Rocky Mountain Rescue

“What name did she register under?”

The boy turned to a computer and rapidly typed in some information. “She registered as Kathy Jackson. And she paid cash for her room.”

“I need to reserve the closest vacant room to hers I can,” Patrick said.

“That would be 142—right next door.”

“I’ll take it.” He handed over his government credit card and filled out the reservation information.

“That room has two double beds and a microwave and minifridge,” the clerk said as he handed over the card key.

“Is there someplace I can order in food?” He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and it was beginning to catch up with him.

“There’s a pizza place that delivers. The menu is in your room.”

“That’ll do.” He drove the Rover around and parked in front of his room. There was no reason Stacy should recognize it, but in case she was looking out the window to see who had arrived, he kept the vehicle between him and her door and entered the room quickly.

Once inside, he made his way to the wall that separated his room from hers and pressed his ear against the sheetrock. The muffled music and voices from the television obscured any other sound at first, then he heard what he was sure was a child, and the unintelligible answer in a woman’s voice.

They were there, probably in for the night, but he’d stay alert just in case. If anyone came to see her, or if she left to go out, he’d know. In the morning, he’d follow her and see where she went. Who she talked to.

He ordered pizza and listened to the sounds of splashing from the bathroom next door. Probably the boy getting a bath, but the disturbing image of Stacy in the shower drifted into his mind. Though she was petite, she had a good figure. Was he a creep for fantasizing about a woman he was supposed to protect? Or merely human for thinking about an attractive woman who was separated from him by only a wall?

And her own resistance to having anything to do with him. Maybe her years with the Giardinos had made her wary of trusting anyone, especially those on the right side of the law. But he couldn’t take the chance that some offshoot of the family—or their enemies—would come after her. The other women were in protective custody, and agents were busy tracking down everyone connected with the family and piecing together evidence for a multitude of crimes. Stacy was the only loose end at the moment.

After the pizza was delivered, he wedged the door open an inch, the better to hear any activity next door. He ate, then lay on the bed fully clothed, his weapon on the blanket beside him. All was quiet next door, even the TV silenced. He didn’t expect to sleep much, if any, but he was used to long nights. He’d learned how to get through them and catch up on his rest later.

In spite of Patrick’s resolve to stay awake, he must have drifted off. He woke to the sound of a woman screaming in the room next door.

Chapter Four

Instinct propelled Patrick out of bed, weapon drawn and ready. A dark sedan idled in front of the room next door, a bulky figure at the wheel. A woman’s wails and the crying of a child shattered the predawn stillness and sent a jolt of adrenaline through the marshal.

He slipped out of his room, keeping to the shadows, out of reach of the parking lot lights. The door to Stacy’s room stood open and just as he started to move toward it, a man ran out, Carlo clutched to his chest.

“Halt!” Patrick shouted, and shot wide, in front of the man. He didn’t dare aim directly at him, too fearful of striking the child.

The kidnapper scarcely slowed as he returned fire, the shots muffled by a silencer. Patrick ducked into deeper shadow as bullets splintered the brick to his left, shards stinging the side of his face. The man tossed the boy into the backseat of the car and dived in after him and they took off, tires squealing.

Patrick fired, aiming for the vehicle’s tires, but the car raced away too fast. Breathing hard, blood running down his face, he stared after the kidnappers, trying to make out the license plate number or any identifying marks on the car. But the plate had been obscured with mud, and the car was like a hundred other sedans in the city.

Heart pounding, he raced to Stacy’s room. “Stacy?” he called when he reached the open doorway.

The silence that greeted him turned his blood to ice. He groped for the light switch and light illuminated chaos. The covers lay in a tangle, half off the bed, and a chair and a lamp were overturned.

“Stacy!” he called again. “It’s me, Patrick Thompson. Are you all right?”

A whimper drew him to the bathroom. Weapon at the ready, he advanced toward the room. The overhead light glowed harsh on white tile and porcelain. He leaned into the doorway and found Stacy in the shower, fully clothed but slumped against the tile, blood running from a gash above her left eye. She moaned as he knelt beside her. “Stacy, can you hear me?”

She opened her eyes and stared at him, her expression blank. He knew the moment memory of all that had happened returned. Her eyes filled with tears and she struggled to stand. “Carlo! They’ve got Carlo!” she gasped, her voice ragged with terror and pain.

Patrick urged her back into a sitting position. “Tell me exactly what happened,” he said.

“You have to go after them!” She gripped his arm, fingers digging painfully into his skin. “You have to get Carlo.”

He gently pried her hand off his arm and cradled it in his own. Her fingers were ice-cold. “They drove away in a car,” he said. “I promise I’ll do everything I can to track them down, but I need your help. The more you can tell me, the more I’ll have to use in my search.”

The devastation in her eyes touched him. Gone was the cold, uncooperative woman he’d interviewed at the police station. Now she was a mother grieving for her child. She slipped her hand from his grasp and touched the cut on her head. “He hit me with the butt of his pistol.”

Patrick found a washcloth and wet it from the tap, then pressed it against the gash. “Who was he? Did you recognize him?”

“No. I’m sure I never saw him before in my life. But he knew who I was. He called me Mrs. Giardino, and called Carlo by name, too.”

“And you’re sure you didn’t know him?”

“Nothing about him was familiar, but it was dark and I was asleep when they burst in. Everything happened so fast.” She slid her hand under his and took the washcloth. “What are you doing here? When did you get here?”

“I followed you here last night. I’m in the room next door.”

“You were spying on me.” Her eyes flashed with accusation—but that was better than the despair that had filled them seconds earlier.

“You ran away,” he said. “I wanted to see where you were going. Who you talked to.”

“How did you know where to find me? I didn’t see anyone I knew....”

“Your phone gives off a tracking signal even when it’s off.” He sat back on his heels and studied her for signs she might be going into shock. But color was returning to her cheeks and she seemed more alert. “I’m surprised Sam Giardino let you have a standard phone like that.”

“The men used throwaway phones, mostly, but they didn’t care about the women. We weren’t important enough for anyone to be concerned about where we were.”

He took out his own phone. “I’ll call the local police. They can put out an AMBER Alert. We might be able to stop them before they get very far.”

“No!” She clutched at his arm again. “No police. He said if the police came after them they’d kill Carlo.”

“If the police get to them quickly enough they won’t have time to hurt the boy.”

“No, please! I can’t risk it. He said at the first sign of the cops they would cut Carlo’s throat.” She choked back a sob, struggling to keep it together. “Can’t you go after them? You and I?”

“We’d have a much better chance of catching them with the police involved. An AMBER Alert will have everyone in the state looking for them.”

“They’ll see the notices on the news and Carlo will die!” Her voice rose, near hysterics.

He slid the phone back into his pocket. “I won’t call them just yet. Tell me anything else you remember. Even little details might be important.”

She nodded and scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hands. She’d taken off her makeup, so that she looked much younger. More vulnerable.

A gentle tapping sounded on the door. “Ms. Jackson? Are you all right?” someone asked.

“I’ll take care of this,” Patrick said. He rose and moved quickly to the door and peered through the peephole. The desk clerk stood on the other side, looking around nervously.