In the Heart of the Wind Book 1 in the WindTorn Trilogy by Charlotte Boyett-Compo Page B
Authors: Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Ads: Link
affairs, the order for involuntary hospitalization will stand. We have only his best interests in mind.”
“I just bet you do,” the judge hissed before he slammed down the phone.
“Well?” Virgil asked, leaning over Terry Lampiere’s desk.
“You didn’t really think the man would admit to having his brother snatched, did you?” Terry asked, heaving an aggravated sigh as he stood. “There’s no doubt in my mind he did, though.”
“What did he sound like?” Kyle asked.
“Tough as nails and twice as sharp,” Terry grumbled. He poured himself another cup of coffee. “We’ll have one hell of a time finding those men who kidnapped Gabe. I don’t believe for a minute he’ll be taken back to Georgia to whatever hospital they had him in before. That could be too easily checked. And unless I miss my guess, once they get Gabe to Florida, his kidnapers will be entitled to a nice, long vacation in Sicily!”
“Dublin,” Kyle corrected. At the judge’s look, he shrugged. “They’re Irish mobsters.”
“That’s neither here nor there, Kyle. Those men will go underground once they’ve finished their job,” Lampiere prophesied.
“What can we do then?” Virgil inquired.
The judge sipped the hot brew in his cup, his eyes squinting from the steam. When he swallowed, he looked directly at Kyle.
“If we knew what hospital they’d take him to, we might be able to get in to see him, but chances are they’ll take him to a private clinic. They’ll probably register him under another name and no one will be able to see him but the family. I’d imagine there are dozens of private clinics throughout Florida, which for the right amount of money, will look the other way. And we aren’t even sure that’s where they’d take him.”
“You mean they could take him anywhere,” Kyle clarified.
Lampiere nodded. “Anywhere in the United States, Canada or Mexico.” His face took on a bleak look. “Or beyond.”
“My God,” Virgil breathed. “What are we going to tell Patricia Anne?”
“Tell her the truth, Virgil,” Terry advised. His eyes showed his concern for the young woman who was his eldest son’s teacher. “Tell her it may be a long time before she sees Gabe again.”
“If ever,” Kyle mumbled.
“If ever,” the judge agreed.
The midnight-brown jet arced into its descent into Atlanta’s International Airport, the silver tips of its sweeping wings blinking red in the early morning sun as a flare of sunlight touched the plane’s wing span. The engine geared down and the jet’s nose leveled off as the runway came into sight. In the cockpit, the pilot’s hand was steady on the throttle, his face a relaxed, experienced visage of concentration as he neared his craft earthward. In his ears, the static voice of the controller, guiding, encouraging, beckoned him down. Those seated in the passenger compartment behind him were talking in louder than normal voices as the cabin pressure blocked off their hearing and kept them from understanding one another easily.
“Is he out?” the pilot heard O’Callahan snap.
“Like a baby,” was the reply from Mike Cronin.
On the gurney on which he lay, James Gabriel Tremayne slept on, oblivious to the plane’s landing, the sudden throttling back of the mighty engine, the roar of the jet’s tires on the tarmac, the faint bounce, the strain of whining engines as the jet taxied down the runway.
Mike Cronin looked up at the IV bottle, followed the tubing down to Tremayne’s arm, checked the pet cock to make sure the flow of D5W was correct. His eyes swept up to the bandages wrapped completely around Gabe’s head obscuring his face and hiding the color of his eyes and hair. He glanced at the bandages that encased the young man’s hands. For all the world to see, if they cared to, the patient lying so still on the gurney must have been burned very badly and was heavily sedated, or unconscious, because of the pain.
When the plane came to a
“I just bet you do,” the judge hissed before he slammed down the phone.
“Well?” Virgil asked, leaning over Terry Lampiere’s desk.
“You didn’t really think the man would admit to having his brother snatched, did you?” Terry asked, heaving an aggravated sigh as he stood. “There’s no doubt in my mind he did, though.”
“What did he sound like?” Kyle asked.
“Tough as nails and twice as sharp,” Terry grumbled. He poured himself another cup of coffee. “We’ll have one hell of a time finding those men who kidnapped Gabe. I don’t believe for a minute he’ll be taken back to Georgia to whatever hospital they had him in before. That could be too easily checked. And unless I miss my guess, once they get Gabe to Florida, his kidnapers will be entitled to a nice, long vacation in Sicily!”
“Dublin,” Kyle corrected. At the judge’s look, he shrugged. “They’re Irish mobsters.”
“That’s neither here nor there, Kyle. Those men will go underground once they’ve finished their job,” Lampiere prophesied.
“What can we do then?” Virgil inquired.
The judge sipped the hot brew in his cup, his eyes squinting from the steam. When he swallowed, he looked directly at Kyle.
“If we knew what hospital they’d take him to, we might be able to get in to see him, but chances are they’ll take him to a private clinic. They’ll probably register him under another name and no one will be able to see him but the family. I’d imagine there are dozens of private clinics throughout Florida, which for the right amount of money, will look the other way. And we aren’t even sure that’s where they’d take him.”
“You mean they could take him anywhere,” Kyle clarified.
Lampiere nodded. “Anywhere in the United States, Canada or Mexico.” His face took on a bleak look. “Or beyond.”
“My God,” Virgil breathed. “What are we going to tell Patricia Anne?”
“Tell her the truth, Virgil,” Terry advised. His eyes showed his concern for the young woman who was his eldest son’s teacher. “Tell her it may be a long time before she sees Gabe again.”
“If ever,” Kyle mumbled.
“If ever,” the judge agreed.
The midnight-brown jet arced into its descent into Atlanta’s International Airport, the silver tips of its sweeping wings blinking red in the early morning sun as a flare of sunlight touched the plane’s wing span. The engine geared down and the jet’s nose leveled off as the runway came into sight. In the cockpit, the pilot’s hand was steady on the throttle, his face a relaxed, experienced visage of concentration as he neared his craft earthward. In his ears, the static voice of the controller, guiding, encouraging, beckoned him down. Those seated in the passenger compartment behind him were talking in louder than normal voices as the cabin pressure blocked off their hearing and kept them from understanding one another easily.
“Is he out?” the pilot heard O’Callahan snap.
“Like a baby,” was the reply from Mike Cronin.
On the gurney on which he lay, James Gabriel Tremayne slept on, oblivious to the plane’s landing, the sudden throttling back of the mighty engine, the roar of the jet’s tires on the tarmac, the faint bounce, the strain of whining engines as the jet taxied down the runway.
Mike Cronin looked up at the IV bottle, followed the tubing down to Tremayne’s arm, checked the pet cock to make sure the flow of D5W was correct. His eyes swept up to the bandages wrapped completely around Gabe’s head obscuring his face and hiding the color of his eyes and hair. He glanced at the bandages that encased the young man’s hands. For all the world to see, if they cared to, the patient lying so still on the gurney must have been burned very badly and was heavily sedated, or unconscious, because of the pain.
When the plane came to a
Similar Books
