in her life, she knew what she wanted: a man who would love her more than his job, put her first above his friends and family, respect her as a partner, not as decoration or a convenience.

But more than that, she wanted a man who could sweep her away with desire, with passion, with craving, who cared nothing about the proper way to make love, and everything about the rhythm of sex. She wanted lust. She wanted unbridled sexuality. She demanded a man who could—no, would—dance with her past reason, past need, and over the cliff into ecstasy.

Her fiancés had failed to fulfill those requirements. But she had met a few guys like that. Trouble was, they weren’t much for her other requisite: fidelity. She expected it from her man; she would give it to him in return.

To the artist’s discerning eye—and she flattered herself that at least she had that—Kennedy McManus’s character was clear. Passion? No. He held contempt for passion, for flights of fancy, for desperate yearning and wild obsession. His cold gaze could cut glass. His chest was too rock-hard to cradle a woman’s head. His grim expression forgave nothing. He reminded her of Dash: ruthless, uninterested, single-minded … selfish.

The nephew, Miles McManus, was home and safe, and she felt sorry for the kid. Hopefully his mother had welcomed him with joy and gratitude, but Taylor could not imagine Kennedy welcoming the child, holding him close, shedding a tear of joy over his return.

Scary guy, Kennedy McManus. She did not want to contact him.

But although she would look for another way out of this mess, she feared a meeting with Kennedy was in her future.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

In San Francisco, in the executive suite of McManus Enterprises, Kennedy McManus sat at his desk, staring at the monitor mounted on the wall where a montage of Taylor Summers photographs stared back at him.

Where was the woman?

When Miles was kidnapped from his school and his phone found in a Dumpster outside the Oakland airport, Kennedy didn’t call the police or the FBI. Instead, he had sat down and examined the event as reported by the children and staff. He had deduced who on the inside had cooperated with the criminals, and called Helen Allen into his office. Within an hour, she had confessed all she knew.

A man who somehow knew her financial need had contacted her and offered her twenty-five thousand dollars to deliver Miles to him. The stranger was tall and handsome, and he said he was the child’s father; he had sworn all he wanted to do was see his kid. Helen Allen had told Miles about the man, told him his father wanted to meet him, and Miles had gone with her. Just like that.

The child whom Kennedy had so carefully instructed on what to believe, whom to trust, had gotten in the car and traveled to the Oakland airport because he so badly wanted to know his father.

Kennedy and Tabitha had assured Miles his father was dead.

Apparently Miles had not believed them.

And Miles was right: his father was very much alive, in east L.A., living on the streets, selling drugs, taking drugs …

Even now, Kennedy didn’t know how much of Miles’s action was foolishness, how much was blind hope, and how much was defiance of Kennedy’s directives. But the results had been disastrous, and led both Miles and Kennedy to a rugged roadside in Idaho’s Sawtooth Mountains.

When Kennedy arrived in the helicopter with his security team, Ramon Hernandez had been headed for the black Mercedes, keys in hand. When he saw Kennedy, Hernandez pulled a pistol and started shooting.

Kennedy had dropped him with a gunshot to the leg. At the same time, one of his team shot and killed Hernandez before he could be questioned.

Kennedy had not been pleased. Kennedy had looked into his employee’s background, but saw no sign he had profited from the move. Nevertheless, he had been removed from Kennedy’s security and put into a more innocuous position.

The team had at once begun to examine the evidence, to try to construct the state of affairs.

Miles’s school necktie was wrapped around the inside of the trunk latch—a clear signal he had been there.

But the boy was nowhere to be seen.

The trackers on the team pointed to the skidding footprints through the meadow.

Miles was alone and moving fast, running for his life.

So Kennedy went looking for his nephew. With one tracker ahead and one tracker behind, he followed the steep trail of broken branches up the side of the mountain, calling,
bellowing,
for Miles.

Kennedy had not come this far to lose him now.

After a half mile, Miles came careening out of the brush and flung himself into Kennedy’s arms. Kennedy’s relief exploded in affection—he fell to his knees and hugged Miles—then exasperation—he took Miles by the shoulders and shook him, and told him never to do anything so foolish again—then hugged him once more.

And guilt gnawed at him.

Kennedy’s father had died in a prison ward in the hospital. Kennedy’s mother was
in
prison. Although he made sure they had had, and his mother continued to have, the best of care, all Kennedy had in this world was Tabitha and this boy. They were his to care for, and he had failed them both.

It would not happen again.

They got back down the mountain to the helicopter, and found one of the trackers examining the other side of the road. She said, “There was another person here.”

Miles’s face was streaked with tears and snot, dirt and blood and vomit, but when Kennedy looked at him, he straightened like a soldier and said, “Yes! He was a long-armed, mean gorilla asshole, and I hope you kill him, too.”

Tabitha would have reprimanded him for his language and his violence.

Kennedy put his hand on Miles’s shoulder. “That’s my boy.” To the security team, he said, “We need to send people after the gorilla, in the air and on the ground. And get a sketch artist onto the plane. Miles can describe the face on the way back to San Francisco.”

The lead on the team nodded and gestured to the phone. “On it. You want to take the helicopter?” Rogers already knew the answer.

“Get the helicopter in the air. Find that guy. The cars are on their way.”

Rogers nodded.

Miles sagged. “I want to go home
now.
”

“I know you do.” Kennedy led him to a rock and hoisted him up on it, then climbed up to sit close beside him. “But we have to find that guy so he doesn’t come back for you again.”

“And the lady,” Miles said.

“The lady?” With a gesture, Kennedy summoned Rogers. He told him, “There’s a woman, too.”

Rogers nodded and went back to his team, organizing and dispersing them in the hunt.

Kennedy turned back to Miles. “Tell me everything, right from the beginning.”

Miles stumbled a little at the beginning, but he bravely admitted he had gone with Miss Allen because she offered to take him to his father. They’d met the two men at the airport, and they had been kind to Miles … until they escorted him onto a private jet. Then they overpowered him, pushed him into the lavatory, and locked him in. When they landed, they dragged him out, wrapped him in a throw, and carried him off the airplane.

“I fought, Uncle Kennedy,” Miles told him. “I hit the big guy in the ’nads with my head.”

“Good for you!” Kennedy refrained from exclaiming about the swollen, purple bruise on Miles’s cheek. Tabitha would do enough exclaiming when they got home.

The kidnappers dropped Miles into the trunk of a car and drove him forever, in the heat and the dark, over roads that knocked him around. “And you think I get carsick in the backseat,” Miles said. “I tossed my cookies all over the place!”