The Cradle Mission. Rita Herron
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this morning.
She was going to run. He recognized the fear in her agitated pace.
He opened the car door and stalked toward her, his gut clenching when she gripped the baby tighter and threw a terrified look his way.
FEAR SHOT THROUGH Alana at the sight of the imposing man standing before her. “You…you followed me?”
He held his hands out, palms up, to assure her he wouldn’t hurt her. “I wanted to talk, that’s all.”
“I…I have to go.”
She tried to sidestep him, but he caught her arm. “Listen, Ms. Carter, it’s obvious you’re in trouble. I can help you.”
Huge blue-green eyes stared at him, the tension palpable as she clutched the baby protectively against her. “I don’t need your help, Mr. Caldwell. I needed to see your brother.”
“About what?”
She hesitated, the faint line around her mouth twitched. “That was between the two of us.”
“Why won’t you talk to me? Because I’m a cop?”
Her sharp intake of breath echoed in the quiet morning air. “I just want to leave.” She glanced pointedly at his arm. “Now, please let me go.”
He stared at her for a long minute, trying to gauge the emotions in her eyes. He wondered at the secrets. But he didn’t bully women. And judging from the bruises around her arms, that was the kind of man she’d known. So he released her and took a step back, giving her space.
“I have to find the person who killed my brother.” The stark need in his own voice must have gotten to her. She faltered, her pleading look full of regret and sorrow.
But fear overrode those feelings, and she reached for the car door. “I really am sorry about your brother. I wish I could help you but I can’t.”
Fear laced her voice, coupled with sincere remorse, which surprised him. How well had she known Eric? She strapped the baby into the car seat and started the car. When she drove away, he saw tears streaming down her cheeks.
Dammit, he wanted to help her, but she obviously didn’t want his help. And he had Eric’s funeral. He had to be with his brother.
Mud and rocks spewed from the back of her car as she barreled down the driveway. A green Honda pulled out behind her, a woman at the wheel. Was she following Jane or just another tourist? He memorized both license plate numbers anyway. He’d check them out later.
But now he had to go and say goodbye to his brother.
PAUL POLENTA PULLED at the leather straps holding him prisoner on the steel table, his body limp with drugs. The overhead fluorescent light glared directly at him, nearly blinding him, triggering pinpoints of pain behind his eyes. The scent of alcohol, formaldehyde and other chemicals wafted around him and he felt an icy numbness.
The irony of his situation didn’t escape him. He was a genius of modern science, now trapped, a virtual prisoner of the same technology.
What had they given him? How long had he been lying here? Hours, days? Time shifted in and out of focus, as did the voices, the faces, the bare white walls. He tried to move his head to the side to determine his location, but he couldn’t move. Was he in one of the research labs on Nighthawk Island? The surgical wing?
An echo of footsteps clicking on the hard floor droned into his consciousness, low, muffled voices growing nearer. He remembered talking to them. Telling them something…
They must have given him a truth serum. What had he told them? Had he mentioned Eric’s name? Had he told them his address?
God, he couldn’t remember.
Had they found Alanna? Simon?
In spite of the cold, beads of sweat rolled down his face. Regret swept over him almost as strong as the physical pain in his stomach. Why had he crossed the line and let them talk him into agreeing to play God? How had he ever justified tampering with people’s lives?
Suddenly a blur of white moved in front of him.
Paul tried to speak, but his tongue was swollen and stuck to the roof of his mouth. Through the haze, he finally discerned the distinct lines of a man’s face: the thick bulbous nose, the mole on his chin, a scar above his right eye. Peterson? Ames? Hughes? The doctor raised a hypodermic, tapped it, then lowered the needle, a frown of concentration pulling at the deep grooves of his face. Paul fought, but the weight of the drugs had paralyzed him. The needle pricked his arm, and slowly warmth seeped through his veins, numbing and languid. The light was so bright, so harsh, it swirled in a kaleidoscope of colors.
Then darkness overcame him, swallowing him into its vortex. Was he finally going to die?
Maybe it was better he did. Better to die than face the shame of his family learning what he’d done. That he’d sent them money at the sacrifice of his honor.
Alanna Hayes’s beautiful face appeared in his mind’s eye. He saw her holding baby Simon in her arms, cuddling the infant, rocking him good-night, whispering goodbye. He just prayed they didn’t find her.
ALANNA’S THROAT CONVULSED, and clogged with tears as she sped away from the cabin. Simon flailed his hands, and she crooned to him while the winding dirt road blurred in front of her.
Where could she go now?
Although her fever-ridden body had finally given in to exhaustion around four in the morning and she’d slept for an hour, despair and fear had kept her awake most of the night.
Eric Caldwell was dead.
The grief and pain in his brother’s eyes had nearly ripped the last vestiges of her control right from her. She’d wanted to tell him everything. To plead for his help. But something had stopped her.
She spared a glance at Simon who popped his chubby thumb into his mouth and began to suckle it. He trusted her to take care of him.
But could she live up to his trust?
The only person in the world she’d thought could help them was a stranger who had been killed the same day he was supposed to meet her.
Guilt pressed heavily against her.
What was she doing to do now? How could she possibly keep Simon safe and give him a new life without Eric Caldwell’s help? And how could she live with his death on her conscience?
Chapter Four
The brisk January wind tossed brown leaves across the graveyard, the whistle of winter a bitter reminder of the emptiness that had settled inside Cain’s chest. Head bent, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his faded leather jacket, he stared at the ground where his brother’s remains lay, the steel gray of the casket the same drab color as the clouds hovering above.
The gatherers were sparse. It was a sad testament to Eric that he had so few friends. Yet he had helped so many nameless, faceless strangers who had drifted through his life for a day or week until he could help them move on. They might mourn him if they were still around. Or if they dared come out of hiding. But they didn’t.
A few of Cain’s friends from the police force had turned out for the memorial service, more out of respect for him than his brother, since half the force had had run-ins with Eric over the past two years.
They hadn’t seen Eric’s good side like he had. They hadn’t known that the man who pretended not to care about anyone or anything, the hardened renegade who crossed the line and had little regard for the law, was really a tender heart inside, risking his life and reputation to give hope to abused women.
Cain’s throat ached from grief, and his cheeks stung from the wind sifting through the limbs of the nearby trees.
The minister offered a few words of prayer, the same mindless mutterings that should offer hope to those left behind, but Cain felt too numb and