No! Hell no!
A man stood in silhouette; the pale white curtains an eerie backdrop, shadows from oak limbs swaying behind him. He held a child in his arms. He whispered, “Do not scream if you want her to live. We mustn’t awaken your daughter, Laura.”
“Please…dear God. Please, don’t hurt her.” Laura sat up in bed, staring, her mind grasping for the right words. He cradled Paula, sleeping, in his arms. Her head rested her against his chest, her breathing slow and steady, a plush giraffe tucked under her chin. “Please, set Paula down.”
“All in good time,” the man’s voice was calm, a tone of irrelevance and absolute control. “You see, Laura, how easy it was for me to enter your home. Oh, the new alarm you had installed — it took me less than twenty-nine seconds to disarm it. How does it feel now knowing that you and little Paula are so unsafe, so unprotected? Rather unnerving, I would imagine.”
“What do you want?” Laura blinked back the horror in her eyes, the tears she wouldn’t allow to flow. “If you hurt my daughter—”
“What will you do, Laura? I have no intention of hurting Paula if you perform as I say. She will not have her throat slit like I had to do with the dog next door.”
“Dear God.” Laura held her hand to her mouth, nausea building in her stomach.
“Where is the Civil War contract? I know it’s here in your home. If you don’t want to bury your daughter like you did with your husband, show me the contract.”
“It’s not here! I swear. I don’t have it.”
“Where is it?”
“Gone. It’s being tested at the University of Florida.”
“Tested? Who is testing it?”
“A professor.”
“Don’t play games with me, Laura. I need a name, or I’m going to twist this little girl’s neck.”
“Kirby…Professor Ike Kirby. He’s in Gainesville.”
“Oh really? Gainesville, you say. Then why did I find a notepad in your kitchen that had Professor Kirby’s name and phone number on it and also a number for a hotel room at a place not far from here? I believe Kirby drives a ten-year-old Volvo…the same Volvo that was in your driveway a few hours earlier. And listening to your voice-mails on your mobile, I did hear the message from the good professor indicating he was staying at that hotel through tomorrow. So, just to clarify, Laura, you gave him the document, correct?”
Paula opened her eyes, the murkiness of sleep still in them. “Mommy…Mommy…”
“I’m here, baby, Mommy’s right here. Everything will be okay.”
“Answer me, Laura! I told you, it would take me just a split second to end this kid’s life.”
“Yes, that’s what he told me.”
The man set Paula on the bed and stepped back, his face and body still in deep silhouette. Laura reached for Paula, pulling her close, holding her head against her breasts, Laura’s hands covering Paula’s eyes.
“I’m leaving now, Laura. I hope what you told me is the truth — because, if you’re lying, I will return. And when I do, you can plan another funeral. The consolation is this: a smaller coffin is less expensive.” He stepped to the door and said, “Your mobile no longer functions. I see you do not have a landline. Don’t even try to run to the neighbors to make a call. They have a mess to clean up anyway. Remember how easy it was to visit you and Paula tonight. Think about that if you decide to call the police. So unsafe. So unprotected. Now, who are you going to call? No one, Laura. No one on earth can protect you.” He left, deftly closing the bedroom door.
Laura clutched Paula, the tears running down her cheeks spilling onto her daughter’s small shoulders…shoulders that now seemed as fragile as the wings of a sparrow.
FORTY-SEVEN
Jupiter rocked slightly in her slip when O’Brien’s phone vibrated on his nightstand. Even in his sleep, he heard it on the first buzz. He looked at the digital screen, not recognizing the number. O’Brien answered and sat up, moonlight spilling through the porthole in the master berth. Laura Jordan was crying so loud, he couldn’t make out all of her words. Between cries she blurted, “Sean! He was in my bedroom!”
“Laura…slow down. Take a breath. What happened?”
“A man broke into my home! He lifted Paula out of her bed. He laid her on my bed. Dear God.” She choked for a second. “He wanted the Civil War contract.”
“Are you hurt? Is Paula hurt?”
“No. But he slit the throat of the neighbor’s poor little dog. And he said he’d do the same to Paula if what I told him wasn’t true. I’m calling you from my neighbor’s phone because he smashed mine.”
“Have you called police?”
“I dialed nine-one-one before I called you. They’re on their way. Sean, I’m so scared…”
“Did you recognize this man?”
“No. It was too dark.”
“Could you recognize his voice if you heard it again?”
“I don’t know. He spoke in a whisper. Thank God Paula never really woke up through the entire thing. He said it took him less than twenty-nine seconds to disarm my alarm. And he said how does it feel now knowing that you and little Paula are so unsafe, so unprotected.”
“What’d he want? What did you tell him?”
“He wanted to know what I did with the Civil War contract. I gave it to Professor Kirby from the University of Florida.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“Yes. He was going to hurt Paula—”
“Does he know where the professor’s staying?”
“Yes. Professor Kirby is staying at a hotel. I’m afraid for him.”
“Which hotel, Laura?”
“The Hampton Inn on LaSalle. He said he was in room twenty-three. I have his card with his number.”
“Call him. Tell him to get out of the room. Tell him to go to a Waffle House or someplace well lighted. Then text his number to me.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Tell the responding officers that you’re working with Detective Dan Grant in an on-going investigation. They’ll call him immediately. Hug Paula for me.” O’Brien disconnected, slipped on jeans, a dark shirt — untucked, and running shoes. He shoved his 9mm Glock under his belt in the small of his back.
Max lifted her head from beneath a small blanket in her oval dog bed on the floor. She stared at O’Brien, puzzled. He said, “Sit tight. Gotta run, literally. Dave or Nick will walk you.” He stepped out to the cockpit, locked the transom door and jogged quietly from Jupiter to Dave’s boat, Gibraltar. O’Brien used his palm to bang on Gibraltar’s sliding glass doors.
Nothing. No movement. O’Brien looked east across the dark marina, the horizon black, the smell of creosote seeping up from the dock pilings. He pulled out his phone and hit the speed dial button. Four rings and O’Brien whispered, “Dave pick up.”
“And good morning to you.” Dave’s voice was guttural, filtered through sleep-congested vocal cords.
“Open the door.”
“The door? What door? Where the hell are you at…at this hour in the morning?”
“I’m standing on your boat. Cockpit door. Ike Kirby’s in trouble.”
Dave disconnected and came up from the master berth like a hibernating bear awakened before spring, the left side of his face creased from sleep. He stood at the transom door in boxer shorts and a white T-shirt. He unlocked the door and snatched it open. “What that hell’s going on, Sean? Where’s Ike? What kind of trouble?”
“Maybe the worst. A man broke into Laura Jordan’s house. He threatened to kill her daughter if Laura didn’t give him the Civil War contract. She’d already given it to Ike.”