Too Far Gone Page 7

  Ellie nodded, reluctantly amenable. “Okay.”

  “I think we should look for Carl,” he added.

  The fight in her eyes abruptly dimmed. “He didn’t take them,” she refuted with a shake of her head.

  “How do you know that?” Sean demanded. “We can’t afford to ignore the possibility. Where is Carl? Do you even know how to get a hold of him?”

  The police had asked her the same thing. She’d been down this road a dozen times. “No,” she said tiredly. “His mama died last year of cancer, so I can’t ask her. I’ve already called Turley’s Show Bar where he used to hang out. Marty, who runs the place, said he got a job off in Savannah, Georgia, but didn’t leave a forwarding address.”

  “What about the woman he ran off with, the cocktail waitress. Did she go with him?”

  Ellie blinked. In her mind, Tammy was just one of many women Carl had been unfaithful with. It’d never occurred to her they might still be together. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, who would know?” Sean asked.

  “Marty, I guess.”

  “Call him, then. Here, use my cell.” As he handed her his cell phone, he raised the volume to high so he could eavesdrop.

  With trembling fingers, she pressed the eleven numbers that connected her to the past she’d run from months before. The number, which she had used to call night after night in futile attempts to get Carl to come home, would be forever etched in her mind.

  Sean could hear the phone ringing on the other end.

  “Turley’s,” said a male voice.

  “Marty?”

  “Yeah, who’s this?” came the terse reply.

  “It’s Ellie Stuart again. I still need to find Carl. I was wondering if Tammy went with him when he went to Savannah?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. I don’t keep track of all the waitresses.”

  “Well, does Faye know?”

  “Hold on. Hey, Faye!” Marty’s voice grew muffled as he presumably clapped a hand over the receiver. Sean gazed into Ellie’s gray-blue eyes, reading every mixed emotion washing through her.

  Marty spoke up. “Yeah, Faye says she left with Carl, and she’s got a forwarding address. You got somethin’ to write with?”

  Sean shot to his feet to rummage in a kitchen drawer. He waved for Ellie to relay Marty’s words so he could write them down. Printing out the Savannah, Georgia, address, he felt a tingle of excitement climb from his fingers to his scalp.

  “Thanks, Marty,” said Ellie, severing the call. She looked at Sean with grim determination. “I guess I have an address.”

  “And heading to Savannah on Interstate Ninety-five would take you straight through North Carolina, where the car was dumped,” Sean pointed out with growing excitement. “Ellie, I think we’re on to something. We should tell the FBI.”

  Hope and skepticism warred in her eyes. “But why would Carl want the responsibility of three boys now when he never wanted it before? It makes no sense.”

  “Maybe it was Tammy’s idea,” Sean suggested.

  “Why would any woman want someone else’s kids?” she argued again.

  “I don’t know,” he said, glancing down at the address.

  The phone in Ellie’s hands gave a sudden buzz, and she held it out to him to answer.

  “Chief Harlan.”

  “Chief, this is Hannah Lindstrom with the FBI.”

  He lowered the volume. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you for calling.”

  “No problem. I’ve spoken to the special agent in charge of the investigation, and he says he definitely wants to talk to you, but he’s still at Jones Lake State Park where the car was found. He won’t make it to Virginia Beach until tomorrow.”

  “What if we went to him?” Sean asked. She had to know as well as he did that the longer the boys were gone, the less chance they had of finding them.

  “I’ll ask him that and get right back to you.”

  “She’s going to get back to us,” Sean said, clipping his phone to his waistband.

  Ellie pushed slowly to her feet. “I need to shower and dress.”

  Glancing at her long, creamy-looking thighs, Sean jerked his gaze up and reminded himself firmly that she was still off limits. He’d exorcised his lust; it was over—kaput. “Everything you need is in my bathroom,” he told her, oh so tempted to hold her up and soap her down while the water sluiced over her. He felt an immediate physical response to the private fantasy. Obviously, his three days with Tiffany hadn’t done a lick of good.

  His cell buzzed a moment later. “Harlan,” he answered.

  “It’s Hannah again.” A baby shrieked in the background, reminding Sean that Luther had a baby boy, almost Colton’s age. “I spoke to Butler, and he says he’s fine with you driving down to talk to him. It would expedite matters.”

  “Great. Where’s he staying?”

  “At the Best Western just outside of the state park. And here’s his number. He wants you to call when you get close.”

  Programming Butler’s number into his cell phone, Sean thanked Hannah and hung up. It was true that the odds of finding the boys decreased over time. But the real reason he wanted to get out of Dodge was to avoid the local police, who seemed to be out gunning for him.

  Chapter Five

  Circling the dimly lit parking lot of the Best Western motel, Sean parked his GTO in front of room 143. “This is it,” he said. “You ready?”

  “Yes.” Avoiding his pitying look, Ellie pushed open her door and started struggling out. She was more than ready to talk to someone who might actually go looking for her boys, rather than wasting more time by questioning her again.

  Sean came around to help her. Even in her misery and preoccupation, she was conscious of his firm, steady grip as he led her to Butler’s motel room.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, so grateful to him for standing by her at this time that she wanted to weep.

  “Don’t thank me, Ellie,” he gruffly replied. He gave a swift hard knock on Butler’s door.

  It popped open, and there stood a man in his forties, with an average build, thinning hair, and bland, unremarkable features. He sent them both a penetrating look before nodding and stepping back. “Thanks for coming,” he said in a voice as nondescript as his appearance. “Step in. Have a seat.”

  Sitting tensely on the end of the queen-sized bed, Ellie stared at him, hungry for news. The agent sat at the desk, his laptop within reaching distance, and slipped on a pair of reading glasses. “I’ve spoken to Sergeant Peyton of the Virginia Beach Police,” he admitted, flicking an uneasy look at Sean, who’d remained standing. “He relayed to me your recollection of the abduction, Mrs. Stuart,” he added, nodding at her with sympathy. “Let me first say that I’m very sorry you had to experience that.”

  “What have you found here?” Ellie prompted through the lump in her throat.

  “We have only a few leads,” Butler admitted. “Unfortunately, the lake water in the car erased any fingerprints or DNA that might have been helpful in identifying the abductors. The phone has blood on it, though, and as soon as the results of the DNA tests come back, we’ll know whose it is.”

  Ellie shuddered at the impersonal remark, and Sean put a hand on her shoulder, a gesture Butler followed over the top of his glasses.

  “We found a second set of tire tracks close to where the car went in,” the agent added. “The forensic team has taken a cast of them to see what kind of vehicle we’re talking about.”

  “It was a van,” Ellie told him. “A white van, with two doors in the back and no windows on the sides.”

  “Yes,” he replied, consulting some notes scribbled on a notepad. “Sergeant Peyton already gave me that description.” He tapped a key on his laptop, rousing the monitor. “The team also found a boy’s shoe, which we’ve bagged and sent to the lab.” He swiveled the laptop so that Ellie could see a picture of it. “Does this look familiar, Mrs. Stuart?”

  Ellie gasped. The blood drained from her head to her heart.
“That’s Caleb’s shoe,” she whispered, feeling light-headed. “We just bought them at Payless. He liked the red stripe on the sides. What . . . what do you think happened to him? Why did it fall off?”

  Sean abruptly sat next to her, putting a comforting arm around her.

  “He might have been trying to run away,” Butler guessed, his gaze over the rim of his glasses both watchful and sympathetic. “The area was trampled, suggesting a tussle.”

  “Oh, God,” Ellie cried, pressing a hand to her mouth as nausea roiled up.

  “Caleb’s tough,” Sean insisted in her ear. “He was putting up resistance. That’s a good sign, Ellie.”

  It was only a good sign if he was still alive—if they were all still alive. But to voice those fears would be to give credence to the unthinkable.

  “Listen,” said Sean, pulling Carl’s address out of his back pocket and extending it to the agent. “We managed to track down Ellie’s ex. I think you should pay him a visit.”

  Butler took the paper and frowned down at it. He laid it aside. “We’ll certainly look into it,” he promised, dividing a narrow-eyed look between them. “How long have you two known each other?” he inquired.

  Ellie stiffened at the renewed suggestion that she and Sean were lovers. “I’ve known Chief Harlan since last summer,” Ellie answered, “when I came out east from Mississippi. He leases one of his houses to me.” Sean had removed his arm from around her shoulders.

  “Then you’re his tenant,” said Butler with a dubious gleam in his eyes. “And you’re a Navy SEAL,” he added, taking in Sean’s musculature with a quick, assessing look.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And where were you the night the boys were kidnapped?” the agent asked Sean.

  Ellie gasped with affront. “Sean had nothing to do with my boys being taken!”

  “Perhaps Sean would like to answer the question,” Butler suggested gently.

  As Ellie blushed at the reprimand, Sean answered tersely, “I was out of town with a friend.”

  “I’ll need a name and a contact number,” Butler added mildly.

  With a grimly set jaw and jerky movements, Sean opened his phone, accessed his address book, found the entry he was looking for, and handed his cell wordlessly to the agent.

  Butler looked down at it, then up at Sean.

  An unspoken message seemed to pass between them. Without a word, Butler jotted down the information onto his notepad in writing too small for Ellie to read. She was left to wonder if Sean’s friend was also a SEAL, a private person whose identity was best protected. An agent of the FBI would understand that, though her curiosity twitched.

  “Can I reach you both at this number?” Butler asked, exiting the address book and querying Sean’s cell to discover his number.

  “That’s fine,” Sean agreed, watching him. Butler handed the phone back, and Sean put it away, asking, “When are you planning to question Ellie’s ex?”

  “Soon,” promised the agent, sitting back in his chair. “Why don’t you two rent rooms here for the night? We may have more questions for you in the morning.”

  “We’ll think about it,” Sean replied, pushing to his feet. “Right now I think we’ll catch a bite to eat. Thanks for talking to us,” he added, extending a hand.

  The man grimaced at the force of Sean’s handshake. “Good night, Mrs. Stuart,” he added, sending her a compassionate nod. “We’ll have the results of the DNA tests by morning,” he promised.

  Having hoped for something more tangible, Ellie headed mutely to the door. They’d driven all this way just to identify Caleb’s shoe. Shouldn’t they have found more clues than that?

  As she and Sean stepped into the fresh night air, he drew her wordlessly toward his car, unlocked it, and held the door. She dropped inside, disappointment taking her to the verge of a breakdown. Sean slipped behind the wheel and sat for a moment, his profile grimly thoughtful. “Something’s not right,” he announced.

  She choked out a sound that was half sob, half hysteria. Without her boys, nothing would ever be right again.

  “The man isn’t the least bit suspicious of Carl. I don’t understand that,” Sean puzzled.

  “That’s because I convinced Peyton that Carl didn’t do it,” Ellie managed to reply. She wanted to hide behind her hands and sob with disappointment.

  “You don’t know that for sure,” Sean retorted.

  She hugged herself hard, gritting her teeth to keep them from chattering. When would this horrendous trembling stop?

  “He sounded more suspicious of me than of Carl,” Sean reflected, making her snatch her head up.

  “What?”

  “Every time I touched you, he took note, like he wanted to justify his suspicions.”

  Ellie shook her head. “He’s paid to think of everything, Sean, that’s all. You have an alibi, right?”

  “Right,” he muttered, lost in dark thoughts.

  Curiosity nearly made her ask who he’d been with, only it was none of her business. He was just her landlord, at most a friend.

  “I think we should go to Savannah and look for Carl ourselves.”

  His suggestion dragged her up from her well of misery. “Do what?” she asked.

  “Savannah’s less than four hours south of here,” he added, his blue eyes burning through the gloom as he regarded her.

  Ellie frowned at him, puzzled by his insistence. “But you don’t have Carl’s address anymore. You just gave it to Butler.”

  “I looked it up on MapQuest while you were in the shower. I’ve got the directions right here,” he said, pointing to his head.

  Ellie considered the suggestion. “I don’t know,” she answered nervously. Butler had sounded far more helpful than Sergeant Peyton; she trusted him to do his job. “Maybe we should just let the FBI handle it.”

  “Handle what, Ellie? Butler isn’t planning to do anything about Carl.”

  She gripped herself harder, hating the helpless shudders that radiated from her spine to every extremity of her body.

  “If we find Carl and question him, would you know if he was lying?” Sean wanted to know.

  Her lips curved toward a cynical smile. “He has a tick in his cheek that gives him away every time,” she admitted. “I’d know.”

  “Okay, then,” Sean persisted. “Let’s go talk to him.”

  “But what will the authorities think of us, just up and leaving?” she argued.

  “We’ll be back in Virginia in no time. Come on, Ellie,” he urged restlessly. “I’m not going to sit on my ass while they frame you or me—or both of us.”

  The authorities wouldn’t do that, would they? Recalling Peyton’s threats that morning, she wasn’t so sure. Besides, if the law spent all its effort trying to prove Ellie and Sean’s guilt, then who was out looking for her boys?

  Doing something—anything—was better than waiting. “Okay,” she agreed, and her trembling subsided. “But if we go,” she added, “I’m driving for a while.”

  Sean just looked at her. “No one drives this car but me,” he replied.

  Ellie reached deep for composure. “Either I drive,” she insisted carefully, “or I’m not going.” This had to look like her idea. She didn’t want Sean getting into trouble if they were stopped.

  Sean shook his head.

  Tears stabbed at the backs of Ellie’s eyes. “Do you know how it feels,” she added, revealing the pressure that was building up in her, taking her to the edge of sanity, “to have your whole world turned inside out and upside down?”

  His gaze filled with sorrowful compassion as it rested on her.

  “Like you have no control over anything anymore?” she added hoarsely.

  “Yeah,” he admitted roughly. “Yeah, I know how that feels.” He reached for her hand unexpectedly, giving it a soft, reassuring squeeze. “You can drive,” he relented. “Just promise to take it easy.”

  As their palms brushed and fingers twined, a dart of sexual awareness penetrated Ellie�
�s misery. Startled, she drew her hand from his and pushed out of the car to trade places.

  Slipping behind the wheel seconds later, she was conscious of Sean’s protective gaze as she adjusted the seat and mirrors. Starting the engine, she found reverse and backed them fluidly out of the parking spot. She hadn’t grown up in the sticks without learning how to drive.

  Leaving the Best Western motel and the last known location of her boys, Ellie tried to brace herself for what was bound to be a futile encounter with Carl.

  Driving to Savannah was the one and only variable in this hellish equation she had any control over.

  He was known to the Elite Centurions as the Culprit. His advanced position in the FBI made it feasible to manipulate the evidence, to make anyone culpable of any given crime. In this case, the Elite had chosen a Navy SEAL to take the fall.

  This circumstance gave the Culprit brief pause before generating his to-do list. What if Chief Petty Officer Sean Harlan were to one day discover the Culprit’s part in engineering his guilt? It might be an unpleasant thing to be on the receiving end of a SEAL’s revenge.

  But then again, as an esteemed special agent in charge in the FBI, revered and respected by Centurions and non-Centurions alike, he was above reproach. The likelihood of any nightmarish ramifications was negligible. With a dismissive grunt, the Culprit put the point of his pencil to paper and wrote his list:

  Alter the evidence. This was a simple task. The SEAL’s white Chevy truck, parked on the side of his house, had left tire imprints in the sandy dirt there. Tonight, under the cover of darkness, he’d make a second cast to replace the one found at Jones Lake State Park.

  Locate a murder weapon. This, too, was laughably easy. Any Navy SEAL worth his salt had weapons hidden in his house—ideally, a knife of some sort with his fingerprints already on it.

  Implicate the weapon. Piece of cake. Samples of the boys’ DNA had been lifted from Ellie Stuart’s home three days before. Preserved in a special solution in the lab, it was a matter of smearing the swabs onto the knife and—presto—the blade had obviously been used to commit the crime. Or if the weapon had been recently cleaned, as if blood had been washed from it, that would look highly incriminating, also.