Kidnapped At Christmas. Barb HanЧитать онлайн книгу.
hands made contact a fire bolt shot straight up his arm. He ignored it as best he could and took off running. With their hands linked, Meg kept pace and he was pretty sure it was from pure adrenaline.
“Maybe there,” she said through gulps of air as they darted toward the light that regulated the exit. “I see the handle of a stroller in the back window and it’s red.”
Wyatt let her hand loose so he could push forward and catch the white minivan before the light turned and the vehicle disappeared. From this angle, he couldn’t get a good look at the plate. He pushed his legs harder, leaving Meg several strides behind. If he could get to the minivan in time maybe he could put this whole ordeal to rest.
The minivan was close, but the light could turn at any second. Wyatt pushed harder until his thighs burned and his lungs threatened to burst. He could see there was only a driver and the figure was large enough to be male.
“Hold on,” he shouted to the van’s driver. The window was up and the man didn’t so much as flinch.
As the light changed, Wyatt closed in on the van. He was so close. Dammit. There were three cars ahead of the minivan, not close enough for Wyatt to catch. The cars moved and the minivan turned left, which was the opposite side of Wyatt. What an unlucky break.
Wyatt shot in between two cars. One of the drivers laid on his horn and shouted a few terse words. Wyatt had no idea where Meg was and he didn’t risk turning back to look. The minivan was going at least thirty-five miles an hour. If he could catch a break and the light at the corner turned to red... Scratch that. Wyatt had never been lucky and that’s how he’d learned to work hard for everything he’d built.
Brake lights renewed his hope as he turned on the speed he’d known as a runner in high school. Although that had been a long time ago, he worked out and kept in shape.
The van disappeared around the corner before the light changed.
“Wyatt.” Meg’s voice rippled through him. There was a mix of hope and relief in the sound of her tone. “I got her.”
He immediately turned tail and saw a man in a forest green uniform standing next to Meg, who was holding a baby. He made a beeline toward the trio, driven by something deep inside. Was it a primal need to see if her child belonged to him? Would he even be able to tell by looking at her one time?
Meg stood there, baby pressed to her chest and her face awash with relief. She was gently rocking the crying infant. An odd thought hit: No one had better get close to her or the baby. He was struck with something else that felt a lot like longing, but Wyatt didn’t go there. He’d missed Meg. He could own up to it. That’s as far as his feelings went, he reminded himself.
“I’m Wyatt Jackson.” He stuck out his hand to the park worker. “And I can’t thank you enough for what you did.”
The man bent forward, panting as he took the outstretched hand. “Name’s Cecil. And I’m just—” he paused to take a breath “—glad I was there to help.” Cecil grabbed at his right side. “He got away, ditched the stroller by pushing it toward traffic. I had to make a choice to save her or catch him.” He paused long enough to take in another breath. “His back was to me the whole time. I couldn’t get a good look at his face.”
“You did the right thing, Cecil.” Relief washed over Wyatt. This morning had been right up there with... He didn’t want to think about the other depressing event that came with the holidays.
The baby was in her mother’s arms, safe. Crisis averted. That was all he would allow himself to focus on.
“Are you okay to walk?” he asked Cecil.
The man nodded.
The crime scene had been cordoned off, and a deputy was asking people to go back to work or home. Stephanie flew toward Meg and the baby; tears streamed down both women’s faces.
A man by the name of Clarence Sawmill introduced himself as the sheriff. Cecil recounted his story to Sawmill, who shook his head as he recorded details. His lips formed a grim line. Middle-aged, his eyes had the white outline of sunglasses on otherwise tanned skin. Deep grooves in his forehead and hard brackets around his mouth outlined the man’s stress levels. He was on high alert and, from the looks of him, had been since news broke of Maverick Mike’s death five months ago.
“Our family-oriented town doesn’t usually see much of a spike in crime.” Sawmill shook his head. For a split second his gaze stopped on Wyatt and he seemed to be sizing him up. The sheriff looked like he hadn’t slept in as many months and he probably hadn’t, considering Mike Butler’s murder still hadn’t been solved. Sawmill seemed like the kind of guy who would take his citizens’ welfare to heart.
The sheriff was holding an evidence bag.
“What did you find?” Wyatt asked.
“A child’s hair ribbon. It’s probably not connected. More than likely came out of a little girl’s hair while she was attending the tree lighting.” Sawmill pinched the bridge of his nose like he was trying to stem a raging headache. “My deputies will process the scene and we’ll keep you posted if anything relevant turns up.”
Meg thanked the sheriff as she gently bounced the baby, who had settled down in her mother’s comforting arms. He had to admit Meg seemed content with the job of mother.
The sheriff asked Meg a few routine-sounding questions. Her body language tensed when she spoke to Sawmill, but Wyatt figured it was justifiable under the circumstances. She was being asked if there was a reason anyone she knew would try to kidnap her infant child.
“We have a potential witness already on his way to the station to work with a sketch artist while the details are still fresh,” Sawmill said. “We’ll want you to come in and take a look as soon as we have an image in case you can identify him.”
Given the person had tried to take the baby while she was with Stephanie, Wyatt doubted that was likely.
Even so, he planned to reschedule his meeting with the Butler family lawyer. This day had taken unexpected turn after unexpected turn and, after getting a good look at Meg’s daughter, he had a feeling the day wasn’t done with him yet.
* * *
DINNER WAS HOURS away and yet all Meg wished for was a hot bath, a warm bed and sleep. Wyatt had said he’d been called away to a meeting, but Meg figured he needed air after the day’s events. Meg and Stephanie returned to the office since it was closer to the sheriff’s office and Aubrey had a pack-and-play crib there.
Stephanie had insisted on sticking around even though Meg had begged her friend to go to the ER instead. The most she would agree to was allowing an EMT to check her out at the scene.
“How’s your head?” Meg asked her friend.
“It’s been worse,” Stephanie said with a crooked smile.
“I still think we should swing by the hospital,” Meg said.
“My name is Stephanie Gable. It’s three weeks until Christmas. I live at 1212 Farm Road 236. With you, who should learn to relax a little more and stop washing every dish before it hits the sink, by the way.” She made eyes at Meg. “How’s that?”
“I think you took a bigger hit than we first thought,” she quipped, and they both smiled. Meg’s died on her lips the minute her cell rang.
A glance at the screen said it was the sheriff’s office. She took the call.
“We have an image to work with but, to be honest, it isn’t much to go on,” he said. Any hope this case could be sewn up and a criminal taken off the streets soon died.
“I’ll let Wyatt know and we’ll be there as soon as we can,” she informed him before ending the call and texting Wyatt.
An immediate response came: Stay where you are and I’ll pick you up.
“What did the sheriff say?” Stephanie was studying Meg’s reaction.