Every Fear by Rick Mofina Read Free Book Online Page B

sixty-two-year-old aunt, a retired secretary for Boeing, whispered prayers. They floated down the corridor, into the dimly lit room where her niece was fighting for her life. At that moment, the only other person with Maria was the intensive care nurse who was keeping vigil, watching the equipment monitoring Maria’s heart rate, blood pressure, and breathing.
    The room was bathed with the light of the muted television located in the high corner. The nurse had insisted it be left on for Maria, believing that if the young mother could subconsciously absorb the information on the massive search for her baby boy, it could help her.
    Not long after the alert was broadcast, WKKR went to a live news report on the abduction. David Troy described the incident as the screen then showed the Seattle Mirror ’s website with a story by Jason Wade accompanied by a large photo of Maria and Dylan together. A heartbreakingly beautiful picture, the nurse thought just as Maria’s monitor ponged and her hand clenched.
    Good Lord.
    Maria remained unconscious. It was likely a coincidental muscle reflex. But the nurse believed, as she did with the many life-and-death cases she’d had on her floor, that Maria knew.
    She must see her baby up there. Feel him up there, the nurse thought.
    As the alert continued crawling across the bottom of the screen, the nurse turned to the window and the city beyond it.
    Where was Dylan?

9
    S everal miles south of where Maria Colson lay in the hospital, Everett Sinclair was seething on the fortyfifth floor of the Bank of America building.
    Three hours since the goddammed idiot in the van had sideswiped his Mercedes 450SL and his rage had not subsided.
    No way.
    The more he dwelled on it, the more it angered him. The scratches defacing his prized Benz sickened him. The deep gouges were wounds in the beautiful Jasper Blue finish.
    And he couldn’t bear to look at the stains on his suit. The new charcoal gray number he’d bought last month in San Francisco. Italian cut, woven wool, with pleated pants. Perfectly tailored. Nine hundred dollars.
    Ruined.
    Like his day.
    This day of all days, when he was scheduled to make his presentation to the meeting. The entire board. It meant his shot at VP. If he got it, he’d be the youngest executive manager to sit in the chair.
    “Your star’s rising, Ev. This should be a slam dunk,” Hadley assured him.
    Dammit.
    Set the fender bender aside, Sinclair told himself. But he couldn’t. It was an affront and he couldn’t stop replaying it.
    As usual, that morning he’d rolled out of the cobblestone drive of his big colonial in Sunset Hills, with its view of Puget Sound and the Olympic Mountains. He’d left early enough to make his appointment with his accountant and leave plenty of time to get to the office and prepare. He had his briefcase open on the passenger seat and was glancing at his presentation at red lights, while he took hits of coffee.
    He was in Ballard somewhere near Leary and 17th, reading, when the light had changed. A horn sounded behind him, he waved, signaling an apology for what? Being two seconds too slow in responding to the green. Then an engine growled, tires squealed, something blurred and he felt a scrape as the idiot behind him suddenly cut ahead of him, grazing his Benz, forcing him to stand on his brakes.
    His briefcase toppled; he fumbled his commuter mug and the lid came off, splashing scorching hot coffee on his lap, his papers, his car’s leather interior. Dumbstruck, he glanced around. No one saw anything. If they did, they didn’t care. He erupted with anger, smashing his foot on the accelerator.
    His Mercedes roared with righteous wrath as he pursued the bastard. One block, two, three, four. Adrenaline coursed through his veins as he narrowed thedistance to the bastard’s rear bumper. He’d come within inches when he was suddenly staring into the horrified face of a cyclist. Brakes screeched as the acrid smell of burning rubber