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Supremely focused now, she drove over the bridge without noticing the spectacular views of Niagara Gorge. At the U.S. checkpoint, the line of vehicles moved swiftly through the single open kiosk. She looked into the cinder-block customs building, which also housed the duty-free store. She saw one officer behind the counter, and one clerk in the store waiting on a customer.
While she watched, the customer carried a bottle of liquor in a plain brown bag to the rusty battered panel van in front of her and got in. The panel van belched smoke when it backfired, and its muffler had long ago surrendered to the rust belt.
Midweek, off season, at lunchtime, the entire area was relaxed, thinly patrolled and almost deserted. She hoped this would make Jeffrey more obvious, if he appeared and tried anything.
Karen mentally rehearsed the lie she'd tell if the customs officer asked her more than routine questions. Yesterday, the process was casual, easy, intended to encourage tourism, not to thwart a kidnapper.
Two cars ahead passed through the checkpoint. When the panel van jerked toward the kiosk window, Karen pulled up and waited at the yellow line. The van blocked her view of the officer. She glanced again toward the duty-free store. She saw a lone figure, vaguely familiar, standing outside.
Jeffrey. He'd shaved his head and wore sunglasses. She didn't know how he'd found her, but he had. A tracking device on Dei-dre somewhere? Regular calls to the school just to check on his daughter? However he'd managed it, he was here now. She had to move. Adrenaline made her heart pound and sweat bead on her brow. Plan B. Stay calm.
Checking the rearview, she realized she'd have to move forward. An eighteen-wheeler six feet behind blocked any alternative.
The officer in the kiosk seemed to be chatting too long with the occupants of the van. But she couldn't see him, and he couldn't see her. She tapped the steering wheel impatiently.
Mimicking the guy who'd joined the van, Jeffrey strolled toward her car. Quiet panic fluttered in her chest as she watched him. Did anyone else see him? He reached the door, looked directly into her eyes as if to mesmerize her, grasped the handle and lifted it.
The locked door didn't open. Then he glanced into the back seat where Deidre slept, covered by the blanket Karen had brought, still holding the doll. A smirk creased his face. It was the doll. That's where he'd hidden the tracking device. Bastard. You think you're so clever. We'll see.
Karen lowered the back window and Jeffrey stuck his left hand on top of the glass. "Go away, Jeffrey, while you still can. If you try anything here, they'll kill you. Your choice."
He laughed. "You're kidnapping my child, Karen. Do you really think they'll take your side over mine?"
While he held on to the glass and the door handle Karen punched the accelerator. The car leaped forward. Jeffrey lost his balance. She slammed the brake. The car's quick jerk threw him to the ground. Her actions, and Jeffrey's, were blocked from the customs officer's view by the panel van, which moved forward now, slowly, through the gate. Maybe surveillance cameras saw him. Surely, the border guards would protect her and the child. She hoped.
The officer waved her ahead. She released a breath and eased to a stop next to the booth, left hand on the wheel.
"What's your citizenship, ma'am?" the kindly old officer asked.
"U.S." She glanced in the right-side mirror. Jeffrey had risen from the ground. His stare carried a malevolence she could feel. Bastard. Go away. While you still can.
The customs officer glanced into the back seat now, too, where Deidre slept. At the same time, he noticed Jeffrey, hands in the oversize pocket of his sweatshirt, not moving, saying nothing.
The officer became more alert. "How about the child, ma'am?" Another officer came out of the building, hand on his gun, waiting. They had seen him try to enter her car. It was working. Plan B was working. Thank God.
"U.S., too." Small rivulets of sweat tickled her armpits. Let us go, Jeffrey, and live to try again.
"Picture ID?"
Karen reached into her handbag, retrieved the passports and handed them to the officer. He examined the blue-jacketed folders. "Your name is Karen A
"Divorce," she said. Jeffrey simply stood there. What was he thinking? Was he willing to die to thwart her?
The officer glanced at Jeffrey again. "Do you have her birth certificate?"
She furrowed her brow with consternation. "I didn't think you'd need it."
He closed the passports and gestured toward the building. "I'm sorry, ma'am. Park over there and go inside where they'll verify your identification." Then he nodded at Jeffrey, who stood stock-still, feet braced shoulder width apart, hands still inside his big front pocket. "Do you know him?"
Now. Now was the time. "He's got a gun."
Before the officer could react, Jeffrey slowly extracted his hand from the sweatshirt and pointed the gun at her head.
"Get down! Get down!" the officer shouted, squatting beside the car's engine block, the only place safe from gunfire.
Jeffrey chose death. The deafening noise of shots rang out. Bullets entered the rear glass. One grazed her arm as she fell sideways. Another exited inches from where her head had been an instant before. The pain seared through her as blood soaked her blazer and ran down her arm. Deidre began to scream.
Border guards acted immediately. They shouted for Jeffrey to drop his gun. He didn't. A guard shot and hit Jeffrey in the leg. He went down, and kept shooting. Bullets tattooed the back of the sedan. Idiot! You'll hit Deidre!
After an excruciatingly long few seconds, the customs officer in the booth drew his weapon, and two additional officers ran out from the building. "Drop your gun! Drop your gun!"
Karen looked into Jeffrey's eyes. Either of them could have changed things at that moment. But they didn't. She jammed the accelerator to the floorboard. The sedan lurched forward, broke through the wooden gate and raced onto American soil.
Jeffrey shot at Karen's car again. As she'd known they would, the guards returned fire.
Karen mashed the brake, jerking the sedan to a stop behind the solid walls of the U.S. Customs station. Applying pressure to her throbbing, bleeding arm, she managed to open the back door and unsnap Deidre's seat belt. She slid the hysterical child onto the pavement. Determined, Karen held Deidre close until the deafening gunfire stopped.
In the brief silence, Deidre's screams became sobs. Karen struggled to rise while holding the girl, despite the searing pain in her arm, and stumbled back to the kiosk. Jeffrey lay on the ground, blood ru
Karen's anger flared, leaving no room for remorse. He'd chosen to die rather than let Karen take Deidre. He'd intended to get all three of them killed.
A few weeks later, Karen joined Brenda, who sat watching Dei-dre on the Land of the Dragons playground. The family resemblance was unmistakable. Both were clearly from Beverly London's gene pool. In Deidre, Karen saw some hint of Jeffrey, too. How could a wonderful child have emerged from two such damaged parents?
"She looks happy, doesn't she?" Brenda asked with a wistful tone. Deidre was in counseling and taking medication that the psychologist hoped would help her to work through the traumas she'd endured at her parents' hands.
To reassure her, Karen said, "Don't worry so much. She's young. With luck and love, she won't remember most of it."
A tear rolled down Brenda's cheek. Her lips quivered. "She won't have much to remember about her mother."
Karen closed her eyes against tears of her own. She had risked her life so that Deidre might thrive. Now, all she could do was hope. "It's up to you to keep Beverly alive for her."