Shady Cross by James Hankins Read Free Book Online Page A

you go to the cops or the FBI or anyone like that—and we’ll know if you do—she’s dead. If anything happens to make us think this deal isn’t going to go down smoothly, just like we say, with no outside interference, she’s dead. Don’t screw us around. Get the money. Answer when we call. Show up where we tell you. Do all that and this ends okay. Screw us around and the girl dies. We’ll call you soon.
    Without realizing he was doing it, Stokes glanced down at his watch: 4:52. Fifty-two minutes since he had ignored the kidnappers’ call. He blew out a breath. This wasn’t his problem. It sucked, but it wasn’t his problem. He could forget about this. He had almost 250 grand in his lap, which would make it a lot easier to forget all about this. He looked out the window just in time so see the bus station drift past. In a few minutes, he’d be back at his trailer. In a few hours, he’d be on a plane or train or bus out of town forever.
    Besides, they probably wouldn’t even call again. He’d missed the four o’clock call. It might all be over already. The girl might be dead. Nothing he could do about that now.
    Or she might not be. Maybe they just cut off her finger, like they threatened.
    Then again, maybe they were going to do worse still.
    Goddamn it, this just wasn’t his problem. This was the dead guy’s problem, and he certainly wasn’t worrying about it anymore, so why should Stokes?
    He squeezed the letter into a ball and dropped it on the floor of the cab before realizing it was evidence in a crime, evidence that could probably now be traced back to him somehow. He picked it up and stuffed it back into the outer pocket of the bag. As he did, his fingers touched something else in the pocket. He thought he knew what it was, so he withdrew his hand and zipped the pocket closed. He didn’t want anything to do with what was in that pocket.
    He paused. Sighing, he opened the pocket again, reached in, and took out a photograph. In it, Paul Jenkins—looking very much like he did when Stokes last saw him, only in the picture he was smiling . . . and alive—sat on a park bench beside a little girl with dark, curly hair, maybe six years old. She was a little chubby, with a nose that was a bit too big. She wasn’t ugly or anything, but no one other than close family members or friendly liars would call her cute. Still, there was something about her eyes. A twinkle in them, maybe. Something. She was holding a stuffed frog that had the ragged, well-worn look of a favorite toy. She wore blue jeans with some kind of curvy, flowing stitching on them, a white T-shirt with a big daisy on it, bright yellow socks, and shiny silver sneakers. Stokes didn’t want to look at the photo any longer, so he turned it over in his hands. On the back, in the lower right corner, was a date written in looping, childish handwriting, presumably the date the picture was taken. Eight months ago. Across the top, written in block letters—clearly different handwriting—someone had handwritten a message: “Found this in her backpack, in case you need a reminder to be a good boy.”
    The girl’s voice, small and hopeful, said in Stokes’s head, Daddy? Are you coming to get me? It said it again, then again. By the time he heard the words yet again, the voice was different, younger, a voice he hadn’t heard in years.
    He looked at his watch: 4:57. Almost an hour since their call . . .
    Shit. Nearly a quarter of a million dollars.
    Daddy?
    A new life.
    Are you coming to get me?
    Goddamn it.

    Stokes jammed yet another of Tom Whatever’s twenty-dollar bills through the Plexiglas divider as the taxi jerked to a stop in front of the bus station. He didn’t wait for his thirteen dollars in change. Backpack in hand, he burst from the cab and raced into the station. He looked at his watch: 4:59.
    He ignored the stares directed at him as he ran across the bus station toward the trash can where he’d tossed the cell phone an hour