Preying Game (Decorah Security Series, Book #15): A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel Read online

  Preying Game (Decorah Security Series, Book #15)

  A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel

  By Rebecca York

  Ruth Glick writing as Rebecca York

  Main Menu

  Start Reading

  Table of Contents

  Afterword

  DECORAH SECURITY SERIES by Rebecca York

  OFF-WORLD SERIES by Rebecca York

  About the Author

  Praise for Rebecca York

  Contacts

  ALL BOOKS by Rebecca York

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  He was watching her, enjoying her pain. Alice couldn’t see him, but she felt his appraising gaze as she ran on the treadmill, her sneaker-clad feet pounding the moving belt. The machine was not under her control. She could feel the belt speeding faster—faster. She gasped, struggling to keep up. If she fell, she would rub the skin of her leg raw.

  Or she could jump off, but she knew the punishment for that. Dry cereal and water for dinner.

  Gripping the handlebars, she forced herself to keep going. Her legs ached. Her heart pounded. She dragged in as much air as her lungs could hold. She wanted to close her eyes, but she knew that would be disorienting, and she might lose her balance.

  Then, to her relief, she felt the machine slow. When it stopped, she flopped to the rubbery surface, feeling the ache in her leg muscles as she gulped in air. She lay for a few moments, using the hem of her tee shirt to wipe away sweat that trickled toward her eyes. When she felt able to stand, she tottered to the water cooler in the corner and filled one of the small, cone-shaped paper cups. Because it held very little, she had to repeat several times before she had quenched her thirst.

  After throwing the cup in the trash slot, she heard the lock on the solid metal door click—her cue to step into the hall, where low-wattage bulbs burned in caged outlets. Once she had tried to reach through and unscrew a bulb. For her pains, she had gotten an electric shock. Now she kept her gaze fixed ahead until she came to her cell.

  It wasn’t like jail cells she’d seen in prison movies. Instead it was a bit more comfortable, with a single bed, a shag rug on the cold floor, a dresser with exercise clothing, and a shallow closet where nightgowns hung on wall hooks.

  When she’d first come here, she’d been squeamish about getting undressed. She’d gotten over that when the dried sweat on her gym clothes started to stink. Still she never undressed in the bedroom—only the bathroom. In the small cubicle she stripped off her sopping tee shirt and shorts and dropped them in the chute at the side of the room.

  She was sure he was watching her in here, too. Too bad about that. She had tried to find a way out of this nightmare. So far she had struck out at every turn. The doors were locked, there was nothing she could use as a weapon, and the block walls of her prison were solid.

  When the temperature was adjusted in the shower, she stepped under the spray, enjoying the heated water pounding down on her body that was pale from weeks underground.

  The shower was one of her few pleasures, and she made the most of it, shampooing her dark blond hair, then soaping her skin and rinsing until the water suddenly cut off.

  With a sigh she stepped out of the shower and dried off, then toweled her hair as best she could and brushed it. She would have liked to cut it shorter, but of course he wasn’t going to trust her with a pair of scissors.

  She pulled on one of the nightgowns hanging in the closet and turned to the slot in the wall where her dinner was always delivered. Tonight it was bland chicken, mashed rutabaga, and green beans, without much seasoning—one of the standard meals. Healthy fare, she supposed.

  The lights darkened to almost nothing as soon as she finished and returned the plate. In the dim light, she crossed to the bed, pulled the covers over herself and clenched her hands around the edge of the sheet.

  Finally, she felt like she was alone, although she knew it was only an illusion. Closing her eyes, she returned once again to the fantasy that had kept her going.

  Last year she’d read a book called Wild Talent about a boy named Paul Breen who could reach out with his mind and silently communicate with other people. In the book, the ability had caused Paul a lot of problems, and she’d felt sorry for the way his life had turned out. Now she spent every evening before she went to sleep trying to do what he’d done—connect with someone, anyone who could help.

  Can anyone hear me? She silently pleaded. If you can hear me, please answer. My name is Alice Davenport, and I need your help. A man is holding me captive in some kind of underground bunker. I don’t know exactly where I am now. But I was in western Maryland, working as a counselor at a girls’ camp for the summer. I went off on a wilderness trek by myself, and he took me prisoner. He says nobody is looking for me, because they think I’m dead. But I’m not dead. This is me—Alice Davenport. He told me to call him Hayward. I don’t know if that’s his first or his last name, but I know he’s going to kill me. I have to get away, and I need your help.

  She repeated the message several times, praying that the desperate words could actually get through to someone. Yet, in the back of her mind, she couldn’t help thinking she was a fool. Like Alice in Wonderland, she had fallen down a rabbit hole. No one was coming to help her. She was going to be here until the man called Hayward chose to finish the game he was playing with her.

  Chapter 2

  Jonah Ranger swiped a lock of dark hair out of his eyes and bent to inspect a ding in the teal blue paint of the1955 Chevy he was restoring. Dad would have loved this car, he thought with a pang. But his father had been dead for ten years, leaving Jonah with a house that was too big for one guy and a collection of classic cars. Jonah had sold a couple of real beauties to finance his college education. After graduating and getting a job with the Baltimore city PD, he’d been on the detective fast track. But he’d hated some of the department policies. And he jumped at a job offer from Frank Decorah.

  Decorah Security looked for agents with special talents, and Jonah had fit nicely into the program. There was an added bonus in working for the company. Frank had told him about a defunct auto repair shop in Beltsville, Maryland, near the agency offices, where he could store his cars and work on them. Plus selling the family home had provided more than enough money to buy it. He’d cleaned the trash out of the garage and the rooms above the shop, then turned the second floor into a cozy apartment.

  Downstairs, he’d added the 1955 hardtop to his collection a couple of days ago. Even the paint color was a special order on the vintage sedan that he’d bought from a collector in Georgia.

  But the exact shade of blue was a lot less worrisome than the parts he needed for the 265-cubic-inch overhead valve V8 engine.

  The radio was another problem. He’d thought it was working when he bought the car, but since bringing it home, he was getting a limited number of stations—with a lot of static. Every time he turned the dial, he thought he was tuning in what sounded like an old-time drama program.

  Or was it? Through the static, he’d heard a woman pleading for help. He’d strained to make out what she was saying, but filtering her words from the background noises had been almost impossible.

  Still, when she spoke, he felt a tingle along his nerve endings.

  Tonight he was determined to pull in what she was saying.

  He slipped into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and grabbed the steering wheel with one hand, wishing the car had a modern headrest so he could lean back. Tension coursed throug
h him as he fiddled with the station selector.

  Once again, he was greeted with the familiar crackling sound—and then her voice. Only this time she was a lot clearer. Was it the atmospheric conditions—or what?

  Can anyone hear me? If you can hear me, please answer. My name is Alice Davenport, and I need your help. A man is holding me captive in some kind of underground bunker. I don’t know exactly where I am now.

  Jonah sat bolt upright. “What?”

  The woman who said her name was Alice continued to talk. Only now he knew that he wasn’t just hearing the words over the radio. He was hearing them in his head. That was the talent Frank Decorah had seen in him and cultivated. Jonah could reach out and talk to someone—mind to mind. Not over long distances, but far enough so that he’d helped the Decorah team find kidnap victims.

  But this was different. Somehow he didn’t think that Alice was nearby.

  I was in western Maryland, she was saying, working as a counselor at a girls’ camp for the summer. I went off on a wilderness trek by myself, and he took me captive. He says nobody is looking for me, because they think I’m dead. But I’m not dead. This is me—Alice Davenport. He told me to call him Hayward. I don’t know if that’s his first or his last name, but I know he’s going to kill me.

  I have to get away, and I need your help.

  “Alice?” He shouted her name into the empty interior of the car.

  He was met with silence—and then her voice came to him again, sounding shocked.

  You heard me?

  This time, he didn’t pick her up over the radio at all. The words were purely in his head—a mental transmission.

  Yes.

  Thank God. But how? I mean, am I just kidding myself? The first surge of elation evaporated from her voice, and she sounded like she hadn’t really believed she could contact anyone.

  His reassurance was instant. I’m real. My name is Jonah Ranger. Where are you?

  I don’t know.

  In western Maryland?

  I don’t think so.

  Why not?

  I sort of woke up in the car while he was driving me here. I think it was a long ride. But I don’t know in what direction.

  He clamped down on his frustration and tried another line of questioning.

  Okay. Tell me what you look like.

  Why?

  We’re talking mind to mind—and it will help to picture you.

  Oh Lord, like in a book I read. Only I thought nobody would hear me.

  I did. But let’s see if we can make the connection stronger. It’s easier if I can picture you.

  The voice turned eager. Okay. I have dark blond hair. About shoulder length. My eyes are blue.

  How tall are you?

  Five five.

  He went back to her face. What does your nose look like? Your mouth.

  My bottom lip is kind of full. I’ve heard people say my nose is thin.

  Okay. And your skin?

  Pale. I’ve been . . . inside for a long time. Her voice took on a warmer quality. And what do you look like? I want to picture you, too.

  I’m six one. One hundred and eighty pounds. Dark hair—not too long. Blue eyes. Broken nose.

  How did you do it?

  I got jumped by some bigger guys when I was in high school.

  I’m sorry.

  It never happened again.

  What do you do for a living?

  I’m a private detective.

  Just what I need. Or is this all too good to be true? she asked, her mental voice turning plaintive.

  No. I can find you, he said, praying it was true. But I’m going to need more information.

  Anything . . .

  He thought for a moment. He took you when?

  August

  It was October now. Christ, that meant she’d been in captivity for a long time.

  As though she were following his thoughts, she asked, what month is it now?

  October

  Oh my God. . .

  From one moment to the next, the quality of the sound in his head changed. For a few minutes it had been loud and clear. Then it turned ragged.

  Alice.

  When she didn’t answer, he called her name again and again. But he knew that the transmission had cut off.

  Desperately he reached for the radio dial and twisted it, trying to get her back. He kept shouting at her, but now all he got was the freaking static.

  Chapter 3

  Jonah? Jonah?

  There was no answer.

  As the sound in her head cut off, Alice held back a sob. Eyes closed, she balled her hands into fists, clenching them at her sides, struggling not to fall apart. For the first time in . . . months, she had felt hope. It had evaporated like drops of water falling on a hot griddle.

  Tears gathered behind her eyes as she fought to bring her emotions under control. She’d been lying in this bed at night for an eternity, silently calling out for help. No one had ever responded until tonight. Then a man who said his name was Jonah Ranger had answered. That sounded like a real name. And it wasn’t a name she would have made up—was it? She didn’t know anyone named Jonah, or Ranger for that matter. But could she have read it in a book?

  She squeezed her fists tighter, trying to work her way through what had happened. She’d called out to the universe, and one person had heard her. Unless she was imagining the whole thing because she wanted so desperately to grab onto hope.

  She thought about the man at the other end of the connection. He’d said he was a detective, and he’d seemed like he wanted to help her. Then the contact had snapped. Could she find him again?

  He’d said he was tall with dark hair and blue eyes. She liked that. And the picture made her feel closer to him.

  He didn’t answer when she called out to him now. But she had to believe that for a few minutes they’d made a connection.

  Was it only for that brief time? Could she reach him again? When she tried, it felt like she was crying into a great void.

  The frustration was like a horrible weight pressing down on her chest. It kept her awake for a long time, and she knew she was going to have a bad day tomorrow.

  oOo

  Jonah had slept badly, but he was anxious to speak to Frank. Some days the boss didn’t come in, and Jonah was on edge until he saw the familiar gray Lexus pull into the parking area. Then he forced himself to wait in his own office for a few minutes before hurrying down the hall to the executive suite.

  “Come in,” Frank called out in answer to the knock on the door.

  The Decorah head had to be in his late fifties, but he gave the impression of being at least a decade younger. It was like he’d discovered a secret way to tap into the fountain of youth—and that connection was keeping him in top shape. Now his keen eyes gave Jonah a speculative look as he walked into the small but nicely furnished room.

  “Sit down and tell me what’s bothering you,” Frank said, reaching for the golden eagle coin on his desk. He leaned back, using his thumb to flip it in his hand.

  Jonah sat, gripping the wooden arms of the guest chair until he ordered himself to relax.

  “A woman called out to me,” he said.

  “You mean telepathically?”

  Jonah nodded, thinking how casually Frank had asked the question. A couple of years ago Jonah couldn’t have imagined having this chat with anyone. Then Frank had started a conversation with him in the bar at a law enforcement conference. Frank asked if Jonah often used intuition to solve cases. And Jonah was sure the man already knew the answer. They’d talked for several hours, off and on. When the Decorah head offered him a job, he’d switched from the public to the private sector in a hot minute. And he hadn’t been disappointed. The other agents in the group had special talents that gave them an edge in investigative work. There were even a couple of other telepaths on the staff, Grant and Mack Bradley.

  They and Frank had helped Jonah develop his skills. But he’d never had an experience like the
one last night.

  “Tell me what happened,” Frank said.

  Jonah told him about Alice’s voice coming first over the radio, then directly into his mind. “The woman says she was kidnapped while working at a camp in Western Maryland. The man who took her made it look like she’s dead. But she’s really being held captive. She says she was taken in August.”

  “Lucky she’s still alive.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And she doesn’t know where she is?”

  “Right.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Alice Davenport.”

  “Maybe you should start with some conventional research. Is a woman named Alice Davenport missing? Is there a news story about her death?”

  Jonah nodded.

  “You also have to strengthen your connection with her and get clues to her location.” Frank paused. “Perhaps you can even go there—in your mind.”

  Jonah blinked. “How would I do that?”

  “Grant did it with Jenny Seaver when she was taken captive. As you know, he was eventually able to project himself into the room where she was being held.”

  “But he’d already established a relationship with her.” In fact, the two of them were now married.

  “Then your job will be harder. But you’re not working blind. You know what Grant did is possible.” Frank looked thoughtful. “I’ll assign you to guard duty at the medical facility. Grant’s working there, and you’ll be able to get his advice.”

  Jonah nodded. “I guess I should do a little research before I talk to him.”

  “Yes”

  Jonah left, glad that he had two attack approaches—talking to Grant and looking for evidence of Alice’s abduction.

  He left the office feeling more positive. As he combed through computer databases, it took a couple of hours for the hopeful feeling to evaporate. He could find no reports of a woman named Alice Davenport disappearing in Western Maryland—or anywhere else.

  Well, actually, there was something he found in a decades-old newspaper article. But that was the only reference that came close. Plus he found no one named Alice Davenport who had recently been living in Maryland.