Deliverer

Chapter 14

Truman swatted at the wet nose nudging him. Barley had been whining in his room when he'd returned there last night. The gunshots had sent a healthy amount of fear and activity into the dog as well as his men.

Barley's soft whine repeated, punctuated by a tapping sound. He groaned and rolled over. Someone was knocking on the bedroom door.

It took Truman half a minute to realize he'd fallen asleep fully dressed, sprawled across the foot of the bed. He swore and pushed himself off, stumbling toward the door and tripping over Barley on the way. He had meant to stay awake all night, waiting for news to come in from the search parties.

He unlocked the door and threw it open. Claber stood there, dark rings under his tired eyes, phone extended.

Truman glanced at his watch. Just after four in the morning. He took the phone from Claber and mouthed, "Who?"

Claber inclined his head at the device. Truman glanced down and scowled at the name glowing in the display.

He lifted the receiver and growled, "McAllister. It's four in the morning."

"Oh, right you are," McAllister said, his voice the proper mix of cheer and chagrin. "Good morning, then. How are you this fine day?"

Truman's thoughts raced. Did he know the girls were missing? Had Sid told him something? No, it couldn't be. "Fine. Things are fine."

"I'm so glad to hear it," McAllister purred. "Your days are counting down, right? How many are left?"

Truman gritted his teeth. He didn't want to have this conversation right now. "I don't have time for this, McAllister. You'll get your money."

"Well, if you need any assistance, I have a contact in Montreal. I could lend him to you. But you're not in Montreal, are you? Isn't it... Victoriaville?"

Truman couldn't stop the goosebumps of terror that popped out over his arms. He shuddered, glad McAllister couldn't see him. It was no secret that Truman lived in Canada. Anyone could guess the city was in Quebec. But knowing he lived in tiny Victoriaville wasn't a guess. McAllister was honing in on his location. How much did he know? How was he getting his information?

McAllister kept talking. "Maybe you and my contact could meet up. For some face-to-face encouragement."

"No, it won't be necessary." Truman forced the words out between clenched teeth. "Everything is under control." He disconnected the call and threw the phone on the floor. Adrenaline coursed through his veins.

He couldn't go back to sleep. He needed to prep the evacuation route from the house. Any day now, they might need it.

He went up to his office on the fourth floor and opened the desk drawer, searching for a notepad. Finding one, he began jotting down a few quick sentences. "Wanted for theft. Three housemaids." He quickly made up some information about the girls and added a large, fictitious reward.

He needed some photos. Claber probably had some on that small camera he carried everywhere. He'd send Claber to the twenty-four hour drugstore for some pictures, and then run a flyer in tomorrow’s edition of the Toronto Star.

He'd have to pull some strings to get it run with tomorrow's paper, but those would probably be the easiest strings he'd have to pull for awhile.

The sun rose and still Truman hadn’t slept. His phone buzzed on the table next to him, and he gave it a cursory glance before answering. Claber. "Tell me you've got good news."

"Yes," he answered, triumph in his voice. "We found the girls."

Truman straightened, relief flooding through him and making his insides weak. "Finally. Are they with you? Tie them up and gag them." No more Mr. Nice Guy. That had been a big mistake.