Wrong Place, Wrong Time Part 3

"No, not okay. You're a wreck. Are you hurt? In trouble?"

"It's not me. It's..." Something inside her seemed to shatter. "It's Mom. She's... I just got a call...." Devon sucked in her breath. Gone was the strong, composed woman who never exposed her vulnerability. In her place was the little girl whose tears he'd dried.

"Your mother? What about your mother?" he demanded.

"I'm not sure... She might be..." Her anguish tore at his heart. "Please, Daddy, just hurry."

Monty flinched. How long had it been since Devon had called him Daddy? And Sally - what in G.o.d's name had happened?

"I'll be there in ten."

Zooming down the ramp and onto the highway, he shot into the left lane and floored the accelerator.

DEVON YANKED OPEN her town-house door the instant she heard Monty's car screech into the driveway. He was out of the driver's seat and up her walk in one minute flat, his dark gaze a.s.sessing her as he stalked inside.

"What happened to Sally?" he demanded.

Swallowing, Devon shut the front door and leaned back against it. With that simulated calm she'd learned from her father, she relayed the entire scenario to him, from Sally's trip to Lake Luzerne to the telephone call from Sergeant Jakes.

Arms folded across his chest, Monty absorbed every word, his forehead creased in concentration. Then he began pacing, his dark overcoat flapping around him, his mind clearly racing from one thought to another.

Abruptly, he came to a stop. "Human remains. That doesn't tell us much."

"It tells us someone's dead."

"Yeah, but how many someones? One? Two? And who started the fire? There's no way it was an accident. Not if Sally was there. When she's outdoors, she's attuned to every sound and smell. She'd realize the cabin was burning long before escape became impossible, and evacuate the place. The only thing that would prevent her from doing so would be if she were incapacitated."

Devon felt sick. "You think whoever set the fire trapped her inside?"

"a.s.suming she was in the cabin when the perp got there, he probably tried. But Sally's a fighter. And her will to live, when it comes to you kids, is strong as h.e.l.l. She'd smash her way out, whether she had to shatter a window or crack someone over the head with a log." Monty scowled. "What worries me is that she'd never leave another person in there to burn to death. If this Pierson guy was with her, she'd drag him out. So why didn't she?"

"Maybe she did. Maybe the human remains the cops found belong to the arsonist."

"Nope." A hard shake of his head. "That doesn't wash. The car was Pierson's. He'd have the keys, either on him or in his possession. Probably not on him, or Sally would've found them. Anyway, if he and Sally both got out of that cabin alive, they would've jumped into that car and taken off like bats out of h.e.l.l."

"Point taken. Do you think Mom was kidnapped?"

"For what? Her secondhand truck and whopping alimony checks? Pierson's the one who's a kidnapper's dream, not Sally."

"Which means Mom had to have gotten away. Unless..." Devon cleared her throat, forcing herself to make a verbal observation that tasted like poison on her tongue. "Monty, you're not even entertaining Sergeant Jake's theory. You and I are desperate to believe he's wrong. But what if we're deluding ourselves?"

"We're not."

"You're so sure Mom's alive?"

"Positive." Monty didn't so much as blink. "If she weren't, I'd know."

Devon choked up. Her father was a die-hard realist, one who didn't let emotion cloud facts. She could argue that in this case, he was deviating from that, letting his feelings make him irrational. The funny thing was, she didn't believe that was true. There was a connection between her parents, one that was as real as any proof.

"You're right," she agreed quietly. "You would." An overwhelming surge of comfort flowed through her. "Lane's on his way to New York," she informed her father. "I called him the minute I hung up with you."

"Where is he? In what country?"

"The U.S. He's home. He's grabbing the next flight out of LAX. He'll be here tonight."

"And Meredith?"

Devon blew out her breath. "That call's going to be harder to make."

"Sure will," Monty agreed. "She'll book herself on the next Greyhound heading for Lake George."

"Exactly. And I've got to talk her out of it." With another sigh, Devon reached for the phone.

"Tell her to hold off buying a ticket. Tell her I can get her there faster than any bus."

Devon's hand paused on the receiver. "Excuse me?"

"I'm driving up to Lake Luzerne. Now. I want to see firsthand what's going on. Jakes will talk more freely to me, cop to cop. Plus, my being there will kick their a.s.ses into high gear. There's something about the Seventy-fifth in Brooklyn that has a macho effect on cops in the boonies. Makes them want to prove they've got what it takes."

"A good old-fashioned p.i.s.sing match," Devon muttered.

"Something like that. So tell Meredith to stay put. I'll pick her up in an hour and a half. She can ride up with me."

"So can I." Devon rose.

"No." Monty gave an adamant shake of his head. "You can't. Stay here. I'll call you the minute I know anything." His jaw worked. "Devon, your mother's out there somewhere. She's going to contact us eventually. You're home base. Be here to hold down the fort."

"Okay," she conceded. "I will. But, Monty..."

"Everything's going to be fine." He crossed over, gave Devon a quick kiss on top of her head. "You'll see."

CHAPTER 4.

Blake Pierson sat at the kitchen counter, his fingers steepled in front of him. He'd come up to the farm to relax, to get away from all the tension in the office. Instead, he was perched here, waiting for his grandparents to show up so they could discuss the ramifications of his uncle Frederick's death.

It was like a bizarre nightmare.

Untangling his long legs from around the stool, Blake came to his feet. He wished he could do something. But there was nothing to be done. Not until his grandparents arrived. Then he'd have his work cut out for him.

The immediate family had all been notified. Edward had seen to that. He and Blake's grandmother, Anne, had been the ones who'd gotten the phone call from the sheriff. That was a lousy twist of fate. Sure, Anne was one tough bird and Edward was practically made of stone. But they were nearing eighty now, and Edward's heart attack last year had thrown them for a loop - a frightening wake-up call that drove home the reality of their own mortality. Finding out that their eldest son was dead might be more than they could handle. At least if they could have heard it from a family member first, someone who could cushion the blow, it might have helped.

But that's not the way it had played out. The sheriff had done his best. Ascertaining that Frederick was a childless widower, he'd tried calling each of his brothers. He'd reached neither. Niles was in Wellington, Florida, watching his son, James, compete in the winter equestrian jumping compet.i.tions. And Gregory, Blake's father, was in Italy, vacationing with his wife at their Tuscany villa. The sheriff had even tried phoning Pierson & Company, hoping to find an available family member in the office. No luck. Having run out of options, he'd called Edward and Anne at home.

Edward had not only received the news, he'd staunchly contacted both Niles and Gregory at their respective vacation locales. Each of them was now making immediate arrangements to return home.

The only grandchild Edward had gotten in touch with was Blake.

Blake had been up here at the farm, jogging through the woods with his golden retriever pup, Chomper, when his cell phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID, he'd recognized his grandparents' home number and a.s.sumed there was some business crisis at Pierson & Company. He'd never imagined this. But he'd taken it in stride. He had to. If Frederick was dead, the fallout would be monumental.

The front door slammed and footsteps sounded - footsteps that were every bit as sure as they'd been for all thirty-five years of Blake's life.

"Blake?" Edward Pierson walked into the room. Beneath his thick shock of white hair, his features were taut, the lines on his face more p.r.o.nounced. His voice was rough, just as it had been when he called from the limo to say he was on his way up to the farm. But his composure was intact. He nodded curtly when he saw his grandson. "Not exactly the relaxing weekend you planned."

"No, but under the circ.u.mstances, I'm glad I'm here."

Edward unb.u.t.toned his coat and loosened his collar. "I had to get out of my apartment, and out of the city. I breathe better up here." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Plus, I needed someone with a level head to help make arrangements. You're it."

"I'll do whatever I can." Blake scrutinized his grandfather's hard amber gaze - the color of his eyes so unusual, so compelling, and such a mirror image of his own - wishing he were the kind of man who'd accept comfort. "Where's Grandmother?"

"She stayed home. She wasn't up for the trip. She's taking this news very hard."

Evidently, she wasn't the only one. Edward's breathing was a little too shallow to suit Blake. "Grandfather..."

"Don't start that invalid c.r.a.p again. I had enough of it when I was in the hospital. I'm fine."

"All right." Blake bit back his concern. "Do we have another update?"

"Yes." Edward shrugged out of his camel-hair overcoat and tossed it on a stool. "Only one body's been found so far. Male. I'm having Frederick's dental records faxed up there." He averted his head, a muscle working in his jaw.

"Come into the living room and sit down." Blake put a hand on his grandfather's shoulder.

Edward stiffened. "Like I said, I'm fine. I'm not having another heart attack."

"That's a relief," Blake returned drily. "There's enough drama going on without adding a coronary to the mix. Humor me. Sit down. Take it easy. I'll get you something to drink."

"Bourbon. Straight up."

"Forget it. Ice water. On the rocks." Blake waited until Edward relented and walked into the living room, lowering himself unsteadily onto the sofa. Then he went to the sideboard and did the honors. "What did you decide to do about James?"

"I told Niles to keep his mouth shut. The last thing I need is for James to hear news like this two days before the Wellington Cla.s.sic. It'll screw up his concentration - and his performance. That Grand Prix is too d.a.m.ned important. He needs to win or at least to place. Not just this Sunday, but every d.a.m.ned Sunday between now and the U.S. Open Jumper Championship in March. He and Stolen Thunder are going to win that cup. And be one step closer to Olympic gold."

No surprise there, Blake thought, bringing the gla.s.s of ice water over to the couch. Edward's oldest grandchild was the apple of his eye, his one soft spot. His skill as a horseman solidified their connection. These past three years James had been showing almost exclusively on Edward's prized stallion, Stolen Thunder. The two made quite a team. James was good, but Stolen Thunder was extraordinary. The German warmblood came from a highly acclaimed, champion lineage. He was the last in his bloodline. He'd won an impressive number of four- and five-year-old championships on a national and international level before Edward bought him for a small fortune. Edward was now h.e.l.l-bent on James riding Stolen Thunder to a record number of qualifying Grand Prix wins, then on to the World Games in Aachen and - their ultimate goal - to the Beijing Olympics. There was no way, after the huge financial and emotional investment he'd made, that anything was going to interfere with that.

"Besides," Edward added, taking a gulp of water, "there's not a d.a.m.ned thing James could do here. As it is, we're just sitting on our hands, waiting."

"True enough. And waiting's not exactly James's forte."

"No. It's not."

Blake lowered himself into the armchair across from his grandfather. "You said the police found one body. What about Sally Montgomery?"

"She's still missing."

"'Missing' as in they haven't found her body yet, or 'missing' as in she wasn't there when the fire started?"

"Beats the h.e.l.l out of me." Edward shrugged, taking another swallow of water. "The firefighters and cops have been combing the debris for hours. There's still no sign of her. The sheriff tells me there's no way she could have been in that house and survived. That cabin went up like paper. The place was a pile of ashes in half an hour."

"Then where is she?" Blake's brows drew together. "It shouldn't take this long to search the scene. It doesn't make any sense."

"No. It doesn't." Edward rolled the gla.s.s between his palms. "But it better - soon."

MONTY LEANED BACK against his car and watched Sergeant Jakes talking on his cell. The call was from the coroner, who'd completed his initial examination. Monty had purposely walked away so Jakes could get the low-down in private.

And so he could watch Jakes's response.

He studied the cop's expression, his gestures, his stance.

Something he was hearing wasn't sitting right. Which meant the coroner was informing him that whatever he'd found suggested this fire had not been accidental.

No surprise.

And still no Sally.

Shading his gaze, Monty glanced around, trying to figure out which path she'd taken. Had she reasoned out the safest route before she fled? Or had time been working against her? Had she been too desperate to get away from the fire - and whoever set it - to think rationally? Did the perp realize she was alive? Was he after her to keep her from identifying him? Is that why no one had heard from her? Was she hiding somewhere? Hurt? In either case, calling would be out. No way her cell phone was with her. She hated the thing, rarely carried it. And when she went out walking? Forget it. Dollars to doughnuts, her cell phone had burned to a crisp in that cabin. Which meant she was out there somewhere, alone, with only her backwoods instincts to guide her.

Still, those instincts were pretty d.a.m.ned amazing. They'd keep her alive and help him bring her home. They had to.

"Dad?" Meredith rolled down the car window and leaned out. "What's going on?"

Monty turned, wincing at the agonized expression on his youngest child's face. She was taking this every bit as hard as he'd feared.

"Sergeant Jakes is talking to the coroner. I'll give him a minute to process what he's being told and to share it with his team. Then I'll go over there and see what I can find out." He leaned forward, folding his arms across the open window and meeting his daughter's gaze with as much parental authority as he had the heart, or the right, to display. "I want you to stay put. No bursting onto the scene, pleading for information. It'll only p.i.s.s Jakes off and make him clam up."

"I'm not a child, Dad. I'm almost twenty-one. I have no intention of freaking out in front of the cops. But I'm worried sick. I keep thinking about all the horrible things that might have happened to Mom."

"I know." Monty's fingers brushed her cheek. "I realize how scared you are. But I told you your mother is alive, and she is. I also told you I'd find her, and I will."

Meredith gave an anxious nod, swallowing back tears. She didn't look convinced. And how could Monty blame her?

"I haven't given you much reason to trust me, have I, Merry?" he murmured ruefully. "I've been out of your life more than I've been in."

"That's okay."

"No, it isn't. But it's also not the point - not now. Just know that you, Devon, and Lane mean the world to me. So does your mother. Trust me to bring her home."

With a determined sniff, Meredith brushed away her tears. "Go talk to the sergeant. I'll wait in the car. Just tell me what you learn the absolute second that you do."

It was the best he was going to get. Not a whopping show of support, but a tentative one. It would have to suffice.

Shoving his hands in the pockets of his parka, Monty strolled back over to the debris that had been the cabin. d.a.m.n, it was cold. Even with gloves and a down jacket, he was freezing. He prayed Sally had been wearing layers - warm ones.