Heart of a Hero. Marie Ferrarella
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saw why the screams had momentarily halted. Barefoot, wearing a thigh-length, cotton-candy-pink nightgown, the woman was covering her mouth with both hands. Her eyes were opened so wide with shock and terror that for a second he said nothing, afraid of setting her off.
The empty wooden crib in the corner registered belatedly.
The next moment, as if suddenly becoming aware of the fact that she was no longer alone, the woman grabbed up the small, free-standing lamp and grasped it in both hands, prepared to wield it like some sort of martial arts weapon.
“What did you do with him?” she demanded. The terror he’d seen in her eyes a heartbeat ago was replaced with anger. “Damn it, answer me! Where is he? Where’s Vinny?”
Rusty stood a healthy distance from the woman, wondering how best to disarm her without risking hurting her. He’d seen that look before, more times in the last couple of years than he would have liked to think about. It was the look of a mother forcibly separated from her child.
“Your son?” he asked needlessly, his voice low, soothing. It was the kind of tone used by an animal tamer trying to gentle a crazed animal that had been abused.
Except it wasn’t working. If anything, she looked even more incensed. She took a step back, her eyes never leaving his.
“You know damn well who I’m talking about,” she snapped, her hands tightening around the shank of the lamp, her manner growing more desperate. “Yes, my son. Now what have you done with him?” She’d just barely managed to keep from screaming into his face.
Who the hell was this man and what was he doing here? How had he managed to “conveniently” come along just at this moment?
Was he part of it?
Her heart pounding madly, afraid to turn her back on him, she eyed him the way someone would a pit bull that had suddenly appeared in their path.
Spreading his hands wide on either side of his six-foot-three lanky body, Rusty took only a half step forward. He kept his eye on the lamp, afraid she might wind up hurting herself more than him.
“I haven’t done anything with him. Lady, I was just nodding off when I heard you scream.” His expression still open, affable, his tone sharpened just a shade, instantly becoming authoritative. “What happened?”
She looked as if she wasn’t sure if he was telling the truth, or if she should trust him. It was apparent to Rusty that if she was going to let her guard down, it wouldn’t be too far.
Her eyes wary as she watched him, she finally inclined her head toward the empty crib. “I came in to check on Vinny before I went to bed and…and…”
“He wasn’t there?” Rusty supplied gently, moved by the anguish he heard beneath the bravado. Empathy had always been his gift. It had sharpened considerably since he’d found his vocation in life.
Exercising supreme effort, Dakota Armstrong struggled to pull herself together. She wasn’t going to do her son any good if she fell apart the way she so dearly wanted to. But, God, she was tired, so tired. Tired of running and hiding. Tired of always looking over her shoulder, of being suspicious and weighing every word, every look, that came her way.
She couldn’t fall apart, she told herself again. She was all Vinny had and he needed her. Now more than ever. Needed her to save him before he was forever lost. Lost to her and to himself.
Tossing the sea of blond hair over her shoulder with a quick movement of her head, she echoed Rusty’s words. “He wasn’t there.”
There were questions, a whole host of questions that sprang up instantly, crowding his brain. But rather than ask them, Rusty hurried past the woman to look out the open window. At first glance, there was nothing.
Bracing his hand on the windowsill, he lowered himself out. The questions would keep until later. Right now, every second that went by might be precious. It was the first thing he’d been taught.
Wood creaked beneath his foot. Outside each ground-floor apartment that faced the inside of the complex there was a small wooden structure that served as a pseudo-bridge. The bridge, which stretched picturesquely over a minuscule pond, took the place of the patio awarded to the second-floor occupants.
Rusty held his breath as he looked around. Visibility was limited. There were no stars out, no moonlight. Illumination came from the tall street lamps scattered equidistantly throughout the 110-unit complex. He saw no one out walking, much less running from the apartment or in the general vicinity.
Except for the artificially induced gurgling of the water within each pond, the entire area was quieter than a tomb.
Turning back toward the window, he felt his sock catch on a sliver of wood. He stooped to work it free and glanced down. Right next to the wooden bridge, just beyond the window, was a footprint in the mud. A sneaker, as best he could tell. Squinting, he tried to examine the print and decided that he would need a flashlight.
Without a flashlight, all he could tell was that the print was elongated, as if someone had slipped before regaining his or her footing. And it appeared to be fresh.
Rusty lowered himself back into the missing boy’s bedroom. He would have expected to find the woman on the telephone, calling the police. Instead she was standing in the center of the room, just as he had left her, looking not unlike a lost waif herself. She had her arms wrapped around herself, as if she was mutely trying to offer herself comfort.
Backlit by the lamp she’d returned to its original position on the floor, the nightgown she was wearing was translucent. Every inch of her long, supple body was highlighted.
Rusty felt his mouth suddenly grow drier than dust. It took him a beat before he found his thoughts and put them into some kind of coherent order. “There’s no one out there.”
She moved past him to the window and looked out. The same window she’d looked out before without any success. This man in her apartment wasn’t saying anything to her she didn’t already know.
Still, she clung to denial.
“There has to be,” she cried. “Vinny couldn’t have climbed through the window himself.” She swung around from the window to glare accusingly. “They took him.”
She said it as if she had someone in mind, Rusty thought. Did she? “‘They’?”
Maybe it was his imagination, but her shoulders seemed to stiffen at his question.
“The kidnappers,” she amended. “Whoever took my baby.”
Maybe now was the time to start questioning her in earnest. “When did you last see your son?”
He saw her struggle to try to think, to push aside the confusion and shock that he knew had taken hold of her. She put her hand to her head as if that could help sort out the answer.
“An hour and a half ago.”
There were tears shining in her eyes. And then they began to wet her lashes, about to spill out.
Angry with herself, she wiped them away with the heel of her hand. More came.
What Rusty did next was second nature to him. He took her into his arms and gently held her against him, comforting her. She was someone in need, suffering from shock, and he wanted to help.
For a moment she seemed to soften against him, all but dissolving as she accepted the silent offering. The next moment she jerked back as if she’d suddenly realized what she was doing. Her back stiffened like soldiers’ facing down the enemy.
Taken by surprise at the sudden change, Rusty managed to act as if her behavior were perfectly normal. In some ways, he supposed that it was. Disorientation and denial took on many forms. This kind of thing never failed to leave a parent in emotional shambles, strong one minute, crumbling the next. Needing sedation was a common enough occurrence, but he had a feeling that the woman in front of him would not be one of those who found solace that way.