Blind Faith (25 page)

"No." The single syllable echoed through the darkness like a bullet. "No. There must be another way."

"There isn't. Just give me back my gun and go before it's too late."

The sharp crack of a twig snapping ripped through the night. Sarah whirled around. "Someone's coming. Get out of here," she whispered to Sam.

He grabbed her by her waist and pulled her close, kissing her deeply. The footsteps were growing closer, drowning out all the other night sounds. But even they faded as Sarah's body responded to Sam's touch. The kiss was brutally quick, but it reawakened feelings she thought long dead and buried.

"Go. Keep Josh safe. I love you." He darted from the shadows and into the clearing where the beam of a flashlight immediately impaled him.

Her chest was so tight she couldn't breathe, couldn't talk. All she could do was to hang onto his gaze like a lifeline.

Another flashlight swept through the trees and stopped, aimed at Sam's heart.

"Stop right there or I'll shoot," a man's voice shouted.

November 24, 2005

Thanksgiving. Without you and Josh here it's hard to find anything to be thankful for. I mean, yes, I'm thankful they caught Damian Wright—but why couldn't it have been here, before he got to you and Josh? Yes, I'm thankful for the Colonel and Hal and Alan—even the Colonel's wife—everyone who's helped out these past few months while I've been a wreck.

But I'd trade all of their good intentions and casseroles and Hallmark sympathies for one more minute with the two of you.

Lately I've been haunted by that day. I almost came home early, you know. Would have if you hadn't talked me out of storming out of that nonsensical conference, hadn't convinced me that my job was worth wasting a few more hours of my time.

You and Josh were worth everything I had, everything I have. If I had come home, maybe this never would have happened.

You've heard all the cliches: sudden violence, senseless violence, random violence. People think the key word is violence. It's not.

What changes your life forever are the other three words, words you can never understand until you experience that shock, that slap in the face, belly-flopping, heart stabbing, impact that blindsides you until you can't hear or see or feel anything. Sudden, senseless, random.

One minute you're relaxing with friends over dinner in a hotel restaurant, nursing a glass of Merlot—because you know how wine makes me—laughing about the ridiculous imperatives that have just come from the State Board of Education's office. Then a handsome, clean-faced young man wearing a State Trooper's uniform approaches and asks for Mrs. Sarah Durandt.

He looks too young to be a real police officer, despite the gun at his belt and the pinched expression on his face. He has none of that world-weary look of competence that Hal Waverly has—of course, ever since Lily died, Hal isn't always able to muster that expression either.

My friends titter, laugh about him hauling me away for drinking on the job. Cindy even suggests that someone sent me a male stripper as a gag although my birthday is a month away.

He remains solemnly silent during our ribbing, then asks me for ID. Now everyone looks away, squirms a bit. Maybe this is for real. I hand him my driver's license. "What's this about? Did someone hit my car or something?"

As he scrutinizes my photo, I feel my stomach do a slow roil, like being swamped in a class V rapid. You know time is moving normally, but everything seems to happen in slow, anguishing motion. You see the danger coming but you're powerless to stop it.

In my mind, a distant warning bell peals, making my teeth clench, could it be the Colonel? Maybe the house caught on fire and burned down—I told Sam the toaster was sparking. A thousand and one calamities race through my thoughts and none of them involve you and Josh—not because nothing could ever happen to you but because my brain had already begun to shut down, had decided that nothing would ever happen to you—that just was
not
possible in the universe I lived in.

The trooper invited me outside to talk with him. I stood up, had to grab the table from the wine rushing through me, making me woozy. I followed him, swaying, unbalanced, still refusing to believe that anything wrong could actually be happening.

But it was. It had.

And I was too far away to do a damned thing about it.

He drove me back through blinding rain. He explained what had happened, but I don't remember what he said. A few words caught in the frenzied chaos that my brain had devolved into: child predator, missing, photos, blood, too much blood, no body found yet. No bodies.

Yet. That's what he kept saying. We don't know for certain yet. There's evidence of foul play but no body found yet. We don't know where Damian Wright is yet. The FBI have been called but haven't arrived yet. We can't be certain that your son is dead—yet.

Yet. Such a tiny word that I would grow to despise.

No, we haven't caught Wright yet. Yes, we caught him but no, he hasn't confessed yet. Yes, he confessed to brutally slaughtering your husband and son, but he won't say where they are buried yet. No, you can't see him, yet.

That one small word encompassed all the hope I possessed. But then slowly, finally, over the past month people stopped using it. They have moved on with their lives and implied that I should do the same. I go through the motions, even went back to work. But it's not really me up there talking about Sonnets of the Portuguese. I have no idea who the woman is, but she's not me.

Me, the real me, I'm still waiting for you and Josh to come bouncing through the door, tracking muddy footprints, leaving a trail of coats and hats behind you, Josh riding on your shoulders, laughing, you balancing as you bend over to kiss me without up-dumping him.

But you're not home. Not yet. And I can't give up. Not yet. Can't "move on", forget you, forget Josh, get on with life.

Not yet. I can't. Not yet.

Sarah shrank back into the shadows, flanked by two mature hemlocks, her back pressed against an oak. Two men approached Sam. They kept their flashlights aimed at him so she couldn't see their faces at first. Sam stood, hands over his head, squinting into the light.

The first one rushed forward and kicked Sam's legs out from under him. Sam went down with a grunt. The man followed up with an elbow driven between Sam's shoulder blades. He held Sam down on the ground while the second man stepped closer and lowered his flashlight.

It was Alan. Sarah pressed back against the tree, her fleece jacket snagging on the bark. Alan held a gun on Sam while the first man searched his pockets, taking a cell phone and flashlight. Sam remained silent, his face pale in the light that danced over him.

"Where's Sarah?" Alan shouted at Sam.

Sam opened his eyes, a smile twisting his face. It wasn't any smile she'd ever seen from him before; it was the nasty, fooled-you smirk common to playground bullies. "She's long gone. Gone to get Josh. You're stuck with me."

Alan aimed a kick at Sam's ribs. "Sonofabitch. You'd better make it worth my while or I'll—"

"Got a wallet," the first man interrupted. Alan lowered his light and Sarah got her first look at the other man's face. He looked familiar, but she couldn't quite place him. He was older, mid fifties at least, and handled his gun and flashlight effortlessly. Like a professional.

She slid the semi-automatic from her pocket. If only they moved away from Sam, she could get a clear shot at one of them.

She froze. And what about the other? They both had their weapons aimed at Sam, they couldn't miss at that close range.

"Let's see where you've and your kid have been hiding," Alan said, yanking the wallet away from the other man's hand. He flipped it open. "St. Doriat, Quebec. Samuel Deschamps." He squatted down, taking care not to smudge his slacks, and aimed the flashlight back at Sam's eyes. "Well, Samuel Deschamps, you made a big mistake coming back here. Should have just cut your losses and run."

"Our deal's still good," Sam said. Sarah caught the undercurrent of desperation in his voice and was certain Alan did as well. "I'll get you Korsakov's money, you leave Sarah and Josh alone."

Alan and the other man exchanged glances. "Pick him up, Logan. Let's take him somewhere we can have a nice, long chat."

Logan. Sarah leaned forward, straining for another glimpse of the first man's face. Jack Logan, the FBI agent in charge of Sam and Josh's case.

She clamped her hand over her mouth to stifle her gasp. Sam was right, they couldn't trust the police—not if they'd been involved since the beginning. They couldn't trust anyone.

Which meant it was up to her.

Logan hoisted Sam to his feet, twisting one arm behind his back until Sam had no choice but to bend forward before the bone snapped. Logan marched Sam onto the trail leading down to the reservoir. Alan swept his light around, pivoting with his gun arm crossed over his opposite wrist as if he'd seen too many bad Steven Segal movies. Then he followed the others.

When she could no longer see their lights reflecting from the fog, Sarah stepped free of her hiding place. She glanced at the path leading up the mountain, to Sam's truck and then to Josh. She stepped forward, following a low-riding trail of mist that beckoned her deeper into the woods.

The weight of Sam's gun pulled at her jacket, bouncing against her hip with her every movement. Alan and that man, Logan, they would kill Sam—or let the Russian, Korsakov, do it, torture him.

She stopped. The mist swirled around her, taunting her. She could be with Josh by morning.

Or she could save Sam.

Was there a way she could do both?

Someone poked JD. Hard. In the ribs. He groaned and burrowed farther into the soft, warm pillow he had rested his head on.

"JD. Wake up."

The urgency in Julia's voice jarred him awake. He was lying on her lap—until she pushed him off. He sat up, blinking. Damn, they had fallen asleep. His folks were going to kill him. He smiled, remembering how they'd occupied themselves earlier. She'd only let him kiss her, allowed the merest brush of his hand against her breast, nothing more, but it was still better than anything he'd ever imagined. "What time is it?"

"There's someone out there. Look." Julia placed her hands on both his shoulders, twisting him around so he could see a parade of lights emerging from the forest.

A parade of three men. One of them was bent over, being prodded along by another. They were too far for him to see their faces, but when they stopped at the cabin and a man turned on the light inside, he saw the guns. Big guns, silhouetted by the stark light, aimed at the first man.

"What should we do?" Julia asked, her fingers clamped around his arm. She pulled herself up close to him. JD liked that she was asking him, trusting him to make the right decisions. He just wished he knew what to do.

"Call 911. I'm going to go get a closer look."

"No. Don't. What if they see you?"

JD swallowed hard, felt his heart flutter. Too late to back down now, he couldn't let Julia think he was scared or anything. "Don't worry. Nothing's going to happen."

It would have sounded a lot better if his voice hadn't had that squeak in it. He disentangled himself from Julia and began to belly crawl across the dew-laden grass separating their hiding place from the shed. He stopped, looked over his shoulder, saw Julia's face glowing blue from the light of her cell phone.

Nothing to worry about, all he had to do was keep an eye on things until Hal Waverly or one of his guys got there. Man, he'd forgotten his camera! Damn, damn, damn! That was all right, it was still going to be a hell of a story—most excitement this place had ever seen.

His nose itching from brushing against dandelions and wet grass, he finally reached the side of the shack. Inching his way up the cinderblock wall, he knelt at the base of the window.

The men were talking, he could almost but not quite make out their words. Not five feet away from him, the door opened, light spilling out onto the grass. One of the men, the skinny one came out. JD flattened against the ground, hoping the shed's shadow and the gathering fog concealed him.

The man slammed the door and turned on his flashlight, blinding JD when JD tried to look at his face. He took off at a brisk pace, following the dirt path around to the other side of the shack and up to Lake Road.

JD covered his mouth with his hands, trying to slow and quiet his breathing. Christ, he'd never been so afraid in his life! His heart was thudding so loud that it drowned out all other noise. He forced himself to creep back up to the window, see if the prisoner was all right. He hadn't heard a gunshot, but...

He edged his eyes over the windowsill. The prisoner was Sam Durandt! He was sitting on the ground, facing JD, aliver than life! How could that be? Sure, the guy had shaved his head and grown a beard but it was Sam. Mrs. Durandt was going to be so happy. But what about the big guy with the bigger gun?

JD wished there was a way he could let Sam know everything was all right. Wished he could be certain that everything would be all right. He lowered himself back down, huddled with his back to the wall. He didn't have any weapons, if he tried to rush in, surprise the guy it was for certain either he or Sam would get shot.

A hand grabbed his arm. He almost jumped out of his skin. He looked over, it was Julia. She was shivering, goosebumps covering her exposed skin as she leaned across and placed her mouth next to his ear. "I called the police. They thought I was joking at first, but finally said they'd send someone around."

Her words were so soft that he barely caught them. He nodded his understanding. Somehow having her there, beside him, made him feel braver—but also more frightened. What if something happened to Julia because of him?

A man's laughter rattled the window above them. It didn't sound like a funny ha-ha kind of laugh. It sounded like the kind of laugh you heard in the movies right before Hannibal Lecter cut someone's heart out with a spoon and served it with a nice Chianti.