The President's Daughter - Mariah Stewart [118]
“I have no appetite, Simon, but if you and Betsy want to stop someplace, that’s fine with me.”
“I could use something cool to drink,” Betsy admitted.
“We passed a convenience store on our way out to this last place. I can run in there and see what they have to offer.”
Simon made his quick stop, pausing to use the pay phone to catch up with Philip, once again cursing the fact that he hadn’t replaced his own cell phone when he lost it amid the paper debris of the Hayward book research. While he had no good news to relate, he was gratified to hear that the FBI already had several agents heading toward Henderson.
“All you have to do is let me know when and where you want them,” Philip told him, “so I suggest you touch base with me frequently and let me know where you are.”
“Must be some powerful ‘friend’ you have,” Simon said dryly.
“Indeed,” Philip murmured as he hung up.
“You must be getting tired,” Simon said to Betsy as he returned to the van with an assortment of bottled water, soda, and iced tea. “Up all night, no sleep.”
“Could say the same for you.”
“Yeah, but I’m young and tough.” Simon twisted the cap off of Betsy’s bottle of water and handed it over to her.
“And I’m old and cranky.” Betsy drew a long swallow from the bottle of water. “Even so, today’s not the day to get in my way.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Simon assured her.
Betsy was every bit as tired as she looked. More tired than she’d been in a very long time. But there would be no rest. For years she’d prayed that the day would come when her sister’s daughter would seek out her Pierce heritage. To Betsy’s way of thinking, Dina had been snatched from her family as a child. Betsy wasn’t about to let anyone or anything—not even death—snatch her away now that she’d returned.
And then there was the matter of unfinished business with the person who had been responsible for Blythe’s death. Betsy had never stopped praying that the day would come when the fates would allow her retribution.
It was beginning to look as if that day had finally arrived.
Betsy patted the deep inner pocket of her jacket, felt the outline of the small handgun she’d tucked inside— just in case—and turned the key in the ignition.
Sleep could wait until the end of the day, she told herself. Until the job was done. One way or another.
On to property number four . . .
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“They make this look so damned easy on TV.”
All of Dina’s fingers bore nicks and slices, and it took all of her concentration to hold on to the piece of glass that was now slippery with blood. All the while, she listened for the sound of tires on the drive.
She’d been working at the rope for what had seemed to be forever, her efforts slowed by the fact that she kept dropping the glass and would have to relocate it again each time. But finally, she had made enough of a cut to loosen the ties and slip free.
“Hallelujah!”
She rubbed her wrists with bloody fingers and bloody hands, hoping to speed up the return of circulation.
“Guess you critters will have to party without me tonight,” she said as she went to the door and attempted to open it.
The door was bolted from the outside. No amount of pounding or jiggling on the doorknob made a bit of difference.
“Oh, damn!” Angered and frustrated, Dina kicked at the door, her patience at last exhausted.
Commanding herself not to give in to the panic that threatened to overwhelm her, Dina looked around for an alternative way out.
Without something upon which to stand, the window was too far beyond her reach. The hole in the siding was far too narrow for Dina to fit through.
Dina almost missed it, the sound was so faint, but there, she heard it again. The sound of tires crunching on stone, a car door slamming. Footsteps on dried earth. Had her captor returned? Or had someone else come along? Dina stood stock-still, weighing her options. Should she yell for help? Or should she wait to see where the footsteps led?
The footsteps came nearer.
As quietly as possible, Dina