A Hero for All Seasons Page 8

  “They could,” he allowed, “but if they took her because they felt something for her—because they wanted a child of their own and then felt guilty about it—then they wouldn’t want to endanger her safety like that.” Sam readjusted his rearview mirror. The setting sun was behind them and gleaming against the glass. He looked at her pointedly. “There are still a great many possibilities to look into.”

  She needed more than nebulous assurances. She needed examples. Savannah instinctively trusted him to be honest with her. “Like?”

  He thought a second as he slowed the car to a stop at the light.

  “Like one of those people who called might know something, and is trying to tell you without implicating someone else.” People didn’t want to condone the crimes of someone they loved, but turning them in was extremely difficult. It was a catch-22 situation. “That’s one of the things the police are looking into.”

  He smiled at her, remembering. “By the way, I didn’t thank you for that vote of confidence you displayed back there—when you told Underwood why you came to the agency,” he elaborated in case she wasn’t following him.

  She didn’t see it as a reason for thanks. “Well, it’s true. If I hadn’t felt as if they were sweeping me to the side, I might not have come to you.” Savannah thought about what she’d said for a moment, then changed her mind. “No, that’s not true. I would have. I read about the agency a couple of months ago.” And had been very impressed by the story—and their record. “Aimee and I took a three-day holiday, renting a house at the beach. I brought along all the old, back issues of magazines I hadn’t had a chance to look through.”

  Something else they had in common, he thought. He’d had a stack himself—until he’d thrown it all out one day after admitting that by the time he had the opportunity to go through them all, the articles would be hopelessly outdated.

  “How many did you get to?”

  The smile on his lips told her he already knew the answer.

  “One, but it was the right one. There was an article on ChildFinders in it.” She thought for a second. “It must have been a fairly old article, because it said Cade only had one assistant.”

  He squinted, trying to read the name of the street as he passed it. Alder. Good, he was heading in the right direction.

  “I came into the agency a year ago.” The anniversary date was almost here, he thought. It amazed him how quickly the time had gone by. “This vacation,” he asked with interest, “you took it alone?”

  She found the inclination to bristle at his personal questions lessening. She was getting accustomed to probing, she decided stoically.

  “As a matter of fact, we did. Elliott and his family were supposed to come, but at the last minute, he canceled. Something about Claire not feeling well. Aimee was really disappointed that she wouldn’t have Emily to play with.” She’d tried very hard to make it up to her daughter. It was one of the reasons nothing got read, except for the important article. “I think Elliott’s a little henpecked, actually,” she confided. It made her feel sorry for Elliott. He was a good man who deserved a woman who appreciated him, not ordered him around. “From what I’ve seen of her and what Elliott says, his wife is rather domineering.”

  “Not shy and retiring like you?” Sam bit back the soft laugh that accompanied his comment. He’d broken another one of his rules and gotten too friendly. He was going to really have to watch himself around her. “Sorry, didn’t mean that. You’re not domineering.”

  “No, I’m not” Savannah felt herself growing defensive. She tried to bank down the instinct. It wasn’t easy. “I am, however, independent. You would be, too, if you were a single parent with a daughter to raise. A daughter who looked to you for everything.” She was silent for a minute, then relented. Maybe she was being too hard on him. “You’re not the first one who’s said that. George thought so, too.”

  “George?” He repeated the name with interest. She hadn’t mentioned a George before. “Does this George have a last name?”

  With all that had happened, she’d completely forgotten about George. George Cartwright had been the complete antithesis of Aimee’s father: solid, where Jarred had been dark and dangerous Savannah saw it as a flaw in her character that she’d found dark and dangerous more compelling.

  “Cartwnght,” she replied. “But George has been out of the picture for several months now. He was just someone I went with for a while.” Actually, it had gotten more serious than that. She had gone out with George for almost a year before he’d proposed. Savannah had accepted, until she’d realized that it just wouldn’t work. “I thought he might make a good father for Aimee.”

  “What about a good husband for you?”

  She had no idea who would make a good husband. Savannah only knew who wouldn’t. “I told you, Aimee comes first.”

  He let that go for now. Traffic became sparser as he drove up a winding path. “So, what happened?”

  She backed out, that was what happened. Marrying George would have been wrong and unfair to both of them. Especially to George. He was a good, kind man who deserved better. In her own way, she supposed she loved him. She was just not in love with him—and that made the difference.

  Savannah shrugged, unwilling to let Sam that far into her life.

  “I thought I could settle for a situation like that. I couldn’t. I suppose it was petty of me. He would have made a really good father.”

  “You wanted romance.” Most people did; Sam saw no shame in that. “I don’t see that as petty. That’s pretty normal from where I’m sitting.”

  Savannah pressed her lips together. Things might have been so different if she’d said yes. “Maybe if I’d married him...”

  He caught the doubt in her voice. “What? Aimee wouldn’t have been kidnapped?” She couldn’t keep beating herself up this way. “And if I were six inches tall and blue, I could have been a Smurf. You can’t think that way.”

  She stared at him. “A what?”

  Just the sound of the name made her laugh. A little of the tension slipped away from her and she was grateful to him for that. For making her laugh for no reason at all, when she felt herself being crushed by the weight of her situation.

  “A Smurf.” Glancing at her, he saw that there was no sign of recognition. It astounded him. “One of those little blue people who ran around in white caps, oversize shoes and pants, no shirts.” Still nothing. “Don’t tell me you never watched Saturday morning cartoons as a kid.” She was a little younger than he was. That meant she should have been familiar with the same shows he’d grown up with.

  Savannah shook her head. It had been the source of more than one battle at her house when she was a child, but one she’d always been doomed to lose. Especially since her sister had sided with their parents.

  “My parents were into public television programs only. It was a pretty straitlaced childhood.” And one in which affection was something that was assumed, not demonstrated. She’d grown up without cartoons—and without hugs.

  It sounded deadly dull. “You don’t know what you missed. Every single Saturday morning, there I was, in my pajamas, glued to the set, clutching a box of cereal and watching talking stuffed animals solve crimes, and a moose and squirrel outsmarting a couple of very pale-looking, inept spies.”

  She could visualize him doing that, a cute, towheaded little boy, being amused by impossible characters and improbable scenarios. If she tried, she could almost hear him laughing. A warmth filtered through her.

  Watching cartoons. It sounded so good, so normal. She’d watched them herself with Aimee, determined to give her daughter the kind of rounded childhood she’d never known. Cartoons and hugs and kisses were always on the agenda.

  Savannah smiled at him. “Sounds like a perfect childhood.”

  “It was,” he agreed. “Till my dad died.”

  He’d said it so matter-of-factly, it took her a moment to realize the import of the words. “I’m sorry.”

  Yea
h, so was Sam. He’d been eleven at the time. Thirteen, before he’d stop blaming his father for dying “He was a cop, too. Died in the line of duty.”

  She looked at him. Questions began to rise in her mind. Questions about this man who was swiftly becoming such a central force in her life. “Why did you become a policeman?”

  “Seemed a good way to honor his memory. Made me feel closer to him, I guess.” He shrugged. “I stopped being one when it didn’t work for me anymore. I couldn’t live by all the straight and narrow rules he did.” A distant smile played on his lips. It seemed to work its way right through to her core. She could feel his smile. “He was the straightest man I ever knew.”

  Stopping the car, Sam pulled up the hand brake to punctuate his statement.

  She’d been too engrossed in the conversation and her own feelings to notice the route he’d been driving. Her mouth dropped open as she looked out of the car. “You brought me home?”

  “You look tired, and I haven’t had a chance to eat a full meal yet.” At last inventory, there was only a half-empty box of doughnuts waiting for him at home. That meant he’d have to get some takeout on the way, if he wanted to eat. “I thought we might call it a day for now.”

  Savannah got out of the car slowly. She didn’t relish going inside. Without Aimee, the house was much too quiet for her to bear. She’d turned down the offer to stay with her parents, or to have one of them stay with her. She was grateful to her father for all that he had done. But outside of her endeavor to be part of her father’s life, which ceased at a young age, she’d never really been close to either one of them. Having one of them here would mean that she would have to continue putting on a brave front. She just wasn’t up to that right now.

  But suddenly, she didn’t want to be alone. She didn’t want to be forced to face the shadows again, the way she had the other nights. She wanted a few more minutes’ reprieve.

  She wanted, she realized, for Sam to stay with her, at least for a little while. Having him near kept the shadows away.

  Savannah looked at him. “The least I can do is fix you something to eat.”

  “You don’t have to bother.”

  “No bother.” The denial tumbled out a little too quickly. “I need something to do,” she said honestly. “And I’m not too bad in the kitchen.”

  Sam had a feeling that the lady was probably good in every room in the house.

  The thought had snuck up on him, telling him he was more tired than he thought. He’d taught himself how to do with little to no sleep, but eventually it had a way of catching up on him. He figured he’d just reached “eventually.”

  The best thing he could do, Sam knew, was drop her off and go home to sack out. But the look in her eyes asked him to stay, to talk to her and keep the bad thoughts at bay. He found that he couldn’t say “no” to her. She’d become animated in the car toward the end; there’d been life in her face, and he had a feeling that she was downright beautiful when she laughed.

  He knew that had nothing whatsoever to do with the case, but he wanted to see her laugh just once before they permanently parted company.

  For now, he’d settle for a sandwich. “All right, if you really don’t mind. Nothing fancy.” Rounding the trunk, Sam followed her to the front door. “I’m pretty easy to please.”

  “That would have been my guess.” Savannah took out her key.

  Just as she began to insert it in the lock, she could hear her phone ringing through the door.

  Chapter 7

  The key ring slipped from Savannah’s fingers, and she nearly dropped it. Sam started to catch it, but she blocked him with her shoulder. Irritation flashed through her.

  “I can open my own damn door,” she bit off, annoyed with her own clumsy reaction. She couldn’t keep falling to pieces like this.

  Adrenaline pumped through her tired body as she raced to the telephone in the living room, leaving Sam on her doorstep to find his own way in.

  Grasping the receiver, she yanked it from the cradle. “Hello?”

  In response, she heard a high-pitched whine, like a radio frequency that was too high to properly be channeled to its receiver. “She’s all right,” said a metallic voice. A quick click resounded in her ear, aborting all hope for an instant trace.

  Savannah clutched the receiver with both hands. “Hello? Hello? Who are you? Please, let me talk to Aimee,” she begged even though she knew it was futile. “Let me talk to my daughter!”

  A dial tone buzzed in her ear.

  Realizing who had to be on the other end of the line, Sam had jumped over the coffee table to reach Savannah’s side. But the line was already dead when he took the receiver from her. Frustration bit down hard. He replaced the receiver just as the recording came on to advise him that if he wanted to make a call, he needed to hang up and dial again.

  “It was the kidnapper.” Stunned, Savannah turned to look at him. The kidnapper had called to tell her that Aimee was all right. Why was he torturing her like this? Why couldn’t he just let her daughter go?

  “What did he say?” Sam took hold of her by the shoulders in case she was going to faint. “How do you know it was the kidnapper?”

  Savannah blinked, feeling like one in a trance. “Because he said she was all right.”

  “And?” Sam pressed.

  “That’s all. Just that Aimee was all right.”

  “Those were his exact words?”

  She nodded. “He said, ‘She’s all right’ Nothing else.”

  He heard her voice cracking. “Savannah, it might—”

  She raised her eyes to his. Savannah knew what he was thinking.

  “Be a prank call? No, I don’t think so. Whoever called was using one of those synthesizers to disguise their voice. It sounded like a robot, only worse. There’d be no reason to disguise his voice if it was just a prank.” And then it hit her. “If he’s using a synthesizer, then he’s afraid I might recognize his voice.”

  “Maybe,” Sam agreed. It was a distinct possibility. “And it could also be to disguise the fact that it’s a woman. Those synthesizers make everyone’s voice sound the same.”

  Someone she knew. A man or a woman. She knew a lot of people. Had her share of neighbors. The field was narrowing, but it still loomed large.

  She felt like hitting something. “Why would he call?” she demanded, whirling on Sam. “Why is he doing this?” She wet her lips, suddenly hopeful. “Do you think he is feeling guilty?”

  Sam was already dialing the police station. “There’s a good chance.” And then he stopped, halfway through. He looked at the small LCD screen mounted above the keypad. “You have Caller I.D.”

  “Yes!” she cried. In the confusion, she’d forgotten all about that.

  “I doubt that the kidnapper is calling from home. It’s probably a phone booth, but it wouldn’t hurt to investigate.” Hitting the review button, he watched as a number materialized. Savannah was looking over his shoulder. He pointed to the number. “Mean anything to you?”

  She shook her head.

  “Maybe it’ll mean something to the police.” Pressing the numbers for the police station again, Sam glanced at his watch to pin down the time.

  “Detective Ben Underwood, please.” The operator who answered put him on hold. Sam covered the mouthpiece and turned toward Savannah. “The police are recording all your incoming calls, Savannah. They might be able to detect something in the speech pattern.”

  She held out little hope. “I heard a screeching noise in the background.”

  It wasn’t his field of expertise, but he had a healthy respect for the capabilities of the people in the police labs. With enough time and equipment, they might be able to filter out the distortions. “Never underestimate the power of technology. It’s a wonderful thing.”

  Savannah could only nod. Suddenly wide-awake and not knowing what to do with herself, she looked toward the kitchen. And then she remembered. “I promised you something to eat.”

  Wit
h his free hand, he waved away her words. Savannah looked drained. “Forget it. I can grab something to eat on the way home.”

  “No. No,” she repeated firmly. “A promise is a promise. You have to eat.”

  And she had to do something with her hands before she permanently knotted her fingers together, she thought, walking away.

  Savannah opened the refrigerator door and stared inside at the near-empty shelves. She had to concentrate to keep from zoning out like a woman in a dream. In a nightmare, she amended.

  C’mon, Savannah, pull yourself together. This isn’t like you. You can do better than this. Function, damn it. Function!

  Pushing aside the horror that threatened to engulf her, Savannah reached for an apron hanging from a magnet hook on the side of the refrigerator. She focused on what she could use to make a meal Everything in her refrigerator was more than four days old and beginning to either wilt, prune or turn.

  She was going to have to go to the supermarket. The task seemed so mundane and yet so out of reach.

  Get with it.

  She needed to keep up her own strength, she lectured herself silently. What good would she do Aimee if she came apart? Aimee needed a functioning mother when they found her.

  When.

  Savannah looked up when she heard Sam walk in.

  He read the question in her eyes. “Underwood’s on it.” He’d caught Ben just as the detective was about to go home. “He’s going to take the tape to a specialist.” That was two jumps he’d gotten on Ben. There had to be a favor in there somewhere—something he could trade on in the future, Sam mused.

  Giving up her search, Savannah took out a carton of eggs from the refrigerator and placed it on the counter. Half-empty, it was followed by an onion and one green pepper, still fairly firm. A small bit of cheddar cheese completed the ensemble.

  “I can make you an omelette,” she offered. She nodded toward the refrigerator. “I don’t have much else to work with.”

  He’d always had a weakness for omelettes, and the more things in it, the better. “Anything’s fine. I’m hungry enough to eat belt buckles.”