Thin Ice (28 page)

Too bad their promise to take care of the dead wood had never materialized.

And too bad the wind hadn't picked a more convenient time
to wrench that sucker free. Like a Saturday morning in spring instead of a windy, dark winter weeknight.

Could she leave her car here and worry about moving the limb in the morning?

Twisting her neck, she scrutinized the wind-tossed tree.

Nope.

Another limb could come hurtling down any minute—and she didn't need to add car damage to her list of problems.

Bracing herself for the sub-freezing temperature, she pushed her door open, slid out from behind the wheel, and hustled over to the branch. Not as big as she'd thought at first; it wouldn't take much effort to drag it off to the side. The maintenance crew could dispose of it tomorrow.

She took a firm grip on the thickest part and began to haul it across the asphalt.

Halfway to her destination, she froze as prickles rose on the back of her neck.

Someone was close.

Too close.

Lungs locking, she dropped the limb and started to swing around.

She only made it halfway.

Before she even caught a glimpse of the person lurking in the shadows, a hand clamped over her mouth. Hard. Her attacker yanked, and she lost her balance as he began dragging her backward.

Adrenaline pumping, she kicked. Flailed. Wiggled. Bucked.

Nothing fazed him. His grip remained firm, his rock-solid hand muffling her attempt to scream.

Not until he reached the back of her car did he reposition his hand.

Now it also covered her nose—cutting off her air supply.

Another wave of panic crashed over her. Energized by a sec
ond burst of adrenaline, she struggled to twist her head. Loosen his grip. Suck in one tiny breath of air.

She failed on all three counts.

Five seconds passed. Ten. The edges of the shadowy world began to merge into a dark tapestry. Detail disappeared. Shapes blurred. Her arms and legs lost their strength.

He was going to suffocate her—and she was powerless to stop him.

But as she hovered on the brink of blackness, he suddenly removed his hand.

As blessed air flowed into her lungs, her eyes widened. Why would he . . .

Before the question fully formed, she had her answer.

He whipped her around.

Gripped her shoulder.

And punched her in the stomach.

Pain exploded in her midsection, and she dropped to her knees. Doubled over. Once more she fought against waves of darkness.

No!

Don't pass out!

If you can't stand up, scream!

She dragged in a breath, refilling her lungs. He might have the upper hand physically, but she had her vocal cords. Surely someone would hear her and come to her aid. Or call the police.

The instant she opened her mouth, however, he slapped duct tape across it. Spun her around. Secured her wrists behind her back with another length of tape he must have precut. Yanked her to her feet.

He'd rendered her mute and helpless in less than fifteen seconds.

Except for her legs.

Panic spiking, she kicked out at him. Hard.

When her boot connected with flesh, her attacker spat out a curse. Tightening his grip, he lifted her and dumped her into the trunk.

The lid slammed.

Ten seconds later, before she could catch her breath, the car began to move.

No!

Rolling onto her back, she began kicking the lid.

The car swerved sharply, and she crashed against the side of the trunk, banging her head.

A second attempt produced the same result.

Bracing herself against the side of the trunk with her feet, she faced the hard truth.

Her life was in the hands of the man who'd sent her parents over the edge of a cliff to their deaths.

Who'd burned her sister's house to the ground.

Who'd killed an innocent woman to cover up Ginny's abduction, then murdered her sister and thrown her body in the river.

If it was Neven Terzic behind the wheel, the frightened, insecure boy she'd stood up for against more than one bully had become a calculating, cold-blooded killer who'd carried out his ambitious plan with flawless precision.

And there was no reason to think he'd begin making mistakes.

Except . . . Lance knew who he was now—assuming Neven
was
their man. FBI agents were already on his trail. They'd pursue this round the clock—more so once they realized both she and Neven were missing. Lance could be trying to call her right now, and when she didn't answer, he'd know she was in trouble. The former Delta Force operator would be all over this, with every resource of the Bureau at his disposal.

The car swerved again, tossing her against the unforgiving side of the trunk.

But how would they ever determine where Neven was taking her?

Wait!

Her cell was in her pocket! The FBI could use the GPS in the phone to track her!

Thank God Lance had suggested she activate the tracking feature.

She twisted her bound arms and reached for it.

Came up empty.

Frowned.

Had the cell fallen out when Neven threw her in the trunk?

She began to grope around—then froze as memory came surging back.

Halfway home from the rec center, she'd transferred it to her gym bag because it had been digging into her hip.

It was now sitting beside her abductor on the front seat—and given the man's thoroughness, he'd surely checked through the contents for a phone and shut it off.

The cell would be of no help.

But there was GPS on her car too, thanks to Neven himself. Might he have overlooked that, or simply ignored it since he didn't think anyone knew about it?

Her momentary hope dimmed. Not likely, given how thorough he'd been all along.

So how would Lance find her?

No answer materialized . . . and with every jarring mile that passed, Christy's spirits spiraled downward.

Fighting despair, she closed her eyes and turned to the source of hope and strength she'd relied on during the past difficult year.

God, please guide Lance
in his search. Let the authorities figure this out in
time. And give me strength to fight this battle too.
To do whatever I have to do to survive.

As she finished the prayer, she clenched her fists and stared into the darkness. No matter the outcome, God would be with her. She believed that. She did.

But she hoped he also sent in reinforcements.

Because no matter how hard she tried to thwart this madman's plans, she doubted this was a battle she'd be able to win alone.

Lance pulled out his phone as a teary-eyed Jasna closed the door behind him.

Less than half a minute later, Mitch Morgan was on the line.

“Mac said you'd be calling to talk about the Mevlida Terzic case.”

“Yes.” Once again, soft music played in the background, and a woman spoke, her words indistinguishable.

Was everyone except him enjoying a peaceful, romantic night?

He tamped down his irritation. “Sorry to interrupt your evening.”

“No problem. My wife and I are just watching an old movie. How can I help you?”

“Mac said you investigated the death. Can you run me through your impressions of the scene and of Neven Terzic?”

A moment of silence. “You do know he goes by Nathan Turner.”

No—but Mark would have found that information by now.

“We knew he'd Americanized his name. What else do you have?”

“I'll give you the official verdict first. Suicide, not homicide. There was no indication anyone else was involved in the death. We did take a second look after the medical examiner found significant bruising on the woman's torso, plus a cracked rib—but those injuries predated the death.”

“How did Terz—Turner—explain that?”

“He said his grandmother had fallen a few weeks ago and had never complained about injuries. She was also slightly malnourished. According to him, she'd been eating less in recent weeks. We had no grounds to dispute those claims. The body was released, and the case was closed.”

A subtle inflection put Lance on alert. “You weren't happy about that outcome.”

“Off the record—no.”

“Why?” He slid behind the wheel and pulled out his notebook again.

“Turner struck me as a user. Gut feel—but I trust my gut. He played the part of the shocked and grieving grandson well, but my money says it was an act. I'm not suggesting he had anything directly to do with the woman's death, but I could see how this guy might get pleasure out of making her life miserable. His words and behavior were appropriate; his eyes weren't. They were cold as some of the terrorists' I tangled with in the Middle East.”

Jasna had noticed the same thing.

He needed to talk to this guy.

Now.

“Did you get a chance to nose around his place?”

“Yeah. We asked, and he was very cooperative. We did a walk-through. Nothing suspicious.”

“He could have stashed anything incriminating before he called you.”

“That thought did cross my mind.”

Lance ignored the wry note in Morgan's voice. “Did you see any guns?”

“No. Why?”

“He has two.”

“Then they were hidden.”

“I'm going to run by there. Can you give me the address?” He wrote it down as the other man recited it.

“I take it he's connected with some case you're investigating.”

“That's our suspicion.”

“If he is, I hope you nail him. He may not be legally culpable for his grandmother's death, but I'm convinced he played a role in it.”

“I think we're on the same page.” A call-waiting tone sounded, and he checked the display. Mark. “Thanks for the information.”

“Let me know if you need anything else.”

He ended the call and switched to Mark, filling him in on his conversations with Christy, Jasna, and Morgan.

“You've covered a lot of ground already. I found the name change too. He made it legal when he was twenty-one. He's now thirty-two. He came to the US at fifteen and was naturalized two years later. But here's the most interesting piece of information—he and Christy Reed work at the same facility. He's been there about a year.”

Since three months before her parents were ambushed.

The timing was too perfect to be coincidental.

Christy might even know him—as Nathan, not Neven. Seventeen years after their adolescent acquaintance, it was possible his appearance had changed dramatically.

“I'm thinking he recognized her but she didn't recognize him.” Lance gave voice to the scenario taking shape in his mind. “Crossing paths with her might have reignited his grudge. Maybe he decided this was a second chance to get retribution for whatever she did to incur his wrath.”

“Seems plausible. What's your plan?”

He started the engine and put the car in gear. “I'm heading to Neven's apartment. I'll call Christy en route and fill her in. You want to meet me at his place?”

“Sure. How are you positioning the visit?”

“I'm going to be honest—to a point. Tell him we had a tip on the Ginny Reed case and we're following up. No details. I just want to sniff out the place, see how cooperative he is, and put him on alert we're watching him.”

“That could backfire, you know. If you force his hand, he might accelerate whatever plans he has for Christy.”

Like he hadn't thought of that.

“That's possible. Or it could make him nervous, slow him down. I'm hoping he'll lay low long enough for us to dig up some evidence that will put him at the scenes of the crimes. I also plan to get a warrant for his computer ASAP. Unless he's some kind of technical genius, our people will be able to verify if he's the one who's been following the GPS tracking device on Christy's car.”

“Okay. I'm on my way. Our ETA should be about the same.”

The instant the line went dead, Lance punched Christy's speed-dial number. He wanted her locked in her condo, alarm set, until he escorted her to work tomorrow morning.

After three rings, the phone rolled to voice mail.

Apprehension prickled his nerve endings.

She should be home by now—but she might be in the bathroom . . . or retrieving her mail.

He left a message and continued toward Neven's.

Five minutes later, when she hadn't returned his call, he tried again.

Still no answer.

He switched to her landline.

No answer.

He punched in Mark's number and skipped the greeting. “Christy's not answering. I'm diverting to swing by her place first. Why don't you continue to Terzic's, see if there's any sign he's at home?”

“Will do.”

Lance tossed the cell onto the passenger seat, swung onto the entrance ramp for I-44, and floored it. Yes, there could be a reasonable explanation for her lack of response.