Page 121 of Darkness Bound (Night Prowler 5)
Xander nodded. He had the Gift of Passage, so he could walk right into a wall of rock with the box and embed it there, if he wanted, leaving the box behind, emerging unchanged. Jenna hoped he would do exactly that.
“Everyone else, let’s . . . let’s just . . .” Jenna faltered, finding it more and more difficult to breathe.
“Sutherland, get the security detail back out there,” Leander cut in, stepping closer to her so his chest pressed against her back, offering support. She sagged against him, and he snaked an arm around her waist. “There may have been more in his party. And see if you can find any trace of that one.” He jerked his chin to the pile of clothes on the floor.
“Right away, My Lord.” Grayson bowed, and left at a trot.
“Everyone else, go home for now. We’ll send word when this mess has been cleaned up and we can refocus, but in the meantime, stay sharp.”
The group obeyed, swiftly and silently, a few of the men staying behind to assist Xander.
Then, his arm still around her waist, Leander led Jenna away, the twins cooing happily in her arms while fear hatched ugly and huge inside her, a carrion bird circling and cawing inside her gut.
God only knew what was coming next.
The Los Angeles Times, Friday, October 11, 20—
MISSING JOURNALIST FOUND ALIVE
In a recent development, missing New York Times journalist Jacqueline Dolan was found alive and apparently unharmed after disappearing from New York more than two weeks ago.
Paulo Varela, a soybean farmer in the sm
all municipality of Rolim de Moura, in the state of Rodônia, Brazil, first saw Ms. Dolan Thursday morning, walking down the center of a two-lane highway used primarily by logging trucks. With the assistance of his English-speaking niece, Natália, the farmer learned Ms. Dolan was looking for transportation to the airport, which he provided himself. It was only after he returned home and his niece told him she believed his passenger was a missing American journalist that the farmer called the local police.
Sources say Ms. Dolan is calm and coherent, but has so far refused to speak with the New York Police Department or the press about the details of her disappearance. A press conference has been scheduled for Monday morning at 9 a.m., and it is anticipated she will make a statement regarding her whereabouts at that time.
Calls to her residence and family have not been returned.
So far, life at home had been a nightmare.
From the moment she stepped off the plane at JFK three days ago, accosted by a throng of shouting reporters with cameras shoved in her face, Jack had been hunted.
She’d never been famous before. She’d been a name on a byline, a writer more at home in Kevlar and war zones than mingling among the glittering dignitaries and slick politicians she had occasion to interview. Now she was a story with a capital S, and it was hell.
Someone had unearthed the picture of her taken at that cocktail party she’d attended with Nola at the White House, and it had become the one all the news outlets used. In it, she was striding toward a waiting limousine, dressed in a gown the color of raspberries, her hair upswept, her neck, ears, and wrists in borrowed jewels, a glimpse of leg revealed by a slit in the skirt, which billowed as she moved.
She looked feminine and glamorous and nothing at all like herself. Jack remembered that at the moment that picture was snapped, she’d been thinking how wonderful it was going to be to rip off that stupid dress, take her hair down, and sit in her bathtub neck-deep in hot water with a cold beer.
But the picture was selling the story of the mysterious vanishing act of the veteran reporter, and everyone and their brother wanted a piece of it.
Of her.
Somehow her unlisted phone number was now in the hands of dozens of aggressive magazine editors, newspaper reporters, and talk show hosts. Her answering machine had stopped recording new messages because it was full.
Her building had doormen, and electronic security fobs to operate the elevator, so she’d been spared from having people knocking directly on her door so far. But it was coming. The doormen didn’t make enough money to buy loyalty, and sooner or later one of them was going to have a greasy palm. Or maybe the superintendent would be the one to give her up; she’d had to get a spare fob and key from him when she’d first come home, and the entire time she was in his small office, he slid long, assessing glances in her direction, thoughtfully chewing a toothpick.
The worst thing, though, was the phone messages. Not the ones from the hyenas in the press. Not the ones from Nola, though she grew increasingly frantic as the days wore on, and Jack hated to hear her so worried.
The worst were from the father she didn’t remember.
“Jackie. Baby. Why won’t you pick up the phone? Your work called . . . what’s going on? Please call me to let me know you’re okay.”
That was the first one, two days after her disappearance.
Then: “Jackie. I hope this isn’t about your birthday. Please call me. I-I love you.”
Snuffling, then a click, and Jack was left to wonder what the hell happened on her birthday. And why this man sounded so wracked with guilt.
