A Son's Tale. Tara Quinn Taylor

teacher and student and professionalism, the receiver in her hand pealed, splintering the quiet of the night.

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      “PLEASE…LETME SPEAK to my son… .” Morgan’s voice broke as she started to cry, something she couldn’t help in spite of her father standing over her as she answered the phone.

      Cal was there, too, somewhere behind her in the living room. Her knees were weak and wobbly as she stood at the card table, watching Detective Warner’s face.

      He nodded, mouthed that she was doing fine, and then the voice that she recognized from earlier that night—a voice she somehow knew was going to live within her forever—spoke again.

      “Good, you’re begging for the life of your loved one. Just like I did.”

      Click.

      Morgan’s stomach felt like lead as Detective Warner listened to the earbud that connected him to his people and then shook his head.

      “They got the tower,” he announced. “A different one. It’s forty miles away.”

      “He’s moving,” George Lowen said.

      “Or his cell phone provider has good range and other towers had conflicting signals,” Grace said from the doorway leading into the bedrooms. “You heard what he said earlier, George, depending on cell providers—”

      “It’s the middle of the night,” George interrupted, his impatience evident in spite of the soft tone he used to address his wife. “There can’t be that much business out there. He’s moving south.” George left the room, cell phone to his ear, barking orders to someone to get cars on every road going south out of Tyler.

      Cal Whittier was behind her, a steady presence, and still Morgan struggled to maintain composure as panic surged through her. She looked at Detective Warner.

      “We’ve got officers combing south, as well, Ms. Lowen. And we’ve notified law enforcement within a six-state radius. The Amber Alert has gone out nationally. We’ll find him.”

      She nodded. “You have to bring him home to me. You have to.”

      “We will, ma’am.”

      She wanted to believe him.

      * * *

      ANOTHERCALLCAME in an hour later.

      “Your son is crying for you.” Click.

      Looking helplessly at Detective Warner, Morgan was crying, too.

      * * *

      BY 6:00 A.M. Morgan had fielded a total of five calls originating from towers on a southward route. Sometime in the small hours of the morning another detective, a woman, had shown up, offering to relieve Detective Warner. He’d declined.

      George had spent the night in the kitchen, except for the occasional trek into the living room to confer with Rick Warner or to witness a phone call.

      “I’ve got half a million sitting in wait,” he told Warner just after six. “I can put my hands on another two and a half by noon.”

      The look of relief on Morgan’s face was palpable—as if that money sitting out there would ensure her son’s safe return, when, in fact, there hadn’t been a single request for ransom.

      Only a slow and cruel torture of a beautiful young woman whose biggest sin, as far as Cal could see, was allowing herself to believe that she was in any way to blame for her son’s abduction.

      “I’ve arranged for a press release at seven,” George continued, the more pronounced lines on his face the only visible sign of having spent a sleepless night. He’d shed his jacket at some point. Cal had seen it draped over the back of a kitchen chair when he’d made a trip to the bathroom. And the knot of Lowen’s tie was a little loose, but neatly so. His black wingtips still glistened as though they’d been freshly polished and the obviously expensive slacks bore few wrinkles. “I’m going to be offering a million-dollar cash reward to anyone who provides the information that brings my grandson home.”

      Detective Warner stood. “Let me talk to my captain,” he said. “As you know from our conversation last night, he’s planning to go to the press in a few hours. We can’t stop you from making your own announcement, but I know he’s going to want you to coordinate the press release with the department. We’re trained to deal with these types and know the things to say that get the best response the most times. And regardless of that, it would be best for us to make a joint statement—puts more pressure on the perp if he knows we’ve joined forces—and the captain’s going to insist that you run the responses through us. Anything else will jeopardize our investigation and potentially put your grandson in more harm.”

      Cal stood next to Morgan, whose weary gaze moved between her father and the detective with whom they’d all spent the night. She turned to Cal and he lowered his head to catch her whispered, “This is so my father, and I hate it. What if his high-handedness makes things worse? But I’m grateful, too. Am I nuts?”

      “No. He’s out of line. But if he gets results, then he’s doing the right thing.”

      Grace, having come in from the bedroom each time the phone rang, raised her head from the back of the chair to follow her husband’s exchange.

      “Tell your captain that I’ll agree to a joint conference if your people can be ready at seven. And he cannot insist on anything. However, if you can have a contact response team ready to begin receiving calls within the hour, and will agree to let my representatives be privy to each and every response as well, I will agree to sending all possible leads to the care of the police. We realize the offer of a reward will bring out false leads and we’ll need the manpower to follow each of them until we can weed them out. I want my grandson back.”

      Warner nodded and reached for the cell phone he’d been using all night to confer with his team.

      “And tell him that I will make available to him any monies he needs to get this done,” George added, leaving the room without a glance at his daughter.

      He motioned for Grace to join him, though, and with a quick squeeze of Morgan’s shoulder as she passed them, the older woman followed her husband from the room.

      Morgan’s lips and chin were trembling and Cal knew that unless Sammie Lowen was found safe and sound, this was one of life’s pains that would not get better with time.

      * * *

      DETECTIVE RAMSEY MILLER from the Comfort Cove Police Department in Comfort Cove, Massachusetts, didn’t believe in anything as certain as fate. Spending his days and nights viewing gruesome details of crime scenes had taught him one thing for certain—life was a crap shoot. Sometimes the bad guys got it. Sometimes the good guys did.

      And sometimes a guy just happened to be at the right place at the right time. Since his divorce he’d taken to drinking his morning coffee in bed, reading national and local news via the laptop computer that was always either on his nightstand or, if he’d fallen asleep while working, sharing the covers with him.

      The thing about internet news sources was that they were so plentiful he was never without company, even if it meant that he was reading about an Issaquah couple caught having sex in their car. This time on the fifth floor of a Park and Ride. It was news to someone. And as long as there was internet and people to talk about, there would never be a time, no matter how late in the night or early in the morning, when he would have to settle for his own thoughts.

      The second Saturday morning in July was when he was the lucky guy who ended up in the right place at the right time. He’d taken an extra hour in bed to surf other people’s troubles instead of working on the pile of unanswered questions waiting for him on his own desk. Sort of.

      He’d been perusing a local news site from Tyler, Tennessee, but he hadn’t been there just randomly. He’d chosen the town because he was trying to reach a man there who wasn’t returning his