Pierced: Pierced Trilogy Boxed Set (120 page)

“Holy shit,” he whispers. “What do you need from me? You want security at the preschool?”

“I don't know if I want to go that route,” I tell him.

“But that might not be a bad idea, Guy, since he's apparently staking the preschool out,” Lee reasons.

“I know, but I don't want to scare the teachers or any of the other parents,” I explain. “I think it makes more sense to just put a close protection detail on Samantha. And one on the kids,” I say reluctantly, shaking my head. “God … Sam hates the idea of a bodyguard. She's really going to freak when I tell her the twins need one.”

“Then let her freak,” Lucas speaks up with an attitude. “She'll get over it!” He's quiet for a moment and then asks, “What is this about, Josh? Who is doing this?”

I hesitate as I slowly shake my head. “I wish I knew. But at this point, man … I just don't have the answer to that question. But I've got my detectives working on it. And that's another reason I'm calling. I was hoping you could maybe shed some light on that question.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Lucas, is there any chance at all that this could be about Colby Coring in some way?” I ask him. “Anybody that you can think of who may have a beef with the company?”

There's a pause as he thinks for a minute. “No. Not off the top of my head. But that doesn't mean this isn't about Colby money. It's not exactly a secret that they are two of the wealthiest toddlers in the country.”

“Yeah, I know,” I concede, feeling slightly foolish.

“I have been telling you both since they were born that you guys need a stronger security presence in your lives. Even though you carry a badge and a gun, you can't be everywhere at once, Josh. And I know that you love my sister and those kids and that you would give your life for theirs. But they need to be protected when they are out of your sight. You cannot keep letting Sam stick her head in the sand and dictate the rules on security!”

Lucas is passionate and unrelenting in his argument. And he's right. This is a lecture he's given Sam and me at least a hundred times. Before, I've always simply allowed Samantha to make that call. After all, it is her money and she is a grown woman. She should be allowed to choose how she wants to live her life. But the fact is, the twins aren't grown, and it's my job to protect them until they're old enough to make these decisions for themselves.

“You're right,” I say quietly.

“I'm right?” Lucas repeats.

“Yes,” I say, nodding slowly. “You're right. I can't be everywhere at once. And today's the day I stop sticking my head in the sand.”

“I am so relieved to hear you say that. I'll get Martin in here immediately and start the ball rolling,” Lucas says. “It may take several hours, but I'll see if he can't set you up with a team by this time tomorrow.”

“That will give me enough time to talk to Sam,” I say quietly.

“She doesn't know about any of this does she?” Lucas asks.

I hesitate a beat before I say, “I didn't want to worry her at first. But now it's escalating, and I need to keep my family safe.”

He's quiet for a moment, and I wonder what he's thinking. “I'll call Martin now and get back to you.”

“Thanks, Lucas. I owe you one.”

“You just put your foot down with my sister as far as the security goes, and we'll call it even,” he says.

We hang up then, and Lee and I talk for a while about Sam and how she's going to react when I tell her all of this. When he finally leaves and I get back to work, I find it difficult to concentrate on much of anything. My mind is so jumbled, trying to put these puzzle pieces together. What do Samantha's phone call and the weird box of rose petals have to do with the pictures being sent to my office? They have to be connected, but how? And who would know about Echols' use of a music box when he terrorized Sam? Better question … why are they terrorizing Sam now? If this is about Colby money, why torment her with memories of her attacker? And if this is about me … why torment Sam at all?
Because it's the best, most affective way to make you suffer, Pierce.

Fuck. That's it, isn't it? This really is about me, not Colby money. Whoever this is, they want to get to me, and they know the easiest way to do that is by threatening my wife and kids. I feel my stomach knot up once more at the realization.

It's just before one o'clock in the afternoon when my office phone rings, and I grab it distractedly.

“Joshua Pierce?”

“Do you know where your children are, Lieutenant Pierce?”

The voice is slow and artificial, almost mechanical in tone. And when the line suddenly goes dead, I feel my heart stop as the words reverberate in my head. Before I can process what the caller just said, my cellphone rings and the caller ID shows a picture of Samantha's beautiful face.

And I know.

“Baby?” I answer softly.

“Josh, I can't find them! They're gone,” she screams at me frantically. “Leo and Livvie are gone!”

Chapter Four

Samantha

“Baby, I told you … Echols is still behind bars.” Josh says. “He is locked up in the Washington State Penitentiary. Exactly where he has been for the last four years, and where he will be for at least the next eight or ten. Then he gets transported to California to serve his time there. Then, if he lives that long, he gets transported to Portland to do his time there.”

“Then how do you explain the phone call?” I ask quietly.

He hesitates as he pulls me into his arms and studies my eyes. “I don't know,” he whispers honestly. “I don't know, but … I will figure it out. I promise you, Sam. I will get to the bottom of this.”

*

I sit at my desk and replay our breakfast conversation over and over in my head. I'm useless. I have been useless from the moment I walked into my office this morning. And every time my office phone rings, I jump about a foot. I dread answering it. I hate this feeling. This paranoid, skittish, nervous frame of mind. One creepy phone call and I am back to feeling like the weak little victim that I was four years ago when Timothy Echols attacked and stalked me. I hate this! I don't want to be here, stuck in this cage of fear and apprehension. I can't do this.

I gather the few files of paperwork that I was planning to tackle today and stuff them into my Louis Vuitton messenger bag, grab my cellphone and stand up. I feel slightly empowered as I walk out of my office and make my way out to reception.

“Brenda, I'm not feeling very well, so I'm going to work from home for the rest of the day,” I tell our receptionist. “If I get any calls pertaining to the gala please feel free to forward them to my cell, alright?”

“Okay, Sam. Feel better!”

I slide behind the wheel of my car and head for home. My head is so foggy on the drive trying to make sense of yesterday's phone call. Josh was adamant that Echols is still safely locked away and can't get to me. And I trust what he's saying; I know that he wouldn't tell me that if it wasn't true. But if Echols is locked up and he doesn't have access to a music box of any kind, then who made that phone call? And I know that prisoners are allowed to make phone calls, but the call would come in collect. That call yesterday was not a collect call. Which means it didn't originate from the prison. Which means Echols didn't make it. But who did?

I'm still driving myself crazy with questions as I pull into our driveway and pull slowly into the four-car garage. And I smile slightly as I glance over to my left and see the two covered muscle cars taking up half the space. There's only one open spot left for Josh's old pickup truck. And, of course, the Charger is tucked safely into her personal addition at the end of the garage. But I note that we have quickly run out of space here. Space that we'll need as the kids get older for things like bicycles, scooters and kayaks. The thought gives me an idea for the perfect Christmas present for Josh, but I'll have to do a little more research first.

I put the automatic door down behind me and enter the house, hanging my jacket in the mud room before I step into the kitchen. Setting my bag down on the counter, I immediately go upstairs to change out of my dress and into a comfy pair of sweats and sneakers. Then I head back downstairs and straight over to the french doors that lead out to the backyard. I step out onto the gated patio and leave the kitchen door open a crack so that I don't lock myself out.

Walking briskly, I make my way down to my studio at the back of the property. And I kick myself about halfway to my destination because I should have remembered to grab my jacket. Not because it's freezing or anything, although the air is definitely chilly. But the skies look as though they could open up any minute and drench me to the bone. It is December in Seattle, after all. Oh well. If I get wet, I get wet.

My studio is really just a small, one room cottage that originated as a greenhouse. The previous home owner's wife was a big gardening enthusiast and she used the space to grow orchids or something. But when Josh and I bought this place, I had the little greenhouse converted into an actual cottage, swapping out all the glass for an actual roof. It's the perfect spot to paint in with all the natural light, and all the nature around me. I love to set up my easel so that I'm facing one of the picture windows as I paint. Then I just paint whatever I see in front of me, whether it's a view of the rose garden or of Josh playing with the twins, or of the woods that boarder the back of the property.

I let myself into the studio now knowing that I don't really have time to dive into a painting because Olivia will be here with the children soon. I just wanted to look around the space. Being in here always calms me down, the subtle scent of the acrylic paint and the trappings of an artist at work surrounding me. I don't get to spend as much time painting, or even drawing, as I used to. Not since becoming obsessed with being so hands on at the foundation. And I know that I could scale back and allow our programs director to take some of the pressure off of me so that I could have one free day a week to myself where the twins are in preschool and I'm not at the foundation. But I just want to oversee it while I can. It is sort of my baby, after all. And once this new little bundle of joy arrives, it'll be back to working from home for a while, so I want to use the next five months wisely as far as the foundation goes.

My thoughts continue to wander as I slowly move around the familiar, comforting space. I would love to mix my colors and paint this perfect winter day. But it's not perfect, is it? Because someone is out there, playing sick jokes and making weird phone calls.

I try to push that thought to the back of my mind as I take a sketch book and set it aside to bring back to the house with me. Then I slowly gather up a set of graphite pencils and pack them into their carrying case. As I go about my task, I suddenly feel all the hair on my neck stand at attention as a cold chill passes though me.
What the hell?
I turn quickly and glance out the window at the back of the room, the one that faces the woods.

Still holding the case of pencils in my hand, I walk slowly to the window and let my eyes scan the edge of the woods. Is someone out there? I didn't hear anything, exactly. But I certainly felt it. A presence. As though someone were watching me.

This is crazy, Samantha. It's probably just your neighbor, Old Joe.

Yes. It is probably just Joe Mercer, the lovable old coot who owns these woods. But even as that thought runs through my mind, the trees in the woods seem to take on an almost sinister shape and I feel an overwhelming sense of disquiet. I turn abruptly and gather the sketchpad and pencils, and then hurry to the door. Practically running, I make my way back across the property, up to the house and onto the patio, closing the gate behind me. Then I cross the patio and step safely into the kitchen. Once there, I lean back against the french doors for a moment and take a deep breath.

This is ridiculous. I've spent hours alone in that studio and been blissfully at peace. I know that I'm safe there. There is nothing in those woods more threatening than deer or elk. And sweet old Mr. Mercer.

I can't believe this is really happening. I'm really allowing that damn phone call to cripple me with fear.
Stop it, Samantha! Don't be that girl. You are not a victim anymore.
I am not a victim!

That thought is rattling around in my head when I hear voices out in the living room without warning and I practically jump out of my skin.
Will you get a grip on yourself!
I take a deep breath and listen to my babies laughing as Olivia chases them into the kitchen.

“Mommy!”

Their voices are excited and happy when they see me, and I kneel down to greet them with a double hug and big kisses for both of them.

“Is everything okay, Samantha?” Olivia asks, looking at me strangely as I slowly stand up.

“Yes, I'm fine,” I assure her. “I just came home early because I couldn't concentrate at the office. Still thinking about that phone call.”

“Well, I guess I can understand that,” she says, still studying me. “But you seem sort of rattled right now. Are you sure everything's alright?”

“Oh. No, everything's fine,” I insist, trying very hard to convince myself.

“Okay. Well, I'm gonna get these guys a little snack. And then I'll get started on dinner,” she says in that easy way of hers.

“Oh, no. Olivia … why don't you go ahead and get out of here?” I say. “You spend enough time taking care of us. Go enjoy your day.”

“Well, I love taking care of my family, you know that.”

“I do know that,” I smile at her. “But sometimes I feel guilty about it.”

“Guilty? What are you talking about? Nothing gives me greater joy than to be able to help you and Josh with those two. And soon there'll be three,” she smiles as she lightly pats my small baby bump.

“Yes, and when he gets here I will need your help more than ever,” I smile. “Which is why you should take advantage of getting this afternoon back.”

She laughs at me but raises her hands in defeat. “Okay, okay. I'll let you twist my arm just this once. But only because there's a special mass this afternoon at St. Vincent's and Celeste wanted me to go with her.”