Sweet Caroline (33 page)

"You're wrong, Gabe. This one I do."

* * * *

ONE MOMENT FOY was leisurely coasting to a stop at a traffic signal and the next, the light changed, and he took off so fast, his tires screeched. Muttering a curse, Mick craned his neck and caught a glimpse of Foy's taillights as he rounded a curve.

"Gabe, we're going somewhere now," Mick shouted into the speaker of his cell that he'd attached to his visor. He yanked the steering wheel into a hard left and cut around a van that was crawling along in search of a parking space.

"You may be right, that he's listening to us because he just took off like he'd been shot. I'm at Chestnut and Delancy, heading west, about two miles behind him."

"Got it," Gabe answered, and in the background, Mick heard him relay the message to someone. "Trevino's on the other line, Mick. He doesn't go on duty 'til six but he's unofficially coordinating with us until the missing person's reports go out. He's tracking you, too."

"I'm sure Striker knows I'm behind him now. I'm on speaker so standby. I'll shout if anything else happens." Mick sped through the rest of town, driving as fast as he could without killing anyone. He knew the roadway straightened for a few miles past the next two curves. He needed to get there before Striker lost him. He came around the last curve on two wheels, skittering dangerously close to 318

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the gravel shoulder. For all his effort, he saw nothing but one lone truck headed east while he drove west. With a string of profanity that would have made the vines and orchards blush, Mick reported in. "I've lost the bastard," he shouted to Gabe. "Came 'round that last curve by the Sunnyside Farm, and he was gone. Couldn't have turned in there because the gate's padlocked."

"You let a Beamer and that crazy jackal outrun you?"

"I didn't think so, but I'm looking halfway to the ocean now and I don't see him anywhere. Only other turn-off is the old campground road about a half-mile back."

"That's been torn up for years, Mick. The bridge was hangin' in pieces when we were in high school." Mick's adrenaline started pumping again. "Never stopped us from sneakin' in when we were lookin' for a make-out spot, did it? Maybe Striker went out there, too—with Annie."

"God strike you dead for going there! I don't want to think about that."

"Neither do I, but right now it's lookin' like the only place he could have turned. I'm goin' to give it a look-see."

"That's all you do, Mick. Swear to me. If you see anything at all, you let the police handle it."

"I'm rollin'."

* * * *

A HALF DOZEN "ROAD Closed" signs and posted warnings later, Mick coasted to a stop, grabbed the binoculars from the seat next to him and surveyed the horizon. He, Gabe, and the group of kids they ran with had spent countless forbidden 319

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hours combing the dry river bed for gold and other treasures among the debris that blew in from the west or trickled down from a tributary of the Russian River during heavy rain years. Once they discovered girls, forbidden took on a new meaning. The campground had seen its best days in the late sixties and early seventies. Then one month it closed, and the next, a band of aging hippies moved in and set up a commune. The righteous townsfolk threw a fit. They preferred the land stay abandoned and worthless to allowing the scruffy-looking bunch to live on it. One day after the police found a single marijuana plant, rumored to have been brought in by the police, the love children were rounded up, the bridge blasted, the property fenced, and the road closed. A few years later, the teenaged "hell raisin' Mahoney boys" scaled the fence and suddenly the abandoned campground became a favorite haunt for make-out parties and "grassers." On the other side of a shallow incline, Mick saw a glint of light, like metal attracting the sun or a mirror reflecting it. He moved cautiously to the far side of the Jeep then pointed his field glasses in the direction of the dry river bed and the abandoned buildings that had served as the campground's general store, dining hall, and dormitories. A smaller building stood a distance away. The boat rental office. There it was again, the same flash of light, but this time Mick saw its source—Foy's BMW. The car was parked hidden among a clump of dying trees. For probably no more than three minutes out of twenty-four hours, the sun managed to cut through the branches and reflect off the side mirror. A very small window of opportunity. The sun had to be banking 320

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at just the right degree and someone had to be watching through field glasses to see it.

Mick slid across the passenger seat and picked up his cell, not wanting to use the speaker. Foy could be watching or listening from anywhere.

"Gabe, are you there?" he whispered.

"Yeah, Mick, what's happening?"

"Striker's here. He hid his car under that old walnut tree behind the general store."

"Good job. Rick's relaying the information to Trevino. Stay put, Mick. We'll be there in twenty minutes."

"No way, Gabe, I'm going in, now."

"Mick, don't be an ass—"

Mick cut the connection.

Using techniques he learned at survival training, Mick circled the perimeter until he had a full view of the structures. The smaller of the two buildings was little more than a sagging heap of lumber that would collapse completely under a strong wind. The fact that it was shielded by the large building was likely all that kept it standing.

"Choosin' this place is no fluke," Mick said. He noted the larger building had recently undergone repairs. There were no missing slats, and the walls stood erect. The windows on the side that faced him, and in back, were boarded up with cross beams, leaving the front door as the only points of entry and exit.

The path he'd traversed in his youth proved more of a challenge than he'd remembered. Overgrown with tangled weeds, the footing was treacherous with a forty-foot drop the 321

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only alternative. Mick was stronger now than he'd been at fifteen, and plowed through the thigh high foliage in long, sure strides, oblivious to the brambles that shredded his jeans and tore at his skin. He ignored the searing pain until he reached the bottom of the trail. Mick looked down. Blood streamed from a gash in his knee, but the boarded-up building stood no more than twenty yards away. The main building faced the stream. At one time, there had been a gazebo where local bands played for Saturday night dances. By the time Mick and Gabe had discovered the place, the gazebo was long gone, but several of the picnic tables remained. If memory served him, there was likely a distance of thirty yards between the front of the building and riverbed.

The building itself had a covered porch, and two sets of windows on each side of a wide screen door. Mick wondered if those, too, had been boarded up or if the porch even existed any more. Slowly, carefully he approached the building and edged his way to the front.

When he peered around the corner, he saw that little of the porch remained, and only the two steps leading to the door appeared sturdy enough to support an adult's weight. As he suspected, the front windows had been boarded up as well, but new metal doors had replaced the sagging screens. They'd been left open.

"What the devil's he thinking?" Mick crept forward, so intent on soundlessly approaching the entrance he didn't hear the crunch of gravel behind him until it was too late. 322

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"Door's open, Mick," Foy said, startling him and sending his heartbeat racing into triple time. "We've been expecting you."

Mick spun and faced him. "What are you doin', Striker?" he asked, his voice a mixture of anger and pity—until he noticed Foy held a gun in this right hand, a 9 mm. Ruger—
Mick's
9

mm. Ruger. "Where'd you get that?" Foy took a step back but extended the gun to arm's length. He held it in both hands and aimed straight at Mick's heart. "Maybe you should keep better track of your weapons, Mahoney. Or were you too busy trying to get into Caroline's panties?"

Mick swore and inched forward. He wanted to fling himself the distance of the six feet that separated them and choke the living breath out of Foy.

Ian stood his ground, showing no fear and aimed the gun higher, right at Mick's throat. "Don't tempt me, Mahoney. I've been waiting half a life to do this."

"Then for chrissake, shoot me, but let Caroline and Annie go. You've got no quarrel with them."

Foy's lips contorted into an evil smile, spittle moistening the corners of his mouth. "Not before you join the party, Mick. Won't you come and have some tea with me?" he crooned in the sing-song voice of the nursery rhyme they'd recited as children.

Mick jammed his hands into his pockets, frustrated, angry, and terrified. He was looking into the face of madness, and there was nothing he could do without getting his head blown 323

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off. "Striker, you've got my gun, so you know I'm not armed. Put it down before someone gets hurt. Let's talk about this."

"The time for talking's long past." Foy stepped aside and waved the nose of the Ruger toward the building. "Move it." Mick walked several paces ahead of Foy, until he saw inside the entrance to the building. Now he understood why Ian left the doors open. He wanted Mick to see exactly how high he'd raised the stakes.

Inside, Caroline and Annie sat side by side in old wooden chairs from the dining hall. Wide strips of silver duct tape had been placed across their mouths, and their ankles taped to the front legs of their chairs as well. Their arms had been laced back through the slats of the chairs and secured behind them. Mick could not tell from where he stood whether their wrists were tied with rope or bound with tape. Either way, the position would have been painful for five minutes and excruciating for any length of time. Mick tensed and balled his fists against the anger boiling inside him. He had to wait for the right moment to overpower Striker, but first he had to free Caroline and Annie.

Ian stepped close to Mick and nudged him forward toward the steps. Both women's eyes were round with fear, their faces contorted with growing agitation. They shook their heads back and forth, uttering strangled cries against the duct tape, as if they were trying to warn Mick not to enter. The nearer he came, the more panic shone in their eyes. First they'd look up at the ceiling, then around the room and back at him. What were they trying to tell him?

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"I see the ladies are welcoming you as well." Ian chuckled.

"How kind of them, don't you think?" He jammed the barrel of his gun against Mick's spine and pushed him forward. "Let's not be rude and keep them waiting."

With that, Striker gave him a brutal shove that sent Mick stumbling across the threshold. Immediately the look of panic in the women's eyes changed to hopelessness. Annie lowered her head, forlornly shaking it while Caroline's shoulders slumped and a tear slipped down her cheek. Mick had only a moment before Striker slammed the door and bolted it behind them.

"Purr-fect," Foy crooned and rolled the "r"s to emulate the sound of a feline's purr. "You thought you were the only one who led a charmed life, eh, Mick?" He nudged him forward again. "Free the girls' mouths. I want them to tell you what you've just done."

Mick went to Annie first, and gently pried the tape from her mouth.

"Oh, Mick, I'm so sorry," she said, her chest heaving as she struggling for breath. "I was so stupid to trust him, to search him out alone."

"Shh, Annie, shh," he whispered and leaned forward enough to look behind the chairs and catch a glimpse of what bound the two women.
Shit, they're handcuffed.
"I'll have you free in a minute."

"It won't do any good, Mick," Annie said. "Don't you see?

We're going to die."

"No, no." Mick shook his head.
Not if I'm a Mahoney worth
my salt.

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He moved to Caroline, and freed her mouth. "I'm sorry, sweetheart." He wiped away a second tear with this thumb. Never had she looked more vulnerable, or more beautiful. God, how he loved her. "We'll be fine, you'll see."

"Annie's right." Caroline gulped for air. "You can't stop him, and you'll be blamed."

"That's not going to happen."

"Ian set this up years ago. He's the one who sent the postcard and the invitations to your family reunions. Put the shanks under our beds so he could listen if we ... He's going to kill all of us. He wants to unite Annie and me with him for eternity. He led you here, Mick. The police will think you killed us to hide Brian's fraud. Ian's behind the thefts, and I played right into it." Tears sprang from her eyes again. "Oh, Mick, I'm so sorry. I only wanted to do the right thing. Because of my naiveté, we're all going to die and Brian will go to jail."

"Don't you worry about that, sweetheart. Let's get you and Annie out of here, and worry about the rest later." He pressed a forefinger against his lip to stop her from saying more. Slowly, Mick stood. Although Ian was close to his height, Mick was ten years younger and in far better physical shape. If he goaded Ian enough to shake his artificial air of tranquility, Mick knew he could disarm him. He turned and faced Foy. "You've made a real mess of it this time, Striker. The police know where I am, and so does my family. Everyone one knows you've kidnapped Annie and Caroline." He started advancing on Foy. "You'd better hope they get here soon because if you think I'm afraid of a coward 326

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who hides behind two defenseless women, you're about to have the greatest awakenin' of your life." Not backing down as Mick had hoped, Striker laughed, glancing at him with that superior, I'm-better-than-you look that had always set Mick's teeth on edge.

"Mick, Mick, you still haven't seen them, have you?" Foy chuckled. "You don't have a clue what awaits your nimble fingers. 'Gifted hands.' Isn't that what Michael always said about you? "'Tis a God-given talent this young lad possesses.'" He mimicked the heavy Irish brogue that had been Michael Mahoney's trademark. That, and the pride he took in his precocious eldest son's ability to handle explosive and disengage timing devices at an age other children were still learning to tie their shoes. A gift that shattered to pieces the day Michael Mahoney blew himself to kingdom come. Mick frowned and turned to the women. "What's he talking about?"