Page 122 of Almost Dead (The Cahills 2)

“I don’t know how she got here, but she met me at the house, so I think she must’ve driven there. Yes, I remember…” Sybil frowned. “I thought it odd at the time. She parked in the back, near the alley.”

“Do you remember the make of the car?”

Sybil shook her head. “Sorry, Detective, my mind doesn’t work that way. I can remember houses in minute detail, the flooring, appliances, windows, cabinets, shades of woodwork, but when it comes to vehicles…” She shrugged. “I know it was a car, not a pickup or a van or an SUV, I do remember that much, oh, and it was light colored—white, silver, gray, maybe that champagne color? I don’t know.” She glanced out the window. “For example, all I know about your car is that it’s at least fifteen years old and someone keyed it…. It’s a Lincoln?”

“Cadillac,” he said.

“Close.”

Not really, but he didn’t have time to argue the fine points of the Caddy, nor did he want to think about its marred finish. The vandalism still infuriated him. He asked a few more questions, got no more information, and left, heading straight to Jack and Cissy Holt’s house.

A gust of wind ripped at his coat and rain pelted from the dark sky, promising a storm, but he felt a little better, as if he had a stronger handle on things. Finally, they were closing in on the murderer. He sensed it. Experienced that little zing in his blood whenever the net was closing around a criminal.

Now it was only a matter of time.

He slid behind the Caddy’s steering wheel, swiped at the rain that dripped into his eyes, then fired the car’s engine. Elyse Hammersly. At last he had a name to deal with.

And her picture.

Now all he had to do was find the bitch.

“What happened?” Jack asked, stepping into the hallway with only a towel wrapped around his hips. His hair was wet, his face a mask of concern.

“She called, oh, Jack, she called!” Cissy said. She was crumpled in the hallway, Coco whining and licking her face, the poor dog’s tail wagging nervously.

“Who called?”

“The woman who has Beej.”

“What did she say?” he asked tautly.

“She said she had B.J. and, oh God, I think, I mean I thought I heard him crying in the background.” Cissy was losing it. She felt the tears roll down her cheeks, the fear congealing in her soul. “I don’t know who it was. It was a restricted call. She was whispering, and, oh God, she sounded so…cruel, so angry, so…intense.” She gazed up at her husband. “We have to get him back. Before she does something…something horrible. We’re his parents; we’re the ones responsible for his safety. We were supposed to protect him.” She was falling apart, the hole inside her immense. “We have to.”

“We will. I promise. Come on.” He held out his hand. She clasped it, and he pulled her onto her feet and into his arms. Still wet from the shower, still smelling of soap and fresh water, he rocked her and whispered into her ear as she tried not to shatter into a million pieces.

“I’ll find him, Ciss,” Jack promised as she rested her head against his chest. He was so strong, not just in body, but spirit. How had she lost sight of that? Ever mistrusted him? “I mean it,” he said into her hair. “If it’s the last thing I do, I’ll get him back.”

She let out a broken sob and clung to him, all the while telling herself to pull it together. Whimpering and crying weren’t going to help B.J. She had to be strong, to fight back the terror, to go out and find her child. Whoever had called her expected her to crumple, used her weakness where her baby was concerned, wanted her to feel this unending pain.

“What else did she say? Anything?”

“Just that she had him, that she’d taken him to see his grandmother, that I never had…Oh God, what was she talking about? I thought you said Marla was dead? She wouldn’t…couldn’t…”

“Shh. Let’s find out.” Jack pulled her into the bedroom, where he switched the towel for a pair of boxers, jeans, and a sweatshirt. He clicked on the TV as Cissy angrily brushed the tears from her eyes. “The local news should be on….” He rotated through the channels until he found a station that looked promising. “Breaking News” swept across the screen, followed by the image of a small house, a cottage that looked as if it was fifty or sixty years old. A newswoman was standing in front of it, telling a chilling story.

“…unconfirmed reports of the identity of the body inside, but just a few minutes ago we did see someone from the medical examiner’s office wheeling out a body bag on a stretcher. Speculation is that the deceased person is escaped convict Marla Cahill.” Marla’s mug shot was flashed onto the screen, a black and white photo that show

ed little of the sexy, vibrant woman she’d once been.

Cissy pressed her hands to her cheeks.

Standing in the blowing rain, the reporter continued, “As yet the police have not confirmed or denied the identity of the victim, but neighbors of this tidy little bungalow report suspicious behavior.” The camera flashed on the reporter interviewing an older woman leaning on a cane. The Asian newswoman wore a hooded parka emblazoned with the station call letters, KTAM.

Someone hovering just out of the camera’s range held an umbrella over the older woman, who was wearing an overcoat and a plastic accordion-type rain bonnet.

With convictions as strong as her jutted chin, the neighbor, identified as Tilda Owens, insisted emphatically that she’d known for the past month that something was “fishy” at the house across the street from where she lived. “…all those late night comings and goings and the shades always drawn. I knew somethin’ wasn’t on the up and up. You can just tell. I thought it was probably drugs,” she admitted, “but I guess I was wrong.”

“Did you see Marla Cahill enter this house?” the reporter asked.

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