скачать книгу бесплатно
“The good news,” Burke said, “is that our kidnapper is still in the area. More than likely, he’s a local. Somebody you might know. That’s why I want you to listen to his voice. And the way he puts his words together.”
He pressed the playback button and Carolyn heard her own voice. She was surprised that she didn’t sound as terrified as she’d felt at the time.
“Hello, this is Carolyn Carlisle.”
“I want a million dollars.” The kidnapper spoke in a rasping, ominous, barely audible whisper. “I want it in cash.”
“You’ll have to repeat that. I can’t hear you.” She’d been stalling, doing as Burke had suggested. “Please speak up.”
“Listen hard. A million dollars. Cash. Nothing bigger than a hundred.”
“Do you have Nicole with you? I need to talk to her.”
“Pay me. Or she dies.”
On the playback Carolyn sounded confident. “Don’t you worry. You’ll get everything you want. If it’s a million dollars, you’ll get a million.” She’d been rambling, keeping him on the line. “Please let me talk to Nicole.”
“I want the money tomorrow afternoon at five.”
“It’s going to be hard to scrape that much cash together in one day.” More stalling. “Tomorrow is Saturday. And the local banks probably don’t have a million dollars on hand. We’ll have to go all the way into Denver.”
“Not my problem.”
She remembered Corelli giving her the thumbs-up signal. They had successfully made the trace.
She heard herself say, “I need proof of life.”
There was a pause. “What’s that?”
“Proof that Nicole is still alive. Let me talk to her.”
“You’ll get your proof.”
That was when he disconnected the call.
She looked into Dylan’s face. Tears streaked down his cheeks. Carolyn couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her brother cry. When she touched his arm, he collapsed against her.
“This is all going to work out,” she assured him. “I’ll take care of putting the money together.”
Burke cleared his throat. “Anybody recognize the voice?”
“Not really.” The sheriff patted the pocket in his shirt where Carolyn could see the outline of a cigarette pack. “That whisper could have been anybody. I didn’t hear an accent. He didn’t use any slang.”
“Proper language,” Burke said. “Instead of saying ‘Ain’t my problem’ he said ‘Not my problem.’ And he didn’t know what proof of life meant.”
“What does that indicate?” Carolyn asked.
“He’s not a professional kidnapper. He might not even have a criminal record.”
“Which means,” Corelli said, “that his fingerprints might not be in the system.”
Burke nodded toward the other two men, both of whom were wearing black windbreakers with FBI stenciled across the back. “Special Agent Smith and Special Agent Silverman are both trained profilers. Sheriff, they’re going to need to talk to everybody on the ranch. Starting now.”
“It’s the middle of the night,” the sheriff protested.
“The first twenty-four hours are crucial.” Burke turned to the Smith–Silverman team. “Start your interviews with the sheriff. Keep me informed.”
Carolyn could feel Dylan’s knees beginning to buckle. His body was literally giving out. Before he went limp and dragged them both to the floor, Burke came up beside her and slipped his arm around Dylan’s torso. “Let’s go, buddy. You need a rest.”
He tried to rally. “Can’t go to bed.”
“Just a catnap,” Carolyn said. “On the sofa in your office. You’ll be close.”
With Burke supporting her brother, she went down the hall, through the entryway, and took a right. The second door was Dylan’s office—a large, masculine room with a wall of books and windows that opened onto the veranda. Opposite the huge oak desk that had belonged to her father were two brown leather chairs and a matching sofa.
Burke sat Dylan on the sofa, and Carolyn peeled off his jacket. Getting his boots off was an effort but she managed. Her brother stretched out, immediately asleep. She covered him with a crocheted afghan, striped in green and brown.
Closing the door, she stepped into the hallway with Burke. “Thanks. I couldn’t have carried him by myself. Whoever said ‘He ain’t heavy, he’s my brother,’ didn’t know Dylan.”
“The Hollies,” Burke said. “They sang it.”
She leaned against the wall outside the office, allowing this moment of quiet to soothe her frazzled nerves. It was nice to be here with Burke—someone who didn’t depend on her. “I’m worried about him.”
“Dylan blames himself for what happened.” His voice was low, intimate. “He and Nicole argued before she took off.”
“I heard them.” That was less than six hours ago but it felt like an eternity. “I didn’t catch what they were saying.”
“They were trying to get pregnant. Your brother didn’t want to take time out of his schedule to see the fertility doctor. That’s why Nicole was angry.”
“Dylan told you all that?” She gazed up into his stern, craggy face. In the soft light, his features seemed warmer, more appealing. “If I can’t get him to open up to me, why would he talk to you?”
“Sometimes, it’s easier to tell your secrets to a stranger.”
Unexpectedly, he reached toward her and brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The stroke of his fingertips on her cheek set off an electric reaction that sizzled down her throat and into her chest. “You don’t seem all that strange. Actually, you’re kind of all right.”
“High praise,” he said wryly. “Don’t make me more than I am, Carolyn. I’m just doing my job.”
She didn’t quite believe him. Burke tried to stay detached, but the hard-nosed attitude didn’t come naturally. “You’re not as tough as you pretend to be. You care about what happens to Nicole. And to Dylan.”
“Caring is human. But I don’t let empathy get in the way of my work.”
“I don’t mean to put you on the spot. It’s just—”
“And I care about you,” he said.
Her heart thumped against her rib cage. Her gaze dropped from his face to his broad chest. Just for a moment, she wished she could rest her head against him. “Thank you.”
“You’re trying to carry your brother, run the corporate business and manage the ranch.” He rested one hand on her shoulder. With the other, he lifted her chin so she was looking into his dark eyes. “Who takes care of you, Carolyn?”
No one. She had no one to share her burdens. No one who really cared for her. “I talk to Elvis.”
His lips parted in a grin. “First the Hollies. Now Elvis. Are we on a tour of the golden oldies?”
“Elvis is my horse. I tell him my secrets and he listens.”
Burke leaned down and kissed her forehead. He stepped back so quickly that she wasn’t sure what happened. But her forehead tingled. She felt suddenly warm. Hot even.
One of the other agents—either Silverman or Smith—came into the hallway. “Burke, you need to hear this.”
“What is it?”
“The sheriff says the most likely suspects live on a ranch near here. The Circle M.”
Burke turned to Carolyn. “What do you know about the Circle M?”
“The ranch belongs to Nate Miller, but he’s renting the entire property and all the outbuildings to Sam Logan and a group of his followers.”
“Followers?”
“They call themselves the sons of something or other. They’re survivalists.”
Burke looked back toward the other agent. He said just one word. “Waco.”
In a flash she remembered television images of burning buildings and reporters talking about the women and children who had died in the confrontation between the FBI and the Waco cult.
“It’s not the same thing,” she said quickly. “Sam Logan isn’t that kind of guy.”
“How do you know?” Burke asked.
She swallowed hard. “He used to be my boyfriend.”
Chapter Four
Sam Logan hadn’t been the love of Carolyn’s life. He’d been two years ahead of her in high school, and they went out on exactly three dates before he told her that she wasn’t “sophisticated” enough for him. In his dictionary, “sophisticated” meant having sex, which wasn’t something she wanted to try at age sixteen.
Several years later, after she’d graduated from college, she and Logan hooked up again. Their relationship had been far more complicated the second time around.
“Well?” Burke glared at her as if she were a suspect. “Are you going to tell us about your survivalist boyfriend?”
“I need coffee for this.”
She pivoted and went down the hall toward the kitchen where the family’s housekeeper, Polly Sanchez, was taking a batch of her famous raisin rolls out of the oven. The heat from her baking steamed up the north-facing windows. A mouthwatering aroma filled the huge kitchen.
“Can I help?” Carolyn asked.
“Good heavens, no. I’m in a hurry, and I don’t have time to clean up after you.” With an expert flourish, Polly spread gooey icing on top of the rolls. “Soon as I’m done here, I’m heading home to catch a couple of winks before morning.”
As Carolyn watched the icing melt into rich swirls she realized that she hadn’t eaten for over ten hours, not since noon when she had sushi from the new Japanese fusion restaurant down the street from her Denver office. Lunchtime seemed like decades ago.
She rested her hand on Polly’s round shoulder. “Thanks for coming over to help out.”
Beneath her curly gray hair, Polly’s forehead crinkled with worry wrinkles. “You know I’d do anything for your family.”
For the past twelve years, Polly had worked at the ranch as housekeeper and chief cook. Her husband, Juan, had been a full-time ranch hand—and an expert at repairing machinery—until three years ago when he was stricken with MS. Now, his hands were too weak and unsure to hold a wrench. As soon as she’d learned of his illness, Carolyn authorized payment for a full pension and upped Juan’s medical coverage to pay for treatment. She’d offered to do the same for Polly so she could stay home with Juan, but the buxom little woman insisted that she needed to keep busy.
During the spring calving and fall roundup when they had a full crew, Polly had two employees working under her. At this time of year, her schedule was less demanding.
“You need me here,” Polly said in a brisk tone. “Tomorrow morning, Juan and I will move over here to the ranch house, and we’ll stay until Nicole comes home.”
“That’s really not necessary,” Carolyn said.
“Honey, you’ve got a houseful of FBI agents and bodyguards. And you can’t hardly boil water without setting the house afire. How did you plan to feed all these hungry men?”
“I can call for pizza.”
“Pizza for breakfast?” Polly clucked her tongue on the roof of her mouth. “Y’all sit right here at the kitchen table. I’ll bring your coffee and raisin rolls.”
Taking the seat opposite Burke, Carolyn knew that the time had come to answer his question. “Okay, here’s what happened between me and Sam Logan.”
“Logan?” Polly set mugs of coffee on the table. “He’s turned into a regular nutcase. He runs that Sons of Freedom bunch over at the Circle M. It’s not all Sons. There are families. The women all wear housedresses and tie their hair back. Same with the kids.”
Burke turned toward her. “Is it a religious group?”
“Lord, no.” Polly bustled back to the counter. “Logan doesn’t have a religious bone in his body. Does he, Carolyn?”
“Not when we were going out.” She remembered Sam Logan as a tall, lean guy with a blond ponytail and a charming smile—handsome enough to cruise by on his looks. She wasn’t surprised that he’d gathered followers.
“His group,” Polly said, “wants to go back to the pioneer days. They’re against big business, government interference, taxation without representation and all that.”
Burke shrugged. “Doesn’t sound so bad to me.”
His comment surprised Carolyn. What kind of fed was opposed to government interference? She’d thought FBI agents couldn’t wait to bust down doors and take everybody into custody.
Polly placed a plate full of raisin rolls on the table. “People around here call them SOF for Sons of Freedom. Or Silly Old Fools. If the only thing they wanted was to go back to the good old days, I wouldn’t have a problem with them. Live and let live, I always say.”
“But you have a problem,” Burke said. “What is it?”
She reached behind her back to untie the strings of the gingham apron she wore over her jeans and cotton shirt. “Their back-to-nature ideas don’t extend to alcohol. A couple of the SOF boys drove into Riverdale, drunk as skunks, and raised hell. A local teenager got hurt. The sheriff could tell you more.”
Carolyn bit into her raisin roll and let the gooey sweetness melt in her mouth.
“How do they support themselves?”
“Lord knows where they get their money. But they seem to have plenty. Nate Miller didn’t rent out his land for cheap, that’s for dang sure.”
Carolyn glanced over at Burke who seemed totally focused on devouring his raisin roll. His dark eyes took on a glaze of contentment. His jaw relaxed as he chewed. The other FBI agent was likewise transported.
“These are great,” Burke said. “Ma’am, you’ve got to come back tomorrow.”
