Время живых машин. Биологическая революция в технологиях. Сьюзан Хокфилд
Her son had left home. His friends had suggested he was on drugs. He’d been seen in the seedy area of town and inside a strip club where he’d appeared to be enjoying himself.
Their deduction: no foul play suspected.
The police might be right to a point, but she knew her son. He might have caved in to peer pressure and smoked a joint, but he was not an addict. He might even have gone along with friends for a night of carousing, but unless something terrible had happened, he would have come home.
The black of night had eased into the gray of dawn before sleep finally claimed her.
She woke to the jarring ring of the phone. Anticipation stabbed her heart the way it did at every unexpected call, and she grabbed the receiver, knocking over the glass of water. The liquid splattered her arm and the side of her bed as she clutched the phone and put it to her ear.
“Hello.”
“Mom.”
Chapter Three
Faith’s heart pounded against her chest. Her breath caught. She jerked to a sitting position and forced her words through a choking knot at the back of her throat.
“Cornell. Is that you? Is it really you?”
“It’s me.”
“Where are you? Are you okay?”
“I’m okay. Only...”
“Tell me where you are, Cornell. I’ll come get you. Just tell me where you are?”
“I can’t, Mom.”
“Are you having seizures? Have you been taking your meds?”
“I have a new prescription. No seizures in months.” His voice shook. “I’m so sorry. So sor—”
His voice grew silent. Curses railed in the background. The phone went dead.
“Cornell! Cornell!” She kept calling, but she was yelling his name into a lifeless phone. Her insides rolled sickeningly.
“Please call me back. Please, Cornell, call me back,” she whispered. The phone stayed silent.
There had to be a way to reach him. A hard metal taste filled the back of her throat as she punched in *69. A brief sputter of interference was the only response to her attempt to reach the number Cornell had called from.
Her head felt as if someone had turned on strobe lights inside it. A pulsing at the temples tightened like a Vise-Grip. She buried her head in her hands in an attempt to stop the dizzying sensation.
Was this just another nightmare or had she actually heard her son’s voice?
No, even trapped in the shock, she was certain the call had been real. Tears burned in the corners of her eyes and then escaped to stream down her face.
Cornell was alive. Finally, the truth of that rolled over her in waves. Her son was alive.
But where was he and what could he possibly be sorry for? For taking drugs? For drinking? Was he staying away because he thought she was mad at him? But if that was all there was, who had yelled the curses in the background that had frightened Cornell into breaking off the call midsentence?
He was not alone and whoever was with had him under their control.
Possibilities exploded in her mind, all of them too frightening to bear.
There had to be a way to find out where that call had originated. If she knew where Cornell was, she could rescue him. She could bring him home.
His interrupted call was proof he was being held or at least intimidated by someone. Even the Dallas Police Department couldn’t deny that.
Call me. You can trust me.
Travis’s words echoed in her mind. But was it Travis Dalton she should put her faith in or a man she knew only as Georgio?
* * *
OFFICIALLY, IT WAS Travis’s day off. Unofficially, he strolled into the precinct about 7:00 a.m. No one in the front office seemed surprised to see him. Homicide detectives never kept normal hours.
Neither did crime.
Jewel Sayer raised one eyebrow as he passed her desk. “I thought you were partying in Oak Grove this weekend?”
“Just stayed long enough to get my brother married.”
“What? No hot chicks at the wedding reception?”
“None as hot as you, Jewel.”
“Can’t go comparing the rest of the mere mortals to me, Travis. You’ve got to learn to settle for someone in your league.”
“So you keep telling me.”
Jewel was in her mid-thirties and a far cry from the beauty-pageant types who filled the Dallas hot spots six nights a week. She had a boxlike face hemmed in by dark, straight hair cropped an inch from her scalp. Her breasts were lost beneath boxy, plain cotton shirts. Her trousers bagged. Her face was a makeup-free zone.
Jewel was, however, a wildcat of a homicide detective. She could tear more much meat out of a seemingly useless clue than most of the men who’d had years more experience. And she had great instincts. She also had a husband who adored her.
Her phone rang. She lifted her coffee mug as a sign of dismissal before answering it.
Travis stopped at the coffeepot, filled a mug with the strong brew and took it to his office. He dropped to the seat behind his cluttered desk and typed Faith Ashburn into the DPD search system.
A few sips of coffee later, her name came up as having filed a missing-person report a few days under ten months ago, on June 25. That would have been approximately six months before he ran into her at the Passion Pit.
He pulled up the report she’d filled out. The missing person was her eighteen-year-old son, Cornell Keating Ashburn, a high-school student about to start his senior year.
According to the report, Cornell struggled with academics and received special help with his classes in a mainstream setting. He made friends easily but he was easily influenced by his peers. He was also on medication for seizures and reportedly needed daily meds to prevent them.
According to the report, Faith Ashburn had gone in to work early the day he’d gone missing, leaving before Cornell got out of bed. She’d come home from work to find a note from him saying he was hanging out with some friends from the neighborhood. He might spend the night at his friend Jason’s, but he’d call later and let her know.
He’d never called. He’d never come home. He’d never showed up at Jason’s.
That explained the torment that haunted her mesmerizing eyes.
Now that Travis thought about it, Leif had questioned him a couple months ago about how effective the police were with following up on missing-persons cases. Travis had assured him that they were thorough and professional.
No doubt Joni had told him about Faith’s missing son and that had prompted the questions.
Travis printed the original report and a series of follow-up notes by the investigating detective, Mark Ethridge. Mark headed up the missing-persons division and reportedly had handled Cornell’s disappearance himself. Ethridge was one of the best in the business at tracking missing or runaway teens.
Travis skimmed for the most pertinent details. Faith and Cornell’s father were divorced. He’d died two years ago in a work-related accident, so that eliminated any chance he’d run away to live with him. His maternal grandmother lived in Seattle. His maternal grandfather lived in Waco. Neither had seen Cornell in years. Nor had his paternal grandparents. Ethridge had checked that out thoroughly.
Faith had called everyone Cornell ever hung out with. No one had seen him that day.
His clothes were still