Danger Signals. Kathleen Creighton
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down her cheek. “I saw. I did. But I wouldna’ believe.”
Tee couldn’t answer. One hand covered her mouth; the other groped blindly for her grandmother’s as waves of inconsolable grief washed over her.
Later, after the effects of the impression had faded, she remembered the words. I saw, but I wouldna’ believe.
And felt a chill of an altogether different kind.
In a motel room on the outskirts of Portland, a private investigator named Holt Kincaid took out his cell phone and punched a number on his speed dial. A woman answered, a voice he knew well. It sounded sleepy.
“Hey, Sam,” he said with momentary qualms of guilt, “did I wake you?”
“Hey, Holt,” his employer’s wife muttered in her mild Georgia drawl. “’S okay. What’s up?”
“Sorry—keep forgetting about the time difference. It’s pretty late there, right?”
“Yeah, but never mind, I’m up now.” Her voice sounded less grumpy and more alert, so he figured she hadn’t missed the burr of excitement in his. “So, give. You wouldn’t be calling this late if you hadn’t found something.”
“Uh, is Cory around? He ought to be the first one to hear this.”
“He’s on assignment. He’ll be checking in, though, so tell me. And, Holt?”
“Yeah.”
“If you don’t spill it to me this minute, I swear I will send a very large, very muscular—”
“Okay, okay. I’ve found something, all right. Not something, actually—someone.” He paused, surprised to find a constriction in his throat. Damn, but this case had gotten personal. Too personal. He coughed and said, “It’s…Wade. I’ve found Wade.”
There was silence, then a rustling sound, as if his listener had sat down rather abruptly. The voice, barely audible, said, “You…found him? You’re sure? Honest to—”
“Swear to God.” Holt couldn’t hold back elated laughter. “His name’s Callahan, and he’s a cop—yeah, just like Dirty Harry. A homicide detective in Portland, Oregon.”
“Have you talked to him? Does he…”
“No. I’ve been watching him for a couple days—just wanted to be sure before I called you guys. I figured Cory should be the one to…you know, break the news.”
“Yeah.” There was a long exhalation, then a whispered, “My God. I can’t believe you found him. It’s been so long—I was beginning to think—”
“Yeah,” said Holt, “me, too. But this is bound to lead to the others. Wade and the other boy—”
“Matthew.”
“Right. They were adopted by the same couple. I figure he’s got to know where his brother is.”
“Oh, Holt—this is beyond great. It’s…it’s… Oh, man, I can’t wait to tell Cory. We’re going to find them all, I just know it.” Holt wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard a break in Sam’s voice before she added, “The little girls, too.”
“They’re not little girls anymore,” he said gruffly. “They’re a couple of grown-up women, now. And they were just babies when it all went down. They’re not going to remember.”
“I know. But still.” Holt heard a sniff. Unmistakable, this time.
“Sammie June, darlin’, are you crying? Samantha? Tough-as-nails charter pilot, never let ’em see you—”
There was a quiet click in his ear and the cell phone went dead.
The ringing telephone woke Tee from a restless early morning slumber. Sweaty and achy, she threw back the tumbled covers and stretched her back, trying to work out some of the stiffness resulting from a poor night’s sleep before picking up the phone. Which, by that time, had activated the answering machine. She listened, yawning, to her embarrassingly chirpy outgoing message, then stiffened, suddenly wide awake, when she heard the impatient voice begin its reply.
She snatched it up, shaking and jangled from a burst of adrenaline. “Wade—Detective Callahan—yes, I’m here. What is—”
The detective’s voice was terse. Flat. “Sorry to wake you. We’ve got another one.”
“Oh—God…”
“And, Miss Doyle?”
“Tee—please.”
“Okay, Miss Tee. What you said about our killer not liking uniforms? Well, looks like he was serious about that, because he just killed a cop. She was one of ours.”
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