Out of Reach: A Novel (10 page)

“And his connection to the Magician?”

He scooted forward, feeling the frustration of something just beyond his reach. “I’m chasing threads here, Dr. Baker, and they may not connect. But that little girl was taken by a man who lures children with magic tricks, a predator who has been operating with impunity for years. And she ends up on one of Neville’s ships.” He leaned back. “Now I have a boy, a street-smart kid who’s not going to fall for much. He’s not getting into a stranger’s car or helping a guy unload a van. But the day he disappears, he’s seen with a man who plays the shell game.”

He forced himself to relax. “Seems to me there could be a connection.”

“Or none at all.”

He sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. That’s exactly what Cathy had said, what he knew his superiors would say if he ran this theory by them. He wasn’t chasing leads, he was chasing phantoms. “I’m desperate, Dr. Baker.” And he couldn’t ignore the instincts that had so often led him to find the lost, even when he knew there was very little logic to back him up. “If we don’t find Cody Sanders soon, we’re not going to find him ever. And the man with the shell game is our only lead.”

She looked away, out the plate-glass window, where night had given way to morning while they’d talked. When she spoke, she kept her eyes on the street and seemed far away, distant. “This is all very interesting, Agent Donovan, but—”

“Alec, please call me Alec.”

She turned to him, then hesitated. “Agent Donovan”—she emphasized his title, denying his request to use his first name—“you’ve got to be breaking a half-dozen Bureau rules telling me all this.”

He couldn’t deny it. “At least.”

“So why? Just because you think I can help identify the Magician,
if
you ever find him?”

“First, I need you and Beckwith to work with a police artist, to come up with a composite sketch of the man you saw yesterday.”

“Okay.” She nodded. “But that’s not why you’re here. You could have sent anyone to ask me for that.”

“You’re right.” He leaned forward. “I need to know whether I’m on track, or if everyone else is right and I’ve lost my senses. You say you’d recognize him if you saw him again. That’s great, but if your sister—”

She reared back. “Whoa, wait a minute. Leave Claire out of this.”

“I can’t. She can help.”

“Claire can’t help anyone. Not even herself.”

“Just hear me out. You were right earlier; I pulled a file on you last night. I know your sister was found in San Francisco four years after her abduction.”

“Then you also know the man they found her with is serving a thirty-year prison sentence.”

“Yes, but on charges unrelated to your sister.”

“He’s still in prison. What difference does it make why?” Except it did bother her, he could tell. When it came to her sister, she wasn’t as good at masking her reactions. “He said he found her on the street and gave her a place to stay.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“I don’t know what to believe, Agent Donovan, because my sister refused to testify at his trial. At first we thought she’d eventually talk about her ordeal, at least to the doctors. Finally we realized it wasn’t that she wouldn’t tell us, she couldn’t. She doesn’t know who kidnapped her or what happened to her during those four years. And the rest of us . . .”

“Don’t want to know.”

She recoiled as if slapped. “That’s not true. I’d give anything to see the man who took her punished.”

“Then help me.” He leaned forward and grabbed her hands. “It’s been fifteen years, if she can just tell us something about the man who kidnapped her, anything, even verify that he did magic tricks. That’s all I need.” It would help him convince his superiors to give him the manpower needed to run with this.

She pulled her hands from his and buried them beneath the table. “Aren’t you listening to me? She doesn’t remember, she’s blocked it out.”

“Maybe she just doesn’t want to remember.”

“What’s the difference?”

His back was against the wall. He hadn’t been able to find out nearly as much about Claire Baker as he’d found about Erin. Just that she’d had serious problems since the cops found her during a drug raid on the West Coast fifteen years ago. She’d gone home to her family, but she’d been damaged in unseen ways, and had run away within a month of her homecoming. It was a pattern that had repeated itself throughout her adolescence, along with attempted suicides. Over the years, she’d been in and out of three psychiatric hospitals. But her condition and treatments were protected by doctor-patient privilege that not even a desperate FBI agent could violate. He’d been hoping that with Erin’s help he could get to the woman whose secrets might lead to Cody Sanders.

“She’s a cutter,” Erin said, reading the question in his silence. “When she feels threatened, she uses sharp objects to make herself bleed. And any little thing can set her off.” She laughed abruptly, bitterly. “They tell me it’s a survival mechanism. Do you believe that? It’s her way of keeping herself from committing suicide.”

Alec felt Erin’s pain and frustration reaching across the table and wrapping around them both. Claire Baker had lived a nightmare, was still caught within its grip, and Erin was unable to do anything about it. He suspected that helplessness wasn’t an emotion that sat well with her.

He didn’t know what to say. He’d seen such pain before, on the faces of parents waiting for news of their children, and had never had the words to ease their burden. So the silence settled between them, awkward now that she’d refused him. And he felt Cody Sanders slipping, fading away into that no-man’s-land of lost children.

No.

Alec wouldn’t give up yet. He had one more avenue to pursue, one more person who might know something.

Then Erin stood abruptly. “I have to get home. Janie’s waiting.”

“Oh, yes, Claire’s daughter. You came back to the States to raise her, didn’t you?”

She stiffened. “That’s none of your business.”

He took one more stab at reaching her. “This isn’t about you or me, Erin.” He purposely used her first name, forcing her to accept this as a human plea. “Or even about your sister, Claire. It’s about a young boy. Cody Sanders. And preventing what happened to your sister from happening to him. All I want you to do is talk to Claire. Soon. Today. Tell her what you saw, and ask her to help us find Cody.”

She was shaking her head.

“Just think about it,” he insisted, handing her his card. “Call me day or night.”

She stared at it for a moment, and he thought he’d gotten through to her. Then she pulled a couple of bills from her sweatshirt pocket and tossed them on the table.

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”

XIII

P
AIN WOKE HIM.

He’d been dreaming of lavender fields, stretching as far as the eye could see. The tiny blossoms blended together, a rippling blanket of multihued greens and purples covering the earth, their scent a balm to his senses. It was a pleasant dream, filled with sweetness and promise, and he longed to linger within its borders. But a dull, insistent ache pulled at him, wrenching him from the gentle world of dreams to one of harsh light and nightmares.

Ryan opened his eyes, disoriented. He lay atop a bed, naked except for a rough blanket that smelled of stewed meat and onions. Nauseated, he shut his eyes again, reaching once more for the scent of lavender. But it was gone.

Along with the oblivion of unconsciousness.

Instead, hot sunlight streamed across him, disturbing him as much as the unfamiliar blanket. He always shut the drapes before sleep—an old habit, its origins lost somewhere in his past.

He pushed up, half rising before a streak of pain ripped open his chest and dropped him back to the mattress. Then he couldn’t move, could hardly breathe, as the agony ricocheted through his insides, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from screaming. Seconds turned to long torturous minutes, and only after it ebbed a bit did he remember.

Trader.

Standing above him, anger darkening his features. And something else, something stronger and more terrifying than the anger: pure hate.

Ryan shuddered, reliving the surprise blow that had sent him reeling, and the feel of his skin ripping open. He could smell the heat of Trader’s breath as he hissed his warning. And his savage boots, slamming into Ryan’s side.

With a groan, Ryan touched his chest, where wide bandages bound his rib cage. Closing his eyes again, he barely kept sobs of fear at bay. He should be dead, would be except . . .

How had he gotten back to his room?

Slowly, he pushed himself to a half-sitting position, careful not to jar his body and send another wave of devastating agony through it.

The details he’d noticed on first waking took on new meaning. Someone had found him and carried him back to his room. But who in this house of wordless servants had that kind of courage? Who had dared risk the General’s—and Trader’s—anger to help him, a boy they barely knew existed?

Ryan had no friends in this place, no one who cared whether he lived or died. Yet someone had helped him. And that person or persons had done more than carry him to his room. He or she had removed his clothes and taped his ribs, covered him, and left food, water, and aspirin for the pain he’d face when he awoke. The idea warmed him in a way he’d never known and helped ease his fear.

Suddenly, he noticed the time. Almost noon.

He needed to get a tray to Cody. None of the household staff would dare enter the boy’s room, and Ryan couldn’t risk another dose of the General’s wrath by shirking his duties.

Forcing himself to move slowly, despite his mounting panic, he swung his legs to the floor. Then waited as a wave of pain passed through him. If he was lucky, the General had already left the mansion, or at the very least hadn’t bothered to ask after his young houseguest and caretaker.

First, Ryan took the aspirin, four, because he needed to make it down the stairs and back again, and he doubted two of the painkillers would do the trick. Then he ate, taking a lesson from his charge, to build up his strength, even though food was the last thing he wanted right now. He dressed in loose-fitting clothes to conceal his bandaged ribs while avoiding the mirror and its reflection of his ruined face. There was nothing he could do to hide that damage, so what would be the point in torturing himself by looking?

Besides, by now the entire staff would know what had happened.

The trip down to the kitchen was difficult, but even worse were the minutes he spent gathering Cody’s lunch. No one spoke to him, or even acknowledged him. Though he felt their eyes, their thoughts, on him. To them, he was already dead. And very soon he’d stop walking around.

With the tray in hand, he reentered the back stairwell. Closing the door behind him, he waited, catching his breath and steeling himself for the long upward climb. It wasn’t as bad as he’d expected, though. Maybe the aspirin had kicked in, or the movement eased his aching muscles. Or maybe it had more to do with the anger building inside him.

Damn them all. He wasn’t dead. Not yet.

As he opened Cody’s door, the boy said, “It’s about friggin’ time. I—” He broke off midsentence when he caught sight of Ryan’s face. “Hey, man, that looks really bad.”

Ryan actually smiled, relieved that at least someone was willing to acknowledge him, even if it was to tell him he looked like a punching bag. “I’ve had worse.” A lie, but one meant to ease the other boy’s concern.

“Really?” Cody seemed awed.

Ryan half laughed and handed over the tray. Then he went to the mirror to take a look for himself. The entire left side of his face was swollen and mottled in shades of red and purple. His cheek, ripped from cheekbone to lip, had been treated with some kind of yellow ointment and pulled together with butterfly bandages. And both eyes, black, made him appear like a character from a horror movie.

“It does look pretty bad, doesn’t it,” he said, stating the obvious.

“Yeah.” Cody raised his eyebrows and nodded, but didn’t ask any more questions as he set the tray on the table in front of the cold fireplace and sat on the floor. “Roy hits me sometimes.”

Ryan eased into one of the chairs beside the table. “Who’s Roy?”

“My mom’s boyfriend.” Cody dug into the food, shoveling it into his mouth, his manners a far cry from the days he refused to eat. “Her current one, anyway.”

“Where’s your dad?”

Cody shrugged. “Don’t know. He took off a long time ago, but Mom says we’re better off without him.” He seemed to think about that for a minute, then added, “I don’t know, though, we haven’t got much money and she’s always . . .”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Cody shook his head. “Don’t you guys ever have normal food here?”

Ryan looked at the thick beef stew and hearty bread. It was one of his favorite meals, and he’d brought Cody a double serving since he’d missed breakfast. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You know.” Cody eyed him like he was from another planet. “Like hamburgers. Hot dogs. French fries.” He rolled his eyes. “Man, I’d kill for a Whopper about now.”

Ryan grinned, amused. In a way, he was from a different world than Cody. Though one of the maids had been a fast-food junkie and snuck it in occasionally. She let Ryan try some once, but he hadn’t been impressed. The meat was thin and rubbery, the bread soggy, the potatoes laden with grease. He just didn’t get it.

“The General’s not big into Whoppers,” he said.

“Well, it just proves your General’s an idiot.”

Ryan laughed, then stopped abruptly because the action hurt his chest. He’d never heard anyone speak badly of the General. No one Ryan knew had the nerve. “He’s not my General.” Not after last night, when he’d let Trader nearly kill him. “How come your mom lets Roy hit you?”

Cody glared at him. “Hey, she does the best she can.”

Ryan lifted a hand, winced, and dropped it again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by that.”

Cody gulped down another spoonful of stew. “Well, she tried to stop him once, but then he started in on her. So, I figured it was better to keep him hitting me instead of taking it out on her. Since, you know, women aren’t so strong.”

Ryan was amazed. It would never occur to him to take a beating for someone else. In his world, survival meant keeping a low profile and out of the way of flying fists. “How did you do that, get him to hit you instead of her?”

Cody chuckled. “Roy’s not too bright. I just keep egging him on until he can’t stand it no more. He forgets all about Mom and starts in on me.” He tore off a piece of bread and shoved it in his mouth. “Of course, he’s got to catch me first. And I’m real fast.”

Ryan grinned, thinking he might enjoy watching Cody get the better of this Roy. “So, if he’s so bad, why doesn’t your mom just kick him out?”

Cody shrugged. “It’s not that easy.”

Ryan thought about their situation: the guards, the dogs, Trader. “Yeah, I guess it never is.”

“How about you? What’s your mom like?”

“I don’t remember her.” Ryan settled back in his chair, feeling tired again. He needed to rest, time for his body to heal. Only he expected he didn’t have much time left.

“She dead?”

“I don’t know. They took me from her when I was younger than you.”

“And you haven’t seen her since?”

“Nope.”

“Man, that sucks.”

Ryan hadn’t thought about his mother for years, but Cody was right. It sucked. “I remember she was real pretty, with long black hair. And she used to sing to me.”

Hush, little baby, don’t you cry.

The words floated in his mind. A snatch of memory. Too elusive, too distant, to catch.

“My mom never sang to me,” Cody said. “But she used to take me to the movies every Saturday. That was”—he rolled his eyes—“before Roy moved in.”

“You miss her, don’t you, Cody?”

“Yeah. I guess I’m just used to her and all. And well, I want to see her again. I don’t want to forget her, like—” He suddenly looked a bit embarrassed.

“Like me?”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Look, Cody.” Ryan eased forward in his chair and lowered his voice. “If I can find a way to get us out of here, are you willing to make a run for it?”

“Let’s do it.”

“Not now. I need a day, maybe two.” Ryan wasn’t even sure how he was going to get them out the door, much less past the dogs and the guards. Plus, he had no idea where they were or where they’d go once they got away from the mansion. “If we’re caught, it will be bad.” Then there would be Trader to deal with, and he wouldn’t just hurt Ryan this time. And he had no idea what would happen to Cody. “Really bad.”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to grow up never seeing my mom again.”

“Okay. Be ready, then, and I’ll come for you when I can.”

As he left Cody to finish his meal, Ryan realized some people would say he was crazy. He no longer cared. All he knew for sure was that he was sixteen and he wasn’t ready to die.

And he wanted to see his mom again, too.