FBI Psychics: The Missing Part 8

There had been no logical explanation. Jilly hadn't been home when Braden disappeared. There was no way for her to know that the four-year-old had been grabbed out of his own backyard while he was playing.

No way she had of knowing Braden's abductor was the grand-son of the sweet little old lady who lived just behind Cullen and Jilly. But she had known. She'd described a man who sounded vaguely familiar to Cullen. Two hours later, as he continued to rock her and hold her, he had finally figured out who Jilly had been describing.

They'd found the boy, but to this day, Cul en knew Jilly felt guilty. Braden would spend years-possibly his entire life-in therapy, and there were nights when Cullen could hear the boy screaming in his sleep even from two houses down. Although she never made a sound, Cullen knew Jilly also suffered nightmares, but she wouldn't tell him about them.

He'd tried putting his daughter into therapy as well, but the counselors had made the problem worse. Jilly retreated more and more inside herself, and finally, Cullen had stopped the therapy.

Gradually, she emerged from the sh.e.l.l she had built around herself. Over the past couple of months, she had slowly started acting a little more like the child she was instead of a miniature grown-up. Jilly had always been a bit-well, different. An old soul, her grandfather called her. But it had been a bit of heaven to see her laughing and playing with other kids, to see her giggle at a magic show or get so excited when he'd told her about their trip. He had a couple of business-related things, the Q and A in Indianapolis, and then a few days in New York City, but before that, they'd spend a few days in Atlanta.

Seeing Jilly excited over anything was an unexpected blessing. She stopped being scared of her own shadow, and sometimes weeks pa.s.sed between nightmares instead of days.

And now this-whatever this was.

It's nothing, he told himself. Absolutely nothing. But his gut wouldn't let him believe that. He scrubbed a hand over his face and looked back at Jillian's sketch pad. She stared at it solemnly and protectively. Cullen laid a hand on her shoulder and drew her close. Jilly cuddled into him and whispered, "He's a bad man, Daddy."

Gaze narrowed, Cullen studied the people around him. "Who? Is he here?" He didn't see anybody unusual, just the typical early morning airport crowd: vacationers, business travelers, and a couple either just recently married or involved in one very hot affair. They couldn't keep their hands, or their tongues, to themselves. "Who's the man, Jillian?"

Her voice shook softly. "He's a monster," she whispered. She clutched the notebook to her chest, and Cullen realized she was trembling like a leaf.

Futile anger rushed through him, and he bent down to catch her small body in his arms. He murmured to her gently and stroked her back. She felt too fragile to deal with this burden she'd been handed. This isn't fair, Cullen thought bitterly and wished he was alone someplace where he could give in to the anger building inside. But, despite his rage, he knew how sensitive Jilly was. If he let even a little of his anger show, it would add to whatever else she carried inside. So instead, he just hugged her close. "It's going to be okay, Jillian. Promise."

And deep inside, he only hoped he wasn't lying to her.

SIX weeks later, Cullen had mostly forgotten about the weird episode in the airport.

For a day or two, Jillian had been like a little rabbit, jumping at every sound and unable to sleep without Cullen right beside her. But after a few more days pa.s.sed, she slowly started acting more like herself. And Cullen had forgotten.

It was hotter than h.e.l.l and so humid that it felt like a weight was pressing down on his chest every time he went outside. The deadline from h.e.l.l was looming closer and closer, and he still wasn't anywhere near to being done with the last book in his contract. If he didn't hurry the h.e.l.l up, he wasn't entirely convinced his editor was going to want to see the proposal he had put together for her.

Shoving back from the desk, he rubbed his hands over his face and tried to clear the cobwebs from his brain. He'd dreamed about Taige again last night. She'd been hurt. The dreams made little or no sense, unless he looked at them as yet another form of torture.

There was no way imaginable he would have chosen to dream seeing her like that, her left eye puffy, swollen and bruised, and her right hand in a soft cast that went halfway up her forearm.

The dream had disturbed him more than usual, and as a result, when he got up at four that morning, he hadn't felt like he'd slept at al . Instead of going back to bed, he'd settled down to work, and with the exception of refil ing his coffee cup every hour or so and fixing some breakfast for Jilly, he'd been there ever since.

Movement caught his eye, and he looked up to see Jilly peeking around the corner into his office. There was a smile on her usually somber little face, and as she edged into the room, he saw the phone in her hand. "Mandy called. They want to know if I can go swimming with them."

Later, it would haunt him as he recalled how relieved he'd been when the Paxton family had shown up to take Jillian to a local water park. Loaded down with sunscreen, money, dry clothes, and a towel, she'd wrapped her arms around his neck, squeezing tight. "Love you, Daddy . . ."

Now, as Kelly Paxton sat across from him on a hard bench, sobbing helplessly, Jillian's words echoed inside his head: Love you, Daddy . . .

"Mr. Morgan, I realize how terrible a time this is for you, but I need some more information about where you were today . . ."

Numb, Cullen looked into the agent's face. His voice was rusty as he repeated, "I've already gone over this. A hundred times."

"Let's go over it once more," Special Agent Holcomb said, his voice polite, professional.

Frustrated, Cullen turned away, scrubbing his hands over his face. "I've been at home.

Working. Around two, I talked to my agent. Around three, I stopped to take a p.i.s.s and get a sandwich. Around three forty-five, my dad called." His voice cracked, and he had to stop for a minute. "Dad wanted Jilly to come spend the weekend with him," Cullen said softly. "He hasn't seen her much this summer. I've been so busy . . ."

Although the agent had heard al of this before, he nodded and continued to jot notes down on his notepad. "And your father lives . . . where?"

"s.h.i.+t." Cullen blew out a harsh breath and then turned to face the agent. "Look, I get what you're doing. I know you need to check me out, and you'll even have to check up on my dad and make sure one of us hasn't been hurting her." Even thinking it filled him with an irrational fury, but he knew they had to ask. Cullen had had it, though. His temper was frayed, he was scared to death, and his overactive imagination, such a blessing when it came to his job, was adding to the grief and terror.

"But I've had it with this. Jillian has been missing for five hours. Have you done a d.a.m.n thing to find my baby, or are you going to grill me for another five hours?"

"Mr. Morgan-"

The agent's patient expression cracked as somebody new intruded on the scene. Cullen sized him up as another fed in about three seconds, although the man's suit was a little more pricey than what his a.s.sociates wore. Armani, Cul en knew, and he figured it cost what some agents made in a month. The shoes were Italian leather, and somehow the agent had managed to keep them relatively clean as he made his way through the sand. He had perfectly groomed hair and a smooth, even tan. Considering the blond hair and blue eyes, Cullen was wil ing to bet the man's tan came from a bed rather than being outside.

The new guy didn't much look like the outdoor type.

There was also something vaguely familiar about him, but Cullen was so sick of agents, he couldn't think straight. "Great," he muttered as he stomped away from the agents, not stopping until he reached where the sand gave way to pavement. He stared at his car, wondering if, by some miracle, he could climb in and drive, just letting his gut lead him to his daughter.

But while he had decent instincts, they were just that. It wasn't a gift. He had no way in h.e.l.l of finding Jilly on his own. There was a flash, a flicker of knowledge dancing just at the edge of his mind, like the first sparks before they gave way to wildfire. Even as he tried to reach out and wrap his mind around it, somebody came up from behind. He turned to meet the steady, congenial gaze of the new agent.

He had friendly eyes and the kind of face that most people would trust. Cullen wanted to hit him until that understanding left his expression. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d couldn't understand.

Voice harsh with fury, Cullen said, "I can't do this again. I have to do something."

"The only thing you can do is work with us, Mr. Morgan. Look, why don't we go sit down inside? Management has given us use of their offices. We can cool down a little, get something nice and cool to drink-"

Cullen slashed a hand through the air. "This isn't a barbecue. I don't give a d.a.m.n about cooling off or getting a d.a.m.n soda. I want to do something to find my baby." His voice cracked again, and Cullen knew he had to get out of there, had to do something. "Oh, G.o.d." He covered his face with his hands and sent up another desperate prayer. He hadn't prayed since before his mother had died and he hadn't set a foot in church. But he'd do whatever G.o.d wanted if He would just bring Jilly back safe.

"I know this is hard. I can't imagine the h.e.l.l you have to be going through right now."

Something in the man's voice had Cullen looking back at him. He dropped his hands and said flatly, "No. You can't imagine it. So do something to help me, d.a.m.n it. What are we going to do to find my daughter?"

THE b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Special Agent Jones, made Cullen go through it another three times.

When he finished detailing his afternoon and explaining, "No, I don't have any enemies that I know of, and I can't imagine who could have done this," he looked at the agent and said, "Now do you want to know what I ate for dinner last night and what kind of pajamas Jilly wears?"

With a pleasant smile, the agent murmured, "No. That isn't necessary." He flipped through a rather official-looking file, pausing here and there. "You're a writer. Perhaps you have a rather devoted fan . . . ?"

Cullen shook his head. "I don't have much of a relations.h.i.+p with readers. I don't even have an address where they can write me."

"You never do signings or anything?"

Cullen curled his lip. "I'm sure you have al of that information in your file there." A rather impressive file, considering the short amount of time that had pa.s.sed since the FBI had shown up on the scene. It felt like years had already pa.s.sed, but it had only been a few hours since that panicked, terrified call from Kelly had come in. He ran a hand through his hair and tugged on it absently, thinking back to the Q and A he'd done in Lexington a month or so back. It had been right after their trip to Atlanta. "I do a few signings a year. Yeah, I have some persistent readers, but nothing stalkerlike that I can think of."

"What about your dad? He's a successful businessman. Went from working for a CPA firm to being some big-time stock wizard. Surely he's stepped on a few toes."

Cullen shook his head. "Everybody likes my dad. He's just one of those people who doesn't really make enemies. Even his compet.i.tion likes him. Besides, if this was some kind of vendetta thing or ransom deal, wouldn't we have heard something by now?"

A faint smile curled up the agent's mouth. What in the h.e.l.l was his name again? Cullen wondered. He'd already forgotten it. "You're a quick one, Mr. Morgan, aren't you?"

Shrugging restlessly, Cullen replied, "Research." He folded his arms across his chest and pinned the agent with a flat stare. "This was a stranger abduction, wasn't it?"

Finally, the agent's polite, professional demeanor cracked just a little. He jerked at his tie to loosen it and then reached for his cooling cup of coffee. "It's too early to say for certain, but it is starting to look that way." He leaned forward, lacing his fingers together.

"Mr. Morgan, I'm going to be blunt here. I don't think you had anything to do with this.

At all. I think some stranger took your daughter. n.o.body other than the Paxtons knew she was going to be here, and although we're looking at them, I don't think they had anything to do with this, either. But, regardless, I need you to be honest with me. You can't hide anything."

"Like what?" Cullen demanded, his aggravation coming through loud and clear.

"Like your daughter's . . . unusual abilities."

Cullen froze. When he spoke, his voice was rusty and hoa.r.s.e. "What are you talking about?"

Holding Cullen's gaze, the agent lifted up the file, revealing a thinner one, one that Cullen hadn't even seen. Without saying anything, the agent opened the file and revealed the contents. There was precious little. A few pieces of paper and a picture. Braden Fleming's picture. Cul en hadn't wanted anybody to know about Jillian, so when he'd made that phone call to the police's anonymous tip line, he'd done it from a pay phone on the other side of town.

He took the file and was gratified to see that his hands weren't shaking. d.a.m.n miracle because on the inside, he was shaking so hard, he thought he might fall apart from it. He didn't want people knowing this about Jilly. He managed to flip through the papers and then give the agent a quizzical glance. "I'm not sure what this is about."

"It's about some statements taken from some nurses at the county hospital where Jillian was treated after she collapsed at school. She spent two days catatonic, and then suddenly, she woke up and told you that she knew where Braden was, according to these nurses who were outside your daughter's room while she was crying about it. Tel me, Mr.

Morgan. How did Jillian know about Braden?"

Cullen closed the file and tossed it back on the table. The pages and pictures inside spilled out, but Cul en kept his gaze on the agent's face. "I don't know what you're talking about, Agent . . . Sorry, I forgot your name."

In response, he flipped his name badge around. He said something else, but Cullen couldn't hear it for the roaring in his ears. Taylor Jones.

Like he was watching a slide show that only he could see, Cullen suddenly saw all the pictures and articles over that past year that he had collected about Taige. Most of them made little mention of the feds she worked with, but here and there were a few times somebody within the Bureau had been mentioned. Taylor Jones's name had come up more than once, and there had even been a couple of pictures where both Taige and Jones's face had shown up in the paper together.

A hundred memories rose up to haunt him, to taunt him, and he was suddenly having a hard time breathing. Must have had something to do with the fact that his heart was pounding a mile a minute.

Taige. All that restless, useless energy pulsating through him suddenly sharpened, focused. Finally-son of a b.i.t.c.h, this was something he could control.

IT was eleven o'clock before the agents decided that he should go home, try to get some sleep, and wait for them to cal -and they'd call with an update just as soon as they could. If he hadn't been waiting for just this opportunity, Cul en was pretty d.a.m.n sure he would have been arrested for attempted murder when he tried to strangle one of the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds for handing him that line.

"Go home."

"Get some rest."

"We will call you. There's nothing else you can do here."

The dumb s.h.i.+ts that came up with that BS ought to have the daylights knocked out of them. His daughter was missing-and they were suggesting he take a f.u.c.king nap.

The exit to his house was coming up, and he started to slow down, hitting the turn signal. But at the last second, he shot back onto the freeway, watching as his escort ended up blocked in by an eighteen-wheeler with a rebel flag emblazoned across the grill.

He watched from his rearview mirror to make sure he wasn't being followed, and then he shot off the next exit so he could get back on the interstate, heading north. He wasn't sure if he could make it to the airport and get on a flight to Alabama without the feds catching up with him, but there was no way he was going to drive the six hours to Gulf Sh.o.r.es.

Jillian might not have that kind of time.

SIX.

"I'M telling you, the dad hired somebody."

Jones glanced up from his file with a frown. He had to admit, it was suspicious, Cullen Morgan disappearing the way he had.

But he didn't get that vibe off the man. Morgan wasn't just upset about his daughter's disappearance; he was nearly sick with it. Jones had spent more than enough time with guilty people recognize them a mile away. Morgan didn't have that guilt inside him.

All he was carrying around was grief.

But they had yet to discover why Morgan had disappeared. It hadn't taken long to find him, but by the time they found out he went to the airport, he was already en route to Birmingham.

"Doesn't fit, Murphy," he said to the young agent he'd brought with him. Grace Murphy was the eager type, very ready to pin this on the most likely suspect. Jones could argue with her al day long, but Murphy was going to have to learn the hard way, the way most of them did. It was good for her, the way he looked at it. She'd learn that the easiest answer wasn't always the right answer; in fact, it rarely was. After she made enough mistakes, she'd start developing some instincts.

She would need them.

He tapped his pen on the file in front of him, and when the phone rang, he continued to study the lists of names and descriptions of people seen in the water park. Hot summer day, dead of summer, it had been so crowded, it didn't seem possible that a girl could just disappear like this. Didn't seem possible at all.

And that was why he'd been called in. While Jones had none of the unique skil s himself, he had a knack for knowing when to call in one of the special task forces. This was going to be one of them, he knew. He was already debating over who to call in. He skimmed the lists and, seeing nothing, started to flip through the grandfather's information.

Whatever had happened in the Morgan family, if it had ever been committed to paper or put out into cybers.p.a.ce, Jones now had the information. There were holdings al over the world. The grandfather was going to leave Cullen and Jillian a couple of very rich people. Not that Cullen didn't do well on his own. The man was a very popular fantasy author with a huge online following. Internet searches had revealed message boards, Mys.p.a.ce pages, and entire fan Web sites dedicated to the guy's books.

Money. It was always a possibility that somebody had grabbed the girl to use her in some money scheme, but that didn't feel right to Jones. He turned the page, continuing to skim over the Morgan family a.s.sets, and a familiar zip code caught his eye: 36547.

He knew that zip code. Taige Branch, a huge a.s.set to the Bureau and a huge pain in Jones's a.s.s, lived in Gulf Sh.o.r.es. "Hmmmm . . ." Without looking away from the file, he punched the address listed into his computer, pulling up a map. Less than four miles from where Taige had grown up.

Jones knew very little about Taige's childhood. She was remarkably closemouthed about her life, and there had been precious little information he could gather on her that wasn't public knowledge.

That information was pretty much al he had about her formative years. After she'd started college, there had been a decent amount of information, but before, very little.

Only that she'd been orphaned at a young age, that she did wel in school, and that she had gone to work part-time at a small, locally owned seafood restaurant. She'd lived with her only known relative, an uncle who preached at a nearby church, and she had very much kept to herself.

Coincidence?

Jones didn't believe in coincidences.

"Sir?"

He looked up to find Murphy watching him with a wary gaze. "It's Special Agent Hensley out of Birmingham."

"Do they have Morgan?"

She shook her head. "No, sir. n.o.body matching his description got off the plane, although surveillance clearly shows him getting on in Atlanta." Her eyes were wide and glowing with self-satisfaction. Clearly, she thought this was more evidence to her theory that the dad had something to do with Jillian Morgan's disappearance.

Jones was far from convinced, though. He was no psychic. He employed more than a dozen specially trained, highly skil ed psychics. While he might not have their abilities, he had d.a.m.n good instincts. And right now, as he studied the financial data before him, his instincts were singing. He reached for his own phone to call the grandfather, a Robert Morgan. Robert had told his son he'd be waiting at Cullen's house, and Jones had given his men orders to make sure the grandfather remained there for the time being.