Bone Cold Read online

  BONE COLD

  Debra Webb

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 Debra Webb, Pink House Press

  Edited by Marijane Diodati

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  PINK HOUSE PRESS

  WebbWorks

  Huntsville, Alabama

  First Edition October 2014

  Dear Reader,

  Writing this story was difficult. Panic attacks are a problem I know too well. Though it has been thirty years, I remember the date and the hour I had my first one. The way a person deals with a challenge like panic attacks or panic disorder is a very personal journey. Please know that Sarah’s journey is based on my experience and nothing else. If you suffer from panic attacks, please speak to your physician about the available options that will best help you to face the challenge.

  As always, I hope you enjoy the story!

  Deb

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  A Note from the Author:

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Alexandria, Virginia, Friday, October 20, 2:30 p.m.

  “Grab the little bitch!” Jack Coben snarled under his breath, his fingers tightening on the steering wheel. Hell, she was five years old. How fast could she run? His partner’s labored puffing as he gave chase echoed in the tiny high tech communications device Coben wore in his ear. He rolled his eyes. The fat bastard sounded like he was the one on the verge of a coronary.

  If he couldn’t handle something as simple as nabbing a five-year-old kid, he was freakin’ useless. Hell, it wasn’t like they hadn’t done this before. Coben felt his own heart kick with a split second’s panic. Failure wasn’t an option. His chest tightened abruptly and he cursed himself for forgetting his damned pills.

  “Got her,” vibrated in the earpiece.

  Relief instantly eased the discomfort banding around Coben’s heart as efficiently as the digitalis he forgot to stuff into his pocket this morning. “I’ll pick you up around the corner,” he told his out of shape cohort as he eased off the brake and allowed the van to roll forward. He turned left onto the street that flanked the park then drove slowly until his partner emerged from the woods with the now unconscious kid in his arms.

  Coben stomped the brake. The van’s side door slid open while the vehicle was still rocking to a stop. “Go!” Nichols sputtered between gasps for breath as he dove into the cargo area.

  Three minutes later, they were a safe distance from the area of Chinquapin Park with no sign of a tail. The police scanner mounted under the dash remained gratifyingly silent.

  Coben exhaled the final remnants of tension squeezing his chest. By the time the criminally complacent nanny realized the kid was gone, searched frantically for her, and then called the police, Coben and his partner would be long gone.

  There would be no witnesses... no clues... nothing.

  For all anyone knew the little girl had vanished into thin air. Poof! Coben grunted. Who trained these damned nannies?

  Rick Nichols squeezed between the seats and plopped into the one on the passenger side. “I’m not taking another chance like that in broad daylight,” he warned, swallowed hard, then fought for another breath. “When she turned around and saw me, I thought for sure she was gonna scream.”

  Thank the pioneers of science for fast-acting drugs, Coben thought wryly. He glanced over his shoulder at the little girl sleeping so peacefully on the stained quilt a few feet behind him. Pretty blond hair adorned with a silky pink bow spilled over the tattered fabric of the quilt. How sweet. He wondered if her busy mother had put that bow in herself or if the nanny had done it. For sure, it hadn’t been the daddy. The whole freakin’ world knew how busy he was.

  People just didn’t know how to appreciate the little things until it was too late. It was definitely too damned late now for this little girl’s folks.

  Turning his attention back to the man beside him, Coben considered the imbecile’s threat for a moment. “You’ll do whatever the hell I say, when I say it. Understood?”

  Still wheezing as if he’d run a damned marathon, the fat oaf nodded. “Yeah, yeah. I got it.” He shifted in his seat to stare at their valuable cargo. “I’m just glad she didn’t scream.” A beat of silence passed. “What’s gonna happen to all these kids?”

  Coben barked a laugh. “How the hell do I know? We get paid to bring them in. What happens after that is none of our concern.” He slanted Nichols an irritated glance. “Your conscience should’ve kicked in six kids ago.”

  Now wasn’t the time to grow something he didn’t have when this whole thing started. Besides, if Nichols had half a brain he’d know that in cases like this the fewer witnesses left behind the better.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” His partner regarded the kid once more. “Ain’t nothing to me as long as I get paid.”

  Chapter 2

  Washington D.C., Special Services Division

  Metropolitan Police Department, 2:50 p.m.

  Lieutenant Sarah Cuddahy stared at her reflection in the ladies’ room mirror. She looked like hell. The dark circles under her eyes were a dead giveaway that she felt as bad as she looked. No amount of concealer was going to hide the evidence of two weeks’ worth of little or no sleep.

  “You can do this.” Her heart pounded faster and her hands shook, making a liar out of her. “Dammit!” She didn’t have time to be in here fighting this battle.

  Just do it.

  Clutching the bag draped on her shoulder, she surrendered to the inevitable and slipped into a stall. Three whole days she’d managed without the damned pills and here she was back at square one. She was a detective for Christ’s sake. She had faced rapists and murderers, and even taken a bullet once. Why couldn’t she beat this?

  Two months ago, she’d tossed the anti-depressant against her doctor’s warning. She’d been cautiously optimistic so far. No lapses back into those deep, dark places that had haunted her for so long. To her credit, she had taken the doctor’s advice about distracting herself with activities she’d once enjoyed by spending more time on the treadmill. Somehow, she doubted he’d had that particular activity in mind when he made the suggestion. Yet, it had worked.

  Until the first child went missing.

  Sarah’s hands shook. She had jumped at the opportunity to work the case. On some level, she’d seen it as a test… a way to prove she was the old Sarah again. Then, three more children in the DC area had disappeared. Within the next seven days another two, outside Metro’s jurisdiction, had vanished and a Joint Task Force had been formed. Detectives from surrounding jurisdictions were working together with the FBI’s support to fi
nd the children.

  The Task Force commander had chosen her as the lead detective at Metro, in part because no one had more experience with missing children than Lieutenant Sarah Cuddahy. Not only had she worked several cases of child abductions, five years ago her own child had gone missing. Pain and dread knotted in her belly.

  The others on the Task Force believed she possessed some vast, intimate knowledge that would somehow prove beneficial to the case. At one time, she had considered herself damned good at tracking down the missing. Her instincts had been razor sharp. Now, the only thing Sarah knew with complete certainty was that she needed to hold it together long enough to get through this investigation.

  She pressed her heated forehead to the cool metal of the stall door. Six missing kids were depending on her. The Task Force was gathering for a briefing at this very moment. She was supposed to be in that conference room right now instead of in here… like this.

  Deep breath, Sarah. Hold it, and then let it go slowly and repeat.

  Every second of every minute she hesitated exploded in her head like a weapon discharging.

  All she had to do was walk back out there and do her job.

  Except the damned panic wouldn’t let go. The band around her chest screwed tighter as she tried to draw in those slow, deep breaths. Wasn’t happening. If she refused to give in and take a pill, her heart rate and blood pressure would continue to climb. The numbness and lightheadedness would begin, and then the real panic would descend. She knew the routine all too well. To stand here and pretend it wouldn’t happen this time was foolish.

  Her shrink had told her the panic attacks would go away in time with the proper therapy and medications.

  Sarah laughed out loud. “Yeah, right.”

  She scrubbed a hand over her face. The debilitating episodes were never going away. This was her life now. No matter what she did—throwing herself into work by day and working out until she fell exhausted into bed at night—they always came back when the pressure was on. Four years of on-again-off-again therapy sessions and medication hadn’t done a damned thing except keep her disappointed in herself when she failed to avert the next panic attack.

  Her shrink would say the problem was with her expectations. You work too hard, Sarah. Set your standards too high. No one is perfect. This is not a weakness, it’s a disorder. Can’t you see that, Sarah? The propensity for panic disorder was always there. You suffered a significant trigger, which brought the problem to the surface.

  She didn’t care what they called it or how long it had supposedly been there, to her it felt like weakness and she just wanted it to go away.

  Hurry! Like a clock spinning out of control, the seconds ticked off in her brain. No use dragging out the inevitable. The others would be waiting for her.

  Sarah reached into her bag and fished out the damned prescription bottle and stared at it. In five long years this was the only true relief she had found. She would have a few hours without that insistent sensation of doom and the escalating anxiety. It would bring a blessed reprieve from the shakes, the pounding heart, and the cold, clammy skin. Why resist the one thing she could count on?

  Your condition doesn’t make you a failure, Sarah.

  The shrinks had gotten that part wrong. Sarah had failed as a mother and a wife. All she had left was being a cop. She couldn’t risk failing at that, too.

  “Enough already.” She twisted the cap from the bottle, popped the pill into her mouth, then fumbled with the stall latch to get out. Hands still shaking, she turned on the tap and ducked her head beneath the water. A deep swallow and the first wave of relief was immediate. Not because the pill kicked in that quickly, but because her body knew it was coming.

  Swiping her mouth, Sarah stared at her reflection again and hated herself just a little more.

  Chapter 3

  1730 Dublin Drive, Silver Springs, Maryland, 3:30 p.m.

  He was going to kill her this time.

  Mary Cashion stood perfectly still while her husband paced the room like a death row inmate anticipating that final walk. He looked ready to blow. His posture... his profile... every muscle had gone rigid with rage. A helpless sinking sensation pulled at her stomach.

  Lawrence Cashion had beaten her periodically for the entire fifteen years they had been married. He was always careful that the bruises didn’t show. The mental abuse at times defied her ability to articulate the level of ugliness he somehow managed to reach. Her husband could be so very cruel. Mary accepted the words and even the beatings to a degree. It was the only way to survive. She couldn’t possibly leave.

  Despite all he was behind closed doors, as far as everyone else was concerned he was a respected pillar of the community. He owned his own company and their five-year-old daughter, Cassie, loved him without reservation. Thankfully, he had yet to lay a hand on their child, but Mary couldn’t help wondering when that moment would come. How long would it be before he turned that violent temper upon their little girl? It had happened once before…

  Anguish rose so sharply inside her that she barely held it in check. If she so much as whimpered right now, she would break the trance he’d slipped into. She had to be strong and pray—pray it would pass. On rare occasions if she held absolutely still, kept all emotion from her face, the frenzy would subside. He’d pace it off, his mind focused inward on images or voices only he could see or hear.

  Please, God, let this be one of those times.

  Lawrence halted abruptly, his back ramrod straight, his neck flushing above his crisp white collar as if he’d heard her fervent prayer.

  Mary held her breath. She resisted the urge to close her eyes against what she knew was coming. She wasn’t going to escape this time. Sometimes she wished he would have a heart attack and just die the way his father had. Strange, she realized, despite being the daughter of a minister and having spent a lifetime as a devout Christian, she felt no guilt at the thought.

  If only she dared to go to the police. No. That opportunity had passed. There would be no going to the police and Lawrence knew this. Their secret—the vow they had both taken to protect their secret—would not allow that step.

  The door burst open.

  “Daddy! Daddy! I made a picture for you today!”

  Mary’s heart stumbled, yet her entire body remained paralyzed with utter terror as she watched their unsuspecting daughter barrel straight up to her father waving her latest artwork.

  She’d been napping when Mary came downstairs. Please, God, don’t let him hurt my baby. The child had never burst in on one of his rages before. Mary didn’t know how he would handle the unexpected intrusion.

  For five excruciatingly long seconds, he just stood there staring wild-eyed down at their child, his profile chiseled in granite, the color of rage still licking a wide path along his neck and jaw.

  “It’s Wiggles,” Cassie explained, excitement lighting up her pretty brown eyes as she pointed to her finger paint rendering of their small Dachshund.

  “Well! Let me see what you’ve got there,” her father said, his voice only slightly strained and booming with pride.

  Relief washed away terror’s grip and Mary sagged. The breath she’d been holding whooshed out of her lungs as Lawrence knelt down to inspect the primitive drawing.

  “See,” Cassie was saying, “there’s his tail and there’s his nose.”

  As if the threatening tension he’d exuded mere moments ago had never even existed, Lawrence enumerated the various fine details of his daughter’s work. He smiled lovingly as Cassie pointed out she’d somehow managed to give Wiggles only three legs.

  When he laughed out loud, Mary knew she had escaped.

  It was over.

  For now.

  Standing in his study watching their daughter hug her beloved father, Mary knew the decision she had made was the right one. No matter how many times she had failed before, she had to try again. The business card she had hidden beneath the floor mat in her car and the money she had sli
pped aside for three years now were all she needed. She could do it with the right help and the police wouldn’t have to be involved.

  She had to do it.

  Cassie was still small enough that her sweetness, her innocence could turn the tide of his rage... just barely. But that wouldn’t last forever.

  Then it would be too late.

  Again.

  Chapter 4

  Second Street, Washington, D.C., 5:00 p.m.

  Joe Adams leaned back in his leather executive’s chair and looked across the wide expanse of his mahogany desk. He smiled. He had them by the short hairs and they knew it. Nothing was going to stop this bill from passing the Senate. These two were the sole holdouts he needed on his side.

  “Come now, gentlemen,” he said when the discontented silence dragged on. “It isn’t that bad.”

  “It’s blackmail.” Senator Bill Fletcher, an Idaho farm boy turned public servant, narrowed his gaze as a glimmer of courage prodded his conscience.

  How people did change.

  “I believe the term blackmail is a bit strong in this instance,” Joe offered. “I like to think of the offer as a compromise.”

  Senator Bryan O’Neal made a dissatisfied grunting sound. O’Neal hailed from Kansas and, like all Midwesterners he thought he was a cut above the jaded folks on the eastern side of the continent.

  Joe smiled again as he thought of how naïve most young senators were when they first got themselves elected to office. Oh, how they were going to change things in Washington. Determined men and women who couldn’t wait to get to the Capitol and make their mark. With a little time, reality sank in and the dream crashed like a kite in an electrical storm. By the second term, if they made it that far, all their wide-eyed innocence had vanished. The two men currently seated across from Joe were both past that virgin first term. They knew precisely what he was up to and there wasn’t a damned thing either of them could do about it. It was the way things worked on Capitol Hill.