Cold Target Part 31

Holly stared at the photo in the New Orleans paper.

Her father and her husband stood in front of campaign headquarters. Randolph was announcing his candidacy for the U.S. House of Representatives.

No mention of his wife.

She couldn't believe his audacity.

But then he would never consider her a challenge. He'd apparently rid himself of the body she'd left. All he needed now was to rid himself of a wife.

How on earth was he explaining her absence?

Or had no one asked?

Her only close relative was her father. But he had always been closer to Randolph than to her. Randolph was the son he'd never had. His legacy.

She stole a glance at Harry, who had a small pile of picture books in front of him and was engrossed in one of them.

She finally forced herself to move away from the article and on to the society pages. A photo stopped her. Randolph stood next to Sylvia Sams, a well-known socialite in town. The caption identified them as co-chairmen of one of the city's largest fund-raisers.

He looked totally at ease. A confident smile sat comfortably on his patrician face. Randolph had always wrapped himself around good causes. Sylvia Sams, sleek and always impeccably coiffed, was legendary for her man hunting. They looked like the perfect couple.

Holly wished her well in this instance. Anything to keep her husband's efforts focused on something other than finding her. And her son.

"Mrs. Baker?"

She looked up from the computer, turning it slightly so the woman could not see the screen.

"Your son. I helped a customer and when I came back, he was gone."

"Oh my G.o.d," Holly said as she leaped up so abruptly the chair fell. Her gaze went around the interior of the main room. No little boy.

"I'll look in the rest rooms," the librarian said.

"I'll start out here," Holly said, her voice rising in panic.

Two other patrons overheard and also started searching, going through each aisle of books.

Her heart pounding, her breath caught in her throat, Holly ran through the room, hunting behind shelves, every corner. She could barely breathe. What if her husband ...?

Panic exploded in her. She prayed even as she searched. 'G.o.d, don't let anything happen to him'.

The rest room. Maybe Louise had found him....

But the woman came out of the men's room, shaking her head. "I'll call the police," she said.

Outside. Maybe he went outside. She ran for the door, almost tripping. 'Please, G.o.d', she begged again. 'Let him be there'.

She threw the door open. Her gaze swept the street in front and she dashed outside. Praying. Hoping. The street was empty.

She ran around the side of the building. "Mikey," she called.

Then she came to an abrupt halt.

Doug Menelo was on one knee, talking to her son. Both looked up, obviously startled by the sound of her voice.

'Mikey!'

She sped across the distance and grabbed her son, hugging him so tightly he yelped.

She released him only slightly. "Why did you leave?"

"I looked out the window and saw Sher'f Doug outside," he explained, his eyes wide. "I wanted to ask to ride again."

"Don't ever run off again without telling me. Ever."

His eyes started to fill with tears. She was almost never severe with him. Her own cheeks were wet. She put her face next to his and their tears intermingled.

After a moment, she stood, looked at the sheriff who was watching her every move. She had called out "Mikey," not "Harry." Her stomach seemed to fall away.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm not usually hysterical." She was afraid to say more, to explain. It would only draw attention to the error. Maybe he hadn't even heard her.

"I've noticed," he replied. "I should have brought him inside immediately. I was just going to do that. I didn't realize that you didn't know he saw me."

"He disappeared so... quickly. I was watching, then..."

She was stuttering, the panic lingering in her voice.

"I know how frightening it is to lose a child," he said in a gentle voice.

Had she overreacted? Did he think her reaction too extreme for a mother who had misplaced her child for a few moments?

"There are so many stories about--"

"I know," he said. "I would feel the same way about my niece."

She picked up Harry and hugged him again. She didn't care what Doug thought. She just wanted to hold her son. Forever., "I'd better let the librarian know," she said. "Everyone is searching for him."

"I'll go and tell them," Doug Menelo said.

"Thanks, but I have some books to pick up."

"Is your car here? Can I take you home?"

Did she look that spooked? She and Harry had walked to the library. She wouldn't use the car any more than she absolutely had to until she received her driver's license.

Had he noticed her reluctance to drive? Would he put two and two together?

The fear in her deepened.

Doug Menelo was looking at her with concern. "Liz?"

She suddenly realized she hadn't answered his question. She also knew that this moment showed the disaster of becoming involved, even on a friends.h.i.+p basis, with anyone.

"I'm all right, truly I am," she said. "It was just... I had a fright."

"I can get those books for you. Louise can show me--"

"No!" The word was sharper than she intended. Still holding her son, she turned and hurried up the stairs. She didn't look back as she opened the door and rushed to the checkout desk, where Louise was dialing a phone, evidently calling the police.

"I found him," Holly said.

"Thank G.o.d," Louise said.

The few other patrons crowded around, visible relief on their faces, and she thanked them all for their efforts in looking for him.

People cared here in Bisbee. People cared, and they wanted to know their neighbors.

She closed her eyes and hugged Harry again until he wriggled in protest. She never wanted to let him go.

Holly lowered him to the ground but clutched his hand as she hurried to the computer. The monitor still showed the article about the fund-raiser. The photo of her husband. She quickly clicked off the website. She should visit another site or two, but right now, she wanted nothing so much as to get home with Harry.

'Home'. The small shabby cottage had become that in these past few weeks. It was more than home. It was her refuge.

"Let's go," she said to Harry.

"Where?"

"Home."

He looked disappointed. "I want tacos."

"Tacos are not for little boys who wander off."

"But... Sher'f Doug ..."

"I don't care who it is," she said. "Please don't do that again."

"You're crying, Mommy."

She reached up and wiped away the tears. "I was frightened for you."

"I'm a big boy."

"You are a very big boy, but I love you. I worry about you."

"I'm sorry," he said earnestly.

She hugged him again. Her hand tightened around his as they started walking. It tightened even more as she saw Doug Menelo leaning against his patrol car, his gaze following their every step.

Her stomach was still tight, sick with lingering fear for Harry.

Every mother's nightmare.

But she wasn't just every mother. And her nightmares were all too real.

In that one moment of complete terror, she'd learned what it would be like to lose a child.

'NEW ORLEANS'.

Charles Rawson left his daughter's home and went to his office. It was still lit. One a.s.sociate was in the library when Charles walked by. A paralegal was sitting at her desk, staring at a computer screen.

Charles pa.s.sed both without speaking, went into his office and closed the door. He sat down and started typing.

When he finished, he looked at the clock. More than three hours had pa.s.sed. He printed out four copies of the doc.u.ment he'd typed, placed one copy of each into individual envelopes and sealed them. He then placed each of the envelopes into a larger one, carefully adding a cover letter and a check to each before sealing the outer envelopes and addressing them.

He turned off the computer, placed three envelopes into his briefcase and tucked the remaining copy, addressed to Meredith, into a file for a case under appeal. He would take that copy to his safe deposit box in the morning.

He would drop the envelopes into a mailbox on his way home.

In the morning he would make several phone calls, relating what he had done.

As he left the office, he noticed the paralegal was gone. So was the a.s.sociate, but a light still shone in one of the offices. An eager beaver. He'd been one years ago. Now he was just tired.

He nodded at the night watchman and headed for the underground parking garage. It, too, was patrolled on a regular basis.

He had just about reached his car when a car gunned behind him. He turned around and saw two headlights coming directly at him. He braced for the impact.

Pain struck, ripped through him, then he felt nothing.

The sound of insistent knocking on her front door and loud barking woke Meredith.

She woke with a start, having finally sunk into a deep sleep after a restless night. Gage's friend had swept the house earlier, finding only the bug in her telephone. Still, she felt uneasy. More than uneasy. Mrs. Starnes's death combined with her father's visit haunted her.

When the knocking persisted, she reached for an old robe she kept at the foot of her bed and pulled it over the large T-s.h.i.+rt she slept in.

She went to the window and looked outside. A generic car that screamed unmarked police-department issue. Gage? What would he be doing here again?

The knocking became more urgent.

She hurried downstairs, Nicky keeping pace beside her. At least he was a good barker if not defender.

She looked through the spy hole that had been recently installed. Two men. And neither was Gage. They both looked grim.

One of the two--Max Byers--was familiar. A detective. He'd been a witness in one of the cases she'd prosecuted. The other also had the look of an officer.

She opened the door.

Byers couldn't meet her gaze. "Ms. Rawson," he said politely. "May we come in?"