The Chase Read online

  When she broke into Sean’s room in the wee hours, Dena came armed with a roll of duct tape she’d filched from her father’s toolshed. After creeping to Sean’s bedside, she’d pressed a piece of tape over his mouth while he was sleeping. He drowsily pawed at the tape until Dena clasped his wrists and strapped them together. That’s when he started kicking at her. Once she pulled him to his feet, Sean had fought all the way out the front door. Of course, his resistance was hindered by his fettered arms. Nevertheless, he’d proven a valiant rebel until Dena finally dragged him into the car and locked him in the backseat. The child safety lock had never proved more convenient.

  Now she thought about the roll of tape she’d tossed on the car’s floorboard and considered retrieving it. But she was too sleepy to exert the effort and opted for verbal intimidation.

  “What is it you want?” Dena barked and reached for her pack of cigarettes on the nearby dresser.

  “I’m hungry,” Sean whimpered. “My stomach hurts.” He lay on his side and hugged his midsection.

  Dena’s stomach grumbled as well. The bright sunshine blasting the bedroom insisted noon was near. With trembling fingers, Dena placed the cigarette between her unsteady lips and lit it. The first draw promised to abate her hunger and steady her nerves if only she indulged in several more.

  “Why don’t you go see what you can find in the kitchen?” she said, pointing down the hallway. “I’m sure there’s some crackers or something in there. There always is.”

  Sniffling, Sean stood and eased toward the doorway like a child lost in a dark forest.

  “There’s nobody here but us,” Dena said, her hoarse voice softening.

  With a worried glance toward her, he finally dashed for the kitchen.

  Dena rubbed her eyes and then reached for her purse sitting on the floor. She pulled out a silver flask and eagerly anticipated the first shots of the day. After a couple of throat-burning sips, she tried to make sense of her jumbled thoughts.

  She hadn’t planned to take Sean when she arrived at her parents’. But the compulsion to kidnap her son had grown with each minute she was in his presence. Every time Shelly stroked Sean’s hair or mumbled an endearment, Dena’s resolve increased. When she heard Shelly say her alarm system was down, that was Dena’s final encouragement.

  She glanced at the inside of her left arm where the name Rex was tattooed in blue cursive. Her latest boyfriend had taught her numerous ways to silently enter houses. He’d said Dena was an excellent student, small enough to slip through windows and tight places. For several years, they’d supported themselves and their habits by taking what they wanted when they wanted from whom they wanted. Then Rex got caught in a drug sting. When Dena ran out of money, she came back home.

  Normally, Dena was an “out of sight, out of mind” kind of woman, but she missed Rex and his sister Lila, who lived in Odessa. Dena and Lila had connected in a way that she’d never connected with her own sister. For years, Dena hadn’t given Shelly more than a passing thought. But seeing her last night had ignited the old resentment, bred from growing up with a “perfect” elder sister.

  Shelly always had everything any woman could want . . . looks, brains, personality. The one thing Dena could do that Shelly couldn’t was have children. So Shelly had taken Dena’s child.

  “Selfish witch,” she whispered. After another draw on her cigarette, she reveled in the victory of outsmarting Shelly. Sean belongs to me, not her, she thought. And she’ll never get him back.

  Standing, Dena searched for last night’s ash tray and found it beneath a T-shirt she’d pulled out of her overnight bag. Ironically, she recalled Shelly giving it to her one Christmas. She tossed the T-shirt on the floor. By the time the cigarette was half gone and she’d downed more whiskey, Dena began to feel as if she could make the drive that would assure she kept Sean forever. While her appetite had diminished, her stomach’s subdued growl still insisted she find some food. She didn’t know what food might be in the kitchen, but Dena certainly didn’t want to prepare anything.

  The image of Sean barging into her parents’ house carrying a McDonald’s cup flashed across her mind. The memory of the Sulphur Springs McDonald’s followed, and she vaguely recalled a McDonald’s about fifteen minutes from her parents’ cabin.

  After cramming the cigarette butt into the ash tray, Dena walked toward the kitchen. She spotted Sean gazing into the open refrigerator, empty except for a few jars of condiments.

  “Wanta go to McDonald’s?” Dena asked.

  Sean jumped, slammed the refrigerator door, and whirled to face her. His distrusting gaze mingled with confusion.

  “Well?” she prompted and smiled.

  Sean looked down and mumbled something she couldn’t understand.

  Dena’s mind spun. “Speak up,” she snapped. “I’m tryin’ to be nice, here. The least you can do is talk loud enough for me to hear you.”

  “Yes,” he said with a nod.

  “Okay, then let’s go!” She motioned to the front door and then moved back toward the hallway. “But first, le’ me get my keys and purse.”

  “But I’m in my pajamas,” he said, glancing down at the flannel cloth covered in images of a space toy.

  “So,” Dena said. “That’s all you have to wear right now. We’ll buy some more clothes today. I found some money at my mom’s house.” She looked down at her T-shirt and sweats and didn’t care that they were rumpled from a night’s sleep.

  Sean’s eyes clouded with more uncertainties, but he finally stepped away from the refrigerator.

  “Go on into the living room. I’ll be there as soon as I grab my purse, okay?”

  He nodded.

  When Dena snatched up her handbag, her flask tipped out and plopped onto the bed. She unscrewed the lid and downed another swallow in a toast to herself. “I’m going to be a great mother,” she said and smiled.

  Chapter Three

  Shelly awoke with a start and stared around the bedroom to try to orient herself. Autumn sunshine sliced through the blinds, creating a gauzy light that hung in the shadows.

  After her parents had arrived, they suggested that Shelly should lie down and rest, something Tim had been trying to convince her of for hours. Despite being certain she could never nap, Shelly had fallen into a deep sleep by three P.M. She checked the digital clock to see that she’d slept two hours.

  “Sean,” Shelly whispered and squeezed her puffy eyes tight as a wave of sorrow threatened to consume her. Her parents had arrived at one o’clock, still with no word on Dena—even after they’d determined the license plate number on her car.

  Earlier, when Payton had left to research the license number and post the Amber Alert, Tim, Ryan, and Jack had stepped onto the porch, supposedly out of earshot. But still, Shelly heard what Jack said: “I don’t want to tell Shelly this, but if Dena is the kidnapper she’s had time to nearly make it to the Mexico border. If she does go into Mexico . . .” He’d left the obvious unsaid.

  “What about passports?” Tim had asked. “I know Dena could have easily arranged hers, but what about Sean’s?”

  “Fake passports can be bought,” Ryan had grimly claimed.

  At that point, Shelly had covered her ears and tried to force out the reality that she might never see her son again.

  Now she covered her head with the cool sheet and wished she could merge with the shadows and disappear. Anything would be better than this cavity of dread threatening to swallow her alive—and her pain, which she saw reflected in Ryan’s eyes—except, his pain was laced with guilt. For the first time since Ryan made his choices, Shelly had begun to experience only the slightest tinge of pity for him. But she swept aside the emotion as severely as she tossed away the covers and flung her feet out of bed.

  None of this was his fault, she thought and began to think she should stop beating herself up over the sleep aid as well. Like Ryan said, she was a deep sleeper. Chances were significant she might not have heard anything, sleep aid or no.

  As Shelly made a swift trip to the restroom and exited, she realized that part of Ryan’s present guilt might stem from the remorse he felt for abandoning his family in the first place. I tried to tell you when you left, she reasoned and relived those nights Sean had cried for his father at bedtime. The boy had lived for the weekends with Ryan, so Shelly had set aside her own feelings and made certain Sean spent ample time with his father. Ryan certainly hadn’t scrimped on his child support commitments. More often than not, he even arranged for extra support, especially for needs like school supplies and medical costs.

  For a second, just before she entered the kitchen, Shelly was tempted to admire Ryan’s efforts . . . but realized that his overpayment might also have been driven by guilt. The insight empowered her to harden her heart anew. He was to blame for their family’s split. Shelly couldn’t allow herself to forget that. Even though he took his child support seriously, it was a far cry from what he vowed to Shelly when they got married . . . and promised Sean when they’d adopted him.

  God had given her a wonderful man in Tim Aldridge. She had no doubt that she could trust Tim on a level that Ryan never deserved. And Sean adores him, she added, then remembered she might never see Sean again. The house began a slow spin, and Shelly stopped and grabbed the kitchen counter; tried to will herself not to succumb to the darkness. A low moan echoed from some forlorn soul, and Shelly soon realized the voice was her own.

  Someone appeared in the kitchen . . . someone tall and strong and capable . . . someone familiar. When he offered a supportive hand, Shelly blindly grasped for his warmth for the sake of her own sanity. Wrapping her arms around him, she hung on tight until the dizziness eased and the threat of fainting diminished. Eyes closed, Shelly recognized the beat of the heart beneath her ear . . . the warmth of the hands on her back.

  “Thank you so much, Tim,” she sighed. “I’m afraid I must have gotten up too fast, or something.”

  Stiffening, Tim pulled away. At a loss, Shelly opened her eyes and gazed up for some explanation, only to realize she wasn’t leaning against Tim Aldridge. It was Ryan Mansfield.

  Her eyes widened. “Oh! It’s you,” she squeaked.

  “Yeah.” Mouth firm, eyes hooded, Ryan pulled from her grasp but stopped and said, “You’re not going to pass out on me, are you?”

  “No.” Shelly shook her head and rubbed at her heating face in an attempt to hide her chagrin. “No, I’m okay now. I just need some ice water.” She made an issue of frowning against the pasty taste in her mouth and said, “What are you doing here?” before she realized the words had fallen out. “And where’s Tim?” She peered toward the den.

  “Don’t know. He was gone when I got back about an hour ago. I couldn’t stay away,” Ryan stated, his claim ringing with an honesty that couldn’t have been feigned.

  Shelly walked toward the counter to retrieve the drinking glass she’d used earlier, only to be beaten by Ryan. He scooped up the tumbler, filled it with ice and water, and handed it to her before she had time to protest.

  “I brought over some chicken salad and other sandwich stuff,” he said, pointing toward the dining room table, laden with more food than she and her parents could eat in three meals.

  “Thanks, but you shouldn’t have.” She consumed half the glass of water and relished the icy path it wove to her stomach.

  “I know.” Ryan lifted his hand. “But like I said, I couldn’t stay away—and figured you were hungry.”

  Fleetingly, Shelly wondered if this feast were also driven by guilt. She studied her ex-husband’s face and eyes, detecting no guilt—only haggard worry.

  By the time she realized he was staring back, he said, “What?”

  “What?” she echoed.

  “What’s the deal? You’re staring at me like I’m sprouting horns.” He felt the top of his head and attempted a lame grin.

  “Sorry. I was just . . . I’m sleepy, not thinking. I don’t know. I was just thinking,” she babbled and didn’t try to explain why she’d contradicted herself. Shelly approached the table and reached for a bag of chips. Her stomach growled, and she wondered how she could succumb to such a human weakness when her child was missing. Nevertheless, her stomach rumbled again, and she realized twenty-four hours had lapsed since she’d last eaten.

  Maybe that’s why I nearly fainted, she thought and recalled her doctor saying that she suffered from mild hypoglycemia.

  She looked down at her rumpled sweatpants and recalled slipping them on after the police left, and that she hadn’t taken a shower. Shelly fingered her unruly hair before munching a salty chip and reaching for the canister of chicken salad.

  “Where’s Mom and Dad?” she asked and glanced toward the living room.

  “They went out back. They were talking about painting Sean’s tree house when I got here.”

  “Oh.” Shelly released the chicken salad and collapsed into one of the iron chairs. She placed her elbows on the glass-top table and rested her forehead in her hands. “Dad’s been promising Sean he’d finish painting since summer. I guess he wants to have it finished when Sean comes home . . . if—if he does come home,” she added and dreaded the thought.

  “Sean’s going to come home,” Ryan responded. “He’s got to. I’ll go find him myself if I have to.”

  Shelly now sympathized with her friend and fellow teacher Lori Onasis, whose son drowned last summer. Even though she’d ached for her friend at the funeral, Shelly had not understood what such loss might really feel like—until now. There were no guarantees, no matter what Ryan said. As unbalanced as Dena was, she could have driven the car into a river just for spite. Shelly cringed with the thoughts of planning a funeral.

  Oh dear God, she cried, please let him come back to us unharmed!

  “At least the painting is giving them something therapeutic to do,” Ryan stated. The resentment tainting his words crashed into her agony.

  Shelly lifted her head and eyed Ryan again. He stood with his back to her, staring out the dining room window. He wore a dark blue sweatshirt and jeans and looked nearly as trim as he had the day they got married. He’d told her that his training to be a highway patrolman had forced him to get fit, and that he never planned to be out of shape again. He’d stuck to the commitment, and Shelly initially enjoyed the envious stares of other females . . . until she realized Ryan was enjoying them too.

  “I’d have been glad to finish the job,” Ryan continued. “You should have told me.”

  “You know Dad’s usually got all that carpentry stuff under control,” Shelly explained.

  “He always did have it all under control, didn’t he?” Ryan mumbled, crossing his arms.

  Shelly stiffened. Their last few arguments before Ryan’s affair involved his illogical accusations against Shelly having a fixation of sorts with her parents. Shelly had heatedly denied any such thing and even told Ryan he was crazy. Now Shelly wondered if Ryan might be about to resurrect an old subject that her counselor had dismissed as his attempt to project responsibility for his own behavior onto her and her family. The counselor had also concluded that Ryan was very jealous of Shelly’s dad.

  However, Shelly wondered if her father was completely innocent of that emotion himself. He’d guarded Shelly with a vengeance from the day Ryan entered her life, and only agreed to their marriage after her mother convinced him that Shelly was going to marry sooner or later anyway.

  Shelly sighed and eyed the chips. Her mind was too tired . . . her emotions too ravaged to try to figure it all out. She observed Ryan again and decided not to take any bait he might throw out. She wasn’t going to be lured into an argument at a time like this.

  She nibbled another chip. When her stomach asked for more, Shelly opened the chicken salad and took in the fresh-made aroma.

  “Sorry,” Ryan said.

  His words were so faint, Shelly glanced up to see if she’d imagined them. But his apologetic expression validated what she heard.

  “I shouldn’t have mentioned all that business with your folks. This is not the right time or place.”

  Shelly considered telling him there had never been a right time or place for his false assumptions, but she decided not to. Their marriage was ancient history—just as all the issues surrounding it were. None of it was worth fighting over, especially not with their son missing.

  She opened the box of sliced croissants and focused on smearing a dollop of chicken salad on one of them. “Want a sandwich?” she asked, never acknowledging his apology . . . or that other nonsense he’d brought up.

  When Ryan didn’t respond, she glanced up to see his face had gone tight, his brown eyes intense. “No, that’s okay,” he said and walked toward the living room. “I’m not hungry right now.”

  She watched him go and shrugged. “Suit yourself,” she said and chalked it up to one of Ryan’s moody moments, which he’d had from the start of their relationship. Long before their marriage ended, Shelly ignored the times he’d walked out of the room without an explanation . . . and all the undercurrents that went along with the behavior.

  Truck keys in hand, Ryan walked onto the front porch and closed the door. His irritation rose with every step, and he couldn’t get away from Shelly soon enough. But when he stomped from the porch, the realization of what had just happened hit him. He stopped and swiveled to face the house as his irritation diminished in the face of amazement.

  He and Shelly had just fallen into a milder version of the behavior they’d exhibited before Ryan’s affair. After months of arguing, Ryan had become more and more explosive while Shelly grew more and more unresponsive. She finally stopped acknowledging any concerns he voiced or any attempts at apologies. Their marriage deteriorated to the point that their bedroom life was nonexistent. Given Ryan’s work schedule, Shelly spent more weekends at her parents’ than not; and Ryan began to wonder why she’d ever gotten married if she never planned to leave home.