with Everett Sinclair.
Collecting his computer bag and the small toiletry kit from his office washroom, Sinclair headed down thehall to the office of Ellen Gorman, who handled executive travel arrangements.
“Hi, Ev, got everything right here,” she said, putting papers into an envelope. “Your plane leaves in two hours for Chicago, where you connect to Detroit. The car’s waiting for you downstairs.”
“Thanks, Ellen.”
Gorman’s attention went back to the muted TV she had under her desk. Long ago Hadley insisted she have one on all the time to alert him to any breaking news that might impact the company. Sinclair knew she watched daytime talk shows.
“That’s sad.” Gorman did not take her eyes from the set.
“What’s sad?” Sinclair asked. Not that he cared. He couldn’t see or hear her TV. He was checking his travel envelope and the Detroit and Windsor reports he needed to read.
“It’s one of those emergency alerts.”
Sinclair grunted as Gorman watched the ribbon of information on Dylan Colson’s abduction crawl across the bottom of her screen.
“A baby boy was abducted after his mother was run over this morning.”
Sinclair wasn’t listening. He was checking his reports, estimating if he’d have enough time to absorb them all, just as details and vehicle description flowed across Gorman’s TV. None of the information reached Sinclair as he flipped through his travel arrangements. For a moment his thoughts shifted to how lucky he’d been not to have hit the cyclist. Moreover, Sinclair con-gratulatedhimself for nailing the info he needed to find the bastard who’d wronged him.
This is not over.
He tapped his bag.
“Thanks, Ellen, I’m off.”
“We also booked you a room in Detroit and one on the Canadian side in Windsor. Good luck, Ev.”
Gorman continued watching the reports on Dylan Colson, shaking her head.
10
“T his will be difficult to watch.”
FBI Special Agent Kirk Dupree slammed the hardware store security tape into the Colsons’ big home system, which occupied one side of the living room. The sixty-inch screen gave the images such force Lee drew back.
The wheels of Dylan’s stroller.
Maria’s sneakers.
The van, as white shoes emerged from it. Someone scurried to Dylan’s stroller, then scurried back to the van.
They had just stolen his son.
His breathing quickened. This can’t be.
Only last night, he’d sat in this room in front of this TV holding Dylan in his arms. The little guy sucked happily on a warm bottle of formula. He’d felt so good in his cotton jumper; the one dotted with little elephants and giraffes. He’d smelled so sweet. And his eyes; his eyes were shining up at him like shooting stars.
Was that to be his last memory?
He thought of Maria. How he’d kissed her in the darkness after getting out of bed at midnight to take the tanker call near Jackson Park.
Had he told her that he loved her?
The scenes flitted before him on the big screen.
Maria’s sneakers as she rushed from the store to climb onto the van. The van lurched. The upper part of the screen blurred and Maria’s head smashed to the street.
His insides twisted. The saliva in his mouth evaporated.
His wife was dying in the street and he was unable to do anything.
Dylan’s stroller toppled, its wheels spun in a final chorus to the destruction of his world. The last images of his wife and son.
The FBI replayed the tape. Again and again, until Lee’s thoughts became jumbled. Blood thundered in his ears as if he were underwater thrashing to the surface. He had nothing to grip but the arms of his chair. There was nothing to silence the typhoon of anguish as it began hurling blame.
What the hell was Maria thinking, leaving Dylan outside the store?
God, no. I take that back. I’m so sorry, Maria. Forgive me. Please.
A bolt of self-reproach hit Lee hard.
It was his fault.
He was supposed to protect his family. He’d gone out in the night to help strangers. Why
Collecting his computer bag and the small toiletry kit from his office washroom, Sinclair headed down thehall to the office of Ellen Gorman, who handled executive travel arrangements.
“Hi, Ev, got everything right here,” she said, putting papers into an envelope. “Your plane leaves in two hours for Chicago, where you connect to Detroit. The car’s waiting for you downstairs.”
“Thanks, Ellen.”
Gorman’s attention went back to the muted TV she had under her desk. Long ago Hadley insisted she have one on all the time to alert him to any breaking news that might impact the company. Sinclair knew she watched daytime talk shows.
“That’s sad.” Gorman did not take her eyes from the set.
“What’s sad?” Sinclair asked. Not that he cared. He couldn’t see or hear her TV. He was checking his travel envelope and the Detroit and Windsor reports he needed to read.
“It’s one of those emergency alerts.”
Sinclair grunted as Gorman watched the ribbon of information on Dylan Colson’s abduction crawl across the bottom of her screen.
“A baby boy was abducted after his mother was run over this morning.”
Sinclair wasn’t listening. He was checking his reports, estimating if he’d have enough time to absorb them all, just as details and vehicle description flowed across Gorman’s TV. None of the information reached Sinclair as he flipped through his travel arrangements. For a moment his thoughts shifted to how lucky he’d been not to have hit the cyclist. Moreover, Sinclair con-gratulatedhimself for nailing the info he needed to find the bastard who’d wronged him.
This is not over.
He tapped his bag.
“Thanks, Ellen, I’m off.”
“We also booked you a room in Detroit and one on the Canadian side in Windsor. Good luck, Ev.”
Gorman continued watching the reports on Dylan Colson, shaking her head.
10
“T his will be difficult to watch.”
FBI Special Agent Kirk Dupree slammed the hardware store security tape into the Colsons’ big home system, which occupied one side of the living room. The sixty-inch screen gave the images such force Lee drew back.
The wheels of Dylan’s stroller.
Maria’s sneakers.
The van, as white shoes emerged from it. Someone scurried to Dylan’s stroller, then scurried back to the van.
They had just stolen his son.
His breathing quickened. This can’t be.
Only last night, he’d sat in this room in front of this TV holding Dylan in his arms. The little guy sucked happily on a warm bottle of formula. He’d felt so good in his cotton jumper; the one dotted with little elephants and giraffes. He’d smelled so sweet. And his eyes; his eyes were shining up at him like shooting stars.
Was that to be his last memory?
He thought of Maria. How he’d kissed her in the darkness after getting out of bed at midnight to take the tanker call near Jackson Park.
Had he told her that he loved her?
The scenes flitted before him on the big screen.
Maria’s sneakers as she rushed from the store to climb onto the van. The van lurched. The upper part of the screen blurred and Maria’s head smashed to the street.
His insides twisted. The saliva in his mouth evaporated.
His wife was dying in the street and he was unable to do anything.
Dylan’s stroller toppled, its wheels spun in a final chorus to the destruction of his world. The last images of his wife and son.
The FBI replayed the tape. Again and again, until Lee’s thoughts became jumbled. Blood thundered in his ears as if he were underwater thrashing to the surface. He had nothing to grip but the arms of his chair. There was nothing to silence the typhoon of anguish as it began hurling blame.
What the hell was Maria thinking, leaving Dylan outside the store?
God, no. I take that back. I’m so sorry, Maria. Forgive me. Please.
A bolt of self-reproach hit Lee hard.
It was his fault.
He was supposed to protect his family. He’d gone out in the night to help strangers. Why
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