Christ. Back when he was a kid, he'd relived that awful time in so many dreams he'd lost count. Loneliness had been a way of life in those days, with only his grandmother's sweetness and his baby sister's laughter to alleviate his sense of isolation. Mother's promise to come see them had turned out to be just so much hot air.
He had really hoped, during his first and even second year in the much-hated Philadelphia mansion, that his parents would suddenly arrive out of the blue and admit they had made a mistake sending him and Glynnie away. Eventually, though, he'd become a teenager and put away his childish dreams. His folks had abdicated the role of parenthood to Grandfather and Grandmama. They'd only ever bothered to visit a grand total of four times, and hadn't hidden their impatience to get back to their work all that well even then. The plight of a bunch of strangers in remote African villages clearly held more importance for them than Glynnie or he ever would.
But that was then. He was no longer a scared eleven-year-old and hadn't been for what seemed like a thousand years now. It had been a fucking age since he'd woken up crying like a baby over an even so far in the past he could barely even remember it—except in his dreams.
Irritated, he rolled over and looked at the clock. Great. Seven forty-five—he hadn't even gotten three hours sleep. But there was work to be done, so he crawled out of bed and made his way into the bathroom, where he shook out more aspirin for his headache and tossed them back with a glass of water. It didn't take a shrink to guess what had resurrected the dream after all these years. The face reflected in the mirror was grim as he reached for his razor and the travel-sized can of shaving gel. Once again he'd failed his sister—and this time it had potential life and death consequences.
But it wasn't a failure written in stone, and he would, by God, rectify the situation come hell or high water. Ten minutes later, he let himself out of his room.
As he reached the bottom of the stairs, the plainer of the two sisters he'd met last night was just entering the foyer carrying a fully loaded tray. She looked up and gave a start, which made the items shift with an ominous rattle.
"Oh, my goodness," she said. "You gave me a start."
"Sorry. Here, let me take that for you." He relieved her of the tray. "You're Jessica, right?"
"Yes. I was just taking breakfast into the dining room." Eyeing the tray he now held, she grimaced. "Such as it is. Won't you join us?"
"Sure." He followed her into the room across the foyer. Mrs. Beaumont and Richard were seated at a long cherrywood table, and they looked up at his entrance, giving him subdued greetings.
Jessica directed him to a sideboard where she unloaded the tray he carried of its pitchers of milk and orange juice, a silver salver stacked with toast, and a crystal bowl of jam.
"It's not much, I'm afraid." She waved him to a stack of plates and bowls. "But there's cereal over there, if you'd like, and fresh coffee."
Zach shrugged. "It's fine." He didn't particularly feel like eating, but supposed having something in his stomach might help his headache. He discarded the tray, then slapped a dollop of jam on a piece of toast, poured himself a cup of coffee, and carried his meal over to the table.
He ate the toast, then looked across at Mrs. Beaumont as he sipped his coffee. "You look more rested," he observed. "Are you up to discussing strategy for getting Glynnis and David back?"
She gave a regal nod. "Certainly."
"Good. Then the first thing we need to do is alert the authorities."
Panic immediately transformed her bearing. "No!"
"Mrs. Beau—"
"You saw the note yourself. They said they'd kill David if we called in the police!"
They said they'd kill both David and Glynnis, and Zach wasn't exactly wild about having his sister's endangerment ignored. But he reined in his impatience. It was clear Mrs. Beaumont's hysteria wasn't as well under control as he'd first assumed. 'That's standard op for this type of crime, ma'am," he informed her patiently. "Of course they don't want the police involved—the chances of getting caught go up exponentially whenever they're brought in."
"They said they'd kill him!"
" Them ," Zach corrected in a hard voice. "Kill them . It's not only your son whose life is threatened." Then he shook his head and softened his tone. "But that's not the point. The threat itself is pure terror tactic, ma'am, specifically designed to keep you from calling in the police, or in this case—since state lines may have been crossed—the FBI. Historically, though, victims have always stood a better chance when the law is involved. The authorities need to be informed."
"No."
"Yes," he said flatly. "This is not negotiable."
"How dare you tell me what is and isn't negotiable, young man! I will not put my darling David in jeopardy. And if you call the police over my objections, I'll… I'll…" She seemed to look inward for a moment in search of a threat big enough, then suddenly raised her chin and looked him straight in the eye. "I'll deny they've even been kidnapped!"
Zach stilled. "You'll do what?" he demanded in a dangerously even tone.
"I'lltell the police I don't know what you're talking about. And I'll ask them to remove you from the premises."
It took everything he had not to come out of his chair. He wanted to reach across the table and grab her by the neck—and wasn't that a sorry state of affairs. He'd taken verbal abuse from the best, had drill instructors who'd yelled in his face that he was lower than the shit on their boots, and he'd never so much as blinked an eye. But this middle-aged woman strained his patience to the limit.
Even so, this was no time to go off half-cocked. He took a couple of deep, steadying breaths. "That would be a mistake, ma'am," he said with quiet authority. "Who do you imagine they'll be more likely to believe—a hysterical mother, or the man who's spent his entire adult life dealing with just this sort of situation? More importantly, Mrs. Beaumont, removing me will put your son and my sister at unnecessary risk, and the idea here is to lessen the jeopardy they already face, not exacerbate it."
"Please, Aunt Maureen," Jessica said in her very soft, I-don't-want-to-bother-anyone voice. "I think you should listen to what he has to say."
"Why?" Mrs. Beaumont demanded querulously. "What makes him more qualified than, say, Richard here?"
Was she freaking nuts ? Zach stared at her incredulously for an instant before composing his expression to display nothing beyond a cool professionalism. But his voice was flat when he said, "Eighteen years in the United States Marines, ma'am, during which a large portion of my job was extracting kidnap victims."
"Yes, but—"
"And excuse me for pointing this out, but it took me less than a minute last night to disarm your nephew. What makes you assume he'd fare any better with a criminal?"
Richard flushed, but to his credit he patted his aunt's hand and said, "He has a point, dear."
Her lips trembled, but her eyes were stubborn. "I will not have the police called."
"All right," Zach agreed. "We won't call them." For now . He could tell this was a deal breaker for her and if he had to bring the feebs in over her objections, it could conceivably add to the danger Glynnie and David already faced. So he'd back off for today, find out what Rocket had to say, then hit her with his demands again tomorrow. "But understand that I'm in charge of this, and that is not up for debate. I have the best chance of bringing David and Glynnis home safely." He gave her a hard look. "Are we agreed?"
She nodded begrudgingly, but it was an agreement nonetheless, and he became all business. "Good. Then we need to lay out some ground rules. I don't care who answers the phone, but no one talks to the kidnappers, no one negotiates with them, but me."