“We won! We’re going to the finals!” she shouted.

  He marveled at her. His huntress. So full of life and verve. How had she come from his genes, from her mother’s genes? How had they, such an ordinary pair, made this incomparable perfection? But he knew the answer. She was a gift of the gods.

  She threw her fist in the air, her feet coming off the ground in her exuberance. A taller girl grabbed her up in a bear hug and slung her around once in a tight circle. Three others joined in the mad dance and hugged, giggling, shrieking.

  A push in the darkness sent him stumbling. He caught himself on the park fence, warm metal biting into his fingers. It was the woman who had stopped at his car. Fury flared in him. His fists clenched and he turned his head away to hide the reaction.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. I tripped. I’m so clumsy in heels. Are you okay?” She touched his arm in a casual gesture, her perfume floating over him. “Wasn’t it a great game? Vivaldi, right? Which one is yours?”

  “I’m sorry?” he managed to say, the words little more than a whisper as he harnessed his rage, leashed his voice.

  “Which girl? Which is your daughter?” Excitement lit her eyes, but she said the words slowly, as if she found him pleasantly amusing or not quite bright enough to understand the questions. As if he were not in his right mind or was abstracted to the point of stupidity, his mind elsewhere.

  The thought brought a rare smile to his face. “The goalie.”

  “Oh. Right. I remember that Carolyn’s father travels a lot. It’s good to meet you at last. I know you and Meagan don’t get along very well, but believe me, we all know she’s a difficult person. No one blamed you at all for the divorce.” She put out a perfumed hand. “Jan Krymer.” She was brown-haired with long, bottle-blond streaks, her breasts firm mounds of flesh thrusting against her shirt, straining the buttons. She seemed friendly, but her words baffled him.

  Meagan? Hesitantly he took the hand she offered. Who was Carolyn?

  “My Julie and she are best friends. Maybe she’s told you about me?”

  He managed to shake his head as he withdrew his hand from her grip. Carolyn?

  “You’re Sam, right?” She hooked her arm through his as if they were the dearest of friends and gave a gentle tug toward the group of girls. “They have a sleepover next week at my place. You can rest assured that I’ll keep an eye out.” She tilted heavily mascaraed eyes to him. “No beer, liquor or guns in the house. Well, except for my Baileys but I keep that over the fridge and it’s just for me. Special occasions only, like Christmas, New Year’s and my divorce anniversary. I celebrate that every year. I bet you will too, huh? Glad to be out of that madhouse.”

  He nodded again, his breath speeding up, growing shallow and thin. This was not going well. He tried to pull his arm free, but she held on, pressing her body against his side. His heart rate accelerated at the sensation of a trap closing about him. What did she want with him?

  “Maybe you’d like to come by the night of the sleepover? Check out the house, make sure it’s secure enough for your comfort level?”

  “I’m out of town that day,” he said, the words coming abruptly to his lips.

  “Oh? Where to this time?” She looked at him expectantly, a smile on her face. Why was she smiling at him? A rush of panic shot through him, an electric bolt of fear. He fought to keep his hands from fisting.

  After a moment, he said, “Cleveland.” The lie felt peculiar in his mouth, uncertain and foreign. He had never lied well. The syllables of the city carried a note of panic, the word breathy, the tone doubtful. “Yes, Cleveland.” Surely she would hear the falsehood. But she accepted it completely.

  “Well, maybe we’ll just have to get together next game.” She released his arm and patted her pants pocket, finding and holding out a card. “That’s my private number. You give me a call when you’re in town for the next game and we’ll sit together, maybe go out for a quick drink after?”

  He nodded and took the card. It was a business card for a local realty company. At the bottom was a number. He closed his hand on the embossed paper, fumbled for a pocket and inserted it. She ruffled her fingers at him again and went on to tap on the shoulder of a young redhead who turned quickly, a squeal on her lips. They hugged.

  Seeing the gesture, the way the girl wrapped her arms around the woman’s neck, he wondered if he had made a mistake not choosing this one. She was so loving. But it was unlikely she would have all the qualifications. His daughter ran across his line of vision, drawing his eyes. Her grace a magnet. No. She was the one. The poem proved it.

  She ran to a woman with dark hair, and the two slapped palms together. Ugly, manly gesture. Her mother had never had an artistic spirit about her. He still could not believe he had married the cow. Before she could spot him and turn their daughter against him again, he made a quick right angle and moved back up the hill toward his car. He’d have to claim his daughter later. Later, she would be his. The way she was meant to be.

  He went to his car and pulled out of the lot. There was a practice session before the girls could leave for the night. He had plenty of time to set up his arrangements.

  11

  I called the number on the cell’s readout to let the hospital know I was on my way and opened the car door. Steven had added enough quarters to the meter so that I actually wasted half an hour of parking time as I raced away. Well, crawled away, through rush-hour traffic toward I-77 and the brand new trauma center where I worked, Carolina HealthCom.

  Traffic was bumper to bumper, all lanes stopped in the quickly falling dusk. I looked at my watch. I’d be late to the call. I had a yellow emergency light perched atop my car to speed me past most obstructions, but it was pretty useless against several thousand cars all heading in different directions on the same freeway system.

  I craned my head out the car window and tried to see around the eighteen-wheeler ahead. I wondered if I could blame the FBI for my tardy appearance. Probably not. Frustrated, I turned on a National Public Radio station and tried to relax.

  It took me forty-three minutes to get to the Emergency Department. I made it to the hospital, parked in the employee lot, maneuvered past seven cop cars blocking the door at irregular angles, swiped my card through the security box and jogged toward the Minors ED. I was late. When on call, I was supposed to make it to the hospital needing my services within half an hour of the page.

  In a large, well-appointed, modern hospital, the Emergency Department is divided into sections. The Majors section, where I usually work, is for big-ticket injuries, gunshots, codes, strokes, heart attacks. The Minors is for cuts, fevers, problems that could wait awhile if needed, but still had to be attended to. Ambulatory section was for walk-ins, things like headaches, bandage changing, administration of IV meds after outpatient hours. Carolina HealthCom even had a well-baby department that worked in conjunction with the county health department to administer shots and assist low-income or worried mothers.

  I rounded through the entrance at the Minors and met a wall of cops blocking the hall. I slipped my forensic nursing ID around my neck on its chain and held it out to the cops as they inspected me, one by one and allowed me to pass through. In street clothes I didn’t look as though I belonged there. In the background I could hear a girl crying but couldn’t see where she was.

  When I got to the nurses’ desk, I searched out Lynnie Bee, my former supervisor at Dawkins County, who had moved on to bigger and better things and who was ultimately responsible for my career changes. She’d wooed me away from Dawkins with the promise of a $25,000 signing bonus. Money talks, and small hospitals are pretty mute. Lynnie and I had also brought over a few of the Dawkins County Hospital doctors for part-time work at a third more than they made in the smaller hospital.

  “You got yourself quite a crowd, Lynnie,” I said, spotting her sitting with a phone at each ear, obviously on dual hold. “What’s up?”

  “Thank God you’re here.” She slammed down the phones, shot to her feet, gripped my upper arm and pulled me away from the crowd, all as if she were moving in fast forward. Lynnie was stronger, younger and more athletic than I and I didn’t bother to put up a fight. “We got a kidnapping. Claimed to be eighteen but looks more like fourteen,” she said, talking at high speed. “She presented with acute abdominal pain, vaginal bleeding. Her husband was acting kinda weird, according to Clarissa, who saw them in triage.”

  “Husband?”

  “Claimed to be. Weird bearded creep. Clarissa gave me a heads-up and I took the girl myself.” Lynnie shoved back her bangs, which hung above her brown eyes and dangled over her glasses frames. The hair stuck straight up with the motion, boy-short and stiff with hairspray. “Something didn’t smell right about it. She looked too young. Bruising at wrists and ankles, torso and around her neck in a choke pattern. Vaginal bleeding. She was scared. I told her husband he’d have to leave the room while I examined her. He refused. Was getting really agitated. So I asked to see some ID and he took off.”

  “Breathe, Lynnie,” I said.

  “No time. As soon as he leaves the room, the girl starts screaming that he kidnapped and raped her. A cop was in the next room talking to an accident victim and he overheard and took over. Now there are cops everywhere and I can’t even get to her. Administration is dithering around trying to decide what to do besides firing me for hanging up on them just now and I haven’t seen a security guy at all, not that they’d be any help against real cops.”

  “She’s still bleeding?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Who’s the MD in charge of Minors?”

  “MacRoper just showed up, and thank God they’ve called Christopher in to cover the last two hours on Evans’s shift. Evans’s wife finally went into labor.” We shared a grin. Evans was forty-two, madly in love with his wife, and a first-time dad. It had been cute watching him suffer through her pregnancy, trying to maintain a professionally composed demeanor, while chewing his nails in private. “Unfortunately, MacRoper’s useless as ever,” she continued. “I’m so glad you didn’t date that man when he was sniffing after you.”

  “You pointed him in my direction,” I reminded her. “MacRoper, Christopher and about three other single or separated doctors. Chart?”

  “Hell, I’ll find it. It’s here somewhere.” She began shoving three-ring binders around, checking the charts’ spines for the cubical number, as she juggled subjects. “Suggesting any of them for you was a momentary case of bad judgment. And it never occurred to me to shove a young, good-looking cop your way. That girl’s husband was bad news—” she interjected at whiplash speed. “Anyway, I learned my lesson. No more matchmaking.” She tilted her head down and looked up at me from under her brows. “But how about Farley? He’s cute.”

  “What are you on?” I asked, laughing. “Slow down. Farley’s young enough to be my nephew, if not my son.”

  “Coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. You have everything I’ve ever wanted except a rich doctor husband,” Lynnie said. “I’m just trying to live vicariously and get you one. You can’t blame me for thinking you can do better than a cop,”

  Ignoring the references to Jim Ramsey, I pulled a paper gown and gloves from boxes on the wall, stuck a rape kit beneath an arm, gripped my tote tighter and used my hips to wedge past the outer layer of cops, most of whom were standing around looking macho and taking up too much space.

  Lynnie’s matchmaking had led to a number of uncomfortable encounters, especially with MacRoper. I glanced up to see if he was around. MacRoper went by a variety of nicknames: Dr. Demerol, Dr. Death and Dr. Groper, because he overprescribed narcotics for any cause at all, because he had been known to just let people die on the code table and because he had fast and familiar hands. He was also an ass.

  I had lodged complaints against him on several occasions for fast hands and for ordering meds at incorrect dosages. I avoided the man when possible. Luckily, he didn’t seem to be in the vicinity.

  I moved into the room slowly, smiling and apologizing each time I stepped on toes or nudged a cop a little too hard. Short women have an advantage when it comes to dealing with most male cops. Give them the helpless-little-woman look and they fall into protection mode fast. It may not last long, but I only needed to get to my patient.

  “Tell me again what he said when he took you.”

  “He—he—he said he only wanted to talk. I didn’t know he—oh! I’m hurting. I’m hurting.”

  “You say he was bearded? Did he have a weapon?”

  I glanced at my watch as I slid between cops. It was 6:55 p.m. “Hello, dear,” I said. “I’m Ashlee Davenport.”

  The three cops obscuring the bed shifted as one and glared at me. One was female. I smiled sweetly and slipped under the nearest one’s elbow to the bed, assessing my patient instantly. Lynnie Bee was right. The girl was less than fourteen, and a small fourteen at that. She could have passed for twelve. Tears and snot were smeared on her face and her burgundy-tinted hair stuck to her skin. Fresh blood was on her hands.

  Someone had gotten her into a gown before the cops had taken over and a blood-pressure machine was pumping up the cuff on her arm automatically. Blood trickled down the E.R. gurney, absorbed into the sheets. I needed an ultrasound of her abdomen, a surgeon and blood work drawn fast.

  “You’re going to have to wait, nurse.”

  I didn’t look at the officer. I just pulled a rolling table over to me and placed my bag, the rape kit and my other equipment on it.

  “Nurse, if you don’t get out of the way, I’ll have my men remove you from this room.”

  I turned and looked up at him. He was moderately overweight, way taller than I, with a half beard along his jaw and sergeant’s stripes. Maybe early thirties, a difficult age to deal with in men. Not a detective. Not an investigator. I’d had my fill of bossy people for the day and this one was young enough to be my son. Well, almost.

  I put both hands on my hips and tapped my foot. “This is a hospital. My patient is bleeding. When medical assessment and treatment are finished, someone in authority will allow her to be questioned—with DSS or her parents present, as she is clearly terrified and underage. I am a forensic nurse, trained to preserve any evidence we might find. So, please be quiet and kindly get these unnecessary uniforms out of my way.”

  The sergeant opened his mouth, but the woman grabbed his arm and said, “Sarge, the kid’s bleeding. Maybe we oughtta wait.”

  I pulled the privacy curtain closed in front of his face, blocking them out and turned my back to them and the muttered discussion. They continued to back away, voices growing fainter as I checked my patient’s blood pressure and pulse. She was losing blood vaginally. Best bet was ectopic pregnancy and/or spontaneous abortion. I checked her blood pressure and pulse—eighty over fifty-eight and 115—and I recorded the values on her gurney sheet with a ballpoint pen. Her skin paled visibly and she closed her eyes. She was breathing at a rate of thirty-two, getting shocky.

  I dropped the head of the bed into Trendelenburg position, then grabbed an IV kit and ripped open the paper. I cleaned the inside of my patient’s left elbow and shoved the Jelco into the antecubital vein, taping it off. To keep her blood pressure up, I gave her a bolus of Ringer’s Lactate and saw an immediate response in both pulse and heart rate. Within seconds, she was more stable. I hung a bag of fluids and wet a clean washcloth at the sink. As I washed her face, she opened her eyes and looked up at me, her blue eyes vivid in the pale skin.

  I felt the world slow around me. It couldn’t be….

  Leaning forward I brushed back her hair with my hand, parted it. A quarter inch of strawberry-blond roots reflected the light overhead. I knew this child. Knew she was—or had been—four feet ten, weighed eighty pounds, and had been missing for over eighteen months. She had grown in the past year and a half. I stroked back her hair again. Catching my breath, I said calmly, “Your name is Mari Gabrielle Bascomb, isn’t it?”

  Fresh tears spilled over her lids. “Yes. I’m Mari. And I want my mother.”

  Stepping calmly to the door, I gripped the rounded metal edge with both hands and stopped. The federal government, in its stupidity, had enacted patient privacy laws called HIPAA laws. The legislation made it a federal crime to divulge patient information. But if I didn’t tell what I knew, other girls could die.

  The fact that Mari was a minor worked in my favor, however. Until her parents or legal guardian arrived, I could do what I wanted. Within reason. At least that was what I told myself as I called for the sergeant. If the parents complained later, well, that’s the breaks. I’d risk going to jail if it meant possibly saving a child’s life. Nana may not think I knew who I was or what I wanted, but I knew that much about myself. I’d put a kid first any day. The sarge looked up.

  “Call Special Agent Jim Ramsey at FBI headquarters,” I said softly. “Tell him he has a…a blond kidnap victim here in the ED. She’s on his list of missing girls.”

  “But she’s redheaded—” The sergeant’s eyes widened fractionally as he considered hair dye and his career all at the same moment. “The list of girls from the serial kidnapper we heard about today in shift change?” he asked, voice so soft I had to strain to hear.

  “Yes.” I was pretty sure there wouldn’t be two different lists. “And the kidnapper was just here. Lynnie Bee,” I shouted. “Get MacRoper or Christopher in here. Call an ob/gyn surgeon, and we need an ultrasound, stat.” Over my words, cops were shouting orders to seal off the hospital and alert all security to watch for a man with a beard.

  Turning back to Mari, I blocked out the commotion, smiled and pulled on gloves. “What’s your parents’ phone number and address, sweetheart?” When she told me, I wrote it on the sheet with the other information. I really needed a chart on her. “How old are you?”