Christmas On The Run. Shirlee McCoy
Читать онлайн книгу.
“She is an author. Jasmine Rothschild. We went to college together. She moved in after Zane was born, because I needed the help and she needed a place to stay.”
“You said your son is six?”
“Yeah.”
The twins would have been nearly seven.
If Zane was his nephew, there was a very real possibility that Lila and Carly had been pregnant at the same time. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, wasn’t even sure he was supposed to feel anything. It sure didn’t change what had happened.
He scowled, his knee aching as he walked. They weren’t far from the neighborhood, but the woods were thick on either side of them, the dawn light only deepening the shadows of the forest. They’d walked past the same trees a few minutes ago, and he’d felt nothing. Not even a twinge of nerves. Now the woods had gone silent. No chipmunks or squirrels or tiny birds flitting from tree to tree. The breeze had stopped and the leaves weren’t rustling, but somewhere in the deepest part of the shadows, a twig snapped.
He grabbed Carly’s hand, feeling thick calluses on her fingertips but silky skin on her palms.
She didn’t jerk back, didn’t attempt to pull away.
“What is it?” she whispered as he dragged her off the path and tugged her down into thick undergrowth.
He leaned close, whispering in her ear, “Stay down and stay quiet.”
She didn’t respond, and he took that as agreement.
Someone was out there with them. And not the police. They’d have announced themselves by now.
He shifted, easing out from behind the brush and scanning the area. Staying low because, as far as he knew, the guy was still out there and still armed. Hopefully, he’d be too afraid to fire a shot and risk attracting police attention.
A phone buzzed, the sound a discordant note in the eerie silence.
He turned, gesturing for Carly to turn the thing off. She had it in her hand, was staring at the screen, her face leached of color.
“We need to go,” she said, jumping up and trying to dart past him.
“I don’t think so,” he muttered, but there was something about her expression, the tension in her face, in her muscles, that made him snatch the phone from her hand and glance at the text she’d opened, the photo it contained. A white wicker table and chairs, bright red mums near a back door. A kid staring out from behind a window, his dark curly hair a lot like Carly’s, his eyes...
Pale blue. Just like Josh’s had been.
Dallas’s pulse jumped, his mind racing with the possibility that Carly was telling the truth, that Zane really was his nephew.
She snatched the phone back, tucking it into her vest pocket, her hands shaking.
“They’re going to take Zane. I’ll never see him again,” she said, her voice trembling.
“No. They aren’t.”
“They’re outside my house, watching him.”
“So are my coworkers,” he responded, the hair on his nape standing on end, his skin crawling. A warning that he needed to heed. Someone was watching them. Someone was watching Zane. Someone who was very clearly trying to manipulate Carly.
They could go back and talk to the police. They should go back and talk to the police, but getting to Carly’s place was suddenly just as important. Yeah, someone from HEART was already there, but Dallas wanted to get a closer look at Carly’s son, see if his eyes really were the same color blue as Josh’s.
“What are you involved in? Drugs? Organized crime?” he growled, stepping back onto the path, his Glock in hand. Let the perp see that. Let him think twice about attacking.
“I’d starve to death before I did something illegal to earn money,” she responded, her tone just as harsh as his had been.
“Someone is stalking your house, taking photos of your son. Seems like a warning to me.”
“It is, but not because I’m involved in something I shouldn’t be.”
“Then what do they want?” He started running again, heading away from the police, away from his house. She had to have parked in the west lot, five or six miles from his place. A long run, but she’d had her agenda.
Now he had his. He wanted to meet Zane. He wanted to look in the boy’s eyes, see if Josh was reflected there.
“They want me to use old-school techniques to create polished stones out of rough-cut gems.” She was panting, running hard to keep pace with him, and he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right.
“They want you to cut gemstones?”
“Yes.”
“Because?”
“It’s what I do. I’m a museum conservator, and I specialize in restoring antique jewelry. I’m one of a handful of people in North America who know and use Victorian-and Georgian-era stone-cutting methods.”
That explained her scars and calluses. It didn’t explain why someone was taking photos of her son.
“And?”
“Someone wants me to make replicas of some gemstones in a collection I’ve been working on for the Smithsonian.”
“That isn’t necessarily illegal.”
“Not if they want replicas for personal enjoyment, but if that’s what these people want, then why not just pay me to do it?”
“I’m assuming you’ve thought of a few answers to that.”
“There’s only one answer, Dallas. They’re going to replace the originals. The gemstones I’m cutting are worth a tenth of what the originals are. On average, we’re talking the difference between five and fifty thousand dollars. If they’ve gotten a metalworker to make facsimiles of the original settings, they’ll be replacing fourteen pieces of jewelry worth one point five million dollars with forgeries.”
“Seems like a lot of trouble to go through to get you to cooperate. It might have been easier to find someone willing to do the job for a price.”
“There are only a few people in North America who can do what I do with enough expertise to make new cuts look old.”
They’d reached the west entrance of the park, still running hard, his knee throbbing in protest, the muscle in his thigh cramping. He didn’t slow his pace, though. Carly was heading for a black minivan parked beneath a streetlight. It looked like a family vehicle, the kind of thing suburbanites everywhere drove.
She unlocked the doors, jumping into the driver’s seat and starting the engine before he got his door open. He jumped in and yanked it closed as she took off.
Maybe she’d hoped to leave him behind.
But even if she could have, he’d have found her again. The story she’d told was interesting, and maybe it was true.
He’d find out, and while he was at it, he’d get a good look at the kid in the window, because sometimes pictures lied, sometimes memories did—and sometimes what a person wanted to believe made him see things that weren’t really there.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно