"Karen Robards - Bait" - читать интересную книгу автора (Karen Robards - Bait)
KAREN ROBARDS
Copyright © 2004 by Karen
Robards ISBN 0-399-15202-4 PETER, THIS ONE'S FOR YOU. HAPPY 21 ST, DARLING. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I'd like to thank my husband, Doug,
my sons Peter, Christopher, and Jack, and Peggy Kennady, all of whom helped with
research, contributed ideas, insights, and comments, and generally told me when
I was writing myself into a corner. I'd also like to thank the people who made this
book possible: my brilliant agent, Robert Gottlieb, my wonderful editor,
Christine Pepe, and her noble assistant, Lily Chin; and Carole Baron, who is
awesome as always. ONEThursday,
August 7 It was a professional job, Sam McCabe saw at a
glance. The bare minimum of fuss and muss. A couple sprawled on the floor of
their cathedral-ceilinged great room, hands bound behind their backs, blood
from the bullet wounds in their heads soaking into the already deep red of
their Oriental carpet. "I see dead people," E. P. Wynne
muttered behind him. The words were slightly slurred by the enormous wad of bubble
gum the big guy was chewing in an effort to quit smoking. Sam shot him a
quelling glance. Granted, they were so tired they were more or less
punch-drunk, but humor in the face of multiple homicides was never a good idea. "Who the hell are you?" A brown-uniformed
local yokel separated himself from the pack at the corner of the room and came
toward them, bristling. Considering that Sam was wearing jeans and a T-shirt
and sporting a three-day growth of beard, while Wynne's two-hundred-fifty-pound
girth was decked out in baggy shorts and a stained Hawaiian shirt, the man's
attitude was understandable. But this was the culmination of another in a
series of really lousy weeks. Sam was not in the mood for attitude, especially
from a skinny kid who might or might not be just out of his teens. "FBI," Sam growled, not even slowing
down. Wynne, ever obliging, flashed his ID as they brushed past the kid like he
wasn't even there. "Nobody called the feds," the yokel
protested to their backs, then, less certain, called over his shoulder,
"Did anybody call the feds?" "Hell, no." Another brown-uniformed
local, a burly, surly-looking fifty-something with a bald head as shiny as a
Christmas ornament, entered through an arched opening at the opposite end of
the room in time to hear the plaintive question and headed toward them.
"I'm Sheriff Burt Eigel. And sure as shit, nobody around here called
anybody, feds or otherwise." "Sam McCabe. E. P. Wynne," Sam said,
jerking a thumb at Wynne as he introduced him. "FBI," Wynne added helpfully, doing
his badge-waving thing again. Sam stopped beside the female victim and looked
down at the bodies. Multiple strips of duct tape covered each victim's mouth.
Thin, white cord secured their wrists. The fingers had purpled, indicating that
the cords had been tied tightly enough to impede circulation—and to hurt.
"Wendell Perkins and his wife, Tammy Sue, right?" Eigel frowned. "How the hell did y'all know
that?" "Let's just say a little bird told
me." Sam squatted and pressed his fingers to the carpet. It was made of
fine wool, expensive, just like the furniture in the enormous great room was
expensive, the newly built McMansion was expensive, and the gated Mobile,
Alabama, retirement community was expensive. The blood soaking the soft, smooth
fibers still retained a degree of warmth. This time he'd been close—so damned
close. Twenty minutes earlier and Perkins and the missus would have been
offering him a cup of coffee—or trying to sneak out their back door, depending
on why they'd been hit. Damn it to hell and back anyway. "Who called this in?" Sam asked, still
studying the bodies as he stood up and wiped his fingers on his already ripe
jeans. It was not quite eleven-thirty p.m. Blonde, bird-boned Tammy Sue was
dressed for bed in a pair of navy cotton pajamas and had a single white terry
slipper on her left foot. Perkins, who appeared to be at least two decades her
senior, was a beefy, big-bellied guy with a furry back and chicken legs. He was
wearing nothing but boxers, which he had pissed. The pungent ammonia smell all
but overrode the meat-locker aroma of fresh blood. As Sam had noted on multiple previous occasions,
there was no dignity in death. "There's an alarm. Somebody here hit the
panic button. We had a man on the scene nine minutes after the call came in.
They were dead when we got here." Eigel paused and glared at Sam, who was
glancing around without any real hope for shell casings. There were none
immediately visible, and he'd be willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that none
would be found. "Why the fuck should I be telling you this?" There was that attitude thing again. Sam still
wasn't in the mood. " 'Cause you like me?" Eigel's florid face turned apoplectic. Ignoring
him, Sam moved around the bodies, studying them from different angles. From the
look of it, Perkins had died first. His wife's death had come moments later,
most likely a byproduct of the hit on her husband. A glance around the room
revealed several possible points of entry for the killer: the front door, which
opened into the slate-floored hall that Sam and Wynne had just crossed, and
which provided access to the great room through a wide, arched opening; the
smaller arched door leading into the kitchen through which the sheriff had
entered; or the sliding patio door on the south wall. He calculated the steps
from each to the black leather couch where, from the evidence—remote control
and a bowl of melted ice cream on the coffee table in front of it; the mate to
Tammy Sue's white terry slipper on the carpet between the couch and table;
several sections of the newspaper scattered about—Tammy Sue had been sitting
when the killer surprised her. The most likely point of egress was through the
kitchen. Wynne pulled a tiny digital camera out of his pocket and started
taking pictures of the crime scene. Sam, meanwhile, headed for the kitchen.
"What the hell doyou think you're doing?" From the
corner of his eye, Sam saw that Eigel was looking from one to the
other of them. By now his face was as red as the blood-soaked carpet, and his
eyes were starting to bulge out of his head like a pug dog's. "Our jobs, man. Just like you," Wynne
said soothingly. As usual, he was playing good cop to Sam's bad cop. The roles
suited both of them to a tee. "You got no jurisdiction here. This is our case." Eigel had elected to follow him, Sam registered
absently as he glanced around the kitchen. It was gleaming white, wall-to-wall
cabinets, an island, the latest appliances. State-of-the-art, fit to grace one
of those women's magazines. An ice-cream scoop had been left in one of the pair
of stainless-steel sinks. Other than that, it was immaculate. Sam headed toward the patio door at the far end.
Its bright floral curtain wasn't shut all the way. An approximately
eight-inch-wide, floor-to-ceiling slice of glass was visible, black with the
darkness of the night beyond. The door was closed and locked. Careful not to
touch it, he studied the handle. It had a self-locking mechanism, so the killer
could have exited this way as well. Turning slowly, he stared at the pale oak
floor. A thin sliver of grass nestled near the foot of
the island. Bingo. "He entered and exited here," Sam
said. "You can dust for fingerprints, but you won't find any. Footprints
are a better bet, especially if the ground's soft outside. He would have had to
walk around the house. Maybe he got careless." Eigel bristled. "Listen, smart guy, I'm
right now officially askin' you and your pardner in there to leave. Nobody here
called you, nobody here wants you, and you got no call bustin' in and tryin' to
take over." Sam ignored the comment as he turned and headed
back toward the great room, retracing the killer's path. Twenty steps to the
great-room door, where he paused to try to visualize the scene through the
killer's eyes. The couch faced away from the door. If Tammy Sue had been
sitting on the couch, eating ice cream and watching TV, she probably wouldn't
have seen him coming. At least, not until it was too late. Feeling his stomach tighten, Sam glanced at
Eigel, who was behind him again. "You got roadblocks up? Say, five miles
out in all directions, access to expressways blocked, vehicles being checked as
they attempt to exit the area, that kind of thing?" "Don't tell me how to do my job." "I take that as a 'no.' " As Sam spoke, more people rushed into the great
room from the front hall: paramedics making an unholy racket as they rolled in
a pair of stretchers, a grumpy-looking man in a rumpled suit and tie, and a
mid-thirties brunette in white jeans and a black T-shirt, crying, "Daddy!
Oh my God, where's my daddy?" "Janelle!" Eigel abandoned him to rush
to the brunette's side, reaching her just as she stopped, clapped her hands to
her cheeks, and, eyes riveted on the corpses, let out a shriek that could have
cracked windows as far away as Atlanta. Holy Christ, Sam thought, wincing as his head gave another excruciating
pang. Somebody pass the Excedrin. "Da-a-a-ddy! Da-a-a-ddy!" "Get somebody on the door!" Clumsily
patting the screeching Janelle on the back, Eigel turned to bark the order at
the skinny officer in the corner, who was looking appalled. "Nobody else
gets in here unless I personally clear it, understand?" "Yes, sir!" The kid hurried toward the
door. Eigel glared at Sam, muttered something that looked like "Goddamn
fucking zoo," and turned back to deal as best he could with Janelle's
hysterics. Following the kid with his gaze, Sam saw that
the elaborate front door, which had been just slightly ajar when he and Wynne
had pushed through it moments earlier, was now standing wide open. Beyond it,
he could see the ambulance that had joined the pair of police cars that already
had been parked in the driveway when he and Wynne had pulled up—their first
concrete indication that they were too late. The ambulance's siren was off, but
its flashing blue lights lit up the night. At the bottom of the small,
manicured front yard, more cars were parking hurriedly, haphazardly. A TV truck
was arriving; people were charging up the yard. Wynne joined him, pocketing his camera.
"Hey, at least this time we were right behind him." "Yeah." Sam watched as deputies
started to stick tape to the carpet to mark the positions of the bodies. The
guy in the suit—from an overheard snatch of conversation, Sam gathered that he
was the coroner—knelt beside Tammy Sue, carefully lifting a section of long,
bleached hair, now wet with blood, away from her face. Even in death, she was a
pretty woman, fine-featured, carefully groomed. As he had expected, a pair of
black, oozing holes the size of dimes adorned her right temple. Like all the others, she’d been shot twice in
the head. From the look of the dark stippling surrounding the wounds, it had
been at point-blank range. He was hit by a wave of weariness so strong it
almost made him stagger. Seventy-two hours without sleep, seventy-two hours
spent frantically racing the clock—and it ended like this. Again. "Hell, let's go," he said dispiritedly
to Wynne. "We can get everything else we need tomorrow."
"Yeah." Sam headed for the door. Raising a hand in
farewell to the sheriff, who had managed to get the now-sobbing Janelle into a
chair, Wynne followed. Without saying so much as a word, they passed by the kid
and another deputy who were holding down the doorway and slid, unnoticed,
around the knot of people standing on the stoop, arguing heatedly for their
right to be admitted into the house. The unaccustomed buzz of activity along
with the stroboscopic lights from the ambulance had drawn the neighbors from
nearby houses. Groups were congregating on nearby lawns, talking among themselves
while they craned their necks to see what was going on. The TV camera crew
raced toward the house. Even at that time of night, it was as steamy hot as a
sauna. Stars winked lazily overhead above a canopy of feathery charcoal clouds.
The moon was a distant, pale ghost of itself. A slight breeze, humid and
unrefreshing, blew in from the lake across the street, rippling its moonlit
surface. Walking down the golf-course-caliber lawn toward their rented Sentra,
Sam took a deep breath and wished he hadn't. Flowers were everywhere, massive
banks of them bordering the streets, the driveways, the walks. Their colors
were muted by the darkness, but their perfume was not, lending a nauseating
sweetness to the heavy air that didn't mix well with the death-scene smells
that still lingered in his nostrils. "He's watching us," he said suddenly,
stopping dead and glancing at Wynne. "You know that, don't you? That son
of a bitch is out here somewhere watching us. I can feel him." "Sam..." Wynne began, and Sam knew
from his tone that he was about to get lecture number 257—the one on not taking
cases so personally—again. Yeah, but this one is personal, Sam
started to remind him, but before he could get the words out, his cell phone
rang. His heart jumped. Adrenaline shot through his
blood like an injection of speed. Fumbling to get the phone out of his pocket,
he suddenly wasn't tired anymore. Error, the ID window on his phone read. He stiffened even as he
flipped the thing open. "McCabe," he growled. "Close but no cigar." It was him: the
sick fuck who had just whacked Wendell and Tammy Sue, who had killed at least
three times previously that Sam knew for sure about, who was leading him and
his team on a murderous wild-goose chase that had started with the killing of a
retired federal judge in Richmond three weeks before and was proceeding south
and westward, around the skirt of the country. The voice was distorted,
digitally masked as usual, but by now Sam knew it better than his own. "Where are you, you bastard?" Sam's
fingers tightened on the phone as if they were gripping the caller's neck. He
scanned his surroundings—the artfully placed groves of trees, the nearby
houses, the shining black lake— without success. "Where are you?" A chuckle was his only answer. "Ready for your
next clue?" "Just help me understand," Sam said,
desperate to keep him talking. "Why? What do you want? What's the point
of... ?" "Here goes," the voice said.
"Where in the world is—Madeline?" "Look—" Sam began, but it was no use:
The phone went dead. Whatever else he was, the guy wasn't stupid; he would know
they were trying to trace his calls, just like he would know they were
recording them. Cursing under his breath, Sam pressed a button. "You called, master?" Gardner
answered. The technical expert of Sam's team, she was back at the Comfort Inn
just off I-264 that was serving as their temporary local headquarters. "You get that?" "Yeah." "Anything?" "Working on it. But I doubt it. He's
probably using a prepaid phone card just like before." "Sick bastard beat us again. We got two
more dead." Sam's voice was glum. He could hear the flat tone of it
himself. "Call the locals, would you, see if they can set up a roadblock
around the perimeter, say, five miles out, check IDs, look out for suspicious
characters, that type of thing. I'd handle it, but the guy in charge here
doesn't seem to like me too much." Gardner chuckled. "Big surprise." "Love you, too," Sam said sourly, and
hung up. Wynne was looking at him, tense, frowning, his eyes narrowed. "Madeline." Sam was suddenly
bone-tired again. "This time he's going after some woman named
Madeline." Wynne expelled his breath in a whistling sigh.
"Shit." "Yeah." They headed for the car and got in without
another word. After all, what was there tosay? They were back on the
clock again and they both knew it. If the pattern held, they
had exactly seven days to find out who this Madeline was and get toher
before the killer did. If they lost this race like they'd lost the last three,
Madeline, whoever the hell she was, was
dead. TWOThursday,
August 14 Okay, so she was afraid of the dark. It was stupid, Maddie Fitzgerald knew, but she
just couldn't help it: Lying there in her hotel room bed, staring up into
nothingness, her hand still in the process of withdrawing from the lamp she had
just turned off, she felt as shivery as if she'd just plunged headfirst into a
pool of icy water. "Pretty pathetic," she said aloud,
hoping that hearing her own voice might provide an antidote to the cold sweat
she could feel popping out along her hairline. It didn't. Instead of being
reassuring, the sound made her cringe as she immediately wondered who or what
might be lurking there in the darkness with her to hear—and pounce. "You're on the twentieth floor, for God's
sake. Nobody's coming in through the window. The door is locked. You're safer
here than you are at home," she told herself firmly. That didn't help, either. Bravado was useless;
logic clearly was, too. She was simply going to have to sweat it out. This time
she was not going to give in. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes.
The relentless drone of the air-conditioning unit under the window suddenly
seemed as loud as an 18-wheeler barreling along beside her bed. The bed
itself—a king-size—was huge. Huddled on the side nearest the
unreachable-from-the-outside window, she felt increasingly small and
vulnerable. Which was ridiculous. She was five feet, seven inches tall; one
hundred twenty-five well-toned pounds; a smart, competent,
twenty-nine-year-old, soon-to-be-wildly-successful businesswoman, for God's
sake—and yet here she was, heart boogeying like a whole dance floor full of
hyperactive teenagers because she’d just turned off the bedside lamp. Maddie
silently acknowledged that humiliating fact even as she fought the urge to grab
for the switch, click the lamp back on, and put herself out of her misery. If she turned on the light, she'd be able to
sleep. Her eyes popped open before she managed to put a
brake on runaway temptation. No. Turning over so that she was facing the door,
Maddie gritted her teeth and mentally groped for pleasant thoughts. She lay on
her side, knees tucked almost under her chin, head propped on a pair of
too-soft pillows, clutching the blankets tightly around her shoulders as she
stared sightlessly into stygian darkness—darkness into which she had
deliberately plunged herself. Closing her eyes a second time required real
physical effort. Squinching up her face, she squeezed them shut. Moments later,
when none materialized, she gave up on pleasant thoughts and instead began
counting toward a hundred in her head. At the same time, she worked to control
the physical symptoms brought on by the absence of light: ragged breathing,
racing pulse, pounding heart, cold sweat. By the time she reached fifty, her heart was
thundering like an elephant stampede and she was breathing so fast she was
practically panting. Even as she kept her eyes clenched tightly, despair filled
her. Would she never be free of the specter that had haunted her for the last
seven years? Every single time she tried to go to sleep alone in the dark, was
she going to suffer a replay of that night? Would her dreams always be haunted
by the sound of...? Shrill as a siren, a shriek split the darkness
close beside her head. Several seconds passed before Maddie realized
that what she was hearing was the phone ringing. Peeling herself off the
ceiling, taking a deep, steadying breath, she reached for the lamp, fumbled
with the switch—oh light, blessed light! — and picked up the receiver. "Hello?" If she'd just suffered a
complete and utter nervous breakdown, her voice at least gave no hint of it.
Never let them see you sweat: the mantra had been drummed into her at a hard
school. Nice to know that it was still automatically operational. "Did I wake you?" Jon. He'd nearly sent her into cardiac arrest. "Actually, I wasn't asleep." Maddie
hitched herself up against the pillows. As she did so, she wiped her sweaty
palms one at a time on the tastefully earth-toned comforter in which she was
swaddled. "Me neither. Hey, maybe we could keep each
other company." Maddie could almost see his smile through the
phone. Jon Carter was a good-looking guy, blond, blue-eyed, tall and trim,
oozing charm through his pores. It was one of the reasons she continued to employ
him. "Not a chance." Her voice was tart. Of
course, the fact that he was still regularly hitting on her despite the change
in circumstances that had turned her into his employer could not be considered
a point in his favor. He sighed. "You're a hard woman, Maddie
Fitzgerald, you know that?" "Believe me, the knowledge keeps me awake
nights." Her heart rate was almost back to normal. "You want
something?" "I just had a thought—maybe we should try
to work Mrs. Brehmer into the spot. You know, have her be the face of Brehmer's
Pet Chow, or something." "She's ninety years old and she looks like
she died about ten years back." Again, she could hear his smile. "So what's
your point?" Mrs. Brehmer was also worth about ninety
billion, and her account, currently held by J. Walter Thompson, an advertising
agency so huge that it was tantamount to sacrilege to mention Maddie's own
fledgling agency in the same breath with it, was worth upward of ten million a
year. The thought practically made Maddie salivate. She'd sunk her life savings
into buying Creative Partners when the firm for which she and Jon were working
had gone belly-up eighteen months before. Unfortunately, so far the company's
finances hadn't exactly turned around on her watch. If something good didn't happen
soon, this time when Creative Partners went down the tubes she was going down
with it. Not a happy thought. "I suppose we could coat the lens with
Vaseline," Maddie said with a sigh. "Or put pantyhose over it.
Something to soften the visual." Jon chuckled. "See, I have good
ideas." "Sometimes." Maddie was thinking.
"Maybe we could put her in a rocking chair in a long black dress, get her
to look sort of like Whistler's mother. Just get a long shot of her. She
wouldn't have to actually say anything. She could be like the company
logo." "There you go. Put a whole bunch of animals
around her. Cats draped across the back of the chair, dogs at her feet. That
kind of thing." "Wouldn't hurt to pitch it." Cradling
the receiver between her shoulder and ear, Maddie reached for the hotel-issue
notepad and pencil by the phone. With a few economical strokes, she made a
quick sketch of Mrs. Brehmer as logo, complete with slight smile,
shoulder-perching cat, and oval frame, then examined it critically. "Could work," she admitted. "Want me to come up so we can put something
together?" "No." Maddie glanced at the bedside clock. It was not quite
midnight. "Our appointment's not until ten. How about if we meet for
breakfast at seven-thirty? That should give us plenty of time to go over
everything. Remember, right now we're just floating this logo idea as sort of a
trial balloon. If she likes it, we can go from there." "Whatever you say, Boss." "Get some sleep." Because being called
Boss was still fresh enough to give her a thrilled little tingle,
Maddie's voice was gruff. Then she bethought herself of something and pulled
the receiver back. "Jon—good thinking, by the way." "I try. Hey, if you change your mind, I'm
only two floors down." "Good-night, Jon." Maddie hung up. For a
moment, she simply stared at the sketch she had made as various ways to work
Joan Brehmer into the ad campaign they were proposing revolved through her
head. The elderly widow was still sufficiently involved in the company her
husband had founded in St. Louis fifty years before that Creative Partners had
had to fly to New Orleans, where Mrs. Brehmer now spent most of the year, to
pitch their ideas to her personally. Given that the old lady felt that strongly
about the company, maybe including her in the spot was the way to go. Maybe it
would even be the deciding factor. Okay, so Jon's perpetual come-ons were annoying.
The man still had some decent ideas. If Creative Partners landed this
account... The phone rang again. This time Maddie didn't
jump. With the light on, she was as cool as a cucumber. "What?" she said into the receiver. "If this works, I want a Christmas
bonus." Jon again, as she'd known it would be. "We'll talk." "Damn right we'll talk. I..." "Good-night, Jon." But Maddie was smiling as she hung up. The idea
of being in a position to give Christmas bonuses to her five employees was
irresistible. If they got this account... But getting the account would require a dazzling
presentation, and a dazzling presentation would be greatly facilitated by a
decent amount of sleep. Which at the moment she wasn't even close to getting.
If she got up an hour earlier than she'd planned, there'd be plenty of time to
work on the Mrs.-Brehmer-as-logo idea before she met Jon for breakfast. Right
now, she needed rest. Maddie returned the pad and pencil to the
bedside table, then frowned at the lamp. It bathed all four corners of the
standard-issue room in a warm glow. She could see her reflection, tinted gold
and only faintly distorted, in its shiny brass base. Chin-length coffee-brown
hair tousled from the amount of tossing and turning she had already done.
Slender shoulders, bare except for the spaghetti straps of the silky pink
shorty nightgown she was wearing, tan against white sheets. High-cheekboned,
square-jawed face, complete with wide mouth, delicate nose, and dark-lashed
hazel eyes, staring back at her. She looked worried. And tired. Maddie almost snorted. Big surprise. By now,
worried and tired were practically her middle names. But if Creative Partners managed to wow Mrs.
Brehmer... Phobia-busting was going to have to wait. The
reality was that, for her, sleep required light. But the bedside lamp was
almost too bright. Feeling a little like Goldilocks—this porridge is too
cold; this porridge is too hot—she slid out of bed and padded barefoot to
the bathroom. Flipping the bathroom light on, she closed the door until it was
just barely ajar. Then, shivering as she inadvertently stepped right into the
arctic slipstream that blasted from the air conditioner, she succumbed to the
final temptation and stopped at the closet to pull Fudgie, the ancient,
floppy-eared stuffed dog that was the sole surviving reminder of her misspent
youth, from the suitcase on the floor. Clutching him, she bounded back into
bed, pulled the covers up around her neck, and, with Fudgie tucked beneath her
chin, turned off the lamp. Ahh. The sheets were still faintly warm, warm enough to soothe
the shivers away. Fudgie's familiar aroma and well-worn softness provided the
illusion that she was no longer alone. The slice of light provided just enough
illumination to induce sleep. A glance around verified that everything from the
armoire at the foot of the bed to the small armchair in the cornerwas dimly visible, despite the fact
that the room was now shrouded in a kind of grayish twilight. Not too much, not
too little, just right. Night, Goldilocks, she told herself, and snuggled her head deep into the
pillows. Her lids drooped. The bed was suddenly surprisingly comfortable. Even
the growl of the air conditioner seemed companionable rather than obnoxious
now. Fear shuffled off deep into the furthest reaches of her subconscious as
images of Mrs. Brehmer in various increasingly ridiculous poses flitted through
her head: the old lady standing with a pitchfork and a Great Dane in a takeoff
of American Gothic; in close-up (with the help of much lens-softening
Vaseline), sporting an eyepatch and a Mona Lisa smile while a parrot perched
pirate-style on her shoulder; sitting with a black cat on her lap and a yellow
canary in a cage by her side, rocking away like Granny in a Sylvester and
Tweety cartoon... The pounding of her own heart woke her. At
least, that's what Maddie thought at first as she surfaced what could have been
minutes or hours later. Even as she blinked groggily, trying to get her
bearings, she could feel the gun-shy organ knocking against her rib cage, feel
the racing of her pulse, the dryness of her mouth, the knot in the pit of her
stomach that told her she'd had a bad dream. Another bad dream. The good news, she thought as she wet her dry
lips, was that she hadn't had one for a long time now. More than a year.
Actually, not since she'd taken over Creative Partners and given herself a
whole rash of new worries to keep her awake at night. Which, believe it or not,
was actually a positive development in her life. Better to worry about being
jobless, homeless, and broke than being dead. The room was pitch-dark. The bathroom light was
off. Realization hit Maddie like a jolt from a cattle
prod. The bathroom light is off. Unless there was a power outage—no, that was
out, the air conditioner was still doing its window-rattling roar—someone had
turned off the light. Someone had turned off the light. Wait, her rational side cautioned, even as panic
seized her by the throat. Stiff as a concrete slab now, she strained futilely
to hear or see as she deliberately ticked off various unterrifying
possibilities: The bulb could have burned out; there could have been a short in
a wire; it... There was someone in her room. He was stepping
out of the narrow corridor between the bathroom on the left and the rows of
closets on the right and moving toward the bed. Maddie didn't see him; the room
was pitch-black. She didn't hear him—the air conditioner was making too much
noise to allow her to hear anything so stealthy as a creeping footfall on
carpet. But she sensed him. Felt him. Knew with
unshakable certainty that he was there. Her heart leaped. Goose bumps raced along her
skin like a rush of falling dominoes. The hair at the back of her neck shot
straight up. A scream ripped into her throat; instinct made
her swallow it just in time. If she screamed he would be on her like a duck
on a June bug. If she screamed, who, in this cheap, impersonal hotel with its
noisy, sound-blocking air conditioners, would be likely to hear—except him? Making a split-second decision, she moved,
sliding as quietly as possible off the side of the bed, suddenly grateful for
the air conditioner's racket to cover her movements. Flat on her stomach on the
musty-smelling carpet, she discovered that there was nowhere to go: The window
wall was maybe a foot away on her left, and, to her right, a quick, questing
hand encountered the carpeted platform that supported the bed. A couple of heartbeats passed before the true
horror of her situation sank in: She was trapped. Her throat closed up and her
stomach knotted as she faced the fact that she had nowhere to go. The only way
out was the door— and the intruder was doing whatever he was doing between her
and it. Maybe he was nothing more than a garden-variety
burglar. She’d left her purse on the floor beside the armoire. Maybe he would
just take it and melt away into the darkness from which he'd sprung. Yeah, and maybe she'd win the lottery too, but
the way her luck had been running for the last few years, she wasn't going to
hold her breath in anticipation. Where was he? Her every sense was on quivering
alert, but the darkness was impenetrable: She literally couldn't see the hands
splayed flat on the carpet in front of her face. Hearing anything was equally
impossible over the air conditioner. Her heart threatened to pound its way out
of her chest. Fear quickened her breathing until, afraid he might somehow hear
the fast, shallow pants even over the rattling air conditioner, she
deliberately deepened and slowed it. Her fingers, still hopelessly probing the
scratchy carpet barrier that prevented her from going with her first instinct,
which was to hide under the bed, encountered a smooth wooden stick: the pencil
she'd been sketching with earlier. They closed around it convulsively. It
wasn't much, but it was the closest thing to a weapon she had. The darkness lightened fractionally. Glancing
up, her gaze widened on a pinpoint shimmer of light that was reflected in the
lamp's base. He had switched on a flashlight, one of those small ones with the
tiny beams. It was moving over the bed. Her stomach clenched like a fist. Move, she told herself fiercely. Scrambling into a low crouch,
shivering with cold and fear, Maddie scuttled as soundlessly as possible toward
the foot of the bed. The light went out. That could not be good. Thunk. Thunk. The bed shuddered twice in quick succession. Her
shoulder was just touching the mattress, using it as a guide to get where she needed
to go, and she felt the twin jolts. Maddie almost yelped with surprise as she
jerked away. Pulse pounding so hard that she could barely hear the air
conditioner over the panicked beat assaulting her eardrums, she backpedaled
until she came up against the wall. Sucking in air, she gaped toward the bed
without, of course, being able to see a thing. The sounds made her think of a
fist slamming hard into the mattress. Once. Twice. Then, with sudden icy certainty, she realized
that those sounds hadn't been made by any fist. The acrid smell drifting
beneath her nostrils told its own tale: a gun. A gun with a silencer. Someone
possessing a gun with a silencer had just fired two shots into her bed. Into, as the shooter thought, her. Oh, God, oh, God. . . Pure unadulterated terror threatened to reduce
her muscles to jelly. It froze her in place, left her unable to move. The flashlight beam once again sliced through
the darkness, playing over the bed. Maddie found herself staring in horror at
the jumble of blankets and sheets. The light focused on the pillow where
moments before her head had rested. A chocolate brown tuft that she recognized
as Fudgie's ear was just visible above the tangled covers. In a flash Maddie
realized that the gunman, whoever he was, had mistaken that tuft for the top of
her head. And he'd fired at it. All rational thought was swept from her mind as
a hand in a black glove reached out to flip the covers down. Move! This time it was an internal shriek. Her body
automatically obeyed. She catapulted away from the wall, panic giving wings to
her feet as she bolted toward the narrow thread of light from the hall that
just showed beneath the door. She already knew she had almost no chance. "Hey!" It was a man's surprised exclamation. With all
need for concealment past, Maddie shrieked for all she was worth as the
flashlight beam swung around to follow her flight. There was a rush of movement
behind her; horror turned her blood to ice water in her veins. He was going to
catch her—but no, she was at the door. Her frantic fingers found smooth, cold
metal: the knob. They closed on it... Oh, God, it was slippery. Her hands were sweaty.
She couldn't turn the knob. A strong hand grabbed her shoulder, yanked her
back. Maddie screamed like an air horn, twisting, kicking, fighting for all she
was worth. He must have dodged, because her fists connected with nothing but
air. Her bare toes did worse: They smashed painfully into his shin. "Help! Help!" Her screams still hung in the air as he slammed
her against the wall. The back of her head hit the trim around the bathroom
door so hard that an explosion of tiny white lights seemed to burst in front of
her eyes. A gloved hand around her throat silenced her brutally even as it
pinned her in place. Clawing instinctively at that choking hand, she
only remembered the pencil—her weapon—when she felt it drop. Oh, God. Her nails raked harmlessly down the leather,
then hit pay dirt as they ripped at the vulnerable flesh of his wrist. His gloved knuckles slammed into her right
cheekbone so hard that she saw stars again. "Scratch me again, bitch, and I'll rip your
throat out." Her eyes watered. Pain radiated from where he'd
hit her. She couldn't breathe. His grip tightened cruelly as he leaned close,
pressing himself against her so that she could feel buttons and smooth cotton
and the terrifying strength of the body beneath imprinting themselves on her
flesh. She hung motionless in his grip now, stunned, terrified, as vulnerable
as a rabbit in the jaws of a wolf. His hand spanned her throat, fingers digging
into the tender hollows below her ears. It hurt. Her cheek hurt. The back of
her head hurt. But the pain was nothing compared to the surging tide of her
fear. His breath, warm and stinking of onions, was hot on her cheek. His mouth
was just inches from hers. She shuddered reflexively—then remembered the gun
and went absolutely still. Where was it? He'd had it—he must still have
it—somewhere. In a holster or... He changed position, and she felt his free hand
fumble at his waist. The hand he'd hit her with—his right hand— Is he going for his gun? The thought that he might be getting ready to
shoot her, that at any second now she might feel the impact of a bullet ripping
through her flesh and muscle and bone, made Maddie go weak at the knees. "There's m-m-money in my purse," she
tried desperately. Her voice was a hoarse, halting whisper that hurt her
bruised throat. A quick sideways glance told her that the door was close, so
tantalizingly close. The glimmering line of light from the hall was maybe three
feet away. "I don't want your money." His hand came up toward her head oh, God and
then flattened on her mouth. A rubbery smell, a sticky strip molding her
lips—duct tape. Shaking with horror, she realized that he was duct-taping her
mouth shut. His touch almost tender, he smoothed the strip out, then applied a
second one. It was then that Maddie knew, without a single
remaining flicker of doubt, that he meant to kill her. Without warning a bright beam shone full in her
face: the flashlight. It blinded her as thoroughly as the darkness had moments
earlier. Flinching, shaking, light-headed with fear, she squinched her eyes
shut and prayed like she had never prayed in her life. For the space of a couple of heartbeats, he did
nothing while the light played over her face. He seemed to be... looking at
her. Terror popped her eyes open again just as the
light went out. Maddie heard herself make a sound: a moan. No, a
whimper, barely audible beneath the tape. "Scared?" There was the faintest hint
of enjoyment in his whisper. "You should be." His voice roughened.
"Get down on your knees." Fear surged like bile into her throat. She
tasted the sharp, vinegary tang of it. His hand tightened around her throat,
then shifted to the back of her neck, squeezing and forcing her down. It didn't
require much effort. Her knees buckled; she was dizzy, disoriented, literally
sick with dread. The carpet felt stiff and prickly beneath her knees. Her hands
splayed out over it, supporting her weight as cold sweat drenched her. The
wintry blast of the air conditioner hit her damp skin, worsening her shivers,
turning her as icy cold on the outside as she already was on the inside. Her single coherent thought was, Any second now, I'm going to die. From out in the hall, just faintly, Maddie
thought she heard voices. He must have heard them too, or felt her tense in
response, because his hand tightened painfully on the back of her neck. "Don't make a sound." He was behind her now, leaning over her, his
hand hard and controlling on the back of her bent neck, pushing her face toward
the carpet. Even as the voices died away, even as her hands shifted
automatically to compensate for the forced redistribution of her weight, the
horrible vision of rape flashed into her mind. Please, God, please, God, please... Her fingers touched the pencil just as her cheek
grazed the fuzzy nylon of the carpet. Instinct took over, and her fist closed
around the pencil in a death grip. "Stay still," he whispered, leaning
closer. There was the faintest of metallic sounds, and tremors of horror raced
over her skin as she felt his right hand move. Instantly she visualized what he
was doing: positioning the gun. To shoot her... Galvanized, she gave it her last, best shot.
Ramming the pencil up and back, she felt it thrust into something substantial,
something firm but yielding, something that made her think of a fork sinking
into meat... He screamed. "Fucking bitch!" he howled, falling
back. Just as quick as that, she was free. Rocketing
to her feet, she hurled herself at the door, latching on to the knob with both
hands and yanking for all she was worth. It opened. Light so bright that it was blinding
spilled over her. With every last bit of strength she possessed, she leaped
into the light. A single terrified glance over her shoulder as she fled told
her that he was already coming after her, hauling the closing door open again,
a huge dark menacing shadow lurching in horrifyingly swift pursuit. She ripped the duct tape from her mouth and
screamed to wake the dead. THREE Friday,
August 15 What in hell does she have in common with the
others?" Sam muttered, mostly to himself. Hands thrust into the front
pockets of his jeans, seething with barely contained frustration, he was
standing in an inner hall of the New Orleans medical examiner's office,
watching through a Plexiglas window as the county coroner, Dr. Lurlene Deland,
made the initial Y-shaped incision in the body of Madeline Fitzgerald. His
badge had been enough to grant him access to the autopsy. His grim-faced
demeanor kept the flunkies who walked past from hassling him about the whys and
wherefores of his right to watch. This time, he and Wynne hadn't even been
close, arriving at the crime scene—a Holiday Inn Express—just as the body was
being loaded into the coroner's van to be taken away. "Could be anything. Or nothing. You ever
thought about that? Maybe he's just picking victims at random. Playing with
us." Wynne was beside him, leaning heavily against
the dull beige concrete wall, electing not to look through the window. Having
just stuffed his face with half a dozen Krispy Kremes in a desperate bid to
counter exhaustion with a blood-sugar rush, Wynne had turned green around the
gills as soon as they had walked through the swinging doors that separated the
office from the working area and the formaldehyde-based smell of the place hit
him in the face. Sam had passed on the Krispy Kremes and was now heartily glad.
Wynne was looking sick enough for the pair of them. "There's something." Sam watched as a thin line of blood marked the
progress of Deland's scalpel. Naked, waxy-skinned, the victim lay on a sloped
metal table, the upper half of which was textured to keep the body from
sliding; running water flowed along the table into a shallow tub beneath a
grate at the lower end. To catch the effluvia, as another coroner had
once told him. "Nothing's turned up so far," Wynne
said. Sam grimaced. Wynne was right. Despite ongoing
searches into each victim's background, they'd uncovered no links between them.
Nothing to connect them at all. Not even the serial killer's special of age,
sex, or race. "Something will. There's a link, and we'll
find it and we'll catch him. Sooner or later, he'll make a mistake." "I hope he hurries the hell up. This case
is losing its charm real fast." Sam grunted agreement. Christ, he felt bad. The
bright fluorescent lights on the other side of the glass were giving him a
killer headache. Or maybe it was the chronic lack of sleep. Or the gnawing
emptiness in his stomach. Or maybe even the sheer damned futility of the
effort. They'd spent the last week searching the country for the dead woman,
desperately dissecting every clue as the asshole had called it in. The second
one, Peyton, had turned out to be part of the name of the street on which the
hotel stood. The third clue, Fitzgerald, proved to be the woman's last name.
The fourth was the link to the hotel: holiday. The fifth, called in just hours
before the victim was killed, was no. As in New Orleans. Figuring that out had been enough to allow them
to finally put the puzzle pieces together and find the woman. But it had not
been enough to allow them to find her while she was still alive. Sam gritted his teeth against the curse words
that crowded onto his tongue, and likewise battled an urge to rest his forehead
against the sure-to-be-cool Plexiglas. A muffled version of
"Satisfaction," courtesy of a local golden-oldies station, played on
the sound system. Pity he wasn't getting any, in any shape, form, or fashion, he
reflected. At the very least, he needed about six hours of uninterrupted sleep
and a decent meal to feel halfway normal again. Sex would be good, too, but the
way things were going that probably wasn't going to happen anytime soon. A
real, honest-to-God lead—now what he wouldn't give for that. A lead would be the best pick-me-up of all. "Her ex-husband check out?" Wynne
asked, clearly without much hope. "So far." Working off background
information on the victim given in the police report, Gardner had done the
preliminary work, and Sam had gone over her report in the car on the way over.
"At least, as far as anybody can tell at this point, he was where he said
he was last night. Anyway, he's a shift worker at GE. He might or might not
have had reason to murder his ex-wife, but for the life of me I can't see him
roaming around the country, knocking random people off." Wynne made a sound signifying disgust under his
breath. "So what we got, basically, is nothing." "Pretty much." Beyond the transparent barrier, Deland was
folding back the skin surrounding the incision. Turning the facts of the case
over in his head for what must have been the millionth time, Sam watched
without seeing as her hands in their thin, white surgical gloves wielded a pair
of gardening shears to snip through the ribs. Below them, the internal organs
glistened, still pristine. The only real damage had been to the victim's
head. Sam had watched as the coroner's first, careful inspection of the
victim's scalp, skin, and body surfaces had all but confirmed this. Like the
others, she'd been dispatched with two neat gunshots to the temple. A jar
holding a single, deformed shard of lead that had failed to penetrate the skull
waited on the wheeled metal cart at the coroner's elbow. Later, as more
fragments were recovered from the brain, they would be added to the jar. The pieced-together bullets would tell them
nothing, Sam already knew. Every killing so far had been done using a different
weapon. The killer was smart enough to prefer his guns, like his phones,
disposable. Who the hell was this guy? Deland made a delicate movement with her
scalpel, then lifted a bloody organ from the body with her two gloved hands and
deposited it on a scale on the cart. "I need some air," Wynne said. Sam glanced over at him to find that Wynne was
now watching the autopsy in progress. His eyes were squinched half shut, his
face had blanched at least two shades, and his lips were tightly compressed.
Before Sam could reply, the big guy turned on his heel and strode back down the
corridor. His sandals went slap-slap-slap on the slick tile floor. He was moving like he feared not making it to
the john in time. Sam glanced back at the body on the tilted metal
table, followed the proceedings for a few more minutes, and gave it up. There
was no absolution to be gained by watching, and no new knowledge, either. The truth was, he was almost too tired to stand
up, let alone think. And he was bugged, big-time, by the fact that the killer
had not made contact since calling with the last clue. Up until now, there had
been a clear pattern: a partial name first, called in not long after their
arrival at the scene of the previous murder. Then two or three random clues
that only made sense in retrospect. Finally, a hint to the city was always last,
called in just a few hours before the next killing occurred. This time, they'd
had to scramble to hop a plane from Houston, where they'd been en route to
interview a Madeline Peyton who worked for Fitzgerald Securities, one of at
least a hundred Madelines on their list who met the parameters of the
information they'd been given so far, when the last clue had come in and they'd
pinpointed New Orleans. It was as if the killer wanted to make a game of it— to
see if he could pull off the crime while Sam's team raced to make sense of the
clues, raced to locate the victim, raced to stop him. So far, the killer was
winning. The stats were grim: FBI 0, Insane Bastard 5—no, 6 if you counted
Tammy Sue Perkins, which, since she was dead and he had killed her, you had to
do. With this last victim, they'd been a good two hours behind the killer. Sam
had barely gotten a glimpse of the victim as she was taken away, just enough to
know that she was a woman, dark-haired, attractive, and dead. The crime scene
was her hotel room. Apparently, the attack had occurred as she slept. But
why? Why? Why? Sam hated to admit even to himself that he had
no clue. His last contact with the killer had come—he glanced at his watch; it
was 9:17 a.m.—at five minutes until seven p.m. the previous day. That was more
than fourteen hours ago. Before, the bastard had always called him within no
more than an hour of Sam's arrival at the death scene to gloat—and to provide
the first lead to the next victim. This time there'd been no contact. Maybe, this time, there was no next victim?
Maybe the bastard had gotten it all out of his system? Maybe the game was over? Yeah, and maybe he was going to get a raise in
his next paycheck, too, but he didn't think so, Sam concluded gloomily. Still, he had to ask himself: What was different
about this one? Why hadn't the killer made contact afterward? There was a
reason—there was always a reason. He just didn't know what it was. Yet. The questions that crowded into his mind in the
wake of that were so urgent and the answers so elusive that Sam banged his fist
against the Plexiglas in frustration. Deland and her assistant glanced his way,
their eyes frowning at him above their surgical masks. The message was clear: He was disturbing their
work. Sam didn't even bother mouthing an apology. He turned on his heel and
went in search of Wynne. He found him outside, to the left of the
frosted-glass front door, leaning against the four-story building's grimy
stucco wall. Located just off Canal Street, the coroner's office was in a seedy
area heavy on small shops and ethnic restaurants that swarmed with activity
even this early in the day. Pedestrians clogged the sidewalks. Vehicles of all
descriptions crawled bumper-to-bumper in both directions, creating a continuous
background buzz that sounded like a swarm of angry wasps. The heat wrapped
around Sam's face like a hot, wet towel the moment he left the air-conditioning
behind. Inhaling was like breathing in soup. The smells—car emissions, decaying
plants, various kinds of spicy food cooking—would have been nauseating if he'd
let himself pay attention to them, which he didn't. Two tortured-looking
palmetto trees struggled to survive in wrought-iron cages set into the
sidewalk. Wynne—or at least as much of Wynne as could fit, which was about a
fourth—stood in the spindly shadow of one of these. His arms were crossed over
his massive chest, his head was bent, his eyes were closed. His mouth worked as
he chewed something very slowly and deliberately. Bubble gum, Sam assumed,
because of the faint grape smell and the fact that Wynne had bought a six-pack
of grape Dubble Bubble along with the doughnuts he'd scarfed down earlier.
Since quitting smoking six weeks ago, Wynne rarely went longer than fifteen
minutes without putting something in his mouth. As a result, he was gaining
weight like a turkey in October, enough so that his baggy shorts were growing
less baggy by the day and his shirts—today's model was vintage Hawaiian,
featuring a big-bosomed girl doing the hula on the front—strained at their
buttons. "Okay?" Sam asked, surveying him.
Wynne gave a single slow nod. Despite the nod, Sam continued to eye him
skeptically. Sweat beaded Wynne's forehead, his face was flushed red, and his
curly, fair hair had frizzed in the heat until it looked like a brass-colored
Brillo pad. To put it mildly, Wynne was not, at the moment, a poster boy for
FBI spit and polish, But then, that's what four weeks on the road chasing a
murderous nutjob did to a man, Sam thought. He himself was a case in point.
He was sporting a couple of days'—he'd forgotten exactly how many—worth of
stubble, faded jeans, and a T-shirt that had once been black but had been
washed so often and so haphazardly over the past month that it was now a kind
of tie-dyed-looking gray. The jackets and ties that Bureau protocol called for
had been left back in their hotel rooms. This particular August, New Orleans
was a hundred degrees in the shade with a sticky humidity that never seemed to
let up. In other words, it was just too damned hot.
Wynne opened one bleary eye. "I need a cigarette. Bad." "Chew
your gum." "Ain't helping." In front of them, a black Firebird pulled over
to the curb and stopped. Both doors opened at almost exactly the same moment,
and two men got out. Tensing automatically, doing a quick mental check to make
sure his Sig Sauer still nestled in the small of his back where he could get to
it in a matter of seconds if need be, Sam squinted at them through the shimmer
of heat that rose from the sidewalk, watching, narrow-eyed, as the pair headed
purposefully toward him and Wynne. Their initially brisk pace slowed as they
drew closer. "You guys learn anything in there?" Sam relaxed as he recognized the speaker as Phil
Lewis, an FBI agent from the local field office whom he had first met some six
years previously, when Sam had come to town to spearhead an investigation into
a hashish-smuggling ring that was using the port of New Orleans as an entry
point to the U.S. drug market. Despite the camouflage provided by the inches-high
blond pompadour the guy tended like a girlfriend, Lewis was short, maybe
five-nine or so beneath the hair, stocky and cocky in the way small men often
are. Today he was decked out in a pale yellow sport coat, a gleaming white
T-shirt, pressed jeans, and Ray-Bans. The African-American guy with him was
taller, thinner, and a little more conservative in a crew cut, navy sport coat,
and khakis. And Ray-Bans. "Nah," Sam replied, leaning a shoulder
back against the building and folding his arms over his chest. "Long time
no see, Lewis. I see you're still a fan of Miami Vice." "What?" Lewis looked bewildered and
suspicious at the same time. Beside Sam, Wynne snickered. "Forget it." Sam jerked a thumb at
Wynne. "This is E. P. Wynne. Phil Lewis. And . .. ?" "Greg Simon," Lewis's partner said.
Perfunctory handshakes were exchanged all around, and then Sam looked at Lewis. "You got anything?" Sam meant anything
he needed to know, which Lewis perfectly understood. "Nothing but a call from Dr. Deland's
office about two suspicious-looking characters claiming to be FBI agents
forcing their way into the Fitzgerald autopsy." "That would be us," Sam said. Wynne
nodded. "Yeah." Lewis frowned. "You want
to tell me why we're interested in this case?" Ordinarily, murder investigations were left up
to local police forces in the jurisdictions in which they occurred. The FBI was
called in only on certain extraordinary cases. "Possible link to multiple homicides with
the UNSUB crossing state lines," Sam said. Bureau policy was to share
information on developing cases with local field agents, but in this case Sam
interpreted that to mean on a strictly need-to-know basis. At this point, in
Sam's estimation, what he'd just said was about all Lewis needed to know. He
remembered all too vividly how the details of the last investigation they'd
worked on together had gotten leaked to the Times-Picayune within hours
of the investigative team uncovering them. For all its population, New Orleans
was a small town that way, and unless something had changed, Lewis had a
way-too-cozy relationship with local reporters. Having this thing turn into a media circus was
something they did not need. Especially when they were no closer to making an
apprehension today than they had been when Sam had gotten the first call at the
first murder scene four weeks ago. "Hot damn," Lewis said, rubbing his
hands together in transparent glee. "You mean we got ourselves a serial
killer?" "Nah. Looks like a series of professional
hits." Sam slouched against the wall again. " 'Course, it's too early
to say for sure." Lewis gave a nod toward the building. "What
was she into to get herself whacked?" "Could be a lot of things. At this point,
we don't really know." "But you've got an idea," Lewis said,
watching Sam. "Actually, I've got no fucking clue,"
Sam said, which had the double virtue of being the absolute truth while at the
same time visibly annoying Lewis. Beside him, Wynne was working on blowing a
big purple bubble. The sickly sweet grape smell wafted beneath Sam's nose. "Bullshit," Lewis said. Sam shrugged. "Think what you want." "You're operating in my neck of the woods
now." Lewis's voice was sharp. "Whatever you've got on this case, I
have a right to know it." "You're absolutely correct. You do." "So?" "When I find something out, I'll send you a
memo." "You..." Lewis went red with anger but
swallowed the rest of what he'd been going to say. Sam gave him the faintest of
smiles. Wynne's bubble popped with a loud smack. "You got a problem with memos?" Sam
asked innocently. "I can do e-mails." "You suck, you know that?" Lewis said
through his teeth, and started walking. "Come on, Greg, we need to head on
in and tell Dr. Deland's staff that, hard as it may be to believe, the creeps
they were complaining about really are FBI agents." As Simon started to
move, Lewis glanced back over his shoulder at Sam. "You gonna hang around
for a few minutes? When we come back out, maybe we can give you a lift over to
Goodwill, help you pick out a couple of sport coats." "Sounds good." "Dickhead." If that was meant to be a
mutter, Lewis blew it big-time. Sam heard and gave him a jaunty little farewell
wave. "So when are you planning to start writing
your book on winning friends and influencing people?" Wynne inquired with
a sideways glance when Lewis and company had disappeared inside the building. Sam grinned. "Anytime now. I'm just working
on building up the fan base first." "You know he's probably gonna call
Smolski"—Leonard Smolski was the head of the Violent Crimes division and
their boss—"and complain that we're holding out on him. And Smolski's
gonna go ape-shit." "Last time I shared details of an
investigation with Lewis..." Sam began, meaning to fill Wynne in on the
ins and outs of the media blitz that nearly derailed the drug-smuggling case.
But he was interrupted by the sudden strident peal of his cell phone. Sam became instantly alert at the sound, and he
straightened away from the wall. Wynne watched him like a dog with a squirrel
in view as Sam thrust a hand in his jeans pocket, yanked the phone out, and
glanced down at it. A number flashed on the ID screen. It made him frown. "Yo," he answered, already knowing
that the voice on the other end was not going to be the one he both wanted and
dreaded to hear. "Something weird," Gardner said in his
ear. "We've turned up another Madeline Fitzgerald. Attacked last night at
the same hotel." "What?" "Yeah. Only this one lived." "You're shitting me, right?" "Nope. She signed into the emergency room
at Norton Hospital at 3:12 a.m. with unspecified injuries, was treated and
released." "What? What?" Wynne demanded,
balancing on the balls of his feet now as he stared at Sam and tried to make
sense of the conversation. Sam waved him off. "And we're just now finding this out?"
Sam felt like slapping his palm to his forehead duh-style. They were the
FBI, after all. Consistently being a day
late and a dollar short was not how they were supposed to operate. "Hey, not my fault. Apparently a friend
drove her to the hospital. Hotel security notified the police, who called us.
Ten minutes ago." Sam took a deep breath. Lack of timely
cooperation from the local police was nothing new, of course. But it was still
maddening as hell. "Where is she now?" "I knew you were going to ask me
that." Gardner sounded smugly self-satisfied. "She caught a cab in
front of the hotel fifteen minutes ago. The driver took her to the Hepburn
Building. One-thirty-six Broadway." "Gardner, you da man," Sam said, and
hung up with Gardner's pert "not in this life, lover," echoing in his
ears. FOUR So her throat hurt. So she was bruised and sore
and scared. So she was operating on about two hours sleep. Get over it, Maddie
told herself fiercely as she washed her hands in the Hepburn Building's
first-floor ladies' room. She could think about what had happened later, after
the presentation was over. If she and Jon did a good job now, if Creative
Partners got the account, her struggling business would suddenly, for the first
time ever, be on solid ground. Even better than solid ground. They'd be making
money—lots of money. Enough money to buy the kind of settled, secure life she'd
always dreamed about. Now was clearly not the moment to fall apart. Just
because some psycho maniac had broken into her hotel room and tried to kill her
was no reason to lose focus. You gotta have priorities, she thought wryly. A nervous breakdown would
just have to wait. What she needed to do was just stay in the moment. After
all, what was the alternative? Turn tail and head back to St. Louis with a
whimper while waving a fond farewell to the Brehmer account? Not happening. So get a grip. Maddie took a deep breath and worked on taking her own
advice. While she'd been in the hospital basically having her tonsils examined,
Jon had already tried to have the appointment postponed, without success. Mrs.
Brehmer's people had made it clear that either the meeting went down at ten
a.m. today as scheduled or it didn't go down at all. Reliability was Mrs.
Brehmer's watchword, as Susan Allen, her personal assistant, had apologetically
informed him. If Brehmer's Pet Foods couldn't even rely on Creative Partners to
be at such an important meeting on time, well, then... Right. Reliable R Us, Maddie thought, turning off the taps and drying
her hands on a paper towel. The show must go on and all that. She had always
been good at compartmentalizing, and she would compartmentalize this, tucking
it away to be examined in depth later. Popping in another pain-deadening throat
lozenge, she grimaced at the Listerine-like taste even as she gave herself one
last critical once-over in the mirror. Her hair was brushed into a
sleeker-than-usual business-friendly bob. The slight bruise on her cheek had
been camouflaged into near invisibility by a crafty combination of coverstick
and blush, and the rest of her makeup was flattering but minimal. Her cream
linen suit with its slim, knee-length skirt was resolutely conservative. The
white silk shell beneath was the epitome of tastefulness. The beige pumps and
shoulder bag continued the ladylike theme. The only jarring note in her
understated ensemble was the bright blue-and-yellow silk scarf, grabbed on the
fly from the hotel gift shop, that she had twined around her neck to conceal
the ugly purple bruise that marred the front of her throat. Last night someone tried to kill me. A shiver raced down her spine as Maddie did her
best to thrust the wayward thought back into the "I'll worry about that
later" compartment. Jon had reported that Susan Allen's dominant emotion
on being informed of what had befallen Creative Partners’ owner and CEO during
the night had been dismay. "You know, Mrs. B. is not real big on
getting involved in her associates' personal dramas," the assistant had
said doubtfully. A personal drama. That was certainly a unique way to look at just managing to
escape a would-be ruthless killer by the skin of her teeth, Maddie thought with
some asperity. But the bottom line was, Mrs. Brehmer just didn't want to know,
which was fine with Maddie. She didn't want to know, either.
Unfortunately, though, she had no choice: At some point she was going to have
to face the reality of what had happened and deal with it. But not now. She was not going to think about it
now. The unavoidable residuals of the attack—terror, panic, questions,
decisions—all were going to have to be put on hold until later. Just for this
morning, she was going to think about nothing except how much the Brehmer
account mattered to her, to her employees, to Creative Partners as a whole, and
go out there and do her best to wow the old witch. Or, um, make that wow the
demanding-but-rich business owner who could put Creative Partners on the map
with one stroke of her pen. As she held on to that view of the situation
with dogged determination, Maddie shook off the shivers, picked up her
briefcase, and exited the bathroom. Jon was standing where she had left him, among a
milling group of people in business dress waiting over by the bank of gleaming
brass-doored elevators, looking his usual handsome self in a navy suit, white
shirt, and red power tie. He smiled at her, and she headed toward him, her
sensible two-inch heels clicking on the terrazzo floor. The Hepburn Building
was a fifty-story skyscraper located in the middle of one of New Orleans's
busiest commercial blocks. It was sleekly modern, an anachronistic new addition
to a city that owed its fame to a decaying antebellum charm. Today the brown
marble lobby was crowded, and the line at the security desk, where visitors
were required to sign in, was growing longer by the minute. Two men, somewhat
scruffy for such an elegant environment, were leaning over the counter,
apparently holding up the proceedings as they carried on an intense
conversation with the uniformed guard behind the desk. Even as she noticed them, the guard looked around.
For an instant his gaze combed the shifting ranks of people waiting for the
elevators, walking to and from the restrooms, visiting the small flower kiosk
opposite the elevators. Then she must have made some attention-attracting
move—perhaps the sunlight filtering in through the oversized windows had
glinted off her gold earrings or something—because all of a sudden he seemed to
focus on her. "Over there," Maddie heard him say,
and then to her surprise he pointed right at her. Me? she thought. Her eyes widened, her step faltered, and her
hand rose in a gesture of disbelief to press against the cool silk between her
breasts. The men who'd been talking to the guard followed
the path of his pointing finger with their eyes and looked at her. Finding
herself suddenly pinned by the gazes of two unsavory-looking strangers could
not be considered a positive development at any time. But after what had
happened the night before, her heart could be forgiven, Maddie thought, for the
insane attempt it made to leap out of her body through her throat. Surely there must be some mistake—but if there
was, it was a mistake that kept on keeping on. The men straightened and,
without taking their eyes off her, began walking purposefully toward her. They
made an unlikely pair, as if a street bum had hooked up with a slovenly
tourist. Together, they looked so ratty and out of place in these upscale
surroundings that Maddie couldn't believe that the guard had even let them
pass. But they had gotten through, and they were coming in her direction. As
she registered the un-escapable reality of the situation, her feet seemed to
sprout roots that sank deep into the floor. Her eyes stayed glued to them; she
could not look away. Her heart pounded. Her pulse raced. Her fight-or-flight
response kicked in, veering strongly toward flight. Unfortunately, even if she
could move, which she didn't seem to be able to do, she was out of luck.
Barring a retreat to the ladies' room, which was the biggest trap in the world
if they decided to follow her in or even wait outside, or the timely arrival of
one of the cursedly slow elevators, there was no place in this starkly designed
lobby to go. Could one of them have been the man in my hotel
room? At the thought, Maddie suddenly went
light-headed. Still, she couldn't move. She could do nothing but watch with
growing horror as they strode toward her through the bars of light that the
tall windows on either side of the lobby threw down across the highly polished
floor. They were both good-sized men, but the fair-haired one in the garish
Hawaiian shirt and rumpled shorts was taller by several inches, and fat. Too
fat to be her attacker? Yes, she thought, yes. Please, God, yes. Her
gaze shifted. Though the bigger man was moving fast, he was still a few steps
behind the black-haired guy in jeans whose eyes were fastened on her like she
was a refrigerator and they were magnets. He looked like someone on the morning
after the night before, with a couple days' worth of stubble darkening his jaw
and short but untidy hair that probably hadn't seen a comb since before he had
last shaved. This man was definitely not fat. What he was was powerfully built
and mean-looking, the kind of guy that she wouldn't want to run into in a dark
parking lot or on a deserted street. Or in a dark hotel room. At the thought, all the air left her lungs. Was
it him? Was she about to be attacked again? Here and now, in this crowded
lobby? Her eyes widened, and her heart went all fluttery. But then something
about the way they moved, about their quick strides and erect posture, struck
her. They're cops, she thought. Some kind of cops. With that, her feet released their death grip on
the floor, and she was able to take a quick, defensive step back. To her left,
one of the elevators announced its arrival with a ding. The population
of the lobby shifted noticeably as a herd of people surged toward it. Pivoting,
she turned toward the elevator as every instinct she possessed shrieked at her
to flee. With the single exception of the guy who had
attacked her, cops were the very last people she wanted to see. "Perfect timing," Jon said, glancing
around at her over his shoulder. A few quick steps had put her right behind
him, so close that her nose was in danger of flattening itself on his slender,
tropical wool-clad back. He was clearly unaware of the drama that was playing
out behind him, of the oncoming men, of her urgent wish to escape. Caught up in
the throng crowding into the elevator, he paused courteously to allow a pair of
elderly women to precede him. Ordinarily, Maddie would have awarded him brownie
points for the gentlemanly gesture. Today, stuck behind him, she had to fight
the urge to place the flat of both hands in the center of his back and shove.
Hard. Hurry, hurry, hurry. The refrain beat urgently through her brain. Jon moved at last, clearly one of the final few
who were going to make it into the crowded car, then turned to face her, edging
back just enough to create a place for her at the very front. In her haste to
join him, Maddie got the corner of her full-to-bursting briefcase hung up on
the door. "Piece of crap," she muttered
furiously. Forced to pause long enough to jerk the thrice-damned thing free,
she was just about to step into the elevator when a hand caught her arm from
behind. Maddie let loose with a sound that was more squeak than scream and
practically jumped out of her skin. The strong fingers that gripped her firmly
just above her elbow hung on. Her stomach sank as she realized that she'd just
been effectively stopped in her tracks. "Madeline Fitzgerald?" A deep,
southern-tinged voice asked. "Hey!" Jon said sharply, starting
forward as he realized what was happening at last. Maddie whipped around,
inadvertently clearing a circle in the crowd around her with her ungainly
briefcase. From the corner of her eye she caught just a glimpse of Jon's
startled expression as the elevator doors slid closed in his face. Then just
like that he was gone, and she was on her own. With the elevator no longer
available, everyone around her seemed to simply disperse. Everyone, that is,
except the guy holding on to her arm. "Let go of me." It was all she could do to keep the panic out of
her voice. Instinctively, she jerked her arm free and moved back until she
could feel the smooth, slick coolness of the marble wall against her shoulder
blades. Left with no place to go, she pressed her briefcase up against her legs
like a shield. Her gaze collided with narrowed eyes the color of black coffee. "Madeline Fitzgerald?" he asked for
the second time. From the dispassionate but assessing way his eyes were moving
over her, she was all but certain that her original estimate was correct: This
guy had law enforcement written all over him. Her heart threatened to pound its way out of her
chest. "Who wants to know?" she parried,
knowing that her response was a throwback to her younger days, knowing that it
was all wrong for who she was now, for who she aspired to be. But she couldn't
help it, she'd been caught by surprise, she was rattled and still recovering
from last night and definitely not in control. He frowned at her, his
eyes narrowing still more as they held her gaze. He was—no surprise—the
black-haired half of the pair who'd come chasing after her across the lobby.
The mean-looking one. "FBI," said the other, fair-haired
half of the pair as he came panting up in time to hear her question. FBI. Maddie's stomach dropped all the way to her toes. This was
far worse even than she had expected, worse than she would have dreamed.
Suddenly unable to draw a breath, she glanced his way. He opened the wallet
that was already in his hand to flash something—Maddie presumed it was his
ID—at her. Panic swamped her, leaving her too unnerved to focus, much less to
try to ascertain whether or not whatever he was waving in her face was the real
thing. This guy was huge, maybe six-four, six-five, overweight, with a big beer
belly that was not flattered by the scarlet hula girl dancing across his
middle. Flushed and sweaty, he looked like he'd just run a marathon in the
swampy heat outside. A forest of tiny dark gold ringlets sprang up around his
head, giving him the appearance of a giant cherub on summer vacation. Anyone
who looked less like an FBI agent would be hard to find. Except maybe the frowning street bum directly in
front of her. Still, she didn't doubt for so much as an
instant that they were what he claimed. There was something about him, about
the pair of them, that prac-tically screamed feds. She should have
realized it from the first. Maybe, somewhere deep inside, she had realized
it from the first. Maybe that's why her eyes had been drawn to them to begin
with. Maybe that's why she had felt such alarm on realizing that they were
heading her way. "What do you want?" she asked, her
mouth so dry that her voice sounded croaky. Like she had no idea. Like she
hadn't been dreading this day for years. Like she hadn't expected that sooner
or later they would show up... "To talk to you." The black-haired man
took a step toward her so that he was once again close enough to make her feel
crowded. She could see the tiny lines around his eyes, the deeper ones
bracketing his mouth. Too close. Oh, God, she couldn't deal with this. She
wasn't ready. She wasn't ready. Her stomach did its best imitation of a
pretzel. Her heart was already pounding so hard that she was surprised he
couldn't see its panicked beating beneath her thin silk shell. Things had been going so well, she mourned. At least, they had been going so
well until someone had tried to kill her... "I'm Special Agent Sam McCabe.
This"—McCabe threw a quick glance over his shoulder at the larger
man—"is Special Agent E. P. Wynne. You are Madeline Fitzgerald,
right?" What are my choices here? Maddie asked herself wildly in the split second
before she replied. With escape no longer even remotely possible, they were
basically down to two: tell the truth—or lie. "Yes," she said, and to her own
surprise her voice sounded perfectly calm. Or maybe it wasn't so surprising
after all. The first hot rush of panic had receded; she was cold now, icy cold,
so cold that her lips felt bloodless, her fingers and toes numb. Her pulse
raced; her palms were damp; goose-bumps prickled her arms. But she looked
steadily back at him, meeting his gaze without, she hoped, giving any of her
inner turmoil away. Play the handout. She could almost hear her father saying it. It's not
over till it's over. She had to force herself to breathe. "We want to ask you a few questions about
what happened last night," McCabe continued. "Do you have a
minute?" About what happened last night. It was so unexpected that it was disorienting.
Maddie blinked once as the words sank in. Her lungs deflated like a punctured
balloon as all the air suddenly whooshed out. They wanted to talk to her about last
night. Waves of relief washed over her. Of course they wanted to
talk to her about last night, she scolded herself. What else could they
possibly want to talk to her about? What else indeed, she thought, still feeling faintly dizzy. Still, the sooner
she got away from them the better. She needed a little time to recover her
composure, at the very least. As shaken as she was, it would be way too easy
to let something slip. She got a grip and shook her head. "Actually, I'm late as it is. I have an
important meeting in just a few minutes. And you made me miss my
elevator." The faintly accusing note in her voice as she said that last
was, she thought, pitch-perfect for the occasion. "Sorry about that," the big
one—Wynne—said with an apologetic grimace. "Could you come with us, please?" McCabe
reached for her arm again. This guy obviously wasn't used to hearing the word no.
His fingers slid around her elbow, making her glad for the long sleeve of
her jacket, which kept him from touching her skin. As his grip tightened, she
felt as if the marble walls of the lobby were closing in on her. Suddenly, she
felt like she was suffocating. Deja vu all over again, she thought with a stab of near hysteria. Here
was one more FBI agent doing his level best to intimidate her. Only this time,
it wasn't happening. This time, she was all grown-up. The thought put some steel back in her spine. "Sorry, Mr. Special Agent, I really am in a
hurry." Her voice was cool as she pulled her arm free for a second time.
"What is it, exactly, that you want to know?" McCabe's lips compressed with obvious
displeasure. His eyes darkened, seemed to weigh her. Whatever he saw in her
face must have convinced him that the only way he was dragging her off
somewhere was if she went kicking and screaming, because he didn't try to grab
her again. Which was a good thing. Making a scene was the
last thing she wanted to do. Although, if she had to, she would. He glanced around as if to assure himself that
no one except his oversized friend was near enough to overhear, took a step
forward, and lowered his voice. "You were a guest at the Holiday Inn
Express on Peyton Place Boulevard last night, right?" "Yes." He was crowding her. Maybe deliberately, maybe
not. Either way, his nearness made it an effort to breathe. Stepping out of his
path was not an option. With the wall at her back, she had no place to go. "Can you tell me what happened?" Between shattered nerves and no sleep, she
wasn't quite operating on all cylinders, and she knew it. Still, his interest
made no sense. She knew the kinds of things the FBI investigated, and an attack
on an anonymous woman that hadn't even resulted in significant injury was way
beneath their notice. Was there something here that she was missing? Or were
they playing with her? The thought was galvanizing. It made her palms
grow damp. Don't panic, she warned herself even as she looked at him warily. "Since when does the FBI care about stuff
like that?" "Since now," he said. "Could you
just answer the question, please?" For a moment their eyes clashed, and the issue
hung in the balance. But answering his questions was probably the quickest way
to make him go away, Maddie realized, and what she wanted more than anything
else in the whole wide world right at that moment was for him and his partner
to do just that. Just keep it short and sweet. "A man attacked me in my room." She
swallowed before she remembered that swallowing hurt. Quite above and beyond
her reluctance to have anything whatsoever to do with the FBI, recalling the
previous night's near-death experience was not something she wanted to do. If
luck, God, whatever had not been on her side, she wouldn't be here now. She
would be in the city morgue, with a tag reading Madeline Fitzgerald tied
to her toe. "Look, I've already gone over this with the police. It should
all be in their report." Never mind that the only reason she had talked
to the police was because they had shown up at the hospital and she had been
left with no choice. And the only reason she had gone to the hospital in the
first place was that Jon had taken advantage of her shocked state to take her
there. Mr. Special Agent here didn't know that. All he would see was that in
the aftermath of the attack, she had done just exactly what any other
upstanding citizen would be expected to do: go to the hospital, talk to the
police. McCabe ignored her attempt to dismiss him.
"What time did the attack occur, exactly?" Maddie made an impatient gesture. "I don't
know. I realize it was shortsighted of me, but when I woke up and found a man
in my room, it didn't occur to me to check the clock. Sometime between midnight
and three is the best I can do. I fell asleep just after midnight, and I was at
the hospital by a quarter after three." Her sarcasm seemed to roll off him like oil off
waxed paper. If anything, his expression grew more intent. "Did you get a
look at him?" Maddie repressed a shiver as she remembered the
terrifying bulk of the man. No. "Nothing? Not even a glimpse? Come on, you
must have seen something." "I didn't see anything, okay? It was dark.
No." Their eyes clashed. A beat passed. "So walk me through what happened,
step-by-step." Maddie took a deep breath. "It upsets me to talk about it, you know?
If you want details, read the police report." Her stomach was doing its
twisty thing again. The urge to escape was so strong that she could practically
feel the muscles twitching beneath her skin. But escape was impossible for the
moment. With the elevator gone, there was, once again, no place to go. That
being the case, she needed to not lose it with him, she reminded herself. She
needed to stay cool, calm, and in control. All the things that at the moment
she definitely was not feeling. His eyes slid over her face. He rocked back on
his heels, folded his arms over his chest, and appeared to consider her. "Is it my imagination, or am I sensing some
hostility here?" Oh, God. Careful. She had to fight the urge to swallow. He was
watching her too closely for such a telltale action to pass unnoticed. "I just don't see the value in going over
this umpteen times. Like I said, it upsets me." Her voice turned tart.
"Anyway, aren't you the FBI? Don't you always get your man? So why don't
you go get him, and stop harassing me?" "That's the Mounties," McCabe said
dryly, as, unable to help herself, Maddie cast a longing glance to her left. Where, oh where, was that fricking elevator? "Miz Fitzgerald...” As if on cue, the elevator closest to them
arrived with a ding. The doors opened, and a gush of people spilled out
into the lobby. Thank God. She met his gaze, summoning the best she could
manage in the way of an "it's been nice" smile. "Look, I really have to go. Like I said, I
already went over the whole thing with the police. You should be able to get
whatever you need from them." With that and a dismissive nod, Maddie stepped
away from the wall and turned to battle her way through the once again surging
crowd. Using her briefcase as a makeshift battering ram, she managed to wedge
her way through the stream of riders disembarking and make it onto the emptying
elevator ahead of the hordes still more or less politely waiting their turn. It did her absolutely no good. "Miz Fitzgerald...” McCabe was right behind her, damn him, his
Southern drawl unmistakable, persistent as a dog after a pork chop as he
followed her toward the back of the car. Finding herself nose to nose with the
gleaming brass wall as a jostling crowd filled the elevator, Maddie tensed as
she realized that, once again, she had nowhere to go. Seconds later she
experienced a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Glancing up,
she discovered that, sure enough, he still loomed like the big bad wolf behind
her and was, in fact, watching her reflection. For a moment their gazes met and
held. They stared at each other, a pair of faintly blurred golden images
apparently equally surprised to find their gazes colliding in a too-shiny wall. Her stomach clenched. Then, be cool, Maddie ordered herself
fiercely, and pulled her gaze from his. Grabbing hold of her vacillating
courage with both hands, she turned around, deliberately bumping his legs with
her briefcase and forcing him to step back a pace. "Sorry," she said in a voice as bland
as milk. Then, to the group at large, "Could someone hit fifty for me,
please?" "Fifty. Got it," a man replied from
the front. With a slight lurch the elevator headed up. A
glance around the packed car told her that McCabe was alone. His supersized
friend hadn't made it on board. Like the proverbial elephant in the room, he was
impossible to ignore. But she tried, staring ahead at the elevator doors.
Unfortunately, they too were made of brass. Their eyes collided in the reflective wall. He
was, she realized, once again watching her reflection. Since ignoring him was
proving impossible, she decided to take the war into the enemy's camp. She turned her head. Their gazes met, but this
time without the soften-ing buffer of the brass. "Are you following me?" That
the question was muttered almost under her breath in no way detracted from the
force with which she said it. "Looks like it, doesn't it?" He gave
her the smallest of mocking smiles. Maddie scowled. She fumed. She thought. Then,
after an ostentatious glance down at her watch, she met his gaze again. "Look, I have a really important business
meeting in exactly seventeen minutes," she said, low-voiced. "What,
exactly, does it take to make you disappear?" FIVE Talk to me," McCabe said, his voice equally
low. "Five minutes of your time. That's all I need." "Then you swear you'll go away?" "Cross my heart." "Fine." Maddie glared at him. Whatever
happened, she couldn't let him follow her up to the fiftieth floor, where
Brehmer's Pet Food reigned supreme. Not unless she was prepared to kiss the
account good-bye. She would give him five minutes. She would be super-careful.
And then, if she was lucky, he would be satisfied and go away, and leave her to
get on with her life. Except that someone had tried to kill her last
night. The elevator slid to a stop and the door opened. "Is this the third floor? Could you let me
out, please?" A woman on the other side of the car was edging toward the
front. Maddie found herself wedged even more tightly against the back wall as
the population of the elevator shifted. It was so crowded that several people
were forced to step out into the corridor to let the woman exit. "Come on, then," Maddie muttered with
a resentful glance up at McCabe, and used her briefcase to clear a path. When
both she and McCabe had been disgorged, the elevator doors closed behind them.
The woman who'd gotten off just before them was already walking away. A
gold-framed mirror hung above a walnut console table on the wall directly in
front of the elevators. Funny, Maddie thought, catching a glimpse of her
reflection, except for the big bad wolf beside her—who, incidentally, was once
again wrapping his hand around her arm—she looked unchanged. No one seeing her
would guess that icy shivers chased one another up and down her spine or that
her legs felt like rubber bands. A quick look around told her that to the left
was a solid wall, covered like the others in blue-patterned wallpaper. To the
right, the hall opened up into what looked like a mezzanine level. Groupings of
beige leather couches and chairs stood in front of a polished metal rail that
gave promise of a large open area below. At the far side of the open space, a
towering wall of windows provided a panoramic view of cerulean sky peeking out
between the surrounding skyscrapers. "This way." McCabe took charge again,
pulling her along beside him as he headed toward the mezzanine. Maddie jerked her arm free and kept walking. His
eyes cut sideways at her, but he didn't say anything. By this time she had absorbed a great deal of
visual information about him, starting with the fact that he was at least six
feet tall, or maybe even a little taller. Even in heels, she had to look up to
meet his gaze. He was swarthy-skinned, muscular, with a wrestler's powerful
build. His hair was short, black, untidy. He had thick, straight, black
eyebrows above heavy-lidded eyes that were, at the moment, bloodshot, with
puffy bags beneath. His cheekbones were flat, almost Slavic, his nose was blunt
with a bump on the bridge, his mouth was well shaped but thin, with, at the
moment, a sardonic twist. He had a long, square jaw that angled sharply into a
strong chin. He badly needed a shave, a change of clothes, and, from the looks
of it, a shower, too. She pegged his age at somewhere in the mid-thirties,
though it was hard to tell past the smirk and the bristles, which had left the
five-o'clock-shadow stage behind about three days back. Despite all the
muscles, though, he wasn't a hottie by any stretch of the imagination; he was
way too scruffy and way too thuggish-looking for that. Besides, as far as she was concerned, the terms FBI
agent and hottie were mutually exclusive. He walked all the way to the rail before turning
to look at her. His eyes flickered as they moved over her, registering
something, but she couldn't tell what it was. Didn't care what it was. Unless
it was recognition, but now that she was growing calmer, she didn't see how it
could possibly be that. If he knew the truth about her, she was all but
certain that she would already be well aware of it. "The clock's ticking." Her voice was
frosty as she stopped perhaps two feet away from him. As she had guessed, the
area beyond him, beyond the rail, was open space with a view of the restaurant
below. The restaurant wasn't busy; only a few tables were occupied. A pair of
escalators ran up and down, with about half a dozen people traveling in each direction.
Farther along the mezzanine, long tables had been set up. A small crowd was
gathered in front of the tables, intent on whatever business had brought them
there. Waiters carrying loaded trays flitted in and out of the conference room
beyond. A buzz of muted conversation provided background noise. The smell of
coffee hung in the air. Maddie inhaled the fumes longingly. She'd
already drunk so much coffee that morning in an effort to keep herself awake
and functional that she was pretty sure that if she cut herself she would bleed
Java, but the energizing effects of even that much caffeine were beginning to
wear off. "You want coffee?" he asked. Her lips thinned. "No," she lied. "Are you always this friendly, or am I just
getting lucky here?" McCabe leaned back against the rail, gripping it with
a hand on either side of surprisingly lean hips. He looked a whole heck of a
lot more at ease than she felt. Which wasn't surprising. He hadn't been
nearly murdered during the night. He wasn't being interviewed by the
FBI. And he, presumably, didn't have anything to hide. "I told you, I have a meeting." Her
tone was abrupt. With light from the windows pouring over him, he looked more
like a street tough than ever. Then she realized that his back was to the
windows. Hers was not. With a little frisson of unease, she became aware that
the light was spilling onto her face, revealing every nuance of her every
expression to him. Careful, she warned herself again, and broke eye contact to glance
down at her fingers, which she had just realized were cramping from clutching
the handle of her briefcase so hard. Shifting it to the other hand, she made a
little production of stretching her fingers out to ease the stiffness. "What do you have in that thing,
anyway?" He was looking at the battered brown briefcase now instead of her
face. It was the old-fashioned kind, soft-sided, satchel shaped, with a strap
securing the top. It was also clearly full to the point of bursting. "My laptop. Some files. Sketches. Things I
need for the presentation I have to make in"—she consulted her
watch—"fifteen minutes." She frowned at him. "Look, if all you
want to do is make small talk, I don't have time." "Presentation for what? What do you
do?" Folding his arms across his chest, he looked prepared to stay where
he was all day. Feeling as if she was about to jump out of her skin with the
urgency of her desire to get this over with and get away from him, Maddie
registered his posture and stewed. "I own an advertising agency. We're small,
we're struggling. The account I'm about to make a pitch to is huge. Landing it
would change everything for us." "I see." His gaze met hers, and
suddenly his manner became all business. "What's the name of your agency?
For the record." "Creative Partners." "And you're the owner?" "Yes." "Sole owner?" "Yes." His gaze swept her. "Kind of young to own
an advertising agency, aren't you?" Maddie bristled. "As far as I know, there's
no minimum age for owning a business." "All right." His gaze swept her again,
as though trying to guess the age she had deliberately not told him. He did
not, however, ask her outright. Not that he needed to: Her date of birth was in
the police report, which she had little doubt he would obtain in due course.
"Your advertising agency is headquartered where?" "Saint Louis." That was in the police
report, too. Damn Jon anyway for making her go to the hospital! She should have
guessed that the hospital would call the police. Not that she could blame the
whole sorry debacle on Jon. Shocked or not, she was the one who knew the score,
and she should have had more sense than to go. "And that's where you live?" "Yes." "You're here in New Orleans
because...?" She shifted impatiently. "I told you, to
pitch this account. We—my associate and I—flew in from Saint Louis
yesterday." "What's your associate's name?" "Jon Carter." "Were you meeting anyone at the hotel? A
relative, maybe, who was staying there, too? Someone with a name similar to
yours?" Maddie frowned. "No." "Okay. What time did your flight get in?" "About four-fifteen." "What did you do after the plane landed?
Did you go directly to the hotel?" "Yes. Jon and I checked in, walked over to
the French Quarter, grabbed some dinner, came back, worked on our presentation,
and went to bed." "Separate rooms?" "Yes. Look, is this actually leading
somewhere?" Maddie glanced ostentatiously at her watch again. A faint ding
behind her heralded the arrival of another elevator. She wanted to turn
tail and board it in the worst way. Footsteps and the faint rustle of clothing
announced the sudden influx of more people, most of whom seemed to be making
for the tables in front of the conference rooms. Play the hand out. "You never know." McCabe made a
gesture at someone behind her. Maddie glanced around to see a waiter headed
their way. He was carrying a tray laden with a coffeepot, cups and saucers, and
dessert plates holding tiny pastries in fluted white paper doilies. "I
need coffee. Sure you don't want any?" Before she could answer, the waiter reached
them. He was young and African-American with close-cropped hair and a thin
build, dressed in the traditional tux. "Yes, sir?" The waiter was looking
past her at McCabe. "Could I get some coffee, please?"
McCabe asked. The fact that the coffee was obviously intended for the attendees
at the conference didn't seem to bother him. "Cream or sugar?" The waiter, having
set the tray down on the round glass table beside the nearest couch, poured out
a cup and handed it to McCabe, who had shaken his head in answer to the query.
McCabe took the cup, and the waiter looked at Maddie. "Would you like some coffee, Miss?" "Be a devil," McCabe said, his cup
already at his mouth. The waiter grinned. Maddie shot McCabe a look,
but now that an actual caffeine fix was so close at hand the prospect was too
tempting to turn down. "Thank you," she said to the waiter,
setting her briefcase down and accepting a cup, complete with the packet of
sugar she'd requested stirred in. She would have asked for more than one—a
sugar rush was second only to a jolt of caffeine on her list of preferred
stimulants—but considering her present company, she decided against it. "Danish?" the waiter asked, proffering
the tray. McCabe took one. Maddie shook her head and
downed a swallow of coffee. It wasn't particularly hot and it wasn't
particularly good, but she badly needed the lift she hoped it would give her. In about twelve minutes, she had to make the
sales pitch of a lifetime. On almost no sleep. After being terrorized and
nearly murdered just a few hours before. With the FBI sniffing at her heels.
And maybe, if her life had really gone down the toilet, the killer still
somewhere around. Looking for her. Life just didn't get much better than that. "I'll leave some in case you change your
mind," the waiter said with a quick smile, and deposited a dessert plate
crammed with goodies on the table before leaving. Taking another swallow of
coffee, Maddie averted her gaze—her stomach was in such a state that just
looking at the gooey confections made her feel unwell—then frowned as McCabe,
having disposed of his first small pastry in two quick bites, reached for
another one. "Just so you know, your five minutes are
up," Maddie said as the second pastry went the way of the first. She set
her still-half-full coffee cup down on the table. "I'm out of here. Enjoy
your breakfast." "Hang on one more minute." He drained
his cup and set it down. "What?" She was already picking up her
briefcase. He wiped his fingers on a napkin. "I want
you to tell me everything that happened in your hotel room last night. A
blow-by-blow account." As if his words had conjured it up, the memory
of the attack flashed at warp speed through her mind. It was all she could do
to repress a shudder. "Sorry, no can do," she said,
straightening with her briefcase once again in hand. "I have to go." He smiled at her, a slow and distinctly
un-charming smile that succeeded in raising her hackles before he ever said a
word. "I could take you into custody." His
tone was almost idle. "If that's what it takes to get you to answer my
questions." Her brows snapped together. "Don't mess
with me. You have to charge somebody with something to take them into custody.
What are you planning to charge me with, being a victim?" "How about obstructing an
investigation?" Maddie's stomach clenched. She pressed her lips
together as her heart skipped a beat, then managed to get hold of herself
enough to meet his gaze. His expression was bland. Was he bluffing? Maybe, but
she didn't want to find out. "Okay," she said, hating him. "I'll
go over what happened in my hotel room again. Then that's it, understand?
I have to go." She clasped her suddenly cold hands in front of her and
glared at him. At least the surge of antipathy she was experiencing toward him
was a strong enough emotion to override the shivery terror she felt when she
recalled the attack. "I was in bed. Something woke me up. I realized
someone was in my room. I slipped out of bed. Two shots—I think it was two, and
I think they were shots— were fired into the bed, which thankfully I was no
longer in. I ran for the door. He—it was a man—caught me. He... he slammed me
up against the wall, held me there with his hand around my throat, hit me, and
threatened to kill me if I made a sound. Then he—" Despite her
determination to make her recitation coldly clinical, Maddie couldn't help the
wobble her voice had suddenly developed. She had to pause to take a deep breath
before she could continue. "He put duct tape over my mouth and forced me
to my knees. I th-thought he was going to shoot me. Kill me." Despite her best efforts to reveal no hint of
weakness, she had to clench her teeth then to keep her voice from shaking. She
stopped there, hoping he wouldn't realize that it was because she simply could
not continue. Instead of looking at McCabe, she looked past him out the wall of
windows. The soft summer sky was such a brilliant blue, complete with fluffy
clouds like sleeping lambs—hard to believe that the horror she'd feared for so
long could have come home to roost on such a gorgeous day. But then, maybe it had not—maybe there was some
mistake. Maybe she shouldn't be so quick to write off everything she'd worked
so hard for. There was always a chance... She could feel McCabe's gaze on her face as she
fought to regain her composure. "But you got away," he said softly
after a moment. "How?" Knowing that he was watching her was, finally,
enough to enable her to pull herself together one more time. She met his gaze head-on. "I had a pencil
in my hand. I stabbed him with it. In the leg, I think." Her voice was
steady now. His eyes widened. "You stabbed him in the
leg with a pencil?" Maddie nodded. Remembering how it had felt made
her go all woozy. Breathe, she told herself. Just breathe. He pursed his lips in a silent whistle. His eyes
were now sharp with interest and fixed on her face. "Then what?" It took her a second. "What do you mean,
then what? What do you think? I got out of there." His lips quirked fractionally. "Could you
possibly be a little more specific?" Maddie took a deep breath and fought for calm.
"He let go of me, and I managed to get the door open and get out. The duct
tape—I must have pulled it off because I was screaming. A man down the hall
heard me and opened his door. I ran into his room. I stayed in there with him
and his wife until security got there." She stopped again. McCabe said nothing for a
moment, which was a good thing because with the best will in the world, Maddie
didn't think she could have replied. Her heart was thudding, her stomach had
twisted itself into a knot, and she was cold all over—so cold that it was all
she could do not to shiver visibly. Finally he asked, "What were their names?
The couple in the room?" She shook her head. "I don't know." It
was something of a relief to discover that her voice still worked. "How long were you in their room?" "I don't know that, either. Maybe five, ten
minutes." "Where did the guy who attacked you go? Did
he follow you? Try to get in?" "He was chasing me, at first, but... I
didn't see him again after I ran into that other room. I don't know where he
went. He didn't try to get in." "Did you happen to see him in the lighted
hallway?" He was looking at her with an intent expression that reminded
her of a cat at a mouse hole. "Maybe you glanced over your shoulder while
he was chasing you? Caught a look at his face? Something?" "I didn't see anything. I just ran."
Maddie couldn't help it; she shuddered so hard that he had to see it. Then,
catching herself before she could weaken any further, she took a deep breath,
then another. It's over, she told herself. It happened, but she survived. Soon this
would be over, too. All she had to do was keep it together. For just a little
longer. He was watching her closely. "You okay?" "Fine." No way was she falling apart in front of him.
Quite aside from the fact that he was an FBI agent, and an arrogant jerk
to boot, there was too much at stake. In fact, nothing less than her entire
life. "You said you stabbed him in the leg with a
pencil," McCabe said. Mad-die nodded. He continued. "So what happened
to the pencil? Did you take it with you when you ran?" Maddie frowned, trying to remember.
Concentrating took a surprising amount of effort. Reliving the events of the
previous night—to say nothing of enduring this more recent trauma—had left her
feeling drained and disoriented. "No, I... after I stabbed him I let go.
Maybe it was still in his leg. Maybe it fell. I don't know." He nodded. "Okay. What about a description?
Even if you didn't see him, you must have gotten some impressions about what he
looked like. Was he taller than you, for example?" Maddie wet her lips. "He was taller than
me. I was barefoot so he was— maybe six feet or a little less. And... and he
seemed husky—broad, you know? Not fat but strong." Memory washed over her
and she shuddered again. "Very, very strong." "Anything else? Had he been drinking, for
example? Could you smell liquor on his breath?" "I smelled... onions." "Onions. There you go, there's something we
can work with. There are a couple of fast-food places near the hotel. Maybe one
of the workers will remember a guy who ordered extra onions." He was
studying her. "You married?" She met his gaze, surprised at the question.
"No." "What about exes? Any disgruntled
exes?" Now she saw where he was going. "No." "Do you have any enemies that you know of?
Anybody who really doesn't like you or who might want to do you harm?" Maddie could almost feel the color leeching from
her face. "No. No. There's nobody like that. Nobody." He was probing too close to the bone—and she was
too shaken. He could threaten all he liked, but she'd had enough. "Okay, that's it. You got way more than
your five minutes. And now I've really got to go." She glanced at her
watch. "It's almost five till ten." "Fair enough." McCabe straightened
away from the rail. "I'll walk you to the elevator." No. But she didn't say it aloud. She didn't want to make it
more obvious than she already had how very eager she was to get away from him.
If she could just keep her cool for another couple minutes, he would be
history— just one more unpleasant chapter in her life. And a very small
unpleasant chapter, at that. She turned, but she was still so rattled that she
was clumsy. The corner of her briefcase hit the table and knocked it over.
Table, crockery, coffee, and pastries went flying. "Oh, dear!" Thanks to the
sound-deadening properties of the carpet, it was more of a rattle than a crash,
but as Maddie stared down in dismay at the mess she was suddenly conscious of
being the cynosure of dozens of pairs of eyes. Even as she watched, the
mud-colored puddle that was her leftover coffee was being soaked up by thirsty
dark-blue carpet fibers. Her cup—identifiable because it rested at the apex of
the puddle—lay on its side beside the overturned table. His had rolled closer
to the rail. The plate that had held the pastries was right side up, but the
pastries themselves were scattered everywhere. Instinctively, Maddie crouched to clean up the
mess. She righted her cup, then reached for the pastries. Scooping one up, she
returned it to its plate, then picked up another. This one had sticky yellow
custard oozing out the sides that got all over her fingers. "I'll do that, ma'am." The same waiter
who had brought the coffee squatted beside her, dropping a handful of gold
cloth napkins beside the shrinking puddle. Grabbing one, murmuring an apology
for her clumsiness, Maddie stood and wiped her fingers while the waiter blotted
the mess. A quick glance at her watch made her heart lurch. In three minutes
she would be late. She dropped the napkin on the table the waiter had just
flipped upright again, added a couple dollars for his trouble, and grabbed her
briefcase. "It's been fun," she said to McCabe,
and without waiting for any response, she headed for the elevator. To her annoyance, he fell into step beside her. "Any other details come to mind about the
guy who attacked you? Length of hair? Beard?" "I... don't think he had a beard."
Terrifying memories of being slammed against a wall replayed themselves in her
head. She seemed to remember her hand brushing a smooth jaw. "I don't know about his hair." "What was he wearing? Long sleeves? Short
sleeves? Shorts? Tennis shoes? Sandals? Try to remember as much as you
can." McCabe spoke from behind her now as she punched the elevator button
with considerably more force than the action called for. "Long sleeves, long pants—" She was
going all shivery again, and, especially at such a critical moment, this she
did not need. Stepping back into the center of the hall, she rounded on him.
"You said if I answered your questions you'd go away." "The thing is, I'm not done asking
questions yet." "Well, Mr. Special Agent, here's a
newsflash: I'm done answering them." His eyes moved over her face, turned thoughtful.
"You know, most people can't wait to tell us their story. Where we usually
run into problems is getting them to shut up." An icy finger of warning slid down her spine. "It's two minutes until ten," she
snapped, taking desperate refuge in the truth. "At ten, I'm scheduled to
be at a meeting that means the world to me. I can't be late, and I can't screw
this up. The account's worth a lot of money, and my company needs it. Really
needs it. Without it, Creative Partners might not survive the year." Their gazes met and held. The elevator ding-ed. "I'll be in touch," he said, stepping
back. Though he almost certainly hadn't intended it as
such, to Maddie that was as dire a threat as any she'd ever heard. The elevator was packed. Under normal
circumstances, she would have waited for the next one. But she was out of time,
so she wedged herself in at the front of the car without looking at McCabe
again. "Fifty, please," she said to the woman
nearest the buttons. She could feel McCabe's eyes on her. Unable to help
herself, she glanced at him as the elevator doors started to slide shut. He was
frowning, watching her—and then the elevator doors closed and cut off her view. But she could still see him in her mind's eye,
arms crossed over his chest, feet planted apart, his eyes narrowed, his
expression—thoughtful. Or—oh, God—had it been suspicious? Of course not, she scolded herself. She was imagining things, a victim of
her own guilty knowledge. He had no reason, none whatsoever, to suspect that
she was anything other than what she appeared to be: an innocent crime victim. But telling herself that didn't help. As the
elevator carried her upward, her knees were about as solid as Jell-O. Her pulse
raced. Her stomach tanked. Imagination or not, she could practically hear
the hounds baying at her heels. SIX Where've you been?" Jon greeted her with a
frantic whisper as she stepped off the elevator. He was there right in front of
the elevator banks in the hall on the fiftieth floor, and he looked vastly
relieved to see her. "Susan already came out to take us into the meeting.
I told her you were in the ladies' room. She'll be back any second." Just like that, she was thrown into deep water
again. Like the survivor she was, she swam. Clamping down on emotions that
threatened to swamp her, lifting her chin and straightening her spine, Maddie
concentrated on drawing back inside the cool shell that kept others from seeing
more of her than she cared for them to see. The elevator had stopped—and
stopped, and stopped—until at last she, the only person left, had made it all the
way to the top. When the doors opened, it was three minutes past
ten. "The FBI wanted to ask me some questions
about last night," she said, also whispering. "The guy at the
elevator downstairs—he was FBI." "I know." His reply was impatient.
"God, do you think I wouldn't have turned this place upside down if I'd
thought some stranger had grabbed you? I got off as quickly as I could and
called security. They checked with the guard at the front desk, who told them
about those guys being from the FBI." Jon paused for an instant, then
added, as an obvious afterthought, "How did the FBI get into this,
anyway?" "I have no idea." Time for a subject change. Maddie was almost
relieved when a bright voice behind them asked, "All ready now?" "Susan," Jon said, cranking the charm
up to full wattage as he turned from Maddie to beam at Susan Allen. "This
is Madeline Fitzgerald, Creative Partners’ owner and CEO. And my boss." "So nice to finally meet you, Ms.
Allen." Shaking hands, Maddie likewise turned on as much charm as she
could muster. A quick look told Maddie that Mrs. Brehmer's assistant, whom she
had spoken to on the phone numerous times but had never before met, was a tall,
thin, flat-chested woman with a long face and narrow, not particularly
attractive, features. She wore her mouse-brown hair straight and
earlobe-length, with a too-short fringe of bangs, and if she had on any makeup
other than a touch of pale pink lipstick, Maddie couldn't tell. Her skirted
suit was a severe black that did nothing for either her figure or her sallow
complexion. Her pale blue eyes, seen through rimless glasses, looked Maddie
over anxiously. "Susan, please. I'm so glad you wore a
skirt," Susan said under her breath as she gestured at them to follow her.
"I meant to warn you and I forgot. Mrs. B hates to see a woman
wearing pants. She probably would have canceled the meeting as soon as she saw
you." On that reassuring note, they reached a sleek
metal door, which Susan opened. "Here they are," she announced to the
people within, and stepped aside for Maddie, with Jon behind her, to enter. Five people were seated around the long table in
the center of the conference room. As Maddie walked in, five pairs of eyes
immediately focused on her. Glancing around nervously, Maddie realized with a
sinking feeling that nobody was smiling. Plastering a big smile on her own
face, she had one coherent thought as she extended her hand and headed for the
grim-faced woman at the head of the table: She now knew just exactly how Daniel
must have felt when he got thrown into the lion's den. Sam got off the elevator in the lobby to find
Wynne, still chewing his gum, sprawled in a chair waiting for him. "She give you any trouble?" Wynne
asked, standing up as Sam joined him. "Nah." "I didn't think she would. She seemed kind
of antsy, though." "Yeah." " 'Course, I might be, too, if somebody had
just attacked me in my hotel room a few hours before." "Maybe." Sam gave Wynne the abridged
version of what Madeline Fitzgerald had told him. As he spoke, the two of them headed
toward the wall of tinted glass that marked the entrance to the building. The
line at the security desk was nearly as long as it had been when they'd rushed
inside earlier, but its length was no longer a problem. At least, not for them.
Not that it had been before, either. They'd felt no compunction whatsoever
about bypassing it. "So what d'you think?" Wynne asked
finally. "I think he made a mistake. I think she
just might be the break we’ve been looking for." Sam pushed through the
revolving door, walking into swampy heat that felt as though it had increased
tenfold during the brief period he had been inside. The sun was now a big, hazy
yellow fireball hanging just above the jagged city skyline. It seemed to
pulsate with energy, broiling the pavement, glaring off the roofs of passing
cars, turning the windows fronting the street into shiny, black walls of
one-way glass. "You don't think she was the intended
target?" Wynne caught up to him again, and they headed toward the parked
Saturn, paying scant attention to the mix of tourist- and business-types that
crowded the sidewalk around them. The shuffle of dozens of moving bodies was
almost drowned out by the cacophony of traffic sounds. Whiffs of something
sweet and doughy— a quick glance identified a mobile beignet stand on the
nearest corner; the sizzle of dough being dropped into hot grease added to the
ambient noise— overlay the combination of coffee, sugar, and humidity that made
up The Big Easy's distinctive smell. "One thing's for sure: They both weren't." Reaching the car, Sam saw the Day-Glo orange
slip of paper tucked beneath his windshield wiper and groaned. The Bureau was
tightening up on expenses as part of its big push to make itself leaner and
meaner in this era of the extremely expensive war on terrorism, and Smolski had
interpreted that to mean that miscellaneous expenses like parking tickets were
basically the problem of the agent who incurred them. A quick glance at the
parking meter showed the red flag up. Shit. "Didn't you feed the meter?" he asked
Wynne in a tone of purest disgust, plucking the ticket from its berth as he
walked around the front of the car. "Didn't you?" Wynne countered. They
exchanged measuring looks over the Saturn's roof, then opened the doors and got
in. The car was white with black vinyl upholstery, which meant that the
interior was hot as an oven. Sam immediately pulled his 9mm free of his
waistband and placed it on top of the console between the seats. Without a
jacket, a shoulder holster was no good; without a shoulder holster, the most
convenient place to carry a weapon was nestled into the small of his back.
Wynne followed suit, then flipped a section of newspaper that was in the car
for just that purpose over their mini-arsenal while Sam turned the ignition on.
As hot, stale air blasted from the air-conditioning vents, he and Wynne both
choked and hit the buttons that lowered their windows. "So, you planning to turn that in on
expenses?" Wynne asked. The strong scent of grape Dubble Bubble was slowly
weakening as the suffocating air inside the car was displaced by the sweltering
air outside. Sam glanced down at the ticket in his hand and
snorted expressively. Then he crumpled it up and tossed it out the window. "Never saw it." "Good call," Wynne said. The air coming
out of the vents was actually cooler than the air outside now, so they both
rolled up their windows. Sam dug around in his pocket for his cell phone.
"Keep your eye open for the Fitzgerald woman. I don't think she'll be out
this soon, but you never know." Wynne nodded and settled back in his seat, his
eyes on the building they'd just left, as Sam punched buttons. "Hey, handsome," Gardner said. "Way to answer the phone," Sam
groused. "Real professional. Listen, I need a quick background check on
this other Madeline Fitzgerald. She owns an advertising agency in St. Louis.
Name's Creative Partners." "Creative Partners." Gardner sounded
like she was writing it down. "Okay, I'll check her out." "And I want to make sure that somebody took
an evidence kit over to the hotel room she was attacked in, did a test for
blood on the rug, fingerprints, hairs, that kind of thing. Also, check on the
whereabouts of a pencil. Possibly bloody." "A possibly bloody pencil?" "She claims she stabbed the UNSUB in the
leg with it. For all I know, New Orleans PD has it. Or maybe it's still just
lying around in the room. Wherever it is, I want it found, and if there's blood
on it, I want the DNA test results back quick." "Yes, oh, master." Sam ignored that. "What about the security
cameras in the hotel? They get anything?" "Unfortunately, they're the kind that tape
over themselves every thirty minutes. Apparently nobody got to them in
time." "Way to run an investigation." Sam
puffed out air. "You turn up anything on the dead one?" "Just what I told you before: longtime
resident of Natchitoches, forty-six years old, grown daughter, saleswoman for
Davidson-Wells, a pharmaceutical firm, been with the company for four years, in
New Orleans for just the one night on business, messy divorce finalized three
months ago. Liked to gamble. Regular at the horse tracks, casinos. Oh, yeah,
there is one more thing: Her husband's served time for aggravated
assault." "So how's his alibi for last night holding
up?" "So far it's holding." "We got a time of death?" "Same as before: between ten p.m., when she
was last seen, and three a.m., when the body was found." "Is that the best they can do?" On TV,
forensic specialists managed to nail the time of death almost to the minute. In
real life, at least in his real life, nothing was ever that simple. Or that
exact. " 'Fraid so." "Let me know when you get something on the
other one." "You got it," Gardner said. Then, as
Sam pulled the phone from his ear, about to break the connection, he was almost
sure he heard her add, "Sweet cheeks." Wynne, clearly having heard the same thing,
grinned at him as Sam stared at the phone for a beat before recollecting
himself and clicking it closed. "Woman wants it bad," Wynne said.
"When you planning to put her out of her misery?" Sam shook his head. "Not anytime
soon." "Hey, you haven't had a girlfriend since
Lauren dumped you last year. Why not give Gardner a whirl?" "Lauren didn't dump me"—actually, she
had, after six months of increasingly acrimonious complaints about the amount
of time Sam spent on the Job—"and anyway, I got a rule about sleeping with
women I work with. Why start something when you know going in that it's gonna
end up being nothing but bad news?" "Because Gardner's built like a brick
shithouse." "Yeah, and she's got the personality of a
pit bull." Wynne's grin widened. "Who cares?" "So you give her a whirl." "It's not me she wants to hook up with.
It's you." Wynne gave him an exaggerated leer. "Sweet cheeks." "All right, give it a rest, would
you?" Sam wasn't in the mood for Wynne's teasing. He was so tired that his
eyes felt grainy, and his stomach was leaving him in no doubt that it didn't
appreciate the breakfast he'd commandeered on the fly. "Can we get back to
work here?" "Sure." Wynne was still grinning. Sam refused to notice. "Okay, here's what I
think we've got going on: Obviously, one of our Madeline Fitzgeralds was
attacked by mistake. How could the killer have guessed there would be two women
with the same name staying at the same hotel on the same night? I don't think
he realized. I think he went to one of their rooms, killed or tried to kill
whichever one was inside, somehow found out that he had made a mistake, and
went after the other. The question is, which one did he mean to kill?" "Good question." Wynne, pondering,
smacked his Duble Bubble thoughtfully. "At a guess, I'd say the one who's
dead. Gambling's a red flag. Maybe she owed somebody money. Hell, maybe they
all owed somebody money. Maybe that's the link." "We got no evidence that Judge Lawrence"—the
esteemed judge had been the first victim, found with two bullet holes in his
temple in his family's mansion in Richmond, Virginia; the fact that he was a
longtime acquaintance of Smolski's was what had brought Sam into the
case—"ever gambled, much less owed anybody money. Or Dante Jones, either,
for that matter." Dante Jones, a used-car dealer from Atlanta, had
been the second victim. Allison Pope, a retiree in Jacksonville, Florida, had
been the third. "If Dante Jones didn't gamble, it's the
only vice he didn't have." "True," Sam said. "Anyway, that girl in there—Madeline
Fitzgerald—she doesn't seem like the type that would merit a professional hit.
Too young, for one thing." "What you mean is, too attractive." He
and Wynne had been together for going on five years now, and Sam knew how his
partner's mind worked. Wynne grinned. "Actually, hot is
more the word I was thinking of." "Yeah, well, being hot doesn't mean you
can't get yourself whacked, you know." Wynne hooted. "There you go, I knew it. You
think she's hot, too. So don't go bustin' my balls, pard." "Whether she's hot or not isn't the point.
The point is, she's alive." "Yeah, baby." Sam slid down a little in his seat, resting his
head back against the headrest and folding his arms over his chest, and
considered his options. Getting comfortable was probably a mistake, but to hell
with it. He was so tired he felt practically boneless. So tired he felt
practically brainless. It took real effort just to stay awake. "Which is another reason I think she wasn't
the intended target," Sam said. "But whether she was or wasn't—and we
just don't know at this point—the fact remains that she was attacked and is
still around to tell the tale. And our guy won't like that." Wynne's eyes widened. "Good point. So what
are we going to do?" "For now, keep our distance and watch our
survivor. And pray that the bastard doesn't like to leave loose ends." "... And give Fido something to bark
about," Maddie concluded on an upbeat note that belied the throbbing in
her head. Standing in front of the room, she looked at the video of the pink
tutu—attired Jack Russell terrier balancing on its hind legs while it barked at
a bag of Brehmer's Dog Chow that was being lifted away by an elephant's trunk,
and thought, This is good. They've got to like this. The thought was revivifying. Then she turned away from the screen to glance
around the table and got a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Or not, she concluded. Forget the chuckles she'd been hoping for.
Not one of the six people present besides herself and Jon had so much as
cracked a smile since the two of them had entered the room. Time to face the truth: The presentation wasn't
going well. Maddie could sense the flatness in the air as Jon turned off the
projector and clicked the lights back on. Someone hit a button and the blinds
that covered the windows slid up with a motorized whirr, flooding the
room with bright sunlight. Beyond the windows, New Orleans baked. The sun
glared off the steel sheathing of the skyscrapers that crowded the skyline like
unevenly spaced teeth. In the distance, she caught the merest glimpse of the
deep marine blue of the Gulf of Mexico, where it met the azure sky. Blue
sky, blue water, blue steel—all that blue was a good match for her mood,
Maddie thought glumly. Glancing around the conference table again, waiting
with bated breath for a comment, any comment, that might give her a little
badly needed encouragement, she realized that no one was meeting her gaze. Uh-oh. Bad sign. The quartet of suits, which was how she'd
quickly come to think of the four sixtyish, buttoned-down businessmen who
actually ran the company, appeared underwhelmed. Howard Bellamy, Brehmer's Pet
Food's tall, distinguished, silver-haired president and chief operating
officer, was fiddling with his pencil. Emil White, the bald, hook-nosed
executive vice president in charge of marketing, who was sitting beside him,
had turned sideways in his seat and was staring past his beach ball-sized belly
at the shiny tip of his cordovan wing tips. Lawrence Thibault, executive vice
president in charge of product development, who was seated across the table
from White, was already typing something into the laptop that rested on the
table in front of him and appeared completely oblivious to what was going on in
the rest of the room. Forget trying to decipher his expression, Maddie
thought despairingly. He was slouched so far down in his chair that all she
could see of him over the laptop's monitor was the top of his head, which was covered
by an expensive-looking jet-black rug. Seated beside Thibault, stocky, grizzled
James Oliver, executive vice president in charge of finance, pushed his
wire-rimmed glasses down his nose, steepled his fingers under his chin, and
looked at Bellamy. From the beginning, he'd made Maddie think of a basset hound
with his worried frown and small, sad brown eyes, and he was looking sadder
than ever now, which could not be considered promising. Standing not far from
Maddie, Susan Allen absently chewed a fingernail and frowned as she watched
Mrs. Brehmer, who was, of course, sitting at the head of the table. Following
Susan's gaze, Maddie decided that the old lady looked a lot more formidable on
her own turf than Maddie remembered her. Of course, they'd met only once
previously, three months before at an awards banquet sponsored by the St. Louis
Chamber of Commerce, where Mrs. Brehmer, herself a former winner, had presented
Maddie with the Saint Louis Young Woman Business Owner of the Year Award. It
was at that dinner that Maddie had suggested to Mrs. Brehmer that hiring
Creative Partners might be the solution to the growth problems the old lady was
complaining that her company was experiencing. Today's meeting was the result
of that conversation. But if Maddie had been expecting that, because
of their mutual ties to St. Louis—all Brehmer's manufacturing was still done
there, at the plant that had served the company for half a century, and Mrs.
Brehmer retained the original family home there—Mrs. Brehmer would be inclined
to look on Creative Partners favorably, she was discovering that she'd been
sadly mistaken. Mrs. Brehmer alone met Maddie's gaze. Her eyes
were a soft, faded blue—and as sharp as twin knives. "Is that circus thing it?" she barked
in her hoarse smoker's voice. A tiny, stooped woman, she was dwarfed by her
oversized black leather chair—the largest at the table. A triple strand of
pearls circled her neck, and she was dressed in a powder-blue suit that Maddie
wasn't sure, but suspected, was a genuine Chanel. Her hair was white, short,
and perfectly coiffed. Her skin was almost as white as her hair, with the
overly taut look that came with too many plastic surgeries. In fact, it had
been pulled so tightly that it seemed molded to the bones beneath. Heavily
made-up, with lashings of mascara and blush and a bright scarlet mouth, she
reminded Maddie irresistibly of the Joker in the Batman movies. Only, Maddie
thought, right about now the Joker seemed positively warm and fuzzy in
comparison. "We have other ideas, of course,"
Maddie said, improvising hastily, because as of the end of that video they were
pretty much fresh out. "Take, for example, your packaging." "What's wrong with our packaging?"
Mrs. Brehmer asked, bristling. "Nothing's wrong with it. Only..."
Fighting the urge to wet her lips, Maddie turned to gesture at the blowup of
the sack of Brehmer's Dog Chow that was standing on an easel in the corner. It
was an uninspiring brown with a dark green stripe across one corner, absolutely
ripe for a makeover, whether the suggestion had been planned or not. "In
today's marketplace, the name of the game is attracting attention. You might
want to think about going with brighter colors, perhaps even something as bold
as fuchsia or lime green. Research has shown that the primary buyer of pet food
is a middle-aged woman with a family, and bright colors have been found to hold
the most appeal for her as well as having the added bonus of jumping off the
shelf visually." "Hmmph, "Mrs. Brehmer said. "My husband designed that bag
himself. Brehmer's Dog Chow has always come in a brown bag." Her gaze slid
from Maddie to Susan. Her voice sharpened even as its volume dropped.
"You. I need a glass of water." Susan started. "Yes, Mrs. B. of course. I'll get it right
away," she murmured, and moved toward the door. Since the door was located
behind Maddie, Maddie got a good look at Susan's expression as she went by.
Instead of rolling her eyes or seeming angry, as Maddie would have expected
(actually, one or both of which she probably would have been guilty of
herself), Susan merely looked more anxious than ever. Perhaps, Maddie thought,
terminal anxiety was her natural expression. White nodded at Mrs. Brehmer. "That's a
good point, Joan. If we change our bag, our customers won't know what to look
for. That brown bag is a Brehmer tradition." The other men nodded agreement. "We're pretty big on tradition around here,
young lady. Somebody should have warned you," Bellamy said to Maddie,
wagging his pencil at her. "Fuchsia and lime-green packaging may attract
some customers' attention, but it won't tell them that it's us." "That's where the national advertising
campaign comes in, Mr. Bellamy. After they see spots featuring the redesigned
bags on TV, your customers will know it's Brehmer's, and they will buy,
because it's the same quality product they love at the same fair price they're
used to paying. And you'll pick up new customers, younger customers who
will stay with your products for years, because of the new, hip packaging, and
fun ads that make them laugh." Bellamy tapped the eraser end of his pencil on
the table and gave a skeptical grunt. Still smiling gamely, Maddie felt almost
sick as she read the handwriting on the wall: They weren't going to get the
account. After all the expense of coming, the worry and hard work, and the
nightmare of last night and today, they were going to come up empty. It was as clear as the expression on the
prospective clients' faces. Maddie swallowed. If Creative Partners didn't
start landing some big accounts soon, the money was going to run out. Their
current clients provided more or less steady work, but the billing from them
barely covered all the monthly expenses. And, sometimes, it didn't even do
that. Of course, given what had happened last night,
she might not have to worry about such mundane matters as company finances much
longer... "We’re a big believer in tradition
ourselves." Jon jumped boldly into the breach when, Maddie realized, she
had remained silent too long. All eyes, including Maddie's, turned to him as he
joined her in front of the pulldown screen on which the proposed ads had been
projected. Maddie was thankful to no longer be the focus of attention. She
needed a moment to thrust the memory of last night and the spurt of burgeoning
panic that had accompanied it back into the "I'll think about it
later" compartment. An instant later, she caught herself nervously
fingering the scarf around her neck, and dropped her hand. "And, of course, tradition is one of
Brehmer's strong points." Jon was in full flow now. "Actually, we
think you should emphasize the fact that your business has been family owned
and operated for fifty-seven years." Jon moved toward the blowup of the
bag. "Besides the fresh new packaging"—he tapped the company's B-in-a-gold-circle
logo dramatically—"we suggest giving Brehmer's Pet Food a more human face:
yours, in fact, Mrs. Brehmer. Right here, in a gold frame, on every bag of pet
food your company produces." For a moment there was dead silence. Maddie held
her breath. She and Jon between them had decided to table that idea, but since
nothing else was working she agreed with his reasoning: There was no reason not
to try one more shot in the dark. Mrs. Brehmer's eyes widened, and her brows
twitched ever so slightly. What did that mean? Did she like the idea? Vacillating wildly between despair and hope,
Maddie did a quick visual sweep of the table. The men's eyes were now fastened
on their boss. Their expressions were frozen, as if they weren't sure how they
were supposed to react. They would, Maddie realized, take their cue from Mrs.
Brehmer. "Brown-nosing is not a quality I admire,
young man," Mrs. Brehmer snapped. It was all Maddie could do not to sag.
Frowning, placing her bony hands with their plethora of rings flat on the
table, Mrs. Brehmer seemed prepared to end the meeting. The men shifted in
their seats in response, and Maddie feared they were all about to rise. "Now, hear me out. I'm serious."
Exhibiting the kind of never-say-die valor that in Maddie's opinion merited a
raise if only she'd had the funds to fund one, which she didn't, Jon held up a
hand in protest and somehow kept them in their seats. "Putting his face on
his product worked for Dave Thomas with Wendy's. It worked for Harlan Sanders
with Kentucky Fried Chicken. You are the soul and spirit of Brehmer's Pet Food,
Mrs. Brehmer. Why shouldn't you be the face of it, too?" Momentarily speechless in the face of such
heroic eloquence, Maddie barely managed to stop herself from applauding as she
waited with clasped hands and a thudding heart for Mrs. Brehmer's reply. "Because nobody wants to look at an ugly
old woman," Mrs. Brehmer said tartly "Don't waste your time
bullshitting a bullshitter. I may be old, but I'm not stupid." She looked
around the table. "Well, gentlemen...” The door opened, and Susan appeared with a glass
of water. "Linda's brought..." she began as
everyone glanced around, and then chaos erupted behind her. Shrill barks and
the scrabble of clawed feet on slick floors were drowned out by a woman's
shriek. "Ouch! No! Stop! You come back here! Zelda!" The yell
came from somewhere down the hall. "Zelda!" Mrs. Brehmer called, coming
to her feet as a foot-tall mop of golden brown hair shot past Susan, who
flattened herself against the open door with a gasp and dropped the glass of
water. The resulting crash and sound of glass shattering was as loud as an
explosion. Maddie jumped. The suits leaped up. "What the—" "Look out!" "There she blows!" "It's that damned mu—uh, darned dog!" "You idiot! She'll cut her feet!"
bellowed Mrs. Brehmer at Susan, her voice a full-throated roar that all but
drowned out the exclamations of her employees as the mop—Maddie realized it was
a small, long-haired dog trailing a lavender leash at just about the time it dashed
past her feet—ran through the spreading puddle and made a flying leap for the
window. Maddie's mouth dropped open as it crashed
headfirst into solid glass. With a single truncated yelp, it then dropped like
a stone to lie motionless on the floor. SEVEN The dull thud of impact still reverberated in
the air as the room erupted. "Zelda!" Mrs. Brehmer and Susan cried at
the same time. Chairs skittered backward as everyone rushed toward the scene of
the accident. Because she was closest, Maddie reached the fallen one first. The
dog was lying, sprawled on its stomach, looking for all the world like a small
fur rug, eyes closed, chin resting on the floor, all four limbs and fluffy tail
splayed out flat around it like spokes in a wheel. A small, incongruously perky
pink satin bow adorned its head, pulling the long hair between its ears up into
a floppy topknot. Except for the flat monkeyish face and the tips of four
black-clawed paws, it was all hair. For a moment, as she tentatively placed a
hand on the silky coat, Maddie feared the dog was dead. It was motionless,
inert, and didn't seem to be breathing. Touching its face, she was not
reassured. She didn't know a whole heck of a lot about dogs—she'd never had the
chance to own one—but were their noses supposed to be cold? Having their sales pitch end with the sudden,
shocking death of Mrs. Brehmer's pet would plunge this already-nightmarish trip
to New Orleans to a whole new low. "Watch out, she might bite," Susan
warned under her breath as Maddie held her fingers in front of the animal's
smashed-in-looking nose to see if she could feel air moving. Both Susan and Jon
were looming over her, Maddie realized, and the suits were gathering around,
too. The rapid clack of Mrs. Brehmer's high heels told Maddie that the old lady
was coming on fast from the far end of the table. Not that Maddie glanced
around to check. All her attention was focused on the dog. Nothing. Nada. Not breathing. Or at least, if it was, Maddie couldn't detect
it. "Never saw anything like that in my life.
Dog tried to jump right out the window," Mr. Bellamy said. "Guess she didn't realize we were on the
fiftieth floor," Mr. White replied in a hushed voice. "What do you think it is, a rocket
scientist? It's a dog," Mr. Oliver said impatiently. "What does it
know about fiftieth floors?" "Hadn't somebody ought to go call a
vet?" Mr. Thibault was the only one of the men who sounded at all
concerned for the animal. "Or something?" "Is she hurt?" Mrs. Brehmer asked.
There was a quaver of real fear in her voice. Maddie hesitated, pressing her fingers right up
against the animal's muzzle in a desperate quest to feel it breathing. The
prospect of telling Mrs. Brehmer that the pet might be dead appalled her. Not
knowing what to say, she rolled an eye up at Susan, who was looking even more
appalled than Maddie felt. No help to be had there. "I, uh..." Maddie began, preparing to
stand up and move aside as soon as she broke the bad news in case someone else
felt more qualified than she did to attempt doggie CPR. Just then she felt
something warm and wet on her fingers. Her gaze shot back to the animal. "She's licking my hand," she said with
relief. "Give her to me." Mrs. Brehmer
strong-armed her way to the front of the group and held out her arms.
Instinctively complying, Maddie gathered up the dog and stood. For all its
seeming stockiness, it was surprisingly lightweight, she discovered, not much
heavier than a good-sized cat. The abundant hair gave visual bulk to a tiny
body. "She's moving," Maddie was pleased to
report as the dog stirred in her arms. Clearly, she thought, looking down at
it, this was a pampered pooch. Its coat was shiny and well-brushed, its collar
was lavender patent leather studded with what looked like real amethysts, and
it smelled—maybe too strongly—of some floral perfume. It was also very sweet. Its eyes had blinked
open now—they were slightly protuberant and shiny-black as olives—but it was
still licking her fingers. Avidly. The eager swipe of the rough, warm tongue
continued even as Maddie handed the animal to Mrs. Brehmer, who clasped it to
her bosom like a baby. Mrs. B. must have been holding it too tightly, because
it immediately began to squirm to get free. Or perhaps, Maddie thought, it
had not yet quite recovered its wits. "She likes you." Susan regarded Maddie
with what looked like surprise. For her part, Maddie was just barely managing
to resist the urge to wipe her licked fingers on her jacket. They felt
surprisingly sticky, stickier than she would have imagined that a small dog's
tongue could make them. Then, remembering the pastry that had been shedding
cream filling when she picked it up earlier, Maddie realized that she'd found
the answer to the animal's apparent affection. But if Susan and the others
chose to think that the dog had been licking her because it liked her, well,
who was she to correct them? At this point, Creative Partners needed any
advantage it could get. "She's cute," Maddie said, putting her
sticky hand in her pocket. "Cute?" Mrs. Brehmer, glancing at her,
sounded affronted. "I don't think I'd call her cute. This is Zelda
von Zoetrope. She's a Grand Champion Pekingese who's taken best of breed at
Westminster. Twice." "Oh, my." As responses went, this
probably ranged right up there with "cute" in the inadequate department,
but at the moment it was the best Maddie could come up with. Ready and willing
to acknowledge herself as a philistine as far as the world of
championship-winning dogs went, Maddie struggled for a more fulsome reply even
as she looked at Zelda with fresh eyes. With the dog wrapped in Mrs. Brehmer's
arms, though, there wasn't much to see but a still-squirming tangle of brown
fur. "You must be very proud," she
achieved. Too late. Mrs. Brehmer was no longer looking at
her. She was once again focused exclusively on the dog. "Oh, we are," Susan said. "Zelda, Zelda," Mrs. Brehmer crooned
as she hugged her wriggling pet. "My dear, darling girl, whatever were you
thinking? You might have been killed!" Zelda growled, the sound low but
unmistakable. Mrs. Brehmer stiffened. Then, lips tightening, she set the dog on
its feet. Zelda seemed momentarily unsteady. Then she shook herself vigorously
and started to trot away, only to be brought up short as she reached the end of
the leash Mrs. Brehmer held. Zelda tugged. Mrs. Brehmer reeled her back in, and
at the same time looked daggers at Susan. "Where is that fool Linda? I pay
her good money to look after this dog." "Now, Mrs. B.," Susan began in a
conciliatory tone, taking the leash from Mrs. Brehmer. "You know Linda is doing
her best. She...” Susan was interrupted by the arrival of a
heavyset woman in a light blue maid's uniform who stopped in the doorway to
glare at the assembled company. "Oh, Linda, there you are," Susan said
with obvious relief. "She bit me again." Linda's chin
quivered with indignation as she pointed at her ankle, where an extra-large
Band-Aid had been stuck on top of a torn stocking. It was spotted with blood.
"Just as soon as I let her out of her carrier. It was like I no sooner set
her on the ground than she went chomp. Hurt like a mother." "You see?" Mrs. Brehmer said to Susan.
"You see? I want you to call that groomer right now and ask what happened
during that last session. That was five days ago, and my poor darling has been
cross as a bear ever since! Why, she's bitten Linda twice, and she growls at
everybody all the time and now she's tried to jump out the window." "I'll check into it," Susan said.
"Shall I take her and..." "I need you here," Mrs. Brehmer
interrupted decisively, and looked at the new arrival. "Linda, you take
her on downstairs to the car. Mind you don't let her get away from you this
time. She could have been killed." Linda flung both hands in the air as if in
surrender and took a step backward. "No, ma'am. I ain't gettin' paid enough
to take care of that dog no more." "Now, Linda..." Susan began. Linda shook her head. "Uh-uh. I mean
it. I quit." "With that attitude, you're fired,"
Mrs. Brehmer shot back. With an indignant hmmph, Linda turned on
her heel and limped away. Susan looked alarmed. "Oh, let her go," Mrs. Brehmer said
when Susan would have hurried after her. "She's only been with us for two
weeks and now she's been fired for cause, so we don't owe her any severance.
And Zelda obviously doesn't like her." "I hope she doesn't sue us," Mr.
Bellamy muttered. Mr. Oliver pursed his lips. "This is an
excellent example of why we have an umbrella policy." "Mrs. Brehmer," Jon said, in the tone
of one who had just had an epiphany. "If you don't want to be the face of
Brehmer's Pet Food, why not let Zelda do it?" A heartbeat passed in which everyone stared at
Jon. Then Maddie took one look at Mrs. Brehmer's expression, grabbed the idea,
and ran with it. "Zelda would be perfect," Maddie said
with enthusiasm, beaming down at the dog who was now sniffing around her
ankles. She could clearly feel its warm doggie breath through her hose. Given
Linda's recent experience, Maddie had a horrible suspicion that she just might
be about to experience the power of Zelda's chomp for herself. Having Mrs.
Brehmer's prized pet sink its teeth into her ankle would be a bad thing in more
ways than one. Certainly, it would not enhance Creative Partners' chances of
turning this thing around. In the spirit of heading trouble off at the pass,
Maddie went down on her haunches and held her hand out to the animal. Zelda,
who'd jumped back, looked at her extended fingers suspiciously while Maddie,
trying not to cringe, held her breath. Zelda's nose quivered, and she seemed to inhale.
Then she trotted forward and started licking Maddie's fingers as sweetly as
could be. It was only when Maddie heard a funny whooshing
sound overhead that she realized that the rest of the group had been
holding their collective breath. Never underestimate the power of a cream-filled
pastry, Maddie thought, and
patted Zelda's perfumed head. "Susan's right, she likes you," Mrs.
Brehmer said abruptly. "I've always said that the very best judges of
character are dogs. Very well. Your company has our account, Miss Fitzgerald.
Don't screw it up." For the space of a couple of heartbeats, Maddie
couldn't believe her ears. "Oh, no, Mrs. Brehmer, I mean, yes, Mrs.
Brehmer," Maddie gasped when it finally sank in, and stood up so fast she
was momentarily lightheaded. Thrusting her hand out at Mrs. Brehmer before she
remembered her telltale sticky fingers, Maddie could only hope that the old
lady wouldn't notice as they shook hands. "Thank you, Mrs. Brehmer." "We'll do a good job for you, Mrs.
Brehmer," Jon said, also shaking their new client's hand. A glance at him
told Maddie that he was having as much trouble keeping his excitement in check
as she was. His cheeks were pink, his eyes were bright, and he was grinning
from ear to ear. Now shaking hands with the suits, Maddie only hoped she didn't
look quite as much like a kid on Christmas morning. "You will indeed, young man, or I'll jerk
this account away from you so fast it will make your head spin," Mrs.
Brehmer said. Maddie, for one, had no doubt whatsoever that she meant it.
"Susan will be in touch with you next week about the details." Mrs.
Brehmer looked at Susan, and her mouth lightened impatiently. "Oh, give
the leash to me and I'll take Zelda down myself. It's almost time for lunch
anyway." "I'll be glad to take her..." Susan
said, sounding slightly alarmed. Mrs. Brehmer practically snatched the leash away
from her assistant. "I said I'll take her. I'm going home now anyway. She
can ride in the car with me. We haven't spent much time together lately. Maybe
she's upset because she's been missing me." With a curt nod at the suits
and an unsmiling goodbye for Maddie and Jon, she started to walk away.
"Come, Zelda." Zelda, who was looking longingly toward the
window again, didn't move. Mrs. Brehmer was forced to stop as she reached the
end of the leash. Having already decided that it probably would be best to get
out of Mrs. Brehmer's orbit before something happened to make her change her
mind, Maddie had moved away to start packing up their gear and was thankfully a
couple yards away from the center of the action by that time. From the corner
of her eye, she watched Mrs. Brehmer glower at her dog. "Zelda!" Mrs. Brehmer said. "Zelda!" Zelda didn't move. She didn't even glance around
until Susan, who was standing near Mrs. Brehmer, clapped her hands. "What did that groomer do to
her?" Mrs. Brehmer demanded of her assistant. "She hasn't been the
same since she got back from her weekly shampoo and blowout." While Susan
shook her head in apparent mystification, Mrs. Brehmer looked despairingly at
Zelda, who was standing stock-still at the very end of the leash, with all four
feet planted like she never intended to move again. "Maybe she cut her
toenails too short. Darling girl, is that it? Do your little feetsies
hurt?" Zelda didn't reply. Mrs. Brehmer, muttering
something that Maddie was too far away to hear, turned away. "Come, Zelda," she said again, giving
the leash a yank. As Susan held the door open for her, Mrs. Brehmer exited,
hauling a still clearly reluctant Zelda in her wake. "Oh my God, we got the account,"
Maddie said to Jon a few minutes later, after the elevator doors closed behind
them and they were headed down. She was dazed with excitement, jittery with it,
still not quite able to take it in. "I don't believe it. We got the
account!" "Yeah," Jon said. "We did." They looked at each other. Then they whooped,
high-fived, and did a little dance that ended with Jon picking Maddie up off
her feet and swinging her around in a bear hug. Their celebration stopped
abruptly when the elevator paused on seventeen and three other people got on. For the rest of the ride down they were
circumspect. Then, as they stepped out into the lobby, Jon looked at her and
grinned. "Now, how about that raise?" "We'll talk," Maddie said, "when
the money starts coming in." "Admit it. I was brilliant." With Jon behind her, Maddie pushed through the
revolving door and stepped out into the scorching heat. "You were pretty good," Maddie
admitted, twinkling at him as he joined her and they headed toward the corner
where, with luck, they might be able to flag down a cab. The street was noisy,
crowded. The sidewalk was packed with people, and they had to weave in and out
to keep from running into anyone. Vehicular traffic was heavy in both
directions. "I was brilliant. Oh my God, we got the account!" This time they low-fived right in the middle of
the sidewalk. Jon said, "Does this call for a celebration
or what? How about if we take ourselves to lunch at some really swanky
restaurant? Be a shame to leave New Orleans without trying, say, Chez
Paul." He looked hopefully at Maddie. "I don't know what planet you're living on,
but down here in the real world, Creative Partners still has bills to
pay." The sugary-sweet smell of frying dough from a stand on the corner
they'd nearly reached reminded Maddie that she really was hungry. When had she
eaten last? That cup of coffee with Mr. Special Agent didn't count... Just as quick as that, the euphoric bubble that
she'd been floating along in burst. The good news was that they had the
account. The bad news was that someone had tried to kill her, and the FBI was
sniffing around, and the whole can of worms that was her life felt like it was
getting ready to explode at any minute. Any way she looked at it, the bad news won. "We'll grab something at the airport,"
she said, suddenly almost desperately eager to get out of New Orleans. One
unpleasant but necessary stop by the hotel to pick up the luggage that the
concierge had promised to hold for them, and they could go to the airport and
get on a plane and fly away. Not that getting back to St. Louis would
necessarily solve her problem... The hair on the back of her neck stood up as her
sixth sense suddenly went on red alert. Jon was looking at her with a frown and
saying something, but Maddie didn't hear whatever it was. She could feel eyes
boring into her back. There was someone watching her, someone coming up behind
her... Whirling, she beheld a wild-eyed stranger
rushing purposefully toward her, extended right hand wrapped around something
black and metallic that was aimed right at her. Her heart leaped. Her stomach
did a nosedive. Hefting her way-too-heavy briefcase in front of
her for what little protection it might afford, she gasped and stumbled back. She should have expected it. She had expected it.
She just hadn't wanted to face the awful truth. She should have run when she had the chance. Now
she was going to die. "Holy Christ, there he comes!" Sitting
bolt-upright in his seat, Sam grabbed for his gun and the door handle at the
same time. Beside him, Wynne cursed and did the same thing. They'd been sitting
there in the car, idly watching Madeline Fitzgerald as she practically waltzed
down the sidewalk with the same tall, blond, good-looking guy she'd been with
in the lobby. Sam personally had been admiring her legs while Wynne speculated
with good-natured vulgarity about her prowess in bed and whether Blondie, as
Wynne had dubbed the guy, was getting any. That all changed in the space of a heartbeat as
she whipped around and they spotted the man racing toward her. Terror was
written all over her face, and Sam didn't blame her. If the creep had a gun—he
had something in his hand, something he was pointing at her... Jesus, if it was
a weapon, she was as good as dead. Sam was right there but not close enough.
Instead of saving her life, he was going to witness the ending of it. Shit. With 9 mm in hand, Sam rolled out of the car and
sprinted for the sidewalk, barreling past startled onlookers, knocking a portly
businessman on his ass. Meanwhile, the lady screamed, the crowd scattered, the
boyfriend took a couple steps back and looked surprised, and the creep kept
coming on. "Federal agents! Freeze!" Sam roared,
leaping between the onrushing man and the woman at what, in his estimation, was
probably the last possible second before a shot was fired. He braced himself,
half expecting to get slammed by the bullet that was meant for her if the creep
was even a little slow on the uptake, which in his experience creeps
universally tended to be. But no: The creep saw the gun leveled at him and let
out a shriek, stopping dead and dropping the object in his hand. Shiny black,
it hit the sidewalk with an unmistakably metallic sound. The crowd had already
started breaking up; now those still nearby doubled over, scrambling for
safety. Screams filled the air. Cars braked and honked. Sam heard at least one
crash. Wynne, beside him now, bellowed, "Get your
hands in the air!" "WGMB! WGMB!" the creep cried,
thrusting both hands high in the air. "I'm a reporter! We're a TV crew,
you idiots! Don't shoot!" TV reporters. Sam's jaw went slack as he saw his
life pass before his eyes. They'd drawn on a television camera crew and, yep,
here it came... "Gene, Gene, I got it all! Oh, man, if we
hurry, we can make the noon news!" Another man came running up behind the
first, a black, boxlike camera perched on his shoulder. He was tall, thin, and
freckled, with long, dark red hair drawn back into a ponytail. "This is
great!" "Great my ass! I almost got shot!"
Gene snapped. Feeling like every kind of fool, Sam thrust his
gun into his waistband, out of sight. Beside him, Wynne performed a similar
sleight of hand with his weapon. The guy with the camera was turning, filming
the ducking, staring, exclaiming crowd. The reporter—Gene—was a black-haired
Geraldo Rivera type, complete with
Frito Bandido mustache and white dress shirt rolled to just past his elbows. He
bent, scooping up the round black thing he'd dropped and holding it in front of
his face. A microphone. Great. Just fucking great. If this
got out—and there was no way it wasn't going to get out—he and Wynne were never
going to live it down. Looking at the camera, Gene spoke into the
microphone. "As you just witnessed, talking to the survivor of last
night's attacks on two different women with the same name got a little hairy
there, but we survived and we are, as always, doing our best to get the story
for you. After what appears to be the contract killing of Madeline
Fitzgerald of Natchitoches last night, federal agents are on the job,
protecting another Madeline Fitzgerald from Saint Louis, Missouri, who
was apparently attacked by the same killer by mistake and survived. Ms.
Fitzgerald"—Gene moved past Sam, thrusting the microphone out toward the
surviving Madeline Fitzgerald, who was looking unnerved and horrified in equal
measure as she stared into the camera—"what can you tell us about what
happened last night?" "I-I," she stuttered, backing away and
holding her briefcase up in front of her face to block the camera's view.
"I have no comment." "Is it true that you were attacked in your
room at the Holiday Inn Express on Peyton Place Boulevard last night?"
Gene persisted, following her. The cameraman was right behind him. They brushed
past Sam as if he wasn't even there. "Get away from her," Blondie said,
attempting to push the microphone away. "You ever hear of the Fourth Amendment,
bud?" Gene snarled at Blondie, and focused on the woman again. "Did
you see a weapon?" "No, I—no comment." Still backing up,
almost tripping over her own feet in their beige high heels, she sounded scared
to death. Her knuckles went white as both hands seemed to tighten around the
edges of the heavy-looking leather case. Hell, she was scared to death, Sam
realized with disgust, and felt an unexpected surge of protectiveness toward
her. Getting up close and personal with the subject of a surveillance operation
was not ordinarily something he tended to do, but unlike most, this one seemed
to be an innocent caught up in events not of her making. And she looked so
damned vulnerable. "Did he have a weapon?" Gene persisted. "Look, what part of 'no comment' do you not
understand?" Blondie protested angrily. Gene went right by him, intent on
his quarry. He and the cameraman were so close to Madeline Fitzgerald now that
if it hadn't been for the briefcase she was using to block them out they would
have been right in her face. "Please..." she said from behind it.
"Leave me alone." Sam had had enough. Under the circumstances,
antagonizing this particular camera crew further was probably not the smartest
thing he had ever done, he knew. He did it anyway. Shoving past Gene and
company, he caught the woman by her arm. The briefcase slipped as she looked up
at him with eyes as big as a startled fawn's. They were the warm gold of honey
beneath a lush sweep of feathery lashes; he'd noted their beauty the first time
she had looked at him. Beneath her thin linen sleeve, he could feel her arm
shake. It was a slender arm, firm but unmistakably feminine. He didn't much
like the fact that he was noticing. "Come on. Let's get you out of
here," he said. Her eyes flickered, and she seemed to hesitate. Then she
nodded jerkily, and her arm relaxed in his grip. "Did you know your attacker? Recognize
him?" Gene persisted, thrusting the microphone at Madeline again. "Maddie..." Blondie was looking at
Sam's hand on her arm. "It's okay," she said to him, already moving
at Sam's side. "Back off," Sam growled at Gene. Something in his face
must have told the reporter that he meant it, because Gene took a step back.
"Get that camera out of here." He was moving as he spoke, taking Maddie with
him. She stayed close to his side as he pulled her toward the car, clearly
trusting him to get her out of there. "Hey," Blondie said, following.
"Wait just a minute..." "Are you getting this, Dave?" Gene
looked around at the cameraman behind him. "Oh, yeah," Dave replied with relish. "You're interfering with federal
agents," Wynne said, bringing up the rear. "You're interfering with the public's right
to know," Gene retorted. Behind him, the camera followed Maddie’s every
move. "To hell with the public's right to
know," Sam said as he opened the car door for Maddie and Gene darted
forward. He blocked the reporter's access with his body. "I said back
off." "Are you taking Miss Fitzgerald into
custody?" The microphone was thrust into Sam's face instead. "Back off." Sam took her briefcase from her, thrust it down in
the footwell, and bundled Maddie into the front passenger seat. Wynne and
Blondie caught up just as he was slamming the door. "What..." Blondie began. "Get in," Sam said, opening the rear
door. Blondie looked at Maddie in the front seat and got in. Sam was already
rounding the front of the car as Wynne slid into the backseat, too, and slammed
the door. "Are they under arrest?" Never-say-die
Gene yelled from the sidewalk as Sam opened his door. With a grim smile, Sam
flipped him the bird, then got into the car, started it up, and pulled away
from the curb. EIGHT Out of the frying pan, into the fire. That was what kept running through Maddie's head
as the car pulled into traffic, muscled its way into the far lane, and then
turned a sharp left, leaving the TV crew and all the other witnesses to the
debacle thankfully far behind. The problem was, she wasn't exactly sure which
was frying pan and which was fire. The reporter and his camera had been a
threat to her. But then, so was the FBI. "Smooth move," Wynne said dryly to
McCabe. "Tell me about it," McCabe replied.
"Think we're going to make the noon news? " "Oh, yeah." "What the hell is this?" Jon
demanded. His raised voice filled the car. "What's going on?" "Chill, man," Wynne sounded tired.
"Everything's copacetic." "Good word," McCabe said. "The hell it is. Maddie, are you all
right?" That was Jon again. He was starting to sound belligerent, which,
in her experience, wasn't like Jon. "Could somebody please tell me why there
was a TV crew chasing you back there?" Maddie had been staring almost unseeingly out
through the windshield, with her arms wrapped around herself to combat the
bone-deep chill that, she hoped, could be laid at the door of the car's
cranked-up air-conditioning rather than shock. The euphoria that had
accompanied winning the Brehmer account was long gone. It was as though it had
happened to someone else. All she wanted to do now was escape—but at the
moment, escape wasn't possible. Suck it up, girl. I didn't raise my daughter to
be some little pussy. She could almost hear her father saying it. Words
to live by, Maddie thought wryly, and did her best to make him proud. She
sucked it up, got a grip, and shifted positions, turning in the slick vinyl
seat so that she could see the others. Besides Jon, who still looked as natty
as he had while making his pitch to Brehmer's, with nary a crease in his navy
suit, his red tie still knotted perfectly, his white shirt spotless, and not so
much as a single golden hair out of place, there was Wynne, red-faced, sweaty,
his hairy, bare calves visible beneath the legs of rumpled khaki shorts, arms
crossed over the hula girl on his chest, jaw working as he chewed on something
that smelled like a grape Popsicle, and McCabe, still unsmiling, still
unshaven, and about as natty as an unmade bed. Shining examples of the federal government's
finest. God, she was in a car with a pair of FBI agents. This just keeps
getting better and better. "I'm fine," she said to Jon, which was
a lie. She was freezing, so cold she feared she might never get warm; her head
ached; her throat hurt; and she was so scared, so worried, so appalled by what
was happening that just pretending everything was relatively okay in her world
was an acting job worthy of an Academy Award. But until she figured out what to
do, she had no choice but to continue to act, so she added, with an assumption
of ease, "You remember these guys. FBI. From the building." "Sam McCabe," McCabe said to Jon with
a quick flick of his eyes to the rearview mirror. He turned left again, onto
St. Charles Street, and as he moved the wheel, Maddie could not help but notice
the muscular flexing of his arm. The combination of tanned skin and bulging
biceps would have piqued her interest had they belonged to anyone else. "E. P. Wynne," Wynne said between
chews. "Jon Carter," Jon said. Then his voice
sharpened. "Is this about what happened to Maddie last night? Because it
was terrible, and it scared the bejesus out of her, but she wasn't even badly
hurt. What is this, New Orleans's slowest news day ever?" "Something like that." Then McCabe,
with a quick glance Maddie's way, asked, "Where to, folks?" "The hotel, I guess," Maddie said. She
was looking at McCabe, who was negotiating the heavy traffic with careful
competence. As they changed lanes, sunlight played over his profile, and she
noted absently that his features were well proportioned, handsome even, if one
ignored the general scruffiness. He blinked, and she focused for an instant on
his lashes, which were black, thick, and stubby. Then he glanced her way and
she realized that she'd been staring and looked away quickly She realized, too,
that she wasn't quite herself, to put it mildly. The one-two punch of terror
and relief she'd just experienced had left her in something of a daze. Now it
was starting to lift, and her brain was starting to fire on more cylinders. "What were you doing out there on that
street anyway?" Her eyes cut toward McCabe again. Her tone turned
accusing. "Were you following me?" There was the briefest of
pauses. "It just so happened we were still in the
neighborhood," McCabe said, and Maddie thought she caught a spark of what
might have been humor in his eyes. Outside the window, one of the streetcars
that was a prime New Orleans tourist attraction clanged its bell. Maddie jumped
and looked around to ascertain where the noise had come from. Her nerves were
still too jangled to permit her to calmly absorb unanticipated sounds. "You were following me," she
said when she had recovered. "Admit it, you were." "If wewere, and if that had been a man with a gun, we
would have saved your life back there." Good point. "But it wasn't a man with a gun. It was a
TV reporter with a camera, and now, thanks to you, I'm going to be all over the
noon news." "Miz Fitzgerald, believe me, you would have
been all over the noon news without me." A beat passed as Maddie thought that over. "The man back there—the TV reporter—said
there was another Madeline Fitzgerald attacked last night. He said it was a
contract k-killing," Maddie said slowly. With the best will in the world,
she couldn't help it: Her voice shook on the last word. McCabe stopped at a red light and looked over at
her. His expression was grim. "We don't know that it was a contract
killing," he said. "But right at this moment it looks like it might
have been. Did you know her?" "Know her?" Maddie took a deep breath
and tried to keep her voice steady. "No. No, I didn't. Why didn't you tell
me about this earlier?" His lips thinned. "Because you didn't need
to know." "Well," Maddie said with a hint of
bite, "now I do. So how about you fill me in?" The light changed and the car started moving
again. They turned onto Canal Street, one of the widest avenues that was open
to traffic in the world, and the crush of vehicles increased. Outside the
window, picturesque nineteenth-century commercial buildings with wrought-iron
balconies and slatted shutters slid past on either side. Gold lettering on
glass windows advertised such businesses as "Madame Le Moyne, Psychic,
Open 24 Hours," "Tarot Reading—Learn Your Future,"
"Patisserie," and "Le Masque Shoppe," among others.
Planters bursting with purple wave petunias, baby's breath, and trailing ivy
hung from the lampposts. The crowd here was more casually dressed,
touristy-looking, with lots of Starbucks cups being carted around. It was
Friday in New Orleans, and just about everybody in the city who wasn't driving
around seemed to be out there on the sidewalks, enjoying it. McCabe glanced at her again and seemed to
hesitate. Then he returned his attention to the road and said, "Okay.
Here's the story: There were two women named Madeline Fitzgerald staying at
your hotel last night. Both were attacked in their rooms. One died. One—that
would be you—lived." Maddie sucked in her breath. "You wanted to know," McCabe said. "You're kidding." That was Jon from
the backseat. "Nope," Wynne said. "I don't think
you realize how lucky you are, Ms. Fitzgerald. The other woman took two bullets
to the head." "Oh my God." Maddie felt dizzy. She
remembered the sound of the bullets hitting the mattress, remembered what it
was like to think she was going to be shot at any moment, remembered what
terror felt like, how it tasted... The other Madeline Fitzgerald had died. Because
of her? The thought made her go all light-headed. "You okay?" McCabe asked. Maddie supposed her face must have paled.
Remembering who he was— what he was—was enough to snap her back to her senses,
and she managed to push everything except her immediate situation out of her
head. Only then did more ramifications of what he had told her begin to occur. "You mean there's a possibility that I was
attacked by mistake?" A beat passed in which no one said anything. "You think there's a possibility that it wasn't
a mistake?" McCabe asked. His tone was neutral—too neutral. He was
probing for answers—and Maddie, catching herself up, wasn't about to give any.
Not by the hair of her chinny-chin-chin. "Of course it was a mistake," she
said. "How could it not have been a mistake?" McCabe's eyes cut her way. "You tell
me." "I thought it was just a random attack,
kind of a sex thing gone wrong," Jon said, frowning. "I don't think so." McCabe glanced in
the rearview mirror. "But the possibility is not completely off the table
yet. What are the chances, though, two separate perps attack two different
women named Madeline Fitzgerald on the same night at the same hotel? Completely
unrelated?" Nobody said anything. The answer, clearly, was not
good. "So what do you think happened?"
Maddie asked. "We think it may have been a paid
hit," Wynne said. Maddie felt hope, that small eternal flame,
spring to life in her breast. "A paid hit on the other woman?" She
took a deep breath and ran with the ball. "And the killer got the names
mixed up and came to my room by mistake. When I got away, he somehow discovered
his mistake and went after her. She was the target." The relief was so intense that she was almost
limp with it. Please, God, please, God, please let that be the answer. Let
it all have been a terrible mistake. Let it not have been about me at all. What she wanted most in the world at that moment
was for that to be true. If it was, she could put the whole terrible experience
safely behind her and just go on with her life. "Or maybe it was the other way
around." They stopped at an intersection, and McCabe looked at her as he
spoke. "Maybe the killer went to her room first, killed her, figured out
his mistake and came after you. Maybe it was you he wanted dead. Maybe you were
the target." Doing her best to keep her face expressionless,
Maddie met his gaze. "Why?" she asked simply. "Yeah, why?" Jon asked. "Why on
earth would a hit man want to murder Maddie?" "I have no idea," McCabe said, and
glanced at Maddie again. "That's why I'm asking you one more time, and I
want you to rack your brain before you answer: Do you know anyone, anyone at
all, who might want you dead or have something to gain from your death?" His gaze reverted to the road as the light
changed and they started moving again. Maddie had no idea whether she had
imagined the glimmer of doubt in his eyes or not. What she did know was that her palms were damp.
"No," she said. He didn't reply to that. For a moment there was
no sound in the car except the hum of the air-conditioning. "Here we are." McCabe swung into the
semicircular drive that fronted the hotel. A waist-high hedge of hot-pink
azaleas lined the drive. Beneath the white-columned portico, a uniformed
bellman loaded luggage onto a cart. A black Honda with a parking valet at the
wheel pulled away from the entrance as the couple who owned the car disappeared
inside. The only sign of the previous night's tragedy was the police car parked
just past the entrance. "So, you two—you got plans for the rest of the
day?" "We grab our luggage and head for the
airport," Jon said as McCabe stopped the car. "That pretty much sums
it up." "Want a ride?" McCabe's question was
directed at Maddie. "No." Maddie was already opening her
door. "We'll catch a cab. Thanks." "Hang on a minute." McCabe leaned over
and caught her by the wrist as Jon opened the back door. "I have something
I need to say to you." His hand was warm and dry, big, long-fingered.
She'd always liked men with big hands, she thought in that first fleeting
instant of surprise at being grabbed. Then she frowned. FBI agents with big
hands, however, were in a whole separate category. One she didn't want anything
to do with. She tried to tug her hand free without result.
If anything, he tightened his grip. Her eyes met his, narrowed. "It'll just take a minute," he
promised. "Look, I've got to go. What with security
and everything, getting through the airport takes forever now." He didn't let go. Jon, who had gotten out, was
leaning down to look in at her through her partially opened door. "She'll be just a minute," McCabe said
to Jon. Then, as Jon frowned and looked like he was about to protest, Wynne
walked up beside him and said something. Jon straightened to talk to Wynne. "Close the door," McCabe said. He was
looking at her steadily, his expression serious, even slightly grim. Maddie’s heart skipped a beat. Then she rallied,
lifting her chin. "You're good at giving orders, aren't you?" "Please." His voice was very quiet. What could she do? Maddie, keenly aware of a
whole summer's worth of butterflies taking wing in her stomach, closed the
door. "So what do you want?" she asked, just
barely managing to keep the truculence out of her voice. She felt trapped,
panicky, and the unbreakable hold he was keeping on her wrist was not making
her feel any more relaxed. It reminded her of a handcuff... The image was
unnerving, and she instantly banished it. The trick was not to let him realize
just how very apprehensive she was. Did he realize? He was watching her,
the faintest of frown lines between his brows, his expression unreadable. "If you've got anything you want to tell
me, anything at all, this is the moment. I thought you might feel more
comfortable doing it if the boyfriend wasn't here." It was all Maddie could do not to suck in
telltale air. "I don't have anything to tell you."
She forced a little laugh. Her only hope was that it didn't sound as fake to
him as it did to her. "What could I possibly have to tell you? And, just
for the record, Jon's not my boyfriend. He's my employee. We work together, and
we're friends. We don't sleep together." McCabe smiled. If he hadn't been an FBI agent,
Maddie realized with some surprise, she might actually be feeling kind of
attracted to him about now. "Duly noted." His smile deepened. Oh, God, he had dimples.
Deep ones on either side of his mouth. Maddie looked, blinked, then realized
that she really, really didn't want to go there. Brows twitching together, she
glanced pointedly down at his hand wrapped around her wrist. "Would you
mind letting me go now?" "What?" He looked down at their linked
hands, too, and then let go. "Oh, sure." "Is there anything else?" Maddie was
already reaching for the door handle. "Because I have a plane to
catch." "Just one more thing." He was leaning
back in his seat, his hands resting casually on the bottom of the steering
wheel, his head turned slightly toward her. Her whole side was pressed against
the door now. Her hand curled around the handle, and it was all she could do
not to simply release it, open the door, and bolt. "Even if the attack on
you was a mistake, even if you were not the intended victim, that doesn't let
you off the hook, you realize. This guy, whoever he is, attacked you, and you
escaped. You lived. You're a witness. He may believe that you can identify him.
It's very possible that he might be coming after you to finish the job." Maddie's eyes widened. That aspect of the
situation hadn't occurred to her. In other words, even if she hadn't been the
intended victim originally, now she was? What was this, 101 reasons for someone
to want to kill her? "I can offer you protection. Someone to
stay with you twenty-four hours a day until we get this creep." Maddie's breath caught. Like she was going to
accept protection from the FBI?On any other day, in any other
mood, she would have laughed. "No," she said. "No, no, no. I
just want to forget all about this. I just want to go home." And with that she opened the door and stepped
out into the enervating heat. Something—rising too swiftly, the lack ofsleep
and food, the multiple traumas she'd suffered over the course of the last
twenty-four hours, who knew?—made her suddenly light-headed. The world seemed
to tilt, and she had to steady herself with a hand on the car roof. The metal
was hot and faintly gritty from dust. The sun bouncing off the pavement was
blinding. The smell of melting asphalt was strong. "Forgot your briefcase," McCabe called
after her, and Maddie stiffened. Then she sucked it up one more time, turned,
and dragged her briefcase out of the footwell. The last words he said to her as
she slammed the door shut were, "You take care of yourself, Miz
Fitzgerald." NINE What the hell wereyou
thinking?" Smolski swiveled in his chair, his eyes almost bugging out of
his head as they fixed on Sam. His scream was loud enough to make Gardner jump,
and it wasn't even directed at her. Sam, at whom it was directed,
grimaced. Wynne, who was only a secondary target, took a step back. "That
thing made us look like the fucking Keystone Cops!" It was just before six p.m., and they were
standing like a trio of schoolkids who had been called before the principal in
the uber-luxurious cabin of a private jet that had touched down on the tarmac
at New Orleans some twenty minutes earlier. Smolski was seated in a bone
leather chair that seconds before had been facing a wide-screen plasma TV. A
video clip of the morning incident with Gene Markham of WGMB had just ended
with a close-up of Sam's middle finger riding high. "It was a quick-response kind of situation.
We just happened to have read it wrong," Sam said by way of an
explanation. It was lame, and he knew it. The whole situation had been
farcical, and he'd made it ten times worse by flipping the news guy the bird.
It was juvenile, and he should have known better. "We thought he was coming after her with a
weapon," Wynne added. Big mistake. It sounded like an excuse, and
if there was anything Smolski hated more than screwups, it was excuses. "You thought he was coming after her with a
weapon," Smolski mimicked in a savage falsetto. "It was a fucking microphone,
you morons. You drew on a TV reporter in the middle of a crowded city
street. And they got it all on TV." There wasn't much to say to that except
"Sorry, my bad," and Sam refrained. One thing he'd learned in the six
years he'd spent working under Smolski in the Violent Crimes division was that
being an FBI agent meant never venturing to say you were sorry—because if you
did, Smolski would wipe the floor with you. Smolski put no more stock in
apologies than he did in excuses. He wanted it done right the first time, and
he wanted it done yesterday. The head of Violent Crimes was a former Marine
who'd once been muscular but had now gone to flabby seed, and despite the
thousand-dollar suit he wore, there was no hiding the roll of pudge that hung
over his belt. He had a Mediterranean complexion and thinning black hair. His
nose was big; his eyes and mouth were small. His temper was legendary. Fortunately, at least as far as Sam was
concerned, Smolski's bark was worse than his bite. "I thought we agreed to keep this thing on
the down-low? All we need is the media on our asses, telling the whole world
how people are being knocked off like ducks in a shooting gallery while you
guys make like the Three Stooges. To say nothing of the fact that if the public
finds out that the UNSUB's calling you on your cell phone, we might as well
throw the damned thing out the window because everybody and his mother will
start calling that number and the killer will never be able to get
through." Smolski was still yelling loud enough to cause Melody, his
longtime administrative assistant, to make a sympathetic face at Sam behind her
boss's back. A plumpish, blue-eyed brunette in a navy pantsuit, she was a nice
girl—well, a nice woman now, thirty-three years old, married with a couple of
kids. She'd once been a babe, and when she'd first come to work at
headquarters, Sam had taken her out a few times. The fling had fizzled when it
had become obvious that Melody wanted forever while Sam was allergic to same.
But she still retained a soft spot for him, which Sam from time to time took
shameless advantage of. Now, while Smolski spread the love by glaring at
Wynne again, Sam seized the moment to nod significantly at the white telephone
on the console behind Smolski. She looked shocked, and then the corners of her
lips quivered. Good girl, Melody. Melody disappeared from view, and Smolski redirected
his vitriol toward Sam. "You got anything? Huh? You got anything? Hell,
no, you don't got anything, because if you did, I'd already know about it.
You've been chasing around the country after this guy for a month now. You've
been spending money like you think you're the fucking Sultan of Brunei. And you
got what to show for it? A TV clip that's an embarrassment to the Bureau, and
that's it. The vice president got a call from his sister, who lives here
in New Orleans, complaining about my guys pulling weapons on a streetful of
innocent civilians. 'Deal with it,' he says to me, so I have to interrupt my
trip to L.A., make a big detour to stop here, and for what? I'll tell you for
what: to kick your guys' asses from here to Sunday. What were you thinking?You..." The telephone rang, cutting Smolski off in full
spiel. Melody reappeared to answer the phone, and Smolski turned his head to
listen while Melody had a brief conversation with whomever was on the other
end. Melody then held the phone out to her boss. "Your wife," she said to Smolski, who
took the receiver with obvious reluctance. "Cripes," he said, one hand covering
the mouthpiece. "Why didn't you tell her I'm in a meeting? She's been
badgering me to go to some damned fund-raiser for PETA or something. I've had
my cell phone turned off all day. How the hell did she know where to reach
me?" Smolski spent much of his life doing his best to
avoid his wife, who spent much of hers tracking him down. Sam was willing to
bet that Melody, a kindhearted sort, had just alerted Mrs. Smolski to her
errant hubby's availability to take a call. Smolski uncovered the mouthpiece, said,
"Hang on a minute, honey, I'm dealing with a situation here,"
listened, winced, said, "Of course I'm not trying to avoid you. I promise,
just one minute," and covered the mouthpiece again. "You guys get the hell out of here."
He dismissed them with an angry wave of his hand. "I see any more dumb
moves like you pulled today, and I'll bust you down to file clerks. You
understand me?" Yes, sir. Acting on the dismissal with alacrity, Gardner
was already on the steps that led down to the tarmac, Wynne was in the doorway
right behind her, and Sam was bringing up the rear by the time Smolski had the
phone to his ear again. "Thanks, Mel," Sam whispered to
Melody, who had followed them to the door. "Anytime." She smiled at him, and for
a moment he had a bad pang of the might-have-beens. But there were a lot of
might-have-beens littering his life, and so he shrugged this particular one
off, clasped the metal handrail, and headed down the steps. It was overcast and
drizzling now—no more than a light mist, really—but enough to make steam come
up off the pavement, so it looked as though they were stepping down into a
cloud. Sam wasn't bothered by the fine drops that beaded on his face and
dampened his clothes, but the moisture caused Wynne's hair to frizz even more
than usual and wilted Gardner's short-and-spiky look, which, by way of a
change, this week she had dyed fire-engine red. "And, by the way, you guys look like
shit!" Smolski's voice followed them. The bellow was muffled, but neither
Sam nor Wynne nor Gardner nor the half-dozen mechanics and luggage handlers in
the vicinity had any trouble hearing it. "Shave! Put on some decent clothes!
Do something about your hair! Quit embarrassing me!" "The sad thing is, that's the most
excitement I've had today," Gardner said pensively as they dodged an
orange luggage cart and headed toward the terminal. A commercial jet raced
toward takeoff in the background, the roar of its engines blunted by distance.
"Do you think he'll really be named head of the Bureau?" "I heard it's a done deal," Wynne
said. "They're waiting to announce it until after
Mosley"—Ed Mosley was the current FBI director—"announces his retirement.
That won't be till after the election." As he spoke, Sam absentmindedly
watched the jet that had just taken off do a graceful U-turn and head north,
rising until it disappeared within the lowering bank of iron-gray clouds that
covered the sky. "So, who's going to replace Smolski?"
Gardner wondered aloud. Sam shrugged. They had reached the terminal by
this time. Wynne pulled open the glass door that led to the escalator that
would take them up to the main level, then stood back to let Gardner precede him.
She walked in, swinging her butt provocatively. It was a J.Lo butt, big and
curvy in a clingy black skirt, and Wynne could hardly tear his eyes from it.
Her equally generous breasts jiggled like water balloons beneath a pink silk
blouse. Her waist was cinched by a wide black belt pulled so tight that Sam
wondered how she could breathe. He also wondered, just in passing, where she
was carrying her gun. Did they have bra holsters now? Deciding he really didn't
want to go there, Sam followed them inside, only half listening to their
conversation. Wynne's face was turning shades of puce as Gardner continued to
do her high-heeled strut in front of him all the way to the escalator. As the
three of them rode it up, Sam, still bringing up the rear, shook his head. Poor
guy had it bad for Gardner, and the sad thing was that, knowing Wynne, he was
never going to do anything about it. As far as he himself was concerned,
Gardner had all the right equipment even if it was a little abundant for his
taste, and she was attractive enough with her bright blue eyes and big, bold
features that matched her five-foot-ten, big-boned frame, but he was not going
there. No way, no how. As his grandma told him nearly every time he saw
her, it don't mean a thing if it ain't got that zing. "You drive," Sam said to Wynne,
tossing him the keys as they reached the Saturn, which they'd left in
short-term parking. He'd already punched the button to unlock the car, and
Gardner was already sliding into the front passenger seat. Sam had no doubt
that she would spend the drive back to the hotel, where they'd set up shop,
crossing and uncrossing her legs at him, just like she'd done on the drive out
to the airport. She was going to so much trouble to be provocative, Sam
thought, that the least he could do was provide her with an appreciative
audience. Namely, Wynne. "Don't wreck us," Sam added as an
afterthought, only then considering the possible consequences of Gardner's
come-hither act on Wynne, but it was too late. Wynne was already making himself
at home behind the wheel, and, anyway, Sam personally was just too damned tired
to drive. The headlights coming at them as they pulled around the spiral exit
ramp were blurry, and his head pounded like the bass on a teenager's stereo.
Plus, the interior of the car smelled of cheap vinyl, stale cigarettes, and
Wynne's everlasting gum. The combination didn't do a thing for his stomach,
which was quivering on the verge of nausea. God, just how long had it been now since he'd
had any sleep? He didn't even want to think about it. In the front seat, Gardner crossed and uncrossed
her legs at Wynne for at least the third time, with a predictably deleterious
effect on his driving. It was rush hour, and traffic on the interstate heading
back into the city was heavy. The rain was coming down more steadily now, and
the roads were slick. The windshield wipers swished back and forth with the
mind-numbing rhythm of a metronome. Wynne, distracted, was one scary-ass driver.
There was only one thing to do, Sam decided, if he wished to preserve life and
limb, and that was distract Gardner from distracting Wynne. "So tell us about Madeline Fitzgerald. The
live one," Sam said to her. "Anybody ever tell you you're a slave
driver, McCabe?" Gardner protested good-naturedly, despite tugging her
briefcase onto her lap and rooting some papers out of one of the pockets.
Glancing down at them, she turned in the seat to look at him. "What do you
want to know?" "Why don't you start all over again?" Gardner had been in the process of filling them
in on their survivor when Smolski's call had come in, ordering them to meet him
at the airport. A fresh start without worrying about how hard Smolski was
getting ready to come down on them would probably be a good thing. Especially
since all three of them were so tired that their brains were sputtering along
like a car getting down to its last few drops of gas. Gardner looked down at the papers again.
"Madeline Elaine Fitzgerald, twenty-nine years old, owner of Creative
Partners advertising agency, which she purchased nineteen months ago from the
previous owner, who sold because of poor health. Previous to that she was an
employee of said advertising agency for two years. Previous to that she was an
independent contractor for an outfit selling advertising space in various local
publications. A BA in business administration from Western Illinois University.
Parents, John and Elaine Fitzgerald, deceased. He was a dentist, she was a
homemaker. No siblings. Never married. Pays her bills on time. No arrest
record." "Any history of gambling?" Wynne
asked, easing into the slow lane as an eighteen-wheeler shot past on the left
with a tooth-rattling roar. "Nothing showed up." A vision of Maddie as he had last seen her rose
in Sam's mind's eye. Big brown eyes, lush mouth, luxuriant hair, slender,
alluring body, legs that went on forever. Tons of sex appeal, as he personally
could testify, and a lot of class besides. Business owner. College degree.
Should ooze self-confidence. But there'd been insecurity there. And hostility,
too. In fact, he'd almost gotten the impression that she was afraid of
something. Afraid of him. "What about boyfriends? How's her romantic
history?" he asked. "We don't have anything on that yet. This
is just a preliminary report. I haven't had time to really dig down deep." "Keep working on it." "You have Gomez picking her up on the other
end?" Wynne cut back into the middle lane again. Sam couldn't help
glancing around warily. There was a minivan to the left, a compact car to the
right... "Yeah," Sam said. Pete Gomez was an
agent in the St. Louis field office. "He'll be with her from the time she
steps off the plane." Wynne chuckled. "She won't like that." "She won't know about it. Unless she needs
to." Sam's meaning was clear: Maddie would only find out about Gomez if he
had to step in and save her ass. "Still think our UNSUB's going to go after
her?" Gardner asked. Sam was so sure of it that, barring an act of
God, he planned to have them all in St. Louis within the next twenty-four
hours. "Wouldn't you?" "I don't know," Gardner said,
frowning. "It depends on a couple of things. Number one, if she was the
intended target—and the other Madeline Fitzgerald has a lot more red flags in
her background, so it seems unlikely at this point—then he will definitely go
after her. Number two, if he thinks she can identify him, then he will go after
her. But barring either of those circumstances, I... Sam's cell phone rang. He jumped. Gardner's eyes widened. Wynne almost
drove off the damned road. "Watch where the hell you're going,"
Sam growled at Wynne, digging in his pocket for his phone, which continued to
ring. As Wynne straightened the car out with a muttered "sorry," Sam
dragged the phone free and squinted to read the number in the ID box. Because of
the rain, the streetlights were on, and the bright beams of cars going in the
opposite direction slashed through the Saturn's interior. If it hadn't been for
that, Sam wasn't sure he would have been able to make out what was written in
the little box. Error, it said. "Jesus. I think it might be him." His
pulse shot into instant overdrive as he flipped open the phone and spoke into
it. "McCabe." "You're screwing up, McCabe. That time you
weren't even close." It was him. At the sound of the digitally
altered voice, Sam felt every muscle in his body tense. He nodded to let
Gardner and Wynne, who was looking at him through the rearview mirror, know. Another semi, dangerously close, rattled past on
the right. "Where you been? I thought you forgot about
me," Sam said, concentrating hard on anything he might be able to hear in
the background. The sound of traffic, for example—the interstate was noisy, and
if the bastard was in one of the vehicles around them he might be able to hear
it. His eyes cut left and right, trying to see into nearby cars. "Don't you worry, I wouldn't do that."
Sam couldn't hear any kind of background sound at all. His own surroundings
were too noisy. "Ready for your next clue?" "How's your leg?" Sam asked, hoping to
throw him off. "I imagine a pencil wound's a nasty thing. Lead poisoning
and all that." If the bastard got rattled, Sam hoped against
hope, he might just keep talking long enough for them to get a fix on him. It
didn't take long... "You're dreaming, asshole. Now here's your
clue. Better shut up or you'll miss it. Where in the world is—Walter?" There was a click as the bastard hung up,
followed by nothing but dead air. The silence in the car was equally thick and
heavy. "Shit," said Sam. His eyes met Wynne's
through the mirror. "Looks like we're back on the clock again." The first thing Maddie saw when she cleared the
last of the airport security barriers in St. Louis was the sign: Way to go,
Maddie and Jon. It was printed in big block letters on a white piece of
posterboard, and it was being waved above the head of Louise Rea, Creative
Partners' pleasantly plump, pleasantly wrinkled—just plain pleasant,
period—sixty-two-year-old administrative assistant. Beside her, Ana Choi, a
slender twenty-one-year-old college student whom Maddie had hired six months
before on a part-time basis to handle graphic design, stood on her tiptoes,
scanning the stream of disembarking passengers as they emerged into the
visitor-friendly part of the airport. Judy Petronio, a forty-seven-year-old
mother of four who was in charge of retail accounts, was wedged in next to Ana;
behind Judy, fifty-two-year-old Herb Mankowitz, who handled the direct-mailing
part of the business, looked faintly impatient. But he was there. They were all
there, the entire staff of Creative Partners. It was just after six p.m.,
they'd worked a full day, and it was clear from their dress that they'd come
straight to the airport from work. On a Friday, when presumably they all had way
better things to do. Their presence was as touching as it was
unexpected. Surveying the motley crew, Maddie thought, This
is my family, and felt her throat tighten. "I called Louise from the airport,"
Jon said. He was striding along beside her, and his face broke into a broad
grin as he spied the welcoming committee among the crowd greeting the deplaning
passengers with little cries of excitement and pleasure. In fact, he looked
buoyant, just the way Maddie knew she should be feeling. The way she would befeeling if it hadn't been for the little matter of her life having just
been blown all to hell. Ana spotted them first. Her eyes fixed on Maddie
and widened. Her long, black hair was tied up in a ponytail, and she was
wearing lowrider black slacks with a shrunken-looking white tank that bared
enough skin so that the tattoo of a dragonfly above her left hip was clearly
visible. Maddie presumed—hoped—that there was a jacket, cardigan, something
that made the ensemble work-friendly, lying around somewhere that Ana had
doffed after five p.m. She would graduate in December, and she'd already made
it clear that she was dying to be offered a full-time job at Creative Partners.
It hit Maddie that now that they had the Brehmer account, she was suddenly in a
position to do just that. A financial position, anyway. Ana grabbed Louise's arm and pointed.
"There they are!" Four pairs of eyes fastened on Maddie and Jon.
Four mouths opened wide. Then the Creative Partners staff shouted, cheered,
clapped, and broke ranks with the rest of the waiting crowd to storm the new
arrivals, surrounding them on all sides, dealing out handshakes and hugs and
exclamations indiscriminately. "We got the account! I can't believe we got
the account!" Louise enveloped Maddie in a suffocating hug. "Maddie,
you did it! Oh, my dear, I think I'm going to cry!" Louise, of all of them, had known how precarious
the company's position was. She handled the bookkeeping. Feeling her own eyes
unexpectedly stinging, Maddie hugged her back warmly. Louise was wearing her
usual polyester pants and a matching striped blouse, and she smelled of lotion,
soap, and just faintly of the hairspray she used to keep her short, unruly
silver curls under control. She smelled just the way Louise always smelled, and
Maddie found it unexpectedly heartbreaking. Ana was next, flinging her arms around Maddie as
soon as Louise released her. "This is so cool!" As exuberant as a
puppy, Ana squeezed Maddie so hard she could almost hear her ribs cracking.
"Does this mean you can keep me? Say yes. Please say yes!" Wincing slightly, Maddie hugged her back anyway.
Ana the Ever-enthusiastic would be a great permanent addition to the team. If
only... "We'll talk on Monday," Maddie
promised, and managed a smile. Judy's hug was more brisk. She and Herb had
worked for Creative Partners since long before Maddie had come on the scene,
and Maddie knew that they had worried a lot about the agency's future over the
last few months. "I've already contacted Maury Pope with BusinessMonthly.
There'll be an article about this in the next issue. Maury was all excited
when I called him. He said us landing the Brehmer account is just huge." A
rare grin transformed Judy's rather severe face. "And the timing couldn't
be better. Matthew"—Matthew, entering his senior year of high school, was
her second son; her oldest, Justin, was a rising sophomore at the University of
Missouri—"just told me he wants to go to Vanderbilt." She made a comical face, and Maddie rolled her
eyes sympathetically even as her stomach twisted. Judy needed her job.... "Rising tides lift all ships," Herb
said, giving Maddie a hearty slap on the shoulder. "Way to go, Boss." Boss. There it was again. Despite everything, Maddie felt that
warm little glow, followed by a pain, sharp and swift as the stab of a knife,
right in the region of her heart. "You guys. You're the best," she said,
and to her horror felt herself tearing up as she looked at them. "Oh, don't cry," Ana protested. Louise
promptly burst into noisy tears, which made everyone laugh and hug her and
enabled Maddie to get her emotions more or less under control. By this time,
the rest of the crowd greeting arriving passengers had pretty much dispersed,
so at least they were spared an audience for the love-fest that followed. Ten Minutes later, the group was standing en
masse in front of one of the silver carousels in baggage claim, waiting for Jon
and Maddie’s luggage to be disgorged. Multiple flights had apparently landed at
approximately the same time, so the warehouse-like space was crowded. The
sounds of excited conversation and squeaking cart wheels and the thud of
suitcases being dumped on the conveyor belts overlay the rumble of the moving
carousels, making conversation difficult. "You feel like going to dinner
to celebrate?" Jon asked Maddie in a louder than normal voice as they watched
the various bags tumbling out through the chute. The lump in her throat got bigger. Maddie shook
her head. "Not tonight. I'm too tired." "Yeah, well, you've had a rough twenty-four
hours," Herb, overhearing, observed sympathetically. Jon had filled the
group in on everything, apparently, and as soon as they'd stopped exclaiming
over the Brehmer account, they'd started exclaiming over what Ana called
"Maddie's mugging." "Of course you want to go on home and
relax," Louise said. "You enjoy your weekend, and then we can
celebrate on Monday." "Yeah, you can take us all to lunch."
Jon grinned at Maddie. "Somewhere expensive." "With a wine list," Ana added, and the
group made enthusiastic noises. Drawing on some deep reservoir of strength she
hadn't even known she possessed, Maddie pinned a smile to her face and did her
best to pretend to be cheerful. "Sounds like a plan," she said. Then
her familiar small black suitcase appeared, bumping into view in a sea of
others. Rescuing it and securing her briefcase to the top of it gave her a
chance to steel herself for what was to come. "Herb's going to drop me off." Jon had
retrieved his suitcase, too, and it trundled along behind him as they all
headed for the exit together. "You need a ride home?" Maddie shook her head. "I drove. My car's
in the lot." "You want some of us to come home with
you?" Ana asked, frowning at her. "In case you're scared or
something?" "I'm not scared." Now there was a lie
if she'd ever told one, Maddie thought, but the kind of scared she was wasn't
anything that the presence of Ana or any of the others could fix. "The way
I look at it is, what happened last night was just one of those things that
happens sometimes in big cities. Now that I'm back home, I'll be fine." "You sure?" Louise asked, surveying
her a little anxiously. Afraid of what Louise might be able to read in her
face, Maddie concentrated on looking serene. "You can sleep over at my
house if you want." "You can sleep over at mine." Jon
gave her an exaggeratedly lascivious grin. That did make her laugh, and she was grateful to
him because of it. "Thank you both, but I'll be fine." They reached the pair of sliding glass doors
marked "Short-Term Parking." "We're here," Herb said, and everyone
stopped near the door. "Maddie, can we at least walk you to your
car?" "Well, I guess you could—except I'm taking
a shuttle to the long-term lot. Think I'm going to pay forty dollars to leave
my car in short-term parking overnight? No way." Heart aching, she smiled
at the assembled group, all of whom were looking at her with varying degrees of
concern. "Would everyone please stop worrying about me? This is St.
Louis. I'll be fine." They all seemed to feel the force of that,
because their faces relaxed. "All right, then." "Have a good weekend." "See
ya." "Don't think we're not going to talk about
that raise on Monday." Jon, bless him, struck just the right note with
that last comment, and the cheery smile with which she bade good-bye to them
wasn't quite as much effort as it could have been. Maddie lifted a hand in
farewell and watched them turn away, with the lump in her throat now so big it
felt like an egg, then turned away herself and headed off toward the exit
marked "Long-Term Parking," where she knew from experience that a
shuttle made periodic trips back and forth to the distant lot. She walked through the sliding glass doors. It
was necessary to go through one more set to actually get outside, but she
stopped in the twenty feet or so of dead space between the doors and waited.
Five minutes later, she turned and walked back inside the terminal. As she had expected, Jon and the others were
gone. Maddie felt her shoulders sag as she realized that in all probability she
would never see them again. Friends. Family. A place to belong. She had
worked so hard to acquire them all. That she had to give them up just when she
was finally on the verge of getting everything she had always wanted didn't
seem fair. It wasn't fair. But such, as she had already learned way too
many times before, was life. So cry me a river, she thought sardonically as her throat started to tighten
up again. It won't change a thing. She sucked it up one more time. With her suitcase rolling along after her like
the faithful dog she'd always wanted and never permitted herself to acquire,
Maddie hurried toward the taxi stand. She'd had plenty of time to think on the plane
ride from New Orleans. And the conclusion she'd reached, had been inevitable
from the first second she'd awakened to find the man in her hotel room. What had happened wasn't an accident, and it
wasn't a mistake. She would be a fool to believe either. Deep in her gut, she'd known the truth all
along: They'd finally found her. If she wanted to survive, she was going to have
to cut and run. TEN She had been preparing for this day for seven
years, but that didn't make it any easier now that it had finally come. Hopping
into a taxi, Maddie directed the driver to take her to the Galleria, one of the
area's busiest malls. It was Friday night. There would be lots of action at the
mall. Lots of action made it easier to lose a tail, which she hoped she didn't
have. But it was possible. It could be. It might be. It would be foolish to assume that no one was
following her. Worse, it might even be fatal. The Galleria was swarming with shoppers, just as
she'd expected. On autopilot now, following a script she'd composed in her head
long since, Maddie made her way into Dillard's, bought some clothes, basic gear
like jeans and T-shirts and sneakers and underwear, things she hadn't brought
with her on what was to have been an overnight trip. She bought a suitcase,
too, a nondescript-looking tapestry bag that was larger than the little black
one that had served her so well. Since she was still able to use her credit
cards, paying was not a problem. Maddie signed the charge slip, looked down at
the signature, and felt her throat constrict. Ya gotta do what you gotta do. Her father's words again. She could almost hear
him saying them, could almost see him just the way he'd looked the night it had
all started to go so badly wrong, when she had tried to stop him from going on
what he'd called "an errand" for Big Ollie Bonano. He'd been—what?
Maybe fifty? Beefy and balding, with deep horizontal worry lines cut into his
forehead, he'd looked a decade older. She'd been in bed in the cheap little
apartment they had rented by the week, but she had heard him go out and had run
down to the car in the oversized T-shirt and panties she had worn back then to
sleep in, not caring that it was a tough neighborhood, that someone might see.
He had rolled down his window to talk to her. But even as she begged, she had
known he was already in too deep. There was no way he could have said no to Big
Ollie, he owed him—them—too much money. Gamblers who can't pay make good fish
food, as Big Ollie's lieutenant Charlie Pancakes had put it. Or good
errand-runners. Though he'd never meant for it to happen, her
father had gotten her caught up in the mob's sticky web, too. In the end, he
hadn't been able to get out. But she had. With both hands, she had grabbed an
opportunity that had presented itself and had run for her life. Just like she was going to run for her life now.
Because that hit man in New Orleans had come for her. She knew it as well as
she knew her own name. She'd been hiding for seven years, and now they'd found
her. The terrible thing about it was that an innocent woman had died in her
place. Thinking of that other Madeline Fitzgerald,
Maddie felt sick to her stomach. Guilt over her death would be something she
would carry with her for the rest of her life. But there was nothing she could
do to change what had happened now. It was over. It was a done deal. The only
thing she could do in the aftermath was try to save herself. And to do that,
she needed to disappear. At least, this time, she knew the drill: Lugging
her purchases, she went into the nearest ladies' room and changed into jeans, a
T-shirt, and sneakers, stuffing the clothes she'd been wearing along with the
remainder of the new things she'd bought into the old suitcase, which went
inside the new suitcase so that, when they started looking for her, they
wouldn't find the old one abandoned at the mall. She crammed in her briefcase,
then tucked Fudgie in a little more carefully. Thank God she'd brought him with
her. If she wanted to stay safe, she was never going
to be able to go back to her apartment—her home—again. At the thought, she found her eyes stinging once
more. Get over it, she told herself fiercely, and splashed her face with cold
water until the incipient tears went away. Then she set about changing her
appearance as much as possible, brushing her hair flat with water, tucking it
behind her ears, slicking a dark maroon lipstick she'd just bought at Dillard's
on her lips, clipping big gold hoops from the same source to her ears. She tied
a bandanna around her throat to hide the bruise there, and was done. Finally
she left the ladies' room and headed for the part of the mall opposite where
she'd come in. Taxis cruised there, as she knew from experience. She was
dressed differently, her hair was different, she looked different. More like a
college student than a businesswoman. Unless a tail had dogged her every
step—and no one had, she was as sure as it was possible to be of that—he wasn't
going to recognize her unless he got up real close and personal. Not in the
mass exodus of shoppers streaming out of the mall now that it was closing time.
Not in the brief period of time it would take her to step out into the open and
grab a taxi. "Where to?" the driver asked as she
pulled open the back door of the cab. Sliding inside, Maddie ignored the tightness in
her chest and told him. "What do you mean, you lost her?"
Sam's voice rose to a near shout as the bad news registered. "How the hell
could you lose her?" It was not quite nine p.m. Sam was standing in
front of a map of the United States that he'd tacked to the wall in the New
Orleans hotel room that was serving as their temporary headquarters. Red
pushpins marked the sites of the killings: Judge Lawrence in Richmond. Dante
Jones in Atlanta. Allison Pope in Jacksonville. Wendell and Tammy Sue Perkins
in Mobile. Madeline Fitzgerald in New Orleans. The other Madeline
Fitzgerald, that is. Not the young, pretty—all right, hot—one that he
was annoyed to realize he was beginning to take way too personal an interest
in. He had been trying to discern a pattern to them that was more precise than
just a general southwesterly direction along the country's interstate system,
the miles apart, a common denominator between the cities, something, when his
cell phone rang. The sound had made him stiffen and had startled Wynne, who was
sprawled on his back on the bed, and Gardner, who was hunched, bleary-eyed,
over her computer screen, into semi-alertness. Now, at Sam's words, Wynne rose
up on his elbows and Gardner hitched her chair around. Both of them watched him
with wide-eyed attention. "She never came out of the airport."
Gomez's voice on the other end of the phone was full of apology. "What?" Sam felt his gut clench. "She got off the plane, because I checked
with the airline. But she never came out of the airport. I've even had them
search—restrooms, bars, the lot. She's not there." "Holy Christ." Sam breathed in deeply,
starting a silent count to ten in an attempt to keep himself from losing it
before abandoning the effort at number three in favor of immediately addressing
the situation. Gomez was a new guy, a fucking new guy in Bureau
parlance, and new guys were expected to fuck up (hence the nickname), but to
have it happen now, on his case, on this case, threatened to drive Sam
around the bend. He'd wanted Mark Sidow, a veteran agent, to handle the
assignment, but he'd been informed that Sidow was on his annual August vacation
and Gomez was the only one available. And now, sure enough, the fucking new guy
had fucked up. Sam exhaled. "You were supposed to pick her
up off the plane." "Her car was in the lot. I waited by it.
She never came." You fucking moron. The words were never said. Sam swallowed them, reaching
deep inside himself for a semi-patient tone. Hell, he'd been the fucking new
guy once. They all had. Anyway, chewing out Gomez would not help find Maddie. "Did you check her place?" "Yep. She hasn't been there." Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Maybe she went home with that guy she was
with—uh, Jon Carter." "No. I checked that, too. He's alone." This time Sam didn't bother to try to swallow
the curse words that fell from his lips. "Did you try her office?" "She's not there." Okay. The possibilities were endless. The key was not to
overreact. But the thought of Maddie alone out there somewhere while the sick
bastard who had attacked her once before was God-knew-where made it difficult
to keep a lid on what he recognized as a bad case of incipient panic. "What you're saying to me is that she never
showed up at her car. You never even set eyes on her, right? " "Right." "If she's not in the airport, then she had
to leave it somehow." What if the UNSUB had been waiting for her in
the airport? What if he'd somehow managed to grab her right out from under
Gomez's nose? In that case, she was probably already dead. Cold fear filled Sam at the possibility. It took
a real physical effort to keep his voice even. "Find out how. Check the
security cameras to see if you can see her hooking up with anyone. Check the
cab stand, the buses, the car-rental agencies. Call Needleman." Ron
Needleman was the agent in charge of the St. Louis office. "Tell him you
need some help." "Uh, he's on vacation," Gomez said in
a small voice. "Then call whoever's in charge. I don't
care what it takes. Just find the woman." "Yes, sir." From the chastened tone of Gomez's voice, Sam
got the feeling that at last the urgency of the situation was starting to
filter through. "Now." "Yessir." It was the equivalent of a
verbal salute. Sam hung up, ran a hand around the back of his
neck, and looked at his team. "Pack up. We're heading for St. Louis." The second cab dropped her off at the Greyhound
Bus station. Maddie went into the terminal, glanced around.
The place was, appropriately enough, all gray: gray walls, gray-speckled
linoleum floor, rows of gray plastic chairs, about a quarter of which were
occupied. People of all descriptions—a pair of soldiers in uniform, an elderly
black woman with two cornrowed little girls, a heavyset white couple sharing a
pizza—waited in the seats. None of them paid the least bit of attention to her.
Along the far wall, tall windows looked out on a loading zone where a line of
buses waited under a canopy, motors running, silver skins gleaming beneath
bright halogen lights. A short line had formed in front of the window
where tickets were sold. She joined it, bought a ticket on the bus leaving at
10:15 for Las Vegas, then headed along the hall marked Restrooms. There
was an exit at the end of the hall. Pushing through it, she stepped outside.
The heat wrapped around her like a blanket. It did nothing to ease the
bone-deep chill that made her feel as though she would never be warm again. The time was ten minutes after ten p.m. It was
full night, with stars scattered across the velvety black sky and the moon a
giant orange globe riding low on the horizon. Moths and other assorted insects
swooped around the tall lights that lit the parking lot. Maddie crossed the
pavement quickly, heading for the alley that ran between two rows of rundown
commercial buildings. Stepping into the darkness of the alley, she couldn't
resist a quick glance over her shoulder. No one, nothing. Gritting her teeth, she hurried
on. This was the most dangerous part of her journey.
She was alone outside in the dark, hideously vulnerable to the hired thug who
was on her trail. But she was almost certain that he wasn't behind her at that
moment, that she wasn't being followed. She was almost certain that she was alone. Almost. So far she thought that she was doing a good job
of keeping a step ahead of him. When he picked up her trail—and she knew that
he would, probably soon and probably at the airport—he would eventually be able
to trace her to the mall. He would probably even track her down to the bus
station. But by the time he figured out that she hadn't gotten on the express
to Las Vegas, she meant to be long gone. In a manner no one would be able to trace. She walked two blocks, then turned left down
another alley. The buildings were a mix of residential and commercial now. It
was a poor section, a bad section. The faint smell of decomposing garbage hung
in the air. Broken pavement made pulling her suitcase difficult, so she slowed
down, choosing her route carefully, lest the rattle of the wheels should
attract too much attention. A homeless man slept on a flattened cardboard box.
A man and a woman rooted around in a Dumpster behind a small Korean restaurant.
A car pulled up some distance in front of her, dousing its lights. Her breath
caught, and she stopped walking. Her heart thudded. Her stomach knotted. But it
was nothing, a false alarm. After a moment that seemed to stretch into hours, a
man got out, glanced around, and disappeared inside a rickety privacy fence.
She remembered to breathe then, and started walking again. Straining her ears
for the sounds of pursuit, she heard instead the whirr of insects; an
occasional crash, as though a dog was investigating a garbage can; muffled
yelling from a fight inside one of the houses; and the wail of a siren in the
distance. By the time she reached her destination, she was
bathed in cold sweat. The detached garage was dark and deserted.
Unlocking the door, she slid inside, pulling the suitcase in after her. When
she closed the door behind her, it was so dark that she literally couldn't see
her hand in front of her face. The air was stifling, and the place smelled
musty, dirty. She stood motionless for a moment, listening, getting her
bearings. Her heart raced. Her breathing came fast and shallow. Icy prickles
chased one another over her skin. But she heard nothing out of the ordinary.
Sensed nothing out of the ordinary. Finally she moved, finding the ten-year-old Ford
Escort by touch, unlocking it, opening the door. By its interior light, she saw
that the car was covered in a thick layer of dust and the garage was festooned
with cobwebs. Everything looked exactly as it should—as if no one had been
there in the three months since she had last visited. Opening the trunk, she heaved
her suitcase in beside the emergency kit she had prepared long ago. She had
cash in the emergency kit, papers, things she would need to survive until she
could start anew. No one in the world knew about her emergency
kit, or that she owned this car or rented this garage. She'd always considered
this place her safety net, her Plan B. If she had the sense of a gnat, she told
herself, she would be busy about now, thanking God that she'd had the foresight
to prepare it. Instead, as she drove away, she felt sick
inside. For seven years she had been prepared to run—but she realized now that
as more and more time had passed, she had grown increasingly confident that she
would never have to. She had hoped and prayed she would never have
to. The last thing in the world she wanted now was
to abandon the life she had so painstakingly built for herself—but what choice
did she have? Basically, it came down to this: Leave or die. Some choice. Hating what she was being forced to do, she
pulled onto I-64 and headed east. Traffic was moderately heavy, and as she
approached downtown she could see the brightly lit arch that was the symbol of
the city curving silver against the night sky. It dwarfed the surrounding
skyscrapers. Beyond it, the Mississippi River rolled south toward New Orleans,
its slow-moving waters reflecting the glowing lights of the city. Since it was
Friday night, the riverfront would be busy. Tourists would be thick in the park
beneath the arch, visiting the gift shop, strolling the paths, lining up to ride
the little train that took them up inside the arch to the monument's pinnacle.
As she reached the bridge, she saw the steamboats that had been converted into
floating gambling casinos plying the river, lights twinkling festively. On the
other side of the river, East St. Louis stretched out, deceptively dark and
quiet. It was a dangerous place, East St. Louis, and except for those who lived
there, the cops who patrolled it, and a few unwary tourists, people tended to
stay away from it at night. A handful of long-established factories still
existed there, Brehmer's among them. Maddie was just coming off the bridge when
she saw its neon sign glowing orange against the worn brick wall of the
manufacturing plant. We won the account. On any other day, under any other circumstances,
she would have been hugging the victory to her like a beloved child, giddy with
happiness, overwhelmed with possibility. Now the knowledge was like a lead
weight inside her, making it hard to breathe. Impulsively she took the exit that led past the
plant. She needed gas anyway. Might as well get it there as anywhere, and spend
her last few minutes in St. Louis mourning what might have been. We won the
account. At least the others—Jon, Louise, Ana, Judy,
Herb—would have this weekend to celebrate before everything turned to ashes. When she was reported missing, what would happen
to Creative Partners? She didn't know. Didn't even want to speculate. They'd all be out of work. The clients would go
elsewhere. The Brehmer account—forget
the Brehmer account. It would vanish like smoke in the wind. She drove past
the tall chain-link fence that surrounded the plant, then slowed as she came
even with the manufacturing facility itself. It operated twenty-four hours,
producing food for nearly every kind of domestic animal, and tall, frosty
lights illuminated the scattering of cars in the parking lot. Smoke poured from
a smokestack on top of one of the buildings, and a uniformed security guard
manned a white hut beside the gate. Landing this account was the culmination of
every dream she'd had since she'd arrived in St. Louis. She had been terrified,
broke, friendless, with no one in the world to depend on besides herself.
Gravitating to the area's colleges because she had felt she would blend in with
all the kids her own age, she'd slept on couches in the libraries and
dormitories in those first hard weeks, until she'd scraped together the money
to rent a room in a ramshackle old house that catered to students. Unable to
find a job, she had made her own work, using campus kitchens to bake cookies
and brownies from mixes and peddling them to tourists on the waterfront along
with "souvenirs" she made herself from rocks on which she painted
things like the arch above the name of the city. Impressed with her
entrepreneurial skills, a man whose business was selling advertising over the
phone offered her work on a commission-only basis. She'd made seven hundred
fifty dollars her first week. After that, she had never looked back. She had
worked hard, saved, dreamed, all the while doing her best to put her past
behind her. When the chance to buy Creative Partners had arisen, she'd jumped
at it. She knew, knew, knew she could make the agency a success. And after an admittedly slow start, she was now
well on her way. Out of all the advertising agencies who'd pitched them,
Creative Partners had won the Brehmer account. Then the clock had struck midnight. Like
Cinderella at the ball, she was left with no choice but to flee. She'd come so far. Was she really going to just
let it all go? Slowing, she turned right into the parking lot
of a QuikStop just beyond the plant. Through its windows she could see a couple
of customers inside the store, and there was an old Chrysler at the gas pump.
She pulled up to another of the pumps and stopped the car. Then she just sat there, hands tight around the
steering wheel, staring out through the windshield at the glowing Brehmer's
sign. "Well?" Sam growled into the phone.
He, Wynne, and Gardner were in the air now, about a third of the way into the
three-hour flight to St. Louis. They had been experiencing varying degrees of
turbulence since they'd taken off, and right at that moment the small chartered
plane was bouncing all over the sky. Gardner, in the seat facing Sam, was
wrapped in a blue blanket and slumped against the fuselage, fast asleep. Beside
her, Wynne was sprawled in his seat as if he didn't have a bone left in his
body. He was pale and slack-jawed, his parted lips faintly purple from his gum—
hopefully discarded before he went to sleep—which Sam could still smell. Only a
gleam from beneath nearly closed lids told Sam that the ringing phone had
roused him—unlike Gardner—from oblivion. "We think she took a taxi to the
mall," Gomez said on the other end. "Looks like she went
shopping." "Shopping?" Sam repeated, momentarily dumbfounded. Then he
frowned. How likely was that? "Directly from the airport? Without picking
up her car?" "This cab driver says he gave a woman
matching her description a ride to the mall," Gomez repeated doggedly. "So she's at the mall." "Well..." There was something in
Gomez's tone that told Sam that the other shoe was getting ready to drop.
"The thing is, the mall's closed now and she doesn't seem to be there.
Actually, uh, we can't seem to locate her anywhere. I'm thinking maybe she, uh,
met some friends at the mall and went somewhere with them." Breathe. "Find out." "I'm trying. I've got Hendricks with me
now, and we're doing everything we can to locate her." Deep breath. Deep, calming breath. "Do more. Put out an APB if you have to. I
want her found." "Yes, sir." "Now." "Yessir." And on the heels of that verbal salute, Sam
broke the connection. "Fucking new guy still fucking up,
huh?" Wynne asked. As far as Sam could tell, the only muscles he'd moved were
connected to his eyelids. His eyes were open now, and he was looking at Sam. "Yeah." The plane pitched. Sam's
fingers curled instinctively around the arms of his seat. Outside the windows,
the night was black. No stars, no moon. Just—nothing. A void. "You know,
that guy isn't going to just let her walk away. He's going to kill her if he
can." He tried to keep the tension he was feeling out
of his voice. He knew himself well enough to know that if it hadn't been for
the turbulence, he would have been up, pacing the cabin. "You think he's already going after her
again? Or is he out there somewhere, planning a hit on this Walter? " "I don't think he has to plan a hit on
Walter. I think he knows exactly where Walter is, and can hit him any time he
wants. The others, too. They were all planned in advance. This chase thing he
has us doing is a game to him. He likes to drive us crazy trying to figure it
out, then do the hit right before we close in. He's taunting us, letting us
know he's smarter than us." "Sick son of a bitch." But Wynne said
it lazily. This case wasn't getting to Wynne the way it was to him, Sam
realized. Of course, the phone calls weren't directed at Wynne. And now, there
was Maddie Fitzgerald. "You think he's having fun with it?" "Oh, yeah," Sam said. "But we'll
get him. He's already made one mistake. And one mistake is all it takes." "Leaving Maddie Fitzgerald alive." "That's the one." "So you think he's in St. Louis." If the bastard was already in St. Louis, and
Maddie Fitzgerald was missing, things weren't looking good. The idea that she
was out there, unprotected and possibly in danger, while he was stuck in this
tiny cabin, miles above the earth, made Sam nuts. "Depends on how he's getting around. If
he's driving, which I think he is, it's possible. But even if he isn't in St.
Louis yet, he will be. Soon. I'm as sure of it as I am my own name. There's no
way he can be sure she can't identify him." Wynne looked at him. "Think it's fair to
abandon Walter to his fate while we mount guard over her?" The plane dropped a couple hundred feet, and
Sam's grip on the seat arms tightened until his knuckles turned white. Wynne
the Placid never even moved. "You ever hear the saying about a bird in
the hand being worth two in the bush? Maddie Fitzgerald is our bird in the
hand. We don't know where Walter is, and chances are we're not going to figure
it out in time to save him. We do know where she is. And we can assume the
UNSUB's off-balance, because he hadn't figured on having to get to St. Louis to
take care of a mistake. This is probably our best chance to catch him, and the
best way to save Walter, whoever the hell he is, and anyone else who might have
made the sick bastard's hit parade. What we do is put a tail on Maddie
Fitzgerald, and wait. He'll show up. Always supposing he hasn't already gotten
to her, that is." Sam's insides twisted at the thought. Since this
case had started, they'd been too late five times already. If it turned out to
be six, and the next victim was Maddie Fitzgerald, he knew he'd be haunted by
her honey-colored eyes for the rest of his life. The smell of gasoline was slow to dissipate in
the muggy air. Topping off her tank, Maddie thought she could almost see the
vapors as a diaphanous, glistening film, rising hazily beneath the harsh light.
Returning the nozzle to its niche, she screwed her gas cap back on and headed
for the cash register. She paid for the gas, walked back to her car, and got
in. The Brehmer's sign still glowed orange in the
distance. A sharp tap on the window made her jump so high
that she almost banged her head on the roof. Her heart was hitting about a
thousand beats per minute by the time she realized that the man on the other
side of the glass was the same man she had paid for the gas. Cautiously, she rolled the window down a few
inches. "Forgot your change," he said, handing
over a couple of limp bills and some coins. "Oh. Thanks." Rolling up the window,
she dropped the change in the console, stuffed the bills in her pocket, and
started the car. Her pulse was still racing as she pulled out of the QuikStop.
Her hands shook and she was freezing cold again, jittery, basically one big
nerve. It had taken only that tap on the window to make
her realize just how vulnerable she was. The hit could happen anytime, anywhere. No matter how hard she ran. If they'd found her once, they could find her
again. She drove past Brehmer's, heading for the
expressway, but she didn't even notice the glowing sign because the truth of
her situation, now that she had been awakened to it, pulsated through her brain
in its own huge neon orange letters. Now that they knew she was alive, they would
never stop coming after her. Sooner or later, they would find her. And she
would die. Boom. Just like that. Blindly, she drove right past the expressway
ramp. Unless she beat them at their own game. Unless
she got over the paralyzing terror that had haunted her for seven years. Unless
she fought back. She was not defenseless. She had a weapon. The
only question was, did she have the guts—the smarts—to use it? And survive? The bright warning of a red light stopped her.
Glancing around, she realized that the expressway entrance was a good three
blocks behind her, that she was waiting at an intersection with a gang of
up-to-no-good toughs eyeing her from the corner, that the dark storefronts
sported iron bars and the only other vehicle in sight was pulled over at the
next corner with a miniskirted hooker leaning through the window. Not that any of that scared her particularly.
She knew this part of town, knew East St. Louis, knew all the East St. Louises
out there. They were in her blood. She'd grown up in a succession of them, each
rougher than the first. But she had gotten out, made herself over,
become somebody. She was a member of the Chamber of Commerce, for God's
sake. How funny—how cool—was that? She pulled into the parking lot just past where
the hooker was now sliding into the car, turned around, and headed back toward
the QuikStop. She would park there, make a couple of phone calls. It was called taking back her life. Then, maybe, if the gods were kind and the
heavens smiled and her luck was just a little bit good, she would be going
home. Or maybe not. ELEVEN Saturday,
August 16 By the time the taxi dropped her off at the
airport, it was nearly five a.m. Pulling her little black suitcase behind her,
Maddie headed for long-term parking, so tired that just putting one foot in
front of the other required a serious effort. But she felt better. Not good,
but better. Safer. She thought she'd managed to call off the dogs. The number was seared into her brain. She had
called it often enough, years ago. The phone was still operational, still
answered in the same way. "A-One Plastics." The company didn't really exist, of course. Or,
rather, it did, but only as a front for the real operation: a loan-sharking
outfit with ties to the Mob. She'd asked for Bob Johnson, and had been answered
by a couple of heartbeats' worth of dead silence. Then the man on the other end of the phone had
asked sharply, "Who's this?" His voice had bristled with paranoia. Identifying herself, Maddie had almost smiled.
She was still scared to death of them, of what they could do; she knew
her life hinged on how this phone call turned out; but still, it felt almost
good to carry the war into the enemy's camp at last. The man had denied any knowledge of Bob Johnson,
but had asked her to leave a number where she could be reached. Not very many minutes later, her cell phone had
rung, just as she had known it would. "This is Bob Johnson," the voice said.
Maddie thought she recognized it, but she couldn't be sure. It had been a long
time ago. And, after all, Bob Johnson was a code, not a man. For all she knew,
maybe more than one person answered to it. Or maybe the person answering to it had
changed. "Who is this again?" Maddie identified herself for a second time, and
the pause with which her name was greeted told her that he recognized it.
"Where are you, babe?" he asked finally. That was so blatant that
Maddie laughed. "Like I'm going to tell you," she
said, then glanced nervously around the lighted parking lot to make sure that
they had not already managed to track her to this out-of-the-way QuikStop. The
Chrysler had been replaced by a red Dodge Neon. Its owner, a black man in a blue
mechanic's uniform, was busy pumping gas. She nestled the small silver phone
closer to her face. "Remember all those 'errands' you guys had my father
run? He kept things from them. Evidence. Enough to put quite a few people away
for a long time. I'm just calling to tell you that if anything happens to me,
if I die younger than eighty in any place other than my bed, letters are going
to be mailed, giving certain locations where certain things are hidden, and
that evidence is going to start popping up all over the place like a bad rash,
and a lot of people are going to go down." This time the silence wasn't as
long. "You know what happens to little girls who
make big threats?" The voice had turned ugly. "Things that aren't so
nice." Maddie laughed again, the sound as brittle as
she felt. "You mean, like somebody sending a hit man to knock me off? Oh,
wait, somebody's already done that. But he messed up, and I'm still here. And I
mean to stay that way. Look, I don't want any trouble. I just want to live my life
in peace. So I'm trying to come up with something here that works out for all
of us. Nobody bothers me, and I don't bother anybody. That evidence never sees
the light of day." "What kind of evidence are we talking
about?" Maddie thought fast. "You want an example?
Okay. My father was there the night that Ted Cicero was whacked. The guy who
did it threw the gun away afterwards. Later, my father went back and got the
gun." She paused for effect. "I can't be sure, of course, but I'd be
willing to bet that there are fingerprints all over it." The sound of an indrawn breath told her that
she'd scored. She remembered well the night her father had come back from
witnessing the hit on Ted Cicero. He'd gotten drunk and cried, and told her
everything, to her horror. "Where is it?" he asked, rasping now. "I want to be let alone," she said,
keeping her voice steady with an effort. "If I even think there's a hit
man in my vicinity, I'm going give the gun—and everything else my father
kept—to the FBI. They've already been in touch with me, you know. Looking for
your hit man. I don't want to, but if I have to choose between getting whacked
and going to the feds, I pick the feds." She could hear him breathing hard. "If I
recall right, you got a history with the feds yourself." "So don't make me choose." Maddie could feel his tension emanating through
the phone. "What kind of other stuff are we talking
about here?" Her heart was racing, and her stomach had tied
itself in so many knots by this time that Houdini himself couldn't have
straightened it out. But she didn't let so much as a hint of that come out in
her voice. She knew these guys: They were jackals who preyed on the weak. The
key to surviving was to convince them that she was strong. Strong enough to
carry out her threats. "Tapes, for one thing. He used to carry a
little mini tape recorder in his pocket sometimes. When he went out on jobs.
And, let's see... oh, yeah, there was that stack of hundred-dollar bills Junior
Rizzo gave him—I don't know what job it was from, but I'm sure the feds would
find it interesting. And other things. Lots of other things. He liked keeping
souvenirs." There was more silence. Then, "Babe, let me give you some advice.
The smart thing for you to do is to come on back here where you belong, and bring
all this stuff you're talking about with you. Hand it over, and quit
threatening people. Nobody wants to have to hurt you." Maddie snorted. "Don't give me that. Nobody
gives a shit about hurting me. But I'm telling you: You hurt me, and you hurt
yourselves. I have enough evidence here to put a lot of people away for a long
time. And I've arranged it so that if anything happens to me, anything at all,
if I have a heart attack or choke to death on a pretzel or whatever, you better
believe the shit's going to hit the fan—for you and yours." "Potty mouth," he said, sounding angry
now. "In my book, there's nothing worse than a woman with a potty mouth.
Just for the record, I don't know nothing about no hit man. Or no Fat Ted
Cicero. Or Junior Rizzo." "What, are you afraid somebody's listening
in? They're not, at least not from my side. Like you said, I don't want
anything to do with the feds. Not unless you make me choose." "I don't know nothin' about anything you're
talking about." Maddie made a sound of disgust. "You go
tell whoever's in charge what I said," she said. "And get back to me.
Real soon. Like within the next couple of hours. Or I'm going to have to start
making some moves to protect myself." With that, she hung up. Then, not sure how
technologically advanced the goons might have become since she'd last had
occasion to cross paths with them, she peeled rubber out of the QuikStop and
headed back toward the city, where she drove aimlessly around the interstates
because she was afraid to stop anywhere. Call her paranoid, but she had hideous visions
of hit men with global-positioning devices zeroing in on her cell phone. Maybe
they had some twisted version of an On-Star service of their own now, an
automatic locater, something like 1-800-Bang-Bang-You're-Dead. By the time the phone rang again, she was a raw
bundle of nerves, having scared herself to the point where she was on the verge
of chucking the whole plan and hightailing it for as far away from St. Louis as
she could get. But then Bob had gotten back to her, telling her that while
nobody had any knowledge concerning any of the stuff she'd been talking about
earlier, they had a deal. Basically, live and let live. Of course, when the Mob acts like you're their
new best pal, the next thing you're liable to feel is their knife in your back. Maddie knew that as well as anyone, although she
thought she had succeeded in making them think that they had more to lose than
to gain by killing her. On the plus side, she was telling the absolute
truth about the stash of evidence. Her father had always been convinced that
someday he could use the things he had secretly squirreled away to free himself
from the Mob's grip. He had called his accumulation of stuff his
"insurance policy," and had kept it in a locked strongbox, which he
carefully hid. Unfortunately, the last time she had seen that strongbox had
been about a week before she'd fled. But since she was the only one who knew that, it
didn't really matter. Having the evidence didn't help her at all. Having them think
she had the evidence was what mattered. And it just might be enough to keep her alive.
It was a risk, a gamble. Up until this moment, she'd never thought she had a
propensity for gambling. But it seemed that now that the chips were down, she
was proving to be her father's daughter after all. Everything she had ever wanted was suddenly
within her grasp. During the last seven years, she had even managed to make
herself over into the person she had always wanted to be. The
wrong-side-of-the-tracks, lock-up-your-sons, her-father-is-a-criminal girl was
respectable now. Looked up to, even. A pillar of the community. "An
inspiration to others," as the president of the Chamber of Commerce had
described her at the dinner where she'd gotten her award. She was not going to just close the book on
that, or on the life that went with it. It had been too hard-won. Having done
everything that it was in her power to do to make sure she kept safe, she was
going to take a chance. She was going to stay. Which is how she came to be walking wearily past
rows of cars in the St. Louis airport's long-term parking lot as the sun pushed
its first tentative feelers of color over the horizon. It was still dark, but
not as dark as it had been. It was, rather, the deep, hazy charcoal of a
newborn dawn. Beyond the yellow glow of the tall halogen lamps that illuminated
the area, the airport was still and somnolent, not yet alive with the day's
bustle. In the distance she could hear the swoosh of an airplane as it
raced along the runway. Closer at hand, the only sound was the steady hum of
traffic from the nearby interstate. The faintest tinge of motor oil hung in the
air. Even at such an early hour, it was still hot and humid outside—it was
always hot and humid in St. Louis in August—but as she headed toward her blue
Camry, Maddie was shivering. But not with the cold. She was scared, there was no getting around
that. And she probably would be for a long time to come, until she had
determined to her own satisfaction that her threats had worked to stuff the
bogeyman back under the bed. But she should be safe enough at the moment, she
calculated. To begin with, she was almost certain that she had not been
followed on her aborted run. And if she had not been followed, then logic
dictated that the hit man— whom she had last encountered in New Orleans—would
not be lurking in this particular parking lot at this particular ungodly hour,
just waiting to pick her off. Her flight had landed almost eleven hours before.
Even if he had followed her to St. Louis, even if he had found her car in the
lot, what were the chances that he was still around? Slim, she judged. But not quite none. Which left her as jittery as a caged bird in a
roomful of cats. The nervous looks she could not help casting around were purely
involuntary. So, too, was the quickening of her step as she neared the spot at
the back of the lot where she had parked her car. When she had parked the car,
on a bright, sunny Thursday afternoon, when the thought that her carefully
constructed house of cards might be in imminent danger of collapse had never
crossed her mind, it had seemed like as good a place as any, as well as a
chance to work in a little aerobic exercise before she boarded her flight. Now,
the closer she got to the space, the more isolated it seemed. The misty pools of light thrown down by the
overhead lamps were a fair distance apart, and her Camry, in the last row, was
almost beyond the reach of all of them. The farther she got from the last
streetlight, the darker it got. The darker it got, the antsier she got. Her
eyes darted hither and yon like bees drunk on picnic beer. Behind the line of
cars, a tall, grassy bank rose just high enough to block a view of the road
that veered off from the central artery to the terminal to feed the long-term
lot. To her right, across another vast, mostly empty expanse of asphalt,
clustered a group of large metal buildings, probably airplane hangars. To her
left, even farther away, was the blocky concrete box that was the terminal. The good news was, there was not another human
being in sight. That was also the bad news. What she wouldn't have given, just at that
moment, for a patrolling cop. She was close enough to her car now so that she
could almost read the license plate. The weariness that had caused her steps to
drag just moments before had been wiped out by a burst of fear-fueled
adrenaline. Walking faster, probing shadows for possible danger, she cursed the
rattle her suitcase wheels made because she could not hear anything much over
them and because they gave her presence away. Maybe she was being paranoid, but
they seemed about as loud as a marching band. So loud that no one within
earshot could be ignorant of her approach. But then, no one was within earshot—were they? Her nerves were getting the better of her, she
knew. But she couldn't help it. Her imagination went into overdrive, seeing
danger in every swooping moth and hearing it with every random sound. She was
alone. She was sure she was alone. But her body refused to be convinced. Independent
of logic, her pulse raced and her stomach fluttered and her mouth went dry. As she drew even with the Camry's back fender,
her heart was pounding so hard that she could barely even hear the clatter the
suitcase was making over the drumming in her ears. The sense of being isolated
and vulnerable was so strong as she turned into the cramped space between her
car and the Town Car beside it that she had to fight the urge to just abandon
her suitcase on the spot and jump inside her car and zoom out of there as fast
as she could go. But she couldn't leave Fudgie—or her other things, either.
Stowing them in the backseat would take just a few seconds more. Anyway, she was being totally paranoid. She
couldn't see anyone. She couldn't hear anyone. And the reason for that was—ta-dah!—there
was no one else in the parking lot. Punching the button on her key ring that
unlocked the car, she hurried to grab the door handle at the same time as the
interior lit up. Her breath stopped. Her eyes widened. She
recoiled. There was a man in her car. In the driver's
seat. Bent over, as though he was hiding. Waiting. For her. In the split second it took her brain to
register what her eyes saw, he moved, straightening, his head twisting as he
looked around at her. Maddie screamed, dropped the handle of her
suitcase as if it had suddenly gone red-hot, and turned to run. And smacked full-tilt into a warm, solid body
that grabbed her arms and held on. Reacting instinctively, screeching so loudly
that she wouldn't have been surprised to learn that windows were shattering in
Kansas City, she shoved him away as hard as she could and jammed a knee up into
his groin. "Oomph!" He let go and doubled over.
She whirled to run. "Hold on there." Strong male arms clamped around her waist, dragging
her back into a bear hug that imprisoned her elbows. Heart racing like a NASCAR
engine, terror tying her stomach into a cold, hard knot, she screamed and
fought like a wild thing as she was swung up off her feet. He staggered
sideways with her, his grip all but crushing her rib cage, and her feet found
the side of her car. Pushing off with all her might, she nearly succeeded in
knocking both of them over. But he held on grimly, somehow managing to stay on
his feet while he carted her backward over about a yard of concrete. In a
single petrified glance around, she caught just a glimpse of a white panel van,
the rear doors of which were being swung open to receive her. Another set of
hands reached out to help subdue her... "Help!" she screeched, even as she was
being bundled inside. "Somebody, help!" The man doing most of the bundling said
something, but she couldn't hear him over her screams, which were cut off
abruptly as she was dropped on her stomach in the carpeted cargo area of the
van and all the air wooshed out of her lungs. "I don't fucking believe this," a man
in the front passenger seat said. Invisible except as a shape because of the
darkness, he had twisted around to watch as she was shoved inside the van. He
was too far away to reach her, and so she forgot about him as, strengthened by
panic, she rebounded onto her knees. Her blood pounded in her ears; her lungs
expanded as she sucked in air. Having recovered her ability to scream, she
shrieked like a banshee as she tried to dive past her captor to freedom. But he
blocked her, shoving her down onto her stomach on the carpet a second time and
then yanking her right arm behind her back. He was in the process of fastening
something cold and metallic around her wrist as the other man bellowed, in the
tone of someone who had said it more than once, "Gomez! Let her go!" Something about the voice, about the shape of
the head and shoulders silhouetted against the windshield, rang a bell of
recognition in her head. She stopped struggling, and her head snapped up
so fast she nearly sprained her neck. "But you saw her!" the man holding her
protested. "She kneed Hendricks! She..." "I said let her go." His voice was
quieter now, probably because he no longer had to make himself heard over her
screams. "This is Miz Fitzgerald." That drawled Miz was what did it. "You," she gasped, staring at him in total disbelief.
"What are you doing here?" But if Mr. Special Agent from New Orleans heard,
he didn't reply. Instead, he swung out of the van and came around toward the
back, as the man holding her arm reluctantly released it. Maddie whipped
around, rising to her knees. Then, as it became obvious that she was no longer
in danger and, in fact, had not been since she'd spotted the man—almost
certainly an FBI agent—in her car, all the adrenaline drained out of her like
water out of an unplugged bathtub. Her body accordioned and she sat abruptly on
her folded legs. Glaring at the wiry guy with the brown brush cut and navy
sport coat who had thrown her into the van—he was backlit by a halogen glow
that made it impossible for her to see enough of his face to form an impression
of it—she transferred that glare to Mr. Special Agent as he joined the party. "Nice to see you again, Miz
Fitzgerald." The dry drawl earned him a full-blown scowl,
which he probably was unable to fully appreciate because of the darkness in the
back of the van. Like his friend, he was backlit, which made him look tall and
broad and formidable. "Give me the key," he added in a
resigned tone to the other man, holding out his hand. It was only then that
Maddie realized that a pair of shiny silver handcuffs dangled from her wrist. "You've got to be kidding me." She
held up her cuffed wrist and looked down at the restraint hanging from it in
disbelief. "Handcuffs?" "I think what happened here was a slight
case of mistaken identity." McCabe took hold of her wrist, held it up, and
leaned forward to squint at it. "Mistaken..." Her voice trailed off. She remembered the warmth of that hand. The size
of that hand. "Madeline Fitzgerald, meet Special Agent
Pete Gomez." Resisting her attempt to tug her hand free,
McCabe lifted her wrist higher and turned it this way and that, apparently
trying to catch enough light to enable him to fit the key into the cuffs. "Hope I didn't scare you," Gomez said
sheepishly. "I think you can safely assume that
grabbing her and throwing her into the back of a van scared her." McCabe
was talking to Gomez, even as his thumb slid over Maddie's wrist. The tender
skin there registered the heat of that hard, masculine thumb, instinctively
recording how long and strong it felt, even as her mind rejected the inevitable
association. "Let go of my hand," she said through
her teeth, and jerked her wrist from his hold. The handcuffs jingled as she
pressed her hand to her chest. He shrugged, focused on her now. "Your
call. People might think you have odd taste in jewelry, though." Maddie's lips compressed. She really couldn't go
through life with a set of handcuffs attached to her wrist. "Fine. Get it off." She held out her
arm to him again. His fingers slid around her wrist. "Just
hold still a minute..." This time, Maddie refused to notice how his hand
felt and was rewarded just a few seconds later when the key slid into the lock.
A turn, a click, and the bracelet fell away from her wrist. McCabe caught it
and released her hand. "You said she was wearing a white skirt
suit. How was I supposed to know? And then she kneed Hendricks," Gomez
said, sounding aggrieved. "You changed clothes," McCabe said to
Maddie. "That would account for some of the confusion, I think." He
handed the cuffs back to Gomez. Maddie experienced another moment of panic as
she realized that she was indeed still wearing the jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers
that she'd bought at Dillard's to run in. But, of course, she reassured herself
even as her heart gave a sudden lurch, he couldn't know why she'd bought them
or that she'd meant to run. The Escort had been returned to its garage, the new
tapestry suitcase had joined her emergency kit in the trunk, and she'd made her
way back to the airport by a route every bit as circuitous as the one she'd
used to leave it. He couldn't know any of that. He... "Wait a minute," she said, as the full
implications of his presence burst upon her. "You were just in New
Orleans. Are you following me?" McCabe stuck his hands in the front pockets of
his jeans and rocked back on his heels. If ever there'd been a stance that
denoted guilt, Maddie thought, she was looking at it right there. "It just so happened that we were in the
neighborhood," he said. "Oh, yeah. Right. St. Louis is definitely
in the same neighborhood as New Orleans." Her brows furrowed. "You
are, aren't you? You're following me!" "I'd like to point out here that you found
us. We didn't find you. So tell me how that's following you." "That's just splitting hairs, and you know
it." As she spoke, she sat down and swung her legs
around in front of her, scooting out of the van. McCabe grasped her arm as she
slid to her feet, steadying her. That big, strong hand imprinted itself on her
skin all over again. Maddie jerked her arm from his grasp with a little more
emphasis than was strictly necessary, took a step away from him, and then
stopped abruptly as she came face-to-face with the seemingly solid wall of people
that had materialized behind him. They curved around the back of the van,
making it impossible for her to reach her car without strong-arming her way
through them—which she was not entirely certain they were prepared to let her
do. "What is this, a convention? Who are all
these people?" she demanded, rounding on McCabe. But her peripheral vision
had already picked out the giant at the back of the crowd. The frizzy golden
nimbus that the weird light made of his hair was unmistakable. Seeing that her
gaze rested on him— Maddie realized then that the lights that
backlit them must illuminate her face to a certain degree—he gave her a feeble
wave. "They're FBI agents, too!" she gasped
before he could reply. "Aren't you?" she said to them. "Aren't
they?" she said to McCabe. He sighed. "Special Agent Mel Hendricks.
Special Agent Cynthia Gardner. And you already know Wynne. And Gomez." As he introduced them, McCabe gestured to each
one in turn. Hendricks, whom Gomez had identified as the man she had kneed,
seemed slightly stoop-shouldered. Maddie didn't know if that was his natural
posture or the result of lingering pain. Gardner, the only woman in the group,
was as tall as most of the men. She had opened the doors of the van for Gomez.
And replaying the scene in her head again, she realized that Wynne had been the
man in her front seat. That cherub-on-steroids look was hard to mistake. "What were you doing in my car?" she
asked him. Then her eyes swung back to McCabe. "What was he doing in my
car?" "Searching it?" Wynne's tone made it
more of a question than an answer. "Searching it," McCabe confirmed. Outraged, Maddie drew herself up to her full
height as the wheels in her head began to turn. So many agents in St. Louis for
a murder in New Orleans—what was wrong with this picture? Did somebody say
"overkill"? Her stomach clenched as the question occurred to her: Did
they know? But if they did, wouldn't she already be under arrest? McCabe
had made his fellow agent take the cuffs off.... They didn't know. They were present strictly for
reasons of their own. And it didn't take a genius to figure out what those
reasons were. Unfortunately for their plans, however, FBI agents on her tail
were the last thing she wanted. Except, of course, a hit man on her tail, but
she was relatively certain she'd already taken care of him. If, however, the Mob were to somehow get wind of
their presence and think she was in bed with the FBI, she knew as well as she
knew her own name that all bets would be off. The thought of having her hard-won deal screwed
by the meddling presence of the feds she despised maddened her. Her eyes
narrowed at McCabe. "Where the hell do you get off searching my car?" His tone was probably meant to be soothing.
"Your plane landed eleven hours ago. You never picked up your car. We were
worried about you." "Hah!" Maddie glared at him, then let
her eyes flash around the circle before her gaze once again fastened on McCabe.
"That's the lamest thing I ever heard. You think I don't know what you're
doing? You're following me because you think that guy in New Orleans is going
to take another shot at me, and you want to use me to catch him!" The silence with which that was greeted told her
that she was right on. "Well, you can forget it," she said,
and stormed right through the group, which parted like the Red Sea to
accommodate her. "Miz Fitzgerald..." McCabe was right
behind her. A sizzling glance over her shoulder told her that his fellow agents
were following him like a tail follows a dog. "It's in your best interest
to cooperate with us. It seems to me that you don't fully understand the danger
you're in. I don't know how to put this any more plainly: There's a killer
out there, and I'm as sure as it's humanly possible to be that he's coming
after you." Maddie bent to snag the handle of her suitcase,
which, thanks to the weight of the briefcase secured to the top of it, had
fallen over on its side, and snatch up her keys, which had dropped to the
pavement not far from the suitcase. "So what's your plan? To follow me until he
kills me, and then arrest him?" Opening the Camry's rear door, she wheeled
the suitcase up to the threshold and wrestled it, briefcase and all, into the
backseat. "Maybe that works for you, Mr. Special Agent, but it doesn't
work for me." Slamming the door, she shot poison darts at
McCabe with her eyes. "Actually, we were kind of counting on
arresting him before he kills you." "No." Maddie opened the driver's-side
door. He caught her arm, his long fingers gripping
hard as he stepped close, so close that she had to look up to meet his gaze.
His eyes were dark and intent. "You're not hearing me. You need us. You're
in danger." Maddie snorted. "The only dangerous people
I see around here are you"—she hit McCabe with another venomous
glance—"and you"—the next one was for Wynne, who was right behind
him—"and the rest of you." As a finale, she shared the wealth. "Miz Fitzgerald..." "Let go," she said through her teeth,
jerking her arm from his grasp. "And step back." She sketched an area
around herself with her index finger. "This is my personal space. Stay
out of it." She slid into the driver's seat and reached out
to pull the door closed. "Miz Fitzgerald..." "No," she repeated, pausing to glare
up at McCabe. "I don't want you following me. I want you to leave me
alone. I refuse. So go away." She slammed the door and started the car. After
a glance in the mirror to make sure that McCabe and the rest of them were out
of the way, she backed out of the parking spot. McCabe, with his henchmen
behind him, had regrouped behind the open-doored van, which, not
coincidentally, was parked directly behind the spot her car had just vacated.
Reversing past them, she shoved the transmission into drive and glanced their
way again. The halogen glow coupled with the lightening sky permitted her to
see them all more or less clearly now. Gomez looked young, Hendricks looked
grumpy, Wynne looked tired, and Gardner had spiky, red hair. They were all
watching her, and so was McCabe. His arms were folded over his chest and his
feet were planted slightly apart as he tracked the Camry's progress. From what
she could tell, he was still wearing the same grungy jeans and T-shirt that
he'd had on the previous day, he needed a shave more than ever, and his eyes
were so narrowed and hooded beneath the thick, black brows that were drawn
together over them that if she hadn't known who and what he was, he would have
won her choice for best candidate for hit man hands down. He was also wearing that sardonic little smile
of his again. She didn't like that smile. She didn't trust
that smile. Pulling even with them, she braked and rolled
down her window. "I mean it," she said forcefully when
he raised his eyebrows at her. "I refuse to have you following me. So back
off." "The thing is," he said, his drawl
more pronounced than she could remember hearing it, "we don't really need
your permission." He smiled at her. She scowled at him. Then she
rolled up her window and peeled rubber toward the exit. TWELVE Maddie wasn't really surprised to glance in her rearview
mirror some few minutes later and discover the white van behind her. She was,
however, furious. Her jaw clenched, her hands tightened around the steering
wheel, and she muttered something not very nice under her breath. Then she came
to her senses and jerked her eyes back to the road. The very last thing she
needed was to have a wreck because she wasn't paying attention to her driving. Having told McCabe to leave her alone, and
having been ignored, she didn't see exactly what else she could do to rid
herself of her escort. Except fume. And ignore them. This she set herself to do. Breathing in deeply,
she relaxed her grip on the steering wheel and turned on the radio. The soaring
vocals of Christina Aguilera's rendition of "Beautiful" filled the
car. That was good. Easy to listen to. Humming along, she deliberately did not
look in the rearview mirror again, instead concentrating on easing around the
U-shaped entrance ramp that emptied out onto I-270. It was still not quite full
dawn, and besides her Camry and the van several discreet car lengths behind it,
only a few vehicles were on the road. Lights from cars going in the opposite
direction flashed through her windows as she headed south. She lived in Clayton, a moderately upscale older
suburb that contained a mix of housing, from huge old single-family homes to
square brick apartment buildings and commercial buildings. Convenient to
shopping and other amenities, it was about fifteen minutes from the airport.
Once she was safely inside her apartment, she planned to shower and fall into
bed. She'd now been basically without sleep for almost forty-eight hours, and
she was so tired that her eyes burned. It probably wasn't even safe for her to
drive. It then occurred to her that if the FBI was
planning to stake out her apartment, which she assumed was the next step in
their plan, one good thing might yet come of their meddling: She should at
least be able to catch a few hours of decent sleep. With the feds providing
multiple eyes to watch and ears to listen, at least she would feel safer inside
her apartment in the short term. On her own, she certainly would have slept,
because she was too exhausted not to. But she would have been afraid. She would
have had nightmares. And every squeaking floorboard in a building with lots of
them would have startled her awake. Just in case. As she turned off the expressway onto Big Bend
Boulevard, she noticed that the sky was growing lighter. The entire eastern
horizon was limned with fiery orange now, and she was able to see, with help
from the dimming illumination of the streetlights that lined the road, dew
shining on the grassy median. She turned left, into the residential section
where she lived, and eased around a garbage truck parked by a curb. The
trashman was in the process of dumping the contents of a can into the back of
his truck as she passed. The clank of garbage being emptied into the big green
crusher compartment rose above the rushing sound of the commuter train just
blocks away as it headed into the city. For a moment, as she pulled onto her street,
Maddie thought that she'd lost the van. Or perhaps they had decided not to
follow her after all. Because they weren't there in her rearview mirror when
she glanced back. But by the time she drove into the lot behind
the house in which her apartment was located, she'd caught sight of it again.
They were just turning onto her street, so far back that she wasn't even sure
they could still see her car. Maybe she had lostthem? Almost?
Then it occurred to her that they didn't have to follow her all that closely.
They were the FBI, after all. She was willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that
they already knew precisely where she lived. And with that, she remembered just exactly why
she experienced fear and loathing every time she thought of the FBI. Her apartment was on the third floor of a big
old Arts and Crafts-style house that had been converted into multiple units
years before. The third floor, with its dormer windows and odd angles, was the
smallest, and she had it all to herself. The house itself was a homey-looking
place, all deep brown siding and covered porches and gables. The front yard was
the size of a postage stamp, and the backyard had been converted into a parking
lot, but honeysuckle bushes grew riotously around the front entrance and had
tangled themselves into a thick hedge behind the parking area, and tall old
oaks and elms shaded the fresh new asphalt. Maddie knew she would be enfolded
by the intoxicating scent of the honeysuckles as soon as she stepped out of the
car. It was one of the reasons she loved living there. It was one of those
little somethings that made a place feel like home. It also didn't hurt that the rent was very
reasonable. Only June Matthews's green PT Cruiser was parked
in the shadowy lot, Maddie saw as she cast a quick glance around. A divorced
middle-school teacher, June rented one of the two apartments on the second
floor. The other tenants, a young couple and a single woman lawyer in each of
the two first-floor apartments and a pair of sixtyish sisters who shared the
other second-floor apartment, didn't appear to be home. At least, their cars
weren't home. Maddie nosed the Camry into her designated spot
beside the walkway to the back porch. Actually, her lease allotted her two—each
apartment came with two parking spaces, for a total of ten—but she never used
the other one, so it had been designated the guest spot by common consent. She
braked, put the transmission into park, and slewed around to look for the van.
By now she should be able to see its lights. This was private property. She was a little hazy
on the laws, but she didn't think that they had any right to follow her here. Of course, in practical terms, the FBI was
pretty much like the proverbial eight-hundred-pound gorilla. It could do
anything it... Something stung her left shoulder, and both the
front and rear windshields shattered with a thunderclap-loud boom, all
at approximately the same instant. BBs of glass blew inward, showering her with
what felt like an explosion of hail. Reflexively closing her eyes, still
registering the unexpected burning heat of the sting, she reopened them almost
instantly and turned back around to gape in blank incomprehension at the open
hole where the windshield had been. Then she felt something—a bee?—whiz past
her left cheek. Not a bee. A bullet. Oh, God, someone was shooting at her. That sting—it was a bullet. She'd been shot. Making the connection, Maddie threw herself
across the seat. At a minimum, survival meant getting down below the level of
the dashboard. The sound of squealing brakes and slamming doors
somewhere close at hand was followed almost instantly by the thud of running
feet. Someone wrenched open the driver's-side door. The interior light blinked
on. Maddie screamed—the sound was shrill and high, like an infant's wail—and
recoiled from the man who crouched there, doing her best to scramble over the
console in a frantic, instinct-fueled attempt to escape. "Stay down!" McCabe. She recognized him with a great rush of relief as he pushed
her down again, then threw what felt like his entire body on top of her. As his
weight crushed her against the hard plastic casing of the console between the
seats, she cried out, instinctively shifting onto her stomach a little to ease
the pressure, but she didn't even think about trying to push him off. He was
putting himself between her and the next bullet, putting his life on the line
to keep her alive. Another shot could come at any second. It could
penetrate the car s thin aluminum skin, hit him, tear through his flesh, then
bury itself in hers. Maddie realized that she was trembling. Her
stomach roiled. Her heart raced like a runaway train. Terror swirled over her
skin like an icy wind. Every tiny hair on her body sprang to prickling life. Please, God, keep us safe. Both of us. What could have been seconds or minutes or hours
later, she felt him shift. He started to ease off her. Maddie's lips parted and
she sucked in much-needed air as she clutched him, caught his shoulder, his
arm, his hand, and held on. "Don't leave me," she said. Her voice
sounded like nothing she had ever heard emerge from her throat before. Their
gazes met. He loomed above her, his eyes black and hard and alive with some
emotion she couldn't quite name. His expression was grim. "I'm not leaving you," he promised,
but still her cold fingers twined with his warm ones and clung with every bit
of strength they possessed to make sure he kept his word. He slid out of the
car then, and when she tried to follow he freed his hand to catch her hipbones
and pull her out after him. She ended up sitting flat on her bottom on the warm
asphalt with her back against the rear door of her car and her knees bent.
Little chunks of glass from her windshield littered the pavement all around
her. McCabe crouched in front of her, his shoulders blocking most of her view
of their surroundings, and she realized that he was once again placing himself
between her and possible danger. Behind him, at a little distance, she thought
she saw the bulk of the white van. To her right, the open door provided more
protection. The dim glow of the car's interior light illuminated them both
clearly but made everything beyond their small circle look hazy and dark. The shooter could he anywhere. At the thought, Maddie sucked in air, looking
all around, desperately trying to see through the darkness. Van and door
notwithstanding, the pool of light they were in made her feel as though they
were easy targets. They needed to run. "It's all right. By now he'll be long
gone," McCabe said in the calmest of voices, apparently correctly
interpreting the abortive attempt she made to get her legs beneath her. It
didn't work. She was still too shaken, and her muscles seemed to have a mind of
their own. So she sat and breathed, and kept her eyes fixed
on him because he was the only thing within view that didn't scare her
senseless. He looked big and tough and comfortingly capable of fending off all
comers. Her eyes widened as she realized that he was holding a gun. Probably a good thing, but, looking at it, she
started to shake all over again. He cast a quick, seemingly calculating look
around, and then the gun disappeared behind his back as he thrust it somewhere
out of sight. When his hand reappeared, he rested it gently on her arm. Her left
arm. The one that, she saw as she glanced down at his hand, was covered with
blood. Oh, God, she'd been shot. She'd been shot, and
the funny thing was, it didn't even really hurt. "You're bleeding," he said. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. Everything—McCabe,
the parking lot, the rustling bushes beyond it— began to dissolve. "Don't faint on me," he said, and she
guessed she must have been in the process of turning a whiter shade of pale
because he slid a hand around the nape of her neck and pushed her head down
between her raised knees. "I've never fainted in my life." Her
voice was faint, distant-sounding, but gritty. Clenching her teeth, Maddie
fought the dizziness that threatened to whirl her away with it. She could feel
the hard heat of his hand on her bloodied arm, feel his long fingers delving
cautiously beneath the hem of her sleeve. It created an island of warmth in the
sea of ice that seemed to be slowly swallowing her up. "My shoulder." She remembered the
sting. "I think it hit the back of my shoulder." If she hadn't turned at that precise moment to
look for his van, the bullet wouldn't have slammed into her shoulder. It would
have—it was an effort to rerun
the sequence of events in her mind to arrive at the exact position she'd been
in just seconds before she'd been hit—struck her in the approximate vicinity
of her heart. She felt faint all over again. McCabe withdrew his hand from her sleeve and
touched her neck. The solid warmth of his hand sliding down the sensitive chord
that ran from ear to shoulder was welcome, comforting, distracting even, and
she was sorry when it was withdrawn. She only realized that he was cautiously
lifting the back of her T-shirt away from her body when she felt the painful
stab of cloth being pulled out of what she realized must be her wound. "Ouch," she said. He let go of her shirt. "Sorry. You got
anything on you I can use to staunch the bleeding?" "A couple of tissues—in my pocket."
Maddie slowly and deliberately breathed in and out, trying to regain some measure
of composure as he made a disgusted sound under his breath to indicate what he
thought of her offering. "How bad is it?" "Not bad, as bullet wounds go. About three
inches long, looks like more of a graze than anything. But it's bleeding pretty
good." She could feel him moving, hear what sounded
like the slither of cloth over flesh. Lifting her head, she was just in time to
watch McCabe pull his T-shirt over his head. Having a very masculine-looking
chest suddenly appear at eye level was a surprise, and she blinked. His
shoulders were broad and heavy with muscle, his chest wide and adorned with a
nice amount of black hair. As he stripped his shirt the rest of the way off,
she watched the play of muscles under his skin with a kind of detached
interest. His biceps flexed as he lowered his arms, holding his crumpled shirt
in one hand. Her eyes slid lower, to discover that he had a nice six-pack
disappearing into his jeans. "What are you doing?" she asked, still
processing assorted thoughts, feelings, and concerns in connection with that
chest. "It's called administering first aid."
He wadded the shirt up into a ball and flattened a hand on the back of her
head, pushing her head down between her knees again. As he leaned over her to press his shirt firmly
against the wound in her shoulder, Maddie winced. Some of the numbness—the
shock—was starting to wear off, and the wound throbbed and burned. He was very
close to her now; she could feel the sinewy strength of his forearm pressing
against her upper arm. Her fingertips—her hands were resting on her knees—
brushed his chest. She curled her hands into fists to escape the contact, but
not before she registered the crispness of his chest hair, and the firm, smooth
warmth of the flesh beneath. But what she could not avoid even with her eyes
closed and her fists clenched was his body heat, which made her want to scoot
closer, and the distinctively masculine scent of him. It was like aromatherapy
for the traumatized, she thought; simply breathing it in made her feel safer. He
made her feel safer, and aware of him in a way she didn't want to be. Which
was not a good thing, she realized with dismay. With any other man, under any
other circumstances, she would have labeled what she was experiencing here as
serious attraction. The sheer surprise of it caused her head to lift
again. "Hold still," McCabe said irritably,
the pressure he was putting on her wound keeping her shoulder horizontal even
as their gazes met. "You'll make it bleed worse." "She okay?" The voice belonged to
Wynne, and it came from behind McCabe. Wynne stood just outside the circle of
light, and, although in her current position she couldn't see him, Maddie could
feel his eyes on her. He seemed to be panting slightly. She couldn't be sure,
but she had the hazy impression that he—and whoever else had been in the
van—had gone running past her car, toward the honeysuckle hedge and beyond,
while McCabe had stopped to tend to her. "Flesh wound. Across the shoulder
blade." McCabe's tone changed as he added, "Anything?" "Nothing. Gardner and the others are still
out there looking, though. Think he made us?" "Maybe." As they continued to talk above her, Maddie quit
listening and rested her head on her knees. Taking a deep breath replete with eau
de man, she pondered the situation. The first conclusion she reached was
that she was going to live. That being the case, she had to decide what to do.
If the deal she'd made with her friend Bob had been bogus, just a sop to keep
her happy until they could try again to kill her, then she was faced with a
choice: She could run again, with no turning back this time, or she could turn
herself, along with everything she knew, over to the FBI. Which, as she knew
from experience, would probably be a huge mistake, and one that she never
before would have even contemplated. So why now? She grimaced and realized that
the answer lay about six inches from the tip of her nose. Another sneaking
glance at McCabe confirmed it: He was the only reason she was even considering
such a thing. Almost against her will, she was beginning to think she might be
able to trust him. And if nothing else, he—they— would keep her alive. For a while, at least. But then again, McCabe's hunkiness quotient—and
she had to admit that crouched all shirtless and buff beside her, he was
looking pretty good— might be clouding her judgment. And, like running,
spilling all to the FBI would be the equivalent of dropping a nuclear bomb on
her life: When the smoke cleared, nothing recognizable would be left. Including Creative Partners. Including the
Brehmer account. Yes, she wanted to live. But she also wanted her
life. Anyway, the FBI couldn't keep her alive forever.
Sooner or later, they would get everything they wanted out of her and she would
cease being the flavor of the month. Then she would be left to manage on her
own—and the Mob would be waiting. The mob was like an elephant—it never forgot. Before she did anything, anything at all, Maddie
decided, she needed to get on the phone and call her good friend Bob and see
what the hell was going on. Not that he would tell her if he had been lying, of
course. But it was possible—maybe even likely—that the word to back off had not
yet filtered down through the ranks to the hit man. If that was the case, she meant to make sure it
did. Pronto. The wail of a siren made her lift her head
again. "Here comes the cavalry," McCabe said
on a note of extreme irony, looking in the direction of the sound, which seemed
to be growing louder by the second. Maddie realized that they were all gathered
around her now: Wynne, Gomez, Gardner, and Hendricks. And, like her, they were
all looking down the street, where flashing blue lights were just coming into
view. As suspected, the lights were headed their way. Just what she needed, Maddie thought dismally: more
cops. By the time the local police had left, along with the ambulance
whose crew had treated Maddie's wound when she had declined to be taken to the
hospital, it was full morning. The heat was starting to get oppressive. A dog
barked in the distance. A motorcycle roared past on the street. Maddie was
safely tucked away in her apartment with Gardner playing guard dog. Now wearing
a white T-shirt he had pulled out of his bag in the back of the van, and his
jeans, McCabe watched the last police car drive away, then turned in time to
catch the eye of the thin, fortyish, dried-up looking woman who had popped out
of the house briefly earlier, wearing her robe, to say something to Maddie,
then popped back in again, and was at that moment walking down the back steps,
eyeing him with obvious reservations. A neighbor, McCabe assumed. She had short
blond hair and a long nose, and was now dressed in floral capris, a white
blouse, and sandals. McCabe endured the nervous glance she gave him as she
passed stoically. At one point, drawn by the police car and
ambulance, quite a few neighbors had crowded around, but when nothing more of
interest had happened, they'd dispersed by ones and twos to go to jobs or
whatever until there was no one left. Except the woman who was now getting into
her PT Cruiser, of course. "No way that was random," Wynne said,
coming up beside him. Wynne was chewing his gum again, and the smell of grape
Dubble Bubble combined with the scent of honeysuckle from the hedges, which was
particularly strong now that they'd been disturbed by being thoroughly
searched, was an unfortunate mix in the ovenlike heat. Along with Gomez and
Hendricks, Wynne had been scouring neighboring yards for evidence. So far
nothing had turned up, not an indentation in the grass to show where the
shooter had lain in wait, not a bullet lodged in a tree, nothing. Of course,
the fact that they were all so tired by now that they were practically out on
their feet might have something to do with it. The way he, personally, was
feeling, he was pretty sure that he couldn't find a whale in a bathroom. "Possible, of course, but I don't think
so." A random gunshot—apparently such happenings weren't unknown in the
area—had been the local yokels' preferred explanation. Sam understood, of
course. As a solution, it involved a hell of a lot less paperwork. But he
didn't believe it. If nothing else, it was too much of a coincidence, and he
had stopped believing in coincidence a long time ago. "You think he'll be back?" Wynne had a
twig caught in his hair, Sam noticed, and his shorts and hula-girl shirt looked
like he'd slept in them for a week. The whites of his eyes pretty much matched
the red of his shirt, and for the first time since Sam had known him, he was
able to see the beginnings of curly, gold fuzz on Wynne's chin. Since Wynne
rarely had to shave, that was significant. It told him they'd been working
flat-out for a hell of a long time. "Oh, yeah." Sam had been thinking
about that. "I don't think we could scare this guy off if we tried. If he
made us—and he might or might not have, depending on how fast he got out of
here and how far away he was— I don't think it's going to make any difference.
I think he's going to keep coming after her until either we catch him or she's
dead. Hell, he might even like the idea of trying to kill her right under our
noses. He seems to get off on knowing we're right behind him." The thought of just how close Maddie had come to
being dead still had the power to weaken his knees. They'd been pulling into
the lot when her windows shattered. One second she'd been sitting there behind
the wheel of her car, and the next her windows had exploded and she'd fallen
out of sight. Christ, he'd thought she was hit. Hit worse than a gash on her
shoulder. Hit as in dead. He didn't like remembering how that had made him
feel. Way worse than it should have, considering Maddie Fitzgerald's role in
his life. Okay, reality check: She had no role in his
life. Except as the object of a surveillance operation. Never mind that she had silky soft skin and big
take-me-to-bed eyes and smelled of—what was it?—strawberries? His lip curled. Now there was a true romantic
for you. Think of a girl, picture food. "Think we ought to pull her out of here,
take her into protective custody or something?" Wynne asked. "That
was close. Too close." Sam had been thinking about that, too. "She can't stay in protective custody
forever. Sooner or later, she'll get cut loose. And unless we've caught the
bastard by then, he'll be waiting." "Who the fuck is this guy?"
Wynne's frustration showed in the kick he aimed at a rock on the asphalt. His
exhaustion showed in the fact that he completely whiffed. Sam had to smile at the stunned look on Wynne's
face. But something was niggling at the back of his mind, something that if he
wasn't so tired, he thought he might be able to shape into a point of
significance. His smile faded. "The thing is," he said slowly,
"this guy's not trying to keep what he's doing a secret. He's been taking
us right with him all along. He wants us to know where he is. Just as long as
we stay a step behind." Gomez and Hendricks came pushing through the
bushes at the back of the parking lot just then, both looking slightly the
worse for wear. Gomez had lost the jacket and tie, and his short-sleeved white
shirt was untucked and bore several obvious smears of dirt. Hendricks's tan
dress slacks had a rip in the knee, and, Sam saw as he drew closer, the tassels
to one of his shiny brown loafers was missing. "Damn big-ass dog in a backyard about half
a block down," Hendricks said by way of an explanation, seeing where Sam's
gaze focused. "I had to vault the fence." "Thing got his pants leg, then his
shoe." Gomez was grinning. "Hey, Hendricks, are you having a bad day
or what? First you take a knee to the nuts, then Cujo tries to eat you
alive." "Shut up, Gomez." "Find anything?" Sam asked, before the
situation could deteriorate. They both shook their heads. "Keep looking." Gomez grimaced. Then, at the expression on Sam's
face, he burst into speech. "The thing is, Hendricks and I have been up
all night. We need some sleep, bad. From the look of you guys, you do,
too." Hendricks nodded. "It's not like there's
anyplace around here we haven't searched. Anyway, those shots could have come
from anywhere. A couple of streets over, even. I can tell you already, we're
not going to find crap." Sam frowned. This case ate at him, and he hated
to take a break from it, even for a few hours, because time was definitely not
on their side. What it had turned into, basically, was a race. If the killer
won—and so far he was winning big—somebody died. But Gomez had a point. In
order to function at anything approaching maximum efficiency, they needed
sleep. They had Maddie safe upstairs. The next clue to the identity of Walter
could come at any time, but he didn't actually expect it before tomorrow at the
earliest. That left open this brief window of opportunity where they could
sleep, eat, do all the little things ordinarily deemed necessary to human
existence. Like shave. "Yeah," he said. "Okay. Get out
of here. I'll call you when I need you. I'll need the van back ASAP,
though." "No problem." Gomez looked at
Hendricks. "I'll drive you to your car, then you can follow me back over
here. Then you can take me to my car." "I'll drive you to my car," Hendricks
said. "It's closer." "You could start banging on doors asking
the neighbors if they saw anything," Sam suggested. Gomez and Hendricks looked at each other. "We did that," Hendricks said.
"Nobody saw crap." Gomez made a face. "Okay, you drive," he said to
Hendricks, and then they took themselves off with quick see ya's, clearly
afraid that Sam would find something else for them to do if they gave him time
to think about it. Minutes later, the van pulled out of the lot. "So, what's the plan?" Wynne asked,
still beside him. "You mean we've got a plan? " Sam's
voice was dry. His eyes skimmed over the parking lot. Maddie's Camry, shattered
windows and all, remained where she had parked it, not far from where they were
standing. Other than that, the lot was empty. "We were going to stay undercover and keep
Ms. Hot Bod under surveillance," Wynne prompted him. Sam was getting used
to the sound of gum smacking in his ear now. He was even starting to find it
kind of soothing. Not. "Ye-a-ah." Sam drew it out. Gomez had
started referring to Maddie as Ms. Hot Bod after the full-body wrestling match
he had engaged in with her in the airport parking lot. Wynne and Hendricks had
picked it up, much to Gardner's loudly expressed disgust. Sam didn't doubt that
Maddie would have a problem with it, too, if she ever heard it, but, hey, the
truth was, it was apt. "I'd have to say that under the circumstances,
that's no longer operational." "Since she made us," Wynne said. "Exactly." "So?" "So we forget the undercover bit and just
keep her under surveillance." Wynne stopped chewing and looked at him.
"How do we do that? She knows we're here." "We enlist her cooperation," Sam said. "Oh, boy. Yeah. Like she's going to go for
that." "So we persuade her," Sam said, and
turned toward the house. THIRTEEN Gardner opened the door to Sam's knock. Having
snatched a couple hours of sleep on the plane, she was looking marginally less
bleary-eyed than either he or Wynne. That didn't mean that she was looking
good, however. Her bottle-brush hairdo was flat on one side, and the only
makeup she seemed to have left had morphed into black smudges under both eyes.
She had traded her black skirt for snug, black pants before they had boarded
the plane, and with them she was wearing a clingy black T-shirt. Tucked in.
With what looked like the same wide black belt as before cinched around her
waist. Combined with the double D's and the J.Lo butt, the outfit made her look
hot. And hungry. Like a woman on the hunt. She smiled at him, which sent a warning chill
racing down Sam's spine. He’d found himself in dangerous situations often
enough to recognize them when they occurred. And this was definitely one. "Yo," he said. "Everything
okay?" "Just peachy keen." Her smile widened
as she pushed the door wide. Finding himself caught squarely in the
crosshairs, Sam's instinct for self-preservation kicked into high gear. To save
himself, he offered up a sacrifice: He took a step back and pushed Wynne
through the door ahead of him. Wynne looked at Gardner as she closed and locked
the door. Sam looked around the apartment. His initial impression was that it was cheerful.
Homey, even. The walls of the room he was in, the living room, were a soft,
bright yellow. The floors were hardwood. The huge couch that dominated one
whole wall was—he didn't want to call it pink; call it, rather, the color of
raspberries. Two armchairs, one green, one flowery, were drawn up on either
side of the couch. There was a rug, a couple of tables and lamps, a coffee
table. A TV. A trio of big windows directly opposite the door looked out into a
vista of leafy tree branches. Sniper city? The branches he could see all looked
like they might hold about ten pounds max, so not unless the sniper was a
squirrel. Just to double-check, Sam crossed to the window and looked out,
evaluating the risk. He could see down into about a dozen tiny backyards, all
separated into grids by a myriad of fences. About four fences over, a big black
dog snoozed on its side in the grass. Even from this distance it looked about
the size of a small pony, and, remembering Hendricks, Sam grinned: He was
pretty sure he was looking at Cujo. The upper stories of neighboring houses
were obscured by the leafy foliage of big old oaks and maples, with the
occasional elm and chestnut-trunked birch thrown in. Good. Nobody was going to
be shooting through the windows from nearby roofs. Relaxing slightly, he turned
to survey the rest of the apartment. To his right he could see part of a
kitchen. To his left, a pair of closed doors. "So where is she?" he asked Gardner
when his visual sweep turned up no sign of Maddie. "Taking a shower. We all should be so
lucky." Gardner had dropped into a corner of the couch while Sam had been
looking out the window. Her legs were crossed and she had twisted herself into
a position that he suspected was calculated to show off her eye-popping figure.
Now she nodded at the closed door on the left to indicate where Maddie could be
found, then let her head drop back to rest on the high, rolled back of the
couch. Sam immediately realized exactly how half of her hairdo had ended up
flat. "Come sit down. I think this is where we do that thing called hurry
up and wait." Gardner made shameless eyes at him from beneath
half-closed lids, and patted the couch beside her invitingly. Wynne frowned,
while Sam caught himself leaning backward just a little, probably an
instinctive result of his determination to stay well out of harm's way. "You checked the bathroom out before she
went in there, didn't you?" Sam asked, ignoring Gardner's gesture in favor
of walking toward the closed door. Beyond it, very faintly, he could hear the
sound of water running. Gardner gave him a look that said yes, she
definitely had. For his part, Wynne headed toward the couch, then veered off at
the last minute and lowered himself into the green armchair. Lips thinning in
exasperation, Sam had to fight the urge to walk over and smack him upside the
head. Faint heart never won fair lady, you big wimp.
Sit on the couch. "So, what's the plan?" Gardner asked,
just as Wynne had minutes before. "Same plan." Restless, Sam prowled
toward the kitchen. "We keep watching Miz Fitzgerald until we catch our
UNSUB." The kitchen was old-fashioned, with white
Formica countertops and tall wood cabinets and a gold-speckled linoleum floor.
The refrigerator and stove were white, freestanding rather than built-in. There
was a stainless-steel sink in front of another window. As he glanced out, he
saw that the squirrel thing applied to this one, too. A rectangular oak table
with four chairs occupied the center of the room. On the counter beside the
sink, a draining board held a single white cereal bowl. Looking at it, Sam wasn't all that surprised to
feel his stomach rumble. Jesus, how long had it been since he'd eaten? He tried
to remember. Not today. Yesterday. Fast food in the hotel room. If he was
lucky, sometime today he might snag more of the same. Yum. The only area of concern was a rear door. Sam
crossed to it, looked out the multipaned window in the upper half, then opened
it and stepped out into the muggy morning. He found himself on a small wooden
stoop, which was connected by three zigzagging flights of open wooden steps to
the ground. Clearly a do-it-yourselfer's version of a fire escape, probably
added when the house was converted to apartments. He checked the lock—it was a
deadbolt, but flimsy—and made a mental note to do what he could to make the
rear entrance more secure. Pronto. Retracing his steps, he returned to the living
room and found Wynne watching Gardner, who had cut her eyes toward him as soon
as he had reentered the room. With an inward roll of his eyes, Sam gave up on
the whole matchmaking thing and started pacing again. What the hell was she doing in there? "Okay. We need sleep, we need food. We also
need to keep Miz Fitzgerald under a twenty-four-hour watch. Which means for the
time being we'll be taking shifts." He glanced at Gardner. She smiled at
him. Christ. "I assume you've got the computer working on locating
possible targets?" "Oh, yeah. By now we probably have a
database of about a hundred thousand people with Walter for a first or last
name in the cities the computer deems most likely to be the location for the
next killing. Without anything more specific than a single name to go on,
though, it's pretty useless. Take our girl in there, for example. She didn't
even live in New Orleans, so her name didn't come up on any of the searches I
ran. Neither did the dead one's, for that matter." Get her focused on work and she turns totally
professional. Go figure. "Yeah." Sam was already well
acquainted with the ways in which their attempts to locate the next victim
could get screwed up before the sick bastard did his thing again. And just to
complicate matters more, now that his plans had been thrown off by Maddie's
survival, the parameters of the game might well have changed. They could no
longer take anything for granted. Except, Sam was almost certain, that he'd be
coming after Maddie again. "You're something with that computer,"
Wynne said admiringly to Gardner. "Thanks." She smiled at him, and Sam
watched with fascination as a flush the color of Maddie's couch started to
creep over Wynne's face. Jesus. The perils of being blond. "Right," he said by way of a distraction.
"First thing is, we need to establish a base here. There's bound to be a
hotel somewhere nearby. Next..." He outlined the way he expected the next few
days to play out. By the time he finished, the atmosphere was strictly business
all around. Also, he'd circled the room about ten times, and there was still no
sign of Maddie. Pausing outside the closed bathroom door, he
frowned at it. What the hell was she doing in there? "Why don't I take the first shift with her?
At least I got a couple hours of sleep on the plane," Gardner suggested.
"And I have trouble sleeping during the day anyway. You guys go on, get us
a hotel, get some sleep." Sam nodded absently. It was a good suggestion.
He didn't expect another attack to come today; the UNSUB was as human as the
rest of them, and if he was the shooter—and Sam was fairly positive that he
was—he had to be suffering from lack of sleep, too. He seemed to like to work
under cover of darkness, and by the time night fell again, Sam had every
intention of being personally back on the job. But he didn't say any of that.
Instead, he was concentrating on the sounds he could hear beyond the closed
door. Water still running? Yes, but something else,
too. His brows snapped together. Was she talking to
someone? He glanced sharply at Gardner. "She have a pet or anything?" "Not that I saw. Why?" "She's talking to someone." Could the
UNSUB somehow have gotten into the bathroom with her? Sam could feel his
muscles tensing even as he rejected the thought as unlikely. Unlikely, but not impossible. He rapped sharply on the door. Just like that, she shut up. "Miz Fitzgerald?" He banged again. He
didn't know why, exactly, but he was getting the feeling that something about
the situation wasn't quite right. "Could you open the door, please?" He could no longer hear water running. Just as
he registered that, the door opened a few inches. Sam found himself looking
down into narrowed honey-colored eyes. With straight black brows furrowed into
a V above them. Even frowning at him, she was pretty, he
registered against his will. Tired-looking. Pale as paper. Face marred by a
faint, blue-tinged bruise angling across her left cheekbone. But still very,
very pretty. The last time he'd looked down into those eyes,
they'd been big and scared. Now she just looked annoyed. "Did you want something?" she asked. Sam had expected her to be all damp and dewy,
maybe wrapped in a bath towel and showing more skin than it was probably good
for him to see. And she was, indeed, wrapped in a bath towel, a fluffy blue
one. And she was, indeed, showing some skin. The towel fit snugly up under her
armpits and was tucked in between her breasts, he saw as his gaze swept her. He
could see a nice amount of cleavage, her bare shoulders, and the neat white
bandage on her back the paramedics had left her with. Below the towel, which
ended at approximately mid-thigh, her legs were long and slender and shapely.
They were, as he had noticed before, great legs. The thing was, though, she wasn't all damp and
dewy. In fact, she was dry as a bone. Her hair still hung in tangles around her
face. There was a faint smear of blood on her jaw, and another down her arm
where the paramedics hadn't quite gotten her all cleaned up. She'd traded her
bloody clothes for the towel, but otherwise, as far as he could tell, nothing
about her except her expression had changed a lick from when he had last set
eyes on her. In other words, she hadn't been taking a shower. "What on earth have you been doing in
there?" Surprise probably rendered him something less than diplomatic.
She'd been in the bathroom a good twenty minutes that he knew of, with the
water running the entire time. And she wasn't even wet. Maybe she'd been answering nature's call? He
toyed with the idea, rejected it. Not for that long. She smiled way too sweetly at him. Oh, God, the
attitude was back. "Maybe you want to tell me how that's any
of your business?" He remembered then why he'd banged on the door
in the first place. "Were you talking to someone?" The too-sweet smile faded. "How to put
this? Not your business." She had let the door fall open a little wider as
they'd talked, and he was able to see past her into most of the bathroom now.
His gaze swept the room. It was a typical bathroom, smallish, with a tub/shower
combo, toilet, and vanity sink. A big mirror covered the wall behind the sink.
Lots of white tile, trimmed in a kind of sea green. Clean. Empty except for
her. There was a cell phone on the vanity. Light
dawned. "You were talking on the phone." Her lips compressed as she followed his gaze. "What, are you my keeper now? So I was
talking on the phone. Big deal." Her eyes met his again. They were less
than friendly. "Why are you still here, anyway? You've done your thing.
Not wanting to be rude or anything, but it's probably time you toddled off on
your way now." His eyes narrowed. "What happened to don't
leave me?" "I got over the shock," she snapped. He almost smiled. There was that hostility of
hers again in spades. He wasn't sure if it was directed at him personally, if
she just didn't like men in general, or if there was something else going on
here that he hadn't quite tumbled to yet. Not that he minded it particularly.
It was kind of cute, kind of different. The thing was, though, right at the
moment it was damned inconvenient. Then another odd thing hit him. The mirror.
It was clear as a summer's day. Not steamed up a bit. The water she'd been
running since before he'd entered her apartment had not been hot. Either she was into cold showers—and she didn't
seem like the type— or a shower had not been on her agenda when she'd turned
the water on. Which meant she'd been running the water for some other reason.
To cover up a sound. Of using the toilet? Maybe, especially if she was shy. But
the water had been running a long time. To cover up the sound of her voice as
she talked on the cell phone? Bingo. "Mind telling me who you were talking
to?" "My boyfriend, okay?" Her eyes flashed
at him. "What's it to you?" Good question. Maybe somewhere deep in his subconscious, he'd suspected
she was talking to a boyfriend all along. Maybe that was what was bugging him. Because something was. He was definitely getting
one of those little niggles of his again. Hell, maybe it was just knowing that
she was naked under that towel that was throwing his thought processes off. The
thing was, he was so damned tired that he couldn't think straight enough to
reason out the whys and wherefores of this feeling he had that something here
was not quite right. "If you really want to know, I was calling
my insurance company about my car," Maddie said, her tone a little
friendlier now. "And the reason I'm not in the shower yet was that I can't
quite figure out how to do this without getting my shoulder wet, too." O-kay. That made sense. Kind of. "Plastic bag," Gardner said from her
position on the couch, and Mad-die looked past McCabe to where the other two
were, clearly, taking in every word. Since Maddie had appeared in the towel, Sam
realized with some chagrin that he had completely forgotten that they were even
in the room. "You got trash bags?" Wynne asked her.
When Maddie nodded, he heaved himself to his feet. "I'll get you one.
Where are they?" "In the kitchen under the sink."
Maddie looked at Sam again. "Is there anything else you want to
know?" "Since I'm going to be leaving in a
minute"—he watched her face brighten—"we need to talk about a few
things." "Such as?" "What you can and can't do. The kinds of
precautions you need to take. Wynne and I are going to be taking off for a few
hours, but Gardner's going to be here with you. We probably won't have outside
backup until tonight. That means you..." Maddie's brows snapped together again.
"Whoa. Hold on just a minute. What?" Wynne came up behind them and held a white
plastic trash bag out to Maddie. "Just poke a couple of holes in it for
your arm and your head, then scotch it up everywhere you don't need protection.
It should keep the water off that wound." Momentarily distracted, she took it, giving
Wynne a quick smile and a thanks. Then, as Wynne retreated, her eyes
immediately refocused on Sam. And the frown returned. "What are you talking about?" "One of us is going to be with you
twenty-four hours a day until this guy is caught. Gardner's on for the next few
hours, and it would probably be best if you stayed inside your apartment. I
don't really expect anything to..." She was shaking her head. "Wait. Stop. Uh-uh.
No way. I already told you, I don't want to be kept under surveillance. I
appreciate the offer, but no. What part of 'I refuse my permission' did you not
understand?" Sam could feel another one of those killer
headaches coming on, but he held on to his patience with some effort. "I
was hoping that since we saved your life out there, you might have rethought
that." A beat passed. "You did not save my life." Sam's brows twitched together. "You're
alive, aren't you?" "Whoever fired that shot missed. That's what
saved my life." Sam took a deep breath. "The point is,
you're alive. And we mean to keep you that way. It would help if you would
cooperate. By that, I mean you want to stay inside as much as possible. You
want to take care to keep your curtains closed at night. If you have to go out,
you want to get into and out of buildings as fast as you can. One of us will be
with you..." "No," Maddie said. "I'm not going to do this. I refuse."
Sam's head throbbed. His patience, never his strong suit, wobbled dangerously.
"You can't refuse." "Oh, yes, I can." "Mind telling me why you have a problem
with this?" "Because I have a company to run, and right now things
are kicking into high gear for us. I have clients to see, advertising campaigns
to work on, PR to do. Having an FBI agent dogging my every step is probably not
going to make anybody real eager to do business with me, in case you haven't
figured that out. In fact, just the opposite. Anyway, the police said the
shooting was probably random, and I agree with the police. So I appreciate the
offer, but no. Thank you. If it makes you feel better to know this, I'll be
extra careful. But I don't want you." Sam looked at her for a moment without saying
anything at all. Her eyes glinted militantly at him. Her jaw looked mulish. He sighed. "Look, I'm not going to argue
about this. I'm dead on my feet here. We all are, you probably included. So
here's the deal: Either you cooperate, or I'll take you into protective custody
and whisk you off to a safe house so fast you won't know what hit you, and let
you try running your company from there. At least that's one way to keep you
from getting killed while we try to figure this thing out." Her eyes flashed. "Is that another threat,
Mr. Special Agent? Well, guess what? This time I'm not buying it. You can't
just take somebody into custody because you feel like it." Sam's patience crashed and burned. "Can't I?" He smiled, and from the way
he was feeling, it was not a nice smile. "Try me." Their eyes clashed, and Sam was reminded
forcibly of the old saying about irresistible forces and immovable objects. In this case, the immovable object—that would be
him—won. Which, under the circumstances, wasn't surprising, since he'd meant
every word he'd said, and she must have been able to read that in his eyes. Because for a long moment all he got was a
sizzling look. Then... "Fine," she snapped, and slammed the
door in his face. Seconds later, from the other side, he distinctly heard her
mutter, "Jackass." Glad his nose hadn't been any closer to the
solid wood panel when it connected with the jamb, he turned away from the
closed door to find Wynne and Gardner looking at him. "Way to be persuasive," Wynne said,
giving him a thumbs-up, and Gardner looked at Wynne and laughed. Unbelievable, Maddie thought hours later. There was an FBI agent making himself at home on
her couch, and there didn't seem to be a thing in the world she could do about
it. He had what was left of the pizza they'd had for dinner on the table by his
side, his stockinged feet were on her coffee table, and her remote control was
in his hand. The sounds emanating from the TV jumped spastically from cartoon
voices to a feverish play-by-play for some ball game to eerie mood music to a
talking head waxing eloquent about the falling economy as he, apparently,
flipped channels indiscriminately. From where she lay—flopped on her stomach in the
middle of her queen-size bed in her shadowy bedroom—she couldn't see the TV.
She couldn't even see him. But that was the position he'd been in when she'd
last exited the bathroom at a little past midnight—it was now shortly before
one a.m.— and if her ears were any judge, nothing had changed. For the last hour she'd been trying to sleep,
without success. It was possible that the exhausted nap she'd succumbed to in
the middle of the afternoon had something to do with that. Or maybe sleep was
elusive because her shoulder throbbed, or her thoughts raced, or she kept
having flashbacks to the moment she'd gotten shot every time she closed her
eyes. Or maybe because there was an FBI agent in her living room.
McCabe, to be precise. Or any combination of the above. "I'm trying to sleep here," she
finally yelled in frustration through the door he had insisted she keep
partially open. "Think you could turn it down?" If he replied, she missed it, but the volume
lessened. Maddie rolled onto her good side and pulled her
knees up under her chin. Her movements were gingerly, because her shoulder
ached like she'd been shot—oh, wait, she had been—and the pain pill she'd taken
around nine didn't seem to be touching it. If she had been alone, she would
have gotten up to watch TV, but her babysitter was already doing that and,
since she had only the one set, that meant TV was pretty much out. Unless she wanted to watch TV with him. Definitely out. Closing her eyes, snuggling under the smooth top
sheet that was the only covering she could stand, given the sweaty realities of
third-floor apartments, inefficient air-conditioning, and tropical heat, she
breathed in the faint sea-breeze scent of the fabric softener sheets she
habitually used in the dryer and tried to put herself to sleep by counting her
blessings. She was alive. She was home, with her life still
intact. And they'd gotten the Brehmer account. All good. All, unfortunately, also subject to
change at any moment. Before she could stop herself, her mind went
over to the dark side. Number one, there was an FBI agent on her
couch. Number two, she'd spent the entire day cooped up
in her apartment with a woman who looked like Rambo Barbie. On a really bad
hair day. Number three, she hadn't gotten any of her usual
Saturday errands done. Her dry cleaning was still at the cleaners, she was out
of bread and cereal, the milk in her refrigerator expired two days ago, and she
had three rented DVDs that were racking up late charges even as she lay there. Number four, her car was pretty much undrivable
until they came to replace the glass, which she'd been told would happen
sometime Monday. And number five—this was the biggie—someone was
trying to kill her. Although her friend Bob, whom she'd been talking
to in the bathroom that morning when McCabe had come banging on the door, had
sworn it wasn't true. If there had been a contract out on her—which he had no
knowledge of whatsoever—it had been withdrawn after their previous
conversation. If a shot had been fired at her that morning—which again he had
no knowledge of whatsoever—it was an accident, and had nothing to do with them
at all. Or—ahem—an easily rectified mistake. They had no reason to kill her, he assured her,
as long as she kept her end of the deal and stayed away from the feds. As far as Maddie was concerned, however, there
were two problems with Bob's assurances: First, someone had taken a shot
at her; and, second, even as her buddy Bob had warned her to stay away from the
feds, one had been banging on her bathroom door. And he was still here. Since getting rid of McCabe and Co. clearly
wasn't going to happen anytime soon, all she could do was try her best to
maneuver around him. The only thing her protests had done so far was make him
start to wonder why she wasn't just jumping up and down with joy at the prospect
of taking advantage of his offer of government-funded bodyguards; she'd seen it
in his eyes. So she had given in—possibly with something less than good grace,
but, hey, as far as she was concerned, losing well was overrated—and now she
was stuck. Performing the highwire act that her life had
turned into. As long as Bob and his friends kept their word
and didn't find out about her new babysitters, she was good. And as long as
McCabe and Co. didn't know about her past, she was equally good. But if any of
them found out about the rest of them, the situation was going to go to hell in
a handbasket. Worrying about just such a mischance was
probably the primary reason she couldn't fall asleep. That, and the fear that
one of her patented nightmares hovered waiting in the wings. Tonight of all
nights, when the scary truth that she had to once more be afraid for her life
was really starting to sink in, being transported back seven years in her sleep
would be more than she thought she could bear. And, oh, yeah, there was the little fact that
someone had tried to kill her. Twice now. Wasn't there some saying about third
time being the charm? Even the thought made her shiver. After another fifteen minutes or so of
wriggling—she couldn't toss and turn because of her injured shoulder—Maddie was
still wide awake, and forced to admit that she had a new problem: She had to go
to the bathroom. And given the fact that her apartment was just
old-fashioned and inexpensive enough so that it only had one bathroom,
which wasn't connected to her bedroom but opened off the living room, that
meant that she was going to have to walk past McCabe. She felt funny about the whole thing. She felt
funny about walking past him knowing that she had on her little shortie
nightgown, even if she was going to pull her big terry-cloth bathrobe on over
it. She felt funny about him knowing she had to wee. She felt funny about
having him in her apartment, period. But whether she felt funny or not, she decided a
few minutes later, she had no choice: She really, really had to go. Sliding out of bed, pulling her robe
on—carefully, because of her shoulder—and tying it around her waist, she
hesitated, looking at the partly open door that glowed blue from the TV, then
took a deep breath, headed toward it, and paused in the opening to glare his
way. Just as she had suspected, McCabe was still
parked on her couch. As far as she could tell, he hadn't switched positions in
a couple hours. Except, maybe, to change the channel and stuff his mouth. The
TV provided the only illumination in the apartment, and by its flickering light
he was little more than a big, solid, dark presence that dominated the small
room. Much as she hated to face it, though, she didn't need light to know just
exactly what he looked like. His black hair and coffee-brown eyes and mobile
mouth and chiseled chin—to say nothing of his muscular bod—seemed to have
implanted themselves in her consciousness, whether she liked it or not. When he
had arrived at about eleven p.m. to take over from Wynne, who had taken over
from Rambo Barbie at four, McCabe had been looking good. In fact, in a clean
navy polo shirt and jeans, freshly shaven and with his hair combed, he had been
looking handsome. Actually, way handsome. And way sexy. To her chagrin, she had realized that the
serious attraction she'd felt toward him earlier was definitely not a figment
of her imagination. FBI agent or not. Not that this had in any way endeared him to
her, then or now. In fact, just the opposite. A complication of that sort she
absolutely did not need. So quit looking at him, she told herself, and, taking her own advice,
averted her gaze and marched toward the bathroom. Caught in the act of taking a swig out of a can
of Diet Coke, McCabe choked and swung his feet to the floor as her sudden
appearance apparently caught him by surprise. "Something the matter?" he asked when
he had recovered from his coughing fit. She was already halfway across the
living room by that time. "Not a thing in the world," she said,
glancing over her shoulder. Their eyes met, and she realized he'd been tracking
her across the room. If he was as flustered by her presence as she
was by his, he did a darn good job of hiding it. "Oh. Good." With that, his attention
returned to the TV, and he relaxed into the couch again. Having reached the bathroom by that time, Maddie
turned on the light, shut the door and locked it with a decided click, then
paused to eye her surroundings. A thought occurred, and she turned on the
faucet in the sink. The idea that he might be able to hear her using the
facilities even over the TV was embarrassing, of course. But the idea that she
might be able to allay any suspicions she had aroused in him that morning when
he had caught her running the shower to cover her phone conversation was a
consideration, too. If she was lucky, he might just hear the shower and think
that she always used running water to cover bathroom sounds. Play the hand out. That's what her father would have told her, and
that's just what she was going to do. Emerging from the bathroom a few minutes later,
Maddie padded back across the smooth, cool hardwood floor toward her bedroom.
Beyond casting a single glance her way when the door opened, McCabe ignored
her, for which she was grateful. The easiest way to deal with having him in her
apartment was to simply pretend he wasn't there. But, even when she had crawled back into bed and
pulled the sheet up around her neck and closed her eyes, she couldn't get the
thought that he was approximately twenty feet away out of her head. She wriggled some more and dug deep in her mind
for pleasant thoughts and counted everything she could think of to count, then
finally gave up all thought of sleep and lay, listening unwillingly to the TV.
It was about then that she realized something: If she had been in her apartment
alone, she would have been curled up in a little ball in the farthest corner of
her closet by that time, gibbering with terror. At least, with McCabe in the next room, she was
not afraid. FOURTEEN Sunday,
August 17 When Maddie awoke the next morning, her bedroom
was dark. That might seem like a small thing, but it was enough to remind her
of how radically her life had changed: Her bedroom was never dark in the
mornings. She always opened the thick, oyster-colored silk curtains that
covered the window just behind her bed right before she fell asleep so that the
single halogen that illuminated the parking lot could cast its distant glow
over her as she slept. That way she could turn off the lights, yet never have
to sleep in the dark. Fudgie, too, was out of place. Instead of watching over
her from his usual spot on her dresser, he'd been tucked away in a drawer. Fudgie was like her that way: He and the feds
were fundamentally incompatible. As she swung her legs over the side of the bed,
it occurred to her that she was going to have to walk past McCabe again to get
to the bathroom. That made her frown. On the best of mornings she was something
less than a rosy-faced, sleep-tousled beauty. This was not the best of mornings.
Her shoulder throbbed, her head ached, and she needed caffeine like a vampire
needs blood. When she got to her feet and opened the curtains, blinking in the
sudden brightness, then glanced in the mirror over her dresser, her reflection
confirmed it: Her hair was all over the place, there was a red crease across
her cheek where she'd slept on her pillow wrong, and her eyes were all puffy
and heavy-lidded. She looked, in a word, scary. She hated the thought of having McCabe see her
that way. And she really hated the thought that she hated the thought of
having him see her that way. There was no help for it, though. Although her
instinct was to spend the day skulking in her bedroom, out of sight, she
couldn't: Once again, she had to go to the bathroom. To hell with it. Looking good for Mr. Special
Agent was not something she needed to be trying to do anyway. Shrugging into her robe, running her fingers
through her hair, determined to do her best to behave as though she were home
alone, Maddie gathered up her clothes, marched to the bedroom door, opened
it—and heard voices. Multiple voices. Coming from the kitchen. A peek into the
living room confirmed it. The coast was clear. Her babysitters—all three of
them from the sound of it—were nowhere in sight. Huffing a quick sigh of relief, she scuttled for
the bathroom. When she emerged some twenty minutes later, she
was looking—and feeling—much better, having showered and blown her hair dry and
dressed in navy shorts and a loose sun-yellow camp shirt that put no pressure
on her tender shoulder. She'd flicked on mascara, slicked on lipgloss—things
she normally wouldn't have bothered to do on a lazy Sunday morning unless she
was heading out to church—and patted concealer over the bruise on her cheek.
The one on her throat was in the process of changing from purple to an even
uglier yellowish green, and she didn't even bother to try to hide it. After
examining it in the mirror, she had concluded that there was not enough
concealer in the world. The best thing about having a houseful of FBI
agents, she reflected, was that it gave her a really good excuse not to go to
church as compared to her usual lousy one of sleeping in. The worst thing about
it was everything else. Padding barefoot toward the kitchen, drawn by
the smell of coffee, she frowned slightly as she realized that she heard
nothing. Total silence was potentially not such a good thing, Maddie realized,
and as the possible ramifications began to revolve through her brain, her step
slowed, her heart speeded up, and her stomach went all fluttery. A sideways
glance at the front door showed her that it was still in one piece, and the
lock seemed to be intact. A quick visual sweep of the room found nothing out of
place. But still—no voices, no TV, no sound at all except, from behind her, the
steady drip of the shower, which always took a few minutes to shut off
completely. Her mind raced. What if the hit man had broken in and murdered her
minders while she was in the shower, blissfully unaware? What if he was waiting
for her somewhere in the apartment? What if... Someone walked out of the kitchen. Squeaking—she
only barely managed to swallow the rest of what would have been a full-blown
scream if it had gotten all the way out—Maddie reflexively jumped a good foot
in the air even as she recognized Rambo Barbie, today dressed in black pants
and an acid-green T-shirt, with the ubiquitous black belt circling her waist.
She, too, was looking better today. Her Raggedy Ann-red hair was clean and
actually more tousled than spiky, her makeup, while a little heavy on the black
eyeliner, was at least where it was supposed to be, and her cornflower blue
eyes were clear. "Did I scare you? Sorry." Gardner
didn't sound sorry as her eyes slid over Maddie. She sounded just the
slightest bit contemptuous of a woman who would jump and squeal when surprised.
She was carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper—Maddie couldn't be
sure, but she guessed it was probably her newspaper, retrieved from the
rush mat in front of the apartment door—in the other. "No, not at all," Maddie said,
skirting the other woman to reach the kitchen. "I always jump and squeal
first thing in the morning. Gets the blood circulating." A green-and-white Krispy Kreme box took pride of
place in the center of the table. Other than that, the kitchen looked just as
it always did: clean and neat and empty, except for a few dishes in the sink
that hadn't been there when she'd gone to bed. Pale morning sunlight streamed
in through the window over the sink; the refrigerator hummed. She was just
starting to feel disappointed because she had missed McCabe—and registering
with alarm that she was feeling disappointed—when she spotted him
through the window in the kitchen door. He had his back to her and was standing
on the back stoop, talking to Wynne. As her gaze slid over as much of him as she
could see, over the back of his head, over his wide shoulders and strong arms
and tapered back, her heart gave an odd little skip. You're being really stupid here, Maddie thought, and wrenched her eyes away from
him. It helped that she could smell coffee. Directing her gaze toward the
coffeemaker instead was, therefore, not quite as difficult as it might have
been, and was amply rewarded. A freshly brewed pot of coffee sat on the burner,
keeping warm. Maddie had just poured herself a cup when the
back door opened and McCabe—and Wynne—walked into the kitchen. "All clear outside?" she asked, as
much to cover the sudden confusion she felt when her gaze encountered McCabe's
as because she had any real doubt of the answer. "A few birds, a couple of squirrels.
Nothing potentially fatal." McCabe grinned at her. The sudden warming of
his eyes as they met hers—to say nothing of the dimples that appeared on either
side of his mouth—made her breath catch. Stupid, her brain warned all on its own. "Glad to hear it," she said, proud of
how casually offhand she sounded. Lifting her cup, she took a swallow, hoping
that the caffeine would jolt her to her senses. It was nothing short of idiocy
to notice that his hair was all mussed and his chin sported a nice, studly
amount of five-o'clock shadow and his eyes looked sleepy. Of course, unlike
herself, he had stayed up all night. Knowing that he was keeping watch was what
had enabled her, eventually, to fall asleep. "How's your shoulder?" The grin had
faded. His eyes darkened as they touched on her shoulder. "Oh, I don't know—kind of feels like I got
shot yesterday," she said wryly. He laughed, and, lo and behold, there were those
dimples again. Funny, Maddie thought, until she met him she never would have
believed that she could be such a sucker for dimples. "Want a doughnut? Help yourself,"
Wynne said, having crossed to the table and opened the box. He was talking to
her and, glad to be distracted, Maddie tore her eyes away from McCabe and moved
toward the table just in time to watch Wynne hook one out of the box. "Thanks." Except for the fact that he
was an FBI agent, she actually had no beef with Wynne, who was looking even
more cherubic than usual this morning in a candy-pink polo shirt and khakis.
She smiled at him as she set her coffee cup on the table, then fished out a
chocolate-covered doughnut from the already half-empty box and took a bite. "I thought you were watching your
weight," Gardner said from the doorway. This was directed at Wynne, who
swallowed the last bite of doughnut with a guilty air as he looked at her. "I am. I'm watching it creep toward three
hundred." "You know, it's probably counterproductive
to quit smoking and then eat yourself to death." Wynne flushed. "It's hard to quit smoking." To her
own surprise, Maddie found herself leaping to Wynne's defense. Okay, he was a
grown man, and an FBI agent to boot, but under his fellow agent's disapproving
gaze he suddenly looked so—vulnerable. "I would think that anything
somebody could do to make it through until the craving gets easier would be a
good thing." "You smoke?" Wynne asked her, clearly
grateful for the distraction. "No. My father did, though. He kept saying
he was going to quit, but he never made it longer than maybe a day and a
half." Then it occurred to her that talking about her father in such
company was probably not wise. Although that particular memory was harmless,
she didn't even want to start the conversation down that path. "How long has it been now?" McCabe
asked Wynne, joining them at the table. He stopped so close to Maddie that his
arm brushed hers, warm skin against warm skin, and to her annoyance she felt
that brief contact all the way down to her toes. Sidling sideways away from him
even as she chomped down on her doughnut for cover—and if ever there was a
waste of a good doughnut that had to be it, because she suddenly couldn't even
taste it—she glanced around the kitchen for a distraction. Those dishes in the
sink—three plates, three cups, a couple of spoons. Maddie realized that what
she had heard earlier was the three of them chatting over coffee and doughnuts. "Two months, four days, and"—Wynne
glanced at the clock over the window; it was not quite nine a.m.—"nine
hours." "That's impressive," Maddie told him
through her mouthful of tasteless fat and sugar. "Okay, Elvis, I admit it: It is impressive,"
Gardner said, coming toward them. "I didn't think you had it in you. Now
all you need to do is wean yourself off the food you used to wean yourself off
the cigarettes." "Elvis?" Maddie looked at Wynne. "It's his name," McCabe said to
Maddie. "Elvis Presley Wynne." Maddie couldn't help it. She smiled. "Gets that reaction every time," Wynne
said glumly. "That's why I pretty much go by Wynne." "All right, enough picking on Wynne,"
McCabe said, and held something out to Maddie. Taking it, she saw that it was a
key. "It's to your back door," he said in
response to her questioning look. "We replaced the lock, just so you know.
We're still getting things in place, so for today it would be best if you'd
just stay inside your apartment. The hardest thing to guard against is a sniper
shot, and we saw yesterday that he's willing to try to take you out
long-distance. That's actually a good sign, it means he's desperate enough to
get to you that he's willing to abandon his usual MO, but what we want him to
have to do is to come after you physically. If he breaks into your apartment,
we’ve got him. If he comes into your workplace after you, we've got him. What
we want him to have to do is put himself where we can see him. That's all we
need, and then it'll be over. Just to make sure we cover all the bases, I'm
having your car windows replaced with bulletproof glass as we speak, so when
they're done you should be able to drive without worrying about a repeat of
yesterday morning. We'll be following your vehicle everyplace you go, so if he
tries anything while you're en route somewhere, we'll be right there. Oh, yeah,
and we'll be sweeping your car periodically for bombs." "Bombs?" The thought of a bomb being
placed in her car was so unnerving that Maddie momentarily quit breathing. She
hadn't thought of that, and she realized she should have. Her blood ran cold as
she wondered just what else she hadn't thought of yet. Of course, she reminded herself quickly, the
odds were good that she had managed to get the hit called off. If she had,
McCabe and Co. could follow her until the cows came home and they would come up
empty-handed. Eventually, they would get tired of following her and go away,
and her life could get back to normal. That was poor justice for the dead woman
who'd had the misfortune to share her name, she knew; but then, no amount of
justice would help that other Madeline Fitzgerald now. What she had to
do was concentrate on saving herself. "You're scaring her," Wynne said to
McCabe in a reproving tone, which made Maddie wonder exactly what he'd seen in
her face. She wanted to be careful about that. McCabe seemed uncannily attuned
to her emotions, and he was looking at her, too, with an inscrutable expression
that made her faintly uneasy. Hunky or not, when all was said and done he was a
fed, and it would behoove her not to forget it. "I was just thinking." Maddie looked
at Wynne. "If there’d been a bomb in my car yesterday morning at the
airport, you would have been toast." "We checked it before I got in," Wynne
assured her, absentmindedly reaching for another doughnut. "Oh, no you don't, Elvis." Gardner
snatched the box out of reach. "Listen, Cynthia, the last thing I
need is for you to go around acting like the calorie police." For the
first time since Maddie had set eyes on him, she saw Wynne frown. It was
directed at Gardner, who scowled right back at him. "You need somebody to," Gardner retorted,
hugging the box to her. "Put the damned doughnuts down." "No." "Okay, I'm out of here," McCabe said
to the room in general. He glanced at Maddie. "I don't expect him to try
anything while you're at home today. Too bright out, too many people around,
and he'll think he'll get a better chance later. Still, I wouldn't want to be
proved wrong, so consider yourself grounded for the day and stay inside."
He headed toward the door, then glanced back over his shoulder.
"Wynne?" Wynne was still glowering at Gardner, who was
glaring back with both arms wrapped around the box. "Yeah, I'm
coming." "Wait a minute." Hurrying, Maddie
followed McCabe across the living room to the door. "I can't just stay
inside. I have errands to run. I have to go to the grocery, for one thing. And
I need to pick up my dry cleaning. And..." He paused with one hand on the knob. She was
only a couple feet behind him as he turned back toward her, barely arm's length
away, close enough so that he had to look down to meet her eyes. "Like I said, I want to make this hard for
him." His voice was dry. "Well, I want to go to the
grocery." "Maybe tomorrow," he said, as though
it was entirely his decision to make. Maddie's lips tightened, but before she could
reply his hand came up to cup the side of her face. The gesture was so
unexpected that anything that she might have been going to say was instantly
forgotten. Her eyes widened as the warmth of his skin coupled with the feel of
his big, capable hand against her cheek just blew her away. Her gaze locked
with his. "Your bruise is getting better," he
said, and his thumb brushed her cheekbone. Her insides turned to liquid. Just like that.
All it took was the slide of his thumb over her skin. "Exercise," she heard Gardner say
behind her. Thank God for small favors, Maddie thought as the interruption startled her
enough to break the spell. McCabe's hand dropped away from her face. Taking a
quick step back, she glanced around to find Wynne charging toward her with the
Krispy Kreme box in his arms and Gardner right behind him. Wynne was looking
over his shoulder at Gardner. Gardner, however, was suddenly looking at Maddie. "I know, I know," Wynne said
over his shoulder. "Sheez, we've been on the road for a month. I'm not
smoking. I can eat doughnuts if I want. Give me a break." McCabe opened the door for Wynne, who stomped
through it while at the same time waving a dismissive hand behind him at
Gardner. "Keep her inside," McCabe said over
Maddie's head to Gardner. Then, to Maddie, with the faintest hint of a smile in
his eyes, "Be good." He was gone before she could reply. For a moment Maddie simply stared at the closed
door. Then she got a grip and turned away to find Gardner watching her. "So you've got a thing for McCabe, do
you?" Gardner said, her eyes narrowed. Then she snorted. "Honey,
might as well get in line." Maddie was momentarily struck dumb. "I do not have a thing for McCabe,"
she said with what dignity she could muster when she had regained her power of
speech. Gardner dropped onto the couch and picked up the newspaper she had left
on the coffee table along with her cup of coffee. Not that she was trying to
end the conversation or anything, but Maddie headed toward the kitchen. Somebody had to put those dishes in the
dishwasher. "Don't bullshit me." Gardner snapped
the paper open. "I can spot a fellow sufferer a mile away." Arrested, Maddie stopped just short of the
kitchen doorway and turned to look at Gardner. "You've got a thing for McCabe?" Gardner looked at her over the top of the paper. "Oh, yeah," she said wryly. "He
knows it, too. I'd hop in the sack with him like that." She snapped
her fingers. "Problem is, I'd have to knock him cold to get him there. I'm
not really his type." Maddie couldn't help it. She knew she should
drop it, knew she should walk away, but the topic was just too fascinating.
Folding her arms over her chest, she cocked her head inquiringly at Gardner. "So what's his type?" she asked
cautiously. "Slim. Pretty. Brunette. Youngish—under
thirty. Sweet little wholesome girls. Yeah, in case you're wondering, you fit
the type." Maddie blinked. "What?" Gardner nodded. "You're his type. One
hundred percent. On the plane up here from New Orleans, he was about to jump
out of his skin from worrying that the UNSUB—the sick bastard we’re
chasing—would get to you before we did. As soon as I saw you, I had it figured
out: He was so worried because you're his type." "Do men even have a type?" Gardner lowered the paper to her lap. "You
mean you haven't noticed? Honey, where've you been? Of course they do. They all
have a type. And if you don't fit his type, you have to work like the devil to
get a particular guy to even look at you." The faint undertone of bitterness underlying
that comment made Maddie look at Gardner in a whole new light. She sounded
genuinely pained. "So you're really interested in him?
McCabe, I mean?" Maddie approached the seating group and sank down into
the squashy depths of her green corduroy armchair. Yesterday she and Gardner
had barely exchanged half a dozen words. Today they were going to chat? This
was new. Intriguing, though. "If he gave me half a chance, I'd have his
babies." Gardner gave a wry little grimace. "I'd take him home to
Mama. I'd wrap him up in cellophane and... well, you get the idea. Maybe it's
something to do with my age. I'm thirty-seven. All of a sudden, I keep hearing
my biological clock ticking. And every time I hear it tick, McCabe's is the
face I see." "He's not married, then?" Maddie asked
cautiously. It was bad enough to be asking the question. It was worse to be so
interested in the answer. "Single, just like me. Just like
Wynne." Gardner made a face. "Hell, who would have us? Except Wynne.
Somebody might take Wynne." "Wynne seems nice." "Wynne is nice. Just the nicest guy
around. But you have to admit, he's no stud-muffin." Maddie thought about that. "Maybe a
stud-muffin isn't the best choice to give you what you want. Maybe for a
long-term relationship—for babies—you should be thinking in terms of just a
really nice guy." "Like Wynne." Gardner sounded less
than convinced. Then she sighed. "To tell you the truth, the thought's
crossed my mind. The thing is, Wynne seems to be interested in me. So far,
McCabe doesn't. And I know Wynne's probably a better long-term prospect. But I
hate it that he smokes...." "He quit," Maddie interjected swiftly. "And I hate it that he doesn't take better
care of himself." "The doughnuts," Maddie said, suddenly
understanding. "Yes. Exactly. You saw him with the
doughnuts." Gardner sighed. "See? It's always something. That's the
thing with men. None of them—not one I've ever met—is perfect." "Unlike us," Maddie said. Gardner looked at her sharply. Then she grinned.
"All right. Point taken. But if I could somehow take Wynne's personality
and stuff it inside McCabe's body..." She paused, her eyes gleaming. Then
her face fell. "The new perfect hybrid would not be interested in me. How
dismal is that? Oh, forget it. Hey, you want part of the paper?" Maddie laughed, and accepted the Metro section. By late afternoon, though, Maddie was going
stir-crazy. Having been stuck inside her apartment—which, ordinarily, she
loved—for almost two full days, she was ready to climb the walls. After
finishing the paper, she'd worked on her laptop. She'd played back all the
phone messages that had been left—it was amazing how fast the news had gotten
around that her car windows had been shot out—and returned a judicious few. She
and Cynthia—they were on a first-name basis by that time—shared soup and
crackers for lunch, as Maddie's cupboard was practically bare. Over the meal,
she'd learned just about everything there was left to know about the other
woman. In a nutshell, Cynthia had been born and raised in New Jersey, her
marriage had been right out of high school and had lasted two years before
ending in divorce, and she'd joined the FBI twelve years earlier, as soon as
she had finished college. Maddie had also learned a great deal about Wynne.
Wynne was also thirty-seven, also divorced once, also childless. He'd grown up
in Connecticut and had very WASPish elderly parents still living there, to whom
he was devoted. He visited them all the time, whenever he got the chance, and
Cynthia had met them once. They hadn't seemed overly impressed with her, which
Cynthia professed to find amusing. As for McCabe—Maddie especially enjoyed the
nuggets Cynthia let drop about McCabe, although she did her best not to ask any
more leading questions about him than she could help. According to Cynthia, he
had parents still living, too, although she had never met them, a gaggle of
siblings she had likewise never met, and a string of ex-girlfriends—Maddie
imagined all the aforementioned slim, pretty brunettes—a mile long. He was
thirty-five years old, never wed, and basically married to his job. And Cynthia wanted him bad. It had been on that note, reiterated with a kind
of wry smile, that Wynne had knocked on the door. Cynthia had immediately
reverted to Rambo Barbie mode, motioning to Maddie to stay back while she
looked through the peephole. Recognizing Wynne, she had relaxed and let him in.
When Maddie saw that he was bearing bags of groceries, she was ready to fall on
his neck. Cynthia left, and Maddie fixed a light
supper—spaghetti and salad, which had the dual advantage of being easy and
nutritious—for herself and Wynne. They talked while they ate, and Maddie got
the distinct impression that Wynne was as taken with Cynthia as Cynthia was
with McCabe. Not that Wynne said so in so many words. Unlike Cynthia, he seemed
inclined to keep his secrets. After supper, Wynne helped her clean up and then
watched TV while she settled down with her laptop at the kitchen table. She
checked her e-mail, checked the next week's schedule, and gave some thought to
a campaign Creative Partners was preparing to pitch to a local ice-cream chain,
making a few sketches and writing a few lines of copy that she was unhappy with
almost as soon as she finished them. Vowing to work on it more the next day,
Maddie allowed herself a moment to bask in the remembered glow of Friday's success—we
got the Brehmer account—then packed her laptop into her briefcase and left
the kitchen. Given the fact that she hadn't been able to get to the cleaners,
her choice of outfits for the morrow was somewhat limited, so she settled on
her favorite basic black summer dress. Sleeveless and made of some kind of
wrinkle-proof synthetic that looked like slubby raw linen, it was cool and
comfortable. Add a loose white linen jacket to wear with clients and spectator
pumps, and she was good to go. By then it was after ten. McCabe would be coming
at eleven. Maddie took a bath, applied ointment and a fresh bandage to her
shoulder—which, she was glad to observe, was healing nicely—put on her
nightclothes and, with a quick good-night to Wynne, retreated to her bedroom.
There she meant to stay until the following morning. She'd been careful to limit her liquid intake
after supper, so there should be no need for her to see McCabe at all. A thing for him. Even if she had one, which, okay, she might, she
was absolutely not stupid enough to encourage it. Given what he was—and what
she was—she would stand a better chance of emerging whole from a game of
Russian roulette. She was already in bed with the lights off,
trying desperately to go to sleep, when she heard McCabe arrive. He and Wynne
talked for a few minutes. Although she couldn't quite hear what they were
saying over the TV, the deep drawl of his voice was unmistakable. Wynne's tones
were a little higher-pitched, a little more clipped, milk chocolate rather than
dark. Listening, Maddie was ready to concede that Cynthia was exactly right—
Wynne even sounded like the nicest guy in the world. McCabe sounded like pure sex. On that sleep-inducing thought, Maddie pulled
the sheet up over her head and squeezed her eyes shut. It only helped
marginally. She heard McCabe laugh, heard the door close, heard a pop as
though he had opened a tab-top can. More Diet Coke? Probably. She lay there
with the door ajar, listening to what sounded like ESPN, unable to keep from
picturing McCabe sprawled out on her couch—and fell asleep. The dream came, as she had known that sooner or
later it must. It was late at night, and she was in bed—another bed, a long-ago
bed. In a house that wasn't hers. It was a narrow bed—a cot, really—and it was
old and creaky and smelled faintly of mildew. She was alone in it, alone in the
room. The dark room. So dark that even with her eyes open, she couldn't see the
broken chest that she knew was pushed up against the opposite wall just a few
feet away. There were people in the house—people who scared her. She could hear
them talking. The voices got louder, and she could feel the pulse knocking
below her ear. Her fingertips throbbed—her hands were tied behind her back.
Something stabbed painfully into her palm—her nails. She was just absorbing
this when, without warning, the door opened. A rectangle of light spilled over
the bed. Her eyes closed instantly, and she lay very still. A shadow fell
across the bed, across her. A terror unlike any she had ever known twisted her
stomach, tightened her throat. Even as cold sweat drenched her, she took care
to breathe—in, out, in, out—in the slow cadence of deep sleep. All the
while she watched the shadow from the tiny slit between her upper and lower
lids, watched the horrible elongated thing that spilled like pure evil from the
dark figure silhouetted in the doorway. She watched it, and prayed that he
wouldn't come any closer, wouldn't come into the room. In, out, in, out. Lying
still as death, just breathing in that interminable rhythm, while her heart
beat like a trapped wild thing in her chest, she started to shake. God, he
would see.... Don't let me die. Please, don't let me die. Then the
shadow rippled, moved—a scream crowded into her throat but she forced it back—in,
out, in, out.. Maddie startled awake. For a moment, she lay
blinking up into the darkness, her heart pounding, her breathing coming in
shuddering gasps. The dream—of course it was the dream. Would she never be rid
of it? Then it hit her. Darkness... her room was dark.
She wasn't dreaming, and her room was dark. The apartment was dark, too, and
quiet. Too quiet. The TV... it was off, dark, soundless. Her ears picked up a sound, a movement. Her
breathing stopped as her eyes swung blindly in the direction from which it
came. This time it was for real. There was someone in her room. FIFTEEN "Maddie." It was McCabe's voice, the
merest thread of sound. Maddie drew in a shuddering breath and sat up.
Her thundering heart slowed, and the knot in her stomach seemed to loosen. "McCabe?" "Shh." He was beside her, beside the bed. She could see him now,
indistinctly, as a denser shadow in the darkness. It wasn't absolute, she saw.
Not the pitch-blackness of her dream... She shuddered at the memory. "Get up." His tone was urgent. His
hand touched her arm, slid around her back. Before she responded, he was all
but lifting her off the bed. "What?" Whispering, too, trying to get
her still-foggy mind around what was happening, she slid to her feet, then
stumbled against him. His chest was a solid wall that kept her from falling.
His arm tightened around her, hard and supportive—and insistent. "Someone's coming up the fire escape. I
want you to get in the bathroom, lock the door." He was already hustling her out of the bedroom.
Still slightly dazed, not one hundred percent sure she wasn't dreaming this,
too, she went with him, shivering slightly despite the warmth of his arm around
her, weak and drained as she always was in the aftermath of the dream. As they
moved into the living room, the darkness lightened a degree, and Maddie saw
that the long curtains covering the windows did not quite meet in the middle. A
sliver of moonlight slid between them to paint a pale gray line across the
floor. There was just enough light to permit her to see that in his other hand,
the hand that was not clamped around her waist, McCabe held a gun. Her heart lurched. What was happening became
suddenly, sharply real. They reached the bathroom and he thrust her
inside. "Lock it," he said, voice low, and pulled
the door closed behind him. "And stay put. I'll be back." Maddie locked the door. Then she leaned against
the thin panel, fingers wrapped around the knob, bare toes curling against the
cold tile. The bathroom had no window, and she dared not turn on a light. The
darkness was absolute, rendering her effectively blind. The faint scent of soap
reached her nostrils. Shivering, pressing her cheek against the smooth painted
wood, she listened with every fiber of her being. The toilet ran slightly; the
air-conditioning hummed. Above those homely sounds, she could hear nothing—no
footsteps, no rush of movement, nothing. Except the drumming of her own heart in her
ears. A man is coming up my fire escape. Cold panic curled deep inside her stomach at the
thought. Her knees went weak. Oh, God, would this never end? Where was McCabe? There was no way to tell. He might be right
outside the door. He might be in the kitchen. He might have rushed down the
fire escape to confront the intruder. He might be silently, horribly dead... All she knew for sure was that she was alone in
the dark, the terrifying dark, waiting for something to happen, for someone to
come... Swaying, she clutched the doorknob for support.
She was shivering, breathing fast. Her heart knocked against her ribs. The dream still had her in its thrall. Maddie
recognized that she was reacting to the situation she saw over and over again
in her nightmares rather than to what was happening right at that moment, in
what was now her real life. It was an effort to remember that the girl who had
shivered so helplessly on that bed was long gone. She had grown up, grown
resourceful, grown strong. Get a grip, Maddie said it to herself savagely. Taking a deep breath,
straightening her spine, willing her rubbery knees to hold up, she turned away
from the door. Feeling her way along the tile wall, she found the sink, then
the cabinet above it. Opening it, flinching slightly at the tiny creak, she
touched the shelves, reaching for the can of hair spray she knew was there. As a weapon, it didn't even make the charts, she
realized as she lifted the smooth metal cylinder from its accustomed spot. Mace
or pepper spray it wasn't. But in a pinch, if aimed at an intruder's face, it
might buy her time— maybe even enough time to get away. In any case, it was the
closest thing to a weapon she could get her hands on. Pressing the small of her back up against the
unyielding contours of the sink so that she faced the door, her every sense
trained on the deathly silence beyond the bathroom, Maddie clutched the can and
waited. Time spun out interminably. A quick footstep just outside the door. She caught her breath. A brisk tap. "Maddie?" Exhaling, Maddie rushed to the door and opened
it. The apartment was still lit only by that sliver of moon. She could see no
more of him than a powerful, dark shape. But even if the voice hadn't
identified him, she would have known it was McCabe. It was clear from his tone, his knock: The
danger was past. Her knees gave out, and she practically fell
forward against him. "Hey," he said on a surprised note,
catching her by her elbows. "It's over. It's okay." "Did you get him?" She was cold, so
cold that she was shivering in her thin little ivory slip of a nightgown, and
weak with reaction to the dream and the scare combined. "No." McCabe must have felt the
tremors that racked her, because he wrapped hard arms around her, pulling her
comfortingly close even as he answered her question. He felt strong and solid,
and he smelled of the outdoors and the faint but intoxicating eau de man that
she had noticed before, and, best of all, he radiated heat like a stove. She
absorbed the warmth greedily, snuggling closer yet, unable to resist the
temptation to let her head droop forward like a too-heavy flower to rest against
the firm, broad expanse of his chest. Encouraging him to hold her like this was
probably a mistake, she knew. But she couldn't seem to summon the willpower to
push herself out of his arms. Always, she'd had to stand on her own two feet.
Always, she'd had to take care of herself, to be strong. Where was the harm,
for once in her life, in surrendering for just a few moments to the pure luxury
of having somebody to lean on? "Was it—him?" she asked in a faint
voice. "I don't know. He was about a third of the way
up your back stairs when something apparently spooked him. He took off like a
bat out of hell." Maddie closed her eyes. What were the chances
that this was a totally random thing? In the four years she had lived in her
apartment, no one had ever been caught climbing her fire escape in the middle
of the night—until now. "I'm glad you were here." It was quite
an admission, and she recognized its enormity even as the words came out of her
mouth. Her eyes popped open in alarm and she glanced up at him. Of course, it
was impossible to see anything more than shadows upon shadows in the gloom. "Yeah. Me, too." His tone told her that he had no clue just how
huge her admission had been. She took a deep breath, knowing that she had to
make a move and yet not able, just at that moment, to do so, and his arms
tightened fractionally around her. His body was tense, and Maddie guessed that
he was still wired, on edge, from the intruder. He exuded controlled power, and
without any real surprise at all, she discovered that she had absolute faith in
his ability to keep her safe. From night-crawling hit men, at least. The problem was, who was going to keep her safe
from him? With that thought, Maddie started to regain her
sense of self-preservation. What are you doing? she scolded herself. He's an FBI agent, you numbskull. Willing herself to get back with the program
while she still could, she lifted her head from his chest. At the same moment,
he moved. Maddie only realized that he was reaching behind her for the switch
when the bathroom light clicked on. She blinked with surprise, glanced up to
discover just how close his face was, and found herself a little unnerved. He
was looking down at her, frowning slightly. Her eyes were on a level with the
top of his shoulder, and in the space of a heartbeat she took in the wide
expanse of those shoulders in the dark green T-shirt she had only felt until
now, absorbed the sturdy bronze column of his neck and the flexing muscles of
his arm that was in the process of dropping away from the light switch. She saw
that his chin was once again dark with stubble, and his hair was mussed like
he'd been running his hands through it, and his brows had twitched together so
that there were faint lines corrugating the space between them. His mouth was
only inches from hers. She fixated on that hard, masculine mouth and felt her
own lips part. He seemed to be breathing harder now than his strictly
stationary posture called for, she realized. She could feel his chest rising
and falling against her breasts, and the warmth of his breath brushed her face
where she hadn't been aware of it before. Their eyes met, and in the
coffee-brown depths of his, she saw something—a hot little flicker. An
awareness... The air between them was suddenly charged.
Maddie felt the electricity, and heat curled somewhere deep inside her. Her
breathing quickened. Her body began to tighten, to throb. Oh God, she thought, panicking. I want him. His eyes slid to her mouth. Which promptly went
dry. Then his gaze dropped lower still and his frown
deepened. "What the hell?" Confused, Maddie followed his gaze and
discovered, to her own surprise, that she was still clutching the can of hair
spray. It was sandwiched between them, its little black spray nozzle pointed
directly at his chest. "Oh," she said, feeling foolish.
Apparently, while she'd been busy getting all hot and bothered, he'd been
passing the time wondering about the hard, round thing that was poking him in
the chest. Struggling to think of this amorous lapse on his part as a positive
development, she looked up at him. "Uh—it's hair spray." "I can see that." His lips twitched,
and then he grinned, a lopsided, charming grin that warmed his eyes and brought
those to-die-for dimples into roguish life. "Planning to style somebody's
hair?" "I was in the bathroom. It was the only
thing I could think of to use as a weapon," she said with dignity. He laughed out loud. "Pencils. Hair spray.
Darlin', God help the bad guys if you ever get your hands on a gun." Outraged, she pushed against his chest, aerosol
can and all. "Let go." "You don't want me to," he said. Then he kissed her. Maddie was so surprised that, for the space of
maybe a heartbeat, she didn't even move. She just stood there with her eyes
wide open, clutching the aerosol can while he pulled her so close that the
can's metal edge dug into the side of her breast, and slanted his lips across
hers and licked into her mouth with a hungry urgency that sent fire shooting
clear down to her toes. How long had it been since someone had kissed
her like this? Too long. Never. The question, complete with its telling answer,
ricocheted through her stunned brain even as her body reacted quite
independently. Her eyes closed, her lips parted all on their own, and her free
hand slid around his nape, her fingers curling into the short, crisp hair at
the back of his head. He deepened the kiss, and the heat of it melted away the
last rational thought left to her name. Head reeling, she kissed him back,
feeling the hot, slick glide of his tongue against hers, tasting the faint tang
of Diet Coke in his mouth. His hands splayed over her back, big and strong and
hot through the thin nylon of her gown. Pulse racing, she surged against him,
loving the silky slide of her gown against his clothes. Hot little ripples of
pleasure slid down her thighs as she discovered the hard bulge beneath his
jeans and moved sensuously against it. He broke off the kiss, lifted his head, sucked
in air. "McCabe," she whispered, rocking
against him then going up on tiptoe to seek his mouth again. "Christ," he said and bent his head, kissing her harder, exploring
her mouth with an expertise that made her dizzy. The hot, sweet throbbing in
her loins that he'd awakened earlier was back, times ten. Her breasts swelled,
and her nipples contracted until they were needy little nubs pressing urgently
against his chest. His lips left hers, found the soft, sensitive
spot beneath her ear, then slid down her neck. His mouth was hot and wet and
firm, and the feel of it crawling over her skin made her dizzy. Her heart
lurched, her bones liquified, and if he hadn't been holding her so tightly, she
thought she would have melted into a sizzling little puddle at his feet. She made a small, hungry sound deep in her
throat and pressed as close to him as she could get. His head lifted, and then
his mouth was on hers again. He was unmistakably turned-on, hard and hot with
wanting her, holding her close and kissing her silly and making her feel things
she had almost forgotten she could feel. She was on fire for him, burning deep
inside, wanting to get naked and horizontal with him so badly that if he hadn't
been bigger than she was, and stronger than she was, and such a really
impressive kisser besides, she would have thrown him down on the floor and stripped
off her nightgown and had her way with him there and then. But then his hands
flattened on her back, slid lower, and she shivered, glad she had waited. They
were big and long-fingered and strong, the kind of hands she loved, and she
tracked their sensuous glide over the silky nylon with quivering anticipation.
They slid over her butt, cupping her cheeks, and she moaned her pleasure into
his mouth. She could feel the heat and strength and size of those hands with
every nerve ending she possessed, even as he pulled her tight against him and
rocked into her. A quick hard knock on the front door made Maddie
jump. McCabe's hands froze, and he lifted his head. They both looked toward the
sound. "McCabe..." The voice, a man's, was muffled but clearly
audible nonetheless. Maddie was too dazed and confused to feel so much as the
first flicker of fear, and. anyway, a hit man would not be knocking on the
front door and calling out to McCabe. "Shit," McCabe said and looked back
down at her. Her eyes met the superheated gleam of his, and held. For a
sizzling instant she would have been hard put to remember anything as basic as
her name. Then his arms around her loosened and dropped away. He headed for the
door. "Go put your robe on," he said over
his shoulder. Breathing too fast, heart racing, her body
tingling in places she'd almost forgotten she had, Maddie took a moment to
process what had just happened, while her eyes tracked him to the door. His
hand wrapped around the knob. Shrouded in shadows now, he glanced back at her.
It was only then that she realized that she was still standing in the bright
oblong of light that spilled out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but her thin,
white nightgown that, backlit as it was, undoubtedly revealed as much as it
concealed. He was still looking at her with his hand on the
knob when the knock sounded again. "McCabe..." The voice was louder now,
impatient. Maddie fled toward her bedroom. "Don't turn on the light," he said as
she reached it. "If he's got any idea about doubling back, we don't want
to scare him off." She stopped, standing stock-still for a moment
as she registered the idea that whoever had been on her steps might be coming
back. Then she heard the metallic click of the deadbolt unlocking. By the time
McCabe had the door open, she was safely in her room. In order to have any light at all, she had to
leave her bedroom door ajar. Maddie crossed to the dresser, put down the can
that, ridiculously, she discovered she was still holding, found her robe, and
pulled it on. Then she hesitated. She was still shaken, from the dream and the
fright and, yes, that impossibly hot kiss. She was alarmed. She was befuddled.
What she could do—what she should do—was try to thrust her worries out
of her head until she could think them through more calmly on the morrow, go
back to bed, and trust McCabe to keep watch. But even as she had the thought,
she knew that she couldn't do it. Sleep was clearly going to be impossible
after what had happened. And the lure of the murmuring voices was too strong.
She badly wanted to know what was going on. And there was no way she could just
leave things as they were with McCabe. Tightening the belt on her robe, Maddie padded
out into the dark living room. The front door was closed, and McCabe was there
in front of it with his back turned to her, standing in the dark with two men
that she didn't at first recognize. But the bathroom light was still on,
providing just enough illumination to allow her to discern features in the
gloom. As she drew closer and they acknowledged her presence with glances and
nods, she realized that she was looking at Gomez and Hendricks. All three men
fell silent as she stopped beside McCabe. "So what's happened?" she asked,
thrusting her hands deep into the pockets of her robe. "He got away," Gomez said. There was
chagrin on his boyish face. "He must have seen us," Hendricks
added. "We were careful as hell, too." "It was that damned streetlight. We were
right under it when he started leaping back down the stairs." He cast an
accusing look at Hendricks. "I told you we should have gone around
it." "If we'd gone around it, he would've had
time to get up here and kick down the apartment door and blast the hell out of
everybody inside before we got to him." Maddie felt a cold chill snake down her spine at
this graphic description of what might have happened. She had to fight the urge
to lean into McCabe. "Anyway, we're not even sure he saw
us," Hendricks said to Sam. "Something spooked him." "Yeah, probably he's afraid of spiders and
there was a big one about halfway up the stairs," Gomez said in disgust.
Hendricks shot him a dirty look. "Whatever happened, he's gone," McCabe
said. So far he hadn't so much as glanced at Maddie, who had noticed. "Maybe the locals will pick him up. They're
out there cruising around now." "Maybe," McCabe said. "You guys
did good, by the way." "Thanks," Hendricks replied without
enthusiasm. "Come on, Gomez. We better be getting back." "We'll get him next time," Gomez said.
"He's not getting away again. It's uncomfortable as hell in that
van." With that, they left. McCabe locked the door
behind them. Looking at his broad back as he closed the door and tried the
lock, Maddie felt her heart speed up again. Wanting him was such a stupid thing to do. He turned away from the door and their eyes met.
Heat surged between them, as sudden and electric as a bolt of lightning. The
tension in his stance told her that he felt it, too. But she could see his face
clearly enough in the gloom to realize that he didn't look particularly happy
about the fact. Not at all the way a man should look if he thought he was about
to get lucky. In fact, she registered with a slight knitting of her brows, he
was looking downright grim. "At a guess I'd say that's all the
excitement for tonight," he said, skirting around her like she was giving
off radioactive cootie rays to head for the kitchen. "Whoever was on the
stairs almost certainly won't be back. You should go on to bed." O-kay. Clearly, sweet nothings weren't in the cards. To say
nothing of down-and-dirty, really hot sex. Damn. "Where did Gomez and Hendricks come
from?" she asked, following him. She'd thought that only he, Wynne, and
Gardner were sharing guard duty. Discovering that she had more babysitters even
than she'd thought was just a little mind-boggling. Pausing in the doorway, she
watched him open her refrigerator door. The faint, frosty light illuminated the
front of him from the top of his tousled, black head to the toes of his
sneakers. He wasn't looking at her. He was perusing the available food instead.
But his eyes were narrowed, his jaw was clenched, and his mouth was tight.
Unless he was having an emotional reaction to the leftover salad, that
expression was for her. "They're watching your back door from a van
in a parking lot two doors down. I've got two more guys out on the street in a
Blazer, watching your front door. We stay in touch." He reached for a
quart of milk—she usually drank skim, but this, courtesy of Wynne, was whole
milk—and glanced at her. "You mind?" He was asking if she minded if he drank some of
what wasn't even properly her milk. "Help yourself," she said and declined
his offer to pour her some with a shake of her head. He filled his own glass,
returned the milk to the refrigerator, shut the door, and drank. Way to
avoid a difficult conversation, she thought wryly. With the curtains drawn
over the windows and the refrigerator shut, the kitchen was almost as dark as
the rest of the apartment. But not quite. The streetlight that Gomez had
complained of filtered through the thin cotton panels so that she could see
McCabe tip his head back to finish the milk, then hear the faint click as he
set the glass in the sink. By then she had made up her mind. It was her
life and she could be stupid if she wanted to. And, yeah, she wanted to. A lot.
The problem was, he didn't seem inclined to cooperate any longer. Leaning
against the door-jamb and folding her arms over her chest, she decided to take
the battle into the enemy camp. "That kiss was a mistake, okay?" she
said. He turned back from the sink to look at her. She
could see the shape of his head and the outline of his powerful shoulders
silhouetted against the curtains, but his expression was lost in darkness. "I think that should've been my line."
His voice was dry. "I shouldn't have kissed you. I'm sorry." Great. He was apologizing when all she really
wanted him to do was kiss her again. "Stuff happens." With a delicate,
no-big-deal shrug, she turned and padded back into the living room. A wiser
woman—or a braver one— would undoubtedly have headed back to her bedroom,
jumped into bed, pulled the covers over her head, and thanked God for saving
her from her own folly. She sank down on the couch. "Don't you have to get up and go to work in
the morning? It's almost two a.m." He had followed her into the living
room and now stood beside the TV, looking at her—was it warily? It was
difficult to be sure, given the vagaries of the light, but she thought so. "Like I'm going to be able to sleep after
that. Maybe it's just me, but knowing that there's somebody out there who's
trying to kill me kind of gives me insomnia." It was so true she shivered,
then firmly thrust the thought of marauding hit men out of her mind. That was a
subject to be pondered when her mind was clearer. "Can we turn on the TV,
or would that be a violation of the blackout?" "Go ahead and turn it on. I was watching
ESPN when I got the word that someone was headed up your back stairs." "I hate ESPN," Maddie said, picking up
the remote from the coffee table and pressing the power button. The TV
flickered to life. "Watch whatever you want." The irony of being invited to watch what she
wanted on her own TV was not lost on her. Settling into a corner and curling
her feet up beside her, Maddie started clicking through the channels. McCabe,
meanwhile, crossed to the bathroom and turned off the light. Then he returned
to the seating group and lowered himself into the big green chair. "So, what is this we're watching?" he
asked after a moment. Maddie flicked a look at him. He was slouched in
the chair, his long legs thrust out in front of him. He'd kicked his shoes off,
and his thick, white athletic socks glowed faintly in the bluish light. "Dark Victory," she said with relish, naming the 1940s Bette
Davis weeper. She'd chosen it deliberately as a kind of subtle revenge for all
the hours of sports she'd been forced to listen to since the FBI had barged
into her life—and also for his reaction to that aborted kiss. He gave a grunt of disgust. "Why you women
like that kind of stuff..." "The end makes us cry. It's
cathartic." "Well, the middle's going to put me to
sleep. Do you think we could possibly watch something else?" "Like what? Not sports." "I'm open to compromise." Since she wasn't really feeling like a weeper,
either—if she felt like being depressed, she had plenty of things in her real
life at that moment that would more than do the trick—she flipped channels.
After a few minutes of negotiation, they settled on a Seinfeld rerun. "I've been meaning to ask," McCabe said
as the screen switched to a commercial, "did you get that account you were
trying for?" The memory came complete with its own special
little glow. The one great moment in a really crappy week. "Yeah, we did." "Good for you." "It's a really big deal for my
company." Despite everything, she was starting to feel sleepy. The couch
was huge and comfy and upholstered in chenille, which made it cozy, and, after
wrapping her robe closely about her legs to make sure she stayed decent, she
scooted down so that her head rested on the big, squishy armrest. "So how did you come to be the owner of an
advertising agency?" McCabe asked as Seinfeld reappeared on the
screen. "I worked there. The previous owner wanted
to sell it. I wanted to buy it. So I did." "What, do you have a rich uncle?"
There was the faintest note of humor underlying the question. "I wish." Maddie made a little face
and snuggled lower into the cushions. "Since Creative Partners was barely
turning a profit, it wasn't all that expensive. I had enough saved up for the
initial payment, and Mr. Owens— that's the previous owner—arranged it so that I
make monthly payments to him until I own it one hundred percent." "That new account large enough to
help?" "Oh, yeah," Maddie said, smiling a
little at the thought. "It's large enough." "So what does your family think about you
being a big, bad business mogul?" Her family. Maddie registered that and flicked a
look at him. His gaze was focused on the TV. "I don't really have any family left,"
she said, and turned the tables. "How does your family feel about you
being an FBI agent?" That won her a glance and a glimmer of a smile.
"They're in favor of it, by and large. My grandma gets it confused with
the CIA, though. She thinks I'm a spy, and she keeps volunteering to
help." "You have a grandma?" She tried hard
not to sound wistful. All her life she'd wanted a grandma—and a mom, and some
siblings—but her mother had died when she was two and, since then, all she'd
ever had was her dad. "Oh, yeah." "Tell me about her. Tell me about your
whole family." She'd always loved hearing about families—real families,
whole families. To her they were like fairy stories, enchanting tales of
never-to-be-visited lands. He sent her another look. "Well, my grandma
is eighty-two, sharp as a tack except for the few things she occasionally gets
confused, like the difference between the FBI and the CIA. She says they're all
initialsso what the hell, and nobody's going to argue
with her because if you argue with her, she's liable to crack you over the head
with one of her big wooden spoons. My dad's a former cop who retired last year,
my mom's a home-maker who secretly rules the roost, and I have two brothers—one
a cop, one a lawyer—and a baby sister, who is currently in grad school at the University
of South Carolina." "Wow," Maddie breathed, picturing all
those relatives with bedazzle-ment. "Are you close with them? Do you see
them often?" "When I can." His mouth curled into a
smile. "I make it to all the big holidays, anyway." "Sounds wonderful," she said. She was
so cozy and comfortable that she was feeling almost boneless now. With McCabe
only an arm's length away, the twin specters of bad dreams and determined
killers seemed impossibly distant. "Do you live near each other?" "Everybody except my lawyer brother and I
live in Greenville, South Carolina, where we grew up. He lives in Savannah, and
I keep a condo near Quantico." Her brow contracted, and she tilted her head a
little on the armrest so that she could see him better. Kicked back in the
chair, with the light from the TV playing over him and his long legs stretched
out in front of him, he looked about as relaxed as she felt. "So what were you doing in New
Orleans?" she asked. His eyes cut to her. His hands tightened on the
arms of the chair. "My job," he said. "Just like
you." His job. For a little while there, she'd almost
forgotten what he was. Anxiety twisted her insides, and suddenly she wasn't
quite as sleepy anymore. "McCabe," she said. "What happens
when somebody at your job says it's time for you to leave?" He met her gaze. Alive with the glow of the TV,
his eyes gleamed at her. "What happens to you, you mean?" he
asked. Maddie gave a little nod. "I won't leave you until I'm sure you're
safe. You don't have to worry." "I wasn't worried," she said, although
she was. "I just wanted to know what to expect." Although she'd known, of course, from the very
beginning. The FBI used people, and when they had no more use for them they
discarded them like so much trash. How stupid was she to let herself forget that? SIXTEEN Monday,
August 18 When Sam opened the door to Gardner at shortly
before eight the next morning, he was not in the best of moods. After Maddie
had finally fallen asleep on the couch, he had let her be for a while, trying
to concentrate on the TV and his own thoughts instead of noticing the picture
she made lying there or her occasional restless movements or the soft sound of
her breathing. But ignoring her had proved impossible. Curled on her side with
one hand tucked beneath her cheek, she had looked sweet and sexy and
vulnerable. Her lashes formed dark crescents on her cheeks; her lips were just
barely parted. Her body—no, he wasn't going there; he wasn't even going to think
about her body. But even when he'd kept his eyes resolutely glued to the
screen, he had been unable to push from his mind the knowledge that she was
curled up little more than an arm's length away. When he caught himself
glancing her way when he should have been watching Shaq mow down Yao Ming, he knew
he had to do something. Out of sight, out of mind, he'd thought—too
optimistically, as it had turned out—and had scooped her up in his arms and
carried her to her bed. She hadn't so much as flickered an eyelid, and,
deadweight, she'd been a substantial armful, but as he'd lugged her into the
bedroom and deposited her, still wrapped in her robe, in the middle of her big
bed, he'd made a grim discovery. His deep, atavistic response to their kiss had
not been an aberration. Holding the soft, curvy warmth of her in his arms,
inhaling the sweet, light scent of her, feeling the satiny smoothness of her
skin, he'd gotten hot all over again. So hot, in fact, that it had taken a
large effort of will to stop himself from dropping down beside her and
awakening her with a kiss and taking up where they'd left off. She would have
welcomed him, he knew. He wasn't a kid; he'd had his share of women. The look
in her eyes as she had followed him around after Gomez and Hendricks left was
unmistakable. She might as well have been wearing a sign reading Do me now. What
had stopped him was the knowledge that he was on the job, dammit, and her last
line of defense besides. And the little voice inside his head warning
that with her, he just might be heading for trouble. It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that zing.
Damn Grandma anyway for putting
the phrase in his head. Because with Maddie, he'd recognized it: zing.
Zing in spades. In the very last place he ever would have wanted
to find it. His job was to keep her alive, not get her into bed. Although he
seemed to be having a problem keeping that firmly fixed in the forefront of his
mind. "Hard night?" Gardner looked at him
keenly as she walked past him into the apartment. Sam replied with a grunt, then asked, "Did
you bring it?" as he closed the door behind her. "Right here." Gardner jiggled the
black vinyl tote she was carrying. Her hair was brushed close to her head so
that it looked sleek rather than spiky, her eyes were bright, her makeup
relatively subdued. She was wearing a black blazer over a white T-shirt and
black pants. Her waist was cinched, her pants were tight, and her heels were
high, but clearly she'd taken the information that she would be protecting
Maddie in a business environment to heart as she dressed. "I heard about your visitor last
night," she added. "Think it was our UNSUB?" Sam shrugged. "I don't know. Seems kind of
amateurish for this guy." "That's what I thought, too." She
looked toward the closed bedroom door and raised her voice. "Morning,
Maddie." "Oh, hi, Cynthia," Maddie called back
from the other side of that door, her voice faintly muffled. "I'm almost
ready." "Take your time," Gardner responded.
"Nobody's going anywhere without you." She glanced at Sam. "Is
that coffee I smell?" He grunted again, this time as an affirmative.
He had, in fact, made a fresh pot—his third since he'd walked away and left
Maddie peacefully sleeping in her bed—when he'd heard Maddie get up. Busying
himself in the kitchen had meant that he didn't have to watch her emerge all
tousle-haired and sleepy-eyed from her bedroom. Which, considering the zing,
was probably not an image he wanted to burden himself with. Not until he
had a handle on how he felt. "What, are you two bosom buddies now or
something?" Sam asked sourly, following Gardner to the kitchen. Last time
he'd paid the matter any attention, the two women had seemed to be just about
civil and that was it. "We talked." Gardner dropped the tote
on the kitchen table, snagged a cup from the cabinet, and filled it while Sam
moved to lean against the counter beneath the window. Outside, he saw at a
glance, the world was awash in sparkly sunshine. Birds twittered. Butterflies
fluttered. Branches burst with leafy greenery. Inside, he just felt grumpy.
"We bonded," Gardner added. Something about that didn't sound like it boded
well for him. "You bonded?" "Yep." Gardner gulped down some coffee
and made a face at him. "Over men. Over you." "What?" "She's your type, isn't she? I recognized
it as soon as I saw her." "What the hell are you talking about?"
God deliver him from women. They were all—every single one he'd ever met—screwy
as hell. "Maddie. She's your type." Gardner
sounded regretful. "It's one of those things nobody can do anything about.
That's why I decided to cut my losses." "What?" Sam scowled at her for a second, then decided that he
really didn't want to go there. Not this morning, not ever. He shook his head.
"Never mind. I don't want to know." Time to change the subject.
"Any of that stuff we sent off come back yet?" He was referring to the evidentiary material
from both New Orleans crime scenes that had been sent off to the FBI lab for
analysis. Gardner assumed her game face, thank God.
"Not yet. They said it would take a few days. They're busy." "Aren't we all. How about the in-depth
backgrounds on our two Miz Fitzgeralds?" "Stuff's coming in in bits and pieces. The
ex-husband's alibi seems to be holding up." "Yeah. I'd already pretty much
crossed him off my list." Gardner looked at him over her cup. "I take
it the UNSUB hasn't called again?" "Not yet." Along with the zing factor,
that was one of the things that was making him so antsy. Where was the
guy? Of course, if he was creeping around Maddie's back stairs, maybe at the
moment he had priorities other than picking up the phone. But Sam didn't think so. Didn't think he was
creeping around Maddie's back stairs, and didn't think he had other priorities.
The sick bastard enjoyed the chase too much. In fact, Sam got the feeling that
the sick bastard enjoyed taunting him too much. It was personal. Sam suddenly felt as if bells and whistles had
just gone off in his brain and somebody inside there had just stood up and
shouted, "Eureka!" "What?" Gardner said. Sam didn't know
what his expression looked like, but Gardner had lowered her cup to stare at
him. "I know this guy," Sam said, the
wheels still turning. "Or he knows me. He's got to be somebody I've
busted, or somebody connected with somebody I've busted, or somebody somehow
connected with one of the cases I've worked." "Well, that narrows it down."
Grimacing, Gardner resumed drinking her coffee. "To maybe a cast of
thousands. How long you been with the Bureau? Ten years? You work on what,
maybe a hundred cases a year? Yep, a cast of thousands." "Not just anyone could pull this off,"
Sam said slowly. "This guy's a pro. A sick fuck, but a pro." Maddie appeared in the doorway just then, and
Sam shelved the matter as something to be looked into as soon as he got back to
their command post in the hotel room where Wynne, hopefully, was holding down
the fort. "I'm ready to go," Maddie addressed
Gardner, ignoring Sam completely. So far that morning, she hadn't said a word
to him. She hadn't so much as looked at him. As determined as he was to get
their relationship back on strictly professional footing, he had to admit that
it bugged him to realize that she seemed to have pretty much the same idea. "Not so fast," Sam said. "Gardner
brought you a present." She looked at him then. Raised her eyebrows
inquiringly. Sam felt the impact of those honey-colored eyes in places he
didn't even want to think about. God, she was pretty, with her big do-me eyes
and waves of shiny, dark hair and her soft, kissable mouth. Okay, don't go
there. Like Gardner, she was wearing black and white, only her outfit
consisted of a sexy little black dress that ended just above her knees beneath
a loose white jacket. Unlike Gardner, though, she looked so hot he could
practically feel the sizzle from where he stood. Which wasn't good. "What kind of present?" she asked
suspiciously. They were the first words she'd spoken to him that morning. Sam straightened, took the few steps necessary
to reach the table, picked up the tote, and handed it to her. "Here you go." Maddie looked at him, looked at the tote, then
pulled out what, if someone didn't know better, could possibly be mistaken for
a pale gray, sleeveless windbreaker. For a moment, she simply frowned at it in
evident bewilderment. "It's a bulletproof vest," Gardner
said. Maddie's eyes widened. She unfolded the Kevlar
vest and held it up in front of her, looking at it incredulously. Lightweight
and thin, the garment was state-of-the-art. "You've got to be kidding me." Her
eyes met his. "Nope. Ordinarily it goes under your
clothes, but since you're only going to be wearing it while you're outside, you
can put it on over your dress and under your jacket, if you want." She looked from the vest to him again. "Do
I really need this?" "Let's see, aren't you the person who got
shot a couple of days back?" Her lips compressed, her eyes flickered, and he
could tell that had registered. "Good point," she said, and, putting
the vest down on the table, took off her jacket. Sam couldn't help noticing how
slim and shapely she looked in the formfitting dress that somehow managed to be
business-appropriate while still hugging every delectable curve. Then she had
the vest on and was struggling to zip it up. Still distracted by the view, he
reached out to help her automatically, only realizing that this might not be
the best idea when his knuckles brushed against cool cloth covering the
flatness of her belly and he felt an unexpected spark of heat. Then the scent
of her hit him—fresh and clean, with that mysterious hint of strawberries—and
he had an instant flashback to how she had felt in his arms. Gritting his
teeth, banishing the memory to outer darkness, he pulled the zipper up with
cool efficiency and stepped back. Hoping like hell that he was only imagining the
sweat popping out on his brow. "You wear it from the time you leave your
apartment until you're safely inside your office building," he said as she
pulled her jacket back on and looked down at the result doubtfully. "When
you leave your office building to come home, you wear it. If you leave your
office building for anything, you wear it. Anytime you go outside for any
reason, you wear it. Got it?" She nodded. He thought, maybe, that she might
have turned a shade paler than before. "Okay, I have to ask it." She looked
up, met his gaze, turned sideways, and gestured at herself. "Does this
bulletproof vest make me look fat?" Then, as Gardner gave a snort of laughter,
Maddie grinned at him. And his heart turned over. It was as simple as that. Because he wasn't imagining it. Despite the
brave front she was putting on, there was fear in her eyes. She wasn't alone,
either. Now that he was about to send her out where he didn't have total
control of the environment and she might really be vulnerable, he was
struggling with a whole boatload of second thoughts himself. If he'd been able
to think of anything else that might work as well as using her as bait, he
would have scrapped the plan right there and then. The problem was, he
couldn't. Lips tightening, he reached out and buttoned her
jacket for her, so that as little of the damned vest showed as possible. She
had tied a scarf around her neck, he noticed for the first time, a black, gauzy
one, and he realized that she was wearing it to hide the bruise where the sick
fuck had choked her. Sam was suddenly so angry he wanted to kill. "Do you actually think he's going to take
another shot at me?" Her grin had faded. She was looking at him steadily.
He hadn't been mistaken about the fear: He could see it in everything from the
set of her jaw to the tension around her eyes. But she wasn't going to let it
show if she could help it, and she was going to go through with the plan
regardless. "I don't know," Sam said, his tone
rougher than it needed to be because she was getting to him despite his best
efforts to keep it from happening. She was being courageous, gallant even. And
he? Hell, face the truth: What he was doing here was using her. Putting her in
danger, even while she trusted him to keep her safe. Or, to put the best
possible face on it, he was simply doing his job. Which, like now, sometimes
sucked. "But there's no point in taking any chances. Wear the damned vest,
okay?" Now I know what it feels like to have an
entourage, Maddie thought wryly
as the equivalent of the presidential motorcade escorted her to work. It was
rush hour, and the expressway was jammed. The urge to put in a call to her good
buddy Bob was growing stronger by the minute—You want to explain what a man
was doing sneaking up my back stairs in the middle of the night?—but there
were too many eyes watching and, possibly, ears listening to make that wise.
Under the circumstances, her best choice—her only choice—was to sit
tight, so that's what she did. She sat tight right in the driver's seat of her
Camry as she headed east on I-64 toward downtown St. Louis. In front of her was
a gray Maxima carrying two agents whose names she didn't know. Behind her,
Cynthia was driving McCabe in a black Blazer. She could see them anytime she
wanted with a flick of her eyes to her rearview mirror. Behind them came the
white van, with Gomez driving and Hendricks beside him. None of the vehicles
was too close—apparently, the idea was to make it look as if she were on her
own, just in case the hit man might still be harboring some illusions about
that—but Maddie was acutely aware of them nonetheless. The sky was a high, brilliant blue, dotted here
and there with cottony clouds. The shimmer of heat that would rise above the
city later was not yet in evidence. She drove toward the arch, which gleamed
silver in the bright morning sunlight as it curved like a colossus across the
horizon. Clustered around it, the angular skyscrapers and Victorian-era domes
and needlelike church steeples that filled in the skyline seemed to stretch out
endlessly. Maddie got just a glimpse of the mud-brown waters of the Mississippi
River rolling lazily by on her right as she turned off onto Market Street. For
a moment she marveled as all three vehicles escorting her made the turn with
ease despite the crush of traffic, no zooming over from the far lane, no cutting
in front of other cars, no squealing brakes or honking horns. Each simply
pulled onto the ramp as if, instead of taking their cue from her, they had
known exactly where they were going all the time. Which, Maddie realized with
an internal duh seconds later, of course they did. They were the FBI,
after all. Knowing where she worked and how to get there was something straight
out of Snooping 101 to them. Finding herself once again sandwiched in the
middle of the procession, Maddie was suddenly all too conscious of the cold
weight of the bulletproof vest dragging at her shoulders. Knowing that she was
wearing it made her jumpy. Just being back in the car again made her jumpy.
McCabe had said that the new glass was all bulletproof, but knowing she was
safe and feeling like she was safe were, she was discovering, two entirely
different things. The awful moment when that shot had exploded through her
windshield had been indelibly etched on her mind, and finding herself back in
the catbird's seat, as it were, was nerve-racking. She caught herself glancing
around nervously as she drove. Now that she knew how it happened—-fast,
bang, out of nowhere, and you're dead—she didn't think she'd ever be
entirely comfortable in any open area again. By the time she reached the Anheuser-Busch
Building, where Creative Partners had offices on the sixth floor, her palms
were damp. The trickiest part, of course, she realized as
she parked in the lot behind the building, was getting from her car into the
building. Without the shell of the Camry for protection, Maddie felt hideously
vulnerable as she got out and headed for the chrome-trimmed glass double doors
of the rear entrance. Juggling briefcase and purse, breathing in the tarry
smell of the asphalt underfoot and the fishy odor of the Mighty Mississippi
with every step, she scrunched up her shoulders protectively and hotfooted it
across the pavement while trying to project a business-as-usual air to any and
all onlookers. But she was hideously conscious of every passing car, every
pedestrian, every metallic glint in a high-up window. Sounds seemed to be
magnified—the swoosh of tires on pavement, the rumble of a city bus as it
passed, the slamming of car doors near and far. Her minders were fanned out all
around her—McCabe and Cynthia in a parking spot a dozen feet or so to her left,
the two unknown agents circling the lot near the back, Gomez and Hendricks
pulling to the curb on the street near where she'd parked— but for those three
hundred or so yards, she felt as alone as she ever had in her life. Even so
early in the morning, it was already hot as a steam bath, typical August in St.
Louis, with the promise of yet another miserably sultry day to come. But by the
time Maddie had made it halfway to the door, she was freezing. It was chilling to know that the hit man could
be anywhere. Even now he could be lifting a rifle, lining up the crosshairs,
targeting her. Pushing through the door, Maddie practically
fell into the building's air-conditioned gloom. She had to pause for a second in
the small rear vestibule, pressing her hands to her face, trying to get her
breathing under control. Her fingers felt as cold as ice. Her heart pounded as
though she'd just run a marathon. Her mouth was dry. Get a grip, she told herself. Dropping her hands, she took a deep
breath, squared her shoulders, and carried on. The marble-floored lobby that
the vestibule opened into was crowded, which was typical at this time on a
Monday morning as her fellow tenants headed up to their jobs. Several people
greeted her as she joined a group waiting for the elevators. Acutely conscious
of the bulletproof vest herself, she was surprised when no one seemed to notice
anything unusual about her appearance. Still so on edge that she jumped when
someone in the crowd sneezed, Maddie smiled and chatted to a couple of people
without even knowing what she was saying or being aware of to whom she was
talking. She was, she supposed, operating on autopilot, which might or might
not be a good thing. It kept her from attracting the curious attention of her
acquaintances, but it might also work against her if she was too out of it to
notice something that might give the hit man away before he could strike. Just as she was stepping into the elevator, her
cell phone rang. Maddie jumped before she realized what it was, then glanced
nervously around to see if anyone had noticed her reaction. It seemed as though
no one had. The blasted thing kept on ringing. It was in her purse, and she had
to dig for it. When she finally found it and answered, the elevator was
shuddering to a halt on the third floor. "You're doing great," McCabe said in
his patented dark-chocolate drawl as two women squeezed out the door.
"There's a short, pudgy bald guy carrying a newspaper on the elevator with
you. Do you see him?" Alarmed, Maddie glanced quickly around as the
elevator doors closed and they started up again. Was McCabe describing the hit
man, warning that he was near? The elevator was still almost full, but it took
just seconds to spot the man standing behind her on the left. Her heart kicked
up a notch. As her widened eyes met his, the pudgy guy gave her a slight smile.
Heart in throat, Maddie hastily looked forward again. "Y-es," she said into the phone on a
slightly squeaky note. "Well, pretend you don't. That's Special
Agent George Molan. I want you to ignore him, act like he's not even there.
He'll see you safely into your office. Gardner's on her way up." Maddie practically passed out with relief right
there in the elevator. "Okay." "You've got nothing to be afraid of. We've
got you covered so tightly that a mosquito won't be able to bite you without us
swatting it first." Good to know, Maddie thought, but before she could say anything, he
disconnected. Sure enough, Molan got off on the sixth floor,
trailed behind her as she walked briskly toward the seven-room suite that
Creative Partners occupied on the northwest side of the building, then stayed
behind to bend over the water fountain as she went inside. Louise was not at her desk just inside the door.
Maddie frowned as she realized that. Her gaze swept the reception area. It was
a large room, sleekly modern like the rest of the office, with pearl-gray walls
and carpet, and chrome and black furniture. Sunlight streamed through a row of
tall windows to cast bright rectangles across the blown-up stills from their
most successful advertising campaigns that adorned the walls. Magazines
highlighting Creative Partners' campaigns and clients were arranged neatly on
various tables. Bold and functional, it was an attractive space, if she did say
so herself. Of course, she wasn't exactly an impartial source: She'd designed
and decorated it. Since buying the business, she'd put every spare
penny and every spare minute and every spare thought she'd had into making Creative
Partners a success. And the look of the place was an important ingredient in
impressing clients. Achieving the right look on a piggy-bank budget had been a
challenge. She'd scrounged office furniture closeout sales to find new chairs
and tables for the reception room, and the modular black leather couch had come
from a yard sale. She and the rest of the staff had painted the walls
themselves. They'd made the blowups to hang on them. They'd—well, they'd done
everything. In the last year and a half or so, they had totally remade Creative
Partners in every way to reflect the more dynamic company that they all hoped
it would become. Every single change bore Maddie’s personal stamp, and she
couldn't have been prouder of the result if the company had been her child. In
a way, she thought, it was her child. The little advertising agency that could. The hand-painted slogan hung on the wall behind
Louise's desk. That was how they thought of themselves, and they'd labored as
tirelessly as ants to make it true. Then, on Friday, they'd won the Brehmer account.
And just like that, the world had changed. All the hopes and dreams that each
of them had put into the rebuilding of the company now trembled on the brink of
coming true. Or not. The thought that she might be going to lose it
all hung over Maddie's head like a dark cloud as she looked around. She... Someone pushed through the door behind her.
Maddie jumped, cutting her eyes nervously toward the newcomer. "Yo," Cynthia said, then, responding
to something she must have seen in Maddie's face, added, "Everything
okay?" Maddie breathed again. "Fine. It's
just—Louise— the receptionist isn't at
her desk." "Is she usually?" "She usually comes in, sits right down at
her desk, and has her breakfast." Maddie shrugged, and started walking.
Besides the reception area, there were four offices—one each for Jon, Judy,
Herb, and herself—a conference room, and a workroom with office machines, file
cabinets, and a desk for Ana. "She's probably in the restroom. Or making coffee." All right, so having a babysitter was a little
irksome, Maddie reflected as
she glanced in Jon's, Judy's, and Herb's doors in turn on the way to her own,
only to find their offices deserted, too. If Cynthia hadn't been right behind
her, her hand moving beneath her jacket to rest on what Maddie hoped was a very
large gun as they progressed, she would have been freaked to the point of
running out of the office by the time she'd made it to the end of the hall. "Louise? Jon? Anybody?" she called,
sticking her head into the workroom. Nobody answered, and for a very good reason:
Nobody was there. "Let me open it," Cynthia said, moving
in front of her as Maddie reached her office door and started to grasp the
knob. "I know this place is secure; we had it searched before the
building opened and we've had it staked out since, but..." Her voice trailed off as she turned the knob.
Maddie knew just what she meant. Finding the office silent and empty was
unnerving. Cynthia threw the door open wide. "Surprise!" screamed five voices in
unison, echoed by a chorus of loud pops that made Maddie jump and Cynthia take
a hasty step back. A shower of glittery confetti filled the air. Brightly
colored balloons bounced against the ceiling. A big banner stretched across the
windows, proclaiming We got the Brehmer account! A small sheet cake took
center stage in the middle of her desk. Glancing around, Maddie sucked in air. They were all there—Jon, Louise, Judy, Herb, and
Ana. As Maddie looked from one grinning face to the other, they began to clap. "You guys,"she said,
her heart swelling, and walked into her office. Sam slept, only to be startled awake what could
have been minutes or hours later by the ringing of a phone. His phone.
His heart jolted. Lifting his head from the pillow it was buried in, fumbling
for his cell phone, which he'd left on the bedside table, he found it and
squinted at the message window. The damned thing was impossible to read in the
gloom. Blinking at it, still groggy, he realized even as he flipped the thing
open that he was in the dark because the curtains were drawn tightly over the
windows, and he had been asleep in his room at the Hampton Court Inn.
"McCabe," he growled into the phone. "What the hell are you doing in St.
Louis?" a voice boomed at him. It took him a second to recognize Smolski's
bluff tones. "Last I heard, you had the UNSUB pegged to head west from New
Orleans." "There's a woman..." Sam began, still
trying to collect his wits enough to be coherent, only to be interrupted. "Isn't there always?" Smolski sounded
faintly bitter. "Every damn trouble man has ever gotten himself into in
this world seems like it begins and ends with a woman." He sighed.
"So how is it that you're in St. Louis because of a woman?" By that time, Sam was sitting up, and felt
slightly more capable of intelligent thought. He filled Smolski in on the state
of the investigation. "I hear you've commandeered about half the
St. Louis field office's available agents," Smolski said when Sam had
finished. "They called up, griping about how they're shorthanded to begin
with. Hell, I hear you've got agents mobilized in three damned states working
on this. I've had calls from Virginia to Texas. You want to explain this to
me?" "I'm pretty sure that Walter—the next
victim—is going to be hit in Texas. It fits the geographical pattern. The
chances that we’re going to find out who he or she is before our guy does his
thing is remote, I grant you, but I feel like we've got to try. And there are
people doing some background work where the previous victims were hit." "And you feel like your best move right now
is sticking to that woman in St. Louis," Smolski said. Something in his
voice made Sam think he might disagree. "Yeah, I do." That was nonnegotiable, he realized, even as he
said it. Sam was surprised to find just how nonnegotiable it was. If Smolski
flat-out ordered him elsewhere, he wouldn't go. There was no power on
earth that was going to get him to leave Maddie before the sick bastard was
taken out. "Your case, your call. They've all got
other cases of their own under way. I just ask you to keep that in mind,"
Smolski said, and Sam guessed that the complaining from certain quarters—Lewis
in New Orleans came to mind— was getting fairly loud. Smolski's tone changed.
"The woman you're with— would she be that pretty little chickie I saw you
hustle into a car when I watched that TV news fiasco?" "That would be her." "Tough job we're paying you to do,"
Smolski observed dryly, and after a few more remarks hung up. Sam yawned as he set the phone back down on the
bedside table, glanced at the clock—it was not quite two p.m.—and got up.
Sleep, though necessary for optimum functioning, felt like a waste of urgently
needed time, and he had things to do. The fact that the sick bastard hadn't
called him for going on three days now was weighing heavily on his mind. This
was a change—and as far as this case went, he had the feeling that change was
not good. Crossing to the window, he pulled the curtains open and immediately
shut his eyes as the dazzling afternoon sunlight blinded him. Opening his eyes
again cautiously, he found himself looking down at the parking lot two stories
below. It was only about a quarter full—this was the kind of hotel that people
checked into at dark then left early in the morning—and he could see the Blazer
parked on the opposite side of the lot from where he had left it. From that, he
deduced that Wynne had been out and about and was now back again. Even as he
had the thought, Wynne himself came into view. Sam watched in slack-jawed
disbelief as his partner, clad in a sweat-stained white T-shirt and flimsy blue
bike shorts, trotted slowly across the parking lot to the sidewalk, where the
overhang hid him from view. It took a few seconds for his mind to accept the
truth of what he had seen: Wynne was jogging. Will wonders never cease? Sam
thought, and grinned. Then, feeling a lot more wide awake than he had five
minutes before, he headed for the bathroom to grab a shower. Despite the party, the morning could not be said
to have been an unqualified success. First, Maddie snuck off to the bathroom no
fewer than three times to try to reach her pal Bob, but all she got was an
automated answering machine announcing that A-One Plastics was unable to answer
the phone. Not wanting to leave a number in case her call was returned at an
inopportune time—such as any time she wasn't in the bathroom—Maddie was left in
limbo to stew. Second, she saw no alternative to introducing Cynthia and
explaining to her increasingly wide-eyed staff why an FBI agent was shadowing
her every move. They had already heard that her car windows had been shot
out—both Louise and Jon had left messages on her answering machine Saturday,
which she had returned the next day—but when Maddie confessed that she had been
shot, too, and mentioned that the FBI thought that the New Orleans mugger might
actually be a hit man who was now trying to kill her, the resulting babble of
horrified exclamations and questions had been so loud that she'd clapped her
hands to her ears to drown out the cacophony. By the time she'd answered all
their questions, listened to their loudly expressed horror, and shown off both
her wound and the bulletproof vest, her whole staff had been jumping at
unexpected noises. Then Judy and Herb had to hurry off to appointments with
clients, Ana had to rush off to class, and she and Jon had to put the final
touches on the presentation they'd put together for Happy's Ice Cream Parlors,
which was scheduled for one-thirty in the conference room. And, not incidentally,
everybody who was left had to pitch in to clean up the mess from the party. The
promised four-star lunch turned out to be takeout deli sandwiches fetched by
Louise and augmented by the rest of the cake, which they gobbled down in the
workroom. Not that Maddie was particularly sorry. Between the bulletproof vest
that she had to wear if she stepped outside the door and Cynthia's ubiquitous
presence, lunch out was clearly going to be more of a production than she felt
prepared to handle. Word that Creative Partners had landed the
Brehmer account had spread through the small advertising community with
jungle-drum speed, and Louise reported happily that she was fielding calls left
and right. After the Happy's people left, Maddie started putting together a tentative
schedule for implementing Creative Partners' plans for Brehmer's. Her gut
feeling, given Mrs. Brehmer's capriciousness, was that the sooner they got
going on it, the better. Jon was in his office, and she went over to talk to
him about the logistics of getting camera crews and actors and everything else
they needed lined up ASAP. Leaving that in his capable hands, she made a quick
bathroom trip—still no answer at A-One Plastics—and returned to her office.
Unnerved by not being able to get in touch, she suspected that she would have
had a total meltdown at her desk had it not been for Cynthia's almost equally
disquieting presence—and the panacea of work. The things that she needed to be
doing were seemingly endless, and she threw herself into them with something
approaching relief. Then Louise started putting calls through, and she spent
the next hour and a half on the phone, talking to clients and competitors and
giving interviews to reporters for BusinessMonthly and Advertising
Age. When she finally stood up, Cynthia, who'd been parked in a chair in a
corner leafing through magazines for the past hour, stood up, too, and
stretched. "Now I know why McCabe assigned me to the
day shift," Cynthia said, her voice wry. "It's the one where nothing
ever happens." "You say that like that's a bad
thing," said a familiar drawling voice from the doorway. Still standing
behind her desk, Maddie glanced up in surprise to see McCabe walk into her
office with Wynne behind him and Louise, looking a little flustered, behind
them. The rush of pleasure she felt at seeing McCabe caught her by surprise,
and the smile with which she greeted him was big and spontaneous. "Guess it's okay for them to come in
then," Louise said to no one in particular, apparently in response to Maddie's
expression, and retreated. Maddie barely noticed. With the best will in the
world for it not to be so, she was focused almost exclusively on McCabe. "Hey," he said, meeting her gaze and
smiling slowly back at her so that his eyes crinkled and his dimples showed.
Her heart beat faster and she suffered an instant flashback to that
mind-blowing kiss. Feeling her face—and other, more private places—start to
heat, she forced the memory from her mind. It therefore took her a few seconds
to realize that he was clean-shaven and clad in gray dress slacks, a white
shirt, a navy patterned tie, and navy sport coat. Everything was slightly
rumpled—Jon's crown as king of the dandies was definitely not in jeopardy—but
McCabe actually looked like a bona fide FBI agent for once. With his black hair
and swarthy skin and athlete’s powerful build, he was always
second-glance-worthy, but now that he was all gussied up, he looked so handsome
that Maddie was momentarily bedazzled. Wynne, too, was Bureau-worthy in a
jacket, tie, and khakis. Although his bedazzlement quotient did not quite equal
McCabe's, the look was a big improvement on his usual. "Whoa, aren't we looking spiffy?"
Cynthia looked the pair of them up and down. "What—or rather who—is this
for?" McCabe shot her a quelling look. "We had to go into the field office here to
have a chat with Tom Finster, who's the acting agent-in-charge while
Needleman's on vacation," McCabe said. "He was wanting to pull his
guys off the case." "So did you persuade him?" Cynthia
asked. "Finster ended up telling him to get the
hell out of his office." Wynne's voice was dry. He was, Maddie noticed,
once again chewing gum. "Chalk up one more victory for those people
skills of yours," Cynthia said, grinning at McCabe. "Hey, I got him to let us keep Gomez and
Hendricks, and to agree to provide backup on an as-needed basis, so it wasn't a
dead loss," McCabe said. "We're just a little leaner and meaner than
I consider optimal, is all." His gaze met Maddie's. "We got you covered,
don't worry." "I'm not worried," she said,
truthfully as far as it went. About his ability to keep her safe, she wasn't
worried at all. It was the rest of the sorry mess that was concerning her. "They're out in the parking lot now,
sweeping your car. We're here to escort you from the building whenever you're
ready to go." He grinned at her. "So, are you ready to go?" It was only then that Maddie glanced at the
clock and realized, to her surprise, that it was five minutes until five.
Although five o'clock was the company's official quitting time, Maddie—and the
others, too, when necessary—often stayed until six or later. Before Maddie could answer, Jon appeared in the
doorway. An hour before, he'd been looking dapper. Now the jacket to his
charcoal suit was missing, his shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and his tie
was askew. His gaze swept the room and it was clear from the flicker in his
eyes that he registered the newcomers' presence. It was an indication of the
magnitude of the stress he was apparently laboring under that he didn't
acknowledge them at all. He spoke directly to Maddie. "I just got off the phone with Susan
Allen," he said. "Houston, we've got a problem." SEVENTEEN Maddie felt her stomach tighten as she stared at
Jon. "What sort of problem?" "She's on her way here." Jon walked
toward her, making a helpless gesture with his hands, clearly agitated.
"Susan. With the dog. I tried to tell her that we didn't have things quite
set up yet, but she wouldn't listen. She said that Mrs. Brehmer wanted us to
get started right away. Like tomorrow. If we can't, they're going to be taking
their business elsewhere." "You've got to be kidding me."
Maddie's heart lurched, and she folded her arms over her chest. Shaking his
head, Jon planted both hands on the opposite side of her desk and leaned toward
her as they looked at each other in mutual consternation. "I wish I was," Jon said. "Crap,
Maddie, what are we going to do?" "Oh my goodness," Louise said from the
doorway, having apparently followed Jon down the hall and overheard. "I
knew us landing a ten-million-dollar account was too good to be true. And I've
already sent out the press releases. Oh my goodness." Maddie looked at Louise, who was standing in the
doorway, wringing her hands. Her plump body was clad in polyester pants—today's
were pale blue—and a matching floral blouse. An open cardigan, pale blue like
the pants, hung from her shoulders. Giant clip-on daisies hugged her ears. Her
curls looked iron-gray rather than silver in the unforgiving fluorescent light,
and her soft, round face sagged with dismay. Her gentle blue eyes were wide
behind her spectacles, and, just like Jon's, they were fastened on Maddie. For
a moment, Maddie felt like closing her eyes and throwing up her hands and
yelling I give up at the top of her lungs. Capricious clients, on top of
predatory hit men and prowling FBI agents and the balancing act she was having
to do just to survive, were almost more than she could deal with at the moment.
Then she remembered: She owned the company. If it was Creative Partners'
problem, it was her problem. She had to deal with it. Maddie Fitzgerald, this is your life. She took a deep breath. "So, Susan Allen is on her way to St. Louis
with Zelda," Maddie said carefully, striving for calm in the face of
crisis. "Now?" Jon nodded. "She said they would be leaving
for the airport right after she and I finished speaking." "She surely won't be able to get a flight
at such short notice." Maddie was thinking furiously, seeking any loophole
to the looming disaster that she could find. "Especially with a dog." "We're not talking commercial airlines
here. You forget, we're playing in a whole new league with them. They're flying
in in Mrs. Brehmer's private plane. Susan said they'd be landing in St. Louis
about ten tonight. She wanted to know if we could have someone meet them at the
airport. Of course I said yes." Jon straightened and tugged compulsively
on his tie, which subsequently hung crooked on the left instead of on the
right. "What else could I have said?" "Nothing else. You did the right
thing." Maddie moved around behind her chair and gripped its padded back
hard. "We knew going in that this wasn't going to be totally smooth
sailing. Mrs. Brehmer has a reputation for being difficult, and this is
probably just the first manifestation of it. But we can handle it. We will
handle it. You say Susan's bringing Zelda? Fine. Let's do the easiest thing
first. We'll set up a shoot for some photos we can use for their new logo.
Zelda in cute outfits, that kind of thing. You go try to line up a
photographer, and I'll start contacting stylists." She rolled her eyes.
"Do they even have dog stylists? Who the heck knows?" "Maybe you want a groomer," Louise
suggested. "Dogs have groomers. My JoJo goes to the groomer when his hair
gets in a tangle." Maddie remembered Mrs. Brehmer complaining about
Zelda's groomer. And JoJo was Louise's elderly shih tzu, so Louise, as a dog
owner, would presumably know about such things. "Okay, groomer," she said. "And
costumes. We need doggie costumes. Where do people get those, anyway?" "If you want, I could start calling costume
rental shops," Louise offered. "And I can get you the number of
JoJo's groomer." "Good thought," Maddie said. Pulling
the chair out again, she sat down and reached for the phone. "Okay,
people, we've got a plan. Let's get it done." Louise nodded and bustled
off. "I'll meet them at the airport at
ten." Jon, looking heartened, smoothed his tie until it hung almost
straight again. "I'll call Susan back and let her know." "Tell her that we can't wait to get
started," Maddie instructed with her hand on the phone. "And I'll go
with you to the airport." Nodding, Jon started toward the door, stopped
abruptly, and turned back to frown at her. "Uh, Maddie—what about them?" He
looked significantly at the three FBI agents, who had been listening to this
exchange with varying degrees of bemusement on their faces. Maddie looked at them, too. Wynne looked stoic.
Cynthia made a face and waggled her fingers at them. "They'll just have to come with us,"
she said, her eyes meeting McCabe’s to see if this worked for him. "Whither thou goest..." McCabe said
with the smallest of smiles. "Maybe we shouldn't tell Susan they're FBI
agents," Jon suggested. "Knowing that they're following you around
because they think some wacko wants to kill you is probably not going to give
her a real good feeling about being associated with Creative Partners." "Good point," Maddie said, and looked
at McCabe again. "You won't even see us," McCabe
promised. "Unless you need us, that is." "Great." Refusing to allow the
chilling implications of that to even enter her mind, Maddie rolled her eyes.
"Is this turning into a three-ring circus or what?" "It's the Brehmer account," Jon, who
was already on his way out the door again, reminded her over his shoulder.
"Think ten million dollars a year in advertising." "There's that," Maddie said, and sat
down at her desk again. For an account that size, she could jump through a few
hoops. By nine-twenty, everything was in place. Limp
with exhaustion, Maddie leaned back in her chair and let her hands dangle
toward the floor. Cynthia and Wynne had gone, although Wynne was expected to
return at any minute. McCabe was sitting in one of the two
black-leather-and-chrome chairs in front of her desk. Having walked into her
office just minutes before, Jon perched on the edge of her desk, outlining the
arrangements he'd made. Louise, who'd followed Jon in, sat in the other
leather-and-chrome chair, taking notes. As Jon continued, McCabe rose and crossed
to the windows, which took up the whole of the north wall. Maddie's eyes
followed him even as she listened to Jon. McCabe had shed his jacket several
hours before. For a long time afterward, every time she'd looked at him all
she'd been able to see was the very businesslike gun in the shoulder holster
slung across the left side of his chest. Now, with his back turned to her, her
gaze instinctively shifted lower: His gray slacks hugged a trim waist and an
athlete's high, tight butt. Maddie admired both, then let her gaze slide up to
watch as he lifted an arm to pull the chain at one side of the windows that
closed the vertical blinds. The white dress shirt he was wearing tightened
across his broad shoulders. Sexy, she thought, then, annoyed at herself,
immediately sought a distraction. She glanced past him, out the window, as the
blinds slid shut, and saw that it was darker outside than it should have been.
Nine-twenty on an August evening in St. Louis was usually a gorgeous, golden
time, with long shadows falling across the ground and the sun just beginning to
sink beneath the horizon in a burst of oranges and purples. But heavy gray
clouds had rolled in during the past few hours to cover the sky so that now it
looked almost like full night outside. It occurred to Maddie then that McCabe
had pulled the blinds to keep anyone who might be in a position to do so—from
an office inside the skyscraper across the street, say, or on the roof of the
smaller building next door to the skyscraper—from seeing in, or worse. In the
crush of setting things up for the morrow, she'd almost forgotten the reason
McCabe was lounging in her office in the first place. But now, as he turned
away from the window and her eyes met his, she remembered, and gave an
involuntary little shiver. They were on the sixth floor, true, and the chances
that a bullet would come crashing through the window seemed remote. But she
didn't think she would ever get over the trauma of knowing that it was
possible. "So it's all set," Jon concluded.
Maddie's gaze switched from McCabe back to him, and she nodded. Jon was looking
a little less pumped up than when he had entered her office five minutes
before, she noticed as she met his gaze, and there was a faint tightness around
his mouth and eyes that was new. But his tie was once again firmly in place,
his collar was buttoned, and he looked altogether more calm and collected than
he had when the news had hit that Susan Allen and Zelda were on their way. In
other words, he looked spiffy as usual, which, she concluded, was a sign that
all was once again right in his world. "You done good," she said, smiling at
him. Glancing over at Louise, she included her in the smile. "We done
good." She pushed back from the desk and stood up. "Now, let's go
kick some difficult client butt." Jon slid off the corner of her desk. "You
want to ride with me to the airport?" Maddie’s eyes slipped to McCabe, who was still
standing over by the windows but was facing her now. He shook his head slightly
at her. She looked back at Jon. "Uh—I think I'll go
in my own car, thanks." "Fine," Jon said, a little shortly.
"I'll just go get my jacket." Was it her imagination, or did his mouth look
noticeably thinner as he left the room? Before Maddie had time to decide,
Louise spoke up. "Do you want me to come to the airport,
too, Maddie?" "No thanks, Louise. You can go on home. I
appreciate you staying so late." "Oh, I'm glad to. I'm just so pleased
things are going so well for us." Louise beamed at her. "Whoever
would have thought where we'd be right now, when you took over from Mr. Owens?
It's just a dream come true for all of us." Her smile faltered, and she
glanced a little uncertainly at McCabe, then looked back at Maddie again.
"You sure you don't need me? I'd be glad to come along with you. I could
even come over and spend the night if you want me to. Or you could spend the
night at my house." Her meaning was clear: in case Maddie was
afraid. And Maddie was pretty sure that Louise was including McCabe in her
mental list of things that Maddie might reasonably fear. Maddie shook her head. "I'll be fine. Don't
worry about me, my babysitter is actually very efficient. See you in the
morning." "Well, if you're sure." With another doubtful glance at McCabe, who gave
her a small ironic smile, Louise left the room. "Do you have to look quite so
menacing?" Maddie asked McCabe as she came around her desk to head for the
door. "You're scaring Louise." "Actually, I thought I was projecting
hungry and tired more than menacing." He snagged his jacket from the back
of the chair he'd been sitting in, shrugged it on, and said something into the
two-way radio he extracted from his pocket as he followed her into the hall.
She turned off the light to her office as she went. "If I'd known you were
meaning to put in another half-day's work when I got here at five, I would have
grabbed something to eat on the way in." "I'm hungry, too," Maddie admitted,
opening the door to the hall closet where everyone's coats were kept and
extracting her jacket. "There's salad in the refrigerator at home." It struck her that it felt good to say "at
home" to him, and know that he would be sharing the apartment—and the
contents of her refrigerator— with her. She had never realized it before, but
maybe, just maybe, she'd been living alone too long. Maybe she'd been lonely. If so, she reminded herself grimly, McCabe was
certainly not the remedy of choice. "Yippee." McCabe sounded less than
enthused. "Forget salad. What I need is a steak." "Sorry, fresh out." Louise was walking through the suite, turning
off lights, and now only Jon's office and the reception room were lit. Maddie
started to put on her jacket. "Hang on a minute." McCabe came up
behind her and reached past her into the closet. "Aren't you forgetting
something?" He pulled out the bulletproof vest, dangling it
in front of her. Maddie looked at it, looked at him, and sighed. "This is a giant pain in my posterior, you
know." He smiled. "Better than a giant pain
elsewhere." "True." He took her jacket from her,
and she slipped the vest on. When she had trouble getting the zipper engaged,
he watched for a couple tries, made an impatient sound under his breath,
brushed her hands aside, and said, "Here, let me." He engaged the clasp with just a little
difficulty, then zipped her up with brisk efficiency. Meanwhile, Maddie found
herself studying the flicker of his eyelashes against his bronze cheeks as he
looked down to watch his hands at work; the slight twist to his mouth as he
struggled to get the clasp into position; and the five o'clock shadow that was
back in all its glory, darkening the hard angles of his jaw. When he had the
ends of the zipper together at last and glanced up to meet her gaze as he
pulled it up, she realized that her heart was beating way faster than it should
have been, and her breathing was just a little erratic. He must have seen
something of what was going on with her in her eyes, because for a moment after
the zipper was fastened, he kept hold of the tab and held her gaze without
moving or saying anything at all. The memory of that sizzling kiss suddenly
seemed to scorch the air between them. I want him. "Ready?" Jon asked, emerging from his
office. He paused in the doorway, one hand reaching behind him to grope for his
light switch, and frowned at them. His gaze flickered from Maddie's face to
McCabe. From where Jon stood, of course, all he could see of the other man was
his back. Only Maddie could see the heat in McCabe's eyes. McCabe let go of the zipper tab and stepped
back. For a moment longer, their eyes held. His had darkened, she thought. In
the uncertain light, they looked almost black. "All set," Maddie said. Refusing to
feel flustered, or at least to show it if she did, she took her jacket from
McCabe with an assumption of nonchalance and slipped it on. As she moved past
McCabe toward where Jon, having switched off his light, now stood in the
semidarkness, waiting for her, she buttoned it up over the vest. A little bit
still showed at the top, but that couldn't be helped. She only hoped that Susan
Allen would simply think she was into layering. "Wynne's secured the elevator," McCabe
said behind her. "Gomez and Hendricks are waiting down in the parking lot.
They've just finished checking out your car. We're good to go." "So, what's up with you and that guy?"
Jon asked Maddie as they waited side by side in the small terminal at the St.
Louis airport that serviced private planes. The waiting area was relatively
plush, all beige walls and blond wood and brown-leather chairs, with a slick
stone floor underfoot. It operated under different security rules than the much
larger commercial facility next door, and Maddie and Jon were standing in front
of the wall of huge windows, black now except for the halogen glow that lit the
wet tarmac outside that looked out over the area where the small planes taxied
in. Maddie had already eyed those windows askance, but the chance that a
shooter could somehow get out there in the runway area seemed pretty small, and
anyway, McCabe didn't seem concerned, so Maddie had made up her mind not to be.
The Brehmer's Pet Food plane was already on the ground, a brown-uniformed
attendant had just informed them, and they had just risen to their feet and
stepped forward in anticipation of greeting Susan Allen as soon as she walked
off the plane. Maddie, having swallowed the last of her Diet Coke, was in the
process of setting the can down as Jon spoke. Jon, who'd been chomping on
peanut M&M's, twisted the small yellow bag closed at the top and stuck it
in his jacket pocket. "What guy?" Maddie asked,
straightening to glance at Jon in surprise. Of course, she knew who he was
talking about as soon as she said it. But he'd caught her off guard. "The FBI guy. McClain, or whatever his name
is." "McCabe," Maddie corrected automatically, "and
nothing's up." Even as she spoke, she was having to make a conscious
effort not to glance around at the man in question. McCabe and Wynne were both
inside the terminal with them. McCabe was seated in a chair on the opposite
side of the waiting area, his posture deceptively casual as he gave every
appearance of reading the day's newspaper. Wynne was leaning against the wall
near the exit, staring reflectively at the ceiling as he chewed his gum. With
perhaps another dozen people spread out over the waiting area, they weren't
particularly conspicuous. Unless you knew who and what they were, that is.
"Yeah, right. If you seriously expect anybody to believe that, you might
want to quit looking at him like jumping his bones is the next item on your
agenda." Maddie stiffened. "I do not—I do not look
at him like that." "You do," Jon said, his tone slightly
grim. "Look, since it doesn't look like it's going to be me anytime soon,
who you sleep with is strictly your business. But that guy—not a good choice.
You're letting the gun and the macho FBI agent stuff snow you. You're just
going to end up getting hurt, and I'd hate to see that." He was frowning as he met her gaze. It struck
her that, besides being perhaps a little jealous of what he saw as her interest
in another man, he was also, at some level, genuinely concerned for her
well-being. As a friend. She smiled at him, a warm and affectionate smile
that made his frown deepen. "Just for the record, I'm not sleeping with
him. But thanks for worrying about me. That's nice." Jon looked impatient, and started to say
something more, but just then the door they were standing in front of was
opened by an attendant, and the sound of a frantically barking dog reached
their ears. Immediately, both their heads swiveled toward the sound. Their eyes
fixed on the open doorway. "Zelda," Maddie said, and Jon nodded. The high-pitched yips grew louder. Then Susan
appeared in the doorway, looking tired and harassed and ready to call the whole
thing off. She was staggering slightly under the weight of a large garment bag
and a medium-size duffel bag, both of which she had slung over one shoulder,
and a small plastic animal carrier, which she gripped in one hand. That
carrier, Maddie saw at a glance, did indeed contain Zelda. A clearly very unhappy
Zelda. A Zelda who was not at all shy about expressing her feelings. Pinning a bright smile on her face, Maddie
stepped forward to shake Susan's one free hand. "So glad to see you," she said, only
to have her greeting drowned out by Zelda's frenzied barking. Susan's answering
smile looked more like a grimace, and she replied with something that Maddie
couldn't quite hear. Jon stepped forward in turn, doing an excellent job of not
wincing at the noise. As they shook hands, Maddie saw with a single comprehensive
glance that Susan's short brown hair was ruffled, her face
was pale and tight, and her lipstick was both freshly applied and crooked, as
though she had put it on fast, at the last possible minute before she stepped
off the plane. Maddie saw, too, that there was a small rip near the button
placket in her neat white blouse. Golden brown dog hairs clung to her navy
skirt. An enormous run laddered the left leg of her nude hose. In other words, Susan looked like she had
recently been in an accident. Or a fight. The profusion of brown hairs on her skirt told
its own tale: Zelda. Maddie's gaze shifted to the animal carrier.
Zelda's monkey face and shiny black eyes were shoved against the grate at the
front, and she was scratching desperately at the unyielding bottom. She was
clearly— vocally—displeased, and having a fit to get out of her plastic jail.
The carrier shook. The grate rattled. Jon said something—Maddie thought it was on the
order of good dog— and tried patting the top of the carrier. It was a
mistake. Tiny white teeth snapped together viciously. Jon jerked his hand back.
Thwarted, Zelda gave vent to her emotions in the only way that remained to her.
She let loose with an ear-splitting howl. Susan gave the carrier a monitory
shake. Zelda then seemed to find her inner wolf: She cranked up the volume, and
the howl went from deafening to downright hair-raising. Shades of The Exorcist, Maddie thought in
horror, resisting the urge to clap her hands over her ears. A roll of her eyes
told her that every face in the place was now turned toward them. A gate
attendant was hurrying their way. Forget that thing about necessity being
the mother of invention, she thought. In this case, desperation was. Having
looked, listened, and cringed, Maddie had an epiphany: She remembered the
cream-filled pastry. Jon was standing right beside her. Thrusting a hand into
the pocket of his jacket, she pulled out the bag of M&M's, untwisted it,
fished one out—a nice, big, yellow one—and thrust it through the crisscrossed
black bars of the grate. The howls cut off as abruptly as if the dog had
a power source and someone had pulled the plug. "Oh, thank God," Susan gasped as
silence reigned, looking ready to collapse. Maddie’s own ears were still
ringing, so she could just imagine what Susan, who had presumably been enduring
the onslaught for a lot longer, was going through. "But—she's on a special
diet and she's never allowed to have sweets, and you shouldn't...
shouldn't..." The crunching sound that had replaced the howls
ceased. The monkey face pressed against the grate again. Zelda gave several
loud sniffs. "Give her another one," Susan directed
hastily. Maddie did. Zelda crunched. "Let's get out of here," Jon said in
Maddie's ear. He was clearly getting no more enjoyment out of being the
cynosure of all eyes than Maddie was. She gave a barely perceptible nod. The
attendant, Maddie was glad to see, was retreating now that peace had been
restored. Remembering their manners, a few people were even starting to look
away. Susan had booked a suite at the Hyatt downtown
for herself and Zelda. The thing to do was get them into it at all speed. "So nice of you to come and meet us,"
Susan said, still breathing hard and giving every indication of being more than
glad to relinquish the carrier to Jon as he reached in to take it from her.
"I'm sorry not to have given you more notice, but Mrs. B. was very
insistent on getting started at once." "Not a problem." Jon smiled at her,
exuding charm as always, and passed the plastic carrier on to Maddie, who
accepted it with some trepidation. The thing was surprisingly heavy, and the
contents—she would sooner have been responsible for a werewolf. Jon, meanwhile,
took the garment bag and the other bag from Susan. In the spirit of warding off
trouble, Maddie, hearing a warning sniff, poked another M&M through
the grate. Crunch. "I'm just so embarrassed," Susan said
as they all started moving toward the exit. "I can't believe that Zelda
made such a fuss. It's all because the airport people insisted that she had to
be in a carrier before they would let her inside the terminal. Of course, she
hates being in a carrier and she fought me when I tried to put her in it, and
when I finally got her in there she just had a fit..." "Totally understandable," Jon said. "We’re just so excited that Zelda's going
to be the new face of Brehmer's Pet Food," Maddie put in, not entirely
insincerely, as she did her best not to list under the weight of the carrier.
The plastic handle dug into her hand. The carrier shook slightly as Zelda moved
around inside it. Then Maddie heard that telltale snuffling sound
again, and took preventive action: One more peanut M&M was launched through
the holes. Realizing then that keeping Zelda happy was going to be an ongoing
activity, sort of like keeping a parking meter in the black, Maddie hastily
dumped the rest of the M&M's into her pocket. Then, when she heard that
warning sniff again, it was easy to fish one out and thrust it at Zelda. "We're excited, too," Susan replied.
If she sounded somewhat less sincere than Maddie, well, Maddie couldn't blame
her. From the look of her, Susan had already endured much at the hands—or,
rather, paws—of advertising's newest prospective star. Wynne exited the terminal first. Maddie saw him
go. Gomez and Hendricks were in the van, she knew, parked where they could keep
an eye on her as she left the building, as well as watch her car while she was
inside. McCabe came out last. As she glanced back instinctively to see if he
was following—he was—she saw that every head in the terminal had turned to
watch them go. The arrangement was that Jon would drive Susan
and Zelda to the hotel, while Maddie, hampered by the trailing FBI agents and
the hit man they were hoping would take another crack at killing her, was going
to go straight home from the airport. "Do you want to wait here while I go get
the car, or—?" Jon asked Susan as they paused under the overhang. The
fluorescent lights set into the concrete ceiling were yellowy and dim. Beyond
the overhang the parking lot— this particular terminal had its own—was dark,
except for the pools of uncertain light thrown down by tall halogens. The rain
had picked up and was now coming down at a steady rate. Little puffs of vapor
rose from the pavement. The rain didn't cool things off, as one might have
expected. It just made the night muggier. A damp smell hung in the air. Cars
drove past pulling into and out of the parking lot, their tires swishing, their
lights glancing off the terminal as they followed the curve of the drive. One paused
not far from where they stood, and a man in a lightweight raincoat got out,
slammed the door, and hurried inside. The car moved on. "Go get the car," Maddie said, with an
eye to taking care of their guest, although she suddenly felt very exposed. The
back side of the airport was protected. This side was not. Anyone could use the
parking lot, or be positioned on one of the roads leading to the terminal or
somewhere nearby. McCabe apparently thought so, too. He’d been
idling back near the door, not letting on by look or word that he was connected
to them in any way, but as Jon turned his collar up against the rain and walked
away, McCabe moved—subtly, she had to give him that—until he stood between her
and the parking lot. To all outward appearances, he was simply a man who was
waiting for a ride. Maddie did him one better. She took a couple
steps to the side and hid behind a giant concrete pillar. Take that, hit man, she thought. McCabe glanced around at her and gave a twitch
of his lips that was the equivalent of a thumbs-up when he saw where she was. "... expect to be here at least a
week," Susan was saying when Maddie tuned back into her. She had followed
Maddie sideways, apparently subconsciously, and was talking away a mile a
minute. "Or even longer, if that's what it takes." "Wonderful," Maddie said, though she
had only the vaguest idea of what they were talking about. The carrier handle
was killing her fingers. Maddie set the carrier down on the pavement, sighed
with relief, and lobbed another M&M into Zelda. Zelda crunched and
snuffled. Maddie fed the beast. "You know, that idea you and Jon had of
using Zelda as the face of Brehmer's was simply brilliant," Susan said.
"Mrs. B. is just thrilled with it." "I'm so glad." Maddie watched a car
coming toward them from the parking lot—was it Jon's? Yes, she thought it
was—and dug in her pocket for another M&M. Unfortunately, she didn't find one. Her fingers
probed frantically into every corner of her pocket. Empty. All gone. "I'm out of M&M's," she said, breaking
in on whatever Susan had been saying, her voice tight with horror. "Oh, no." They looked at each other in mutual
consternation. The huffing sounds coming from the carrier grew ominously loud.
In desperation, Maddie crouched and looked in at Zelda. Her furry little face
was pressed against the grate; her black eyes gleamed. "Allout,"Maddieenunciatedthewordsslowly,asifshewerespeaking to a hard-of-hearing foreigner with a limited
grasp of English, and held out her empty hands, palms up, so that Zelda would
get the idea. Zelda got it, all right. She howled. "No! No! No!" Susan set up a howl of
her own, clapping her hands over her ears and stamping her feet in their
sensible blue pumps and basically throwing a tantrum worthy of a two-year-old.
Maddie shot upright, so surprised that she was gaping, at a loss as to how to
deal with a grown woman— a client—who was totally losing it. "Susan, please..." she began, fighting
the urge to cover her own ears. A car door slammed. Maddie looked toward the
sound to discover that Jon was back at last and striding toward them. Beyond
him, McCabe was grinning as he watched bedlam unfold. Beside Maddie, Zelda
howled. And Susan, Maddie saw to her horror, now clenched her fists, stomped
her feet— and wept. "I can't take it, I can't, I can't, that
dog is a monster..." Susan's face was shining with tears. Looking past
her, Maddie saw a security guard, who had materialized seemingly from out of
nowhere, striding toward them. "She's an ungrateful, undeserving mutt." Zelda, insulted, kicked it up a notch. "What the... ?" Jon gave Maddie an
accusing look and put an arm around Susan. "Susan..." "I hate that dog," Susan wailed, and
buried her face in Jon's shoulder. "What you need is a break," Maddie
said desperately, almost shouting to be heard over Zelda's inner wolf. Jon was
looking pretty desperate himself while doing that clumsy patting thing men do
to weeping women, to little apparent effect. "Listen, how about if I keep
her tonight and let you get a good rest without having to worry about
her?" The effect was almost magical. Susan's head
lifted from Jon's shoulder. She looked around at Maddie, and gave a shuddering
gasp. "Would you?" Ten million dollars, Maddie reminded herself. "I'd be glad to," Maddie lied, trying
not to think about how her neighbors were going to react to having a mad dog in
the house, to say nothing about how her own nerves would hold out. Then she had
an instant vision of McCabe's probable reaction, and that almost—almost—made
the whole thing worthwhile. EIGHTEEN Fifteen minutes later, Maddie pulled into the
McDonald's on Clayton. "Fine," she said to the yodeling dog in the
shaking plastic carrier on the front passenger seat. "You want food? Let's
get you food." As she drove around to the drive-through window,
her cell phone began to ring. Not that she heard it, exactly. Zelda made
hearing anything almost impossible. But it was in her jacket pocket and she
felt it vibrate. Fishing it out just as she reached the plastic
speaker where they take your order, she snapped "What?" into the
phone as she rolled down the window and yelled "large fry" at the
intercom. Not that she exactly heard anyone ask for her order over Zelda, but
she assumed. "What are you doing?"McCabe's
voice said in her ear. "Feeding this damned dog," Maddie
replied, heard a snort of laughter, and snapped the phone closed. She drove on
to the first window and paid for the food. "Doggy's not very happy," the clerk
observed as he handed back her change. Duh, Maddie thought, but managed not to say it. Moving to the
next window, she practically snatched the bag from the girl who handed it over.
Fishing out a fry before she even thought about rolling up the window or
driving on, she thrust it through the grate. Zelda's histrionics stopped as abruptly as if
Maggie had shut off a valve. "Thank God," Maddie said devoutly, and
drove on, rolling up her window as she went. Her cell phone rang again. "What?" "Stop right there," McCabe said. She was still in the parking lot just a few
yards beyond the pickup window. "What? Why?" As she automatically hit
the brakes, she was looking fearfully all around. The parking lot was well lit
and... "We're getting a couple of Big Macs. Want
anything?" Jeez. For a minute there, she'd remembered to be
scared. "No." Maddie glanced in her rearview
mirror. Sure enough, there was the Blazer, stopped at the intercom. Apparently,
being so close to food that wasn't salad was more temptation than McCabe—and
Wynne, who was driving—could stand. Zelda snuffled, and Maddie hastily poked
another fry through the grate. The smell of fresh, hot grease wafted to her
nostrils. "Okay. Fine. Get me a large fry. And a hamburger. And a
chocolate shake. No, wait," she added with a glance at the carrier,
"make that about four large fries." "I like a girl who eats," McCabe said,
laughing. "The fries are for the dog,"Maddie growled, then disconnected, pulled into an empty parking space, and
spent the next few minutes feeding french fries to Zelda and watching as first
McCabe and Wynne in the Blazer and then Gomez and Hendricks in the van went
through the drive-through line. It was still raining, not hard but a little,
and the swish of the windshield wipers coupled with the sound of the droplets
pattering down against the Camry's roof were practically music to her abused
ears. Her phone rang. "What now?" she said into it, knowing
it was McCabe. "A kid who works here is bringing out your
food. I didn't want you to have a heart attack when he tapped on your
window." Nice thought. "Thank you," she said. "You know, next time you decide to make a
stop we haven't been told about, you might want to give somebody a heads-up
before you do it. You lost Gomez back there." The van had been in front of her as she'd driven
past the McDonald's and had her eureka moment about the fries. The Blazer had
been behind her. "It was an emergency," Maddie
explained. "McDonald's is an emergency?" "You're not up here riding with this dog,"
Maddie said, heard another snort of laughter, and snapped the phone shut. Sure enough, in a couple minutes a kid in a
McDonald's shirt tapped on her window, passed her two big bags of food, and
disappeared back toward the restaurant. "We're set now," she said to Zelda,
and took off. Five more minutes, and she was turning down her
street. The blacktop gleamed slickly black and reflected the headlight beams
like the surface of a wavery mirror. Inside the car, the faint smell of wet
earth and perfumed dog mixed with the stronger scent of fast food. The radio,
which she'd turned on as soon as she'd started the car in an effort—futile, as
it had turned out—to drown out Zelda, played Britney Spears's latest hit.
Zelda, appeased by a continuing infusion of fries, was actually proving to be
decent company. Maddie ate too, slurping up her milkshake between bites of
hamburger and the occasional fry—she wanted to be sure to save plenty for
Zelda—and the two of them munched companionably. Maddie had an uncomfortable
deja-vu moment as she pulled into her parking lot, but, she reminded herself,
her windshield was bulletproof now. If the hit man was on the job and tried
taking another potshot at her, the bullet would, presumably, bounce off. Or
something like that. No worries, mate. Just so as not to attract any lingering bad
karma, Maddie nosed the Camry into a different spot. Beside her, Zelda gave a
delicate little burp. Then a far less delicate sound emerged from the depths of
the carrier. Followed by the most noxious odor Maddie had
ever smelled. "Oh my God," she said, staring in
horror at the carrier. Zelda whined. M&M's. French fries. Scarfed up with abandon
by a dog who'd been on a strictly controlled diet. Forget that howling fit. This was what
Maddie called an emergency. Trying not to gag at the smell, Maddie slammed
the transmission into park, turned the car off, slewed around, and reached into
the backseat. The halogen shed fuzzy pale light over the motley collection of
cars in the lot as well as the tall bushes and scraggly grass at the edge of
the pavement, and provided a modicum of illumination inside the car, just
enough for her to see that the carrier was ominously still. Equally ominously,
its occupant was silent, which, since she hadn't hit Zelda with a fry lately,
struck Maddie as possibly being a bad thing. Maddie groped frantically
around in the backseat. Somewhere back there, along with the duffel bag
containing Zelda's belongings that Susan had handed over before escaping, was a
leash. Zelda whined again. "Hang on," Maddie urged her, trying
not to breathe. Her questing fingers touched duffel bag, briefcase, leash... "Got it!" Her phone rang as she turned back around.
Cursing under her breath, she fumbled to open it. "What?" she snapped. "What are you doing now?" "This dog's got to go." To Maddie's horror, another one of those long,
slow, wet raspberry noises came from the carrier. The smell rose and spread
like a mushroom cloud. Talk about your WMDs... "You shouldn't've offered..." McCabe's
voice was impatient. "Poop. She's got to go poop." Dropping the phone, Maddie thrust another french
fry through the grate, then took advantage of Zelda's momentary distraction to
unlatch it. The dog bounded out, but Maddie was too fast for her. Hooking a
hand in her collar, praying that the animal was too full of food to feel like
biting anything else, Maddie snapped Zelda's leash on her. Gotcha. She would have sunk back in relief, except for
the smell. Gagging, she thrust open the door, swung her
feet to the shiny, wet pavement, and got out in the rain, sucking in the
revivifying smell of wet honeysuckle and steamy asphalt, holding on to the
leash with a death grip all the while. Behind her, Zelda got out, too, jumping
to the pavement with surprising agility. And let loose with another of those ominous
sounds. "Come on!" Maddie slammed the door and half dragged her
over to the grass. Zelda immediately hunched and did her thing. "Thank God," Maddie said. Zelda gave a
little grunt, which Maddie took for agreement. "What the hell do you think you're
doing?" The muted roar behind her made Maddie jump and whirl toward the
source of the sound: McCabe, of course. She knew who it was in mid-levitation.
Backlit by the halogen, he was a menacingly large shape that practically
radiated aggravation as he came toward her in quick strides from the Blazer,
which was now parked beside her car. Any sensible human being would have been
startled half to death by his near bellow—and, apparently, it was enough to
startle any sensible dog, too. Because Zelda jumped at the sound right along
with Maddie, and rocketed away into outer darkness. Maddie stared blankly down at her empty hand.
She was no longer holding the leash. Oh my God. Shed lost Zelda. "Zelda!" Maddie cried as the full
enormity of the catastrophe hit her, then yelled, "Now look what you've
done!" at McCabe, and took off in hot pursuit. Unfortunately, it turned out that hot pursuit
and high heels were pretty much mutually exclusive things. Maddie made that
discovery as she rounded the end of the honeysuckle hedge, skidded in the wet
grass, and nearly went down. Windmilling to regain her balance, she kept on
going, kicking off her shoes as she went. "Maddie! Come back here!" McCabe was giving chase, too, but she didn't
have time to wait for him. She had to get Zelda back. If she didn't, Creative
Partners could kiss the Brehmer account good-bye. Panic made her short of
breath. More thankful for the halogen light than she had ever dreamed she could
be, she peered through the translucent veil of rain, doing a lightning scan of
twenty feet of shiny, wet grass crisscrossed with swaying shadows. There! She
caught just a glimpse of a golden brown backside disappearing beneath the
four-board fence that bordered the house next door. "Zelda! Here, Zelda!" she called
frantically, running toward the spot. That worked. Damned dog didn't even slow down. Okay, for her going under the fence was not an
option. Hitching up her skirt, Maddie swarmed over it, caught sight of Zelda
scrambling around a kiddie pool in the next yard, her leash flapping behind
her, and sprinted after her. The rain was hitting the surface of the pool, the
sound a quick rat-a-tat that echoed the hurried beat of her heart. She was wet,
and getting wetter by the moment. The grass was slick as ice beneath her
pantyhose-clad feet. Tree roots and rocks and who knew what else bruised her
poor, tender soles as she pounded after Zelda. The yards grew progressively
darker as she got farther away from the streetlights. But she could still see,
thanks in large measure to the light filtering through the curtained windows of
the houses whose backyards she was invading. "Maddie! Stop." Running, too, his feet making squelching noises
on the soggy ground, McCabe was right behind her as she reached the next fence.
Behind him, way behind him, she saw with a wild glance over her
shoulder, Wynne was heaving himself over a fence. Even as Maddie put one abused
foot on the lowest board, McCabe's arm shot forward. Grabbing the back of her
jacket, he jerked her back. She fell against him, her back colliding with his
chest with a solid thump, her feet slipping out from under her. She would have
fallen smack on her butt if he hadn't hooked a hard arm around her waist just
as she started to go down. "Damn it to hell," he said,
hauling her upright. "Are you nuts?" Both arms were around her now. Except for the
fact that they were practically crushing her ribs, she could hardly feel them
through the bulletproof vest. "Let go." She glanced wildly up and back at him as she
regained her feet and shoved at those imprisoning arms with both hands. "I
have to get Zelda." "Don't be a..." he began furiously,
looming over her with a "that's it, I've had it" air that Maddie
didn't have to be clairvoyant to realize meant that he was on the verge of
losing his temper. An explosion of ferocious barks split the air,
drowning out the rest of what he said. Deep barks. Bass barks. Profundo barks.
Mingled with a stream of high-pitched, frantic yips. "Baron," Maddie whispered weakly,
sagging against McCabe as she named the rottweiler mix that was the scourge of
the neighborhood cats. Then, in a voice strengthened by horror, she added,
"Zelda!" As the yips turned to yelps and the bass barks
went insane, she fought like a tigress to be free. "Stop it, dammit! You're going to hurt
yourself!" "Let me go! He'll kill her!" "Shit," McCabe muttered, thrusting her
away from him. Maddie found herself colliding with Wynne's huge bulk as McCabe
added to Wynne, who'd just come puffing up to join them, "Hang on to
her." Wynne's arms obediently locked around her waist.
"Zelda!" Maddie cried, straining toward the fence. To her surprise,
she saw that McCabe was already vaulting it. He disappeared through the bushes
as the sounds of Zelda being devoured reached cosmic proportions and more
lights started coming on in the surrounding houses. Maddie could see a little
of what was happening now, even through the rain and the screen of bushes that
grew profusely on the other side of the fence, and what she saw horrified her.
The huge, hulking shape that was Baron had Zelda cornered under something—a
child's ATV?—and was barking insanely at her as he tried to get to her. Not
that Maddie could see Zelda. What she could do was hear her. Zelda clearly
recognized that she had gotten in way over her head. She was letting loose with
her trademark howl. "Zelda! Wynne, let me go! I've got
to help her!" Wynne's hold tightened. "No way." As Maddie struggled to free herself, Baron,
still barking, stuck his big head partly under the ATV's frame. Beholding doom,
Zelda cranked up the volume. Maddie gasped, knowing that she was about to watch
the thing flip. When it did, she was pretty sure Zelda would be sushi. "Dog!" McCabe yelled over the din, and
Maddie saw that he was skirting the edge of the backyard, keeping a wary
distance between himself and the action even as he tried to attract Baron's
attention. The backyard was dark, shadowy, silvered with rain. McCabe had
something in his hand, something he was waving. "Dog! Look over
here!" "His name's Baron!" Maddie shouted. "Baron! Here,
Baron! Look over here!" That did the trick. Baron quit barking, lifted
his head, looked around, saw the man waving something at him and seemed to take
a long, hard look. Then he whirled and charged. "Shit. "Throwing whatever it
was he was holding, McCabe bolted for the fence. Behind him, with a fearsome
volley of barks, the behemoth hit full-throttle. Maddie's jaw dropped. Her breathing suspended.
Her eyes widened as she watched McCabe race toward them like the hounds of hell
were on his heels. Oh, wait, one of them was. Movement at the rear of the action caught
Maddie's attention as she goggled at McCabe's leg-pumping dash for the fence.
Zelda, no fool, was taking advantage of the reprieve to dart away. "Zelda!" she shrieked. "Here,
Zelda, this way!" Zelda seemed to hear, because she tore up the
ground, heading in the opposite direction. "Run!" Wynne yelled encouragement.
Maddie realized, with some indignation, that he was shaking with laughter. Then her indignation lessened as she figured out
that, instead of focusing on Zelda, he was cheering on McCabe. "D'you want me to shoot it? D'you want me
to shoot it?" Gomez screamed, practically dancing with agitation beside
them as he waved his gun. Until that moment, Maddie hadn't even noticed that he
and Hendricks had joined them. "No!" Maddie cried, horror-stricken at
the idea of murdering a neighbor's pet. "No shooting," McCabe roared. He was
only about six feet from the fence and coming on like a freight train. Baron,
open-jawed and roaring, was almost close enough to take a huge chomp out of his
ass. NINETEEN "Jump for it! It's gaining on you!"
Wynne bellowed. McCabe glanced behind him. "Shit." McCabe dived for the fence from about a yard out just as
the snarling, slavering beast leaped for him. And came up short at the end of a chain. McCabe hurtled through the bushes and crashed to
the ground. Baron yelped and crashed to the ground. On opposite sides of the
fence. The men around Maddie let out a collective whoosh
of breath. "That thing's a man-killer." Gomez
sounded awed. "Told you," Hendricks said. Then, with Maddie in tow, they all kind of
sidled over to look down at McCabe. Having landed on his stomach, he had now
rolled onto his back, where he lay motionless and spread-eagled, eyes closed,
chest heaving, with the rain pattering down on his face. "Now that,"Wynne said
thoughtfully, "I would have paid good money to see." "Fuck off," McCabe said without
opening his eyes. Having recovered quicker than McCabe, Baron was
once again on his feet, straining at his chain and barking hysterically at them
from the other side of the fence. All of a sudden the back door to his house
opened and a man stood in the opening, silhouetted against the light. "Baron! Shut up!" the man yelled, in a
tone that sounded like he meant business. The dog kept barking hysterically.
The man slammed the door shut again, vanishing from sight. "Way to control your dog," Wynne said
wryly. His hand was locked around Maddie's wrist now. No way was she going
anywhere, even if she had wanted to, which, she discovered, she no longer did.
Still... "Zelda," Maddie said in a forlorn
voice. McCabe's eyes opened. Lifting a hand to shield
them from the rain, he seemed to look her way. "That was just about the stupidest damned
thing I ever saw," McCabe said to her with an unmistakable edge to his
voice. Baron was still barking, but his enthusiasm was starting to wane and
Maddie heard McCabe's words quite clearly. Maddie knew what he meant, since that was more
or less what she just had been thinking herself: Running into the dark like
that after Zelda had been nothing short of dumb. In her panic over the dog's
escape, though, she had all but forgotten that there was somebody out there
who wanted to kill her. And A-One Plastics was still incommunicado... But thinking she'd probably done something dumb
and having McCabe yell at her for doing something dumb were two entirely
different things. She channeled her best Robert De Niro, planted
her one free hand on her hip, and glared down at him. "Are you talkin'
to me?" McCabe sat up. From the way he looked at her,
Maddie got the impression that he was spoiling for a fight. "You think?" "So, kiddies, how 'bout we head on back to
Maddie's apartment before somebody starts taking potshots at us?" Wynne
said, making a hasty intervention before things could heat up. "Good idea." It would have been a
perfectly pleasant reply—if McCabe hadn't said it through his teeth. "I need to look for Zelda," Maddie
said mutinously as McCabe got to his feet. "To hell with Zelda," he said, looming
over her. Maddie bristled. "Easy for you to say. It's not your business
that'll go down the tubes if I lose the damned dog." "To hell with your business, too." "Time-out." Wynne started to walk back
in the direction from which they'd come, pulling Maddie along behind him. From
that position, she glared back at McCabe. "I need that dog." "What you need is your head examined." "Cool it, both of you," Wynne ordered.
Then, to Maddie in a soothing tone, "After we get you safely back to your
apartment, we'll find the dog. Promise." McCabe was right behind her, close but not close
enough so that Maddie could read his expression. She could, however, feel the
vibes he was giving off. And the vibes told her that he was in a towering snit.
If she'd been less mature, she would have stuck out her tongue at him. If there
had been no one to see but McCabe, she would have stuck out her tongue at him.
But Gomez and Hendricks were back there, too, so she reluctantly put the
impulse on the back burner. Sick with worry over Zelda—all right, over the
Brehmer account—as she might be, Maddie nevertheless realized that letting the
men look for the dog was only good sense. As vital as recovering Zelda was, it
wasn't worth getting herself killed over. "Well, lookee there," Wynne said
softly as they rounded the honeysuckle hedge. He nodded in the direction of the
parked cars. Maddie was bent over, scooping up her abandoned
shoes—what with the rain and the mud, they were never going to be the same
again—but something about the tone of his voice made her look up instantly. Her
eyes widened, and she sucked in a breath of soggy, sweet-smelling air. There was Zelda by the Camry, scarfing up french
fries that must have spilled to the pavement when Maddie had exited the car so
vigorously. Zelda, Maddie almost cried, but, remembering how Zelda had
responded to being called by name before, she swallowed the impulse, freezing
in place instead so as not to startle her. The men behind Maddie nearly bumped
into her before they, too, got with the program and stopped. "Shit. Here we go again." Maddie could
tell by the disgusted tone of McCabe's voice that he, too, was looking at
Zelda. His next words were growled in her ear. "Leave it to us this time,
okay? We'll get the damned dog for you." Then, slightly louder, he added,
"Wynne, you take Maddie on inside." "Will do." Wynne's hand tightened around Maddie's wrist,
but he needn't have bothered. Being at the edge of her parking lot had made her
remember how she had been shot, and remembering how she had been shot made her
glance nervously all around and want to run for the hills. If three big, bad
FBI men couldn't capture one little dog, the country was in more trouble even
than she was, was how Maddie figured it. So as Wynne started moving, she went
with him without protest, contenting herself with watching over her shoulder as
Gomez and Hendricks, after a hasty consultation with McCabe, crept around
behind the Camry. There was no way to be certain, of course, but she guessed
that once they were in position somebody would give a signal and the three of
them would close in on Zelda, who was still stuffing her face. Unfortunately, if she was putting money down on
the outcome, she'd have to put it on Zelda. On that happy thought, they reached the door and
Wynne ushered her inside. The house was dimly lit and quiet, as it generally
tended to be, given the nearly soundproof 1920s construction, plus the work
schedules and dispositions of the tenants. The doors on either side of the
grand oak stairway that led to the second and third floors were both closed.
Maddie trudged upward, her feet in their now-shredded pantyhose slippery on the
stairs, her ears keenly attuned to any sounds she might be able to hear from
the parking lot. Still in his navy jacket and khakis but now looking a great
deal the worse for wear, Wynne huffed behind her, one hand on the banister,
leaving a trail of damp footprints in his wake. At the sound of footsteps above
them, Maddie glanced up to see June Matthews coming along the second-floor hall
toward the stairs. Carrying a folded umbrella and wearing a lightweight black
raincoat and heels, she was clearly on her way somewhere. Her face changed as
Maddie and then Wynne reached the second-floor landing and she got a good look
at them. "Hey, June," Maddie said. "Is everything all right?" June asked
in a wary tone, pausing with one hand on the newel post to watch as they headed
on up toward the third floor. Maddie glanced back at her, saw her knit brows,
and realized in that split second how the situation must appear: herself wet,
disheveled, and shoeless, sporting huge runs in her pantyhose and a scowl to
boot, with a huge and equally wet and disheveled man right behind her, clearly
following her upstairs to her apartment. "Everything's fine, but thanks for
asking," she said, summoning a would-be cheery smile. Wynne, who had
looked around when June spoke, smiled too, showing large, even white teeth.
Coupled with that cherub thing he had going on, the smile must have done the
trick, because June relaxed and continued on her way. Then Maddie and Wynne
reached Maggie's apartment, and he followed her inside. The apartment was dark except for the dim glow
of the outside halogen spilling in through the windows. Maddie started
automatically for the curtains—closing them before she turned on the lights was
what she had in mind—when a series of shrill beeps penetrated her
consciousness, stopping her in her tracks just a couple steps into the room.
Her eyes widened. Her immediate thought was bomb. "What... what... ?" she sputtered,
even as her eyes flew to Wynne and she realized that he didn't look the least
bit perturbed. Either he was deaf, or there was something she was missing here. "Security system. McCabe had it installed
this afternoon. Because we're kind of shorthanded now, you know." He
turned to a keypad by her front door that was a new addition to the wall decor
and punched in numbers. As Maddie goggled, the beeps stopped. "Your code
is the last four digits of your phone number, by the way. Or you can change it
if you want." "Did anybody ask me..." Maddie
began hotly. Then her voice petered out as it occurred to her that under the
circumstances a security system was probably an excellent thing to have. She
finished in a milder tone. "I'm glad I didn't come home alone." And proceeded across the room to close the
curtains. "I don't think you're supposed to be alone
right now. I think that's the point." Wynne flipped the switch that turned
on the lights. "You know, you really shouldn't've took off like that out
there. It could have been dangerous." "Don't you start, too." Having closed
the curtains, Maddie turned to scowl at him, realized that he was dripping all
over her hardwood floor, and crossed to the bathroom, from which she extracted
a towel. "Here." She threw it to him. "Thanks." He started toweling off.
Maddie watched critically. He was such a big man. She tossed him another towel. "When you disappeared into the dark like
that, I gotta tell you, you scared us," Wynne looked up from vigorously
rubbing his head to fix her with reproving blue eyes. Wet and woolly now, his
hair puffed out like golden dandelion fluff around his head. "McCabe about
went ape-shit. He was out the door before I even got the car stopped. He's
probably still going to be a little ticked off when he gets up here." Wynne sounded like he was warning her. "Good for him," Maddie said,
unimpressed. She'd shed her jacket and the bulletproof vest by this time, and
was standing just inside the bathroom door and rubbing her hair with a towel,
too. The area that had been covered by the vest was relatively dry. The rest of
her was pretty much soaked through. It showed just how wet she was that the
air-conditioning, for just about the only time in her experience of it,
actually felt cold. She could feel the chill as it blew over her skin. "Especially considering how he got chased
by the dog and all," Wynne added in a reminiscent tone. Their eyes met.
Wynne grinned. A vibrating sound made Wynne lose the grin.
Reaching under his jacket, he unclipped something from his belt. Maddie saw
that it was a two-way radio. "Yeah," Wynne said into it. "Damn dog took off again," Maddie
could hear McCabe's growling voice clearly. "Looks like we're going to be
out here a little while longer." "Okay." The calm professionalism of
his voice in no way reflected Wynne's new and wider grin. The Brehmer account hung in the balance, and
Maddie knew it. But she couldn't help it. She grinned, too. Chalk one up for Zelda. "They'll get her," Wynne assured her,
clipping the radio back on his belt again, then shedding his jacket, which he
carefully draped over the back of the floral chair. Beneath it, he was almost
dry. Maddie could only hope he was right. But since
there was nothing she could do about it, she decided to move on to the next
thing. "I'm going to take a shower," she
said, and Wynne nodded. Some twenty minutes later, she had just finished
blowing her hair dry when she heard a muffled knock on the front door. McCabe, Maddie thought, and took a last critical look at herself in
the mirror. Stupidly, she'd already applied the merest hint of rosy pink
lipgloss and a touch of powder and mascara, because she wasn't planning on
going to bed until she knew Zelda was safe, and waiting for Zelda involved
seeing McCabe. Which brought her to the stupid part. The makeup had been on
account of McCabe. She wanted to look good for him. Acknowledging that made her frown, and she was
frowning still as she shrugged into her robe and pulled open the bathroom door. McCabe was standing in a pool of warm lamplight
just inside the living room, talking to Wynne. He’d lost his tie and shoulder
holster but gained Zelda's duffel bag, which he had slung over one shoulder.
Disheveled, with his black hair mussed and his jaw dark with stubble, he once
again looked more like a thug than an FBI agent. He was unsmiling, soaking wet,
and smeared liberally with mud, and despite all that, he was still so
hunky-looking that Maddie's heart gave a little skip. His once-white shirt was
plastered to his broad shoulders and brawny arms, and was just transparent
enough so that she could see both his sculpted pecs and the wedge of hair that
darkened his chest. His gray slacks clung to his narrow hips and the powerful
muscles of his thighs, and closely molded what Maddie already knew was a very impressive
package. Remembering how it had felt against her, she
felt a quick instinctive tightening in her loins. Quit looking at him like jumping his bones is
the next item on your agenda... She could almost hear Jon saying it. Realizing that that was exactly what she was
doing, Maddie felt a quick flush of both embarrassment and a whole other kind
of heat, and hastily shifted her gaze to focus on the squirming navy blue
bundle tucked securely under his arm. It took Maddie a moment to realize that
the navy blue part of the bundle was McCabe's jacket, and the squirmy part was
Zelda. Clearly taking no chances, he'd wrapped the dog in it so that not so
much as a furry paw was visible. Maddie felt a flood of relief. "Zelda," she said on a thankful note,
and went to claim the bundle. As she approached, McCabe's eyes slid over her
and his mouth tightened, but he let the duffel slide to the floor. Then he
crouched to pull his jacket off Zelda and set her on her feet. The little dog promptly shook herself, sending
muddy droplets flying everywhere. Maddie winced a little as she observed the
resultant mess. Floor, wall, McCabe's legs—all were the unlucky recipients of
Zelda's largesse. McCabe’s expression turned sardonic as he looked down at his
legs, which were already so wet and muddy that a few more drops surely couldn't
matter. Meanwhile, Zelda took a few tottering steps forward, then sank down on
her haunches. Panting, ears alert, she scanned her surroundings. Maddie's eyes
widened as she looked at her. Like McCabe, Zelda was soaked; her coat was
muddy and bedraggled; her tail left wet marks on the floor with every twitch.
And her topknot had wilted so that it hung limply in front of her left eye, its
tiny lavender bow wildly askew. "Now that's what I call a bad hair
day," Wynne observed. Maddie's lips twitched. "Oh, dear," Maddie said, and, moving
rather warily, picked up the end of the once-elegant lavender leash, which was
filthy and limp now. Once she had the end in her hand, she felt more secure.
"Come on, let's get you cleaned up." Zelda looked up at her just as warily, her black
eyes gleaming, but made no attempt to run—or worse. Probably, Maddie thought,
given all the excitement, she was exhausted. Which, considering Zelda's propensities, was a
good thing. "You could have been killed," Maddie
scolded as she led her toward the kitchen with its linoleum floor and supply of
paper towels. A snort pulled her attention from the dog. Her eyes collided with
McCabe's. "Seems like you're not the only one around
here with a death wish, doesn't it?" he said, his drawl more pronounced
than she had ever heard it. Her brows twitched together. "You know what, you probably want to go and
take a shower," Wynne said to McCabe in a way-too-hearty tone. "How
about I hang around with Maddie while you do that?" "Yeah." McCabe gave her a long, hard
look before glancing at Wynne. "Get Gomez or Hendricks to bring my bag up
from the Blazer, would you? I've got some clothes in it." "Will do." As McCabe headed off toward the bathroom, Wynne
followed Maddie into the kitchen, bringing the duffel bag with him. The
curtains were closed and the light was on when she entered, so she surmised
Wynne had visited the kitchen while she was in the shower. The smallest of
smiles touched her mouth: If he'd been raiding her refrigerator, he'd probably
been disappointed; the cold cuts and cheese and potato salad he'd bought the
other day were all gone, largely thanks to him. Basically, all he would have
found to eat was the salad McCabe had turned his nose up at earlier. "You need groceries," Wynne said,
confirming her surmise. He set the duffel bag on the counter and started
rooting around in it. "There's salad," Maddie replied with a
straight face. Wynne made an unenthusiastic sound. Glancing around at him—he
still was checking out the contents of the duffle—Maddie grinned. "Is
there a bowl in there, by the way? Zelda's probably thirsty." "Yeah." He produced a bowl and passed
it to Maddie. It was silver and heavy, and had Zelda's name engraved on it. Her
eyes widened slightly as she turned it over, checked the mark, and realized
that she was holding a sterling-silver dog dish. "This is sterling," she said to Wynne. He grimaced. "Dog lives better than I
do." "Me, too." She filled it with water
and set it down in front of Zelda, who lifted her head. "Water, your
highness." Zelda looked at her, looked at the bowl, then
stood up and took a few dainty laps. Maddie took advantage of her distraction
to start patting her clown rather gingerly with paper towels. Finishing with
the water long before Maddie had finished with her, the dog sat and panted but
offered no resistance when Maddie gave up on trying to fix the bow on her
topknot and instead tugged it from her hair. The look that resulted was kind of
an early Beatles mop-top, more sheepdog than Pekingese. "Cute," Maddie told her. Zelda looked
unconvinced. "Want this?" Wynne reached into the
duffel bag and came up with a wire-bristled brush, which he proffered to
Maddie. Maddie looked at Zelda, looked at the brush, and shook her head. "No point in pressing my luck. Anyway,
she's going to a groomer first thing in the morning." Wynne grinned. "Good thought." "Isn't it?" Having done all she could
do to restore Zelda to her former glory and survived to tell the tale, Maddie
washed her hands in the sink. From the relative lack of water pressure, she
deduced that McCabe was still in the shower. Knowing how the water supply to her apartment
worked, she had to smile. He'd either just been blasted with ice water or
scalded. Zelda was lying flat on the linoleum and Wynne
was leaning against the table when she turned around. Zelda, who still gave off
a faint wet-dog smell, was doing her fur-rug thing again, only with breathing
this time. Wynne chewed gum, gave off noxious grape fumes, and regarded her
thoughtfully. "You know, it's getting late," he
said. "You might want to go on to bed now." Maddie cocked her head at him. A glance at the
clock told her that it was getting on toward midnight, but somehow she didn't
think that concern over whether or not she got enough sleep had prompted his
suggestion. "Are you trying to keep me from getting
yelled at when McCabe gets out of the shower? That's really sweet of you, but
I'm not all that thin-skinned." Wynne's smile was rueful. "The thing
is, like I thought, he still seems to be a little ticked off at you. Hey, you
scared him. He'll be over it by morning, though. Why not take the easy way out
and just stay out of his way until then?" Maddie's answering smile was noncommittal. The
truth was, the thought of quarreling with McCabe had a lot of appeal.
"Actually, that's probably a good idea." Which it was, she realized as she thought about
it, but not because of the getting-yelled-at part. Because of the heat. She
could feel it blistering the air between herself and McCabe whenever they
looked at each other now. The truth was, she wanted him. And he wanted
her, too. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch, read it in his
responses to her. His current bad mood was a case in point. He was mad at her
because the idea of her getting hurt had scared him. They were getting emotionally involved. The thought rocked her back on her heels. There
it was, the thing she hadn't wanted to face. She was falling hard for an FBI
agent, and he, unless she was very much mistaken, was falling hard for her
right back. Which was stupid. No, worse than stupid: It was
dangerous. Under the circumstances, then, the smart thing
to do was exactly what Wynne had suggested: run away to bed while McCabe was in
the shower, and stay put until morning. Then keep out of his way as much as she
could until this whole thing was over. However it ended, whether she fell off the
tightrope or managed to keep balancing until the end, getting involved with
McCabe was the last thing she needed to do. Maddie made up her mind. "You're a good guy, Wynne," she said
with a wry smile. "Yeah." He was looking at her
steadily. "The thing is, I just don't want to see you get hurt." Maddie was taken aback. The meaning of that was
hard to mistake. Was it so obvious what was happening? She took refuge in
denial. "I don't know what you mean." "Yeah, you do. You and McCabe—anybody can
see where that's headed. Don't get me wrong, he's a super guy. In fact, he's my
best friend in the world. Wherever we are, whatever we do, he's got my back,
and I've got his. But you—you're a real nice girl, and you don't seem like the
quickie-love-affair type." "And that's what this would be." The
way Maddie said it, it wasn't a question. It was a statement, because she
already knew the answer. "As soon as we get our guy, we're out of
here. You know that." Wynne looked almost apologetic. "Yeah. But thanks for reminding me."
Maddie blew out a little puff of air, then gave him a rueful smile. "By
the way, while we're exchanging advice, you should put some moves on Cynthia.
She's interested, you know." Wynne stopped chewing his gum. His eyes widened.
A deep puce flush started to crawl up his face. "Cynthia?" he asked cagily, as if he'd
never heard of her before. Maddie folded her arms, leaned back against the
counter, and gave him a don't-give-me-that look. "Come off it, Wynne.
You're every bit as transparent as I am, believe me." A beat passed. Wynne fiddled with the cord on
the duffel bag, then looked up. "So what makes you think she's
interested?" "She told me." He looked stunned. "Really?" "Would I make something like that up? Yes,
really. And now I think I'll take your really good advice and go to
bed." Wynne was still looking lost in thought when she bent down to pick up
the leash. "Come on, Zelda." Without lifting her head from the floor, Zelda
gave her an assessing look. "Zelda." Maddie tugged encouragingly
at the leash. Zelda sighed and stood up. Wynne seemed to surface again just as
they were on their way out of the kitchen. "Night, Maddie." "Night, Wynne. And thanks." "Yeah. You, too." Maddie could feel Wynne watching her as, with a
surprisingly docile Zelda trailing behind her, she headed off toward her
bedroom. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it,
McCabe was still nowhere in sight. She closed her bedroom door all but a few
inches, got Zelda settled on a folded blanket, climbed into bed, and turned off
the light. Zelda jumped up on the bed. "Hey," Maddie said. Zelda turned around a few times at the foot and
plopped down with a sigh. Maddie considered. Zelda wasn't howling, she
wasn't biting, and she wasn't lost. As far as Zelda was concerned, this was
probably about as good as it was going to get. This was, in fact, a battle she
didn't really want to fight. There were far worse things than letting a doggy
diva sleep at the foot of her bed. "Night, Zelda," Maddie said. A rattling little snore was her only reply. Maddie lay on her back with her head propped up
on a pair of pillows and her arms crossed over her chest, listening to Zelda
blissout and thinking about sleeping. With the bedroom door ajar, the room
wasn't particularly dark and, in addition, she could hear everything going on
in the apartment. She listened to McCabe emerge from the bathroom, to him and
Wynne talking, and, finally, to Wynne leaving. This was followed by a series of
tiny beeps that had Maddie frowning for a moment until she figured out that it
must be McCabe setting the new alarm. Good to know that one day, when her resident FBI
agent went bye-bye, she wouldn't be left entirely unprotected. There was more
hair spray in the bathroom, too. The light in the living room went out. The TV
came on, flipping from channel to channel. In a matter of minutes she was
treated to the sounds of about four dozen different programs, maybe more. It
didn't require genius to deduce that McCabe was once again parked on her couch
with her remote in one hand. To her disgust, the very thought made her heart
beat faster. Every iota of common sense she possessed told
her to close her eyes, block out the sounds, and try to sleep. Every scrap of
self-preservation that remained told her to at least stay put and stare at the
flickering shadows on the ceiling if sleep just wasn't in the cards. The very last
thing in the world she needed to do under the circumstances was get out of bed
and walk into the living room and pick a fight with McCabe. Unless she wanted to end up in bed with him,
that is. She lay there a moment longer, then abruptly sat
up and swung her legs out of bed, carefully so as not to disturb Zelda. McCabe
was a temporary fixture in her life, here today and gone tomorrow. Nobody
anybody with any sense would allow herself to get attached to. Wynne had warned
her. Not that he needed to; she knew it perfectly well herself. At best, a
quickie love affair was all that was in the cards. But then, life was uncertain
at best. Her life was more uncertain than most. The hard truth was, it could
come crashing down around her ears at any moment. The only thing she had for
sure was tonight. And tonight she wanted McCabe. So call her stupid. TWENTY Tuesday,
August 19 Except for the flickering TV, the living room
was dark when Maddie walked through the bedroom door. That was no surprise, of
course. She'd known that all the lights in the apartment were out, and that she
would find McCabe sprawled on the couch, watching something mind-deadening like
ESPN. Except, he wasn't there. The couch was empty. The TV had no audience. A
sweeping glance around confirmed it: McCabe was nowhere to be seen. Maddie frowned. Every bit of good sense she
possessed combined forces with the last flicker of her self-preservation
instinct to urge her to thank her lucky stars for the reprieve and head
straight back to bed. But she didn't do it. Instead, she zeroed in on
the faintest of whitish glows that seemed to be coming from the kitchen, and
headed that way. I'm a sick man, Sam concluded glumly as he studied the meager contents of
Maddie's refrigerator. He was turning himself on. Or, at least the strawberry
smell he couldn't seem to lose was turning him on. He breathed in, and he pictured Maddie. The mental images were
so vivid that they had driven him from the couch to the kitchen in search of
distraction. Unfortunately, the distractions in her refrigerator were minimal:
Besides milk and orange juice, the only marginally edible thing was a Saran
Wrap—covered bowl of salad. Yech. Grimacing, he picked up the half-gallon of milk,
tried to check the expiration date, couldn't read it with only the dim light
from the refrigerator for illumination, and opened the carton to sniff at the
contents suspiciously. And he got a big whiff of strawberry-scented
shampoo for his pains. Damn it to hell and back anyway. If he'd known,
when he'd used her shampoo in the shower, that he was going to be tortured like
this for the rest of the night, he would have stayed dirty. He’d figured it out
about halfway through scrubbing his head, when he'd inhaled the scent of
strawberries and thought, for a sudden, heart-stopping second that Maddie had
stepped into the shower with him. His eyes had popped open—damned shampoo had
burned the hell out of them, too—and he'd immediately figured the whole thing
out: He was alone, and the smell was the shampoo. So far, his damned stupid dick hadn't caught on. He'd taken the longest shower he just about ever
had in his life, trying to rinse off the smell, to no avail. It still clung to
him like skunk scent, driving him out of his mind with its erotic associations
every time he inhaled. With each breath, he had brief, tantalizing visions of
Maddie's big, honey-colored eyes looking all dazed with desire as he'd lifted
his head up from kissing her, her mouth all soft and sweet and seductive as her
lips parted for him, her body—God, that body—all hot and willing. Willing. That was the thing that made it so
torturous. She was his for the
taking, and he knew it. She wanted him. She would welcome him. All he had to do
was walk into her bedroom and... No. Hell, no. He wasn't going there. He'd already made a decision about
that. He wasn't going to do it. She was his job, damn it, not his girlfriend.
He was there for one purpose: to catch a killer. Bedding his bait was not in the program. Okay, so maybe she was more than bait. Maybe she
was more than just a body to be bedded, too. Maybe she'd gotten to him, just as
he'd feared she was going to. Maybe her feistiness, and her courage, and the
sweetness with which she'd rocketed to Wynne's defense, and the surprising way
she'd won Gardner over, and the intelligence and passion and plain old hard
work she brought to running her business had clicked with something inside him.
Maybe... Hell, maybe he was breathing in too damned much
strawberry shampoo. With that thought, Sam decided to throw caution
to the wind. Tilting the carton to his mouth, he took a big gulp of milk. "Are you drinking out of the carton?"
an outraged voice demanded out of the darkness. Sam jumped and almost spit the milk back out
again. Lowering the carton, he looked around, choking a
little as he swallowed. Maddie stood in the doorway. She was wearing her big
white bathrobe over what he was pretty sure would be a slinky little nightgown,
and her fists were planted on her hips in a way that told him he was in the
doghouse big-time. The robe ended at her knees, and below it, her killer legs
and feet were bare. Her hair waved in a loose, dark cloud around her face. Her
skin was pale and smooth. Her mouth, even pursed disapprovingly as it currently
was, made him hot just looking at it. And her eyes were big and luminous and
fixed accusingly on him. Except for the accusing part, he thought, taking
her in with one sweeping glance, she looked like the embodiment of every erotic
dream he'd ever had. And trouble. Standing there in the doorway,
glaring at him, she definitely looked like trouble. Trouble with a capital T. "It was the last little bit," he
defended himself in a mild tone, closing the refrigerator door and setting the
empty carton down on the counter, knowingeven as he turned back to face
her that he was playing with fire here.
If he wasn't way careful, he was going to end up getting burned. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that drinking
milk out of the carton is not only disgusting, it's unsanitary?" Maddie
shook a monitory finger at him. He'd jumped guiltily when she'd caught him with
the milk, which had actually been kind of cute, she thought. He was facing her
now, leaning back against the counter with his hands propped on either side of
his hips. With the refrigerator closed and the window behind him, she couldn't
make out his expression at all. He was a tall, broad-shouldered shape in the
dark, and if she hadn't known him, she would have described him as
formidable-looking. But since she did, the description that came to mind was sexy
as hell. Her heart gave a little lurch. "Like I said, it was the last little
bit." If he was still mad at her, she couldn't tell it from his tone.
"Why are you up?" "Maybe because listening to you flip
channels lacks something as a sleep aid." She crossed the kitchen toward him and thought
he tensed, although it was hard to tell in the gloom. But her ostensible target
was the milk carton, which she removed from the counter and tossed in the trash
can near the back door. That brought her to within three feet of him. Close,
but not— quite—close—enough. "So, the TV bothers you?" he asked,
folding his arms over his chest. "Fine. I'll turn it off." Maddie frowned, leaned a hip against the table,
and considered him. This was not going the way she had hoped. He was being way
too accommodating. Too cool. What she wanted to do here was spark some heat. "And do what?" Her tone was
deliberately provocative. "Sit there in the dark and twiddle your
thumbs?" "I've done it before." Her eyes narrowed. "All part of the job,
huh?" "Yep." "Just like I'm part of the job?" He hesitated a second, as if mentally testing
that. "Yeah." This wasn't working. He was getting cooler by
the second; she was the one who was starting to get ticked off. "So why did you get so mad at me for
chasing off after Zelda?" "Because that was one damned dumb thing to
do." Yes. She couldn't see his expression, but she could hear the
hardening of his voice. "I could have been killed," she said,
with a deliberate touch of mockery. "Yeah, you could've been." His tone
was positively flinty. " 'Course, if you're bound and determined to give
that guy out there another chance to get in some target practice, there's only
so much I can do." A beat passed. Her voice went soft. "So what's it to
you?" McCabe didn't reply right away. Their eyes met,
but the enveloping shadows made it impossible to read anything in his
expression. Silence stretched out between them, vibrating with a tension that
was almost tangible. "Darlin', believe me, I'm not in favor of anybody
being killed," he said finally. Cool again. And casual. Too cool and
casual. To hell with it. Subtlety had never been her
strong suit anyway. Tightening the belt on her robe with the air of a fighter
getting ready to step into the ring, Maddie took the three steps necessary to
put her directly in front of him. He still leaned against the counter, but he
stiffened a little and almost seemed to brace himself. This close, she could
see the black, restless gleam of his eyes, the high, hard cheekbones, the long,
mobile mouth, the lean stubbled jaw. He looked big, dark, and dangerous. Her heart turned over. "McCabe..." "Hmm?" He sounded slightly wary. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe we're
developing a relationship here?" "A relationship?" There was no
slightly about the wary this time. His eyes narrowed. His jaw hardened. His
fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. He was suddenly as still as
if he'd been carved out of stone. Not that he had to say anything. Electricity
leaped between them, so strong it practically ignited the air. "Yeah," she said. "A
relationship. As in, I'm crazy about you, you're crazy about me..." His eyes flared at her. Holding his gaze, she
reached out and ran a semi-teasing finger down the center of his chest. As she
had thought, he was wearing a T-shirt. It felt old and soft, and the muscular
contours beneath felt masculine and hard. She'd wanted heat. Now she was feeling it in
spades. He sucked in air through his teeth. His hand
came up to catch hers. She felt that big, warm hand wrapping around her slender
one clear down to her toes. He kept her hand trapped, a willing prisoner
flattened against his chest, and her pulse rate skyrocketed. "Maddie..." "Hmm?" His eyes were suddenly as black and shiny as jet. "For all kinds of reasons, a relationship
between us right now would be a really bad idea." With her hand pressed to his chest, she could
feel the rhythm of his heart. It was beating hard and fast—way too hard and
fast for a man who was basically telling her to take a hike. He wanted her.
There was no mistaking that. "Too late," she said softly, almost
whimsically, and took a step nearer. She was so close now that the hem of her
robe brushed his jeans. "What do you mean, too late?" His
voice was low and a little rough around the edges. She could feel the pounding
of his heart beneath her hand. "I told you: I'm crazy about you. I'm sorry
if it's a problem for you, but it's too late to do anything about it." She smiled up into his eyes, and he straightened
away from the counter fast, releasing her hand in favor of catching her by the
elbows and holding her as if he couldn't decide whether to pull her close or
push her away. Her hands flattened against his chest, fingers pressing into the
warm, resilient muscles there, and his grip on her elbows tightened. She was
tingling all over, tingling in places she didn't know she had, and filled with
a spreading warmth that had its center somewhere deep inside her body. Whatever
came of this, she was going into it with no regrets. Once again, she was
proving herself to be her father's daughter: She was taking a gamble, going for
it, making a play for what she wanted. And what she wanted—so badly that her heart was
pounding and her blood was racing and her throat was dry—was him. "Maddie..." There was strain in his
voice, and a sense of deliberately exercised control. "This isn't
something we need to be doing right now." She could feel the tension emanating from him,
and the heat. She could feel the slamming of his heart beneath her hands. "Are you saying you're not crazy about me?
" A beat passed. "No," he said at last. "I'm not
saying that." And for that piece of honesty, she went up on
her tiptoes and kissed him. For just a second his lips were warm and soft
beneath hers, but as she deepened the kiss they hardened and parted. "McCabe," she whispered, licking into
his mouth. He made an inarticulate sound, and his hands
released her elbows to slide around her waist. Suddenly he was kissing her,
pulling her close and slanting his mouth across hers as she wrapped her arms
around his neck and kissed him back. His lips were warm and dry, and the inside
of his mouth was hot and wet and tasted, very faintly, of milk. His tongue slid
against hers, claimed her mouth, and her stomach clenched and her knees went
weak. His arms around her were taut with muscle, and his body was taut with
muscle, too, and taller than hers and broader than hers and harder than hers.
Excitingly harder than hers. She could feel the unmistakable evidence of his
desire pressing against her abdomen even through her robe, and sucked in her
breath. He deepened the kiss, leaning back against the
counter again, pulling her against him. Her heart pounded and her legs trembled
and her stomach tied itself in knots. She could feel the urgency in him, feel
the tension in the arms around her, in the rigidity of his shoulders and back
and neck beneath her hands. Letting him take her weight, she pressed herself
against him, sliding her tongue deep into his mouth, sliding her fingers through
the short, crisp strands of hair at the back of his head. She was melting for him. Hungry for him. Her
body was on fire... His mouth left hers to feather kisses along the
line of her jaw. "You're beautiful," he whispered
against her skin. "Gorgeous. Sexy. Edible." He nibbled at her earlobe. Maddie's breath caught. Her knees gave. If his
arms hadn't been around her, she would have dissolved into a little puddle of
desire at his feet. "And you're crazy about me." She was
surprised she could talk at all. He raised his head to look down at her. The
diamond-hard glint in his eyes was enough to make her racing heart skip a beat. "Yeah," he said. "There's
that." "Thought so," Maddie breathed, and he
smiled and she got all gooey inside over his dimples, and while she was still
distracted he kissed her again, with a hungry urgency that made her dizzier
than she already was. She clung to him, kissing him back as if she'd die if she
didn't, while her head spun and desire coiled tightly inside her body and
delicious little shivers of anticipation raced over her skin. "McCabe," she whispered, trembling a
little at the hot, wet slide of his mouth along the exquisitely sensitive chord
at the side of her neck. He lifted his head and looked at her. The gleam
in his eyes was almost tender. "Don't you think it's about time you
started calling me Sam?" His voice was low and husky, but with a touch of
humor mixed in there, too. Maddie gave a shaky little laugh. "Sam," she said obediently. Then, "Sam,
"because his hands were parting the edges of her robe and sliding
beneath it, pushing it from her shoulders so that it crumpled to the linoleum
with the faintest whisper of sound. Big, warm, long-fingered hands that were
moving over the satiny pistachio slip that she'd chosen to sleep in just
because it was the sexiest nightgown she owned, and she wanted to be sexy for
him. Strong and capable hands that stroked over her breasts and teased her
nipples and molded her waist and slid down over her butt to pull her tight
against him. Expert masculine hands that slid under the edge of her slip... "Sam," she moaned as his hands closed
on her bare cheeks. Her slip had ridden up around her navel now so that there
was no longer any barrier at all between her body and the hard, urgent mound
beneath the cool abrasion of his jeans. Rocking her against him, he kissed her
mouth, her neck, her ear, while her heart pounded and her breathing came short
and fast and her body quaked and burned and throbbed. "This is such a bad idea," he said in
a thick voice, pulling her closer yet and sliding a thigh between her legs and
moving it against her in a way that felt so incredibly good that all she could
do was gasp and shiver and wrap her arms around his neck and hang on for the
ride. "I don't care," she replied, barely
able to think, let alone speak. His thigh between her legs was a revelation, a
pleasure-giving machine of awesome proportions, and she pressed back against it
instinctively. The resulting undulating waves of desire made her moan with
dazzled surprise. "Hell, me neither." His voice was
hoarse and thick, scarcely louder than a growl. His mouth found hers again, and she kissed him
back with the kind of abandon that came from being totally, completely,
toe-curlingly turned-on. She wanted him. God, she wanted him. She wanted
him naked and inside her and... First things first. Her hands measured the breadth of his shoulders,
slipped down the front of his chest, found the edge of his T-shirt. Then they
moved beneath it, flattening against his lean middle, loving the firmness of
the muscles there, loving the satin-over-steel quality of his skin. She could
feel him breathing, feel his chest heaving as if he'd been running for miles,
feel the pounding of his heart as she slid her hands up over his rib cage. Her
own heart was pounding, too, and her breathing came fast and erratic as she
stroked the thicket of hair that covered the center of his chest, flattened her
palms over the wide, firm curves of his pecs, then touched his flat male
nipples. He lifted his head at that and inhaled. "You're killing me here," he said in a
low, shaken voice. For a moment he simply breathed and looked at her, his eyes
heavy-lidded and so hot that they made her dizzy, and then with a quick,
sweeping movement he pulled his T-shirt over his head. She could see the
heavily muscled contours of his wide shoulders silhouetted against the
curtains. She could feel the damp heat of his skin all around her, beneath her
hands and against her arms and burning through the thin nylon of her gown. She
could smell something vaguely sweet—her brow wrinkled; was it strawberries?—and
beneath it his own special brand of eau de man. Her loins clenched. Her heart gave a great,
shuddering leap. Leaning into him, she pressed her open mouth to the salt-tinged
column of his neck and slid her hand over the tensile, hair-roughened six-pack
of his belly. Encountering his waistband, she slipped her hand beneath it. He was there, right there, burning hot, damp,
and so huge and hard that he was all but bursting out of his jeans. She touched
him, wrapped her hand around... "Damn." He said it through clenched teeth. Lifting her head, she
saw that his face was hard and fierce and his eyes blazed down at her. Wanting
him so much that she was dizzy with it, she withdrew her hand and began to
fumble with the button on his jeans. For a moment he stayed perfectly still.
Then his hands tightened on the round curves of her cheeks and he lifted her up
off her feet. Squeaking with surprise, she clutched at his shoulders as he took
two steps with her and put her down. Barebottomed. On the cool, smooth oak
surface of her kitchen table. And pulled her nightgown over her head. Before Maddie had quite grasped that she was now
sitting on her kitchen table naked, he was kissing her again and
shucking his jeans and spreading her legs and moving between them. It was dark,
but not so dark that she couldn't see that he was huge and hung and ready for
action. Her heart pounded, her body burned and clenched, and she trembled with
anticipation. She reached for him, but he caught her hands before she could
make contact and guided them to his shoulders. "Sam..." "Sit tight." Perched almost on the edge of the table, she
clung, breathing hard as that huge, hot part of him just brushed her while he slid
slow, thrilling hands up the insides of her thighs. At the exquisite sensation, she gritted her
teeth and curled her toes and almost forgot to breathe. "Do me now," she said, shocked
at herself, but wanting him so much that she didn't care, loving the way
he felt between her thighs, so turned-on that she was woozy with it, so ready
for him to come inside her that she could scream—but he didn't. "Soon," he promised, his voice
guttural now. He bent his head and put his hot, wet mouth on her breast, and slid
one of those big, warm, long-fingered hands down between her legs. "Sam," she whispered. Then, as his
mouth tightened and pulled on her breast and his hand started working its
magic, she said in a very different tone, "Oh, Sam." He kissed her breasts and delved into the
velvety delta between her thighs, finding that part of her that ached and
yearned and burned for his touch, then leaned her back against the table and
kissed her there, too, keeping at it until she was mindless, until she had no
inhibitions left, until she was arching her back and reaching for him and
begging. When she was almost there, when she shivered and quaked and dug her
nails into the oak and thrashed and moaned, he stood up and gripped her
hipbones and pushed into her, filling her to capacity, so big and hard and hot
that she cried out and twined her legs around his waist and surged to meet him.
Then he took her, hard and fast, plunging into her with a series of fierce,
deep thrusts until she lost all sense of time and place, until she was crying
out at the wonder of it, until finally she came with a shattering intensity
that caused the night to explode against her closed eyelids in a burst of
thousands of glittering stars. "Maddie," he groaned then, thrusting
himself deep inside her shaking body and holding himself there as, at last, he
found his own release. The sex had been great. Mind-blowing.
Earth-shattering. The aftermath was—awkward. When a woman had just been thoroughly done on
top of her very own kitchen table, there was just no romantic, dignified, or
even moderately unembarrassing way to bridge the transition from hot sex to
cold reality, Maddie decided. However, continuing to lie naked in the center
of said table like a turkey on a platter was probably the most humiliating of
the available choices. She sat up, and slid off. Sam was watching her. He was a few feet away, he
was naked, and even with the bloom off the rose, so to speak, he was looking
hot. Unfortunately, she was feeling cold. And
embarrassed. And very, very grateful that the kitchen was dark. A lesser woman would have wrapped her arms
around herself and scuttled from the room at that point. A more poised one
would have come up with something witty and charming to say to ease the
situation. But with his eyes on her and her mind still
semi-blown and the memory of really hot sex simmering in the air between them,
the best she could manage was a weak, drawn-out, "So..." "Want your robe?" he asked, holding it
out to her. She hadn't realized he'd been holding it in one hand until then. He
sounded like himself again, like McCabe rather than Sam, and the familiar,
drawling cadence had the unexpected effect of making her tingle, just a little. "Thanks." She took her robe, pulled it
on, and immediately felt a little less vulnerable. Okay, no point in
pussyfooting around. Might as well get the thing right out in the open and have
done with it. With what she considered a very creditable assumption of ease,
she tightened her belt and said, "Tell me we did not just do it on the
kitchen table." "Yeah," he said, folding his arms over
his chest and leaning a hip against the counter and looking her over. His eyes
gleamed at her. "We did." So much for ease. Her heartbeat quickened under
the silent perusal of those heavy-lidded black eyes. What was he thinking? Was
he sorry? She couldn't tell. She couldn't see him well enough to read his
expression at that distance—and it was impossible to divine anything from his
tone. But he might well be sorry. If she was going to look the truth squarely
in the eye, she had to admit it: She had seduced him. I'm crazy about you... She could almost hear herself saying it. The
thing was, he'd never actually said it back. "Well—I think I'll just go take a quick
shower." As far as graceful exit lines went, that left something to be
desired, she knew. But under the circumstances, it was absolutely, positively
the best she could do. What she needed was time alone to regroup. And a little
personal grooming wouldn't go amiss, either, in case he should at some point
decide to turn on a light. Her mouth felt swollen, and her hair was a bush...
When she'd recovered her equilibrium and was feeling more like herself, she
could pursue this thing between them—maybe. Or maybe not. Maybe she'd just leave it at a single session of
really mind-blowing sex. "Sounds like a plan," he said, and
started picking up his clothes. Swallowing, feeling as ridiculously
uncomfortable as a teenager on a first date, she headed out of the kitchen. "Maddie." His voice stopped her just
as she reached the doorway. She turned back to glance at him inquiringly.
"Forgot something." He tossed her nightgown to her. Even as she
caught it, even as she felt the slide of the silky nylon through her fingers
and breathed in the scent of sex that seemed to cling to it, she had an instant
flashback to the moment when he'd pulled it over her head. Just like that her loins clenched, her breasts
tightened and swelled, and she felt a sudden, unmistakable upsurge of heat. Her eyes met his, and her breath caught, and she
knew: For her, this was already more than a quickie love affair. Turning on her heel, clutching her nightgown in
suddenly nerveless fingers, she headed for the bathroom and sanctuary. But even
as she closed the door and turned on the taps, she could not escape the refrain
that beat endlessly in her brain. It was one word, repeated over and over
again: Stupid. It was the scent of strawberries that was to
blame. Sam came to that conclusion as he walked into the bathroom five minutes
later and inhaled it along with a lungful of steam. The security system was on,
the bathroom door was unlocked, and his firm intention not to fuck his bait was
blown all to hell. He was nuts, and he knew it, and that was the only
explanation he could find: The faint, insidious smell that had been haunting
him since he had first met Maddie had finally driven him totally insane. That being the case, he was going to go with it. She was still in the shower, and he was still
naked. Seemed like destiny to him. Pulling the curtain aside—she jumped and
squeaked, and he had to grab her arm to steady her—he stepped into the tub and
moved under the warm spray with her. Crowded, she backed up and looked up at
him, wide-eyed, the shampoo bottle clutched in her hand. Her face was shiny wet
and suds were in her hair and water sluiced over her drop-dead body and dripped
from her delectable rosy-tipped breasts. His gaze touched on creamy shoulders
and those perfect round breasts, then slid over the slender curve of her waist
and the satiny flatness of her belly to the soft, sable triangle of curls
between her truly gorgeous legs. She was so damned beautiful that his stomach
clenched. Along with several other notable body parts. "What are you doing?"she
demanded. So far, he realized, he hadn't said a word, and
she was looking at him like he was crazy. Not a surprise, since he clearly was. "I forgot to tell you something." He
took the shampoo bottle from her hand and reached around her to set it back in
the white wire rack that hung from the shower nozzle. That brought him so close
to her that he could feel the jiggle of her soft, warm breasts against his
chest. He looked down at the strawberry-tipped, creamy
pale globes nudging into his chest hair and felt himself getting the mother of
all hard-ons. "What?" "I'm crazy as hell about you," he
said, and wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him and kissed
her. Then he proceeded to do what he could to prove it. Later, much later, they were in her bed. All
three of them. Sam lay on his back with one arm curled beneath his head and
Maddie draped across his chest. That damned nuisance of a dog sprawled at their
feet. He and Maddie were naked, and she and the dog, whom he'd given up trying
to kick off the bed, were asleep. One of them was snoring, delicate rattling
gasps that were as rhythmic as the tick of the bedside clock. He was pretty
sure it was the dog, but he was too tired to look and see. The pretty little strawberry-scented thing on
top of him had just about worn him out, Sam reflected, and he would have
grinned if he could have mustered the energy. He wouldn't have believed such a
thing was possible if he hadn't just experienced it. She'd been surprising him since they'd met, and
she had surprised him between the sheets, too. Just as he had foreseen, he'd played with fire
and had gotten burned. Or, rather, gone up in flames. Not that, with the wisdom
of hindsight, he was thinking that was such a bad thing. She'd made him hot. She'd made him crazy. He'd
made her his. Seemed like a pretty fair trade to him. Sam was just thinking that, except for a few
minor problems like a killer on the loose, all was nearer to being right in his
world than it had been for a long time, when his cell phone started to ring. It was on the bedside table, along with his gun.
Tensing, he reached for it. Maddie lifted her head. The dog looked up. "Sam?" Maddie said on a questioning
note, even as he picked the thing up and it continued to ring. "It's my phone." He fumbled with the
bedside lamp. Turning it on, he looked at the ID window. Error, it said. "Shit." He was suddenly as juiced as
if he'd just taken a hit of speed. "What? " she asked, scooting off to
lie beside him, her eyes wide on his face. "Don't make a sound," he warned her,
and, sitting up, flipped open his phone. "McCabe." "Hey, asshole," the familiar voice
said. "Miss me?" "Like a bad case of the clap." It hit
him that he was talking to the sick bastard who had tried—was trying—to kill
Maddie, and he felt a murderous spurt of rage. She was staring at him, propped
up on her elbows beside him, flushed with sex and naked, and he felt a fierce,
hard rush of protectiveness and possession. "Where you been?" I'm gonna take you down, he promised the guy silently. He listened hard,
heard something in the background. He couldn't quite make out what it was. The
computers would automatically pick up the call, he knew. Later they could get
the background sounds enhanced... "Busy. I've been busy." The son of a
bitch sounded almost affable. The sounds in the background—Sam still couldn't
quite place them. But he was getting a bad feeling about this. Something was
wrong. "You quit playing the game, McCabe." "What are you talking about?" Time. He had to play for time. One of these
days, the sick bastard was going to talk too long and they'd have him. Just one
second too long, and it would be all over. The computers would be busy now,
trying to locate him. Gardner would have heard the call come in. She would be
up and listening. "Our game. The game we've been playing. You
quit on me. So I've decided to up the ante." "We're not playing any game." Sam
hoped the alarm he was beginning to feel wasn't audible in his voice. Cool.
Stay cool. "Say hello to Carol Walter, asshole." The sounds in the background were getting
louder, like they were coming closer to the phone, or the phone was coming
closer to them. It sounded like—sobs. Someone sobbing. Someone who was now weeping into the phone. He
could hear gasping sounds, sniffles... "Help. Please help me. Please.
Please." A woman's voice, terrified, shaking, the words interspersed with
sobs. Jesus. Sam's gut clenched. He knew. He already knew... "I'm
going to kill her now. And you're going to listen." "No!" Sam
yelled, catapulting out of bed, but he was helpless, he couldn't stop it, he
could only stand there beside the bed and listen as the woman wept and begged,
at a slight distance from the phone now, "Please don't, please
don..." Bang. The first shot echoed through the phone, through
his head, through his soul. "No!" Sam yelled again, and then, his voice shaking, "You
sick fuck, we're going to get you. We're going to..." Bang. The second shot rang out, stopping Sam in full
spiel. Insurance, of course. The woman was already dead. He knew it, but he
still felt that shot like a body blow. His heart slammed against his rib cage.
Sweat streamed out of his pores. "Now you're playing again." The
bastard was back on the line, sounding delighted. "That's good. I'm in
Dallas, by the way. 4214 Holmsby Court. And once again, you're too late." Keep him talking. The computers—and Gardner—were hearing this, too,
and the cops would be on the way. "I didn't know we were playing a
game," Sam said, trying to clamp down on every emotion except the need to
catch a killer. It required the effort of a lifetime to sound cool, sound
dispassionate. "Now you do. And now that I'm having so
much fun, I'm going to up the ante even more. Next time, I might even let yon
watch." "Next time..." Sam began. He was
interrupted. "Here's your first clue. Where in the world
is—Kerry?" Sam thought he could hear, very distantly, the
sound of sirens coming over the phone. Keep him talking. "I don't..." Definitely sirens. The cavalry was on the way.
Just keep him talking... "Better hurry, asshole." There was a click, and suddenly Sam found
himself talking to air. "Shit," Sam said, feeling as if he was
bleeding inside. "Shit, shit, shit." He looked up and saw that Maddie was staring at
him. She was sitting up now in the middle of the bed, her eyes wide as saucers,
her mouth open, her skin paper-white. The covers were clamped under her
armpits, and the dog was huddled against her legs. She'd heard everything, it
was clear. Probably she'd been traumatized for life. But he couldn't worry about that now. "Sam..." she said in a thin, high
voice. "Who... ?" "Wait." He was already punching
numbers into the phone. "One minute." Gardner answered, sounding wide-awake despite
the fact—he glanced at the clock—that it was 3:28 a.m. Probably she'd been
goosed by adrenaline, too. "Did you get that?" he asked. "Yeah," she said, rock-steady as
always. "The cops should be pulling into the driveway of 4214 Holmsby
Court any minute now." Too late, Sam thought. Too fucking late. Snapping the phone
shut, he nearly crushed it in his fist. Then he looked at Maddie and thought, That
could have been you. At the image that thought conjured up, he felt as if
all the air had suddenly been sucked out of the room. It required real physical
effort on his part to force himself to breathe. TWENTY-ONE I'm in mourning, Maddie thought. That was the only way to describe how she
felt as she basically sleepwalked through the following day. Listening to that
poor woman being murdered last night had been a horror almost past bearing.
She'd been up the rest of the night, unable to sleep, unable to get the sounds
and the terrible images they had conjured up out of her mind. It was almost as
if she'd been there and seen what had happened—and she knew why. She had been
there, once upon a time. She had seen what had happened. Seven years ago... Then it had occurred to her with a rush of icy
fear that she had almost shared Carol Walter's fate in that hotel room in New
Orleans. That was the death her attacker had planned for her. Still had planned for her. At that realization, Maddie had broken into a
cold sweat. Seeing her fear, Sam had pulled her into his
arms and buried his face in her hair and sworn to her that whatever happened,
he would keep her safe. And then he'd kissed her, a deep, fierce kiss,
before putting her away from him and getting to work. Curled in a corner of the couch, she'd watched
him pacing restlessly through her small apartment, tracking the progress of the
investigation over the phone. She'd been forcibly reminded that he was an FBI
agent, and it hadn't mattered. He was, simply, Sam to her now. He had assumed a
veneer of hard professionalism. She had seen through it, though. Seen his
guilt. Seen his pain. Just like he had seen her fear. It had been then, as they waited for Wynne, who
had immediately rushed over to babysit her while Sam headed for their hotel to
take long-distance charge of the frenzied hunt for the killer, that Sam had
told her the whole thing, in quick bits and pieces interspersed between phone
calls. Maddie had listened, appalled, to the story of how he had chased the
killer across the country, of the phoned-in clues and the rising body count and
the constant race to save yet another life. And by the time he had finished,
she had realized something: She was going to have to tell Sam the truth. She didn't know who the killer was, but she knew
where to start looking. With seven people already dead and another life on the
line, the price of keeping her secret had suddenly grown too high. She'd almost told him last night. The words had
trembled on the tip of her tongue as they had waited for Wynne. But then she'd
looked at Sam, and the truth had stuck in her throat. She was crazy about
him—no, face it, she was crazy in love with him—and what she was going to tell
him would blow this shiny, new, wonderful thing between them sky-high. Imagining how Sam would look at her once he knew
made her feel like she was shriveling up and dying inside. And there was Creative Partners, too. And Jon
and Louise and Judy and Herb and Ana. The Brehmer account. Her apartment. Her life. If she told the truth, it was gone, all of it.
The clock would strike midnight. Her fancy coach would turn back into a
pumpkin. Her glittering gown would revert to rags. As for her handsome prince —
well, he would stay a handsome prince. She was the one who would be turning into a
frog. "What the hell areyoustilldoinginSt.Louis?"Smolskibellowed over the phone. "You're supposed to be in
charge of this investigation, so get your ass down to Dallas and take charge of
it." "I'm staying put," Sam said. It was
shortly after three p.m. He and Gardner were in the hotel room that served as
their base of operations. The curtains were open, and they had a prime view of
brilliant blue sky, busy interstate, and the nearly empty parking lot two floors
below. The air conditioner hummed, working hard. The files he'd been reviewing
when the phone rang—the most recent of the cases he'd been working on were
spread out across the bed. Gardner was seated at the desk, working at her
laptop. A printer attached to another laptop across the room was spewing out
pages of composite photos based on witness descriptions of suspicious persons
observed in the vicinity of last night's crime scene. Unfortunately, the
witness descriptions were all over the map, and so far none of the resulting
photos matched composites from the previous crime scenes, making it unlikely
that anyone who'd been interviewed so far had seen the actual killer. "What do you mean, you're staying put? You
got any dead bodies in St. Louis? Hell, no. The dead body's in Dallas. What you
got in St. Louis is a piece of ass." "He's going to come for her. I mean to be
here when he does." Smolski grunted and said, "You don't know
that." "I'm as sure of it as it's possible to
be." "What about this new target, huh?
Whosit—what'd you say the name was?" "Kerry." "What about Kerry, huh?" "We're working on it here, and we've got
people out doing legwork in every likely city, trying to come up with an ID.
Just like we got people doing legwork in Dallas on last night's homicide." "But you think the best thing you and your
team can do is stick with that hot little St. Louis gal." There was no
mistaking the sarcasm in Smolski's tone. Sam kept his voice steady. "Yeah, that's
what I think." "What if I ordered you to get your ass down
to Dallas?" Sam grimaced. Knowing Smolski as he did, he had
been expecting this. "Then I'd have to decline. Respectfully." Smolski grunted. "Respectfully, my
ass." A beat passed. "Like I said before, your case, your call. But
McCabe—" "Yeah?" "If we don't get the UNSUB pretty shortly,
it's your ass." With that, he hung up. "Shit," Sam said, and turned back to
see what Gardner was doing. Her fingers had stopped moving over the keyboard.
She was staring at her computer screen, seemingly transfixed. "Something up?" he asked, his
attention caught, and moved over to stand behind her. Looking at the images
glowing up at him from her screen, he realized she'd just come up with a
fingerprint match. "You are not going to believe this,"
she said in a strangled voice. And she pointed at a way too familiar picture on
the screen. "Come on, Zelda," Maddie said
dispiritedly, trying to hurry Zelda across the parking lot and inside the
Brehmer's Pet Food factory. The QuikStop where she had gotten gas was just
visible to her left through the tall chain-link fence. To her right, the
interstate overpass blocked her view of the corner where she'd seen the hooker
at work. The drone of traffic rushing past on the expressway provided
background noise to the nearer sound of cars cruising through the lot, looking
for a place to park. The white gate at the entrance gave a dull thud each time
it was raised or lowered to allow a vehicle to pass through. It was getting on
toward five, and she was supposed to meet Susan and Jon, who'd been checking
out various interior locations in the plant as possible spots for the
soon-to-be-filmed commercials featuring Zelda, in the manager's office at five,
at which time she would hand over the poky pooch to her rightful guardian. Thank
goodness. Not that Zelda wasn't being reasonably well behaved, because she was.
At the groomers, at the photo shoot, at lunch, at the office—everywhere they'd
been that day, Zelda had been as little trouble as anyone could expect an
animal she'd had to take everywhere with her and pamper like a doggy
diva-to-be. Of course, some of Zelda's good behavior could be thanks to the
supply of snacks Maddie had armed herself with. Right now, the pocket of her
aqua linen jacket was half-full of goldfish crackers, which she'd been
dispensing judiciously throughout the car ride from her office to the plant.
Unfortunately, since Zelda had already consumed a large quantity of pretzels,
bagel bits, and french fries (Maddie had decided against giving her any more
candy after Louise had told her that chocolate was bad for dogs), she'd had
some gastric issues over the course of the afternoon. All in all, though, Maddie considered noxious
gas and near-hourly dumps a small price to pay for relative peace. And as far as she was concerned, the problem
would soon be resolved, because it would soon be Susan's. Meanwhile, the air smelled of car exhaust and
melting asphalt, the heat was tropical and intense, and the sun blazed in the
endless blue sky, although just at that moment the shadow of the building in
front of her sheltered her from the worst of its rays. The parking lot was
filled to overflowing with cars, as another shift arrived to replace the
workers who would soon be going home. As soon as she handed Zelda over to Susan,
she would be heading home, too. According to Wynne, who was trailing at a more
or less discreet distance behind her, Sam would meet them at her apartment to
take over for him. The prospect made Maddie nauseous. The moment of truth was speeding toward her on
winged feet. The sad thing was, for one brief shining moment
last night, she'd taken a look around her bedroom and realized that she finally
had everything she'd ever wanted: an unbelievably sexy man, a cute little dog,
and a successful, respectable life. Too bad none of it was hers to keep. "You can't stop and sniff everything,"
Maddie told Zelda with exasperation, tugging on the leash as the little dog,
trailing behind, stopped in her tracks yet again, then took a detour beneath
the bumper of a small red pickup. She emerged moments later, looking pleased
with herself as she chomped on what looked like the remains of a burrito. "Zelda, no!" But it was too late. The burrito was gone. Zelda
licked her lips, looked at Maddie with shining black eyes, and wagged her tail.
Then she gave an unmistakable belch. "Oh, Zelda." "Dog must be part goat," Wynne said,
coming up behind her. She glanced around at him. He was wearing a
bright blue Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts, and a baseball cap in what she
assumed was an effort to look like something other than the FBI agent he was.
He succeeded in that, but he did not succeed in being inconspicuous. In St.
Louis, giant blond cherubs were pretty thin on the ground. "She's been kept on a strict diet,"
Maddie said excusingly, and dredged up a smile. The thing was, just looking at
Wynne made her stomach twist. Soon he was going to know the truth. Ridiculous
as it seemed, over the course of the last few days she had come to consider him
a friend. She'd be losing that, too. The list of losses she was getting ready to
suffer was growing so long that she could hardly bear to think about it. "Think you two could move it along
here?" Wynne asked as he walked past her. "Remember, the objective is
to get inside the building as fast as you can." He stopped about three cars up from her, propped
his sneaker on a bumper, and made a business out of tying his shoe. He was
trying to pretend that he wasn't with her, that they were strangers exchanging
casual conversation in a parking lot, Maddie knew. Gomez and Hendricks were
present, too, watching from the van, which they had parked not far from her
car. The entire exercise seemed pretty pointless, however. Unless the hit man
did his thing within the next half-hour or so, he was out of luck. She was
going to be sounding the death knell on this little travesty herself. "Come on, Zelda." Sniffing around the truck for a second course,
Zelda ignored her. Maddie tugged at the leash, sighed, and faced the truth:
Unless she was prepared to drag Zelda across the parking lot, they were
basically going nowhere fast. It was too hot to be covered in dog hair,
especially given the fact that she was zipped up from neck to hips in a
bulletproof vest, and her jacket and matching tank and white linen pants had just
come back from the cleaners, but there was no help for it if she wanted to get
inside the factory anytime soon. She bent to scoop the animal up. So far today,
Zelda had shown no inclination to bite the hand that fed her, and with that in
mind, Maddie held another goldfish cracker in front of the dog's flat little
face as she headed toward the plant. Zelda gobbled it up, and rewarded her with a
lick on the wrist. "I know the way to your heart,"
Maddie said sourly. She had almost reached the gray metal door set into the
side of the building marked Office when she heard Wynne, who was once
again some small distance behind her, speak. "Yo, what are you two doing here?" he
said, sounding surprised. "Gardner'll fill you in." It was Sam's
voice, and its tone was grim. Maddie turned so fast that her jacket swirled.
Despite everything, a smile trembled on her lips. Sure enough, it was Sam. He was wearing jeans,
sneakers, and a white polo shirt that hugged his broad shoulders and wide chest
and made his hair look as black as the melting asphalt and his skin
mouthwateringly tan. He was in his dark-and-dangerous mode, with a
hint of stubble, no trace of a smile, and a pair of Ray-Bans wrapped around his
eyes to shield them from the sun. He was closing the distance between them
fast, his tall, powerful body cutting like a knife through the shimmering veil
of heat that rose from the pavement. Her eyes flicked beyond him to Cynthia,
who was dressed in a black T-shirt and slacks and had a hand on Wynne's arm.
She was saying something to Wynne, and he was frowning down at her. Then she looked at Sam again, and her heart
lurched. There was something about the way he moved... Her smile died. "Sam?" As he reached her, she looked
up at him uncertainly. His jaw was hard and set. His mouth was a thin, straight
line. His head tilted toward her, and she thought he was looking at her, though
it was impossible to be sure with the sunglasses hiding his eyes. "We need to talk," he said. Taking
hold of her arm, he turned her about and took her with him into the building.
There was nothing remotely gentle in his grip. Where before she had been almost
suffocatingly hot, now she felt suddenly very cold. It was possible that this
was because she'd just stepped out of the sun and into an air-conditioned
building, but she didn't think so. "What—what is it?" Her heart was
beating very fast. His fingers holding her were like iron. She glanced up at
him as he hustled her down the hall past the manager's office, where Jon and
Susan were probably already waiting. The harsh fluorescent lighting in the
narrow hall hid nothing. She could see the whiteness at the corners of his
mouth, see the tension in his face, see the muscles bunched in his jaw. This was bad.
Her breathing quickened. Little curls of panic
twisted in her stomach. She could feel a hard knot of dread tightening beneath
her breastbone. "Sam..." She tried again, fighting for
a measure of calm, looking up at him almost pleadingly. "Wait till we get somewhere private."
The words were clipped, the tone harsh. Maddie despaired. He knew. She knew he did.
There was no other explanation for his behavior. She'd just found him, just
fallen in love with him, and now he knew and was lost to her forever. She said nothing more as he pushed open one door
after another and marched her along a series of hallways. She wasn't even
surprised that he seemed to know exactly where he was going. Of course he knew
the layout of the plant, knew where to find privacy in a factory teeming with
people. He would have checked. He would have found out before coming. He was an
FBI agent, after all. It was the FBI agent whose hand was wrapped
around her arm. Maddie realized that she was shivering as he
pushed open one last door and she stepped through it to discover that they were
at the very back of the building, in a high-ceilinged, metal-walled,
cement-floored space that she guessed, from the tractor-trailer-sized garage
doors, was the loading dock. It was the size of a small warehouse, and sunlight
filtered in through grimy little windows set high up in the walls. The huge
overhead doors were closed, but a smaller, ordinary-size door was propped open
in the corner to her right. Dust motes hung in the air, and the place smelled,
vaguely, of beef. He shut the door through which they had just
entered behind him, and let go of her arm. Maddie stepped a few paces away,
then turned to face him. She was hugging Zelda close, too close for the little
dog's liking, in a reflexive attempt to find what comfort she could. Only when
Zelda squirmed did she realize that she had the dog in her arms at all. Taking
a good grip on the leash, she set Zelda on her feet and straightened, looking
at Sam apprehensively. He took off his sunglasses. His eyes were as
cold and hard as chips of black ice as they met hers. His jaw was unyielding.
His face could have been carved from granite. She wet her lips. "Sam," she said. To her dismay, she
realized that her voice sounded all croaky. His eyes flashed at her. "A funny thing happened this
afternoon," he began almost conversationally, hooking the sunglasses in
the neck of his shirt and folding his arms over his chest. There was a terrible
burning anger at the backs of his eyes that stopped her breath. "We ran
all the fingerprints that came out of your hotel room in New Orleans through
the Automated Fingerprint Identification System a couple of days ago, and the
results came back today. There was only one set of flagged prints. They came
complete with a picture. The picture was of you. The name that went with it was
Leslie Dolan. That ring any bells?" She'd known it, of course. Known it from the
moment she got a look at his face. Still, his words hit her like a blow to the
solar plexus. She hugged her stomach, shivering, feeling bile rising in her
throat, as corrosive as acid. "Sam," she said. Her voice was piteous
now. She would have been ashamed of the poor, pitiful begging sound of it if
she hadn't been so busy listening to her world shattering into a million tiny
pieces around her like a dropped globe of delicate handblown glass. "Just to jog your memory, Leslie Dolan was
arrested in Baltimore eight years ago and charged with being an accessory after
the fact to first-degree murder as well as with money laundering, racketeering,
and a whole bunch of other, slightly less impressive charges. She was looking
at a sentence of maybe twenty, twenty-five years of hard time. But she never
came to trial. Somebody sprung her on bail. Then, a little over a year after
she was arrested, Leslie Dolan died." Something about the flatness of his tone coupled
with the hard, black glitter of his eyes made her physically ill. If he didn't
stop, she feared she might vomit. She shook her head, took a step back. "Are you saying you deny it?" His
voice was suddenly sharp, as cutting as his eyes. "Before you do, maybe I
should tell you that I didn't believe it at first. I thought there had to be
some mistake, identity theft, something. So I checked into the background of
Maddie Fitzgerald. Madeline Elaine Fitzgerald. You, right? And you know what?
Nothing checks out. Western Illinois University has no record that a student by
that name ever attended. Holloman High School in Winnipeg, Illinois—Maddie
Fitzgerald's high school—has no record that a student by that name ever
attended. Parents, John Fitzgerald, dentist, and Elaine Fitzgerald, homemaker,
don't turn up on any records anywhere. Credit agencies, Social Security, the
IRS—everywhere we checked came up empty. For the parents always, and for Maddie
Fitzgerald, until just about seven years ago. You know what that means?" A
deep, high flush had crept up to stain his cheekbones. His voice cracked like a
whip at her. "Until seven years ago, Madeline Elaine Fitzgerald—
you—didn't exist." The words echoed around the four walls, bounced
off the ceiling. Maddie felt faint. Her head spun. Tears blurred her eyes as
she looked at him. "I was going to tell you." "You were going to tell me." The words
were heavy as stones. "Tonight. I was going to tell you
tonight." "You are Leslie Dolan." It was a statement,
not a question. She shuddered and nodded. He was looking at her as if he wanted to kill
her. "No wonder you didn't want to talk to me. No wonder you didn't want
us protecting you. You were hostile from the beginning—and that's fucking
why." "Last night..." she began, meaning to
explain to him how hearing Carol Walter's murder had tipped the scales for her,
made her see that she couldn't keep the secret any longer. Meaning to beg him
to listen, to try to understand. "Last night," he interrupted, his eyes
blazing at her. He took two hasty steps toward her, grabbed her by the arms and
hauled her up against him. Her heart hammered. His face was hard with anger.
His voice was harsh with it. "Last night. Yeah, let's talk about
last night. What, did you decide to fuck me to soften me up for when I found
out?" Maddie recoiled as if from a blow. "That's a terrible thing to say," she
whispered, shaking. "A terrible thing to say? You've got to be kidding me. A terrible thing
to say? Darlin', as far as I'm concerned, skipping out on your old life to
beat an accessory-to-murder charge, creating a whole new identity, living a lie
for seven years, and then, when you had to realize you were about to be found
out, fucking the fed who was in line to bring you in is a terrible thing to
do." "No." Maddie had to fight for air.
"That's not how it was." "So how was it?" His hands tightened
on her arms. His fingers dug into her skin, and for a moment she thought he was
going to shake her. "I'm listening. Go on, Leslie Dolan. Tell me how it
was." Hearing herself addressed by the name she hadn't
used for seven years tore something inside her. It was as if a lid had been
ripped off her emotions, and suddenly everything she'd been bottling up inside
for all those years flooded through her: the shame, the fear, the anger, the
hatred. He was an FBI agent. She hated them most of all. "You," she said, glaring up into his
eyes, loathing him at that moment. "You. With your badge and your
gun and your power. You, with your grandma and your family and your
whole white-bread world. What can you possibly know about me?" Ripping herself from his hold, she took a step
back, stumbled, and nearly fell. He caught her arm, kept her from hitting the
floor, pulled her upright again. "Let go of me." Jerking her arm from
his grasp, she took a deep breath and stood up, proud and tall. If she was
shaking to pieces inside, if part of her was dying inside, she was too wild
with anger and fear—and, yes, grief—for what she was losing now and for the
girl she had once been to notice. "All tight, yes, my name was—is—Leslie
Dolan. So now you know. What are you going to do about it? You want to arrest
me? Well, I'm right here. You got your woman, Mr. Special Agent. Go ahead and
take me in." Fury blazed at her from his eyes as she thrust
both hands out at him, close together as if waiting to be handcuffed. "You want to cuff me? You can cuff me. You
can march me right out of this building and turn me over to whoever the hell it
is that arrogant jackasses like you turn people over to, and then you can go on
back to your nice, safe life, knowing that you've taken a dangerous criminal
off the streets." She didn't realize that the tears that had been
stinging her eyes had spilled over until she felt them, wet and hot, running
down her cheeks. God, she was crying. She hated that she was
crying. How pathetic; how weak... Dropping her hands, she turned her back on him
and started walking away. She might not be able to stop herself from crying,
but she could stop him from watching. He wasn't Sam any longer, not to her. Sam
was gone. In his place was this hard-eyed federal agent who was not ever again
going to be able to see past who she had been. And now, she realized with a dreadful clarity,
who she was once again. "Goddamn it to hell and back," he
said, his voice low and harsh. He had seen her tears. She could tell it from
his tone. A glance over her shoulder showed her that he was standing
stock-still where she had left him, staring after her, his face dark with
anger, his hands curled into hard fists at his sides. He made an abortive
movement, and for a moment she thought he was going to come after her. But he
didn't. Muttering something under his breath, he swung around and started
walking very fast in the opposite direction. At least, if she was now a frog, so was her
handsome prince. She found herself by the open door and leaned
against it for a moment, welcoming the heat now as an antidote to the terrible
shivering cold that seemed to be creeping through her bones. She felt broken,
shattered, raw. Impossible to believe that the world still smelled prosaically
of melting asphalt and ozone. Impossible to believe that it was the same bright
blazing afternoon that she had left behind when Sam had dragged her into the
building. Impossible to believe that there were still lazy tendrils of white
clouds floating across the brilliant blue sky and that heat still rose from the
macadam and that people still went about their daily lives. For the garbage
men, for instance, who were backing their rumbling green truck up to one of the
three huge metal Dumpsters that lined this end of the lot, nothing had changed.
The factory worker, apparently late to his job, who was hurrying across the
pavement, was still going about his business as usual. The driver of the white
pickup she could see heading for the exit had no idea that behind him, a life
had just ended. Her life. Tears streamed down her face at the thought. Okay, get a grip, she told herself savagely, and scrubbed at her streaming
eyes with both hands. As she had already learned many times over in her life,
tears didn't do anything except give you a stuffy nose. The truth was out, and
the happy, healthy, hopeful world that she had created as Maddie Fitzgerald had
crashed and burned. Those were the facts. She was just going to have to deal
with them. I could run. The thought of her secret garage, of her car and
her emergency kit, popped into her head like a shiny, tempting bauble. No one
knew about those... She was standing in an open doorway at the top
of a quartet of narrow concrete steps that led down to the parking lot. If she
could get to her car... Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Sam was
clear on the other side of the loading dock. He had stopped pacing, and was
standing with his back to her, his head down, his hands locked behind his neck,
thinking or cursing or getting a grip on his anger, she had no idea which. He
looked tall and dark and handsome, all of those clichйs, and for a moment, just
a moment more, she let herself grieve the loss. Then she looked determinedly toward the future. And saw Zelda darting under the wheels of the
garbage truck. Until that moment, she had forgotten all about her. Now she
realized that the leash, which was trailing after Zelda, had also just
disappeared beneath the truck. She had no idea when it had dropped from her
hand. "Zelda!" Maddie cried,
horror-stricken, and swarmed down the steps as everything flew out of her head
except the need to protect the little dog from her gluttonous self. The truck was rumbling as it backed up, the
sound loud enough to block out almost everything else. But it was moving very
slowly, inch by terrifying inch. "Stop!" Maddie raced toward it, waving
at the driver, who was looking over his shoulder and didn't see her.
"Zelda!" Darting around the cab—she wasn't quite stupid
enough to run behind the thing when it was backing up—she found herself in the
narrow, shady space between the truck and the chain-link fence, with its thin
line of weedy trees. And she saw Zelda. The little dog was trotting
out from beneath the huge truck, not inches away from a wheel big enough to
turn her into puppy pizza, as if she didn't have a worry in the world. A red McDonald's fry container was clutched
between her teeth. "Zelda!" Laughing, crying, almost
nauseous with relief and reaction and God knew what else, she swooped down on
the runaway, gathering her up in her arms. She was still hugging the dog when,
with her peripheral vision, she became aware of a tall, shadowy figure looming
behind her. "Hello, Leslie," a man's voice said in
her ear, and in that instant she realized that the unthinkable had happened.
Her past had just caught up with her again. And this time it might very well
prove fatal. She started to whirl, opened her mouth to
scream, filled with a mindless, soul-shattering terror. She didn’t want to die... Something slammed hard into the side of her
head, and everything went black. TWENTY-TWO Maddie—for Maddie, she discovered, was how she
still thought of herself—came back to awareness slowly, reluctantly, resisting
consciousness with every fiber of her being. Consciousness hurt. No, she hurt.
Her head felt as though it had been split in two, her hip ached, and her hands
and feet felt swollen and numb. They felt that way because they were bound, with
some kind of thin, smooth rope that had been pulled so tightly that it was
cutting into her skin. The realization that she was tied—shades of her
dream—made her stomach contract with fear. She was out of the sun, indoors,
lying on her side on a hard, cool surface—concrete. A concrete floor. She could
smell oil and a musty odor that made her think of damp earth. And... and some
kind of food. Something greasy. The smell of it made her want to heave. If she
looked, she would know exactly what it was. But looking struck her as a really
bad idea. If there was food, there were probably people.
And, though she didn't hear any sounds that would confirm it, she got the sense
that she wasn't alone. The good news was that she wasn't dead. The bad
news was that that fact could change at any second. For the moment, she preferred to concentrate on
the good news. She remembered then. Remembered that a man had
said her name—her old name—just before something had exploded into the side of
her head. Oh, God. Have I been shot? Had the hit man... No. If the hit man had found her, she wouldn't be alive. Something cold and wet touched her face. She
jerked, unable to control the reaction in time. It was all she could do not to
scream. Zelda. She knew it even before she heard the
telltale snuffling sound, even before she gave in to overwhelming temptation
and opened her eyes a slit to find the small, monkeyish face not three inches
away from hers. It was Zelda all right, complete with a mustache of goldfish-cracker
crumbs, munching away. Maddie realized that she was no longer wearing her
jacket—or her bulletproof vest, for that matter—and surmised that Zelda had
discovered the jacket somewhere nearby. Except for those items, she was fully
dressed in her aqua tank and white pants. She only hoped that whoever had taken
off her jacket and vest had done so in some kind of search for, say, a gun. The thought of anything else happening while she
was unconscious made her skin crawl. Zelda was regarding her from behind unblinking
black eyes. Her leash still hung from her collar, and her tiny satin bow—pink
again, freshly styled by the groomer that morning—was askew. Maddie took what
she realized was a ridiculous amount of comfort from the little dog's presence. It was possible that the hit man might be
keeping her alive for some nefarious purpose of his own. But would that somehow
include Zelda? She didn't think so. The sound of a door opening made Zelda look off
to the left. Maddie would have looked, too, except she couldn't. She was too
busy playing unconscious. But she had a funny feeling that the door opening was
not a good thing. "DiMatteo says we should get her to tell us
where the stuff is." The speaker was male, about medium height, she
thought, although it was hard to judge from her position on the floor,
heavyset, fortyish, with thinning black hair swept back from his face, small
eyes and mouth, big nose, jowls. He was wearing pale gray Sansabelt slacks with
a cheap-looking black rayon shirt tucked into it. The shirt was unbuttoned far
enough that a thick silver necklace, a deep V of pale
skin, and a meager quantity of black chest hair were on view. In other words,
too far. The hit man? She didn't know. But her heart was
beating very fast. She watched through her lashes as he walked
across the garage—now that Zelda had moved on, she could see that she was
inside a multicar garage, though only a blue Ford F-150 pickup truck was
currently parked in it— toward another man, who was sitting at one end of what
looked like a workbench built into the far wall of the garage. "So, how do we do that?" the other man
asked, chewing. This guy was thin, wiry even, too thin to be the man who had
attacked her in New Orleans. He was maybe in his early thirties, with thick
black hair and big, loose lips and a receding chin, and he wore a short-sleeved
blue shirt. She could only see him from the chest up, because he was seated at
the table, so the rest of him remained a mystery. The heavy man shrugged. "Torture her, I
guess." "You torture her. I'm eating." The heavy man looked around at her. Horrified,
she just managed to remember to breathe. "Hell's bells, Fish, why me? I had to carry
her in here. She's no feather, that's for sure." Maddie would have felt insulted at that if she
hadn't been so scared. "Because I'm eating, lunkhead. Can't you
see? Me—eat." He took a huge bite out of what looked like a fast-food
burger. "What about me? I'm hungry, too." "Torture her, then eat." "My food'll be cold." "You can put it in the microwave." "Shit." Lunkhead sighed. Then he came
toward her, and she felt her blood run cold. "If I have to torture her,
then you have to shoot the dog. I don't do nothin' to dogs." "I don't know why you brought the damned
thing anyway." "Because it was there. Because it was
barking. Another couple of minutes, and everybody in the damned factory would
have been coming out to see what was going on. Lucky I was able to grab hold of
its leash. It would have given us away." Lunkhead was standing over her
now, and Maddie concentrated on emptying her mind of everything, imagined being
in a calm, serene place, concentrated on her breathing. In out, in out. Like
in her dream. She shuddered. "I saw that," Lunkhead said
triumphantly. He reached down, grabbed her under her arm, and hauled her
roughly upright, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. "Come on, I
know you're awake. Don't make me hit you." That was said so casually that she knew it
wasn't an idle threat. Her eyes flew open, and she sucked in a deep breath as
she tried to find her balance. But with her ankles bound and her feet numb, she
couldn't. Her shoes were gone, she realized, as her bare feet made contact with
the cold floor. She couldn't get her feet squarely beneath her, and she had a
feeling that, even if she could, they wouldn't support her weight. Unable to
help herself, she sagged heavily against him. He was soft with flab and smelled
of cologne. He didn't feel like her attacker, either. Unless her senses were deceiving her, the hit
man wasn't in the room. Not that that meant she was in the clear. It
just meant that multiple people seemed to want to do her harm. "Over to the table." Lunkhead gripped
her tighter and started dragging her in the direction he wanted her to go. She gave a little hop, then, overbalanced, fell
heavily forward onto her knees. Her kneecaps banged into the concrete. It hurt,
and she cried out. "Get up." Lunkhead loomed over her. "I—I can't." He kicked her, his shiny black loafer making
brutal contact with her thigh. Pain exploded up and down her leg. She yelped,
crumpled. "Now try." He reached down to drag her
upright again. "My feet... ?" The disorientation she'd experienced on first
regaining consciousness was totally gone now. In its place was pain and a hard
cold fear. This guy's casual brutality told its own tale—he had no qualms about
hurting her. He would have no qualms about killing her. "Oh, jeez, untie her feet. She's not going
anywhere," the man at the table said. "Yeah." The fingers digging into her arm let go. Maddie
hit her knees again, then toppled forward, barely managing to twist enough to
smack the concrete with her shoulder rather than her face. She cried out again
as pain shot through her knees, her hip, her arm. Then, as she lay, panting, on
her side on the concrete, she saw something that made her temporarily forget
both pain and fear. Sam was sprawled on his back on the concrete
floor not far from where she lay. His eyes were closed, blood trickled
sluggishly from a corner of his mouth and smeared his white shirt, and his arms
were stretched over his head. Eyes widening with horror, she saw that he was
handcuffed to the truck's bumper. "Get up," Lunkhead said again, and
hauled her upright. The rope around her ankles had been cut—she caught a glint
of silver as he refolded a serviceable switchblade and stowed it in his
pocket—but she had been so fodused on Sam that she hadn't even realized that he
was doing it. Was he badly hurt? That
was her first, instinctive thought. Then, as she was forced to walk on her
tingling, throbbing feet, she remembered that she hated him. But not enough for this. "Sit down," Fish said when Lunkhead
had dragged her, hobbling, to the workbench. It was table-height, made of
unfinished planks, with an open toolbox and various tools jumbled together and
shoved toward the wall. Fish's lunch was spread out in front of him on a
sandwich wrapper: a half-eaten fish sandwich, a couple of unopened packs of
tartar sauce, fries, and a large soft drink with a straw and a lid. Moby
Dick's, Maddie saw from the other small, white bag that waited near the edge of
the table with its top rolled shut. This, clearly, was Lunkhead's meal, which
he had not yet had time to eat. Three cheap plastic chairs had been pulled up
to the workbench, one at each end and one in the middle. Lunkhead pulled out
the chair in the middle and shoved Maddie into it. Fish was to her left,
Lunkhead behind her chair. If she glanced sideways, she could see Sam. She was terrified, she realized—and not just for
herself. A door opened at the rear of the garage, and
Zelda, lucky dog, disappeared beneath the truck. A man stood in the opening,
scowling at them. He was stocky, bald, and dressed in dark suit pants, a
striped dress shirt, and tie. The hit man? She didn't know. There was no way to
tell. But the build was right. Her heart started slamming against her ribs in
quick, panicked strokes. Her breathing suspended. Would he come in now and kill
her? If he did, there was nothing she could do. No escape .. . Be calm, she told herself. Focus. Behind the new arrival, she
could see the outdoors: a strip of concrete and, beyond it, grass and the
crowded trunks of a stand of skinny pines. Where were they? Impossible to tell. Zelda, we're not in Kansas anymore. "You know what we just heard on the police
scanner, shit-for-brains?" the guy in the door demanded. "An APB for
the fed. What the hell did you have to dick around with him for?" "I told you, we didn't have any
choice," Lunkhead said. "He came around the side of the truck just as
I was throwing the dog in. He saw me. He was going for his gun." "If I hadn't been right there to clobber
him with that tire iron, he would've had us. I didn't even have time to pull
out my stun gun," Fish chimed in. "Yeah, we weren't expecting him. Had her,
had the dog then here he came. What are you gonna do?" Lunkhead shook Ins
head and shi ugged "Well, idiots, yon just escalated our
problems, big time. They wouldn't have looked that hard for her. They'll look
like hell for him, and now we got no choice but to kill him. Just make sure,
when you do it, that you get rid of the body someplace where it's not gonna be
found. Chop it up or something and bury the parts separately. Got it?"
Maddie went all light-headed. "Yeah," Fish said. The man in the doorway turned his head sharply,
as if he heard something. Then he disappeared from view, leaving the door ajar.
The light outside had the mellow, golden quality common to a summer evening.
The trees cast long shadows toward the east, which told her that sundown was
near-ing. The meal Fish was eating and Lunkhead wasn't must be supper. The terrible thing was, freedom was less than
twenty feet away. It might as well have been a thousand miles. Two men inside,
undoubtedly armed and clearly ready, willing, and able to kill her. At least one
man outside, and probably more. And handcuffed to a truck, one man whom, Maddie
realized, she wasn't willing to leave behind even if she should somehow get the
opportunity to run. "He's pissed," Lunkhead said to Fish,
sounding glum. "Yeah. Well, we better be getting them what they need,
then." Fish looked at Maddie. His eyes were cold now, and hard. Fear
tightened her stomach, dried her mouth. He could kill her, she realized, and go
right back to eating his fish sandwich. "This is all your damned
fault," he said to her. "Why the hell didn't you just stay off
TV?" Maddie was so surprised by his comment that she
forgot, for a moment, to be afraid. "What?" "TV. What kind of stupid person who's on
the run goes on TV? You got us all in trouble here." He looked at
Lunkhead. "Cut her hands free." Maddie felt her stomach clench. Why does this
not sound like good news? "What? What?" she said, as much to
keep them talking as for any other reason. Lunkhead was using his knife on the
rope that bound her wrists. She could hear the sawing sound it made, feel a
painful increase in pressure as the rope dug tighter into her skin. "What
are you talking about? I never went on TV." Fish looked at her with disgust. "You got
some big business award. Velasco saw it on the news. He's one of our guys now,
but he used to live in Baltimore and he recognized you. Said he remembered you
because you were such hot stuff. Only you had some trouble, and you were
supposed to be dead. He kept wondering about it, and finally he gave the guys in
Baltimore a buzz. Then all hell broke loose." Her hands were free now. The blood flowing back
into them made her fingers tingle and throb painfully. She scarcely noticed.
All this—all this— because they'd run a clip of her receiving the
Chamber of Commerce award on the evening news? Talk about your butterfly effect. She would've
had to laugh if she hadn't felt so much like crying. Fish grabbed hold of her wrist and put her hand
down on the table. Maddie was still looking at her outstretched fingers in surprise
when he picked up a hammer and brought it down hard on her pinkie. She screamed, snatching her hand away. Smirking,
he let it go. The pain was blinding, intense, made even more horrible because
it was so unexpected. Her stomach turned inside out. She went all woozy. If
Lunkhead hadn't been behind her, holding on to her shoulders, she would have
fallen sideways out of the chair. "That's just a sample of what's going to
happen if you give us any problems," Fish said. He'd already put down the
hammer, Maddie saw, as her vision cleared enough for her to be able to see
again, and was taking another hungry bite out of his sandwich. The pain,
coupled with the smell, made her want to vomit. "That stuff you said you
had—I want to know where it is." "What stuff?" Maddie cradled her
injured hand close to her chest. She was nauseated, dizzy. The end of her
pinkie was purplish and already starting to swell, and blood welled into a
small cut beside the nail. Maggie realized it was where her skin had split, and
felt cold sweat begin to ooze from her pores. "Don't play dumb." Fish was eating his
sandwich as though this was the most ordinary of conversations. "The stuff
you told Mikey you had. When you called him." "When I called..." Mikey being Bob
Johnson, of course. It wasn't so much that Maddie was slow on the uptake,
although pain and fear certainly were having some mind-clouding effects. It was
that she could see where this was going all too clearly. If she didn't tell
them what they wanted to know, they'd continue causing her pain until she did.
If she did tell them, she would die. Fish put down his sandwich and reached for her
hand again. "No," she gasped, cold sweat drenching
her in waves. She cradled her hand tighter against her chest while Lunkhead,
behind her, bore down harder on her shoulders. "It—I'm just not thinking
so clearly because—because you hurt my hand. I know what call you mean. A-One
Plastics. When I called them, right?" "That's right," Lunkhead said behind
her. "You shouldn't go around threatening people, you know. Nobody likes
that." "Shut up, would you?" Fish growled,
shooting Lunkhead a look. Then, to Maddie, "I'm gonna ask you one more
time, nice, then I'm gonna smash another finger. Where's all that evidence you
said your dad took?" Maddie's stomach cramped. Ice-cold terror shot
through her veins. But terror wouldn't help her. Calm, clear thinking probably
wouldn't, either. But it was all she had, so she fought back the terror and
went with the calm-and-clear thing. They were in a garage, which was obviously
attached to a house. The door the man had left open led to a parking area.
Beyond it was— someplace better than here. If she wanted to survive, what she
had to do was make it to the door and run. They were armed, she was almost positive. They'd
shoot her in the back if she was able to outrun them. But she'd rather die
trying to escape than be tortured until they killed her. Sam. She couldn't leave Sam. Glancing sideways,
she discovered to her surprise that his posture had changed. His body was in
the same position as before, but his muscles seemed to have tensed. And she
couldn't be sure—his lashes still fanned his cheeks—but she was almost positive
that he was looking at her. "What, do you think we've got all night
here? Time's up." Fish grabbed her wrist with one hand and the hammer with
the other. Maddie screamed, resisting his attempts to lay her hand on the
table. "No, no, I was just thinking..." she
babbled. "I'll tell you, okay? I'll tell you." She drew a deep, sobbing breath, thinking furiously
all the while. He let go of her wrist and put the hammer back down. Sam was
watching her, she was almost sure of it now. She was positive he'd stiffened
when she screamed. But there was nothing he could do. He was as helpless as
she. Zelda, equally useless, was close, too. Maddie could feel the little dog
snuffling around her ankles. Probably she was smelling food, and hoping for a
handout from the table. "You're stalling." Fish grabbed for her hand
again. "The evidence is in a strongbox near where we used to live in
Baltimore," Maddie gasped, jerking her hand back and, in the course of the
small struggle that ensued, managing to knock the bag containing Lunkhead's
food on the floor. "Yo, that's my..." Lunkhead began,
letting go of her shoulders to retrieve it. Then, just as Maddie had prayed she might, Zelda
popped out from under the workbench, grabbed the bag in her teeth, and trotted
away. "Hey, that's my dinner," Lunkhead
said, sounding more surprised than anything as he lunged after her. Zelda saw
him coming and, bless her gluttonous little soul, put the pedal to the metal,
scuttling across the floor with a really impressive burst of speed and racing
out the door, bag and all. "Goddamn dog! Come back here with
that!" Lunkhead roared, giving chase. She, Fish, and, she thought, Sam, too, were all
so surprised that all they could do was stare after Lunkhead as he pelted
through the door. But, since it was more or less what she'd kind of planned,
Maddie recovered fastest. Hammer time. Lunging across the table, she snatched up the
hammer. Even as Fish reacted, milliseconds too late to do any good, she slammed
it down on his head with every last bit of strength she had left. The resulting
thunk was almost as satisfying as watching his eyes roll back in his
head before he collapsed sideways onto the floor. Take that, you creep, Maddie thought exultantly, and gave herself a
mental high-five as she sprang away from the table and her gaze swung around to
Sam. His eyes were open. He was struggling to sit up. "In his left front pants pocket. The keys
to the handcuffs are in his left front pants pocket," Sam said urgently,
as her gaze locked with his. Jesus, God, and every other heavenly being, let
Lunkhead not come back. Heart pounding, operating on adrenaline now,
Maddie stuck her hand into Fish's pocket and, since it was the only thing in
it, came up with the key at once. Then, with one wary eye on the door, she
darted to Sam. "Hurry," he said. No shit, Sherlock, was the rejoinder that popped into her head, but she was
too busy sweating bullets and trying to fit the teeny, tiny key into the teeny,
tiny lock to answer. Shaking, panting, one eye on the door, she finally got it
in there and turned it. That was all it took. Jerking free of the bumper
as the cuffs dropped to the floor with a metallic clatter, Sam scrambled to his
feet and headed for Fish, who was beginning to stir. "What are you doing?"Maddie
was already racing for the door. "If he's got a gun, I want it," Sam
said, leaning over Fish. Maddie was treated to the gratifying sight of him
slamming his fist hard into Fish's jaw. As Fish went limp again, Sam patted him
down. "Shit." Maddie took that to mean no gun. "Come on."As far as she
could tell, the coast was clear, but it was unlikely to stay that way for long.
There were two cars in the paved area beyond the garage—and a garbage truck. Maddie had an instant epiphany: The bad guys had
been in the garbage truck. Then she saw something that completely erased
everything else from her mind. Like a boomerang, Zelda was returning. Leash
flapping behind her, she raced back toward the open garage door with the bag
still in her mouth and Lunkhead in hot pursuit. "Oh, no!" Heart pounding, panic
clutching at her stomach, Maddie jumped back from the door and looked at Sam,
who was straightening away from a now limp and supine Fish. "He's coming
back. Lunkhead's coming back." "Get in the truck." As he said it, Sam was already leaping for the
garage door directly behind it. The door was metal, and looked to be heavy-duty.
Not the kind of garage door even a Ford F-150 could just burst through. "Sam..." "Here. They were in the slimeball's other
pocket. If we run out of time, if something happens, you go."He
tossed her the keys. She caught them instinctively. "But..." Leave him if necessary, he meant, which wasn't
happening. But she wasn't going to argue about it at the moment. She scrambled
behind the wheel. He turned the lock with a sound so loud it made her jump, and
bent down to drag up the garage door. Fish was moving again. Then three things happened simultaneously. Handicapped by her throbbing finger, Maddie
fumbled with the keys, found the right one, thrust it into the ignition, and
turned the engine over. The garage door went rattling up. And Zelda, with panic in her eyes, burst through
the open door. She'd saved them, so saving her back was nothing
short of quid pro quo. And she was cute, kind of, when she wasn't being a pain
in the ass. And there was the Brehmer account. Not that Maggie was probably
ever going to have to worry about it again, but... "Zelda," Maddie cried, opening the
truck door and wrenching at the gearshift at the same time. Seeing Maddie,
Zelda scrambled toward the truck and took a flying leap that landed her almost
on Maddie's lap. Maddie grabbed her collar and hauled her the rest of the way
on board. "Hit it." Sam dove into the passenger
seat beside her. The transmission locked into reverse... "Now, "Sam yelled, slamming his door, and Maddie hit it,
slamming her door and elbowing Zelda to the middle at the same time as she
stomped on the gas. "What the—?" Lunkhead burst through
the door just as the truck shot backward out of the garage. He ran into the
space they'd just vacated, fumbling behind his back for what Maddie assumed was
a gun. Maddie caught just a glimpse of Fish shaking his
head groggily and sitting up as she steered in a wide reverse doughnut that
barely missed the garbage truck. "Forward! Go forward!" Sam screamed in
her ear. She had the impression that if he hadn't been afraid of making them
wreck, he would have shifted for her. No duh, she thought, but this was
definitely not the time for conversation. With her heart pounding so hard that
it felt as though it was going to beat clear out of her chest, she slammed on
the brakes, throwing all three of them forward, then shoved the transmission
into drive. The rear window exploded. Maddie screamed,
ducked, and stepped on the gas so hard that the truck catapulted forward like a
rock out of a slingshot. TWENTY-THREE Keep your head down!" Sam yelled, hanging
on to the dashboard as another bullet whistled past Maddie's ear, shattering
the windshield. Glass blew out over the front of the pickup, rattling like
hail. More glass from the rear window littered the seat like spilled popcorn,
bouncing and sliding onto the floor as the truck shot away from the house.
Zelda, bag and all, had been thrown down into the passenger's footwell when
Maddie hit the brakes, and she stayed down there, clearly smart enough to
recognize that she had found the safest place in the vehicle. A place where she
could devour her booty undisturbed. "I'm trying!" Crouched as low as she
could get and still see where they were going, Maddie hung grimly onto the
steering wheel and kept her foot mashed down on the gas. The road was a winding gravel track with thick
piney woods on one side and a brush-covered ravine ending in more thick piney
woods on the other. A hunted glance into the rearview mirror showed her a
one-story lodge-looking house in a clearing behind them. Hills covered with
more piney woods rose behind it, and the sun in all its orange and purple and
pink glory was just getting ready to sink behind the hills. The garage they'd
just exited was to the side of the house. Lunkhead stood in two-handed firing
stance on the paved area in front of the garage, while Fish and two other men
ran for the cars. "Keep your eyes on the road!" Maddie looked forward again just in time to see
that they were coming up on a curve. She swung the wheel hard, and gravel
spurted up around them, hitting the side of the truck. In seconds they were
around the curve, out of sight of the house—and still on the road. His face grim, Sam reached around her, grabbed
her seat belt, pulled it across her body, and clicked it into place. Maddie
barely noticed. "They were in the garbage truck." She
was still having trouble getting her mind around that. Something about the
garbage truck bothered her... "I figured that out about the time I woke
up in the back of it and that fat dude hit me with a stun gun. Just be glad
there wasn't any garbage in it." Sam's voice was wry. He was fastening his
own seat belt as he spoke. "There was a garbage truck near my
apartment the morning I got shot," Maddie gasped as her mind hit on the
elusive memory. She glanced back reflexively to see if the bad guys had rounded
the curve yet. "Shit. We got trouble," Sam said. At
first Maddie thought he was talking about something she was missing behind
them. Then she looked forward. A small yellow car had just rounded the next
bend, and was hurtling up the track toward them. It was smack-dab in the middle
of the road. Clearly it wasn't intending to let them get by. Maddie did some quick mental calculations. Big
truck, little car—could anyone say "Let's play chicken"? "Yee-haw," she said grimly, and
charged toward it without giving an inch. Beside her, Sam sucked in air. His
eyes widened as they stayed glued to the oncoming car. "Maybe you want to... swerve right!" Maddie did, at the last possible second, just as
the car, in the same desperate attempt to avoid a head-on collision, swerved
the other way. They zoomed past each other with inches to spare. "Jesus." Sam looked sideways at her.
"And I thought Wynne was a scary-ass driver." Maddie laughed. And then something hit the back of the truck
with all the force of an exploding grenade. The truck's rear end slewed
sideways as if in an insane attempt to pass the front. And the truck slid off
the road and plunged down the ravine. Maddie screamed and stomped the brake. Sam
yelled and held on. The truck hurtled downward, bouncing over the ground like a
kid on a trampoline. Bushes and scrub trees flashed past. As the bottom rushed
up at them, Maddie could clearly see what looked like a solid wall of trees... She was steering hard to the left when they hit
with a bang. She must have blacked out, because the next
thing she was aware of was that she was being dragged out from behind the
wheel. Hard hands under her armpits. Her left ankle thumping down painfully on
the running board. Someone locking an arm around her waist, dragging her
upright. "What?" She tried to resist. Her eyes
blinked open. "It's okay; it's me," Sam said. Blood
ran from his nose. Before Maddie could register more than that, he said,
"Hold on," and heaved her over his shoulder. Then he took off at what felt like a dead run. Maddie clutched the back of his shirt and hung
on. His shoulder dug into her stomach, making breathing an effort. With her
head bouncing against his back like a basketball being dribbled, it was hard to
think, let alone see. But she knew that they were in the woods because she
could see the brown carpet of fallen needles and the thin, gray trunks with
their stubby, denuded branches like small arms as they flashed past. It was
already a deep purple twilight there, where the last rays of the sun couldn't
reach. The air was cooler andsmelled
strongly of pine. The high-pitched chorus of insects was almost drowned out by
the thud of Sam's feet on the ground and the harsh rasp of his breathing. Zelda was with them: Maddie could see her
bounding along behind, her leash slithering like a lavender snake over the pine
needles. Whatever else she was, Zelda was no fool. She
clearly knew the bad guys from the good. As she gradually became aware enough to take
inventory, Maddie realized that she had the mother of all headaches; her
stomach was being pounded to smithereens; and the little finger of her left
hand throbbed horribly She also realized that Sam was tiring. His
breathing was growing more labored, and his steps were slowing. His shirt felt
damp, and she realized that he was sweating. As Lunkhead had said, she wasn't any feather. "Sam." She tugged on his shirt, then
poked his ribs to get his attention. When he flinched, she knew she'd
succeeded. "Sam." She poked him again. He slowed, then stopped as she poked him once
more, and leaned forward so that she spilled off his shoulder. To her surprise,
her knees refused to support her. They buckled, and, with his hands on her
waist to keep her from collapsing completely, she maneuvered into a sitting
position on the ground. The scent of pine rose all around her. The needles were
as thick as good carpet, and felt smooth beneath her. Zelda came limping over
and collapsed beside her, panting. Her top-knot hung down over her left eye
again, and Maddie, performing an act of mercy, pulled the bow off. "What?" Sam was leaning over as he
looked at her, his hands on his thighs, gasping for breath. Okay, so maybe she wasn't any feather. But she
wasn't all that heavy. "Are you all right?" "Just... winded." "You don't have to carry me any farther. I
can walk." His eyes slid over her skeptically. "Looks
like it." "I can. Just give me a minute." "That's about all we have: a minute."
His nose was still bleeding, but only a trickle now, and he must have felt it
because he dashed it away with the back of his hand. His face was liberally
smeared with blood. His shirt was splotched with it, ugly dark flowers against
a white background. "They're chasing us, right?" Maddie
felt a clutch of fear. Not a really strong clutch, because she was now so
battered and sore and shell-shocked that her sensory processing center was
about out of room. But a clutch nonetheless. "By now? Oh, yeah. But I don't think they
saw us go off the road. At least, I saw their cars shoot past as I was dragging
you out of the truck. But it wouldn't take them long to figure out we weren't
ahead of them, and then they'll backtrack. We have to assume that by now
they've found the truck." His voice was grim. Fear elbowed everything else out of the way and
made itself some room. "So what happened? It felt like we got
rear-ended, but when I glanced back, there wasn't anything there." "I think they shot out a tire. Whoever was
in the yellow car. That's what it felt like, anyway." He straightened,
took a deep breath, and leaned against a tree. Maddie grimaced. The reality of the situation
was starting to set in again. They were, it seemed clear, still somewhere in
Missouri—at a guess, not that far from St. Louis. But from the quick look
around that she'd gotten as they'd driven away from the house, they were on one
of the many small mountains that ridged the countryside west of the city. It
was a sparsely settled area, and she hadn't seen any other houses or buildings.
Though, admittedly, she'd had only a brief glimpse. On a positive note—the only time in her life
that she had ever considered this a positive note, come to think of it—she was
with an FBI agent. A highly trained, highly skilled, highly competent
law-enforcement professional who would certainly know what to do in a situation
like this. "Okay, Mr. Special Agent, so what's the
plan?" He laughed. The sound was short, unamused.
"We walk. We hide. We try to stay alive." "Well, shoot, I could've come up
with that," she said, disappointed. "They took my gun, they took my cell phone.
We got no wheels. Sorry, darlin', but that kind of leaves us fresh out of
options." That drawled darlin' didsomething
to her insides. Her stomach went all fluttery and her heart skipped a beat. For
the briefest of moments, she simply looked at him and remembered that this time
last night, they'd been falling in love. "Maddie..." He must have seen
something of what she was feeling in her eyes, or felt something of the same
himself, because his voice was suddenly low and deep, achingly intimate. Then
his face hardened abruptly, and his voice went flat. "Leslie, I mean. I
take it that you know what that was all about back there?" Suddenly her past and the rift it had created
between them hung in the air, as tangible as the scent of pine. Her heart ached, and the taste of regret for
what they'd had and lost was bitter on her tongue. But there was no changing
what was, and now that the truth was out in the open, she was not going to
shrink from it. She'd lost everything else. Pride was just about all she had
left. "Maddie works. I left Leslie behind a long
time ago." "Maddie, then." It was dark under the
trees now, she realized, because she could no longer read what was in his eyes.
"So?" She realized that he was prompting her to answer
his question. "They're mob," she said. "The guy
who's been trying to kill me, who killed Carol Walter and all those other
people—I'm pretty sure he's a professional hit man." "Yeah." Sam didn't sound as though
that was some big news flash. "Either of those guys back there, you
think?" Maddie shook her head. "I don't know. I
don't think so. The man who was in my hotel room—they didn't seem to fit with
what I remembered. But the guy in the doorway—the third guy—maybe. He looked
about the right size and everything but, like I told you before, I didn't see
the guy who attacked me." "Okay. I heard you say something about some
plastics company—and a strongbox full of evidence?" Maddie sighed. "A-One Plastics is one of
the names they use as a front in Baltimore. When I realized that they'd found
me—that would be when I was attacked in New Orleans—I called them up and made
some threats about some stuff my dad, who used to do some jobs for them, kept
in case he ever had to use it as leverage. The thing is, I left the strongbox
behind when I left Baltimore, but they don't know that. I thought maybe I could
get them to back off." "You called them up?" There was a
curious note in his voice. He was watching her closely, but she couldn't read
anything in his expression. Her chin came up. "Yeah. If you want their
number, I'll give it to you when—if—we get home." "I definitely want their number." She
could see him frowning. "You made threats to the mob?" "I didn't know what else to do. I thought
about running, but I figured if they found me once, they could do it again.
Especially now that they know I'm alive." A beat passed. "You ever think about telling me?I was right there. Convenient." The hint of sarcasm in his voice stung. "I thought you'd probably react just
exactly the way you're reacting." "How the hell else am I supposed to react?
You..." But she'd stopped listening. Zelda's head had
come up. The little dog was looking at something back in the direction from
which they'd come, and Maddie, following her gaze, caught her breath. At first
glance she'd thought the bobbing yellow spheres in the distance were lightning
bugs, so tiny were they. But then they'd grown a little larger, and she'd
recognized them for what they were: flashlights. Distant, but headed their way. She felt an icy thrust of pure terror. "Sam..." she breathed, pointing. He looked, stiffened, turned back to her.
"Shit. Let's go." Then he reached down to grab her elbows, and she
let him pull her up. "Give me the damned leash. Why the hell you
didn't leave her—too late now. If they find her, they'll know which way we
came." Maddie had been holding on to Zelda's leash for
dear life since she'd seen the flashlights—Zelda was a dog, after all; counting
on her continued good sense could be a bad thing—but she handed it over without
protest. She felt shaky, weak, ill. Her head hurt, her finger throbbed. Her
thigh ached where Lunkhead had kicked her. Her heart hurt, too. It felt bruised and
battered and sore just like the rest of her. Because despite everything, she'd
discovered, to her dismay, she was still in love with Sam. And, considering who he was and who she was,
that was a bad thing. "No," she said, shaking her head when
he made a move to swing her back over his shoulder again. "I can make it
on my own." "Fine." There was a clipped quality to
his voice. "Come on, then." Grabbing her uninjured hand, Sam took off
through the trees at a steady jog. Gritting her teeth and calling on reserves
of determination she'd forgotten she had, Maddie managed to stay with him.
Zelda scuttled along silently beside them, seeming to realize their danger.
They ran at a right angle to the path the flashlights seemed to be taking, and
after a while they couldn't see them anymore. The woods were so dark now that the
trees were no more than grayish blurs as they flashed by. The insect chorus
grew louder. An owl hooted. Here and there the eyes of a nocturnal animal
glowed at them. Ordinarily, Maddie would have shivered at the thought of the
creatures that might be roaming the woods, but tonight she was just too darned
tired, and, anyway, nothing was as scary as the two-legged predators on their
trail. The pine needles were cool and slippery underfoot, and would have made a
decent running surface if it hadn't been for the things hidden beneath them.
Having lost her shoes, Maddie had no protection from the roots and rocks and
pinecones and other mushy things she preferred not to even think about, with
which the ground was littered. They found a creek and ran parallel to it,
turning downhill. Head pounding, stomach churning, her knees feeling like they
might give out at any second, Maddie concentrated on putting one foot in front
of the other. And ran. And ran. And ran. Until, finally, she stopped. "That's it," she said, wheezing and
bending double, brought low by a stitch in her side. Sam had stopped, too—she'd
pulled her hand from his— and loomed over her, Zelda now tucked like a football
beneath his arm. "Okay, I think we can walk now." At least he had the decency to be breathing
hard. She would have felt better about that, except she could scarcely breathe
at all. "No. No walk." "Just a little farther." "No." "So I'll carry you." "No." "Just as far as the rocks up there. See
them?" Maddie looked up. Maybe it was just her, because
her head was pounding so hard that it was making her eyes all blurry, but all
she saw was a whole lot of dark. "I don't want to scare you, but they may be
looking for us with night-vision goggles by now. I was getting ready to stop
because of that anyway, but we need to find some shelter so they can't see us
if they scan this patch of trees." Crap. She straightened, both hands on her hips as she
sucked in air, and narrowed her eyes at him. He was no more than a big
charcoal-gray silhouette in the dark. "Fine," she said. She thought he grinned, but her eyes were too
blurry and it was too dark to be sure. Anyway, she didn't care. All she wanted
to do was rest. Which she eventually got to do, after scrambling
over a lot of big rocks and edging around what felt like a wall of solid stone
cliffs that rose straight up from the creek bed and, finally, collapsing in the
squishy depression carved out of the bottom of yet another cliff that he deemed
safe. TWENTY-FOUR Wednesday,
August 20 The ground was covered with pine needles.
Whatever was beneath the needles was spongy, soft. Maddie preferred to think
that it was grass. Or moss. Yes, moss. Velvety green moss as thick as a
mattress. And if it wasn't moss, she didn't want to know. She flopped down on her back, closed her eyes,
and breathed. The scent of pine combined with a tinge of earthy dampness from
the moss filled her nostrils. The pine needles slithered beneath her
outstretched arms. After a moment, she opened her eyes, inhaled, and found
herself looking up into a whole heaven's worth of stars. They were sprinkled
like glitter across the satin midnight sky, twinkling down at her. The moon
wasn't visible— what she was seeing was basically a cutout circle of sky framed
by jagged-edged cliffs—but it wasn't needed. The universe wheeled above her,
perfect and whole. "Sam," she breathed, forgetting that
they had issues in her eagerness to share the vision overhead. No answer. She cut her eyes around their little
hideaway, which basically looked like a giant had taken a bite out of the base
of a rocky cliff. No Sam. Groaning, she sat up and took a better look around.
The space wasn't that big, a semicircle maybe ten feet deep by eight feet wide
at its widest point. Certainly not big enough to conceal a full-grown man, even
in the dark. Maddie looked carefully around at the rock walls
one more time, and reached the inescapable conclusion: Sam was not there.
Neither, now that she thought about it, was Zelda. Panic was starting to feel like her natural
state. Clambering to her feet, she took a couple steps
forward and stopped. What was she going to do? Hunting around a dark forest
populated by night-vision-goggle—wearing mobsters who wanted to do her harm was
clearly not a good idea. Likewise, yelling was out. Sam came around the edge of the opening just
then, making Maddie jump. He was carrying a small bundle under one arm, and
Zelda trailed him wearily. "You scared the life out of me," she
said through her teeth. The fact that she was whispering did not in any way take
away from the vehemence of her tone. "Where did you go?" "I backtracked a little. I thought that was
an old campsite we passed back there, and sure enough, it was. Look, we hit the
mother lode. A blanket"— he held up a tattered scrap of cloth about the size
of a beach towel—"and a jacket"—it looked like a man's long-abandoned
windbreaker, and Maddie thought that she'd have to be naked in Siberia before
she wore it—"and a can. I even filled it at the creek and brought you back
some water. You've got blood on your face, and I thought you might want to wash
it off before you start attracting bears. They're drawn to the smell of blood,
you know." Maddie's eyes widened as she took what looked
and felt like a battered tin can out of his hand. "You're kidding." With the sky open above them, there was just
enough light to see him smile. "Maybe about the bears. Not about the blood
on your face. You've got a liny little cut just... here." He readied out a
forefinger to feather a touch across her cheekbone just below her eye, almost
exactly as he'd done once before. And her heart skipped a beat. Stupid. "Thank you," she almost growled at
him, backing away with the can. "And you've got blood on your face, too,
by the way." "Not anymore. I washed it off in the
creek." "Oh. Well. It's too dark to tell." Maddie retreated with the can to the edge of the
enclosure so that she wouldn't get their mossy carpet wet, then rinsed her
face, her neck, her hands. The cool water felt so good to her poor, abused
finger that she let it soak inside the can for several long moments. When she
pulled it out at last, though, it throbbed even worse than it had before, as if
somehow she'd woken sleeping nerve endings. Grimacing, she dried it on the hem
of her shirt, and then used what was left of the water in the can on her feet.
Her poor bruised and tender feet that, wet, picked up dozens of pine needles
when, having finished her impromptu bath and abandoning the can, she tromped
back toward Sam. He was sitting at the very back of their little dugout with
his back leaning against the wall, one knee bent and Zelda in fur-rug mode at
his side. "Feel better?" he asked as she sat
down, not too close, on his other side. "A little." She leaned her head back
against the rock and looked up at the stars. Squinting, she thought she could
just make out part of the Little Dipper. "Sam?" "Hmm?" She looked sideways at him. His head was turned
her way, and he met her gaze. Glinting black eyes in the dark... At the memories that image conjured up, her body
tightened somewhere deep inside. "Do you think we're safe here?" He made a face. "As safe as it's possible
to be under the circumstances. Unless they stumble across us by accident,
they're not going to find us. Night-vision goggles can't see through rock. And
if they should try using heat-seeking devices, the rocks will block those,
too." "Heat-seeking devices? Do you think they
have those?" Maddie never would have thought of that. It was scary to
think that on her own, she would still be stumbling around through the woods,
vulnerable to detection by devices that had never even crossed her mind. "Hey, the world's gone high-tech." There was a pause in which Maddie stared up at
the stars and contemplated that. "I think you saved my life a couple of
times today. Thank you." "Just doing my job," he said with no
inflection at all. There it was, then. Her answer. For him, there
was no going back to what they'd had. She might as well face it: As she had
known it would, the truth had changed everything. "Yes, I know," she said, looking back
up at the stars while her throat ached with what felt uncomfortably like unshed
tears. "But thanks." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his head
turn toward her again. "Anyway, I owe you, too. You could have
left me cuffed to the bumper of that truck," he said. A quick smile trembled around the edges of her
mouth. "Not if I wanted to drive it." "There's that." He was smiling, too, faintly. Maddie felt
another sharp pang in the region of her heart. The truth had changed
everything—except the connection they still seemed to have. There was an
easiness, a comfortableness, a friendship between them. That was going
to be almost harder to lose than the rest. "Sam..." She didn't know what she
meant to say. Something, anything, to make it all better. Even knowing that
there was nothing that could make it all better. Nothing that could take her
past away. He cut her off. "Look, why don't you try to
sleep a little? As soon as the sun's up, we've got to get moving. Here, take
the blanket, take the jacket, make a bed." She accepted the items he produced from the
shadows behind Zelda and held out to her, then hesitated. "What about
you?" "Darlin', I'm an FBI agent. Going without
sleep is what us agents do." The darlin' got her, and the joking tone
got her. Her throat closed up. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. She
wanted to turn back time. She wanted to scoot over next to him and wrap her
arms around his neck and rest her head on his chest and have him hold her. She
wanted... ... what she couldn't have. So she shook the blanket and spread it out not
far from him, then shook the jacket, too, and rolled it into a pillow. Trying
not to think about how filthy the items probably were and what they might have
been used for in the past, she lay down on her makeshift bed, then turned onto
her side so that her back was toward him, closed her eyes, and tried to sleep.
It was almost certainly after midnight, she calculated, although it was hard to
judge precisely how long it had been since the truck had run off the road. Her
body ached from head to toe. If she had to pick the thing that pained her most,
though, it would have to be her poor pinkie. Having been awakened by the water,
it didn't seem to want to return to its former semi-numb state. Cradling her injured
hand close to her chest, she had an instant mental picture of Fish slamming the
hammer down onto it and shivered. Don't think about it, she told herself. Then her thoughts skittered to
Sam, and that wasn't sleep-inducing, either, so she deliberately tried to empty
her mind. Immediately, the sounds of the night seemed to increase tenfold. She
could hear every whir, squeak, and hoot. She could hear the whisper of a breeze
blowing over the top of the cliffs, although she couldn't feel it down in her cozy
nest. She could hear the rumble of the nearby creek. She could hear the soft
rattle of Zelda's snores. She was counting them when she fell asleep. Sometime later, the dream came. Once again she was lying on that small, narrow
bed in that house that wasn't hers, bound hands and feet, shaking with terror.
The dark silhouette of a man watched her from the doorway. He was going to kill her... "Maddie! Jesus, Maddie!" She came awake to the sound of Sam's voice, to
the feel of his hand pressing down over her mouth, to the sight of his face
looming over her Her eyes opened wide, but it was a moment before she
registered more than just those facts. Then she saw the starry sky high above
his head, and smelled the scent of pine, and felt the coarse blanket beneath her
aching body. And she remembered where she was, and what had happened. No wonder she'd had the dream. "Maddie? Jesus, what was that?" Sam removed his hand from her mouth cautiously,
and she saw that his face was hard and anxious, and his eyes were worried. She
was flat on her back now, and he was lying on his side beside her, propped on
an elbow, his hand still hovering above her mouth. "Did I... yell?" Maddie couldn't help
it. Her voice quavered. "Screamed is more like it." "Oh, God." She closed her eyes. She
was shaking all over, she realized still terrified, as she always was in the
aftermath of the dream— and terrified, too, that she might have given them
away. "Do you think anybody heard?" He shook his head. "Not unless they're so
close they're about to find us anyway. Not much can get past these rocks." Thank God for the rocks. Maddie closed her eyes and tried to slop
shaking. Tried to push the nightmare images from her mind. "Bad dream?" She nodded. His hand slid down her arm, paused
halfway. "You're trembling." "It's a really bad dream." She
got the words out with an effort. But she couldn't make the trembling go away. "About what happened today?" "N-no. I get it—sometimes. It's
about—my—about something that happened in the past." She could feel tears leaking out past her
eyelids. She could no more stop them than she could stop the trembling. "Shit." He must have seen, because his
arms came around her, and he pulled her against him, stretching out at full
length on the blanket beside her and settling her so that her head rested on
his shoulder and her hand with its poor, injured pinkie lay atop his chest. He
sounded almost resigned. "All right, darlin'. Talk to me." "Sam..." His tone registered. He was
talking to Maddie-with-a-past, and the knowledge hurt so much that she could
hardly bear it. Her eyes opened, and she took a deep, shaking breath. Tears
were sliding down her cheeks without her being able to do anything about them,
and she blinked and sniffed, and wiped her eyes. "It's a bad dream, okay?
I get it sometimes. No big deal." "Looks like it." His tone was
skeptical. Then he sighed. "We were going to have this conversation in a
few days, when we were safe out of this mess and emotions had had time to cool
down. But you're having nightmares and crying, and I've got nothing but time.
So talk to me. You don't want to tell me about your dream, fine. Tell me about
your past. You said your father was in the mob." Maddie shook her head and sniffed again. "I
said he used to do jobs for the mob." "There's a difference?" She nodded. The tears had slowed to a trickle
now. Soon, she knew, they'd stop entirely. "My dad hated the mob. He hated
what they made him do. He just... couldn't help himself." "What do you mean, he couldn't help
himself?" Maddie glanced up at him, slightly surprised to
find his face so close. He smelled of creek water, a little, and of fresh air
and himself, and he felt warm and solid and very male against her. The
starlight touched on his eyes, making them gleam. Her eyes slid over his lean,
bronzed cheeks, his banged-up nose, his square, unshaven chin. His wide
shoulder seemed made to pillow her head, and she could feel the gentle rise and
fall of his chest beneath her hand. Being held like this in his arms felt so
good, so right, that she didn't even want to move away although she knew, in
the interest of salvaging what she could of her poor, battered heart, that she
should. Instead, she gave a little sigh of surrender. For better or worse, she
was going to bare her soul to him. It was up to him to make of the truth what
he would. "My dad—Charles, his name was Charles
Dolan—was a gambler." The faintest of smiles touched her mouth. "A
very bad gambler. He always lost. Way more than he—we—had." "He's dead?" She nodded. Her throat threatened to close up. "What about your mother?" That was easier. "She died when I was two.
I don't even really remember her. My dad kept a few pictures, and when I think
about her, one of those pictures is what I see." "Brothers and sisters?" Maddie shook her head. "Just me and my dad.
It was always just me and my dad." "So, tell me about him. You said he was a
gambler." "When I was a little girl, he had a job. He
worked for a car lot in Baltimore. He didn't make a lot, but we had a nice
apartment and groceries and the whole bit. But he gambled, all the time. On
everything. I found out later that when he lost, he'd do something to get the
money. Skim parts from the dealership he worked for, or break into a bunch of
cars and steal stuff out of them and sell it, or something. Eventually he lost
his job, of course, and that's when we started moving around, from apartment to
apartment, mostly in Baltimore, sometimes in D.C. He'd work at whatever he
could find, and I'd go to school wherever we were. When I was fourteen, I lied
about my age and got a job as a checkout clerk in a Walgreens after school. It
didn't pay much, but we were living in a cheap little apartment, and what I
made each month would just about barely cover the rent. I usually managed to
catch my dad whenever he got paid to get enough for groceries and the utility
bill, so we didn't go hungry or anything. I thought we were doing all right.
Not fantastic, not even real good, but all right. But he was gambling. I didn't
know how much he was gambling." "It's a sickness with some people,"
Sam murmured. His arm was sliding up and down her arm, just barely, offering
wordless comfort, she thought. "It was a sickness with him," Maddie
confirmed. "He was a great guy except for that one thing." "So how did he start doing jobs for the
mob?" Maddie drew a breath. "It was the gambling.
He made a big bet and he lost. He borrowed money from a loan shark to cover it,
and then he couldn't pay. I didn't know anything about it until one night these
two guys beat my dad up in the parking lot of our apartment building. It was
summer. I had just graduated from high school, and I was working full-time. I
got home from work and saw my dad on the ground and these two guys just
pounding on him and kicking him. He was a big guy, strong, and he just lay
there and covered up his head and let them do it. I started screaming and ran
over there to help him, and they just stopped and got into a car and drove off.
And... and one of them yelled out his window that I should tell my dad that he
ought to pay his debts or next time he was going to wind up dead." "Shit," Sam said, and the hand that
had been moving on her arm stilled. Glancing up at him, she could see that his
eyes had narrowed and his jaw was hard. "You give any thought to going to
the police?" "That's your answer for everything, isn't
it? The police," Maddie said with gentle scorn. "Actually, at the
time, I wanted to call the police, but Dad wouldn't let me. He said if I did,
they'd kill him. So I didn't. But he was hurt and shaken up, and he told me
about the loan shark. It was so much money. I knew it would take us years to
pay it off, if we ever could. So the next day I went to the loan shark—it was
this one guy, John Silva, who had a business called Paycheck Loans—to see if we
couldn't set up a payment plan or something." "Why am I not surprised at that?" Sam
asked into the air, closing his eyes. Then he looked back down at her. "So
what did the loan shark say?" "He wasn't a bad guy," Maddie said
defensively. "At least, I didn't think so then. He laughed. He said he
didn't do payment plans, but if I wanted to work for his company and try to pay
it off, that would be okay. And he said he'd give my dad some jobs that he
could do to pay it off, too." She felt him take a breath. "Let me guess: You and your dad both
started working for the loan shark, and your dad kept gambling and getting in
deeper." "Yeah." Maddie's tone was rueful.
"Dad just couldn't get out from under it, and Mr. Silva started loaning
him to other people, mob people, to do things—bad things, I found out later...
and then... and then..." "And then what?" Sam prompted when
Maddie's voice trailed off. "Then these two FBI agents started sniffing
around Paycheck Loans." Her voice was flat. " 'Course, I didn't know
what they were at first. They were undercover." "Ahh. "The drawn-out syllable signified that light had
dawned. "Go on." "But one day one of them came by the
apartment when I was there by myself and told me that he was an FBI agent. He
told me my dad was involved in illegal activities, and if I didn't want to see
him arrested and put away for a long time, I had to get some information from
Mr. Silva's files for them." "Shit," Sam said, and the arms around
her tightened. A beat passed, in which he seemed to be thinking about
something. "You wouldn't have happened to have caught their names, would
you?" "One went by Ken Welsh and the other by
Richard Shelton, but I'm almost positive those weren't their real names." "Probably not, if they were running an
undercover operation," Sam conceded. "So then you were on a slippery
slope, hmm?" Maddie nodded. "They kept wanting me to do
more for them. They kept coming back for more, threatening me as well as my dad
with going to jail if I didn't do what they wanted. Then... then my dad got
into something way over his head. He... he went out on a collection job that
turned into a murder. He came home and broke down, just cried all over me and
told me everything. The guv was someone he knew, a man named Ted Cicero, and he
said he just had to stand there and watch the guy he was with whack him." "So, what did you do?" Sam asked. "I was scared. I was scared for me, and I
was scared for my dad. So I did what I thought was the one thing that might get
us out of the whole thing for good. I went to Ken Welsh and Richard Shelton and
told them everything." She sucked in air. "Instead of helping me,
though, they used what I told them for leverage. They wanted my dad to start
wearing a wire for them. He wouldn't do it. So they arrested me and charged me
with all that stuff, and told my dad the charges would be dropped if he
cooperated. So he did. He wore a wire on a couple of jobs. And they found it on
him." "Oh, Jesus." Sam closed his eyes, then
opened them again and looked down at her. "Was it bad?" Maddie nodded. There was a constriction in her
chest now that made it hard to breathe. This was the part that hurt to
remember. This was the stuff of the nightmare that had haunted her for seven
years. "They grabbed me in the parking lot, and
tied me up and took me to this little shotgun house not that far from our
apartment. Mr. Silva was there, and three men I didn't know, and my dad. They
had my dad tied to a kitchen chair. He was beaten up real bad. They took me
over to stand in front of him and told him they were going to kill me in front
of him and make him watch and then kill him. And my dad started crying." Maddie's voice broke. "Then they took me into a bedroom, and
threw me on a bed, and tied me there. And... and I had to listen while they beat
up my dad some more. I could hear them talking, and one guy—this one guy with
this really oily black hair and a big, swoopy mustache—kept coming to the
bedroom door and l-looking at me. Oh, God, I was so scared he was going to come
in and get me, because I knew when he did it would be because he was going to
kill me, and then kill my dad. I kept praying he wouldn't come in, but finally
he did." She paused, took a deep, shuddering breath, and continued, almost
oblivious now to the tension in Sam's body, or the hard arms around her, or his
hand stroking her arm. "They untied my feet and took me into the living
room. Ken Welsh was there. I was really surprised to see him. I was just so
thankful, though, I thought we were saved, I thought it was all over, so I
didn't really think it through. But he just looked at me and kind of smirked as
this guy dragged me on past him, and then I saw that Mr. Silva was showing him
some money, a briefcase filled with money. Then Ken Welsh took the money and
left. He just left us there, my dad and I. To die." "They paid him off," Sam said softly,
his hand stilled, his arms like steel bands around her now. "They paid him
off to leave them alone." Maddie nodded. That was the conclusion she'd
come to, too, over the years. God, she hated to remember. Her heart was racing.
Her stomach was in knots. She was starting to tremble. Maybe she should just
stop there. Maybe that was enough... "Okay." Sam's mouth was grim. "I
know this is hard for you, but I need to hear it. What happened to you and your
dad?" Maddie took a deep breath. He wanted to know.
She wanted him to know. She wanted him to hear the full, complete truth. So she
gathered up every last scrap of inner strength she had, and went ahead. "They stood me in front of him and the guy
with the mustache put a gun to my head." She spoke rapidly, trying to get
it all out as quickly as she could. "I thought I was going to die right
that minute. But this other guy said—I can still hear him saying it—'Wait a
minute. Why just shoot her? Hell, let's have some fun with her first.' And he
dragged me back off toward the bedroom. I looked back over my shoulder and saw
them put a gun to my dad's head. Then I couldn't see anymore because I was
inside the bedroom, but I heard a shot. And a... a kind of... gurgle." Her eyes closed, and more tears leaked out. Sam
cursed and turned onto his side, wrapping both arms around her. Her head was
pillowed on his arm, and she clutched the front of his shirt and hung on for
dear life. "Tell me the rest, baby." His voice
was impossibly gentle. She wanted to, but she could hardly speak. Her
voice was a poor broken thing, but she managed to force the words out. "I knew they shot him. I knew it. I just...
went crazy. The guy was trying to k-kiss me and I bit his tongue. Savagely.
Just as hard as I could. He screamed and threw me away from him so hard that I
crashed partway through the window. Then he started coming toward me and blood
was pouring out of his mouth and I just kind of threw myself at the broken
window, trying to smash through it, trying to get out. And the house blew up.
Just like that. And somehow I was thrown out through the window, thrown clear.
And... and I lay there in that overgrown backyard, bleeding and crying and
w-watching as that little one-story house turned into a blowtorch in about the
blink of an eye. There was no way anyone who was in there lived. My dad—even if
they didn't shoot him, he was gone." Even after all these years, the scene was as
vivid in her mind as if it were happening in front of her. Tears poured from
her eyes. "I'm sorry. So sorry, baby," Sam
whispered, rocking her against him. The pain was so intense that she couldn't speak.
She closed her eyes, shaking, holding on to him as if he were the only solid
thing in an insane world. She felt his mouth against her temple, then against
her cheeks, which were wet with tears. Then he lifted her poor, injured hand
and pressed first the palm and then, very gently, the injured pinkie to his
mouth. "Sam," she whispered, opening her eyes
to watch this touch of his mouth on her hand through a veil of tears. He put
her hand back gently against his chest, then bent his head to kiss her mouth. TWENTY-FIVE His arms around her were warm and hard; his body
was firm and muscular; his mouth was wet and hot. And he was Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. She discovered that she was saying it aloud,
that she was whispering his name against his skin as he lifted his mouth from
hers to press comforting little kisses against her cheeks, against her ear,
along the line of her jaw. His bristly cheek brushed over the softness of her
skin, and she loved the prickly abrasion of it; his hands stroked her
shoulders, her arms, her back, and she loved the size and warmth of them; she
pressed her mouth to his neck, and loved the salt-tinged flavor of his skin. "Don't cry, baby; it's all over. It was a
long time ago. Everything's going to be all right now." He was murmuring
to her between kisses—soft, disjointed phrases that she only partly
heard—offering what comfort he could. "Sam," she whispered against his neck,
because it seemed to be the only thing she could say. "I've got you safe," she heard, and
that almost made her smile despite the tears that were still sliding down her
face because they were so very far from safe, and she knew it, and he knew it,
and still, with him holding her, she felt safe, which was stupid. Stupid. "I love you, Sam," she said clearly,
because she did and there was just no doing anything about it. He lifted his
head and looked down at her, the dark, hard lines of his face faintly silvered,
his eyes gleaming black and hot in the starlight, and her heart swelled and
throbbed and ached, and she knew that what she'd just said was true, that she
loved him, that somehow, amidst terror and danger and heartbreak, she'd found
the man who was supposed to be hers. And she didn't care if it was stupid. "I love you, too, whoever you are," he
whispered against her mouth, and because it was just exactly what she wanted to
hear yet sounded so absurd, she was smiling a little when his lips slanted over
hers. She noticed that he was smiling, too, with those dimples just visible for
an instant, and realized that he'd said it that way precisely to make her
smile, before she closed her eyes and forgot everything except that he was
kissing her. Her hands slid up under his shirt and flattened
on the warmth of his skin. She felt the softness of his chest hair, the wide
firmness of the muscles beneath, the quick, hard beating of his heart. And she
wanted him. Wanted him with a desperateness that was quite outside her
experience, with a deep, primal need that tightened her loins and made her
breasts swell against his chest, with a life-affirming urge that had her
reaching for him, stroking over the hard bulge at the front of his jeans as his
hand flattened hard over her breast. She needed this, she needed Sam. She
needed to feel warm again. She needed to block out the memories. She needed to
feel alive. "Sam," she breathed, her blood heating
to scalding as she pressed close against that big, warm hand. "Maddie," he answered in a deep,
guttural voice, and ran his lips down her neck. His hands went beneath her tank
top, pushing it up out of his way, and his mouth was on her breast, burning her
through the thin white lace of her bra, and she gasped at the goodness of it,
the rightness of it, the wonder of it. Then he released the clasp of her bra
and pushed the flimsy thing out of his way and opened his mouth over her
nipple, stroking his tongue over it, making it quiver and tighten and ache. "Make love to me," she whispered, her
fingers curling around his waistband and then quite forgetting their mission as
his lips slid across her body. His tongue branded her, leaving a trail of fire
as it licked its way up the slope of her other breast. Then she arched up into
the heat of his mouth as it claimed her nipple, and cried out. "You are so beautiful you take my breath
away." He lifted his head, pulled her tank top and bra off, and then, as
she lay bared to the waist with the starlight playing over her, just looked
down at her for a moment, devouring her with his eyes. "Let's get you
naked." "And you," she said, her heart
pounding, her body tightening and aching and burning. Then she remembered what
she had been doing before and reached for his zipper again. "I want you
naked, too." "Oh, yeah," he said. "That was
the plan." But she was naked first, because he peeled her
pants and underwear off before she could even get a good grip on that damned
hard-to-manipulate button that always seemed to fasten jeans. But that was
okay, because he took care of the problem himself, stripping off his clothes
like a man in a hurry to get down to business until, for an instant, he stood
naked in the starlight. His hair shone blacker than the night, and his
face was hidden in shadow. But she could see the muscled breadth of his
shoulders, the classic V
of his torso, the lean hips, the
long, powerful legs. And what was between them. She stared, and felt the urgent tightening in
her loins pulse hotter and faster. She wanted him. God, she wanted him. But first... She sat up, then curled up onto her knees and
took him in her mouth, her hands sliding around to caress the tight, round
curves of his butt. He froze for, perhaps, the space of a heartbeat. Then he
groaned and buried his fingers in her hair, and said "Maddie" in a
voice that sounded like it was killing him to talk at all. Finally he said "damn" and pulled
away. Before Maddie had time to do more than open her eyes, he was pushing her
back and coming down on top of her and thrusting inside her and taking her so
hard and fast and urgently that she could do nothing but wrap her arms and legs
around him and hold on for the ride. He made love to her until the air around
them turned to steam, until she was mindless with passion, writhing with it,
needing... "Oh, God, Sam,"she
gasped, unable to bear it any longer, her body peaking and breaking and going
into hard, tight convulsions that he must have felt, because his arms clenched
around her and he came into her with deep, fierce thrusts that carried her
right over the edge, that carried her to some blissful nirvana that she had
never before even imagined existed, that caused the starry night sky to burst
in all its glorious profusion around her even though her eyes were firmly
closed. "Maddie," he groaned, and held himself
inside her, and came. I understand I'm your type," Maddie said a
long time later. Sam was lying flat on his back, listening to the dog snore and
the creek run and the insects canoodle, and she was sprawled naked on top of
him, playing with his chest hair. "What type is that?" Sam asked,
glancing down at her. He had been staring up at the star-sprinkled night sky,
not really seeing it because there was too much else on his mind, from the
firm, warm curves of the woman on top of him, to the possible whereabouts of
the hunting party that was almost certainly still combing the woods for them,
to the tantalizing knowledge that, thanks to Maddie's story, he now had the key
to the identity of the sick bastard he'd been chasing for the past month. The problem was, he just didn't know which door
the key unlocked yet. "Slim, pretty brunettes. Sweet little
wholesome girls." She sounded like she was quoting from memory. She also
didn't sound really happy about it. Sam considered that for a moment. She had her
chin resting on her hand now, looking at him seriously. As dark as it was, he
couldn't see the things that made his gut clench, like the small cut on her
cheek or the red, swollen tip of her little finger. All he could see was the
dark cloud of hair around her lovely, luminous face, and her eyes—those big,
honey-colored eyes— gleaming at him. "You're kidding me, right?" he asked.
Then, realizing where she must have heard it, he added in a resigned tone,
"You've been talking to Gardner, haven't you?" Her eyes narrowed a little. "Maybe." A
beat. "So, am I your type?" This, Sam felt, was a loaded question. One of
those damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't conundrums beloved by women
worldwide that, fortunately, he didn't have to think his way out of on this
occasion, because the truth was so irrefutably obvious. "I hate to break this to you, but if that's
my type, you must be shit out of luck." "What's that supposed to mean?" She
sounded all huffy now. For some kind of masochistic reason that he'd have to
puzzle out at some other time, he loved it when she got huffy. Besides the
obvious, of course, that's what had attracted him to her from the very
beginning, he realized. Forget "lie down and die." When backed into a
corner, this babe was full of fight. "Okay, you're a slim, pretty brunette, I'll
grant you that. A sweet little wholesome girl? You may be stretching it there,
but that's nothing I'd want to claim anyway. You leave it at that, and half the
female population of the country's probably my type. But you—you're something
special. You're gorgeous and sexy and smart—and no matter how hairy things get,
you never say die. You got balls, babe. You're one of a kind." A beat passed. "That's a compliment, right?" Maddie
asked, eyeing him with a trace of suspicion. "Yeah," Sam said. "It is." "Sort of a clumsy, masculine way of saying
you love me, right?" "Absolutely." Sam grinned, and rolled
with her so that she was on her back and he was looming over her.
"Darlin', in case you haven't realized it yet, you pretty much had me the
first time you scowled at me." "Oh, yeah?" "Yeah." She was smiling up at him, and her cool, smooth
hands were sliding up his arms, and he remembered, suddenly, fiercely, the
explosive spurt of murderous rage he'd felt when that thug had brought the
hammer down on her delicate little finger. That's when he'd first begun to
suspect that, no matter how furious and betrayed and suspicious of her motives
he'd felt, the feelings he had for her were not just going to go away. He’d
known then that he was in love—for better, worse, good solid citizen or
criminal—even if he didn't much like it. He'd still been hooked, even when he'd
thought the worst. When he heard her story, though, heard the hell she'd suffered
through, and the abuse and the pain, only to emerge triumphant on the other
side, even if she might not quite be legally in the right, he'd been hit by a
combination of tenderness and protectiveness and pride and fury on her behalf
that had been like a lightning bolt striking deep into his soul. His grandma had always told him that he would
know it when it happened, and, as annoying as it was, she was once again proved
absolutely right: He had recognized it right then. What he felt for Maddie was
a forever kind of thing. He wasn't quite sappy enough to put all that
into words, but the way he chose to express himself was more fun anyway. He kissed her. Then he showed her. Maddie only realized that she had fallen asleep
when someone shook her awake. For a moment she was disoriented, not quite
understanding who it could be or where she was. "Maddie," a voice said from somewhere
not too far above her ear. "Go away." It couldn't be time to get
up yet, she didn't have to be at work until eight, or, actually, since it was
her company, whenever she wanted to get there, and... "Maddie." The hand on her shoulder
shook her again. Her eyes opened. Sam was leaning over her, looking more
disreputable than ever as he hunkered down, fully dressed, beside her. There was
a swollen bump on the bridge of his nose that hadn't been there before, he
needed a shave badly, and he looked tired as hell. She blinked sleepily up at
him, felt her heart swell with joy—and then saw the purplish-gray sky behind
him, dotted with only a few stars now, and remembered with a flash of dismay
where they were and what had happened. Dawn was at hand. In this case, that was
definitely not good news. "Oh, God," she groaned, lifting a
throbbing hand to her aching head, and sat up. Sam grinned at her, or maybe smirked was a
better word, in an annoying, masculine way that let her know that she was naked
and he was enjoying the view. Beside him sat Zelda, looking just about as
disheveled and full of get-up-and-go as Maddie felt. "We need to be making tracks,
beautiful." That earned him a scowl. She didn't feel
beautiful. Heck, she didn't even feel human. And she had certain personal needs
that absolutely did not require his presence. "Don't you have somewhere else you need to
be for a few minutes?" She was careful to add "for a few
minutes" to that, because the thought of him disappearing for any longer
was enough to give her palpitations. "I brought you more water. It's right
there." He nodded at the can before giving her another of those all-seeing
looks and then leaving her to her own devices. Zelda tottered over to the can and started
lapping. "Great," Maddie said, watching
dispiritedly. When Zelda had drunk her fill, she turned and looked at Maddie
and whined. "No food. Sorry." Maddie held out her empty
hands to demonstrate, and Zelda looked disappointed. She flopped down on her
belly again, and watched with a moody expression as Maddie washed and dressed
in the water the dog left and did what she needed to do. Sam came back just as she was starting to worry
about him. He was carrying a stout stick a little longer than and about the
thickness of a baseball bat. It was, Maddie realized with dismay, their only
weapon. "Here," he said, handing her
something. It took her a minute, but she realized that they were his socks. "You can't go running around
barefoot," he said impatiently as she looked at the big, semi-white things
with mild revulsion. "Your feet are already all scratched up. I'd give you
my shoes, but they'd fall off your feet." A glance down at what looked like his
size-twelves confirmed that. With a sigh, Maddie surrendered the last of her
hygiene standards. "Did you see anything?" she asked as
she pulled the socks on. Now that they were about to leave their little
hidey-hole, she felt scared all over again. He shook his head. "You don't think we should just stay here,
do you?" she asked in a small voice as she finished pulling on the socks
and stood up. "They haven't found us yet." "They will eventually." That was so chilling that Maddie shivered. Sam
saw, dropped a quick, hard kiss on her mouth and another, gentler, one on her
injured hand, then headed out around the edge of the enclosure. With Zelda
trailing forlornly behind her, Maddie hurried to keep up with him. "Tell me we've got some kind of plan,"
she said as they skirted the base of the cliffs. It was still dark, but dawn
was definitely coming. The birds were starting to call to one another. The
creek tinkled merrily alongside them. Zelda munched on trash she'd found along
the creek bed. There was happiness in the world, Maddie reflected. At the
moment, however, she just wasn't feeling it. Sam grinned at her, but he must have realized
that she was too scared and tired and achy for humor, because he gave her a
straight answer. "The house they took us to yesterday was on
the east side of the mountain. The driveway led downhill. We're still on the
east side of the same mountain, so I'm guessing that if we go far enough
downhill, we'll find a road. We can follow it out, or hitchhike, which is a
little dicey because we don't know who'll stop. Our best bet, probably, is to
find a phone. If there was one house up here, there are bound to be more. And
there's always the chance that the cavalry will show up. Believe me, they're
busting their asses right now to find us." What he didn't add, but Maddie knew, was that
finding them would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. No matter how
optimistically she tried to look at it, she didn't think waiting to be rescued
was going to work. They followed the creek downstream as the sky
lightened gradually above them, walking until the cliffs were a distant memory
and they were once again in the heart of the piney woods. It was still dark
under the trees, but more of a thick gray now than a pitch black. The air
smelled of pine and dampness. The humidity was tangible. It was almost as if
the ground itself was sweating. Mist hung beneath the trees like fog, making it
impossible to see farther than a few feet in every direction. The footing was
slippery and treacherous, especially for Maddie in her socks. The sounds of the
forest were all around them, but if there were any other humans within shouting
distance, Maddie couldn't tell it. Conversely, this made her jittery. Goose
bumps crept over her skin. She kept glancing nervously all around, and every
crack of a twig or unexpected sound made her jump. It was eerie being there among the trees in the
foggy gray hush of dawn. Especially knowing as well as she did that a shot
could come out of nowhere at any time, or that behind any given bush, or hidden
within any shadowy clump of trees, someone could be waiting... When Sam stopped, it was so unexpected that she
nearly bumped into him. "What?" she whispered, her heart
pounding as she peered around him. "Bingo," he said, his voice low, too.
"If we’re lucky, we'll be back at your place in time for breakfast." Then she saw it. A small log cabin stood on a
slight rise in front of them, its shingled roof rising above the mist. The
trees had been cleared around it, and a narrow dirt track led up past it to a
shed or barn or garage. Maddie's heart gave a great, hopeful leap... But what if they weren't lucky? Maddie had a
sudden vision of Hansel and Gretel, and the witch's gingerbread house. "What if whoever lives there is a bad
guy?" Maddie asked, still surveying the house doubtfully from the shelter
of Sam's back. "Then we've got trouble," Sam said,
way more cheerfully than the situation called for. "See the lines leading
to the house? There's a phone in there. You wait here, and I'll go summon the
cavalry." "Not in this life." Maddie grabbed his
arm, alarm in every syllable. "No way am I staying here alone. If you go,
I go." He looked around at her. What he saw in her face
must have persuaded him that she meant what she said, because he sighed. "Will you at least promise me that if
there's trouble, you'll run for it and leave me to handle it?" "Sure," Maddie said. "I
promise." Meaning she'd wait and evaluate the situation
when and if it happened. But right at that moment, the chance of her abandoning
him was looking like it was somewhere between slim and none. Sam looked at Zelda, who was drooping like a
wilted flower. "Could we at least leave the dog tied to a
tree?" Sam asked. "She'll bark. Anyway, if they find her,
they'll kill her. You heard what they said." "I feel like I'm leading a parade,"
Sam said. "All right, come on." They had just started walking again when a sharp
craaak pierced the charcoal-gray dawn. And something smacked hard into
the trunk of a pine not six inches from Maddie's head. TWENTY-SIX "Shit!" Sam yelled, grabbing her hand. "Run!" Maddie didn't need him to tell her a second
time. She bolted like a deer from hunters, head low, feet slipping and sliding
on the pine needles underfoot. Head spinning, heart pounding, sure she was
going to die at any second, she ran as though the hit man was on her heels. Oh, wait, he was. Craaak. Another bullet smacked a nearby tree, so close that she
felt a blowback of splinters spray her cheek. Maddie almost screamed, but she
choked the sound back just in time. It would only help the hit man take better
aim. Having lost his stick, Sam pounded along beside her, head down, dodging
and weaving among the trees, and somewhere, poor Zelda was lost in the gloom.
Maddie had dropped the leash when she started running. She said a heartfelt little prayer for Zelda—and
for herself and Sam. "Marino, they're to your left," a
man's voice yelled. Maddie had just registered that his voice sounded fairly
distant and that he was somewhere behind them and to the right when there was
another sharp craaak. A shower of pine needles rained over them.
Maddie realized that once again their bullet had been heart-stoppingly close. "Jesus," Sam said, and there was
something in his voice that scared Maddie almost more than the bullets. The charcoal silhouette of a man stepped out of
the mist not thirty feet in front of them, a rifle at his shoulder pointed
straight at them. "Freeze!" he yelled. "Keep going." Sam let go of her hand and pushed her hard to her
right so that there was a little stand of trees between her and the shooter.
Then, to her horror, he ran straight for the man, crouching low, barreling
headlong through the trees. He’d made the choice for her. She could only go for
it. Heart slamming, stomach churning, gasping for air and trying to watch Sam
at the same time, she ran for her life. "Over here, they're over here!"
someone cried. That voice came from the right, too, and sounded closer than the
first. Craaak. The mouth of the rifle Sam was running toward blazed yellow
through the fog. To her horror, Maddie realized that she could no longer see
Sam. Oh, God, is he hit? Maddie's heart gave a terrified lurch and her stomach
dropped clear to her toes. There was no way to know, and nothing she could do.
Except run. And pray. Please, God, please... Pulse pounding, sobbing for breath, running for
her life, she heard what sounded like thudding footsteps nearby, but she
couldn't be sure; it might have been the beating of her pulse against her
eardrums, and the mist was so dense she couldn't see—and then another man
stepped out of the trees directly ahead of her, so close that she almost
smacked into him. He lunged toward Maddie, and she screamed. "Got her," he yelled as he grabbed
her, catching her by her hair as she tried to dodge and yanking her back
against him. With a single terrified glance she saw that it was Fish and that
he had a rifle in his other hand. It was pointed toward the ground as he
struggled with her. Heart hammering, breath rattling in her throat as though
she was dying, she realized that this was her chance, maybe her only chance, to
escape. Fueled by a burst of adrenaline, she whirled in his grip and slugged
him in the nose as hard as she could. She felt the impact all the way up her arm to
her shoulder. The sound made her think of a melon hitting the floor and
splitting open. Fish howled and she tore free, leaving strands
of hair behind in his fist. Almost falling to her knees, she recovered and
scrambled away. "Where? Where are they?" The cry, from
multiple voices, echoed through the trees. As panicked as she was, Maddie
thought that they came from all around her, everywhere. All she could see was
mist and trees. All she could hear, besides the dying echo of the voices, was
the frantic thudding of her own heart. A flying tackle brought her down. It hit her in
the small of the back, knocked the breath out of her, knocked her off her feet.
She slammed to the ground, then skidded face-forward through the mulch on the
forest floor. With a burst of stomach-twisting terror, she realized that it was
Fish who was on top of her. She struggled wildly, her nails digging into the
ground as she tried to fight her way free. "You're dead now, bitch," Fish howled,
straddling her, and slammed his fist hard into the back of her head. Maddie
gasped and saw stars. "Don't you fucking move," Sam said, in
a deadly voice unlike anything Maddie had ever heard come out of his mouth.
"Go on, give me an excuse to blow your head off. I want to." For a moment she thought that she must be
hallucinating, that the blow was causing her mind to play tricks on her, but
Fish, though he still straddled her, went as still as if he'd been turned to
stone. "Get your hands in the air," Sam
ordered, and Maddie felt Fish move and guessed that he had obeyed. Shaking, breathing like she had been running for
miles, she dared a glance around then and saw that her mind hadn't been playing
tricks on her, that it was Sam who was standing not six feet away, mist
swirling waist-deep around him, stalking closer with a rifle against his
shoulder that was pointed at Fish's head. She felt a wave of thankfulness
stronger than anything she had ever known because he was still alive, and a
fresh wave of terror, too. Just because he was alive this minute didn't mean
that in the next he might not be dead. He'd come back for her. He'd saved her life by
pushing her away from the shooter, then gone after him and wrested a rifle away
from him and come back to save her again. ... And then she heard it, echoing through the
forest like multiple blasts from a chorus of synchronized bugles. "Federal Agents! Drop your weapons! Don't
anybody move!" The cavalry had arrived. They were saved. She went limp with relief, letting her head fall
back down to rest against the cool, damp mulch, breathing hard, heart still
pounding as her body tried to absorb the news that the danger had passed. "Get off her," Sam said to Fish, still
in that deadly voice. "Maddie, are you okay?" "Fine," she said, which was the truth
because "fine" meant that she was alive and he was alive and it was
all over and they would both live to see another day. Fish got off her, moving
slowly and carefully, and she rolled onto her side, watching as Sam
spread-eagled Fish against a tree and started patting him down. The rifle that
Fish had apparently dropped when he dived after her now rested against a tree
near Sam's side. "McCabe! Maddie!" It was Wynne's
voice, echoing out of the mist. "Over here," Sam yelled while Maddie
slowly, carefully sat up. "You okay?" she asked. "Fine." He grinned at her over his
shoulder, faintly breathless, and Maddie felt her chest slowly expand, as if
she could breathe again. It was over. "Thank God," she said. "We're
alive. We made it." "You sound like you had doubts." "Maybe just a few." Sam grinned at her again. "Just for the
record, me, too." He took something from Fish and stepped back, then, as
Fish made a restive movement Sam said to him in an entirely different tone,
"You want to live, you don't move unless I tell you to move." It was growing lighter under the trees now, and
she could see that he was looking cheerful and pleased with himself and more
lighthearted than she had ever seen him. Her heart gave a little lurch. It was
over and they were both alive and she loved him. That was what was important.
Actually, that was all that mattered. But now the truth was out. She was going to have
to deal with that. There was general commotion in the surrounding area, voices
and thuds and the clink of metal, the sound of many people moving through the
trees. Then Wynne materialized out of the mist. "What took you?" Sam said to him, his
eyes and the rifle still on Fish. "Think finding this place was
easy?" Wynne's eyes moved over Fish, then slid down to Maddie before
returning to Sam. "You can thank Cynthia that we got here at all." "Cynthia?" McCabe cast Wynne a
sideways glance and then shouted for somebody to come and take Fish away.
"What did Cynthia do?" "I saved your ass, McCabe, that's what I
did," Cynthia said, appearing through the mist along with another man whom
Maddie didn't know but who was apparently another law-enforcement type, because
he slapped cuffs on Fish and hustled him off. Sam reached a hand down to Maddie, and she let
him pull her to her feet. Wynne, meanwhile, was looking at Cynthia like a proud
parent might look at a precocious child. "Cynthia checked Maddie's... I mean, uh,
Leslie Dolan's"—this was accompanied by a quick, almost covert glance at
Maddie, who was by then leaning against Sam's side—"cell-phone records,
and found that she'd placed a whole bunch of calls to a plastics company in
Baltimore over the last few days. Turned out it was a front for a mob
operation, and our guys at that end had been investigating them anyway. With
what we told them, they had enough to run 'em in, and then they leaned on them
until they gave up Evergreen Waste and Disposal right back here in St. Louis.
Seems the Baltimore group had asked the Saint Louis group for a favor, and the
Saint Louis group had agreed to do it." "What kind of favor?" Sam growled.
They were walking by that time, slowly, the four of them, moving through the
mist toward the voices of the other law-enforcement agents and the sounds that
accompanied a gang of thugs being rounded up and placed under arrest. Sam was
holding the rifle in one hand and had the other arm wrapped around Maddie’s
waist. Weak-kneed and a little shaky as reaction set in, she had an arm around
him, too, and was leaning against him as they moved. Wynne and Gardner walked
together on her other side, and kept shooting her little sideways glances.
Maddie was too drained to care. "Well, first they wanted, uh, her killed—best
we can figure it, that's when she got shot in her car—and then they changed
that to kidnapped and forced to hand over some evidence she's apparently been
trying to blackmail them with and then killed. The guy sneaking up her
back stairs and yesterday's snatch by the garbage truck were apparently part of
the kidnapping plan." "What about the Carol Walter murder? And
the others? We got a handle on the guy who did that, the one who attacked
Maddie in her hotel room?" Sam's tone was urgent. Maddie remembered that
another victim had already been designated, and shivered. Gardner shook her head. "Nobody's jumped
out at us in regards to that yet," she said regretfully. "But then,
we haven't been talking to them long." "Okay." Sam's tone was absent, as if
he was thinking about something. "We need to keep after it. So what
happened when you zeroed in on our friendly neighborhood garbage company?" "They folded." Wynne grinned
reminiscently. "Once they knew we were on to them, nobody at Evergreen
wanted anything to do with the murder of a federal agent. They couldn't tell us
where they'd taken you fast enough. Then, of course, we got out to that house
where you'd been held that was about an hour ago—and nobody was there. But we
found Maddie's—uh, er..." "Maddie works," Sam said as Wynne
hesitated over the name again. "I'll tell you the whole story later. But
she's not a criminal." "Good to know." Wynne shot Maddie a
slightly less uneasy look. "Yeah," Cynthia said, giving Maddie a
little smile. "We like her. And looks like McCabe loooves her." "Shut up, Gardner," Sam said
good-naturedly, and the arm around Maddie tightened fractionally. "I like you, too," Maddie said to
Gardner and Wynne. Sam made an impatient sound. "Go on, Wynne.
You found Maddie's... ? " "Her jacket. And her vest. Kind of scared
us, to tell you the truth. She'd been there—and we were pretty sure you were
with her—but when we got there, she wasn't. That kind of thing is enough to
give you cold chills." "He was picturing you guys buried out in a
field somewhere," Gardner said. "But then we found the wrecked truck,
and that gave us something to go on. After that it was easy. A couple of
helicopters, a few dozen heat-seeking devices"—Sam smirked at Maddie
here—"half the law-enforcement officers in Missouri, and the thing was
done." "Of course, it helped a lot that they were
shooting at you there at the end," Wynne added. "Made you kind of
hard to miss." "Yeah." Sam grinned. "I bet it
did." The mist was starting to thin now, and Maddie
could see the man walking toward them quite clearly. It was Gomez. And at his
feet trailed Zelda. "Lose something?" Gomez called as he
got closer. "Zelda," Maddie said thankfully,
accepting the proffered leash. She was ashamed to realize that she had
forgotten about the little dog in the last few hectic minutes. "You can have french fries when we get
home," she told Zelda, who gave a feeble wag of her tail as if in
acknowledgment. "You guys didn't walk all the way here from
the truck, did you?" Sam asked as Gomez fell in beside them. "If you'd kept on going the way you were
going, you would have hit a road in about another quarter mile," Wynne said.
"That's where we're parked. You almost ran right into us." "Way to conduct an investigation," Sam
said and grinned. Sure enough, in another few minutes they emerged
from the piney woods onto the narrow blacktop road that curled around the
mountain. The sun was rising directly ahead of them now, painting the horizon
in bold shapes of purple and red and gold. A fleet of marked police cruisers,
unmarked cars, paddy wagons, and an ambulance were parked partly off the road,
strobe lights flashing. Uniformed cops and plainclothes law-enforcement
officers of various stripes herded miscreants into the backs of various
vehicles. It looked like a cast of hundreds. Probably, Maddie thought, it was a
little less. Given the number of head blows she'd suffered,
Sam insisted that she go to the hospital to be checked out, and Maddie didn't
feel like arguing, so she agreed. She had half feared being arrested by him or
someone else as soon as they were out of danger, but it didn't happen, and she
started to relax a little. With Wynne driving, Gardner riding shotgun, and
Zelda, pacified by a pit stop through a McDonald's drive-through, on her lap,
Sam rode with her back to St. Louis, which was about half an hour away. On the
way, he gave Wynne and Gardner the abbreviated version of Maddie's story, and
told her that he was fairly certain that, given the circumstances, he could
talk to the district attorney's office in Baltimore and get the charges
dismissed. That left Maddie feeling a whole lot better than she had in a long time. By the time Sam left her in the emergency room
in favor of the urgent press of work, Maddie felt as though her life was moving
in a more positive direction than it had for some time. Of course, the fact
that Sam insisted that Gardner stay with her, and his warning that until they
had positively identified the hit man, they couldn't be sure they had him, was
a little daunting. But still, Maddie realized, she was happier than
she had been in years. The whole staff of Creative Partners, agog,
converged on her at the hospital. Maddie was relieved to discover that they
knew no more of what had happened than that the man who'd been trying to kill
her had made another failed attempt, and that he now seemed to be under arrest.
The truth about her identity, the secret she'd kept for so long, was personal,
and she didn't want to reveal it, even to these trusted friends, unless she had
to. If it was possible, she wanted to remain the woman she had made herself
into. Leslie Dolan was her past. Maddie Fitzgerald was her present, and her
future. With that in mind, she handed Zelda off to
Louise with instructions to rush her right off to the groomer. And she sent
Jon, who with true presence of mind had kept Susan Allen from learning anything
at all about Maddie and Zelda going missing by hurrying her away from the
factory as soon as he'd realized something was amiss, to babysit Susan for
another day. And then she'd hugged the others, promised them that she was fine
and would be back on the job without fail the next day, and sent them off to
work. Finally, when the hospital had finished with her, she had headed home
with Cynthia, taken a shower, eaten a meal, and fallen into her own clean,
comfortable bed. And slept like a log. No dreams at all. Until she woke up to a dark apartment, and the
feeling that something wasn't right. TWENTY SEVEN Maddie sat up. It was ten-forty p.m., she saw
with a glance at the bedside clock, and the apartment was dark because night
had fallen while she'd slept. The flickering blue light from the living room
told her that the TV was on. It was, apparently, the only light in the
apartment. Now that she was fully awake, she could hear it. It wasn't quite as
loud as she was accustomed to, because Cynthia was watching it rather than Sam.
The thought made her smile a little. Sam would be there soon enough. Swinging her legs out of bed, she got up and
padded barefoot to the doorway. Since it had been the middle of the afternoon
when she'd fallen asleep, she was wearing loose, gray sweatpants and a white
T-shirt. No bra, but otherwise, she was fully dressed. Cynthia was sitting on
the couch with her legs curled up beside her, watching something on TV. Unlike
Sam or Wynne, she wasn't flipping channels. She, like most sane people,
actually watched a program all the way through. A glance around the room confirmed it:
Everything was fine. That uneasy feeling that had awakened her was probably the
result of the adventures she'd been having lately. Her mind, like her body, had
clearly not yet fully recovered from the trauma. She went into the bathroom, came back out, and
stood for a moment beside the couch. Cynthia was watching QVC. Why that seemed
funny, Mad-die couldn't have said. She had already learned that Cynthia was far
more feminine than she looked. "How you feeling?" Cynthia asked. "Hungry, but otherwise okay," Maddie
said, although the list of her aches and pains was long. The pain pill she'd
taken before falling into bed was supposed to be operational for another two
hours. Maddie shuddered to think what she would feel like when it wore off. "McCabe'll be here soon." Cynthia gave
her a little smirking smile. "I know." "You guys make a cute couple." Maddie paused en route to the kitchen to look
Cynthia over searchingly. She was wearing stretchy black pants and a soft pink
T-shirt, and her hair was softer looking than when Maddie had first met her. "Do you mind?" Maddie asked. "About you and McCabe?" Cynthia
grimaced. "Nah. I decided that sexy hunks of burning love aren't my
type." "Really?" The description made Maddie
grin. Sam would love it—not. "Yeah. But you go for it, honey. I can see
he really likes you. I've never seen him that lovey-dovey with anybody." This thing she had with Sam—it was too new and
too precious for her to easily talk about. It had to sink in for her first. "I'm going to get something to eat. You
want anything from the kitchen?" she asked. Cynthia shook her head. Maddie walked into the kitchen, which was dark
except for the filtered glow of the streetlight behind the curtain. The sounds
of a woman hawking a pantsuit for $29.95 followed her. She was thirsty rather
than hungry, she decided, and opened the refrigerator to get some orange juice.
She would've preferred milk, but she was fresh out. Sam had seen to that. The thought made her smile, and she was still
smiling and reaching for the juice when a hand clamped down hard over her
mouth, yanking her backward while the mouth of a gun jammed painfully into her
temple. She jumped, instinctively started to struggle,
to scream, while her heart went from zero to sixty in under a second and every
tiny hair on her body stood upright. "Make a sound, and I'll put a bullet in
your head where you stand," a man's harsh voice whispered in her ear. The
hand over her mouth had her in what was basically a headlock, clamping her
close to the burly body behind her. He was wearing gloves, Maddie realized, and
her blood went cold. This was the man from her hotel room—the hit man. Gun or
no gun, she was going to have to scream, to fight, to get Cynthia in here,
because no matter what she did, he was going to kill her. "We can do this one of two ways," that
terrifying voice whispered. "You and I can walk out this back door and
down these steps together quietly, and settle our differences between
ourselves. Or you can make a commotion that gets your friend in here, and I can
kill you first and be ready to kill her when she walks through the door. Your
call." Maddie went very still as she thought about
Cynthia in the next room, watching TV all unsuspecting. She remembered the
night in her hotel room in a burst of terrifying detail. His gun had a
silencer—he could put a bullet in her brain that second and Cynthia wouldn't
even hear the shot. She nodded once, jerkily, then went very still
while her heart slammed against her rib cage like a wild animal trying to
escape and cold sweat broke out over her body in waves. "Smart girl." He was already shoving
her toward the door. Maddie thought about the security system with a wild burst
of hope. It was on, she was sure it was on, she was almost positive she'd seen
its little blinking red light on the living-room wall when she'd been talking
to Cynthia. But then she realized that he was inside; if it was on, how had he
gotten inside? "Open the door," he said. She turned
the lock, turned the knob, opened the door—and nothing happened. No tinny
little beeping. No sound at all. Except the pounding of her heart as he shoved
her through the door onto the little platform at the top of the stairs. "Close it," he said, and she did, her
hand slippery with sweat as she pulled the door closed behind her, very softly,
no point in getting Cynthia killed, too. "Now walk very carefully down the
stairs." Then as he shoved her forward, Maddie caught a
glimpse of his face, and terror rose like bile in her throat. He had changed a
lot, and if she hadn't seen him up close, she might not even have recognized
him. But there was no mistaking the shape of his nose and mouth, or those cruel
eyes. It was Ken Welsh. Like the truth, the killer was out there. Sam
knew he was close, felt it in his gut, could almost taste it. But he couldn't
quite find him. The problem with the number of mob goons they'd arrested last
night and that morning was that there were a lot of them, both in Saint Louis
and Baltimore. A lot of goons meant a lot of processing, a lot of background
checks, a lot of interviews. Just a lot ofcrap to wade through, with no
guarantee that the kernel of truth he was seeking was anywhere in that
particular dung heap. His gut told him that it wasn't. Not that he didn't trust the new owner of his
heart, but Sam had checked—skepticism was a trait highly prized by the FBI—and
every verifiable detail of Maddie's story had proved to be true. He'd traced
Leslie Dolan from birth to the moment she had "died." Records showed
that a small shotgun house in a rundown section of Baltimore had indeed been
blown apart by a bomb seven years ago, killing everyone inside. The inferno had
been such that only minute amounts of human remains had been found. IDs had been
based on certain personal effects that had been recovered from the periphery of
the blast site—in Leslie Dolan's case, it had been part of a burned jacket and a shoe—and the
identities of people known to be
inside. A neighbor had seen her going in. No one had seen her leave. The general feeling was that it was a hit, but
not much of an investigation had been done. It was a poor neighborhood, and the
victims were known to have ties to the mob. The sad truth of the matter was
that no one had much cared about their fate. Sam was waiting for a records check to come back
with the names of the agents who had been working in the Baltimore field office
at that time. He was really interested in learning the true identities of Ken
Welsh and Richard Shelton. "Wynne came up behind him. Sam knew who it
was without even having to look around. The smell of grape bubblegum was a dead
giveaway. "Anything?" Wynne asked. They were in the St. Louis field office, the
better to process the reams of information that had come in over the course of
the day. It was late, getting on toward eleven p.m., but the office was still
bustling. Like he'd said earlier, when that many crooks went down, it made a
lot of work for everyone involved. But Sam, personally, was dead beat—he'd had no
sleep the night before—and he was ready to call it a day. The thought of going home to Maddie—because
that's what his upcoming stint of night duty felt like—made him smile. "Not yet." Sam pushed back from the
desk. What he'd been doing was cross-checking, comparing material from the hit
man's victims with material from Maddie's past with material from cases he'd
worked on, seeing if he could find a common thread. So far, nothing jumped out
at him. He had a feeling that it was there, though. He just wasn't seeing it.
Maybe tomorrow, when he wasn't so tired. "You ready to go?" Wynne asked, and
Sam nodded and stood up. It was a big room, beige and nondescript, divided into
small cubicles with walls that didn't reach all the way to the ceiling. People
were coming in and out, and a few had gathered in a conference room to the
rear. Computers glowed in a number of cubicles around the room. Gomez was
seated in front of one of them, typing away. He and Hendricks were supposed to
be on duty, staking out Maddie's apartment starting at dark, and the sight of
him sitting there made Sam frown. "Yeah," Sam said, and walked over to
Gomez. "I thought you were supposed to be on surveillance." Gomez threw him a distracted look over his
shoulder. "I'm coming. Just let me finish this and get Hendricks, and
we'll be there. God, did you ever see so much paperwork in your life?" "The paperwork can wait. You need to get
your asses over there." "We're coming, we're coming." "You don't think we've got our boy
yet?" Wynne asked as Sam rejoined him and they headed for the door. "Who the hell knows? But I'm not willing to
chance it." Not when Maddie's life was at stake. Wynne had just come back for him after being
gone for about an hour, and Sam got his first good look at him since his return
as they rode down in the elevator together. Sam's brows twitched. He was so
tired he was almost punch-drunk, he had a lot on his mind, and his nose was
giving him some pain. But he didn't think Wynne had been wearing a jacket and
tie, to say nothing of a white shirt and pressed khakis, the last time he'd set
eyes on him. "You change clothes?" he asked,
slightly amazed, as the elevator delivered them to the ground floor. "Yeah." Wynne looked almost
embarrassed. "Why?" "I got a date, okay?" They were out in the parking lot by that time.
It was a postage stamp-sized square of asphalt next to a large silver rectangle
of a skyscraper. Halogens glowed yellow overhead, holding back the night. "A date?" Sam's mind boggled. Wynne
all dressed up for a late date in St. Louis? Who... A lightbulb clicked on in
his mind. "Gardner." Puce was starling to creep into Wynne's cheeks.
"Yeah. We're going to Morton's. We were going to go last night—it would
have been our first date—but, ahem, circumstances intervened." Circumstances meaning the frantic search for him and Maddie, Sam knew.
They had reached the car by that time. Opening the driver's door—he'd had
enough of scary-ass drivers now to last a lifetime—Sam grinned at Wynne over
the roof. "Way to go, dude." "Yeah." Wynne grinned back, and they
got in the car. Sam's cell phone started to ring just as they
were pulling out of the lot. He tensed reflexively, fished it out of his
pocket, looked at the ID window, and relaxed. "McCabe," he answered, turning right
into a steady stream of traffic. It was late for so much traffic downtown, and
he guessed a ball game or a concert or something must have just let out. "She's gone," Gardner yelled in his
ear. She sounded distraught, frantic even. "She's gone. She's not here.
McCabe, are you hearing me? Maddie's disappeared from the apartment." Maddie's stomach was cramping, and she was so
frightened that she was light-headed. They were in his car, something big and
black. She was pinned in the front passenger seat, her hands cuffed behind her
back, the seat belt pulled tightly across her body to hold her in place. Behind
them, her apartment building was fast receding into the distance. She had kept
expecting the cavalry to show up—Gomez and Hendricks, or whoever was supposed
to be staking out her building; Cynthia, having realized that she was gone;
Sam, who was due back at the apartment any minute—somebody. Anybody. But
nobody had come, and he'd taken her down the stairs and cuffed her and put her
into the car and she hadn't even resisted. And the chance of
rescue was growing more remote with every yard of pavement that passed beneath
the wheels. He hung a left on Big Bend, and she went into shock as she faced
the truth: She was on her own with a killer. "What do you want with me?" she asked.
The light from the streetlights flickered in and out of the car as it passed
beneath them, and she was able to see him clearly. She hated to look—the
terrible familiarity of his profile was enough to make her break out in a cold
sweat—but she couldn't help herself. There was a horrible fascination to seeing
this face out of her nightmare in the flesh again. "I want that strongbox of Charlie's. And
you're going to tell me where it is." Oh, God, nobody had ever called her dad Charlie
but him... It had been a way of
cutting Charles Dolan down to size, of letting him know who was in charge. The
lights and passing trees and buildings blurred as tears sprang to her eyes. "I don't know." "We're going to find out, aren't we?
Believe me, dollface, if you know, you'll end up telling me." He sent her
a mean little smile that sent an icy finger of fear sliding down her spine.
"Actually, you're lucky I want it. You get to live a little longer. I
would have whacked you right there in your kitchen if I hadn't. Last time we
met, in your hotel room—'member that, baby? You fucking stabbed me in the leg,
didn't you?—I didn't know about it. Nice of you to start calling up all your
old friends and warning them about what you had." He sent her a look that made the hairs prickle
to life on the back of her neck. He was going to make her pay for that pencil
in the leg. He was going to hurt her—and then he was going to kill her. Maddie
wanted to scream. She wanted to bang her head against the window in a futile
attempt to attract attention, to smash it, to try to escape. She looked out the
windows, hoping desperately to see a passing cop car. If she did she
would—what? She couldn't reach the horn, the lights, the accelerator. She
couldn't even roll down the window. And... "Oh, look," Welsh said. "There
goes your boyfriend's car. Want to talk to him, baby? How about we give him a
call?" Maddie looked, and sure enough, there went the
Blazer, speeding in the opposite direction with Sam at the wheel. There was no
mistaking Wynne's blond Brillo-pad curls shining in the glow of the
streetlights. "He jimmied the security system."
Sam's blood raced. His heart pounded like a trip-hammer. He had just run up to
the apartment, taking the stairs two at a time, ascertained that Maddie was not
there and that the security system was still armed, and run down the back
stairs to check the box outside the building. The system was designed so that
if anyone tried to tamper with it, an alarm immediately sounded and a call was
routed to the police. But it had been rigged with a double loop of wires that
tricked the system into thinking it was still armed, even though it wasn't. Sam
looked at it and felt bells go off in his head. Not many people knew how to circumvent a system
like that. He did, though. It was exactly the kind of rerouting legerdemain
that he might have used himself if he wanted to break into a secure building. He'd learned it from the FBI. "He's a fed," Sam said, trying to stay
calm, trying not to think of what might be happening to Maddie at that very
instant as he turned to look at Wynne and Gardner, who were behind him. Gardner
was ashen with guilt, her usually confident demeanor shattered. Wynne was
protective and grim at the same time. Sam spoke to Gardner. "Get on the
computer, get on the phone, I don't care how you do it, but get me the names of
the agents who worked in the Baltimore office seven years ago now." Gardner
nodded and started running toward her car. Sam looked at Wynne. "You stay
here and take charge of things." The alert had already gone out to the St. Louis
field office, to the local cops, to everybody Gardner could think of to call.
Sam could already hear the sirens in the distance. Sam had one foot on the stairs when his cell
phone started to ring. He froze, then dug in his pocket and pulled out
the phone. He knew, he already knew, before he saw the ID window: Error, it
said. "McCabe," he said, trying to keep his
voice steady as icy terror flooded his veins. His gut clenched. He already knew
what he was going to hear. "Hey, asshole," the digitally altered
voice said. "Welcome back to the game." "There is no game." Maddie could hear
Sam's voice clearly. It was strong and steady, and she yearned toward it,
aching, willing him to feel her through the phone, to be able to somehow divine
where she was. "Sure there's a game," Welsh said. His
expression was gloating, triumphant, and Maddie hated him so much that she
shook with it. He used to look at her like that, at her father like that. When
he thought he had them under his thumb. "I took your little girlfriend.
The tables are turned, my friend. You thought you were going to use her to trap
me?" He gave a brutal little laugh. "Now I've got her. You come find
her. You better hurry, though." "We can work something out," Sam said,
and Maddie thought his voice sounded hoarse. "If you don't kill her. A
plea bargain for the others. Take the death penalty off the table, maybe." "Oh-ho." Welsh sounded delighted. He cast a glance at Maddie,
clearly eager for her reaction and enjoying the fact that she was there to see
him gloat. "Now you are playing. Just one problem, asshole. Why
should I worry about a plea bargain when you're not going to catch me?" "Oh, yeah," Sam said. "I am going
to catch you. I'm close. Closer than you think. Right on your tail." This made Welsh frown and cast a quick, furtive
look in the rearview mirror. For a moment, Maddie felt a wild rush of hope. But
then Welsh's face cleared and his smirk returned. "You're blowing smoke out your ass,
dickhead. You're nowhere near catching me." "You're a fed," Sam said. Welsh stiffened. "Not even close." "Yeah, it's close. And I can get even
closer. I got two names for you. Want to hear them?" "More smoke." "Richard Shelton. Ken Welsh. Those ring a
bell?" Welsh cast Maddie a glance that made her shiver.
He looked positively evil, driving through the night with his teeth clenched
and his eyes hard and his cheeks flushed with growing rage. "Remember, last time we talked, how I told
you I was going to up the ante? Remember how I told you that next time I
whacked someone, I was going to let you watch? Well, here's what your threats
got you, asshole. I'm going to take your girlfriend here somewhere and shoot
her. And I'm going to get it on videotape. Then I'm going to send it to you and
let you watch." "Wait," Sam said sharply, but Welsh
wasn't listening. He held the phone in front of Maddie's face. She stared at
it, heart racing, falling apart inside, wanting to scream, to cry, to beg... "Say bye," Welsh said to her. "Sam," Maddie said instead. And
couldn't help it if her voice shook. She heard a sound as though he inhaled. Then Welsh disconnected. "Did you get it? Did you get it?" Sam
was sweating bullets. His heart was pounding as hard as if he'd just run for a
hundred miles. For a moment, Maddie had been there, on the other end of the
phone, and he'd wanted to reach down in there and pull her through it, to grab
her, to save her—and he couldn't. The bastard had disconnected. He was going to kill her. Sam had talked to him
enough that he recognized the rising excitement in the sick bastard's voice,
the escalating violence, the anticipation of causing pain, of causing fear. He was getting all psyched up, like a predator
toying with its prey before the kill. Gardner was sitting beside him, in the front
seat of her car in Maddie's parking lot, with the laptop she always kept in her
car open on her lap. The screen glowed up at him, all digital lines and images. Please, he thought. Please. Gardner looked up at him, her face white. "Not enough time," she said. "You." Welsh said, looking at her with
loathing. "You told him, didn't you? You gave him my name." "Yes," Maddie said, hating him, not
seeing any point in lying because he knew, and he was going to kill her anyway. Welsh swore, his face dark and ugly now, his
eyes cutting toward her with a viciousness that made her cringe. Then he
backhanded her across the face, snapping her head back against the whiplash
guard. The blow hurt, and she cried out. "If I had killed you, that night in your hotel
room, none of this would have happened. But I made a mistake, one damned lousy
little mistake—who would have thought that there'd be two damned women staying
there under the name Madeline Fitzgerald? What are the chances of that?—and
look what happened. The whole thing. The whole thing's going to hell because of
you. He backhanded her again. Maddie whimpered and
cringed against the door. Then, as her eyes watered and her vision blurred
in reaction, she saw that the phone, which he'd dropped onto the console, had
been knocked into her seat. It rested between her butt and the seat back,
and if she moved forward a little, just a little, it might drop behind her
back. She couldn't let him realize... "Why didn't you just leave me alone in the
first place?" she asked, to cover what she was doing. "I wasn't
bothering you. Leslie Dolan was in the past. I made a whole new life." Blinking to clear her vision, she tried
wriggling forward just a little, and the phone did just what she had hoped: It
slid behind her back. If she could just manage to pick it up... "Because I made a whole new life, too. I'm
going places now, big places, and I can't have little pissant nobodies popping
up out of the woodwork every time I turn around. One day you might have seen
me, recognized me, said something—and there it would all go. Same thing for the
others, too. You are all part of my past that I want to keep in the past.
Skeletons in my closet, and I'm cleaning the closet out." "I wouldn't have told on you," she
said, easing her cuffed hands sideways, touching the phone, fumbling with it.
"I still won't, if you let me go." That was bullshit and she knew it, and knew he
knew it too, but she wanted to keep him occupied so that he wouldn't realize
what she was trying to do. "Give it up." He was breathing hard
now, and she got the feeling that he was growing more agitated. Heart pounding,
stomach churning, terrified that he might notice the phone was missing at any
moment, she finally managed to pick up the phone. "I already got a plan for
you. I think McCabe was bluffing. I think he just picked those names out of
some little sob story you told him and used them to rattle me. There's no way
he can find out who I am. Not if I get rid of you, and Thomas Kerry. Then it's
all done. Except for McCabe, I mean. I meant to save him for last. But I don't
think I will." His voice turned thoughtful, and he glanced at
her. Maddie froze, feeling the blood pumping through her veins. Did he know
what she was up to? Did he guess? She had one shot at this, and one shot only. But he looked back out at the road again.
"I'm going to kill you, then call him and tell him where you are. When he
comes to find you, I'm going to kill him. He was going to use you as bait to
catch me? Watch this: I'll use you as bait to kill him." Welsh had held the phone up to her face when
he'd told her to say goodbye to Sam. She had stared at it, imagining Sam on the
other end, trying to conjure him up through the phone—and that might stand her
in good stead now. Clutching the phone, she concentrated, trying to visualize
the arrangement of the buttons. Her fingers slid over the buttons.
She said a little prayer, then hit what she hoped was the redial button. Sam was in the car with Gardner, driving her
toward the hotel that they were using as a command post, when the phone rang
again. He snatched it from the console where he'd placed it and looked at the
ID window. Error, it said. His heart stopped, the world receded, and when
he flipped the phone open, he realized his fingers were shaking. There was only one reason why the sick bastard
would be calling him back, he feared. He'd never considered himself a particularly
religious man. But as he lifted the phone to his ear he found himself praying
like he'd never prayed in his life. Please, God, don't let him kill her. Please,
please, please... "McCabe," he said. "You hate him, don't you?" Maddie
said, continuing the conversation. She had to keep him talking, had to keep
talking to him, because it had occurred to her that if she'd been able to hear
Sam's voice, Welsh would probably be able to hear it, too, and Sam would surely
answer with his customary McCabe even if he said nothing else. "McCabe?" Welsh glanced at her.
"Hell, yeah, I hate the bastard, damned workaholic Boy Scout. He's incorruptible."
Welsh's tone made this a bitter sneer. "He never lets up, never quits,
never fucking goes home. You know what he did? He started looking into some old
cases. Years old. Closed. Gone. And he started trying to solve them in his free
time. You remember how it was back in the day. Shit happened, and one of these
cases was about some of my shit that happened. He was digging into it, too. I
had to distract him, to get his fucking mind off it, before he dug deep enough
to find out I was the one who whacked Leroy Bowman." "Leroy Bowman?" Maddie said faintly.
She hadn't heard a thing from the phone, but then again, Welsh's voice was
growing louder the longer he talked. All she could do was pray she'd pressed
the right button. "Another fucking incorruptible special
agent," Welsh said with disgust. "You deal with guys like that, they
don't see reason, they don't look at the big picture, what are you gonna do? He
was easier than McCabe, though. Just boom, one night, and that was it. I
was afraid that if I whacked McCabe while he was digging into the Bowman case,
which everybody knew he was doing, somebody else would pick it up, thinking
that maybe that was the reason. So I had to get him out on the road, provide a
distraction, another reason why he'd get hit. And I needed to clean up some
previous messes, too, like I told you. So I decided to combine it all, take
care of the people I needed to take care of, lure McCabe out onto the road
until I could whack him, and put a tidy little end to the whole problem at once
so I could move on with my life." "Just like you put an end to your problems
when you blew up that house my father was in?" Maddie could feel sweat
running down her spine. They'd been driving on back roads that had grown
progressively darker and less busy, and she had completely lost all sense of
direction some time back. Now he seemed to be peering out through the
windshield, like he was looking for something, a landmark or something, that he
was afraid he might miss in the dark. Maddie had a feeling that this was not a good
sign. "You're smart, aren't you?" Welsh sent
her a glance filled with venom rather than admiration as the car topped a rise
and came down the other side. "Yeah, I did that. And it almost put
an end to my problems. Except for you. Again. Always you." They were at the bottom of the hill now. He
pulled off the side of the road. Glancing around with widening eyes, realizing
that this might be it, Maddie saw that they were in a bowl-like depression with
hills rising all around. The area was rural, with no lights visible at all. To
her left, across a field of scraggly, knee-high weeds, she saw the gleam of
water. It was a small pond, a farm pond, peaceful under the sky, which was vast
and black and covered with endless stars. On the other side of the pond was a
dilapidated-looking barn. Beyond that, the land rose up into rolling hills
covered with scrub pine. The tires bounced over grass and gravel. And
then he stopped the car. "I found this place yesterday," he
said, looking at her with a terrifying smile. Just having him smile at her like
that made her blood run cold. "Just for you." He turned off the engine and the lights and got
out. Oh, God, this was it. I don't want to die. Please, please don't let me
die. He was coming around the front of the car toward
her. She was suddenly so frightened that she seemed to be disassociating from
her body. She felt weird, light-headed, queasy. Her palms were sweaty, her
fingers like ice. Was there nothing she could do? She struggled against the seat
belt, but it held her fast. Could she somehow manage to twist her arms around
and unlatch it? She tried—he was almost at her door—she couldn't do it. She
couldn't do it. He reached for the door handle. The starlight
gleamed off something metallic in his other hand—a gun. All of a sudden, with hideous clarity, she
remembered the sounds of Carol Walter being murdered. Now she was getting ready
to find out what it felt like to die that way. Would she beg, too? Would she
cry? The door opened. The sweet smell of summer grass
reached her nostrils. The chorus of insects was suddenly loud. "C'mon, dollface, time to get out." Maddie's stomach twisted itself into a knot. Her
heart threatened to pound its way out of her chest. Cold sweat poured over her
in waves No. He reached in around her and unfastened the seat
belt. Then he grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her from the car. And saw the cell phone on her seat. "What the hell?" He looked back at
her, his face ugly, scary. Maddie's legs went all rubbery. Then a helicopter topped the rise and plunged
toward them. A bright searchlight caught them in its beam. "FBI! Freeze! Drop your weapon!" The order boomed through the air. Glancing up as
the chopper hovered over them, Maddie saw a sharpshooter armed with a rifle.
His weapon was pointed at Welsh. Then, over the rise, she saw a whole convoy of
headlights speeding toward them, and heard the distant sound of sirens. "Drop your weapon! Now!" Welsh did. With a single deadly glance at her,
he let go of her hair and raised his hands. Then the ground troops were there,
and it was over. Maddie's knees gave out, and she collapsed in a little
shivering heap on the ground. Leaping from the first car as it screeched to a
stop, Sam saw her collapse and thought, for one heart-stopping moment, that the
bastard had shot her. Icy terror ricocheted through his veins. His life passed
before his eyes. He raced toward her, crouching beside her as the rest of the
cavalry rushed to take control of the suspect. Who, he was surprised and yet not surprised to
see, was Leonard Smolski. He and Gardner had listened to every word the bastard
had said from the time the cell phone had been activated. They hadn't
recognized his voice—the technology he'd used to disguise it had held up— but
some of the things he'd said, plus the information that Smolski had worked in
the Baltimore field office during the time in question, which had come in over
Cynthia's cell phone as they had driven in hot pursuit of their suspect, had
made the discovery much less of a shock than it would have been. "Sam," Maddie said in a voice like a
sob when she saw that he was there, and wrapped her arms around him. He did a
quick check to make sure that she was in one piece, then gathered her up in his
arms and buried his face in her hair and held her until they both stopped
shaking. OEPILOGUE Friday, August 22 Maddie hurried into the small private terminal
at St. Louis airport at shortly before five p.m. Jon had called her an hour
before to tell her that Susan Allen had gotten an urgent call and was returning
to New Orleans. As Creative Partners' owner, she wanted to see
Susan—and Zelda—off. The last day and a half had been hectic. Sam had
had to fly back to Virginia to wrap things up, although he was scheduled to
return today. She would be picking him up after seeing Susan off. He’d called
last night to tell her that, among other things, the strongbox had been found.
The key to locating it was an address her father had scrawled on the back of a
business card and told her to keep. She'd snatched it, Fudgie, and a few
necessities from their apartment before running, then sewn it, along with a
last few relics of her life as Leslie Dolan—the watch her father had given her,
her senior-class ring—into Fudgie's stuffing. The strongbox had been just where
Charles Dolan had left it, and in it had been enough evidence to put all kinds
of bad guys away for a long time—and to completely clear her name. Charles
Dolan had recorded Ken Welsh—Smolski—talking about the charges that had been filed
against his daughter, and had asked him point-blank if it bothered him that
they were bogus. And Smolski had laughed and said not at all. Maddie spotted Jon and Susan and Zelda across
the plush beige waiting room before she was anywhere near them. Not that they
were hard to spot. Zelda, confined to her carrier, was once again giving vent
to her inner wolf. Everyone in the terminal was staring. The gate
attendants were hovering around helplessly. Jon was trying to comfort Susan,
who looked on the verge of an apoplexy. And no one was feeding Zelda. Maddie rolled her eyes. "Does anyone have any food?" she asked
over the din. Jon fished in his pocket and produced a mint.
Maddie snatched it, unwrapped it, and popped it through the grate. The howling
stopped instantly, and Maddie heard the familiar snuffle. Her heart gave a little pang. She was actually
going to miss Zelda. "You like her, don't you?" Susan
asked, looking at Maddie intently. The gate attendant was opening the door that
led out to Brehmer's plane. "I adore her," Maddie said, and
realized that she wasn't being insincere at all. "Then keep her." "Keep Zelda?"Maddie
asked, wondering if Susan had lost her mind. "That isn't Zelda," Susan said with a
sniff, and Maddie's jaw dropped. "That is a dog I picked up from a
Pekingese rescue organization in New Orleans. She's had three different
families and nobody's ever kept her and I can see why." She shot a venomous look at the crate, from
which ominous snuffling sounds were emerging. "Do you have another mint?" Maddie
asked Jon urgently. Jon obliged, and Maddie pacified Zelda. "What happened to the real Zelda?" Jon
asked, looking as floored as she felt. "She got away from the groomers,"
Susan said. "They're friends of mine, and we've all been searching frantically
for her for the past three weeks. We even hired pet detectives. I didn't dare
tell Mrs. B., of course." Susan shuddered. "But I got a call this
morning: They found her. Thank God. So I can go home." "You can go home?" Maddie asked. "I only brought Zelda—no, not Zelda, that
dog—here on such short notice because I was afraid Mrs. B. was starting to
suspect. And don't worry, it won't affect your having our advertising account
at all. Just consider this a dry run." Maddie knew her mouth must be hanging open,
because Jon's was. "Miss," the gate attendant said,
"are you ready to go?" "Yes," Susan said. "I'm
leaving." She looked at Maddie. "Do you want her or not? I can always
take her back to the rescue society if you don't. Although I hate to fly with
her again." She gave a shudder. Zelda was snuffling. "Mint," Maddie said urgently to Jon,
who complied. She popped one in to Zelda, and suddenly knew that there was
nothing in the whole world she would like better than to keep her. "I'd love to have Zelda," Maddie said. "That is not Zelda." Susan
turned to go. "I'll be back in a couple of weeks with the real
Zelda." "Are you nuts?"Jon said
when Susan had gone and they were exiting the terminal. Since he was now out of
mints, Zelda had once again started to howl. "That dog is a monster." "No she isn't." Maddie set the carrier
on the pavement and carefully opened the grate. The dog bounded out, silenced
by the prospect of freedom, and Maddie grabbed the end of her leash just in
time. Then she reeled her in, picked her up, and looked her in her bulbous
black eyes. "You're mine," she said. "And
just for the record, you'll always be Zelda to me." Then, walking across the pavement toward her,
she saw Sam. He was dressed in a jacket and tie, and looked so handsome that she
caught her breath. He looked up and smiled when he saw her, and Maddie felt her
heart skip a beat. Then it occurred to her: She finally had
everything she'd always wanted. A man. A dog. And her life back. For keeps.
KAREN ROBARDS
Copyright © 2004 by Karen
Robards ISBN 0-399-15202-4 PETER, THIS ONE'S FOR YOU. HAPPY 21 ST, DARLING. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS I'd like to thank my husband, Doug,
my sons Peter, Christopher, and Jack, and Peggy Kennady, all of whom helped with
research, contributed ideas, insights, and comments, and generally told me when
I was writing myself into a corner. I'd also like to thank the people who made this
book possible: my brilliant agent, Robert Gottlieb, my wonderful editor,
Christine Pepe, and her noble assistant, Lily Chin; and Carole Baron, who is
awesome as always. ONEThursday,
August 7 It was a professional job, Sam McCabe saw at a
glance. The bare minimum of fuss and muss. A couple sprawled on the floor of
their cathedral-ceilinged great room, hands bound behind their backs, blood
from the bullet wounds in their heads soaking into the already deep red of
their Oriental carpet. "I see dead people," E. P. Wynne
muttered behind him. The words were slightly slurred by the enormous wad of bubble
gum the big guy was chewing in an effort to quit smoking. Sam shot him a
quelling glance. Granted, they were so tired they were more or less
punch-drunk, but humor in the face of multiple homicides was never a good idea. "Who the hell are you?" A brown-uniformed
local yokel separated himself from the pack at the corner of the room and came
toward them, bristling. Considering that Sam was wearing jeans and a T-shirt
and sporting a three-day growth of beard, while Wynne's two-hundred-fifty-pound
girth was decked out in baggy shorts and a stained Hawaiian shirt, the man's
attitude was understandable. But this was the culmination of another in a
series of really lousy weeks. Sam was not in the mood for attitude, especially
from a skinny kid who might or might not be just out of his teens. "FBI," Sam growled, not even slowing
down. Wynne, ever obliging, flashed his ID as they brushed past the kid like he
wasn't even there. "Nobody called the feds," the yokel
protested to their backs, then, less certain, called over his shoulder,
"Did anybody call the feds?" "Hell, no." Another brown-uniformed
local, a burly, surly-looking fifty-something with a bald head as shiny as a
Christmas ornament, entered through an arched opening at the opposite end of
the room in time to hear the plaintive question and headed toward them.
"I'm Sheriff Burt Eigel. And sure as shit, nobody around here called
anybody, feds or otherwise." "Sam McCabe. E. P. Wynne," Sam said,
jerking a thumb at Wynne as he introduced him. "FBI," Wynne added helpfully, doing
his badge-waving thing again. Sam stopped beside the female victim and looked
down at the bodies. Multiple strips of duct tape covered each victim's mouth.
Thin, white cord secured their wrists. The fingers had purpled, indicating that
the cords had been tied tightly enough to impede circulation—and to hurt.
"Wendell Perkins and his wife, Tammy Sue, right?" Eigel frowned. "How the hell did y'all know
that?" "Let's just say a little bird told
me." Sam squatted and pressed his fingers to the carpet. It was made of
fine wool, expensive, just like the furniture in the enormous great room was
expensive, the newly built McMansion was expensive, and the gated Mobile,
Alabama, retirement community was expensive. The blood soaking the soft, smooth
fibers still retained a degree of warmth. This time he'd been close—so damned
close. Twenty minutes earlier and Perkins and the missus would have been
offering him a cup of coffee—or trying to sneak out their back door, depending
on why they'd been hit. Damn it to hell and back anyway. "Who called this in?" Sam asked, still
studying the bodies as he stood up and wiped his fingers on his already ripe
jeans. It was not quite eleven-thirty p.m. Blonde, bird-boned Tammy Sue was
dressed for bed in a pair of navy cotton pajamas and had a single white terry
slipper on her left foot. Perkins, who appeared to be at least two decades her
senior, was a beefy, big-bellied guy with a furry back and chicken legs. He was
wearing nothing but boxers, which he had pissed. The pungent ammonia smell all
but overrode the meat-locker aroma of fresh blood. As Sam had noted on multiple previous occasions,
there was no dignity in death. "There's an alarm. Somebody here hit the
panic button. We had a man on the scene nine minutes after the call came in.
They were dead when we got here." Eigel paused and glared at Sam, who was
glancing around without any real hope for shell casings. There were none
immediately visible, and he'd be willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that none
would be found. "Why the fuck should I be telling you this?" There was that attitude thing again. Sam still
wasn't in the mood. " 'Cause you like me?" Eigel's florid face turned apoplectic. Ignoring
him, Sam moved around the bodies, studying them from different angles. From the
look of it, Perkins had died first. His wife's death had come moments later,
most likely a byproduct of the hit on her husband. A glance around the room
revealed several possible points of entry for the killer: the front door, which
opened into the slate-floored hall that Sam and Wynne had just crossed, and
which provided access to the great room through a wide, arched opening; the
smaller arched door leading into the kitchen through which the sheriff had
entered; or the sliding patio door on the south wall. He calculated the steps
from each to the black leather couch where, from the evidence—remote control
and a bowl of melted ice cream on the coffee table in front of it; the mate to
Tammy Sue's white terry slipper on the carpet between the couch and table;
several sections of the newspaper scattered about—Tammy Sue had been sitting
when the killer surprised her. The most likely point of egress was through the
kitchen. Wynne pulled a tiny digital camera out of his pocket and started
taking pictures of the crime scene. Sam, meanwhile, headed for the kitchen.
"What the hell doyou think you're doing?" From the
corner of his eye, Sam saw that Eigel was looking from one to the
other of them. By now his face was as red as the blood-soaked carpet, and his
eyes were starting to bulge out of his head like a pug dog's. "Our jobs, man. Just like you," Wynne
said soothingly. As usual, he was playing good cop to Sam's bad cop. The roles
suited both of them to a tee. "You got no jurisdiction here. This is our case." Eigel had elected to follow him, Sam registered
absently as he glanced around the kitchen. It was gleaming white, wall-to-wall
cabinets, an island, the latest appliances. State-of-the-art, fit to grace one
of those women's magazines. An ice-cream scoop had been left in one of the pair
of stainless-steel sinks. Other than that, it was immaculate. Sam headed toward the patio door at the far end.
Its bright floral curtain wasn't shut all the way. An approximately
eight-inch-wide, floor-to-ceiling slice of glass was visible, black with the
darkness of the night beyond. The door was closed and locked. Careful not to
touch it, he studied the handle. It had a self-locking mechanism, so the killer
could have exited this way as well. Turning slowly, he stared at the pale oak
floor. A thin sliver of grass nestled near the foot of
the island. Bingo. "He entered and exited here," Sam
said. "You can dust for fingerprints, but you won't find any. Footprints
are a better bet, especially if the ground's soft outside. He would have had to
walk around the house. Maybe he got careless." Eigel bristled. "Listen, smart guy, I'm
right now officially askin' you and your pardner in there to leave. Nobody here
called you, nobody here wants you, and you got no call bustin' in and tryin' to
take over." Sam ignored the comment as he turned and headed
back toward the great room, retracing the killer's path. Twenty steps to the
great-room door, where he paused to try to visualize the scene through the
killer's eyes. The couch faced away from the door. If Tammy Sue had been
sitting on the couch, eating ice cream and watching TV, she probably wouldn't
have seen him coming. At least, not until it was too late. Feeling his stomach tighten, Sam glanced at
Eigel, who was behind him again. "You got roadblocks up? Say, five miles
out in all directions, access to expressways blocked, vehicles being checked as
they attempt to exit the area, that kind of thing?" "Don't tell me how to do my job." "I take that as a 'no.' " As Sam spoke, more people rushed into the great
room from the front hall: paramedics making an unholy racket as they rolled in
a pair of stretchers, a grumpy-looking man in a rumpled suit and tie, and a
mid-thirties brunette in white jeans and a black T-shirt, crying, "Daddy!
Oh my God, where's my daddy?" "Janelle!" Eigel abandoned him to rush
to the brunette's side, reaching her just as she stopped, clapped her hands to
her cheeks, and, eyes riveted on the corpses, let out a shriek that could have
cracked windows as far away as Atlanta. Holy Christ, Sam thought, wincing as his head gave another excruciating
pang. Somebody pass the Excedrin. "Da-a-a-ddy! Da-a-a-ddy!" "Get somebody on the door!" Clumsily
patting the screeching Janelle on the back, Eigel turned to bark the order at
the skinny officer in the corner, who was looking appalled. "Nobody else
gets in here unless I personally clear it, understand?" "Yes, sir!" The kid hurried toward the
door. Eigel glared at Sam, muttered something that looked like "Goddamn
fucking zoo," and turned back to deal as best he could with Janelle's
hysterics. Following the kid with his gaze, Sam saw that
the elaborate front door, which had been just slightly ajar when he and Wynne
had pushed through it moments earlier, was now standing wide open. Beyond it,
he could see the ambulance that had joined the pair of police cars that already
had been parked in the driveway when he and Wynne had pulled up—their first
concrete indication that they were too late. The ambulance's siren was off, but
its flashing blue lights lit up the night. At the bottom of the small,
manicured front yard, more cars were parking hurriedly, haphazardly. A TV truck
was arriving; people were charging up the yard. Wynne joined him, pocketing his camera.
"Hey, at least this time we were right behind him." "Yeah." Sam watched as deputies
started to stick tape to the carpet to mark the positions of the bodies. The
guy in the suit—from an overheard snatch of conversation, Sam gathered that he
was the coroner—knelt beside Tammy Sue, carefully lifting a section of long,
bleached hair, now wet with blood, away from her face. Even in death, she was a
pretty woman, fine-featured, carefully groomed. As he had expected, a pair of
black, oozing holes the size of dimes adorned her right temple. Like all the others, she’d been shot twice in
the head. From the look of the dark stippling surrounding the wounds, it had
been at point-blank range. He was hit by a wave of weariness so strong it
almost made him stagger. Seventy-two hours without sleep, seventy-two hours
spent frantically racing the clock—and it ended like this. Again. "Hell, let's go," he said dispiritedly
to Wynne. "We can get everything else we need tomorrow."
"Yeah." Sam headed for the door. Raising a hand in
farewell to the sheriff, who had managed to get the now-sobbing Janelle into a
chair, Wynne followed. Without saying so much as a word, they passed by the kid
and another deputy who were holding down the doorway and slid, unnoticed,
around the knot of people standing on the stoop, arguing heatedly for their
right to be admitted into the house. The unaccustomed buzz of activity along
with the stroboscopic lights from the ambulance had drawn the neighbors from
nearby houses. Groups were congregating on nearby lawns, talking among themselves
while they craned their necks to see what was going on. The TV camera crew
raced toward the house. Even at that time of night, it was as steamy hot as a
sauna. Stars winked lazily overhead above a canopy of feathery charcoal clouds.
The moon was a distant, pale ghost of itself. A slight breeze, humid and
unrefreshing, blew in from the lake across the street, rippling its moonlit
surface. Walking down the golf-course-caliber lawn toward their rented Sentra,
Sam took a deep breath and wished he hadn't. Flowers were everywhere, massive
banks of them bordering the streets, the driveways, the walks. Their colors
were muted by the darkness, but their perfume was not, lending a nauseating
sweetness to the heavy air that didn't mix well with the death-scene smells
that still lingered in his nostrils. "He's watching us," he said suddenly,
stopping dead and glancing at Wynne. "You know that, don't you? That son
of a bitch is out here somewhere watching us. I can feel him." "Sam..." Wynne began, and Sam knew
from his tone that he was about to get lecture number 257—the one on not taking
cases so personally—again. Yeah, but this one is personal, Sam
started to remind him, but before he could get the words out, his cell phone
rang. His heart jumped. Adrenaline shot through his
blood like an injection of speed. Fumbling to get the phone out of his pocket,
he suddenly wasn't tired anymore. Error, the ID window on his phone read. He stiffened even as he
flipped the thing open. "McCabe," he growled. "Close but no cigar." It was him: the
sick fuck who had just whacked Wendell and Tammy Sue, who had killed at least
three times previously that Sam knew for sure about, who was leading him and
his team on a murderous wild-goose chase that had started with the killing of a
retired federal judge in Richmond three weeks before and was proceeding south
and westward, around the skirt of the country. The voice was distorted,
digitally masked as usual, but by now Sam knew it better than his own. "Where are you, you bastard?" Sam's
fingers tightened on the phone as if they were gripping the caller's neck. He
scanned his surroundings—the artfully placed groves of trees, the nearby
houses, the shining black lake— without success. "Where are you?" A chuckle was his only answer. "Ready for your
next clue?" "Just help me understand," Sam said,
desperate to keep him talking. "Why? What do you want? What's the point
of... ?" "Here goes," the voice said.
"Where in the world is—Madeline?" "Look—" Sam began, but it was no use:
The phone went dead. Whatever else he was, the guy wasn't stupid; he would know
they were trying to trace his calls, just like he would know they were
recording them. Cursing under his breath, Sam pressed a button. "You called, master?" Gardner
answered. The technical expert of Sam's team, she was back at the Comfort Inn
just off I-264 that was serving as their temporary local headquarters. "You get that?" "Yeah." "Anything?" "Working on it. But I doubt it. He's
probably using a prepaid phone card just like before." "Sick bastard beat us again. We got two
more dead." Sam's voice was glum. He could hear the flat tone of it
himself. "Call the locals, would you, see if they can set up a roadblock
around the perimeter, say, five miles out, check IDs, look out for suspicious
characters, that type of thing. I'd handle it, but the guy in charge here
doesn't seem to like me too much." Gardner chuckled. "Big surprise." "Love you, too," Sam said sourly, and
hung up. Wynne was looking at him, tense, frowning, his eyes narrowed. "Madeline." Sam was suddenly
bone-tired again. "This time he's going after some woman named
Madeline." Wynne expelled his breath in a whistling sigh.
"Shit." "Yeah." They headed for the car and got in without
another word. After all, what was there tosay? They were back on the
clock again and they both knew it. If the pattern held, they
had exactly seven days to find out who this Madeline was and get toher
before the killer did. If they lost this race like they'd lost the last three,
Madeline, whoever the hell she was, was
dead. TWOThursday,
August 14 Okay, so she was afraid of the dark. It was stupid, Maddie Fitzgerald knew, but she
just couldn't help it: Lying there in her hotel room bed, staring up into
nothingness, her hand still in the process of withdrawing from the lamp she had
just turned off, she felt as shivery as if she'd just plunged headfirst into a
pool of icy water. "Pretty pathetic," she said aloud,
hoping that hearing her own voice might provide an antidote to the cold sweat
she could feel popping out along her hairline. It didn't. Instead of being
reassuring, the sound made her cringe as she immediately wondered who or what
might be lurking there in the darkness with her to hear—and pounce. "You're on the twentieth floor, for God's
sake. Nobody's coming in through the window. The door is locked. You're safer
here than you are at home," she told herself firmly. That didn't help, either. Bravado was useless;
logic clearly was, too. She was simply going to have to sweat it out. This time
she was not going to give in. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes.
The relentless drone of the air-conditioning unit under the window suddenly
seemed as loud as an 18-wheeler barreling along beside her bed. The bed
itself—a king-size—was huge. Huddled on the side nearest the
unreachable-from-the-outside window, she felt increasingly small and
vulnerable. Which was ridiculous. She was five feet, seven inches tall; one
hundred twenty-five well-toned pounds; a smart, competent,
twenty-nine-year-old, soon-to-be-wildly-successful businesswoman, for God's
sake—and yet here she was, heart boogeying like a whole dance floor full of
hyperactive teenagers because she’d just turned off the bedside lamp. Maddie
silently acknowledged that humiliating fact even as she fought the urge to grab
for the switch, click the lamp back on, and put herself out of her misery. If she turned on the light, she'd be able to
sleep. Her eyes popped open before she managed to put a
brake on runaway temptation. No. Turning over so that she was facing the door,
Maddie gritted her teeth and mentally groped for pleasant thoughts. She lay on
her side, knees tucked almost under her chin, head propped on a pair of
too-soft pillows, clutching the blankets tightly around her shoulders as she
stared sightlessly into stygian darkness—darkness into which she had
deliberately plunged herself. Closing her eyes a second time required real
physical effort. Squinching up her face, she squeezed them shut. Moments later,
when none materialized, she gave up on pleasant thoughts and instead began
counting toward a hundred in her head. At the same time, she worked to control
the physical symptoms brought on by the absence of light: ragged breathing,
racing pulse, pounding heart, cold sweat. By the time she reached fifty, her heart was
thundering like an elephant stampede and she was breathing so fast she was
practically panting. Even as she kept her eyes clenched tightly, despair filled
her. Would she never be free of the specter that had haunted her for the last
seven years? Every single time she tried to go to sleep alone in the dark, was
she going to suffer a replay of that night? Would her dreams always be haunted
by the sound of...? Shrill as a siren, a shriek split the darkness
close beside her head. Several seconds passed before Maddie realized
that what she was hearing was the phone ringing. Peeling herself off the
ceiling, taking a deep, steadying breath, she reached for the lamp, fumbled
with the switch—oh light, blessed light! — and picked up the receiver. "Hello?" If she'd just suffered a
complete and utter nervous breakdown, her voice at least gave no hint of it.
Never let them see you sweat: the mantra had been drummed into her at a hard
school. Nice to know that it was still automatically operational. "Did I wake you?" Jon. He'd nearly sent her into cardiac arrest. "Actually, I wasn't asleep." Maddie
hitched herself up against the pillows. As she did so, she wiped her sweaty
palms one at a time on the tastefully earth-toned comforter in which she was
swaddled. "Me neither. Hey, maybe we could keep each
other company." Maddie could almost see his smile through the
phone. Jon Carter was a good-looking guy, blond, blue-eyed, tall and trim,
oozing charm through his pores. It was one of the reasons she continued to employ
him. "Not a chance." Her voice was tart. Of
course, the fact that he was still regularly hitting on her despite the change
in circumstances that had turned her into his employer could not be considered
a point in his favor. He sighed. "You're a hard woman, Maddie
Fitzgerald, you know that?" "Believe me, the knowledge keeps me awake
nights." Her heart rate was almost back to normal. "You want
something?" "I just had a thought—maybe we should try
to work Mrs. Brehmer into the spot. You know, have her be the face of Brehmer's
Pet Chow, or something." "She's ninety years old and she looks like
she died about ten years back." Again, she could hear his smile. "So what's
your point?" Mrs. Brehmer was also worth about ninety
billion, and her account, currently held by J. Walter Thompson, an advertising
agency so huge that it was tantamount to sacrilege to mention Maddie's own
fledgling agency in the same breath with it, was worth upward of ten million a
year. The thought practically made Maddie salivate. She'd sunk her life savings
into buying Creative Partners when the firm for which she and Jon were working
had gone belly-up eighteen months before. Unfortunately, so far the company's
finances hadn't exactly turned around on her watch. If something good didn't happen
soon, this time when Creative Partners went down the tubes she was going down
with it. Not a happy thought. "I suppose we could coat the lens with
Vaseline," Maddie said with a sigh. "Or put pantyhose over it.
Something to soften the visual." Jon chuckled. "See, I have good
ideas." "Sometimes." Maddie was thinking.
"Maybe we could put her in a rocking chair in a long black dress, get her
to look sort of like Whistler's mother. Just get a long shot of her. She
wouldn't have to actually say anything. She could be like the company
logo." "There you go. Put a whole bunch of animals
around her. Cats draped across the back of the chair, dogs at her feet. That
kind of thing." "Wouldn't hurt to pitch it." Cradling
the receiver between her shoulder and ear, Maddie reached for the hotel-issue
notepad and pencil by the phone. With a few economical strokes, she made a
quick sketch of Mrs. Brehmer as logo, complete with slight smile,
shoulder-perching cat, and oval frame, then examined it critically. "Could work," she admitted. "Want me to come up so we can put something
together?" "No." Maddie glanced at the bedside clock. It was not quite
midnight. "Our appointment's not until ten. How about if we meet for
breakfast at seven-thirty? That should give us plenty of time to go over
everything. Remember, right now we're just floating this logo idea as sort of a
trial balloon. If she likes it, we can go from there." "Whatever you say, Boss." "Get some sleep." Because being called
Boss was still fresh enough to give her a thrilled little tingle,
Maddie's voice was gruff. Then she bethought herself of something and pulled
the receiver back. "Jon—good thinking, by the way." "I try. Hey, if you change your mind, I'm
only two floors down." "Good-night, Jon." Maddie hung up. For a
moment, she simply stared at the sketch she had made as various ways to work
Joan Brehmer into the ad campaign they were proposing revolved through her
head. The elderly widow was still sufficiently involved in the company her
husband had founded in St. Louis fifty years before that Creative Partners had
had to fly to New Orleans, where Mrs. Brehmer now spent most of the year, to
pitch their ideas to her personally. Given that the old lady felt that strongly
about the company, maybe including her in the spot was the way to go. Maybe it
would even be the deciding factor. Okay, so Jon's perpetual come-ons were annoying.
The man still had some decent ideas. If Creative Partners landed this
account... The phone rang again. This time Maddie didn't
jump. With the light on, she was as cool as a cucumber. "What?" she said into the receiver. "If this works, I want a Christmas
bonus." Jon again, as she'd known it would be. "We'll talk." "Damn right we'll talk. I..." "Good-night, Jon." But Maddie was smiling as she hung up. The idea
of being in a position to give Christmas bonuses to her five employees was
irresistible. If they got this account... But getting the account would require a dazzling
presentation, and a dazzling presentation would be greatly facilitated by a
decent amount of sleep. Which at the moment she wasn't even close to getting.
If she got up an hour earlier than she'd planned, there'd be plenty of time to
work on the Mrs.-Brehmer-as-logo idea before she met Jon for breakfast. Right
now, she needed rest. Maddie returned the pad and pencil to the
bedside table, then frowned at the lamp. It bathed all four corners of the
standard-issue room in a warm glow. She could see her reflection, tinted gold
and only faintly distorted, in its shiny brass base. Chin-length coffee-brown
hair tousled from the amount of tossing and turning she had already done.
Slender shoulders, bare except for the spaghetti straps of the silky pink
shorty nightgown she was wearing, tan against white sheets. High-cheekboned,
square-jawed face, complete with wide mouth, delicate nose, and dark-lashed
hazel eyes, staring back at her. She looked worried. And tired. Maddie almost snorted. Big surprise. By now,
worried and tired were practically her middle names. But if Creative Partners managed to wow Mrs.
Brehmer... Phobia-busting was going to have to wait. The
reality was that, for her, sleep required light. But the bedside lamp was
almost too bright. Feeling a little like Goldilocks—this porridge is too
cold; this porridge is too hot—she slid out of bed and padded barefoot to
the bathroom. Flipping the bathroom light on, she closed the door until it was
just barely ajar. Then, shivering as she inadvertently stepped right into the
arctic slipstream that blasted from the air conditioner, she succumbed to the
final temptation and stopped at the closet to pull Fudgie, the ancient,
floppy-eared stuffed dog that was the sole surviving reminder of her misspent
youth, from the suitcase on the floor. Clutching him, she bounded back into
bed, pulled the covers up around her neck, and, with Fudgie tucked beneath her
chin, turned off the lamp. Ahh. The sheets were still faintly warm, warm enough to soothe
the shivers away. Fudgie's familiar aroma and well-worn softness provided the
illusion that she was no longer alone. The slice of light provided just enough
illumination to induce sleep. A glance around verified that everything from the
armoire at the foot of the bed to the small armchair in the cornerwas dimly visible, despite the fact
that the room was now shrouded in a kind of grayish twilight. Not too much, not
too little, just right. Night, Goldilocks, she told herself, and snuggled her head deep into the
pillows. Her lids drooped. The bed was suddenly surprisingly comfortable. Even
the growl of the air conditioner seemed companionable rather than obnoxious
now. Fear shuffled off deep into the furthest reaches of her subconscious as
images of Mrs. Brehmer in various increasingly ridiculous poses flitted through
her head: the old lady standing with a pitchfork and a Great Dane in a takeoff
of American Gothic; in close-up (with the help of much lens-softening
Vaseline), sporting an eyepatch and a Mona Lisa smile while a parrot perched
pirate-style on her shoulder; sitting with a black cat on her lap and a yellow
canary in a cage by her side, rocking away like Granny in a Sylvester and
Tweety cartoon... The pounding of her own heart woke her. At
least, that's what Maddie thought at first as she surfaced what could have been
minutes or hours later. Even as she blinked groggily, trying to get her
bearings, she could feel the gun-shy organ knocking against her rib cage, feel
the racing of her pulse, the dryness of her mouth, the knot in the pit of her
stomach that told her she'd had a bad dream. Another bad dream. The good news, she thought as she wet her dry
lips, was that she hadn't had one for a long time now. More than a year.
Actually, not since she'd taken over Creative Partners and given herself a
whole rash of new worries to keep her awake at night. Which, believe it or not,
was actually a positive development in her life. Better to worry about being
jobless, homeless, and broke than being dead. The room was pitch-dark. The bathroom light was
off. Realization hit Maddie like a jolt from a cattle
prod. The bathroom light is off. Unless there was a power outage—no, that was
out, the air conditioner was still doing its window-rattling roar—someone had
turned off the light. Someone had turned off the light. Wait, her rational side cautioned, even as panic
seized her by the throat. Stiff as a concrete slab now, she strained futilely
to hear or see as she deliberately ticked off various unterrifying
possibilities: The bulb could have burned out; there could have been a short in
a wire; it... There was someone in her room. He was stepping
out of the narrow corridor between the bathroom on the left and the rows of
closets on the right and moving toward the bed. Maddie didn't see him; the room
was pitch-black. She didn't hear him—the air conditioner was making too much
noise to allow her to hear anything so stealthy as a creeping footfall on
carpet. But she sensed him. Felt him. Knew with
unshakable certainty that he was there. Her heart leaped. Goose bumps raced along her
skin like a rush of falling dominoes. The hair at the back of her neck shot
straight up. A scream ripped into her throat; instinct made
her swallow it just in time. If she screamed he would be on her like a duck
on a June bug. If she screamed, who, in this cheap, impersonal hotel with its
noisy, sound-blocking air conditioners, would be likely to hear—except him? Making a split-second decision, she moved,
sliding as quietly as possible off the side of the bed, suddenly grateful for
the air conditioner's racket to cover her movements. Flat on her stomach on the
musty-smelling carpet, she discovered that there was nowhere to go: The window
wall was maybe a foot away on her left, and, to her right, a quick, questing
hand encountered the carpeted platform that supported the bed. A couple of heartbeats passed before the true
horror of her situation sank in: She was trapped. Her throat closed up and her
stomach knotted as she faced the fact that she had nowhere to go. The only way
out was the door— and the intruder was doing whatever he was doing between her
and it. Maybe he was nothing more than a garden-variety
burglar. She’d left her purse on the floor beside the armoire. Maybe he would
just take it and melt away into the darkness from which he'd sprung. Yeah, and maybe she'd win the lottery too, but
the way her luck had been running for the last few years, she wasn't going to
hold her breath in anticipation. Where was he? Her every sense was on quivering
alert, but the darkness was impenetrable: She literally couldn't see the hands
splayed flat on the carpet in front of her face. Hearing anything was equally
impossible over the air conditioner. Her heart threatened to pound its way out
of her chest. Fear quickened her breathing until, afraid he might somehow hear
the fast, shallow pants even over the rattling air conditioner, she
deliberately deepened and slowed it. Her fingers, still hopelessly probing the
scratchy carpet barrier that prevented her from going with her first instinct,
which was to hide under the bed, encountered a smooth wooden stick: the pencil
she'd been sketching with earlier. They closed around it convulsively. It
wasn't much, but it was the closest thing to a weapon she had. The darkness lightened fractionally. Glancing
up, her gaze widened on a pinpoint shimmer of light that was reflected in the
lamp's base. He had switched on a flashlight, one of those small ones with the
tiny beams. It was moving over the bed. Her stomach clenched like a fist. Move, she told herself fiercely. Scrambling into a low crouch,
shivering with cold and fear, Maddie scuttled as soundlessly as possible toward
the foot of the bed. The light went out. That could not be good. Thunk. Thunk. The bed shuddered twice in quick succession. Her
shoulder was just touching the mattress, using it as a guide to get where she needed
to go, and she felt the twin jolts. Maddie almost yelped with surprise as she
jerked away. Pulse pounding so hard that she could barely hear the air
conditioner over the panicked beat assaulting her eardrums, she backpedaled
until she came up against the wall. Sucking in air, she gaped toward the bed
without, of course, being able to see a thing. The sounds made her think of a
fist slamming hard into the mattress. Once. Twice. Then, with sudden icy certainty, she realized
that those sounds hadn't been made by any fist. The acrid smell drifting
beneath her nostrils told its own tale: a gun. A gun with a silencer. Someone
possessing a gun with a silencer had just fired two shots into her bed. Into, as the shooter thought, her. Oh, God, oh, God. . . Pure unadulterated terror threatened to reduce
her muscles to jelly. It froze her in place, left her unable to move. The flashlight beam once again sliced through
the darkness, playing over the bed. Maddie found herself staring in horror at
the jumble of blankets and sheets. The light focused on the pillow where
moments before her head had rested. A chocolate brown tuft that she recognized
as Fudgie's ear was just visible above the tangled covers. In a flash Maddie
realized that the gunman, whoever he was, had mistaken that tuft for the top of
her head. And he'd fired at it. All rational thought was swept from her mind as
a hand in a black glove reached out to flip the covers down. Move! This time it was an internal shriek. Her body
automatically obeyed. She catapulted away from the wall, panic giving wings to
her feet as she bolted toward the narrow thread of light from the hall that
just showed beneath the door. She already knew she had almost no chance. "Hey!" It was a man's surprised exclamation. With all
need for concealment past, Maddie shrieked for all she was worth as the
flashlight beam swung around to follow her flight. There was a rush of movement
behind her; horror turned her blood to ice water in her veins. He was going to
catch her—but no, she was at the door. Her frantic fingers found smooth, cold
metal: the knob. They closed on it... Oh, God, it was slippery. Her hands were sweaty.
She couldn't turn the knob. A strong hand grabbed her shoulder, yanked her
back. Maddie screamed like an air horn, twisting, kicking, fighting for all she
was worth. He must have dodged, because her fists connected with nothing but
air. Her bare toes did worse: They smashed painfully into his shin. "Help! Help!" Her screams still hung in the air as he slammed
her against the wall. The back of her head hit the trim around the bathroom
door so hard that an explosion of tiny white lights seemed to burst in front of
her eyes. A gloved hand around her throat silenced her brutally even as it
pinned her in place. Clawing instinctively at that choking hand, she
only remembered the pencil—her weapon—when she felt it drop. Oh, God. Her nails raked harmlessly down the leather,
then hit pay dirt as they ripped at the vulnerable flesh of his wrist. His gloved knuckles slammed into her right
cheekbone so hard that she saw stars again. "Scratch me again, bitch, and I'll rip your
throat out." Her eyes watered. Pain radiated from where he'd
hit her. She couldn't breathe. His grip tightened cruelly as he leaned close,
pressing himself against her so that she could feel buttons and smooth cotton
and the terrifying strength of the body beneath imprinting themselves on her
flesh. She hung motionless in his grip now, stunned, terrified, as vulnerable
as a rabbit in the jaws of a wolf. His hand spanned her throat, fingers digging
into the tender hollows below her ears. It hurt. Her cheek hurt. The back of
her head hurt. But the pain was nothing compared to the surging tide of her
fear. His breath, warm and stinking of onions, was hot on her cheek. His mouth
was just inches from hers. She shuddered reflexively—then remembered the gun
and went absolutely still. Where was it? He'd had it—he must still have
it—somewhere. In a holster or... He changed position, and she felt his free hand
fumble at his waist. The hand he'd hit her with—his right hand— Is he going for his gun? The thought that he might be getting ready to
shoot her, that at any second now she might feel the impact of a bullet ripping
through her flesh and muscle and bone, made Maddie go weak at the knees. "There's m-m-money in my purse," she
tried desperately. Her voice was a hoarse, halting whisper that hurt her
bruised throat. A quick sideways glance told her that the door was close, so
tantalizingly close. The glimmering line of light from the hall was maybe three
feet away. "I don't want your money." His hand came up toward her head oh, God and
then flattened on her mouth. A rubbery smell, a sticky strip molding her
lips—duct tape. Shaking with horror, she realized that he was duct-taping her
mouth shut. His touch almost tender, he smoothed the strip out, then applied a
second one. It was then that Maddie knew, without a single
remaining flicker of doubt, that he meant to kill her. Without warning a bright beam shone full in her
face: the flashlight. It blinded her as thoroughly as the darkness had moments
earlier. Flinching, shaking, light-headed with fear, she squinched her eyes
shut and prayed like she had never prayed in her life. For the space of a couple of heartbeats, he did
nothing while the light played over her face. He seemed to be... looking at
her. Terror popped her eyes open again just as the
light went out. Maddie heard herself make a sound: a moan. No, a
whimper, barely audible beneath the tape. "Scared?" There was the faintest hint
of enjoyment in his whisper. "You should be." His voice roughened.
"Get down on your knees." Fear surged like bile into her throat. She
tasted the sharp, vinegary tang of it. His hand tightened around her throat,
then shifted to the back of her neck, squeezing and forcing her down. It didn't
require much effort. Her knees buckled; she was dizzy, disoriented, literally
sick with dread. The carpet felt stiff and prickly beneath her knees. Her hands
splayed out over it, supporting her weight as cold sweat drenched her. The
wintry blast of the air conditioner hit her damp skin, worsening her shivers,
turning her as icy cold on the outside as she already was on the inside. Her single coherent thought was, Any second now, I'm going to die. From out in the hall, just faintly, Maddie
thought she heard voices. He must have heard them too, or felt her tense in
response, because his hand tightened painfully on the back of her neck. "Don't make a sound." He was behind her now, leaning over her, his
hand hard and controlling on the back of her bent neck, pushing her face toward
the carpet. Even as the voices died away, even as her hands shifted
automatically to compensate for the forced redistribution of her weight, the
horrible vision of rape flashed into her mind. Please, God, please, God, please... Her fingers touched the pencil just as her cheek
grazed the fuzzy nylon of the carpet. Instinct took over, and her fist closed
around the pencil in a death grip. "Stay still," he whispered, leaning
closer. There was the faintest of metallic sounds, and tremors of horror raced
over her skin as she felt his right hand move. Instantly she visualized what he
was doing: positioning the gun. To shoot her... Galvanized, she gave it her last, best shot.
Ramming the pencil up and back, she felt it thrust into something substantial,
something firm but yielding, something that made her think of a fork sinking
into meat... He screamed. "Fucking bitch!" he howled, falling
back. Just as quick as that, she was free. Rocketing
to her feet, she hurled herself at the door, latching on to the knob with both
hands and yanking for all she was worth. It opened. Light so bright that it was blinding
spilled over her. With every last bit of strength she possessed, she leaped
into the light. A single terrified glance over her shoulder as she fled told
her that he was already coming after her, hauling the closing door open again,
a huge dark menacing shadow lurching in horrifyingly swift pursuit. She ripped the duct tape from her mouth and
screamed to wake the dead. THREE Friday,
August 15 What in hell does she have in common with the
others?" Sam muttered, mostly to himself. Hands thrust into the front
pockets of his jeans, seething with barely contained frustration, he was
standing in an inner hall of the New Orleans medical examiner's office,
watching through a Plexiglas window as the county coroner, Dr. Lurlene Deland,
made the initial Y-shaped incision in the body of Madeline Fitzgerald. His
badge had been enough to grant him access to the autopsy. His grim-faced
demeanor kept the flunkies who walked past from hassling him about the whys and
wherefores of his right to watch. This time, he and Wynne hadn't even been
close, arriving at the crime scene—a Holiday Inn Express—just as the body was
being loaded into the coroner's van to be taken away. "Could be anything. Or nothing. You ever
thought about that? Maybe he's just picking victims at random. Playing with
us." Wynne was beside him, leaning heavily against
the dull beige concrete wall, electing not to look through the window. Having
just stuffed his face with half a dozen Krispy Kremes in a desperate bid to
counter exhaustion with a blood-sugar rush, Wynne had turned green around the
gills as soon as they had walked through the swinging doors that separated the
office from the working area and the formaldehyde-based smell of the place hit
him in the face. Sam had passed on the Krispy Kremes and was now heartily glad.
Wynne was looking sick enough for the pair of them. "There's something." Sam watched as a thin line of blood marked the
progress of Deland's scalpel. Naked, waxy-skinned, the victim lay on a sloped
metal table, the upper half of which was textured to keep the body from
sliding; running water flowed along the table into a shallow tub beneath a
grate at the lower end. To catch the effluvia, as another coroner had
once told him. "Nothing's turned up so far," Wynne
said. Sam grimaced. Wynne was right. Despite ongoing
searches into each victim's background, they'd uncovered no links between them.
Nothing to connect them at all. Not even the serial killer's special of age,
sex, or race. "Something will. There's a link, and we'll
find it and we'll catch him. Sooner or later, he'll make a mistake." "I hope he hurries the hell up. This case
is losing its charm real fast." Sam grunted agreement. Christ, he felt bad. The
bright fluorescent lights on the other side of the glass were giving him a
killer headache. Or maybe it was the chronic lack of sleep. Or the gnawing
emptiness in his stomach. Or maybe even the sheer damned futility of the
effort. They'd spent the last week searching the country for the dead woman,
desperately dissecting every clue as the asshole had called it in. The second
one, Peyton, had turned out to be part of the name of the street on which the
hotel stood. The third clue, Fitzgerald, proved to be the woman's last name.
The fourth was the link to the hotel: holiday. The fifth, called in just hours
before the victim was killed, was no. As in New Orleans. Figuring that out had been enough to allow them
to finally put the puzzle pieces together and find the woman. But it had not
been enough to allow them to find her while she was still alive. Sam gritted his teeth against the curse words
that crowded onto his tongue, and likewise battled an urge to rest his forehead
against the sure-to-be-cool Plexiglas. A muffled version of
"Satisfaction," courtesy of a local golden-oldies station, played on
the sound system. Pity he wasn't getting any, in any shape, form, or fashion, he
reflected. At the very least, he needed about six hours of uninterrupted sleep
and a decent meal to feel halfway normal again. Sex would be good, too, but the
way things were going that probably wasn't going to happen anytime soon. A
real, honest-to-God lead—now what he wouldn't give for that. A lead would be the best pick-me-up of all. "Her ex-husband check out?" Wynne
asked, clearly without much hope. "So far." Working off background
information on the victim given in the police report, Gardner had done the
preliminary work, and Sam had gone over her report in the car on the way over.
"At least, as far as anybody can tell at this point, he was where he said
he was last night. Anyway, he's a shift worker at GE. He might or might not
have had reason to murder his ex-wife, but for the life of me I can't see him
roaming around the country, knocking random people off." Wynne made a sound signifying disgust under his
breath. "So what we got, basically, is nothing." "Pretty much." Beyond the transparent barrier, Deland was
folding back the skin surrounding the incision. Turning the facts of the case
over in his head for what must have been the millionth time, Sam watched
without seeing as her hands in their thin, white surgical gloves wielded a pair
of gardening shears to snip through the ribs. Below them, the internal organs
glistened, still pristine. The only real damage had been to the victim's
head. Sam had watched as the coroner's first, careful inspection of the
victim's scalp, skin, and body surfaces had all but confirmed this. Like the
others, she'd been dispatched with two neat gunshots to the temple. A jar
holding a single, deformed shard of lead that had failed to penetrate the skull
waited on the wheeled metal cart at the coroner's elbow. Later, as more
fragments were recovered from the brain, they would be added to the jar. The pieced-together bullets would tell them
nothing, Sam already knew. Every killing so far had been done using a different
weapon. The killer was smart enough to prefer his guns, like his phones,
disposable. Who the hell was this guy? Deland made a delicate movement with her
scalpel, then lifted a bloody organ from the body with her two gloved hands and
deposited it on a scale on the cart. "I need some air," Wynne said. Sam glanced over at him to find that Wynne was
now watching the autopsy in progress. His eyes were squinched half shut, his
face had blanched at least two shades, and his lips were tightly compressed.
Before Sam could reply, the big guy turned on his heel and strode back down the
corridor. His sandals went slap-slap-slap on the slick tile floor. He was moving like he feared not making it to
the john in time. Sam glanced back at the body on the tilted metal
table, followed the proceedings for a few more minutes, and gave it up. There
was no absolution to be gained by watching, and no new knowledge, either. The truth was, he was almost too tired to stand
up, let alone think. And he was bugged, big-time, by the fact that the killer
had not made contact since calling with the last clue. Up until now, there had
been a clear pattern: a partial name first, called in not long after their
arrival at the scene of the previous murder. Then two or three random clues
that only made sense in retrospect. Finally, a hint to the city was always last,
called in just a few hours before the next killing occurred. This time, they'd
had to scramble to hop a plane from Houston, where they'd been en route to
interview a Madeline Peyton who worked for Fitzgerald Securities, one of at
least a hundred Madelines on their list who met the parameters of the
information they'd been given so far, when the last clue had come in and they'd
pinpointed New Orleans. It was as if the killer wanted to make a game of it— to
see if he could pull off the crime while Sam's team raced to make sense of the
clues, raced to locate the victim, raced to stop him. So far, the killer was
winning. The stats were grim: FBI 0, Insane Bastard 5—no, 6 if you counted
Tammy Sue Perkins, which, since she was dead and he had killed her, you had to
do. With this last victim, they'd been a good two hours behind the killer. Sam
had barely gotten a glimpse of the victim as she was taken away, just enough to
know that she was a woman, dark-haired, attractive, and dead. The crime scene
was her hotel room. Apparently, the attack had occurred as she slept. But
why? Why? Why? Sam hated to admit even to himself that he had
no clue. His last contact with the killer had come—he glanced at his watch; it
was 9:17 a.m.—at five minutes until seven p.m. the previous day. That was more
than fourteen hours ago. Before, the bastard had always called him within no
more than an hour of Sam's arrival at the death scene to gloat—and to provide
the first lead to the next victim. This time there'd been no contact. Maybe, this time, there was no next victim?
Maybe the bastard had gotten it all out of his system? Maybe the game was over? Yeah, and maybe he was going to get a raise in
his next paycheck, too, but he didn't think so, Sam concluded gloomily. Still, he had to ask himself: What was different
about this one? Why hadn't the killer made contact afterward? There was a
reason—there was always a reason. He just didn't know what it was. Yet. The questions that crowded into his mind in the
wake of that were so urgent and the answers so elusive that Sam banged his fist
against the Plexiglas in frustration. Deland and her assistant glanced his way,
their eyes frowning at him above their surgical masks. The message was clear: He was disturbing their
work. Sam didn't even bother mouthing an apology. He turned on his heel and
went in search of Wynne. He found him outside, to the left of the
frosted-glass front door, leaning against the four-story building's grimy
stucco wall. Located just off Canal Street, the coroner's office was in a seedy
area heavy on small shops and ethnic restaurants that swarmed with activity
even this early in the day. Pedestrians clogged the sidewalks. Vehicles of all
descriptions crawled bumper-to-bumper in both directions, creating a continuous
background buzz that sounded like a swarm of angry wasps. The heat wrapped
around Sam's face like a hot, wet towel the moment he left the air-conditioning
behind. Inhaling was like breathing in soup. The smells—car emissions, decaying
plants, various kinds of spicy food cooking—would have been nauseating if he'd
let himself pay attention to them, which he didn't. Two tortured-looking
palmetto trees struggled to survive in wrought-iron cages set into the
sidewalk. Wynne—or at least as much of Wynne as could fit, which was about a
fourth—stood in the spindly shadow of one of these. His arms were crossed over
his massive chest, his head was bent, his eyes were closed. His mouth worked as
he chewed something very slowly and deliberately. Bubble gum, Sam assumed,
because of the faint grape smell and the fact that Wynne had bought a six-pack
of grape Dubble Bubble along with the doughnuts he'd scarfed down earlier.
Since quitting smoking six weeks ago, Wynne rarely went longer than fifteen
minutes without putting something in his mouth. As a result, he was gaining
weight like a turkey in October, enough so that his baggy shorts were growing
less baggy by the day and his shirts—today's model was vintage Hawaiian,
featuring a big-bosomed girl doing the hula on the front—strained at their
buttons. "Okay?" Sam asked, surveying him.
Wynne gave a single slow nod. Despite the nod, Sam continued to eye him
skeptically. Sweat beaded Wynne's forehead, his face was flushed red, and his
curly, fair hair had frizzed in the heat until it looked like a brass-colored
Brillo pad. To put it mildly, Wynne was not, at the moment, a poster boy for
FBI spit and polish, But then, that's what four weeks on the road chasing a
murderous nutjob did to a man, Sam thought. He himself was a case in point.
He was sporting a couple of days'—he'd forgotten exactly how many—worth of
stubble, faded jeans, and a T-shirt that had once been black but had been
washed so often and so haphazardly over the past month that it was now a kind
of tie-dyed-looking gray. The jackets and ties that Bureau protocol called for
had been left back in their hotel rooms. This particular August, New Orleans
was a hundred degrees in the shade with a sticky humidity that never seemed to
let up. In other words, it was just too damned hot.
Wynne opened one bleary eye. "I need a cigarette. Bad." "Chew
your gum." "Ain't helping." In front of them, a black Firebird pulled over
to the curb and stopped. Both doors opened at almost exactly the same moment,
and two men got out. Tensing automatically, doing a quick mental check to make
sure his Sig Sauer still nestled in the small of his back where he could get to
it in a matter of seconds if need be, Sam squinted at them through the shimmer
of heat that rose from the sidewalk, watching, narrow-eyed, as the pair headed
purposefully toward him and Wynne. Their initially brisk pace slowed as they
drew closer. "You guys learn anything in there?" Sam relaxed as he recognized the speaker as Phil
Lewis, an FBI agent from the local field office whom he had first met some six
years previously, when Sam had come to town to spearhead an investigation into
a hashish-smuggling ring that was using the port of New Orleans as an entry
point to the U.S. drug market. Despite the camouflage provided by the inches-high
blond pompadour the guy tended like a girlfriend, Lewis was short, maybe
five-nine or so beneath the hair, stocky and cocky in the way small men often
are. Today he was decked out in a pale yellow sport coat, a gleaming white
T-shirt, pressed jeans, and Ray-Bans. The African-American guy with him was
taller, thinner, and a little more conservative in a crew cut, navy sport coat,
and khakis. And Ray-Bans. "Nah," Sam replied, leaning a shoulder
back against the building and folding his arms over his chest. "Long time
no see, Lewis. I see you're still a fan of Miami Vice." "What?" Lewis looked bewildered and
suspicious at the same time. Beside Sam, Wynne snickered. "Forget it." Sam jerked a thumb at
Wynne. "This is E. P. Wynne. Phil Lewis. And . .. ?" "Greg Simon," Lewis's partner said.
Perfunctory handshakes were exchanged all around, and then Sam looked at Lewis. "You got anything?" Sam meant anything
he needed to know, which Lewis perfectly understood. "Nothing but a call from Dr. Deland's
office about two suspicious-looking characters claiming to be FBI agents
forcing their way into the Fitzgerald autopsy." "That would be us," Sam said. Wynne
nodded. "Yeah." Lewis frowned. "You want
to tell me why we're interested in this case?" Ordinarily, murder investigations were left up
to local police forces in the jurisdictions in which they occurred. The FBI was
called in only on certain extraordinary cases. "Possible link to multiple homicides with
the UNSUB crossing state lines," Sam said. Bureau policy was to share
information on developing cases with local field agents, but in this case Sam
interpreted that to mean on a strictly need-to-know basis. At this point, in
Sam's estimation, what he'd just said was about all Lewis needed to know. He
remembered all too vividly how the details of the last investigation they'd
worked on together had gotten leaked to the Times-Picayune within hours
of the investigative team uncovering them. For all its population, New Orleans
was a small town that way, and unless something had changed, Lewis had a
way-too-cozy relationship with local reporters. Having this thing turn into a media circus was
something they did not need. Especially when they were no closer to making an
apprehension today than they had been when Sam had gotten the first call at the
first murder scene four weeks ago. "Hot damn," Lewis said, rubbing his
hands together in transparent glee. "You mean we got ourselves a serial
killer?" "Nah. Looks like a series of professional
hits." Sam slouched against the wall again. " 'Course, it's too early
to say for sure." Lewis gave a nod toward the building. "What
was she into to get herself whacked?" "Could be a lot of things. At this point,
we don't really know." "But you've got an idea," Lewis said,
watching Sam. "Actually, I've got no fucking clue,"
Sam said, which had the double virtue of being the absolute truth while at the
same time visibly annoying Lewis. Beside him, Wynne was working on blowing a
big purple bubble. The sickly sweet grape smell wafted beneath Sam's nose. "Bullshit," Lewis said. Sam shrugged. "Think what you want." "You're operating in my neck of the woods
now." Lewis's voice was sharp. "Whatever you've got on this case, I
have a right to know it." "You're absolutely correct. You do." "So?" "When I find something out, I'll send you a
memo." "You..." Lewis went red with anger but
swallowed the rest of what he'd been going to say. Sam gave him the faintest of
smiles. Wynne's bubble popped with a loud smack. "You got a problem with memos?" Sam
asked innocently. "I can do e-mails." "You suck, you know that?" Lewis said
through his teeth, and started walking. "Come on, Greg, we need to head on
in and tell Dr. Deland's staff that, hard as it may be to believe, the creeps
they were complaining about really are FBI agents." As Simon started to
move, Lewis glanced back over his shoulder at Sam. "You gonna hang around
for a few minutes? When we come back out, maybe we can give you a lift over to
Goodwill, help you pick out a couple of sport coats." "Sounds good." "Dickhead." If that was meant to be a
mutter, Lewis blew it big-time. Sam heard and gave him a jaunty little farewell
wave. "So when are you planning to start writing
your book on winning friends and influencing people?" Wynne inquired with
a sideways glance when Lewis and company had disappeared inside the building. Sam grinned. "Anytime now. I'm just working
on building up the fan base first." "You know he's probably gonna call
Smolski"—Leonard Smolski was the head of the Violent Crimes division and
their boss—"and complain that we're holding out on him. And Smolski's
gonna go ape-shit." "Last time I shared details of an
investigation with Lewis..." Sam began, meaning to fill Wynne in on the
ins and outs of the media blitz that nearly derailed the drug-smuggling case.
But he was interrupted by the sudden strident peal of his cell phone. Sam became instantly alert at the sound, and he
straightened away from the wall. Wynne watched him like a dog with a squirrel
in view as Sam thrust a hand in his jeans pocket, yanked the phone out, and
glanced down at it. A number flashed on the ID screen. It made him frown. "Yo," he answered, already knowing
that the voice on the other end was not going to be the one he both wanted and
dreaded to hear. "Something weird," Gardner said in his
ear. "We've turned up another Madeline Fitzgerald. Attacked last night at
the same hotel." "What?" "Yeah. Only this one lived." "You're shitting me, right?" "Nope. She signed into the emergency room
at Norton Hospital at 3:12 a.m. with unspecified injuries, was treated and
released." "What? What?" Wynne demanded,
balancing on the balls of his feet now as he stared at Sam and tried to make
sense of the conversation. Sam waved him off. "And we're just now finding this out?"
Sam felt like slapping his palm to his forehead duh-style. They were the
FBI, after all. Consistently being a day
late and a dollar short was not how they were supposed to operate. "Hey, not my fault. Apparently a friend
drove her to the hospital. Hotel security notified the police, who called us.
Ten minutes ago." Sam took a deep breath. Lack of timely
cooperation from the local police was nothing new, of course. But it was still
maddening as hell. "Where is she now?" "I knew you were going to ask me
that." Gardner sounded smugly self-satisfied. "She caught a cab in
front of the hotel fifteen minutes ago. The driver took her to the Hepburn
Building. One-thirty-six Broadway." "Gardner, you da man," Sam said, and
hung up with Gardner's pert "not in this life, lover," echoing in his
ears. FOUR So her throat hurt. So she was bruised and sore
and scared. So she was operating on about two hours sleep. Get over it, Maddie
told herself fiercely as she washed her hands in the Hepburn Building's
first-floor ladies' room. She could think about what had happened later, after
the presentation was over. If she and Jon did a good job now, if Creative
Partners got the account, her struggling business would suddenly, for the first
time ever, be on solid ground. Even better than solid ground. They'd be making
money—lots of money. Enough money to buy the kind of settled, secure life she'd
always dreamed about. Now was clearly not the moment to fall apart. Just
because some psycho maniac had broken into her hotel room and tried to kill her
was no reason to lose focus. You gotta have priorities, she thought wryly. A nervous breakdown would
just have to wait. What she needed to do was just stay in the moment. After
all, what was the alternative? Turn tail and head back to St. Louis with a
whimper while waving a fond farewell to the Brehmer account? Not happening. So get a grip. Maddie took a deep breath and worked on taking her own
advice. While she'd been in the hospital basically having her tonsils examined,
Jon had already tried to have the appointment postponed, without success. Mrs.
Brehmer's people had made it clear that either the meeting went down at ten
a.m. today as scheduled or it didn't go down at all. Reliability was Mrs.
Brehmer's watchword, as Susan Allen, her personal assistant, had apologetically
informed him. If Brehmer's Pet Foods couldn't even rely on Creative Partners to
be at such an important meeting on time, well, then... Right. Reliable R Us, Maddie thought, turning off the taps and drying
her hands on a paper towel. The show must go on and all that. She had always
been good at compartmentalizing, and she would compartmentalize this, tucking
it away to be examined in depth later. Popping in another pain-deadening throat
lozenge, she grimaced at the Listerine-like taste even as she gave herself one
last critical once-over in the mirror. Her hair was brushed into a
sleeker-than-usual business-friendly bob. The slight bruise on her cheek had
been camouflaged into near invisibility by a crafty combination of coverstick
and blush, and the rest of her makeup was flattering but minimal. Her cream
linen suit with its slim, knee-length skirt was resolutely conservative. The
white silk shell beneath was the epitome of tastefulness. The beige pumps and
shoulder bag continued the ladylike theme. The only jarring note in her
understated ensemble was the bright blue-and-yellow silk scarf, grabbed on the
fly from the hotel gift shop, that she had twined around her neck to conceal
the ugly purple bruise that marred the front of her throat. Last night someone tried to kill me. A shiver raced down her spine as Maddie did her
best to thrust the wayward thought back into the "I'll worry about that
later" compartment. Jon had reported that Susan Allen's dominant emotion
on being informed of what had befallen Creative Partners’ owner and CEO during
the night had been dismay. "You know, Mrs. B. is not real big on
getting involved in her associates' personal dramas," the assistant had
said doubtfully. A personal drama. That was certainly a unique way to look at just managing to
escape a would-be ruthless killer by the skin of her teeth, Maddie thought with
some asperity. But the bottom line was, Mrs. Brehmer just didn't want to know,
which was fine with Maddie. She didn't want to know, either.
Unfortunately, though, she had no choice: At some point she was going to have
to face the reality of what had happened and deal with it. But not now. She was not going to think about it
now. The unavoidable residuals of the attack—terror, panic, questions,
decisions—all were going to have to be put on hold until later. Just for this
morning, she was going to think about nothing except how much the Brehmer
account mattered to her, to her employees, to Creative Partners as a whole, and
go out there and do her best to wow the old witch. Or, um, make that wow the
demanding-but-rich business owner who could put Creative Partners on the map
with one stroke of her pen. As she held on to that view of the situation
with dogged determination, Maddie shook off the shivers, picked up her
briefcase, and exited the bathroom. Jon was standing where she had left him, among a
milling group of people in business dress waiting over by the bank of gleaming
brass-doored elevators, looking his usual handsome self in a navy suit, white
shirt, and red power tie. He smiled at her, and she headed toward him, her
sensible two-inch heels clicking on the terrazzo floor. The Hepburn Building
was a fifty-story skyscraper located in the middle of one of New Orleans's
busiest commercial blocks. It was sleekly modern, an anachronistic new addition
to a city that owed its fame to a decaying antebellum charm. Today the brown
marble lobby was crowded, and the line at the security desk, where visitors
were required to sign in, was growing longer by the minute. Two men, somewhat
scruffy for such an elegant environment, were leaning over the counter,
apparently holding up the proceedings as they carried on an intense
conversation with the uniformed guard behind the desk. Even as she noticed them, the guard looked around.
For an instant his gaze combed the shifting ranks of people waiting for the
elevators, walking to and from the restrooms, visiting the small flower kiosk
opposite the elevators. Then she must have made some attention-attracting
move—perhaps the sunlight filtering in through the oversized windows had
glinted off her gold earrings or something—because all of a sudden he seemed to
focus on her. "Over there," Maddie heard him say,
and then to her surprise he pointed right at her. Me? she thought. Her eyes widened, her step faltered, and her
hand rose in a gesture of disbelief to press against the cool silk between her
breasts. The men who'd been talking to the guard followed
the path of his pointing finger with their eyes and looked at her. Finding
herself suddenly pinned by the gazes of two unsavory-looking strangers could
not be considered a positive development at any time. But after what had
happened the night before, her heart could be forgiven, Maddie thought, for the
insane attempt it made to leap out of her body through her throat. Surely there must be some mistake—but if there
was, it was a mistake that kept on keeping on. The men straightened and,
without taking their eyes off her, began walking purposefully toward her. They
made an unlikely pair, as if a street bum had hooked up with a slovenly
tourist. Together, they looked so ratty and out of place in these upscale
surroundings that Maddie couldn't believe that the guard had even let them
pass. But they had gotten through, and they were coming in her direction. As
she registered the un-escapable reality of the situation, her feet seemed to
sprout roots that sank deep into the floor. Her eyes stayed glued to them; she
could not look away. Her heart pounded. Her pulse raced. Her fight-or-flight
response kicked in, veering strongly toward flight. Unfortunately, even if she
could move, which she didn't seem to be able to do, she was out of luck.
Barring a retreat to the ladies' room, which was the biggest trap in the world
if they decided to follow her in or even wait outside, or the timely arrival of
one of the cursedly slow elevators, there was no place in this starkly designed
lobby to go. Could one of them have been the man in my hotel
room? At the thought, Maddie suddenly went
light-headed. Still, she couldn't move. She could do nothing but watch with
growing horror as they strode toward her through the bars of light that the
tall windows on either side of the lobby threw down across the highly polished
floor. They were both good-sized men, but the fair-haired one in the garish
Hawaiian shirt and rumpled shorts was taller by several inches, and fat. Too
fat to be her attacker? Yes, she thought, yes. Please, God, yes. Her
gaze shifted. Though the bigger man was moving fast, he was still a few steps
behind the black-haired guy in jeans whose eyes were fastened on her like she
was a refrigerator and they were magnets. He looked like someone on the morning
after the night before, with a couple days' worth of stubble darkening his jaw
and short but untidy hair that probably hadn't seen a comb since before he had
last shaved. This man was definitely not fat. What he was was powerfully built
and mean-looking, the kind of guy that she wouldn't want to run into in a dark
parking lot or on a deserted street. Or in a dark hotel room. At the thought, all the air left her lungs. Was
it him? Was she about to be attacked again? Here and now, in this crowded
lobby? Her eyes widened, and her heart went all fluttery. But then something
about the way they moved, about their quick strides and erect posture, struck
her. They're cops, she thought. Some kind of cops. With that, her feet released their death grip on
the floor, and she was able to take a quick, defensive step back. To her left,
one of the elevators announced its arrival with a ding. The population
of the lobby shifted noticeably as a herd of people surged toward it. Pivoting,
she turned toward the elevator as every instinct she possessed shrieked at her
to flee. With the single exception of the guy who had
attacked her, cops were the very last people she wanted to see. "Perfect timing," Jon said, glancing
around at her over his shoulder. A few quick steps had put her right behind
him, so close that her nose was in danger of flattening itself on his slender,
tropical wool-clad back. He was clearly unaware of the drama that was playing
out behind him, of the oncoming men, of her urgent wish to escape. Caught up in
the throng crowding into the elevator, he paused courteously to allow a pair of
elderly women to precede him. Ordinarily, Maddie would have awarded him brownie
points for the gentlemanly gesture. Today, stuck behind him, she had to fight
the urge to place the flat of both hands in the center of his back and shove.
Hard. Hurry, hurry, hurry. The refrain beat urgently through her brain. Jon moved at last, clearly one of the final few
who were going to make it into the crowded car, then turned to face her, edging
back just enough to create a place for her at the very front. In her haste to
join him, Maddie got the corner of her full-to-bursting briefcase hung up on
the door. "Piece of crap," she muttered
furiously. Forced to pause long enough to jerk the thrice-damned thing free,
she was just about to step into the elevator when a hand caught her arm from
behind. Maddie let loose with a sound that was more squeak than scream and
practically jumped out of her skin. The strong fingers that gripped her firmly
just above her elbow hung on. Her stomach sank as she realized that she'd just
been effectively stopped in her tracks. "Madeline Fitzgerald?" A deep,
southern-tinged voice asked. "Hey!" Jon said sharply, starting
forward as he realized what was happening at last. Maddie whipped around,
inadvertently clearing a circle in the crowd around her with her ungainly
briefcase. From the corner of her eye she caught just a glimpse of Jon's
startled expression as the elevator doors slid closed in his face. Then just
like that he was gone, and she was on her own. With the elevator no longer
available, everyone around her seemed to simply disperse. Everyone, that is,
except the guy holding on to her arm. "Let go of me." It was all she could do to keep the panic out of
her voice. Instinctively, she jerked her arm free and moved back until she
could feel the smooth, slick coolness of the marble wall against her shoulder
blades. Left with no place to go, she pressed her briefcase up against her legs
like a shield. Her gaze collided with narrowed eyes the color of black coffee. "Madeline Fitzgerald?" he asked for
the second time. From the dispassionate but assessing way his eyes were moving
over her, she was all but certain that her original estimate was correct: This
guy had law enforcement written all over him. Her heart threatened to pound its way out of her
chest. "Who wants to know?" she parried,
knowing that her response was a throwback to her younger days, knowing that it
was all wrong for who she was now, for who she aspired to be. But she couldn't
help it, she'd been caught by surprise, she was rattled and still recovering
from last night and definitely not in control. He frowned at her, his
eyes narrowing still more as they held her gaze. He was—no surprise—the
black-haired half of the pair who'd come chasing after her across the lobby.
The mean-looking one. "FBI," said the other, fair-haired
half of the pair as he came panting up in time to hear her question. FBI. Maddie's stomach dropped all the way to her toes. This was
far worse even than she had expected, worse than she would have dreamed.
Suddenly unable to draw a breath, she glanced his way. He opened the wallet
that was already in his hand to flash something—Maddie presumed it was his
ID—at her. Panic swamped her, leaving her too unnerved to focus, much less to
try to ascertain whether or not whatever he was waving in her face was the real
thing. This guy was huge, maybe six-four, six-five, overweight, with a big beer
belly that was not flattered by the scarlet hula girl dancing across his
middle. Flushed and sweaty, he looked like he'd just run a marathon in the
swampy heat outside. A forest of tiny dark gold ringlets sprang up around his
head, giving him the appearance of a giant cherub on summer vacation. Anyone
who looked less like an FBI agent would be hard to find. Except maybe the frowning street bum directly in
front of her. Still, she didn't doubt for so much as an
instant that they were what he claimed. There was something about him, about
the pair of them, that prac-tically screamed feds. She should have
realized it from the first. Maybe, somewhere deep inside, she had realized
it from the first. Maybe that's why her eyes had been drawn to them to begin
with. Maybe that's why she had felt such alarm on realizing that they were
heading her way. "What do you want?" she asked, her
mouth so dry that her voice sounded croaky. Like she had no idea. Like she
hadn't been dreading this day for years. Like she hadn't expected that sooner
or later they would show up... "To talk to you." The black-haired man
took a step toward her so that he was once again close enough to make her feel
crowded. She could see the tiny lines around his eyes, the deeper ones
bracketing his mouth. Too close. Oh, God, she couldn't deal with this. She
wasn't ready. She wasn't ready. Her stomach did its best imitation of a
pretzel. Her heart was already pounding so hard that she was surprised he
couldn't see its panicked beating beneath her thin silk shell. Things had been going so well, she mourned. At least, they had been going so
well until someone had tried to kill her... "I'm Special Agent Sam McCabe.
This"—McCabe threw a quick glance over his shoulder at the larger
man—"is Special Agent E. P. Wynne. You are Madeline Fitzgerald,
right?" What are my choices here? Maddie asked herself wildly in the split second
before she replied. With escape no longer even remotely possible, they were
basically down to two: tell the truth—or lie. "Yes," she said, and to her own
surprise her voice sounded perfectly calm. Or maybe it wasn't so surprising
after all. The first hot rush of panic had receded; she was cold now, icy cold,
so cold that her lips felt bloodless, her fingers and toes numb. Her pulse
raced; her palms were damp; goose-bumps prickled her arms. But she looked
steadily back at him, meeting his gaze without, she hoped, giving any of her
inner turmoil away. Play the handout. She could almost hear her father saying it. It's not
over till it's over. She had to force herself to breathe. "We want to ask you a few questions about
what happened last night," McCabe continued. "Do you have a
minute?" About what happened last night. It was so unexpected that it was disorienting.
Maddie blinked once as the words sank in. Her lungs deflated like a punctured
balloon as all the air suddenly whooshed out. They wanted to talk to her about last
night. Waves of relief washed over her. Of course they wanted to
talk to her about last night, she scolded herself. What else could they
possibly want to talk to her about? What else indeed, she thought, still feeling faintly dizzy. Still, the sooner
she got away from them the better. She needed a little time to recover her
composure, at the very least. As shaken as she was, it would be way too easy
to let something slip. She got a grip and shook her head. "Actually, I'm late as it is. I have an
important meeting in just a few minutes. And you made me miss my
elevator." The faintly accusing note in her voice as she said that last
was, she thought, pitch-perfect for the occasion. "Sorry about that," the big
one—Wynne—said with an apologetic grimace. "Could you come with us, please?" McCabe
reached for her arm again. This guy obviously wasn't used to hearing the word no.
His fingers slid around her elbow, making her glad for the long sleeve of
her jacket, which kept him from touching her skin. As his grip tightened, she
felt as if the marble walls of the lobby were closing in on her. Suddenly, she
felt like she was suffocating. Deja vu all over again, she thought with a stab of near hysteria. Here
was one more FBI agent doing his level best to intimidate her. Only this time,
it wasn't happening. This time, she was all grown-up. The thought put some steel back in her spine. "Sorry, Mr. Special Agent, I really am in a
hurry." Her voice was cool as she pulled her arm free for a second time.
"What is it, exactly, that you want to know?" McCabe's lips compressed with obvious
displeasure. His eyes darkened, seemed to weigh her. Whatever he saw in her
face must have convinced him that the only way he was dragging her off
somewhere was if she went kicking and screaming, because he didn't try to grab
her again. Which was a good thing. Making a scene was the
last thing she wanted to do. Although, if she had to, she would. He glanced around as if to assure himself that
no one except his oversized friend was near enough to overhear, took a step
forward, and lowered his voice. "You were a guest at the Holiday Inn
Express on Peyton Place Boulevard last night, right?" "Yes." He was crowding her. Maybe deliberately, maybe
not. Either way, his nearness made it an effort to breathe. Stepping out of his
path was not an option. With the wall at her back, she had no place to go. "Can you tell me what happened?" Between shattered nerves and no sleep, she
wasn't quite operating on all cylinders, and she knew it. Still, his interest
made no sense. She knew the kinds of things the FBI investigated, and an attack
on an anonymous woman that hadn't even resulted in significant injury was way
beneath their notice. Was there something here that she was missing? Or were
they playing with her? The thought was galvanizing. It made her palms
grow damp. Don't panic, she warned herself even as she looked at him warily. "Since when does the FBI care about stuff
like that?" "Since now," he said. "Could you
just answer the question, please?" For a moment their eyes clashed, and the issue
hung in the balance. But answering his questions was probably the quickest way
to make him go away, Maddie realized, and what she wanted more than anything
else in the whole wide world right at that moment was for him and his partner
to do just that. Just keep it short and sweet. "A man attacked me in my room." She
swallowed before she remembered that swallowing hurt. Quite above and beyond
her reluctance to have anything whatsoever to do with the FBI, recalling the
previous night's near-death experience was not something she wanted to do. If
luck, God, whatever had not been on her side, she wouldn't be here now. She
would be in the city morgue, with a tag reading Madeline Fitzgerald tied
to her toe. "Look, I've already gone over this with the police. It should
all be in their report." Never mind that the only reason she had talked
to the police was because they had shown up at the hospital and she had been
left with no choice. And the only reason she had gone to the hospital in the
first place was that Jon had taken advantage of her shocked state to take her
there. Mr. Special Agent here didn't know that. All he would see was that in
the aftermath of the attack, she had done just exactly what any other
upstanding citizen would be expected to do: go to the hospital, talk to the
police. McCabe ignored her attempt to dismiss him.
"What time did the attack occur, exactly?" Maddie made an impatient gesture. "I don't
know. I realize it was shortsighted of me, but when I woke up and found a man
in my room, it didn't occur to me to check the clock. Sometime between midnight
and three is the best I can do. I fell asleep just after midnight, and I was at
the hospital by a quarter after three." Her sarcasm seemed to roll off him like oil off
waxed paper. If anything, his expression grew more intent. "Did you get a
look at him?" Maddie repressed a shiver as she remembered the
terrifying bulk of the man. No. "Nothing? Not even a glimpse? Come on, you
must have seen something." "I didn't see anything, okay? It was dark.
No." Their eyes clashed. A beat passed. "So walk me through what happened,
step-by-step." Maddie took a deep breath. "It upsets me to talk about it, you know?
If you want details, read the police report." Her stomach was doing its
twisty thing again. The urge to escape was so strong that she could practically
feel the muscles twitching beneath her skin. But escape was impossible for the
moment. With the elevator gone, there was, once again, no place to go. That
being the case, she needed to not lose it with him, she reminded herself. She
needed to stay cool, calm, and in control. All the things that at the moment
she definitely was not feeling. His eyes slid over her face. He rocked back on
his heels, folded his arms over his chest, and appeared to consider her. "Is it my imagination, or am I sensing some
hostility here?" Oh, God. Careful. She had to fight the urge to swallow. He was
watching her too closely for such a telltale action to pass unnoticed. "I just don't see the value in going over
this umpteen times. Like I said, it upsets me." Her voice turned tart.
"Anyway, aren't you the FBI? Don't you always get your man? So why don't
you go get him, and stop harassing me?" "That's the Mounties," McCabe said
dryly, as, unable to help herself, Maddie cast a longing glance to her left. Where, oh where, was that fricking elevator? "Miz Fitzgerald...” As if on cue, the elevator closest to them
arrived with a ding. The doors opened, and a gush of people spilled out
into the lobby. Thank God. She met his gaze, summoning the best she could
manage in the way of an "it's been nice" smile. "Look, I really have to go. Like I said, I
already went over the whole thing with the police. You should be able to get
whatever you need from them." With that and a dismissive nod, Maddie stepped
away from the wall and turned to battle her way through the once again surging
crowd. Using her briefcase as a makeshift battering ram, she managed to wedge
her way through the stream of riders disembarking and make it onto the emptying
elevator ahead of the hordes still more or less politely waiting their turn. It did her absolutely no good. "Miz Fitzgerald...” McCabe was right behind her, damn him, his
Southern drawl unmistakable, persistent as a dog after a pork chop as he
followed her toward the back of the car. Finding herself nose to nose with the
gleaming brass wall as a jostling crowd filled the elevator, Maddie tensed as
she realized that, once again, she had nowhere to go. Seconds later she
experienced a sudden sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Glancing up,
she discovered that, sure enough, he still loomed like the big bad wolf behind
her and was, in fact, watching her reflection. For a moment their gazes met and
held. They stared at each other, a pair of faintly blurred golden images
apparently equally surprised to find their gazes colliding in a too-shiny wall. Her stomach clenched. Then, be cool, Maddie ordered herself
fiercely, and pulled her gaze from his. Grabbing hold of her vacillating
courage with both hands, she turned around, deliberately bumping his legs with
her briefcase and forcing him to step back a pace. "Sorry," she said in a voice as bland
as milk. Then, to the group at large, "Could someone hit fifty for me,
please?" "Fifty. Got it," a man replied from
the front. With a slight lurch the elevator headed up. A
glance around the packed car told her that McCabe was alone. His supersized
friend hadn't made it on board. Like the proverbial elephant in the room, he was
impossible to ignore. But she tried, staring ahead at the elevator doors.
Unfortunately, they too were made of brass. Their eyes collided in the reflective wall. He
was, she realized, once again watching her reflection. Since ignoring him was
proving impossible, she decided to take the war into the enemy's camp. She turned her head. Their gazes met, but this
time without the soften-ing buffer of the brass. "Are you following me?" That
the question was muttered almost under her breath in no way detracted from the
force with which she said it. "Looks like it, doesn't it?" He gave
her the smallest of mocking smiles. Maddie scowled. She fumed. She thought. Then,
after an ostentatious glance down at her watch, she met his gaze again. "Look, I have a really important business
meeting in exactly seventeen minutes," she said, low-voiced. "What,
exactly, does it take to make you disappear?" FIVE Talk to me," McCabe said, his voice equally
low. "Five minutes of your time. That's all I need." "Then you swear you'll go away?" "Cross my heart." "Fine." Maddie glared at him. Whatever
happened, she couldn't let him follow her up to the fiftieth floor, where
Brehmer's Pet Food reigned supreme. Not unless she was prepared to kiss the
account good-bye. She would give him five minutes. She would be super-careful.
And then, if she was lucky, he would be satisfied and go away, and leave her to
get on with her life. Except that someone had tried to kill her last
night. The elevator slid to a stop and the door opened. "Is this the third floor? Could you let me
out, please?" A woman on the other side of the car was edging toward the
front. Maddie found herself wedged even more tightly against the back wall as
the population of the elevator shifted. It was so crowded that several people
were forced to step out into the corridor to let the woman exit. "Come on, then," Maddie muttered with
a resentful glance up at McCabe, and used her briefcase to clear a path. When
both she and McCabe had been disgorged, the elevator doors closed behind them.
The woman who'd gotten off just before them was already walking away. A
gold-framed mirror hung above a walnut console table on the wall directly in
front of the elevators. Funny, Maddie thought, catching a glimpse of her
reflection, except for the big bad wolf beside her—who, incidentally, was once
again wrapping his hand around her arm—she looked unchanged. No one seeing her
would guess that icy shivers chased one another up and down her spine or that
her legs felt like rubber bands. A quick look around told her that to the left
was a solid wall, covered like the others in blue-patterned wallpaper. To the
right, the hall opened up into what looked like a mezzanine level. Groupings of
beige leather couches and chairs stood in front of a polished metal rail that
gave promise of a large open area below. At the far side of the open space, a
towering wall of windows provided a panoramic view of cerulean sky peeking out
between the surrounding skyscrapers. "This way." McCabe took charge again,
pulling her along beside him as he headed toward the mezzanine. Maddie jerked her arm free and kept walking. His
eyes cut sideways at her, but he didn't say anything. By this time she had absorbed a great deal of
visual information about him, starting with the fact that he was at least six
feet tall, or maybe even a little taller. Even in heels, she had to look up to
meet his gaze. He was swarthy-skinned, muscular, with a wrestler's powerful
build. His hair was short, black, untidy. He had thick, straight, black
eyebrows above heavy-lidded eyes that were, at the moment, bloodshot, with
puffy bags beneath. His cheekbones were flat, almost Slavic, his nose was blunt
with a bump on the bridge, his mouth was well shaped but thin, with, at the
moment, a sardonic twist. He had a long, square jaw that angled sharply into a
strong chin. He badly needed a shave, a change of clothes, and, from the looks
of it, a shower, too. She pegged his age at somewhere in the mid-thirties,
though it was hard to tell past the smirk and the bristles, which had left the
five-o'clock-shadow stage behind about three days back. Despite all the
muscles, though, he wasn't a hottie by any stretch of the imagination; he was
way too scruffy and way too thuggish-looking for that. Besides, as far as she was concerned, the terms FBI
agent and hottie were mutually exclusive. He walked all the way to the rail before turning
to look at her. His eyes flickered as they moved over her, registering
something, but she couldn't tell what it was. Didn't care what it was. Unless
it was recognition, but now that she was growing calmer, she didn't see how it
could possibly be that. If he knew the truth about her, she was all but
certain that she would already be well aware of it. "The clock's ticking." Her voice was
frosty as she stopped perhaps two feet away from him. As she had guessed, the
area beyond him, beyond the rail, was open space with a view of the restaurant
below. The restaurant wasn't busy; only a few tables were occupied. A pair of
escalators ran up and down, with about half a dozen people traveling in each direction.
Farther along the mezzanine, long tables had been set up. A small crowd was
gathered in front of the tables, intent on whatever business had brought them
there. Waiters carrying loaded trays flitted in and out of the conference room
beyond. A buzz of muted conversation provided background noise. The smell of
coffee hung in the air. Maddie inhaled the fumes longingly. She'd
already drunk so much coffee that morning in an effort to keep herself awake
and functional that she was pretty sure that if she cut herself she would bleed
Java, but the energizing effects of even that much caffeine were beginning to
wear off. "You want coffee?" he asked. Her lips thinned. "No," she lied. "Are you always this friendly, or am I just
getting lucky here?" McCabe leaned back against the rail, gripping it with
a hand on either side of surprisingly lean hips. He looked a whole heck of a
lot more at ease than she felt. Which wasn't surprising. He hadn't been
nearly murdered during the night. He wasn't being interviewed by the
FBI. And he, presumably, didn't have anything to hide. "I told you, I have a meeting." Her
tone was abrupt. With light from the windows pouring over him, he looked more
like a street tough than ever. Then she realized that his back was to the
windows. Hers was not. With a little frisson of unease, she became aware that
the light was spilling onto her face, revealing every nuance of her every
expression to him. Careful, she warned herself again, and broke eye contact to glance
down at her fingers, which she had just realized were cramping from clutching
the handle of her briefcase so hard. Shifting it to the other hand, she made a
little production of stretching her fingers out to ease the stiffness. "What do you have in that thing,
anyway?" He was looking at the battered brown briefcase now instead of her
face. It was the old-fashioned kind, soft-sided, satchel shaped, with a strap
securing the top. It was also clearly full to the point of bursting. "My laptop. Some files. Sketches. Things I
need for the presentation I have to make in"—she consulted her
watch—"fifteen minutes." She frowned at him. "Look, if all you
want to do is make small talk, I don't have time." "Presentation for what? What do you
do?" Folding his arms across his chest, he looked prepared to stay where
he was all day. Feeling as if she was about to jump out of her skin with the
urgency of her desire to get this over with and get away from him, Maddie
registered his posture and stewed. "I own an advertising agency. We're small,
we're struggling. The account I'm about to make a pitch to is huge. Landing it
would change everything for us." "I see." His gaze met hers, and
suddenly his manner became all business. "What's the name of your agency?
For the record." "Creative Partners." "And you're the owner?" "Yes." "Sole owner?" "Yes." His gaze swept her. "Kind of young to own
an advertising agency, aren't you?" Maddie bristled. "As far as I know, there's
no minimum age for owning a business." "All right." His gaze swept her again,
as though trying to guess the age she had deliberately not told him. He did
not, however, ask her outright. Not that he needed to: Her date of birth was in
the police report, which she had little doubt he would obtain in due course.
"Your advertising agency is headquartered where?" "Saint Louis." That was in the police
report, too. Damn Jon anyway for making her go to the hospital! She should have
guessed that the hospital would call the police. Not that she could blame the
whole sorry debacle on Jon. Shocked or not, she was the one who knew the score,
and she should have had more sense than to go. "And that's where you live?" "Yes." "You're here in New Orleans
because...?" She shifted impatiently. "I told you, to
pitch this account. We—my associate and I—flew in from Saint Louis
yesterday." "What's your associate's name?" "Jon Carter." "Were you meeting anyone at the hotel? A
relative, maybe, who was staying there, too? Someone with a name similar to
yours?" Maddie frowned. "No." "Okay. What time did your flight get in?" "About four-fifteen." "What did you do after the plane landed?
Did you go directly to the hotel?" "Yes. Jon and I checked in, walked over to
the French Quarter, grabbed some dinner, came back, worked on our presentation,
and went to bed." "Separate rooms?" "Yes. Look, is this actually leading
somewhere?" Maddie glanced ostentatiously at her watch again. A faint ding
behind her heralded the arrival of another elevator. She wanted to turn
tail and board it in the worst way. Footsteps and the faint rustle of clothing
announced the sudden influx of more people, most of whom seemed to be making
for the tables in front of the conference rooms. Play the hand out. "You never know." McCabe made a
gesture at someone behind her. Maddie glanced around to see a waiter headed
their way. He was carrying a tray laden with a coffeepot, cups and saucers, and
dessert plates holding tiny pastries in fluted white paper doilies. "I
need coffee. Sure you don't want any?" Before she could answer, the waiter reached
them. He was young and African-American with close-cropped hair and a thin
build, dressed in the traditional tux. "Yes, sir?" The waiter was looking
past her at McCabe. "Could I get some coffee, please?"
McCabe asked. The fact that the coffee was obviously intended for the attendees
at the conference didn't seem to bother him. "Cream or sugar?" The waiter, having
set the tray down on the round glass table beside the nearest couch, poured out
a cup and handed it to McCabe, who had shaken his head in answer to the query.
McCabe took the cup, and the waiter looked at Maddie. "Would you like some coffee, Miss?" "Be a devil," McCabe said, his cup
already at his mouth. The waiter grinned. Maddie shot McCabe a look,
but now that an actual caffeine fix was so close at hand the prospect was too
tempting to turn down. "Thank you," she said to the waiter,
setting her briefcase down and accepting a cup, complete with the packet of
sugar she'd requested stirred in. She would have asked for more than one—a
sugar rush was second only to a jolt of caffeine on her list of preferred
stimulants—but considering her present company, she decided against it. "Danish?" the waiter asked, proffering
the tray. McCabe took one. Maddie shook her head and
downed a swallow of coffee. It wasn't particularly hot and it wasn't
particularly good, but she badly needed the lift she hoped it would give her. In about twelve minutes, she had to make the
sales pitch of a lifetime. On almost no sleep. After being terrorized and
nearly murdered just a few hours before. With the FBI sniffing at her heels.
And maybe, if her life had really gone down the toilet, the killer still
somewhere around. Looking for her. Life just didn't get much better than that. "I'll leave some in case you change your
mind," the waiter said with a quick smile, and deposited a dessert plate
crammed with goodies on the table before leaving. Taking another swallow of
coffee, Maddie averted her gaze—her stomach was in such a state that just
looking at the gooey confections made her feel unwell—then frowned as McCabe,
having disposed of his first small pastry in two quick bites, reached for
another one. "Just so you know, your five minutes are
up," Maddie said as the second pastry went the way of the first. She set
her still-half-full coffee cup down on the table. "I'm out of here. Enjoy
your breakfast." "Hang on one more minute." He drained
his cup and set it down. "What?" She was already picking up her
briefcase. He wiped his fingers on a napkin. "I want
you to tell me everything that happened in your hotel room last night. A
blow-by-blow account." As if his words had conjured it up, the memory
of the attack flashed at warp speed through her mind. It was all she could do
to repress a shudder. "Sorry, no can do," she said,
straightening with her briefcase once again in hand. "I have to go." He smiled at her, a slow and distinctly
un-charming smile that succeeded in raising her hackles before he ever said a
word. "I could take you into custody." His
tone was almost idle. "If that's what it takes to get you to answer my
questions." Her brows snapped together. "Don't mess
with me. You have to charge somebody with something to take them into custody.
What are you planning to charge me with, being a victim?" "How about obstructing an
investigation?" Maddie's stomach clenched. She pressed her lips
together as her heart skipped a beat, then managed to get hold of herself
enough to meet his gaze. His expression was bland. Was he bluffing? Maybe, but
she didn't want to find out. "Okay," she said, hating him. "I'll
go over what happened in my hotel room again. Then that's it, understand?
I have to go." She clasped her suddenly cold hands in front of her and
glared at him. At least the surge of antipathy she was experiencing toward him
was a strong enough emotion to override the shivery terror she felt when she
recalled the attack. "I was in bed. Something woke me up. I realized
someone was in my room. I slipped out of bed. Two shots—I think it was two, and
I think they were shots— were fired into the bed, which thankfully I was no
longer in. I ran for the door. He—it was a man—caught me. He... he slammed me
up against the wall, held me there with his hand around my throat, hit me, and
threatened to kill me if I made a sound. Then he—" Despite her
determination to make her recitation coldly clinical, Maddie couldn't help the
wobble her voice had suddenly developed. She had to pause to take a deep breath
before she could continue. "He put duct tape over my mouth and forced me
to my knees. I th-thought he was going to shoot me. Kill me." Despite her best efforts to reveal no hint of
weakness, she had to clench her teeth then to keep her voice from shaking. She
stopped there, hoping he wouldn't realize that it was because she simply could
not continue. Instead of looking at McCabe, she looked past him out the wall of
windows. The soft summer sky was such a brilliant blue, complete with fluffy
clouds like sleeping lambs—hard to believe that the horror she'd feared for so
long could have come home to roost on such a gorgeous day. But then, maybe it had not—maybe there was some
mistake. Maybe she shouldn't be so quick to write off everything she'd worked
so hard for. There was always a chance... She could feel McCabe's gaze on her face as she
fought to regain her composure. "But you got away," he said softly
after a moment. "How?" Knowing that he was watching her was, finally,
enough to enable her to pull herself together one more time. She met his gaze head-on. "I had a pencil
in my hand. I stabbed him with it. In the leg, I think." Her voice was
steady now. His eyes widened. "You stabbed him in the
leg with a pencil?" Maddie nodded. Remembering how it had felt made
her go all woozy. Breathe, she told herself. Just breathe. He pursed his lips in a silent whistle. His eyes
were now sharp with interest and fixed on her face. "Then what?" It took her a second. "What do you mean,
then what? What do you think? I got out of there." His lips quirked fractionally. "Could you
possibly be a little more specific?" Maddie took a deep breath and fought for calm.
"He let go of me, and I managed to get the door open and get out. The duct
tape—I must have pulled it off because I was screaming. A man down the hall
heard me and opened his door. I ran into his room. I stayed in there with him
and his wife until security got there." She stopped again. McCabe said nothing for a
moment, which was a good thing because with the best will in the world, Maddie
didn't think she could have replied. Her heart was thudding, her stomach had
twisted itself into a knot, and she was cold all over—so cold that it was all
she could do not to shiver visibly. Finally he asked, "What were their names?
The couple in the room?" She shook her head. "I don't know." It
was something of a relief to discover that her voice still worked. "How long were you in their room?" "I don't know that, either. Maybe five, ten
minutes." "Where did the guy who attacked you go? Did
he follow you? Try to get in?" "He was chasing me, at first, but... I
didn't see him again after I ran into that other room. I don't know where he
went. He didn't try to get in." "Did you happen to see him in the lighted
hallway?" He was looking at her with an intent expression that reminded
her of a cat at a mouse hole. "Maybe you glanced over your shoulder while
he was chasing you? Caught a look at his face? Something?" "I didn't see anything. I just ran."
Maddie couldn't help it; she shuddered so hard that he had to see it. Then,
catching herself before she could weaken any further, she took a deep breath,
then another. It's over, she told herself. It happened, but she survived. Soon this
would be over, too. All she had to do was keep it together. For just a little
longer. He was watching her closely. "You okay?" "Fine." No way was she falling apart in front of him.
Quite aside from the fact that he was an FBI agent, and an arrogant jerk
to boot, there was too much at stake. In fact, nothing less than her entire
life. "You said you stabbed him in the leg with a
pencil," McCabe said. Mad-die nodded. He continued. "So what happened
to the pencil? Did you take it with you when you ran?" Maddie frowned, trying to remember.
Concentrating took a surprising amount of effort. Reliving the events of the
previous night—to say nothing of enduring this more recent trauma—had left her
feeling drained and disoriented. "No, I... after I stabbed him I let go.
Maybe it was still in his leg. Maybe it fell. I don't know." He nodded. "Okay. What about a description?
Even if you didn't see him, you must have gotten some impressions about what he
looked like. Was he taller than you, for example?" Maddie wet her lips. "He was taller than
me. I was barefoot so he was— maybe six feet or a little less. And... and he
seemed husky—broad, you know? Not fat but strong." Memory washed over her
and she shuddered again. "Very, very strong." "Anything else? Had he been drinking, for
example? Could you smell liquor on his breath?" "I smelled... onions." "Onions. There you go, there's something we
can work with. There are a couple of fast-food places near the hotel. Maybe one
of the workers will remember a guy who ordered extra onions." He was
studying her. "You married?" She met his gaze, surprised at the question.
"No." "What about exes? Any disgruntled
exes?" Now she saw where he was going. "No." "Do you have any enemies that you know of?
Anybody who really doesn't like you or who might want to do you harm?" Maddie could almost feel the color leeching from
her face. "No. No. There's nobody like that. Nobody." He was probing too close to the bone—and she was
too shaken. He could threaten all he liked, but she'd had enough. "Okay, that's it. You got way more than
your five minutes. And now I've really got to go." She glanced at her
watch. "It's almost five till ten." "Fair enough." McCabe straightened
away from the rail. "I'll walk you to the elevator." No. But she didn't say it aloud. She didn't want to make it
more obvious than she already had how very eager she was to get away from him.
If she could just keep her cool for another couple minutes, he would be
history— just one more unpleasant chapter in her life. And a very small
unpleasant chapter, at that. She turned, but she was still so rattled that she
was clumsy. The corner of her briefcase hit the table and knocked it over.
Table, crockery, coffee, and pastries went flying. "Oh, dear!" Thanks to the
sound-deadening properties of the carpet, it was more of a rattle than a crash,
but as Maddie stared down in dismay at the mess she was suddenly conscious of
being the cynosure of dozens of pairs of eyes. Even as she watched, the
mud-colored puddle that was her leftover coffee was being soaked up by thirsty
dark-blue carpet fibers. Her cup—identifiable because it rested at the apex of
the puddle—lay on its side beside the overturned table. His had rolled closer
to the rail. The plate that had held the pastries was right side up, but the
pastries themselves were scattered everywhere. Instinctively, Maddie crouched to clean up the
mess. She righted her cup, then reached for the pastries. Scooping one up, she
returned it to its plate, then picked up another. This one had sticky yellow
custard oozing out the sides that got all over her fingers. "I'll do that, ma'am." The same waiter
who had brought the coffee squatted beside her, dropping a handful of gold
cloth napkins beside the shrinking puddle. Grabbing one, murmuring an apology
for her clumsiness, Maddie stood and wiped her fingers while the waiter blotted
the mess. A quick glance at her watch made her heart lurch. In three minutes
she would be late. She dropped the napkin on the table the waiter had just
flipped upright again, added a couple dollars for his trouble, and grabbed her
briefcase. "It's been fun," she said to McCabe,
and without waiting for any response, she headed for the elevator. To her annoyance, he fell into step beside her. "Any other details come to mind about the
guy who attacked you? Length of hair? Beard?" "I... don't think he had a beard."
Terrifying memories of being slammed against a wall replayed themselves in her
head. She seemed to remember her hand brushing a smooth jaw. "I don't know about his hair." "What was he wearing? Long sleeves? Short
sleeves? Shorts? Tennis shoes? Sandals? Try to remember as much as you
can." McCabe spoke from behind her now as she punched the elevator button
with considerably more force than the action called for. "Long sleeves, long pants—" She was
going all shivery again, and, especially at such a critical moment, this she
did not need. Stepping back into the center of the hall, she rounded on him.
"You said if I answered your questions you'd go away." "The thing is, I'm not done asking
questions yet." "Well, Mr. Special Agent, here's a
newsflash: I'm done answering them." His eyes moved over her face, turned thoughtful.
"You know, most people can't wait to tell us their story. Where we usually
run into problems is getting them to shut up." An icy finger of warning slid down her spine. "It's two minutes until ten," she
snapped, taking desperate refuge in the truth. "At ten, I'm scheduled to
be at a meeting that means the world to me. I can't be late, and I can't screw
this up. The account's worth a lot of money, and my company needs it. Really
needs it. Without it, Creative Partners might not survive the year." Their gazes met and held. The elevator ding-ed. "I'll be in touch," he said, stepping
back. Though he almost certainly hadn't intended it as
such, to Maddie that was as dire a threat as any she'd ever heard. The elevator was packed. Under normal
circumstances, she would have waited for the next one. But she was out of time,
so she wedged herself in at the front of the car without looking at McCabe
again. "Fifty, please," she said to the woman
nearest the buttons. She could feel McCabe's eyes on her. Unable to help
herself, she glanced at him as the elevator doors started to slide shut. He was
frowning, watching her—and then the elevator doors closed and cut off her view. But she could still see him in her mind's eye,
arms crossed over his chest, feet planted apart, his eyes narrowed, his
expression—thoughtful. Or—oh, God—had it been suspicious? Of course not, she scolded herself. She was imagining things, a victim of
her own guilty knowledge. He had no reason, none whatsoever, to suspect that
she was anything other than what she appeared to be: an innocent crime victim. But telling herself that didn't help. As the
elevator carried her upward, her knees were about as solid as Jell-O. Her pulse
raced. Her stomach tanked. Imagination or not, she could practically hear
the hounds baying at her heels. SIX Where've you been?" Jon greeted her with a
frantic whisper as she stepped off the elevator. He was there right in front of
the elevator banks in the hall on the fiftieth floor, and he looked vastly
relieved to see her. "Susan already came out to take us into the meeting.
I told her you were in the ladies' room. She'll be back any second." Just like that, she was thrown into deep water
again. Like the survivor she was, she swam. Clamping down on emotions that
threatened to swamp her, lifting her chin and straightening her spine, Maddie
concentrated on drawing back inside the cool shell that kept others from seeing
more of her than she cared for them to see. The elevator had stopped—and
stopped, and stopped—until at last she, the only person left, had made it all the
way to the top. When the doors opened, it was three minutes past
ten. "The FBI wanted to ask me some questions
about last night," she said, also whispering. "The guy at the
elevator downstairs—he was FBI." "I know." His reply was impatient.
"God, do you think I wouldn't have turned this place upside down if I'd
thought some stranger had grabbed you? I got off as quickly as I could and
called security. They checked with the guard at the front desk, who told them
about those guys being from the FBI." Jon paused for an instant, then
added, as an obvious afterthought, "How did the FBI get into this,
anyway?" "I have no idea." Time for a subject change. Maddie was almost
relieved when a bright voice behind them asked, "All ready now?" "Susan," Jon said, cranking the charm
up to full wattage as he turned from Maddie to beam at Susan Allen. "This
is Madeline Fitzgerald, Creative Partners’ owner and CEO. And my boss." "So nice to finally meet you, Ms.
Allen." Shaking hands, Maddie likewise turned on as much charm as she
could muster. A quick look told Maddie that Mrs. Brehmer's assistant, whom she
had spoken to on the phone numerous times but had never before met, was a tall,
thin, flat-chested woman with a long face and narrow, not particularly
attractive, features. She wore her mouse-brown hair straight and
earlobe-length, with a too-short fringe of bangs, and if she had on any makeup
other than a touch of pale pink lipstick, Maddie couldn't tell. Her skirted
suit was a severe black that did nothing for either her figure or her sallow
complexion. Her pale blue eyes, seen through rimless glasses, looked Maddie
over anxiously. "Susan, please. I'm so glad you wore a
skirt," Susan said under her breath as she gestured at them to follow her.
"I meant to warn you and I forgot. Mrs. B hates to see a woman
wearing pants. She probably would have canceled the meeting as soon as she saw
you." On that reassuring note, they reached a sleek
metal door, which Susan opened. "Here they are," she announced to the
people within, and stepped aside for Maddie, with Jon behind her, to enter. Five people were seated around the long table in
the center of the conference room. As Maddie walked in, five pairs of eyes
immediately focused on her. Glancing around nervously, Maddie realized with a
sinking feeling that nobody was smiling. Plastering a big smile on her own
face, she had one coherent thought as she extended her hand and headed for the
grim-faced woman at the head of the table: She now knew just exactly how Daniel
must have felt when he got thrown into the lion's den. Sam got off the elevator in the lobby to find
Wynne, still chewing his gum, sprawled in a chair waiting for him. "She give you any trouble?" Wynne
asked, standing up as Sam joined him. "Nah." "I didn't think she would. She seemed kind
of antsy, though." "Yeah." " 'Course, I might be, too, if somebody had
just attacked me in my hotel room a few hours before." "Maybe." Sam gave Wynne the abridged
version of what Madeline Fitzgerald had told him. As he spoke, the two of them headed
toward the wall of tinted glass that marked the entrance to the building. The
line at the security desk was nearly as long as it had been when they'd rushed
inside earlier, but its length was no longer a problem. At least, not for them.
Not that it had been before, either. They'd felt no compunction whatsoever
about bypassing it. "So what d'you think?" Wynne asked
finally. "I think he made a mistake. I think she
just might be the break we’ve been looking for." Sam pushed through the
revolving door, walking into swampy heat that felt as though it had increased
tenfold during the brief period he had been inside. The sun was now a big, hazy
yellow fireball hanging just above the jagged city skyline. It seemed to
pulsate with energy, broiling the pavement, glaring off the roofs of passing
cars, turning the windows fronting the street into shiny, black walls of
one-way glass. "You don't think she was the intended
target?" Wynne caught up to him again, and they headed toward the parked
Saturn, paying scant attention to the mix of tourist- and business-types that
crowded the sidewalk around them. The shuffle of dozens of moving bodies was
almost drowned out by the cacophony of traffic sounds. Whiffs of something
sweet and doughy— a quick glance identified a mobile beignet stand on the
nearest corner; the sizzle of dough being dropped into hot grease added to the
ambient noise— overlay the combination of coffee, sugar, and humidity that made
up The Big Easy's distinctive smell. "One thing's for sure: They both weren't." Reaching the car, Sam saw the Day-Glo orange
slip of paper tucked beneath his windshield wiper and groaned. The Bureau was
tightening up on expenses as part of its big push to make itself leaner and
meaner in this era of the extremely expensive war on terrorism, and Smolski had
interpreted that to mean that miscellaneous expenses like parking tickets were
basically the problem of the agent who incurred them. A quick glance at the
parking meter showed the red flag up. Shit. "Didn't you feed the meter?" he asked
Wynne in a tone of purest disgust, plucking the ticket from its berth as he
walked around the front of the car. "Didn't you?" Wynne countered. They
exchanged measuring looks over the Saturn's roof, then opened the doors and got
in. The car was white with black vinyl upholstery, which meant that the
interior was hot as an oven. Sam immediately pulled his 9mm free of his
waistband and placed it on top of the console between the seats. Without a
jacket, a shoulder holster was no good; without a shoulder holster, the most
convenient place to carry a weapon was nestled into the small of his back.
Wynne followed suit, then flipped a section of newspaper that was in the car
for just that purpose over their mini-arsenal while Sam turned the ignition on.
As hot, stale air blasted from the air-conditioning vents, he and Wynne both
choked and hit the buttons that lowered their windows. "So, you planning to turn that in on
expenses?" Wynne asked. The strong scent of grape Dubble Bubble was slowly
weakening as the suffocating air inside the car was displaced by the sweltering
air outside. Sam glanced down at the ticket in his hand and
snorted expressively. Then he crumpled it up and tossed it out the window. "Never saw it." "Good call," Wynne said. The air coming
out of the vents was actually cooler than the air outside now, so they both
rolled up their windows. Sam dug around in his pocket for his cell phone.
"Keep your eye open for the Fitzgerald woman. I don't think she'll be out
this soon, but you never know." Wynne nodded and settled back in his seat, his
eyes on the building they'd just left, as Sam punched buttons. "Hey, handsome," Gardner said. "Way to answer the phone," Sam
groused. "Real professional. Listen, I need a quick background check on
this other Madeline Fitzgerald. She owns an advertising agency in St. Louis.
Name's Creative Partners." "Creative Partners." Gardner sounded
like she was writing it down. "Okay, I'll check her out." "And I want to make sure that somebody took
an evidence kit over to the hotel room she was attacked in, did a test for
blood on the rug, fingerprints, hairs, that kind of thing. Also, check on the
whereabouts of a pencil. Possibly bloody." "A possibly bloody pencil?" "She claims she stabbed the UNSUB in the
leg with it. For all I know, New Orleans PD has it. Or maybe it's still just
lying around in the room. Wherever it is, I want it found, and if there's blood
on it, I want the DNA test results back quick." "Yes, oh, master." Sam ignored that. "What about the security
cameras in the hotel? They get anything?" "Unfortunately, they're the kind that tape
over themselves every thirty minutes. Apparently nobody got to them in
time." "Way to run an investigation." Sam
puffed out air. "You turn up anything on the dead one?" "Just what I told you before: longtime
resident of Natchitoches, forty-six years old, grown daughter, saleswoman for
Davidson-Wells, a pharmaceutical firm, been with the company for four years, in
New Orleans for just the one night on business, messy divorce finalized three
months ago. Liked to gamble. Regular at the horse tracks, casinos. Oh, yeah,
there is one more thing: Her husband's served time for aggravated
assault." "So how's his alibi for last night holding
up?" "So far it's holding." "We got a time of death?" "Same as before: between ten p.m., when she
was last seen, and three a.m., when the body was found." "Is that the best they can do?" On TV,
forensic specialists managed to nail the time of death almost to the minute. In
real life, at least in his real life, nothing was ever that simple. Or that
exact. " 'Fraid so." "Let me know when you get something on the
other one." "You got it," Gardner said. Then, as
Sam pulled the phone from his ear, about to break the connection, he was almost
sure he heard her add, "Sweet cheeks." Wynne, clearly having heard the same thing,
grinned at him as Sam stared at the phone for a beat before recollecting
himself and clicking it closed. "Woman wants it bad," Wynne said.
"When you planning to put her out of her misery?" Sam shook his head. "Not anytime
soon." "Hey, you haven't had a girlfriend since
Lauren dumped you last year. Why not give Gardner a whirl?" "Lauren didn't dump me"—actually, she
had, after six months of increasingly acrimonious complaints about the amount
of time Sam spent on the Job—"and anyway, I got a rule about sleeping with
women I work with. Why start something when you know going in that it's gonna
end up being nothing but bad news?" "Because Gardner's built like a brick
shithouse." "Yeah, and she's got the personality of a
pit bull." Wynne's grin widened. "Who cares?" "So you give her a whirl." "It's not me she wants to hook up with.
It's you." Wynne gave him an exaggerated leer. "Sweet cheeks." "All right, give it a rest, would
you?" Sam wasn't in the mood for Wynne's teasing. He was so tired that his
eyes felt grainy, and his stomach was leaving him in no doubt that it didn't
appreciate the breakfast he'd commandeered on the fly. "Can we get back to
work here?" "Sure." Wynne was still grinning. Sam refused to notice. "Okay, here's what I
think we've got going on: Obviously, one of our Madeline Fitzgeralds was
attacked by mistake. How could the killer have guessed there would be two women
with the same name staying at the same hotel on the same night? I don't think
he realized. I think he went to one of their rooms, killed or tried to kill
whichever one was inside, somehow found out that he had made a mistake, and
went after the other. The question is, which one did he mean to kill?" "Good question." Wynne, pondering,
smacked his Duble Bubble thoughtfully. "At a guess, I'd say the one who's
dead. Gambling's a red flag. Maybe she owed somebody money. Hell, maybe they
all owed somebody money. Maybe that's the link." "We got no evidence that Judge Lawrence"—the
esteemed judge had been the first victim, found with two bullet holes in his
temple in his family's mansion in Richmond, Virginia; the fact that he was a
longtime acquaintance of Smolski's was what had brought Sam into the
case—"ever gambled, much less owed anybody money. Or Dante Jones, either,
for that matter." Dante Jones, a used-car dealer from Atlanta, had
been the second victim. Allison Pope, a retiree in Jacksonville, Florida, had
been the third. "If Dante Jones didn't gamble, it's the
only vice he didn't have." "True," Sam said. "Anyway, that girl in there—Madeline
Fitzgerald—she doesn't seem like the type that would merit a professional hit.
Too young, for one thing." "What you mean is, too attractive." He
and Wynne had been together for going on five years now, and Sam knew how his
partner's mind worked. Wynne grinned. "Actually, hot is
more the word I was thinking of." "Yeah, well, being hot doesn't mean you
can't get yourself whacked, you know." Wynne hooted. "There you go, I knew it. You
think she's hot, too. So don't go bustin' my balls, pard." "Whether she's hot or not isn't the point.
The point is, she's alive." "Yeah, baby." Sam slid down a little in his seat, resting his
head back against the headrest and folding his arms over his chest, and
considered his options. Getting comfortable was probably a mistake, but to hell
with it. He was so tired he felt practically boneless. So tired he felt
practically brainless. It took real effort just to stay awake. "Which is another reason I think she wasn't
the intended target," Sam said. "But whether she was or wasn't—and we
just don't know at this point—the fact remains that she was attacked and is
still around to tell the tale. And our guy won't like that." Wynne's eyes widened. "Good point. So what
are we going to do?" "For now, keep our distance and watch our
survivor. And pray that the bastard doesn't like to leave loose ends." "... And give Fido something to bark
about," Maddie concluded on an upbeat note that belied the throbbing in
her head. Standing in front of the room, she looked at the video of the pink
tutu—attired Jack Russell terrier balancing on its hind legs while it barked at
a bag of Brehmer's Dog Chow that was being lifted away by an elephant's trunk,
and thought, This is good. They've got to like this. The thought was revivifying. Then she turned away from the screen to glance
around the table and got a horrible sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Or not, she concluded. Forget the chuckles she'd been hoping for.
Not one of the six people present besides herself and Jon had so much as
cracked a smile since the two of them had entered the room. Time to face the truth: The presentation wasn't
going well. Maddie could sense the flatness in the air as Jon turned off the
projector and clicked the lights back on. Someone hit a button and the blinds
that covered the windows slid up with a motorized whirr, flooding the
room with bright sunlight. Beyond the windows, New Orleans baked. The sun
glared off the steel sheathing of the skyscrapers that crowded the skyline like
unevenly spaced teeth. In the distance, she caught the merest glimpse of the
deep marine blue of the Gulf of Mexico, where it met the azure sky. Blue
sky, blue water, blue steel—all that blue was a good match for her mood,
Maddie thought glumly. Glancing around the conference table again, waiting
with bated breath for a comment, any comment, that might give her a little
badly needed encouragement, she realized that no one was meeting her gaze. Uh-oh. Bad sign. The quartet of suits, which was how she'd
quickly come to think of the four sixtyish, buttoned-down businessmen who
actually ran the company, appeared underwhelmed. Howard Bellamy, Brehmer's Pet
Food's tall, distinguished, silver-haired president and chief operating
officer, was fiddling with his pencil. Emil White, the bald, hook-nosed
executive vice president in charge of marketing, who was sitting beside him,
had turned sideways in his seat and was staring past his beach ball-sized belly
at the shiny tip of his cordovan wing tips. Lawrence Thibault, executive vice
president in charge of product development, who was seated across the table
from White, was already typing something into the laptop that rested on the
table in front of him and appeared completely oblivious to what was going on in
the rest of the room. Forget trying to decipher his expression, Maddie
thought despairingly. He was slouched so far down in his chair that all she
could see of him over the laptop's monitor was the top of his head, which was covered
by an expensive-looking jet-black rug. Seated beside Thibault, stocky, grizzled
James Oliver, executive vice president in charge of finance, pushed his
wire-rimmed glasses down his nose, steepled his fingers under his chin, and
looked at Bellamy. From the beginning, he'd made Maddie think of a basset hound
with his worried frown and small, sad brown eyes, and he was looking sadder
than ever now, which could not be considered promising. Standing not far from
Maddie, Susan Allen absently chewed a fingernail and frowned as she watched
Mrs. Brehmer, who was, of course, sitting at the head of the table. Following
Susan's gaze, Maddie decided that the old lady looked a lot more formidable on
her own turf than Maddie remembered her. Of course, they'd met only once
previously, three months before at an awards banquet sponsored by the St. Louis
Chamber of Commerce, where Mrs. Brehmer, herself a former winner, had presented
Maddie with the Saint Louis Young Woman Business Owner of the Year Award. It
was at that dinner that Maddie had suggested to Mrs. Brehmer that hiring
Creative Partners might be the solution to the growth problems the old lady was
complaining that her company was experiencing. Today's meeting was the result
of that conversation. But if Maddie had been expecting that, because
of their mutual ties to St. Louis—all Brehmer's manufacturing was still done
there, at the plant that had served the company for half a century, and Mrs.
Brehmer retained the original family home there—Mrs. Brehmer would be inclined
to look on Creative Partners favorably, she was discovering that she'd been
sadly mistaken. Mrs. Brehmer alone met Maddie's gaze. Her eyes
were a soft, faded blue—and as sharp as twin knives. "Is that circus thing it?" she barked
in her hoarse smoker's voice. A tiny, stooped woman, she was dwarfed by her
oversized black leather chair—the largest at the table. A triple strand of
pearls circled her neck, and she was dressed in a powder-blue suit that Maddie
wasn't sure, but suspected, was a genuine Chanel. Her hair was white, short,
and perfectly coiffed. Her skin was almost as white as her hair, with the
overly taut look that came with too many plastic surgeries. In fact, it had
been pulled so tightly that it seemed molded to the bones beneath. Heavily
made-up, with lashings of mascara and blush and a bright scarlet mouth, she
reminded Maddie irresistibly of the Joker in the Batman movies. Only, Maddie
thought, right about now the Joker seemed positively warm and fuzzy in
comparison. "We have other ideas, of course,"
Maddie said, improvising hastily, because as of the end of that video they were
pretty much fresh out. "Take, for example, your packaging." "What's wrong with our packaging?"
Mrs. Brehmer asked, bristling. "Nothing's wrong with it. Only..."
Fighting the urge to wet her lips, Maddie turned to gesture at the blowup of
the sack of Brehmer's Dog Chow that was standing on an easel in the corner. It
was an uninspiring brown with a dark green stripe across one corner, absolutely
ripe for a makeover, whether the suggestion had been planned or not. "In
today's marketplace, the name of the game is attracting attention. You might
want to think about going with brighter colors, perhaps even something as bold
as fuchsia or lime green. Research has shown that the primary buyer of pet food
is a middle-aged woman with a family, and bright colors have been found to hold
the most appeal for her as well as having the added bonus of jumping off the
shelf visually." "Hmmph, "Mrs. Brehmer said. "My husband designed that bag
himself. Brehmer's Dog Chow has always come in a brown bag." Her gaze slid
from Maddie to Susan. Her voice sharpened even as its volume dropped.
"You. I need a glass of water." Susan started. "Yes, Mrs. B. of course. I'll get it right
away," she murmured, and moved toward the door. Since the door was located
behind Maddie, Maddie got a good look at Susan's expression as she went by.
Instead of rolling her eyes or seeming angry, as Maddie would have expected
(actually, one or both of which she probably would have been guilty of
herself), Susan merely looked more anxious than ever. Perhaps, Maddie thought,
terminal anxiety was her natural expression. White nodded at Mrs. Brehmer. "That's a
good point, Joan. If we change our bag, our customers won't know what to look
for. That brown bag is a Brehmer tradition." The other men nodded agreement. "We're pretty big on tradition around here,
young lady. Somebody should have warned you," Bellamy said to Maddie,
wagging his pencil at her. "Fuchsia and lime-green packaging may attract
some customers' attention, but it won't tell them that it's us." "That's where the national advertising
campaign comes in, Mr. Bellamy. After they see spots featuring the redesigned
bags on TV, your customers will know it's Brehmer's, and they will buy,
because it's the same quality product they love at the same fair price they're
used to paying. And you'll pick up new customers, younger customers who
will stay with your products for years, because of the new, hip packaging, and
fun ads that make them laugh." Bellamy tapped the eraser end of his pencil on
the table and gave a skeptical grunt. Still smiling gamely, Maddie felt almost
sick as she read the handwriting on the wall: They weren't going to get the
account. After all the expense of coming, the worry and hard work, and the
nightmare of last night and today, they were going to come up empty. It was as clear as the expression on the
prospective clients' faces. Maddie swallowed. If Creative Partners didn't
start landing some big accounts soon, the money was going to run out. Their
current clients provided more or less steady work, but the billing from them
barely covered all the monthly expenses. And, sometimes, it didn't even do
that. Of course, given what had happened last night,
she might not have to worry about such mundane matters as company finances much
longer... "We’re a big believer in tradition
ourselves." Jon jumped boldly into the breach when, Maddie realized, she
had remained silent too long. All eyes, including Maddie's, turned to him as he
joined her in front of the pulldown screen on which the proposed ads had been
projected. Maddie was thankful to no longer be the focus of attention. She
needed a moment to thrust the memory of last night and the spurt of burgeoning
panic that had accompanied it back into the "I'll think about it
later" compartment. An instant later, she caught herself nervously
fingering the scarf around her neck, and dropped her hand. "And, of course, tradition is one of
Brehmer's strong points." Jon was in full flow now. "Actually, we
think you should emphasize the fact that your business has been family owned
and operated for fifty-seven years." Jon moved toward the blowup of the
bag. "Besides the fresh new packaging"—he tapped the company's B-in-a-gold-circle
logo dramatically—"we suggest giving Brehmer's Pet Food a more human face:
yours, in fact, Mrs. Brehmer. Right here, in a gold frame, on every bag of pet
food your company produces." For a moment there was dead silence. Maddie held
her breath. She and Jon between them had decided to table that idea, but since
nothing else was working she agreed with his reasoning: There was no reason not
to try one more shot in the dark. Mrs. Brehmer's eyes widened, and her brows
twitched ever so slightly. What did that mean? Did she like the idea? Vacillating wildly between despair and hope,
Maddie did a quick visual sweep of the table. The men's eyes were now fastened
on their boss. Their expressions were frozen, as if they weren't sure how they
were supposed to react. They would, Maddie realized, take their cue from Mrs.
Brehmer. "Brown-nosing is not a quality I admire,
young man," Mrs. Brehmer snapped. It was all Maddie could do not to sag.
Frowning, placing her bony hands with their plethora of rings flat on the
table, Mrs. Brehmer seemed prepared to end the meeting. The men shifted in
their seats in response, and Maddie feared they were all about to rise. "Now, hear me out. I'm serious."
Exhibiting the kind of never-say-die valor that in Maddie's opinion merited a
raise if only she'd had the funds to fund one, which she didn't, Jon held up a
hand in protest and somehow kept them in their seats. "Putting his face on
his product worked for Dave Thomas with Wendy's. It worked for Harlan Sanders
with Kentucky Fried Chicken. You are the soul and spirit of Brehmer's Pet Food,
Mrs. Brehmer. Why shouldn't you be the face of it, too?" Momentarily speechless in the face of such
heroic eloquence, Maddie barely managed to stop herself from applauding as she
waited with clasped hands and a thudding heart for Mrs. Brehmer's reply. "Because nobody wants to look at an ugly
old woman," Mrs. Brehmer said tartly "Don't waste your time
bullshitting a bullshitter. I may be old, but I'm not stupid." She looked
around the table. "Well, gentlemen...” The door opened, and Susan appeared with a glass
of water. "Linda's brought..." she began as
everyone glanced around, and then chaos erupted behind her. Shrill barks and
the scrabble of clawed feet on slick floors were drowned out by a woman's
shriek. "Ouch! No! Stop! You come back here! Zelda!" The yell
came from somewhere down the hall. "Zelda!" Mrs. Brehmer called, coming
to her feet as a foot-tall mop of golden brown hair shot past Susan, who
flattened herself against the open door with a gasp and dropped the glass of
water. The resulting crash and sound of glass shattering was as loud as an
explosion. Maddie jumped. The suits leaped up. "What the—" "Look out!" "There she blows!" "It's that damned mu—uh, darned dog!" "You idiot! She'll cut her feet!"
bellowed Mrs. Brehmer at Susan, her voice a full-throated roar that all but
drowned out the exclamations of her employees as the mop—Maddie realized it was
a small, long-haired dog trailing a lavender leash at just about the time it dashed
past her feet—ran through the spreading puddle and made a flying leap for the
window. Maddie's mouth dropped open as it crashed
headfirst into solid glass. With a single truncated yelp, it then dropped like
a stone to lie motionless on the floor. SEVEN The dull thud of impact still reverberated in
the air as the room erupted. "Zelda!" Mrs. Brehmer and Susan cried at
the same time. Chairs skittered backward as everyone rushed toward the scene of
the accident. Because she was closest, Maddie reached the fallen one first. The
dog was lying, sprawled on its stomach, looking for all the world like a small
fur rug, eyes closed, chin resting on the floor, all four limbs and fluffy tail
splayed out flat around it like spokes in a wheel. A small, incongruously perky
pink satin bow adorned its head, pulling the long hair between its ears up into
a floppy topknot. Except for the flat monkeyish face and the tips of four
black-clawed paws, it was all hair. For a moment, as she tentatively placed a
hand on the silky coat, Maddie feared the dog was dead. It was motionless,
inert, and didn't seem to be breathing. Touching its face, she was not
reassured. She didn't know a whole heck of a lot about dogs—she'd never had the
chance to own one—but were their noses supposed to be cold? Having their sales pitch end with the sudden,
shocking death of Mrs. Brehmer's pet would plunge this already-nightmarish trip
to New Orleans to a whole new low. "Watch out, she might bite," Susan
warned under her breath as Maddie held her fingers in front of the animal's
smashed-in-looking nose to see if she could feel air moving. Both Susan and Jon
were looming over her, Maddie realized, and the suits were gathering around,
too. The rapid clack of Mrs. Brehmer's high heels told Maddie that the old lady
was coming on fast from the far end of the table. Not that Maddie glanced
around to check. All her attention was focused on the dog. Nothing. Nada. Not breathing. Or at least, if it was, Maddie couldn't detect
it. "Never saw anything like that in my life.
Dog tried to jump right out the window," Mr. Bellamy said. "Guess she didn't realize we were on the
fiftieth floor," Mr. White replied in a hushed voice. "What do you think it is, a rocket
scientist? It's a dog," Mr. Oliver said impatiently. "What does it
know about fiftieth floors?" "Hadn't somebody ought to go call a
vet?" Mr. Thibault was the only one of the men who sounded at all
concerned for the animal. "Or something?" "Is she hurt?" Mrs. Brehmer asked.
There was a quaver of real fear in her voice. Maddie hesitated, pressing her fingers right up
against the animal's muzzle in a desperate quest to feel it breathing. The
prospect of telling Mrs. Brehmer that the pet might be dead appalled her. Not
knowing what to say, she rolled an eye up at Susan, who was looking even more
appalled than Maddie felt. No help to be had there. "I, uh..." Maddie began, preparing to
stand up and move aside as soon as she broke the bad news in case someone else
felt more qualified than she did to attempt doggie CPR. Just then she felt
something warm and wet on her fingers. Her gaze shot back to the animal. "She's licking my hand," she said with
relief. "Give her to me." Mrs. Brehmer
strong-armed her way to the front of the group and held out her arms.
Instinctively complying, Maddie gathered up the dog and stood. For all its
seeming stockiness, it was surprisingly lightweight, she discovered, not much
heavier than a good-sized cat. The abundant hair gave visual bulk to a tiny
body. "She's moving," Maddie was pleased to
report as the dog stirred in her arms. Clearly, she thought, looking down at
it, this was a pampered pooch. Its coat was shiny and well-brushed, its collar
was lavender patent leather studded with what looked like real amethysts, and
it smelled—maybe too strongly—of some floral perfume. It was also very sweet. Its eyes had blinked
open now—they were slightly protuberant and shiny-black as olives—but it was
still licking her fingers. Avidly. The eager swipe of the rough, warm tongue
continued even as Maddie handed the animal to Mrs. Brehmer, who clasped it to
her bosom like a baby. Mrs. B. must have been holding it too tightly, because
it immediately began to squirm to get free. Or perhaps, Maddie thought, it
had not yet quite recovered its wits. "She likes you." Susan regarded Maddie
with what looked like surprise. For her part, Maddie was just barely managing
to resist the urge to wipe her licked fingers on her jacket. They felt
surprisingly sticky, stickier than she would have imagined that a small dog's
tongue could make them. Then, remembering the pastry that had been shedding
cream filling when she picked it up earlier, Maddie realized that she'd found
the answer to the animal's apparent affection. But if Susan and the others
chose to think that the dog had been licking her because it liked her, well,
who was she to correct them? At this point, Creative Partners needed any
advantage it could get. "She's cute," Maddie said, putting her
sticky hand in her pocket. "Cute?" Mrs. Brehmer, glancing at her,
sounded affronted. "I don't think I'd call her cute. This is Zelda
von Zoetrope. She's a Grand Champion Pekingese who's taken best of breed at
Westminster. Twice." "Oh, my." As responses went, this
probably ranged right up there with "cute" in the inadequate department,
but at the moment it was the best Maddie could come up with. Ready and willing
to acknowledge herself as a philistine as far as the world of
championship-winning dogs went, Maddie struggled for a more fulsome reply even
as she looked at Zelda with fresh eyes. With the dog wrapped in Mrs. Brehmer's
arms, though, there wasn't much to see but a still-squirming tangle of brown
fur. "You must be very proud," she
achieved. Too late. Mrs. Brehmer was no longer looking at
her. She was once again focused exclusively on the dog. "Oh, we are," Susan said. "Zelda, Zelda," Mrs. Brehmer crooned
as she hugged her wriggling pet. "My dear, darling girl, whatever were you
thinking? You might have been killed!" Zelda growled, the sound low but
unmistakable. Mrs. Brehmer stiffened. Then, lips tightening, she set the dog on
its feet. Zelda seemed momentarily unsteady. Then she shook herself vigorously
and started to trot away, only to be brought up short as she reached the end of
the leash Mrs. Brehmer held. Zelda tugged. Mrs. Brehmer reeled her back in, and
at the same time looked daggers at Susan. "Where is that fool Linda? I pay
her good money to look after this dog." "Now, Mrs. B.," Susan began in a
conciliatory tone, taking the leash from Mrs. Brehmer. "You know Linda is doing
her best. She...” Susan was interrupted by the arrival of a
heavyset woman in a light blue maid's uniform who stopped in the doorway to
glare at the assembled company. "Oh, Linda, there you are," Susan said
with obvious relief. "She bit me again." Linda's chin
quivered with indignation as she pointed at her ankle, where an extra-large
Band-Aid had been stuck on top of a torn stocking. It was spotted with blood.
"Just as soon as I let her out of her carrier. It was like I no sooner set
her on the ground than she went chomp. Hurt like a mother." "You see?" Mrs. Brehmer said to Susan.
"You see? I want you to call that groomer right now and ask what happened
during that last session. That was five days ago, and my poor darling has been
cross as a bear ever since! Why, she's bitten Linda twice, and she growls at
everybody all the time and now she's tried to jump out the window." "I'll check into it," Susan said.
"Shall I take her and..." "I need you here," Mrs. Brehmer
interrupted decisively, and looked at the new arrival. "Linda, you take
her on downstairs to the car. Mind you don't let her get away from you this
time. She could have been killed." Linda flung both hands in the air as if in
surrender and took a step backward. "No, ma'am. I ain't gettin' paid enough
to take care of that dog no more." "Now, Linda..." Susan began. Linda shook her head. "Uh-uh. I mean
it. I quit." "With that attitude, you're fired,"
Mrs. Brehmer shot back. With an indignant hmmph, Linda turned on
her heel and limped away. Susan looked alarmed. "Oh, let her go," Mrs. Brehmer said
when Susan would have hurried after her. "She's only been with us for two
weeks and now she's been fired for cause, so we don't owe her any severance.
And Zelda obviously doesn't like her." "I hope she doesn't sue us," Mr.
Bellamy muttered. Mr. Oliver pursed his lips. "This is an
excellent example of why we have an umbrella policy." "Mrs. Brehmer," Jon said, in the tone
of one who had just had an epiphany. "If you don't want to be the face of
Brehmer's Pet Food, why not let Zelda do it?" A heartbeat passed in which everyone stared at
Jon. Then Maddie took one look at Mrs. Brehmer's expression, grabbed the idea,
and ran with it. "Zelda would be perfect," Maddie said
with enthusiasm, beaming down at the dog who was now sniffing around her
ankles. She could clearly feel its warm doggie breath through her hose. Given
Linda's recent experience, Maddie had a horrible suspicion that she just might
be about to experience the power of Zelda's chomp for herself. Having Mrs.
Brehmer's prized pet sink its teeth into her ankle would be a bad thing in more
ways than one. Certainly, it would not enhance Creative Partners' chances of
turning this thing around. In the spirit of heading trouble off at the pass,
Maddie went down on her haunches and held her hand out to the animal. Zelda,
who'd jumped back, looked at her extended fingers suspiciously while Maddie,
trying not to cringe, held her breath. Zelda's nose quivered, and she seemed to inhale.
Then she trotted forward and started licking Maddie's fingers as sweetly as
could be. It was only when Maddie heard a funny whooshing
sound overhead that she realized that the rest of the group had been
holding their collective breath. Never underestimate the power of a cream-filled
pastry, Maddie thought, and
patted Zelda's perfumed head. "Susan's right, she likes you," Mrs.
Brehmer said abruptly. "I've always said that the very best judges of
character are dogs. Very well. Your company has our account, Miss Fitzgerald.
Don't screw it up." For the space of a couple of heartbeats, Maddie
couldn't believe her ears. "Oh, no, Mrs. Brehmer, I mean, yes, Mrs.
Brehmer," Maddie gasped when it finally sank in, and stood up so fast she
was momentarily lightheaded. Thrusting her hand out at Mrs. Brehmer before she
remembered her telltale sticky fingers, Maddie could only hope that the old
lady wouldn't notice as they shook hands. "Thank you, Mrs. Brehmer." "We'll do a good job for you, Mrs.
Brehmer," Jon said, also shaking their new client's hand. A glance at him
told Maddie that he was having as much trouble keeping his excitement in check
as she was. His cheeks were pink, his eyes were bright, and he was grinning
from ear to ear. Now shaking hands with the suits, Maddie only hoped she didn't
look quite as much like a kid on Christmas morning. "You will indeed, young man, or I'll jerk
this account away from you so fast it will make your head spin," Mrs.
Brehmer said. Maddie, for one, had no doubt whatsoever that she meant it.
"Susan will be in touch with you next week about the details." Mrs.
Brehmer looked at Susan, and her mouth lightened impatiently. "Oh, give
the leash to me and I'll take Zelda down myself. It's almost time for lunch
anyway." "I'll be glad to take her..." Susan
said, sounding slightly alarmed. Mrs. Brehmer practically snatched the leash away
from her assistant. "I said I'll take her. I'm going home now anyway. She
can ride in the car with me. We haven't spent much time together lately. Maybe
she's upset because she's been missing me." With a curt nod at the suits
and an unsmiling goodbye for Maddie and Jon, she started to walk away.
"Come, Zelda." Zelda, who was looking longingly toward the
window again, didn't move. Mrs. Brehmer was forced to stop as she reached the
end of the leash. Having already decided that it probably would be best to get
out of Mrs. Brehmer's orbit before something happened to make her change her
mind, Maddie had moved away to start packing up their gear and was thankfully a
couple yards away from the center of the action by that time. From the corner
of her eye, she watched Mrs. Brehmer glower at her dog. "Zelda!" Mrs. Brehmer said. "Zelda!" Zelda didn't move. She didn't even glance around
until Susan, who was standing near Mrs. Brehmer, clapped her hands. "What did that groomer do to
her?" Mrs. Brehmer demanded of her assistant. "She hasn't been the
same since she got back from her weekly shampoo and blowout." While Susan
shook her head in apparent mystification, Mrs. Brehmer looked despairingly at
Zelda, who was standing stock-still at the very end of the leash, with all four
feet planted like she never intended to move again. "Maybe she cut her
toenails too short. Darling girl, is that it? Do your little feetsies
hurt?" Zelda didn't reply. Mrs. Brehmer, muttering
something that Maddie was too far away to hear, turned away. "Come, Zelda," she said again, giving
the leash a yank. As Susan held the door open for her, Mrs. Brehmer exited,
hauling a still clearly reluctant Zelda in her wake. "Oh my God, we got the account,"
Maddie said to Jon a few minutes later, after the elevator doors closed behind
them and they were headed down. She was dazed with excitement, jittery with it,
still not quite able to take it in. "I don't believe it. We got the
account!" "Yeah," Jon said. "We did." They looked at each other. Then they whooped,
high-fived, and did a little dance that ended with Jon picking Maddie up off
her feet and swinging her around in a bear hug. Their celebration stopped
abruptly when the elevator paused on seventeen and three other people got on. For the rest of the ride down they were
circumspect. Then, as they stepped out into the lobby, Jon looked at her and
grinned. "Now, how about that raise?" "We'll talk," Maddie said, "when
the money starts coming in." "Admit it. I was brilliant." With Jon behind her, Maddie pushed through the
revolving door and stepped out into the scorching heat. "You were pretty good," Maddie
admitted, twinkling at him as he joined her and they headed toward the corner
where, with luck, they might be able to flag down a cab. The street was noisy,
crowded. The sidewalk was packed with people, and they had to weave in and out
to keep from running into anyone. Vehicular traffic was heavy in both
directions. "I was brilliant. Oh my God, we got the account!" This time they low-fived right in the middle of
the sidewalk. Jon said, "Does this call for a celebration
or what? How about if we take ourselves to lunch at some really swanky
restaurant? Be a shame to leave New Orleans without trying, say, Chez
Paul." He looked hopefully at Maddie. "I don't know what planet you're living on,
but down here in the real world, Creative Partners still has bills to
pay." The sugary-sweet smell of frying dough from a stand on the corner
they'd nearly reached reminded Maddie that she really was hungry. When had she
eaten last? That cup of coffee with Mr. Special Agent didn't count... Just as quick as that, the euphoric bubble that
she'd been floating along in burst. The good news was that they had the
account. The bad news was that someone had tried to kill her, and the FBI was
sniffing around, and the whole can of worms that was her life felt like it was
getting ready to explode at any minute. Any way she looked at it, the bad news won. "We'll grab something at the airport,"
she said, suddenly almost desperately eager to get out of New Orleans. One
unpleasant but necessary stop by the hotel to pick up the luggage that the
concierge had promised to hold for them, and they could go to the airport and
get on a plane and fly away. Not that getting back to St. Louis would
necessarily solve her problem... The hair on the back of her neck stood up as her
sixth sense suddenly went on red alert. Jon was looking at her with a frown and
saying something, but Maddie didn't hear whatever it was. She could feel eyes
boring into her back. There was someone watching her, someone coming up behind
her... Whirling, she beheld a wild-eyed stranger
rushing purposefully toward her, extended right hand wrapped around something
black and metallic that was aimed right at her. Her heart leaped. Her stomach
did a nosedive. Hefting her way-too-heavy briefcase in front of
her for what little protection it might afford, she gasped and stumbled back. She should have expected it. She had expected it.
She just hadn't wanted to face the awful truth. She should have run when she had the chance. Now
she was going to die. "Holy Christ, there he comes!" Sitting
bolt-upright in his seat, Sam grabbed for his gun and the door handle at the
same time. Beside him, Wynne cursed and did the same thing. They'd been sitting
there in the car, idly watching Madeline Fitzgerald as she practically waltzed
down the sidewalk with the same tall, blond, good-looking guy she'd been with
in the lobby. Sam personally had been admiring her legs while Wynne speculated
with good-natured vulgarity about her prowess in bed and whether Blondie, as
Wynne had dubbed the guy, was getting any. That all changed in the space of a heartbeat as
she whipped around and they spotted the man racing toward her. Terror was
written all over her face, and Sam didn't blame her. If the creep had a gun—he
had something in his hand, something he was pointing at her... Jesus, if it was
a weapon, she was as good as dead. Sam was right there but not close enough.
Instead of saving her life, he was going to witness the ending of it. Shit. With 9 mm in hand, Sam rolled out of the car and
sprinted for the sidewalk, barreling past startled onlookers, knocking a portly
businessman on his ass. Meanwhile, the lady screamed, the crowd scattered, the
boyfriend took a couple steps back and looked surprised, and the creep kept
coming on. "Federal agents! Freeze!" Sam roared,
leaping between the onrushing man and the woman at what, in his estimation, was
probably the last possible second before a shot was fired. He braced himself,
half expecting to get slammed by the bullet that was meant for her if the creep
was even a little slow on the uptake, which in his experience creeps
universally tended to be. But no: The creep saw the gun leveled at him and let
out a shriek, stopping dead and dropping the object in his hand. Shiny black,
it hit the sidewalk with an unmistakably metallic sound. The crowd had already
started breaking up; now those still nearby doubled over, scrambling for
safety. Screams filled the air. Cars braked and honked. Sam heard at least one
crash. Wynne, beside him now, bellowed, "Get your
hands in the air!" "WGMB! WGMB!" the creep cried,
thrusting both hands high in the air. "I'm a reporter! We're a TV crew,
you idiots! Don't shoot!" TV reporters. Sam's jaw went slack as he saw his
life pass before his eyes. They'd drawn on a television camera crew and, yep,
here it came... "Gene, Gene, I got it all! Oh, man, if we
hurry, we can make the noon news!" Another man came running up behind the
first, a black, boxlike camera perched on his shoulder. He was tall, thin, and
freckled, with long, dark red hair drawn back into a ponytail. "This is
great!" "Great my ass! I almost got shot!"
Gene snapped. Feeling like every kind of fool, Sam thrust his
gun into his waistband, out of sight. Beside him, Wynne performed a similar
sleight of hand with his weapon. The guy with the camera was turning, filming
the ducking, staring, exclaiming crowd. The reporter—Gene—was a black-haired
Geraldo Rivera type, complete with
Frito Bandido mustache and white dress shirt rolled to just past his elbows. He
bent, scooping up the round black thing he'd dropped and holding it in front of
his face. A microphone. Great. Just fucking great. If this
got out—and there was no way it wasn't going to get out—he and Wynne were never
going to live it down. Looking at the camera, Gene spoke into the
microphone. "As you just witnessed, talking to the survivor of last
night's attacks on two different women with the same name got a little hairy
there, but we survived and we are, as always, doing our best to get the story
for you. After what appears to be the contract killing of Madeline
Fitzgerald of Natchitoches last night, federal agents are on the job,
protecting another Madeline Fitzgerald from Saint Louis, Missouri, who
was apparently attacked by the same killer by mistake and survived. Ms.
Fitzgerald"—Gene moved past Sam, thrusting the microphone out toward the
surviving Madeline Fitzgerald, who was looking unnerved and horrified in equal
measure as she stared into the camera—"what can you tell us about what
happened last night?" "I-I," she stuttered, backing away and
holding her briefcase up in front of her face to block the camera's view.
"I have no comment." "Is it true that you were attacked in your
room at the Holiday Inn Express on Peyton Place Boulevard last night?"
Gene persisted, following her. The cameraman was right behind him. They brushed
past Sam as if he wasn't even there. "Get away from her," Blondie said,
attempting to push the microphone away. "You ever hear of the Fourth Amendment,
bud?" Gene snarled at Blondie, and focused on the woman again. "Did
you see a weapon?" "No, I—no comment." Still backing up,
almost tripping over her own feet in their beige high heels, she sounded scared
to death. Her knuckles went white as both hands seemed to tighten around the
edges of the heavy-looking leather case. Hell, she was scared to death, Sam
realized with disgust, and felt an unexpected surge of protectiveness toward
her. Getting up close and personal with the subject of a surveillance operation
was not ordinarily something he tended to do, but unlike most, this one seemed
to be an innocent caught up in events not of her making. And she looked so
damned vulnerable. "Did he have a weapon?" Gene persisted. "Look, what part of 'no comment' do you not
understand?" Blondie protested angrily. Gene went right by him, intent on
his quarry. He and the cameraman were so close to Madeline Fitzgerald now that
if it hadn't been for the briefcase she was using to block them out they would
have been right in her face. "Please..." she said from behind it.
"Leave me alone." Sam had had enough. Under the circumstances,
antagonizing this particular camera crew further was probably not the smartest
thing he had ever done, he knew. He did it anyway. Shoving past Gene and
company, he caught the woman by her arm. The briefcase slipped as she looked up
at him with eyes as big as a startled fawn's. They were the warm gold of honey
beneath a lush sweep of feathery lashes; he'd noted their beauty the first time
she had looked at him. Beneath her thin linen sleeve, he could feel her arm
shake. It was a slender arm, firm but unmistakably feminine. He didn't much
like the fact that he was noticing. "Come on. Let's get you out of
here," he said. Her eyes flickered, and she seemed to hesitate. Then she
nodded jerkily, and her arm relaxed in his grip. "Did you know your attacker? Recognize
him?" Gene persisted, thrusting the microphone at Madeline again. "Maddie..." Blondie was looking at
Sam's hand on her arm. "It's okay," she said to him, already moving
at Sam's side. "Back off," Sam growled at Gene. Something in his face
must have told the reporter that he meant it, because Gene took a step back.
"Get that camera out of here." He was moving as he spoke, taking Maddie with
him. She stayed close to his side as he pulled her toward the car, clearly
trusting him to get her out of there. "Hey," Blondie said, following.
"Wait just a minute..." "Are you getting this, Dave?" Gene
looked around at the cameraman behind him. "Oh, yeah," Dave replied with relish. "You're interfering with federal
agents," Wynne said, bringing up the rear. "You're interfering with the public's right
to know," Gene retorted. Behind him, the camera followed Maddie’s every
move. "To hell with the public's right to
know," Sam said as he opened the car door for Maddie and Gene darted
forward. He blocked the reporter's access with his body. "I said back
off." "Are you taking Miss Fitzgerald into
custody?" The microphone was thrust into Sam's face instead. "Back off." Sam took her briefcase from her, thrust it down in
the footwell, and bundled Maddie into the front passenger seat. Wynne and
Blondie caught up just as he was slamming the door. "What..." Blondie began. "Get in," Sam said, opening the rear
door. Blondie looked at Maddie in the front seat and got in. Sam was already
rounding the front of the car as Wynne slid into the backseat, too, and slammed
the door. "Are they under arrest?" Never-say-die
Gene yelled from the sidewalk as Sam opened his door. With a grim smile, Sam
flipped him the bird, then got into the car, started it up, and pulled away
from the curb. EIGHT Out of the frying pan, into the fire. That was what kept running through Maddie's head
as the car pulled into traffic, muscled its way into the far lane, and then
turned a sharp left, leaving the TV crew and all the other witnesses to the
debacle thankfully far behind. The problem was, she wasn't exactly sure which
was frying pan and which was fire. The reporter and his camera had been a
threat to her. But then, so was the FBI. "Smooth move," Wynne said dryly to
McCabe. "Tell me about it," McCabe replied.
"Think we're going to make the noon news? " "Oh, yeah." "What the hell is this?" Jon
demanded. His raised voice filled the car. "What's going on?" "Chill, man," Wynne sounded tired.
"Everything's copacetic." "Good word," McCabe said. "The hell it is. Maddie, are you all
right?" That was Jon again. He was starting to sound belligerent, which,
in her experience, wasn't like Jon. "Could somebody please tell me why there
was a TV crew chasing you back there?" Maddie had been staring almost unseeingly out
through the windshield, with her arms wrapped around herself to combat the
bone-deep chill that, she hoped, could be laid at the door of the car's
cranked-up air-conditioning rather than shock. The euphoria that had
accompanied winning the Brehmer account was long gone. It was as though it had
happened to someone else. All she wanted to do now was escape—but at the
moment, escape wasn't possible. Suck it up, girl. I didn't raise my daughter to
be some little pussy. She could almost hear her father saying it. Words
to live by, Maddie thought wryly, and did her best to make him proud. She
sucked it up, got a grip, and shifted positions, turning in the slick vinyl
seat so that she could see the others. Besides Jon, who still looked as natty
as he had while making his pitch to Brehmer's, with nary a crease in his navy
suit, his red tie still knotted perfectly, his white shirt spotless, and not so
much as a single golden hair out of place, there was Wynne, red-faced, sweaty,
his hairy, bare calves visible beneath the legs of rumpled khaki shorts, arms
crossed over the hula girl on his chest, jaw working as he chewed on something
that smelled like a grape Popsicle, and McCabe, still unsmiling, still
unshaven, and about as natty as an unmade bed. Shining examples of the federal government's
finest. God, she was in a car with a pair of FBI agents. This just keeps
getting better and better. "I'm fine," she said to Jon, which was
a lie. She was freezing, so cold she feared she might never get warm; her head
ached; her throat hurt; and she was so scared, so worried, so appalled by what
was happening that just pretending everything was relatively okay in her world
was an acting job worthy of an Academy Award. But until she figured out what to
do, she had no choice but to continue to act, so she added, with an assumption
of ease, "You remember these guys. FBI. From the building." "Sam McCabe," McCabe said to Jon with
a quick flick of his eyes to the rearview mirror. He turned left again, onto
St. Charles Street, and as he moved the wheel, Maddie could not help but notice
the muscular flexing of his arm. The combination of tanned skin and bulging
biceps would have piqued her interest had they belonged to anyone else. "E. P. Wynne," Wynne said between
chews. "Jon Carter," Jon said. Then his voice
sharpened. "Is this about what happened to Maddie last night? Because it
was terrible, and it scared the bejesus out of her, but she wasn't even badly
hurt. What is this, New Orleans's slowest news day ever?" "Something like that." Then McCabe,
with a quick glance Maddie's way, asked, "Where to, folks?" "The hotel, I guess," Maddie said. She
was looking at McCabe, who was negotiating the heavy traffic with careful
competence. As they changed lanes, sunlight played over his profile, and she
noted absently that his features were well proportioned, handsome even, if one
ignored the general scruffiness. He blinked, and she focused for an instant on
his lashes, which were black, thick, and stubby. Then he glanced her way and
she realized that she'd been staring and looked away quickly She realized, too,
that she wasn't quite herself, to put it mildly. The one-two punch of terror
and relief she'd just experienced had left her in something of a daze. Now it
was starting to lift, and her brain was starting to fire on more cylinders. "What were you doing out there on that
street anyway?" Her eyes cut toward McCabe again. Her tone turned
accusing. "Were you following me?" There was the briefest of
pauses. "It just so happened we were still in the
neighborhood," McCabe said, and Maddie thought she caught a spark of what
might have been humor in his eyes. Outside the window, one of the streetcars
that was a prime New Orleans tourist attraction clanged its bell. Maddie jumped
and looked around to ascertain where the noise had come from. Her nerves were
still too jangled to permit her to calmly absorb unanticipated sounds. "You were following me," she
said when she had recovered. "Admit it, you were." "If wewere, and if that had been a man with a gun, we
would have saved your life back there." Good point. "But it wasn't a man with a gun. It was a
TV reporter with a camera, and now, thanks to you, I'm going to be all over the
noon news." "Miz Fitzgerald, believe me, you would have
been all over the noon news without me." A beat passed as Maddie thought that over. "The man back there—the TV reporter—said
there was another Madeline Fitzgerald attacked last night. He said it was a
contract k-killing," Maddie said slowly. With the best will in the world,
she couldn't help it: Her voice shook on the last word. McCabe stopped at a red light and looked over at
her. His expression was grim. "We don't know that it was a contract
killing," he said. "But right at this moment it looks like it might
have been. Did you know her?" "Know her?" Maddie took a deep breath
and tried to keep her voice steady. "No. No, I didn't. Why didn't you tell
me about this earlier?" His lips thinned. "Because you didn't need
to know." "Well," Maddie said with a hint of
bite, "now I do. So how about you fill me in?" The light changed and the car started moving
again. They turned onto Canal Street, one of the widest avenues that was open
to traffic in the world, and the crush of vehicles increased. Outside the
window, picturesque nineteenth-century commercial buildings with wrought-iron
balconies and slatted shutters slid past on either side. Gold lettering on
glass windows advertised such businesses as "Madame Le Moyne, Psychic,
Open 24 Hours," "Tarot Reading—Learn Your Future,"
"Patisserie," and "Le Masque Shoppe," among others.
Planters bursting with purple wave petunias, baby's breath, and trailing ivy
hung from the lampposts. The crowd here was more casually dressed,
touristy-looking, with lots of Starbucks cups being carted around. It was
Friday in New Orleans, and just about everybody in the city who wasn't driving
around seemed to be out there on the sidewalks, enjoying it. McCabe glanced at her again and seemed to
hesitate. Then he returned his attention to the road and said, "Okay.
Here's the story: There were two women named Madeline Fitzgerald staying at
your hotel last night. Both were attacked in their rooms. One died. One—that
would be you—lived." Maddie sucked in her breath. "You wanted to know," McCabe said. "You're kidding." That was Jon from
the backseat. "Nope," Wynne said. "I don't think
you realize how lucky you are, Ms. Fitzgerald. The other woman took two bullets
to the head." "Oh my God." Maddie felt dizzy. She
remembered the sound of the bullets hitting the mattress, remembered what it
was like to think she was going to be shot at any moment, remembered what
terror felt like, how it tasted... The other Madeline Fitzgerald had died. Because
of her? The thought made her go all light-headed. "You okay?" McCabe asked. Maddie supposed her face must have paled.
Remembering who he was— what he was—was enough to snap her back to her senses,
and she managed to push everything except her immediate situation out of her
head. Only then did more ramifications of what he had told her begin to occur. "You mean there's a possibility that I was
attacked by mistake?" A beat passed in which no one said anything. "You think there's a possibility that it wasn't
a mistake?" McCabe asked. His tone was neutral—too neutral. He was
probing for answers—and Maddie, catching herself up, wasn't about to give any.
Not by the hair of her chinny-chin-chin. "Of course it was a mistake," she
said. "How could it not have been a mistake?" McCabe's eyes cut her way. "You tell
me." "I thought it was just a random attack,
kind of a sex thing gone wrong," Jon said, frowning. "I don't think so." McCabe glanced in
the rearview mirror. "But the possibility is not completely off the table
yet. What are the chances, though, two separate perps attack two different
women named Madeline Fitzgerald on the same night at the same hotel? Completely
unrelated?" Nobody said anything. The answer, clearly, was not
good. "So what do you think happened?"
Maddie asked. "We think it may have been a paid
hit," Wynne said. Maddie felt hope, that small eternal flame,
spring to life in her breast. "A paid hit on the other woman?" She
took a deep breath and ran with the ball. "And the killer got the names
mixed up and came to my room by mistake. When I got away, he somehow discovered
his mistake and went after her. She was the target." The relief was so intense that she was almost
limp with it. Please, God, please, God, please let that be the answer. Let
it all have been a terrible mistake. Let it not have been about me at all. What she wanted most in the world at that moment
was for that to be true. If it was, she could put the whole terrible experience
safely behind her and just go on with her life. "Or maybe it was the other way
around." They stopped at an intersection, and McCabe looked at her as he
spoke. "Maybe the killer went to her room first, killed her, figured out
his mistake and came after you. Maybe it was you he wanted dead. Maybe you were
the target." Doing her best to keep her face expressionless,
Maddie met his gaze. "Why?" she asked simply. "Yeah, why?" Jon asked. "Why on
earth would a hit man want to murder Maddie?" "I have no idea," McCabe said, and
glanced at Maddie again. "That's why I'm asking you one more time, and I
want you to rack your brain before you answer: Do you know anyone, anyone at
all, who might want you dead or have something to gain from your death?" His gaze reverted to the road as the light
changed and they started moving again. Maddie had no idea whether she had
imagined the glimmer of doubt in his eyes or not. What she did know was that her palms were damp.
"No," she said. He didn't reply to that. For a moment there was
no sound in the car except the hum of the air-conditioning. "Here we are." McCabe swung into the
semicircular drive that fronted the hotel. A waist-high hedge of hot-pink
azaleas lined the drive. Beneath the white-columned portico, a uniformed
bellman loaded luggage onto a cart. A black Honda with a parking valet at the
wheel pulled away from the entrance as the couple who owned the car disappeared
inside. The only sign of the previous night's tragedy was the police car parked
just past the entrance. "So, you two—you got plans for the rest of the
day?" "We grab our luggage and head for the
airport," Jon said as McCabe stopped the car. "That pretty much sums
it up." "Want a ride?" McCabe's question was
directed at Maddie. "No." Maddie was already opening her
door. "We'll catch a cab. Thanks." "Hang on a minute." McCabe leaned over
and caught her by the wrist as Jon opened the back door. "I have something
I need to say to you." His hand was warm and dry, big, long-fingered.
She'd always liked men with big hands, she thought in that first fleeting
instant of surprise at being grabbed. Then she frowned. FBI agents with big
hands, however, were in a whole separate category. One she didn't want anything
to do with. She tried to tug her hand free without result.
If anything, he tightened his grip. Her eyes met his, narrowed. "It'll just take a minute," he
promised. "Look, I've got to go. What with security
and everything, getting through the airport takes forever now." He didn't let go. Jon, who had gotten out, was
leaning down to look in at her through her partially opened door. "She'll be just a minute," McCabe said
to Jon. Then, as Jon frowned and looked like he was about to protest, Wynne
walked up beside him and said something. Jon straightened to talk to Wynne. "Close the door," McCabe said. He was
looking at her steadily, his expression serious, even slightly grim. Maddie’s heart skipped a beat. Then she rallied,
lifting her chin. "You're good at giving orders, aren't you?" "Please." His voice was very quiet. What could she do? Maddie, keenly aware of a
whole summer's worth of butterflies taking wing in her stomach, closed the
door. "So what do you want?" she asked, just
barely managing to keep the truculence out of her voice. She felt trapped,
panicky, and the unbreakable hold he was keeping on her wrist was not making
her feel any more relaxed. It reminded her of a handcuff... The image was
unnerving, and she instantly banished it. The trick was not to let him realize
just how very apprehensive she was. Did he realize? He was watching her,
the faintest of frown lines between his brows, his expression unreadable. "If you've got anything you want to tell
me, anything at all, this is the moment. I thought you might feel more
comfortable doing it if the boyfriend wasn't here." It was all Maddie could do not to suck in
telltale air. "I don't have anything to tell you."
She forced a little laugh. Her only hope was that it didn't sound as fake to
him as it did to her. "What could I possibly have to tell you? And, just
for the record, Jon's not my boyfriend. He's my employee. We work together, and
we're friends. We don't sleep together." McCabe smiled. If he hadn't been an FBI agent,
Maddie realized with some surprise, she might actually be feeling kind of
attracted to him about now. "Duly noted." His smile deepened. Oh, God, he had dimples.
Deep ones on either side of his mouth. Maddie looked, blinked, then realized
that she really, really didn't want to go there. Brows twitching together, she
glanced pointedly down at his hand wrapped around her wrist. "Would you
mind letting me go now?" "What?" He looked down at their linked
hands, too, and then let go. "Oh, sure." "Is there anything else?" Maddie was
already reaching for the door handle. "Because I have a plane to
catch." "Just one more thing." He was leaning
back in his seat, his hands resting casually on the bottom of the steering
wheel, his head turned slightly toward her. Her whole side was pressed against
the door now. Her hand curled around the handle, and it was all she could do
not to simply release it, open the door, and bolt. "Even if the attack on
you was a mistake, even if you were not the intended victim, that doesn't let
you off the hook, you realize. This guy, whoever he is, attacked you, and you
escaped. You lived. You're a witness. He may believe that you can identify him.
It's very possible that he might be coming after you to finish the job." Maddie's eyes widened. That aspect of the
situation hadn't occurred to her. In other words, even if she hadn't been the
intended victim originally, now she was? What was this, 101 reasons for someone
to want to kill her? "I can offer you protection. Someone to
stay with you twenty-four hours a day until we get this creep." Maddie's breath caught. Like she was going to
accept protection from the FBI?On any other day, in any other
mood, she would have laughed. "No," she said. "No, no, no. I
just want to forget all about this. I just want to go home." And with that she opened the door and stepped
out into the enervating heat. Something—rising too swiftly, the lack ofsleep
and food, the multiple traumas she'd suffered over the course of the last
twenty-four hours, who knew?—made her suddenly light-headed. The world seemed
to tilt, and she had to steady herself with a hand on the car roof. The metal
was hot and faintly gritty from dust. The sun bouncing off the pavement was
blinding. The smell of melting asphalt was strong. "Forgot your briefcase," McCabe called
after her, and Maddie stiffened. Then she sucked it up one more time, turned,
and dragged her briefcase out of the footwell. The last words he said to her as
she slammed the door shut were, "You take care of yourself, Miz
Fitzgerald." NINE What the hell wereyou
thinking?" Smolski swiveled in his chair, his eyes almost bugging out of
his head as they fixed on Sam. His scream was loud enough to make Gardner jump,
and it wasn't even directed at her. Sam, at whom it was directed,
grimaced. Wynne, who was only a secondary target, took a step back. "That
thing made us look like the fucking Keystone Cops!" It was just before six p.m., and they were
standing like a trio of schoolkids who had been called before the principal in
the uber-luxurious cabin of a private jet that had touched down on the tarmac
at New Orleans some twenty minutes earlier. Smolski was seated in a bone
leather chair that seconds before had been facing a wide-screen plasma TV. A
video clip of the morning incident with Gene Markham of WGMB had just ended
with a close-up of Sam's middle finger riding high. "It was a quick-response kind of situation.
We just happened to have read it wrong," Sam said by way of an
explanation. It was lame, and he knew it. The whole situation had been
farcical, and he'd made it ten times worse by flipping the news guy the bird.
It was juvenile, and he should have known better. "We thought he was coming after her with a
weapon," Wynne added. Big mistake. It sounded like an excuse, and
if there was anything Smolski hated more than screwups, it was excuses. "You thought he was coming after her with a
weapon," Smolski mimicked in a savage falsetto. "It was a fucking microphone,
you morons. You drew on a TV reporter in the middle of a crowded city
street. And they got it all on TV." There wasn't much to say to that except
"Sorry, my bad," and Sam refrained. One thing he'd learned in the six
years he'd spent working under Smolski in the Violent Crimes division was that
being an FBI agent meant never venturing to say you were sorry—because if you
did, Smolski would wipe the floor with you. Smolski put no more stock in
apologies than he did in excuses. He wanted it done right the first time, and
he wanted it done yesterday. The head of Violent Crimes was a former Marine
who'd once been muscular but had now gone to flabby seed, and despite the
thousand-dollar suit he wore, there was no hiding the roll of pudge that hung
over his belt. He had a Mediterranean complexion and thinning black hair. His
nose was big; his eyes and mouth were small. His temper was legendary. Fortunately, at least as far as Sam was
concerned, Smolski's bark was worse than his bite. "I thought we agreed to keep this thing on
the down-low? All we need is the media on our asses, telling the whole world
how people are being knocked off like ducks in a shooting gallery while you
guys make like the Three Stooges. To say nothing of the fact that if the public
finds out that the UNSUB's calling you on your cell phone, we might as well
throw the damned thing out the window because everybody and his mother will
start calling that number and the killer will never be able to get
through." Smolski was still yelling loud enough to cause Melody, his
longtime administrative assistant, to make a sympathetic face at Sam behind her
boss's back. A plumpish, blue-eyed brunette in a navy pantsuit, she was a nice
girl—well, a nice woman now, thirty-three years old, married with a couple of
kids. She'd once been a babe, and when she'd first come to work at
headquarters, Sam had taken her out a few times. The fling had fizzled when it
had become obvious that Melody wanted forever while Sam was allergic to same.
But she still retained a soft spot for him, which Sam from time to time took
shameless advantage of. Now, while Smolski spread the love by glaring at
Wynne again, Sam seized the moment to nod significantly at the white telephone
on the console behind Smolski. She looked shocked, and then the corners of her
lips quivered. Good girl, Melody. Melody disappeared from view, and Smolski redirected
his vitriol toward Sam. "You got anything? Huh? You got anything? Hell,
no, you don't got anything, because if you did, I'd already know about it.
You've been chasing around the country after this guy for a month now. You've
been spending money like you think you're the fucking Sultan of Brunei. And you
got what to show for it? A TV clip that's an embarrassment to the Bureau, and
that's it. The vice president got a call from his sister, who lives here
in New Orleans, complaining about my guys pulling weapons on a streetful of
innocent civilians. 'Deal with it,' he says to me, so I have to interrupt my
trip to L.A., make a big detour to stop here, and for what? I'll tell you for
what: to kick your guys' asses from here to Sunday. What were you thinking?You..." The telephone rang, cutting Smolski off in full
spiel. Melody reappeared to answer the phone, and Smolski turned his head to
listen while Melody had a brief conversation with whomever was on the other
end. Melody then held the phone out to her boss. "Your wife," she said to Smolski, who
took the receiver with obvious reluctance. "Cripes," he said, one hand covering
the mouthpiece. "Why didn't you tell her I'm in a meeting? She's been
badgering me to go to some damned fund-raiser for PETA or something. I've had
my cell phone turned off all day. How the hell did she know where to reach
me?" Smolski spent much of his life doing his best to
avoid his wife, who spent much of hers tracking him down. Sam was willing to
bet that Melody, a kindhearted sort, had just alerted Mrs. Smolski to her
errant hubby's availability to take a call. Smolski uncovered the mouthpiece, said,
"Hang on a minute, honey, I'm dealing with a situation here,"
listened, winced, said, "Of course I'm not trying to avoid you. I promise,
just one minute," and covered the mouthpiece again. "You guys get the hell out of here."
He dismissed them with an angry wave of his hand. "I see any more dumb
moves like you pulled today, and I'll bust you down to file clerks. You
understand me?" Yes, sir. Acting on the dismissal with alacrity, Gardner
was already on the steps that led down to the tarmac, Wynne was in the doorway
right behind her, and Sam was bringing up the rear by the time Smolski had the
phone to his ear again. "Thanks, Mel," Sam whispered to
Melody, who had followed them to the door. "Anytime." She smiled at him, and for
a moment he had a bad pang of the might-have-beens. But there were a lot of
might-have-beens littering his life, and so he shrugged this particular one
off, clasped the metal handrail, and headed down the steps. It was overcast and
drizzling now—no more than a light mist, really—but enough to make steam come
up off the pavement, so it looked as though they were stepping down into a
cloud. Sam wasn't bothered by the fine drops that beaded on his face and
dampened his clothes, but the moisture caused Wynne's hair to frizz even more
than usual and wilted Gardner's short-and-spiky look, which, by way of a
change, this week she had dyed fire-engine red. "And, by the way, you guys look like
shit!" Smolski's voice followed them. The bellow was muffled, but neither
Sam nor Wynne nor Gardner nor the half-dozen mechanics and luggage handlers in
the vicinity had any trouble hearing it. "Shave! Put on some decent clothes!
Do something about your hair! Quit embarrassing me!" "The sad thing is, that's the most
excitement I've had today," Gardner said pensively as they dodged an
orange luggage cart and headed toward the terminal. A commercial jet raced
toward takeoff in the background, the roar of its engines blunted by distance.
"Do you think he'll really be named head of the Bureau?" "I heard it's a done deal," Wynne
said. "They're waiting to announce it until after
Mosley"—Ed Mosley was the current FBI director—"announces his retirement.
That won't be till after the election." As he spoke, Sam absentmindedly
watched the jet that had just taken off do a graceful U-turn and head north,
rising until it disappeared within the lowering bank of iron-gray clouds that
covered the sky. "So, who's going to replace Smolski?"
Gardner wondered aloud. Sam shrugged. They had reached the terminal by
this time. Wynne pulled open the glass door that led to the escalator that
would take them up to the main level, then stood back to let Gardner precede him.
She walked in, swinging her butt provocatively. It was a J.Lo butt, big and
curvy in a clingy black skirt, and Wynne could hardly tear his eyes from it.
Her equally generous breasts jiggled like water balloons beneath a pink silk
blouse. Her waist was cinched by a wide black belt pulled so tight that Sam
wondered how she could breathe. He also wondered, just in passing, where she
was carrying her gun. Did they have bra holsters now? Deciding he really didn't
want to go there, Sam followed them inside, only half listening to their
conversation. Wynne's face was turning shades of puce as Gardner continued to
do her high-heeled strut in front of him all the way to the escalator. As the
three of them rode it up, Sam, still bringing up the rear, shook his head. Poor
guy had it bad for Gardner, and the sad thing was that, knowing Wynne, he was
never going to do anything about it. As far as he himself was concerned,
Gardner had all the right equipment even if it was a little abundant for his
taste, and she was attractive enough with her bright blue eyes and big, bold
features that matched her five-foot-ten, big-boned frame, but he was not going
there. No way, no how. As his grandma told him nearly every time he saw
her, it don't mean a thing if it ain't got that zing. "You drive," Sam said to Wynne,
tossing him the keys as they reached the Saturn, which they'd left in
short-term parking. He'd already punched the button to unlock the car, and
Gardner was already sliding into the front passenger seat. Sam had no doubt
that she would spend the drive back to the hotel, where they'd set up shop,
crossing and uncrossing her legs at him, just like she'd done on the drive out
to the airport. She was going to so much trouble to be provocative, Sam
thought, that the least he could do was provide her with an appreciative
audience. Namely, Wynne. "Don't wreck us," Sam added as an
afterthought, only then considering the possible consequences of Gardner's
come-hither act on Wynne, but it was too late. Wynne was already making himself
at home behind the wheel, and, anyway, Sam personally was just too damned tired
to drive. The headlights coming at them as they pulled around the spiral exit
ramp were blurry, and his head pounded like the bass on a teenager's stereo.
Plus, the interior of the car smelled of cheap vinyl, stale cigarettes, and
Wynne's everlasting gum. The combination didn't do a thing for his stomach,
which was quivering on the verge of nausea. God, just how long had it been now since he'd
had any sleep? He didn't even want to think about it. In the front seat, Gardner crossed and uncrossed
her legs at Wynne for at least the third time, with a predictably deleterious
effect on his driving. It was rush hour, and traffic on the interstate heading
back into the city was heavy. The rain was coming down more steadily now, and
the roads were slick. The windshield wipers swished back and forth with the
mind-numbing rhythm of a metronome. Wynne, distracted, was one scary-ass driver.
There was only one thing to do, Sam decided, if he wished to preserve life and
limb, and that was distract Gardner from distracting Wynne. "So tell us about Madeline Fitzgerald. The
live one," Sam said to her. "Anybody ever tell you you're a slave
driver, McCabe?" Gardner protested good-naturedly, despite tugging her
briefcase onto her lap and rooting some papers out of one of the pockets.
Glancing down at them, she turned in the seat to look at him. "What do you
want to know?" "Why don't you start all over again?" Gardner had been in the process of filling them
in on their survivor when Smolski's call had come in, ordering them to meet him
at the airport. A fresh start without worrying about how hard Smolski was
getting ready to come down on them would probably be a good thing. Especially
since all three of them were so tired that their brains were sputtering along
like a car getting down to its last few drops of gas. Gardner looked down at the papers again.
"Madeline Elaine Fitzgerald, twenty-nine years old, owner of Creative
Partners advertising agency, which she purchased nineteen months ago from the
previous owner, who sold because of poor health. Previous to that she was an
employee of said advertising agency for two years. Previous to that she was an
independent contractor for an outfit selling advertising space in various local
publications. A BA in business administration from Western Illinois University.
Parents, John and Elaine Fitzgerald, deceased. He was a dentist, she was a
homemaker. No siblings. Never married. Pays her bills on time. No arrest
record." "Any history of gambling?" Wynne
asked, easing into the slow lane as an eighteen-wheeler shot past on the left
with a tooth-rattling roar. "Nothing showed up." A vision of Maddie as he had last seen her rose
in Sam's mind's eye. Big brown eyes, lush mouth, luxuriant hair, slender,
alluring body, legs that went on forever. Tons of sex appeal, as he personally
could testify, and a lot of class besides. Business owner. College degree.
Should ooze self-confidence. But there'd been insecurity there. And hostility,
too. In fact, he'd almost gotten the impression that she was afraid of
something. Afraid of him. "What about boyfriends? How's her romantic
history?" he asked. "We don't have anything on that yet. This
is just a preliminary report. I haven't had time to really dig down deep." "Keep working on it." "You have Gomez picking her up on the other
end?" Wynne cut back into the middle lane again. Sam couldn't help
glancing around warily. There was a minivan to the left, a compact car to the
right... "Yeah," Sam said. Pete Gomez was an
agent in the St. Louis field office. "He'll be with her from the time she
steps off the plane." Wynne chuckled. "She won't like that." "She won't know about it. Unless she needs
to." Sam's meaning was clear: Maddie would only find out about Gomez if he
had to step in and save her ass. "Still think our UNSUB's going to go after
her?" Gardner asked. Sam was so sure of it that, barring an act of
God, he planned to have them all in St. Louis within the next twenty-four
hours. "Wouldn't you?" "I don't know," Gardner said,
frowning. "It depends on a couple of things. Number one, if she was the
intended target—and the other Madeline Fitzgerald has a lot more red flags in
her background, so it seems unlikely at this point—then he will definitely go
after her. Number two, if he thinks she can identify him, then he will go after
her. But barring either of those circumstances, I... Sam's cell phone rang. He jumped. Gardner's eyes widened. Wynne almost
drove off the damned road. "Watch where the hell you're going,"
Sam growled at Wynne, digging in his pocket for his phone, which continued to
ring. As Wynne straightened the car out with a muttered "sorry," Sam
dragged the phone free and squinted to read the number in the ID box. Because of
the rain, the streetlights were on, and the bright beams of cars going in the
opposite direction slashed through the Saturn's interior. If it hadn't been for
that, Sam wasn't sure he would have been able to make out what was written in
the little box. Error, it said. "Jesus. I think it might be him." His
pulse shot into instant overdrive as he flipped open the phone and spoke into
it. "McCabe." "You're screwing up, McCabe. That time you
weren't even close." It was him. At the sound of the digitally
altered voice, Sam felt every muscle in his body tense. He nodded to let
Gardner and Wynne, who was looking at him through the rearview mirror, know. Another semi, dangerously close, rattled past on
the right. "Where you been? I thought you forgot about
me," Sam said, concentrating hard on anything he might be able to hear in
the background. The sound of traffic, for example—the interstate was noisy, and
if the bastard was in one of the vehicles around them he might be able to hear
it. His eyes cut left and right, trying to see into nearby cars. "Don't you worry, I wouldn't do that."
Sam couldn't hear any kind of background sound at all. His own surroundings
were too noisy. "Ready for your next clue?" "How's your leg?" Sam asked, hoping to
throw him off. "I imagine a pencil wound's a nasty thing. Lead poisoning
and all that." If the bastard got rattled, Sam hoped against
hope, he might just keep talking long enough for them to get a fix on him. It
didn't take long... "You're dreaming, asshole. Now here's your
clue. Better shut up or you'll miss it. Where in the world is—Walter?" There was a click as the bastard hung up,
followed by nothing but dead air. The silence in the car was equally thick and
heavy. "Shit," said Sam. His eyes met Wynne's
through the mirror. "Looks like we're back on the clock again." The first thing Maddie saw when she cleared the
last of the airport security barriers in St. Louis was the sign: Way to go,
Maddie and Jon. It was printed in big block letters on a white piece of
posterboard, and it was being waved above the head of Louise Rea, Creative
Partners' pleasantly plump, pleasantly wrinkled—just plain pleasant,
period—sixty-two-year-old administrative assistant. Beside her, Ana Choi, a
slender twenty-one-year-old college student whom Maddie had hired six months
before on a part-time basis to handle graphic design, stood on her tiptoes,
scanning the stream of disembarking passengers as they emerged into the
visitor-friendly part of the airport. Judy Petronio, a forty-seven-year-old
mother of four who was in charge of retail accounts, was wedged in next to Ana;
behind Judy, fifty-two-year-old Herb Mankowitz, who handled the direct-mailing
part of the business, looked faintly impatient. But he was there. They were all
there, the entire staff of Creative Partners. It was just after six p.m.,
they'd worked a full day, and it was clear from their dress that they'd come
straight to the airport from work. On a Friday, when presumably they all had way
better things to do. Their presence was as touching as it was
unexpected. Surveying the motley crew, Maddie thought, This
is my family, and felt her throat tighten. "I called Louise from the airport,"
Jon said. He was striding along beside her, and his face broke into a broad
grin as he spied the welcoming committee among the crowd greeting the deplaning
passengers with little cries of excitement and pleasure. In fact, he looked
buoyant, just the way Maddie knew she should be feeling. The way she would befeeling if it hadn't been for the little matter of her life having just
been blown all to hell. Ana spotted them first. Her eyes fixed on Maddie
and widened. Her long, black hair was tied up in a ponytail, and she was
wearing lowrider black slacks with a shrunken-looking white tank that bared
enough skin so that the tattoo of a dragonfly above her left hip was clearly
visible. Maddie presumed—hoped—that there was a jacket, cardigan, something
that made the ensemble work-friendly, lying around somewhere that Ana had
doffed after five p.m. She would graduate in December, and she'd already made
it clear that she was dying to be offered a full-time job at Creative Partners.
It hit Maddie that now that they had the Brehmer account, she was suddenly in a
position to do just that. A financial position, anyway. Ana grabbed Louise's arm and pointed.
"There they are!" Four pairs of eyes fastened on Maddie and Jon.
Four mouths opened wide. Then the Creative Partners staff shouted, cheered,
clapped, and broke ranks with the rest of the waiting crowd to storm the new
arrivals, surrounding them on all sides, dealing out handshakes and hugs and
exclamations indiscriminately. "We got the account! I can't believe we got
the account!" Louise enveloped Maddie in a suffocating hug. "Maddie,
you did it! Oh, my dear, I think I'm going to cry!" Louise, of all of them, had known how precarious
the company's position was. She handled the bookkeeping. Feeling her own eyes
unexpectedly stinging, Maddie hugged her back warmly. Louise was wearing her
usual polyester pants and a matching striped blouse, and she smelled of lotion,
soap, and just faintly of the hairspray she used to keep her short, unruly
silver curls under control. She smelled just the way Louise always smelled, and
Maddie found it unexpectedly heartbreaking. Ana was next, flinging her arms around Maddie as
soon as Louise released her. "This is so cool!" As exuberant as a
puppy, Ana squeezed Maddie so hard she could almost hear her ribs cracking.
"Does this mean you can keep me? Say yes. Please say yes!" Wincing slightly, Maddie hugged her back anyway.
Ana the Ever-enthusiastic would be a great permanent addition to the team. If
only... "We'll talk on Monday," Maddie
promised, and managed a smile. Judy's hug was more brisk. She and Herb had
worked for Creative Partners since long before Maddie had come on the scene,
and Maddie knew that they had worried a lot about the agency's future over the
last few months. "I've already contacted Maury Pope with BusinessMonthly.
There'll be an article about this in the next issue. Maury was all excited
when I called him. He said us landing the Brehmer account is just huge." A
rare grin transformed Judy's rather severe face. "And the timing couldn't
be better. Matthew"—Matthew, entering his senior year of high school, was
her second son; her oldest, Justin, was a rising sophomore at the University of
Missouri—"just told me he wants to go to Vanderbilt." She made a comical face, and Maddie rolled her
eyes sympathetically even as her stomach twisted. Judy needed her job.... "Rising tides lift all ships," Herb
said, giving Maddie a hearty slap on the shoulder. "Way to go, Boss." Boss. There it was again. Despite everything, Maddie felt that
warm little glow, followed by a pain, sharp and swift as the stab of a knife,
right in the region of her heart. "You guys. You're the best," she said,
and to her horror felt herself tearing up as she looked at them. "Oh, don't cry," Ana protested. Louise
promptly burst into noisy tears, which made everyone laugh and hug her and
enabled Maddie to get her emotions more or less under control. By this time,
the rest of the crowd greeting arriving passengers had pretty much dispersed,
so at least they were spared an audience for the love-fest that followed. Ten Minutes later, the group was standing en
masse in front of one of the silver carousels in baggage claim, waiting for Jon
and Maddie’s luggage to be disgorged. Multiple flights had apparently landed at
approximately the same time, so the warehouse-like space was crowded. The
sounds of excited conversation and squeaking cart wheels and the thud of
suitcases being dumped on the conveyor belts overlay the rumble of the moving
carousels, making conversation difficult. "You feel like going to dinner
to celebrate?" Jon asked Maddie in a louder than normal voice as they watched
the various bags tumbling out through the chute. The lump in her throat got bigger. Maddie shook
her head. "Not tonight. I'm too tired." "Yeah, well, you've had a rough twenty-four
hours," Herb, overhearing, observed sympathetically. Jon had filled the
group in on everything, apparently, and as soon as they'd stopped exclaiming
over the Brehmer account, they'd started exclaiming over what Ana called
"Maddie's mugging." "Of course you want to go on home and
relax," Louise said. "You enjoy your weekend, and then we can
celebrate on Monday." "Yeah, you can take us all to lunch."
Jon grinned at Maddie. "Somewhere expensive." "With a wine list," Ana added, and the
group made enthusiastic noises. Drawing on some deep reservoir of strength she
hadn't even known she possessed, Maddie pinned a smile to her face and did her
best to pretend to be cheerful. "Sounds like a plan," she said. Then
her familiar small black suitcase appeared, bumping into view in a sea of
others. Rescuing it and securing her briefcase to the top of it gave her a
chance to steel herself for what was to come. "Herb's going to drop me off." Jon had
retrieved his suitcase, too, and it trundled along behind him as they all
headed for the exit together. "You need a ride home?" Maddie shook her head. "I drove. My car's
in the lot." "You want some of us to come home with
you?" Ana asked, frowning at her. "In case you're scared or
something?" "I'm not scared." Now there was a lie
if she'd ever told one, Maddie thought, but the kind of scared she was wasn't
anything that the presence of Ana or any of the others could fix. "The way
I look at it is, what happened last night was just one of those things that
happens sometimes in big cities. Now that I'm back home, I'll be fine." "You sure?" Louise asked, surveying
her a little anxiously. Afraid of what Louise might be able to read in her
face, Maddie concentrated on looking serene. "You can sleep over at my
house if you want." "You can sleep over at mine." Jon
gave her an exaggeratedly lascivious grin. That did make her laugh, and she was grateful to
him because of it. "Thank you both, but I'll be fine." They reached the pair of sliding glass doors
marked "Short-Term Parking." "We're here," Herb said, and everyone
stopped near the door. "Maddie, can we at least walk you to your
car?" "Well, I guess you could—except I'm taking
a shuttle to the long-term lot. Think I'm going to pay forty dollars to leave
my car in short-term parking overnight? No way." Heart aching, she smiled
at the assembled group, all of whom were looking at her with varying degrees of
concern. "Would everyone please stop worrying about me? This is St.
Louis. I'll be fine." They all seemed to feel the force of that,
because their faces relaxed. "All right, then." "Have a good weekend." "See
ya." "Don't think we're not going to talk about
that raise on Monday." Jon, bless him, struck just the right note with
that last comment, and the cheery smile with which she bade good-bye to them
wasn't quite as much effort as it could have been. Maddie lifted a hand in
farewell and watched them turn away, with the lump in her throat now so big it
felt like an egg, then turned away herself and headed off toward the exit
marked "Long-Term Parking," where she knew from experience that a
shuttle made periodic trips back and forth to the distant lot. She walked through the sliding glass doors. It
was necessary to go through one more set to actually get outside, but she
stopped in the twenty feet or so of dead space between the doors and waited.
Five minutes later, she turned and walked back inside the terminal. As she had expected, Jon and the others were
gone. Maddie felt her shoulders sag as she realized that in all probability she
would never see them again. Friends. Family. A place to belong. She had
worked so hard to acquire them all. That she had to give them up just when she
was finally on the verge of getting everything she had always wanted didn't
seem fair. It wasn't fair. But such, as she had already learned way too
many times before, was life. So cry me a river, she thought sardonically as her throat started to tighten
up again. It won't change a thing. She sucked it up one more time. With her suitcase rolling along after her like
the faithful dog she'd always wanted and never permitted herself to acquire,
Maddie hurried toward the taxi stand. She'd had plenty of time to think on the plane
ride from New Orleans. And the conclusion she'd reached, had been inevitable
from the first second she'd awakened to find the man in her hotel room. What had happened wasn't an accident, and it
wasn't a mistake. She would be a fool to believe either. Deep in her gut, she'd known the truth all
along: They'd finally found her. If she wanted to survive, she was going to have
to cut and run. TEN She had been preparing for this day for seven
years, but that didn't make it any easier now that it had finally come. Hopping
into a taxi, Maddie directed the driver to take her to the Galleria, one of the
area's busiest malls. It was Friday night. There would be lots of action at the
mall. Lots of action made it easier to lose a tail, which she hoped she didn't
have. But it was possible. It could be. It might be. It would be foolish to assume that no one was
following her. Worse, it might even be fatal. The Galleria was swarming with shoppers, just as
she'd expected. On autopilot now, following a script she'd composed in her head
long since, Maddie made her way into Dillard's, bought some clothes, basic gear
like jeans and T-shirts and sneakers and underwear, things she hadn't brought
with her on what was to have been an overnight trip. She bought a suitcase,
too, a nondescript-looking tapestry bag that was larger than the little black
one that had served her so well. Since she was still able to use her credit
cards, paying was not a problem. Maddie signed the charge slip, looked down at
the signature, and felt her throat constrict. Ya gotta do what you gotta do. Her father's words again. She could almost hear
him saying them, could almost see him just the way he'd looked the night it had
all started to go so badly wrong, when she had tried to stop him from going on
what he'd called "an errand" for Big Ollie Bonano. He'd been—what?
Maybe fifty? Beefy and balding, with deep horizontal worry lines cut into his
forehead, he'd looked a decade older. She'd been in bed in the cheap little
apartment they had rented by the week, but she had heard him go out and had run
down to the car in the oversized T-shirt and panties she had worn back then to
sleep in, not caring that it was a tough neighborhood, that someone might see.
He had rolled down his window to talk to her. But even as she begged, she had
known he was already in too deep. There was no way he could have said no to Big
Ollie, he owed him—them—too much money. Gamblers who can't pay make good fish
food, as Big Ollie's lieutenant Charlie Pancakes had put it. Or good
errand-runners. Though he'd never meant for it to happen, her
father had gotten her caught up in the mob's sticky web, too. In the end, he
hadn't been able to get out. But she had. With both hands, she had grabbed an
opportunity that had presented itself and had run for her life. Just like she was going to run for her life now.
Because that hit man in New Orleans had come for her. She knew it as well as
she knew her own name. She'd been hiding for seven years, and now they'd found
her. The terrible thing about it was that an innocent woman had died in her
place. Thinking of that other Madeline Fitzgerald,
Maddie felt sick to her stomach. Guilt over her death would be something she
would carry with her for the rest of her life. But there was nothing she could
do to change what had happened now. It was over. It was a done deal. The only
thing she could do in the aftermath was try to save herself. And to do that,
she needed to disappear. At least, this time, she knew the drill: Lugging
her purchases, she went into the nearest ladies' room and changed into jeans, a
T-shirt, and sneakers, stuffing the clothes she'd been wearing along with the
remainder of the new things she'd bought into the old suitcase, which went
inside the new suitcase so that, when they started looking for her, they
wouldn't find the old one abandoned at the mall. She crammed in her briefcase,
then tucked Fudgie in a little more carefully. Thank God she'd brought him with
her. If she wanted to stay safe, she was never going
to be able to go back to her apartment—her home—again. At the thought, she found her eyes stinging once
more. Get over it, she told herself fiercely, and splashed her face with cold
water until the incipient tears went away. Then she set about changing her
appearance as much as possible, brushing her hair flat with water, tucking it
behind her ears, slicking a dark maroon lipstick she'd just bought at Dillard's
on her lips, clipping big gold hoops from the same source to her ears. She tied
a bandanna around her throat to hide the bruise there, and was done. Finally
she left the ladies' room and headed for the part of the mall opposite where
she'd come in. Taxis cruised there, as she knew from experience. She was
dressed differently, her hair was different, she looked different. More like a
college student than a businesswoman. Unless a tail had dogged her every
step—and no one had, she was as sure as it was possible to be of that—he wasn't
going to recognize her unless he got up real close and personal. Not in the
mass exodus of shoppers streaming out of the mall now that it was closing time.
Not in the brief period of time it would take her to step out into the open and
grab a taxi. "Where to?" the driver asked as she
pulled open the back door of the cab. Sliding inside, Maddie ignored the tightness in
her chest and told him. "What do you mean, you lost her?"
Sam's voice rose to a near shout as the bad news registered. "How the hell
could you lose her?" It was not quite nine p.m. Sam was standing in
front of a map of the United States that he'd tacked to the wall in the New
Orleans hotel room that was serving as their temporary headquarters. Red
pushpins marked the sites of the killings: Judge Lawrence in Richmond. Dante
Jones in Atlanta. Allison Pope in Jacksonville. Wendell and Tammy Sue Perkins
in Mobile. Madeline Fitzgerald in New Orleans. The other Madeline
Fitzgerald, that is. Not the young, pretty—all right, hot—one that he
was annoyed to realize he was beginning to take way too personal an interest
in. He had been trying to discern a pattern to them that was more precise than
just a general southwesterly direction along the country's interstate system,
the miles apart, a common denominator between the cities, something, when his
cell phone rang. The sound had made him stiffen and had startled Wynne, who was
sprawled on his back on the bed, and Gardner, who was hunched, bleary-eyed,
over her computer screen, into semi-alertness. Now, at Sam's words, Wynne rose
up on his elbows and Gardner hitched her chair around. Both of them watched him
with wide-eyed attention. "She never came out of the airport."
Gomez's voice on the other end of the phone was full of apology. "What?" Sam felt his gut clench. "She got off the plane, because I checked
with the airline. But she never came out of the airport. I've even had them
search—restrooms, bars, the lot. She's not there." "Holy Christ." Sam breathed in deeply,
starting a silent count to ten in an attempt to keep himself from losing it
before abandoning the effort at number three in favor of immediately addressing
the situation. Gomez was a new guy, a fucking new guy in Bureau
parlance, and new guys were expected to fuck up (hence the nickname), but to
have it happen now, on his case, on this case, threatened to drive Sam
around the bend. He'd wanted Mark Sidow, a veteran agent, to handle the
assignment, but he'd been informed that Sidow was on his annual August vacation
and Gomez was the only one available. And now, sure enough, the fucking new guy
had fucked up. Sam exhaled. "You were supposed to pick her
up off the plane." "Her car was in the lot. I waited by it.
She never came." You fucking moron. The words were never said. Sam swallowed them, reaching
deep inside himself for a semi-patient tone. Hell, he'd been the fucking new
guy once. They all had. Anyway, chewing out Gomez would not help find Maddie. "Did you check her place?" "Yep. She hasn't been there." Sam ran a hand through his hair. "Maybe she went home with that guy she was
with—uh, Jon Carter." "No. I checked that, too. He's alone." This time Sam didn't bother to try to swallow
the curse words that fell from his lips. "Did you try her office?" "She's not there." Okay. The possibilities were endless. The key was not to
overreact. But the thought of Maddie alone out there somewhere while the sick
bastard who had attacked her once before was God-knew-where made it difficult
to keep a lid on what he recognized as a bad case of incipient panic. "What you're saying to me is that she never
showed up at her car. You never even set eyes on her, right? " "Right." "If she's not in the airport, then she had
to leave it somehow." What if the UNSUB had been waiting for her in
the airport? What if he'd somehow managed to grab her right out from under
Gomez's nose? In that case, she was probably already dead. Cold fear filled Sam at the possibility. It took
a real physical effort to keep his voice even. "Find out how. Check the
security cameras to see if you can see her hooking up with anyone. Check the
cab stand, the buses, the car-rental agencies. Call Needleman." Ron
Needleman was the agent in charge of the St. Louis office. "Tell him you
need some help." "Uh, he's on vacation," Gomez said in
a small voice. "Then call whoever's in charge. I don't
care what it takes. Just find the woman." "Yes, sir." From the chastened tone of Gomez's voice, Sam
got the feeling that at last the urgency of the situation was starting to
filter through. "Now." "Yessir." It was the equivalent of a
verbal salute. Sam hung up, ran a hand around the back of his
neck, and looked at his team. "Pack up. We're heading for St. Louis." The second cab dropped her off at the Greyhound
Bus station. Maddie went into the terminal, glanced around.
The place was, appropriately enough, all gray: gray walls, gray-speckled
linoleum floor, rows of gray plastic chairs, about a quarter of which were
occupied. People of all descriptions—a pair of soldiers in uniform, an elderly
black woman with two cornrowed little girls, a heavyset white couple sharing a
pizza—waited in the seats. None of them paid the least bit of attention to her.
Along the far wall, tall windows looked out on a loading zone where a line of
buses waited under a canopy, motors running, silver skins gleaming beneath
bright halogen lights. A short line had formed in front of the window
where tickets were sold. She joined it, bought a ticket on the bus leaving at
10:15 for Las Vegas, then headed along the hall marked Restrooms. There
was an exit at the end of the hall. Pushing through it, she stepped outside.
The heat wrapped around her like a blanket. It did nothing to ease the
bone-deep chill that made her feel as though she would never be warm again. The time was ten minutes after ten p.m. It was
full night, with stars scattered across the velvety black sky and the moon a
giant orange globe riding low on the horizon. Moths and other assorted insects
swooped around the tall lights that lit the parking lot. Maddie crossed the
pavement quickly, heading for the alley that ran between two rows of rundown
commercial buildings. Stepping into the darkness of the alley, she couldn't
resist a quick glance over her shoulder. No one, nothing. Gritting her teeth, she hurried
on. This was the most dangerous part of her journey.
She was alone outside in the dark, hideously vulnerable to the hired thug who
was on her trail. But she was almost certain that he wasn't behind her at that
moment, that she wasn't being followed. She was almost certain that she was alone. Almost. So far she thought that she was doing a good job
of keeping a step ahead of him. When he picked up her trail—and she knew that
he would, probably soon and probably at the airport—he would eventually be able
to trace her to the mall. He would probably even track her down to the bus
station. But by the time he figured out that she hadn't gotten on the express
to Las Vegas, she meant to be long gone. In a manner no one would be able to trace. She walked two blocks, then turned left down
another alley. The buildings were a mix of residential and commercial now. It
was a poor section, a bad section. The faint smell of decomposing garbage hung
in the air. Broken pavement made pulling her suitcase difficult, so she slowed
down, choosing her route carefully, lest the rattle of the wheels should
attract too much attention. A homeless man slept on a flattened cardboard box.
A man and a woman rooted around in a Dumpster behind a small Korean restaurant.
A car pulled up some distance in front of her, dousing its lights. Her breath
caught, and she stopped walking. Her heart thudded. Her stomach knotted. But it
was nothing, a false alarm. After a moment that seemed to stretch into hours, a
man got out, glanced around, and disappeared inside a rickety privacy fence.
She remembered to breathe then, and started walking again. Straining her ears
for the sounds of pursuit, she heard instead the whirr of insects; an
occasional crash, as though a dog was investigating a garbage can; muffled
yelling from a fight inside one of the houses; and the wail of a siren in the
distance. By the time she reached her destination, she was
bathed in cold sweat. The detached garage was dark and deserted.
Unlocking the door, she slid inside, pulling the suitcase in after her. When
she closed the door behind her, it was so dark that she literally couldn't see
her hand in front of her face. The air was stifling, and the place smelled
musty, dirty. She stood motionless for a moment, listening, getting her
bearings. Her heart raced. Her breathing came fast and shallow. Icy prickles
chased one another over her skin. But she heard nothing out of the ordinary.
Sensed nothing out of the ordinary. Finally she moved, finding the ten-year-old Ford
Escort by touch, unlocking it, opening the door. By its interior light, she saw
that the car was covered in a thick layer of dust and the garage was festooned
with cobwebs. Everything looked exactly as it should—as if no one had been
there in the three months since she had last visited. Opening the trunk, she heaved
her suitcase in beside the emergency kit she had prepared long ago. She had
cash in the emergency kit, papers, things she would need to survive until she
could start anew. No one in the world knew about her emergency
kit, or that she owned this car or rented this garage. She'd always considered
this place her safety net, her Plan B. If she had the sense of a gnat, she told
herself, she would be busy about now, thanking God that she'd had the foresight
to prepare it. Instead, as she drove away, she felt sick
inside. For seven years she had been prepared to run—but she realized now that
as more and more time had passed, she had grown increasingly confident that she
would never have to. She had hoped and prayed she would never have
to. The last thing in the world she wanted now was
to abandon the life she had so painstakingly built for herself—but what choice
did she have? Basically, it came down to this: Leave or die. Some choice. Hating what she was being forced to do, she
pulled onto I-64 and headed east. Traffic was moderately heavy, and as she
approached downtown she could see the brightly lit arch that was the symbol of
the city curving silver against the night sky. It dwarfed the surrounding
skyscrapers. Beyond it, the Mississippi River rolled south toward New Orleans,
its slow-moving waters reflecting the glowing lights of the city. Since it was
Friday night, the riverfront would be busy. Tourists would be thick in the park
beneath the arch, visiting the gift shop, strolling the paths, lining up to ride
the little train that took them up inside the arch to the monument's pinnacle.
As she reached the bridge, she saw the steamboats that had been converted into
floating gambling casinos plying the river, lights twinkling festively. On the
other side of the river, East St. Louis stretched out, deceptively dark and
quiet. It was a dangerous place, East St. Louis, and except for those who lived
there, the cops who patrolled it, and a few unwary tourists, people tended to
stay away from it at night. A handful of long-established factories still
existed there, Brehmer's among them. Maddie was just coming off the bridge when
she saw its neon sign glowing orange against the worn brick wall of the
manufacturing plant. We won the account. On any other day, under any other circumstances,
she would have been hugging the victory to her like a beloved child, giddy with
happiness, overwhelmed with possibility. Now the knowledge was like a lead
weight inside her, making it hard to breathe. Impulsively she took the exit that led past the
plant. She needed gas anyway. Might as well get it there as anywhere, and spend
her last few minutes in St. Louis mourning what might have been. We won the
account. At least the others—Jon, Louise, Ana, Judy,
Herb—would have this weekend to celebrate before everything turned to ashes. When she was reported missing, what would happen
to Creative Partners? She didn't know. Didn't even want to speculate. They'd all be out of work. The clients would go
elsewhere. The Brehmer account—forget
the Brehmer account. It would vanish like smoke in the wind. She drove past
the tall chain-link fence that surrounded the plant, then slowed as she came
even with the manufacturing facility itself. It operated twenty-four hours,
producing food for nearly every kind of domestic animal, and tall, frosty
lights illuminated the scattering of cars in the parking lot. Smoke poured from
a smokestack on top of one of the buildings, and a uniformed security guard
manned a white hut beside the gate. Landing this account was the culmination of
every dream she'd had since she'd arrived in St. Louis. She had been terrified,
broke, friendless, with no one in the world to depend on besides herself.
Gravitating to the area's colleges because she had felt she would blend in with
all the kids her own age, she'd slept on couches in the libraries and
dormitories in those first hard weeks, until she'd scraped together the money
to rent a room in a ramshackle old house that catered to students. Unable to
find a job, she had made her own work, using campus kitchens to bake cookies
and brownies from mixes and peddling them to tourists on the waterfront along
with "souvenirs" she made herself from rocks on which she painted
things like the arch above the name of the city. Impressed with her
entrepreneurial skills, a man whose business was selling advertising over the
phone offered her work on a commission-only basis. She'd made seven hundred
fifty dollars her first week. After that, she had never looked back. She had
worked hard, saved, dreamed, all the while doing her best to put her past
behind her. When the chance to buy Creative Partners had arisen, she'd jumped
at it. She knew, knew, knew she could make the agency a success. And after an admittedly slow start, she was now
well on her way. Out of all the advertising agencies who'd pitched them,
Creative Partners had won the Brehmer account. Then the clock had struck midnight. Like
Cinderella at the ball, she was left with no choice but to flee. She'd come so far. Was she really going to just
let it all go? Slowing, she turned right into the parking lot
of a QuikStop just beyond the plant. Through its windows she could see a couple
of customers inside the store, and there was an old Chrysler at the gas pump.
She pulled up to another of the pumps and stopped the car. Then she just sat there, hands tight around the
steering wheel, staring out through the windshield at the glowing Brehmer's
sign. "Well?" Sam growled into the phone.
He, Wynne, and Gardner were in the air now, about a third of the way into the
three-hour flight to St. Louis. They had been experiencing varying degrees of
turbulence since they'd taken off, and right at that moment the small chartered
plane was bouncing all over the sky. Gardner, in the seat facing Sam, was
wrapped in a blue blanket and slumped against the fuselage, fast asleep. Beside
her, Wynne was sprawled in his seat as if he didn't have a bone left in his
body. He was pale and slack-jawed, his parted lips faintly purple from his gum—
hopefully discarded before he went to sleep—which Sam could still smell. Only a
gleam from beneath nearly closed lids told Sam that the ringing phone had
roused him—unlike Gardner—from oblivion. "We think she took a taxi to the
mall," Gomez said on the other end. "Looks like she went
shopping." "Shopping?" Sam repeated, momentarily dumbfounded. Then he
frowned. How likely was that? "Directly from the airport? Without picking
up her car?" "This cab driver says he gave a woman
matching her description a ride to the mall," Gomez repeated doggedly. "So she's at the mall." "Well..." There was something in
Gomez's tone that told Sam that the other shoe was getting ready to drop.
"The thing is, the mall's closed now and she doesn't seem to be there.
Actually, uh, we can't seem to locate her anywhere. I'm thinking maybe she, uh,
met some friends at the mall and went somewhere with them." Breathe. "Find out." "I'm trying. I've got Hendricks with me
now, and we're doing everything we can to locate her." Deep breath. Deep, calming breath. "Do more. Put out an APB if you have to. I
want her found." "Yes, sir." "Now." "Yessir." And on the heels of that verbal salute, Sam
broke the connection. "Fucking new guy still fucking up,
huh?" Wynne asked. As far as Sam could tell, the only muscles he'd moved were
connected to his eyelids. His eyes were open now, and he was looking at Sam. "Yeah." The plane pitched. Sam's
fingers curled instinctively around the arms of his seat. Outside the windows,
the night was black. No stars, no moon. Just—nothing. A void. "You know,
that guy isn't going to just let her walk away. He's going to kill her if he
can." He tried to keep the tension he was feeling out
of his voice. He knew himself well enough to know that if it hadn't been for
the turbulence, he would have been up, pacing the cabin. "You think he's already going after her
again? Or is he out there somewhere, planning a hit on this Walter? " "I don't think he has to plan a hit on
Walter. I think he knows exactly where Walter is, and can hit him any time he
wants. The others, too. They were all planned in advance. This chase thing he
has us doing is a game to him. He likes to drive us crazy trying to figure it
out, then do the hit right before we close in. He's taunting us, letting us
know he's smarter than us." "Sick son of a bitch." But Wynne said
it lazily. This case wasn't getting to Wynne the way it was to him, Sam
realized. Of course, the phone calls weren't directed at Wynne. And now, there
was Maddie Fitzgerald. "You think he's having fun with it?" "Oh, yeah," Sam said. "But we'll
get him. He's already made one mistake. And one mistake is all it takes." "Leaving Maddie Fitzgerald alive." "That's the one." "So you think he's in St. Louis." If the bastard was already in St. Louis, and
Maddie Fitzgerald was missing, things weren't looking good. The idea that she
was out there, unprotected and possibly in danger, while he was stuck in this
tiny cabin, miles above the earth, made Sam nuts. "Depends on how he's getting around. If
he's driving, which I think he is, it's possible. But even if he isn't in St.
Louis yet, he will be. Soon. I'm as sure of it as I am my own name. There's no
way he can be sure she can't identify him." Wynne looked at him. "Think it's fair to
abandon Walter to his fate while we mount guard over her?" The plane dropped a couple hundred feet, and
Sam's grip on the seat arms tightened until his knuckles turned white. Wynne
the Placid never even moved. "You ever hear the saying about a bird in
the hand being worth two in the bush? Maddie Fitzgerald is our bird in the
hand. We don't know where Walter is, and chances are we're not going to figure
it out in time to save him. We do know where she is. And we can assume the
UNSUB's off-balance, because he hadn't figured on having to get to St. Louis to
take care of a mistake. This is probably our best chance to catch him, and the
best way to save Walter, whoever the hell he is, and anyone else who might have
made the sick bastard's hit parade. What we do is put a tail on Maddie
Fitzgerald, and wait. He'll show up. Always supposing he hasn't already gotten
to her, that is." Sam's insides twisted at the thought. Since this
case had started, they'd been too late five times already. If it turned out to
be six, and the next victim was Maddie Fitzgerald, he knew he'd be haunted by
her honey-colored eyes for the rest of his life. The smell of gasoline was slow to dissipate in
the muggy air. Topping off her tank, Maddie thought she could almost see the
vapors as a diaphanous, glistening film, rising hazily beneath the harsh light.
Returning the nozzle to its niche, she screwed her gas cap back on and headed
for the cash register. She paid for the gas, walked back to her car, and got
in. The Brehmer's sign still glowed orange in the
distance. A sharp tap on the window made her jump so high
that she almost banged her head on the roof. Her heart was hitting about a
thousand beats per minute by the time she realized that the man on the other
side of the glass was the same man she had paid for the gas. Cautiously, she rolled the window down a few
inches. "Forgot your change," he said, handing
over a couple of limp bills and some coins. "Oh. Thanks." Rolling up the window,
she dropped the change in the console, stuffed the bills in her pocket, and
started the car. Her pulse was still racing as she pulled out of the QuikStop.
Her hands shook and she was freezing cold again, jittery, basically one big
nerve. It had taken only that tap on the window to make
her realize just how vulnerable she was. The hit could happen anytime, anywhere. No matter how hard she ran. If they'd found her once, they could find her
again. She drove past Brehmer's, heading for the
expressway, but she didn't even notice the glowing sign because the truth of
her situation, now that she had been awakened to it, pulsated through her brain
in its own huge neon orange letters. Now that they knew she was alive, they would
never stop coming after her. Sooner or later, they would find her. And she
would die. Boom. Just like that. Blindly, she drove right past the expressway
ramp. Unless she beat them at their own game. Unless
she got over the paralyzing terror that had haunted her for seven years. Unless
she fought back. She was not defenseless. She had a weapon. The
only question was, did she have the guts—the smarts—to use it? And survive? The bright warning of a red light stopped her.
Glancing around, she realized that the expressway entrance was a good three
blocks behind her, that she was waiting at an intersection with a gang of
up-to-no-good toughs eyeing her from the corner, that the dark storefronts
sported iron bars and the only other vehicle in sight was pulled over at the
next corner with a miniskirted hooker leaning through the window. Not that any of that scared her particularly.
She knew this part of town, knew East St. Louis, knew all the East St. Louises
out there. They were in her blood. She'd grown up in a succession of them, each
rougher than the first. But she had gotten out, made herself over,
become somebody. She was a member of the Chamber of Commerce, for God's
sake. How funny—how cool—was that? She pulled into the parking lot just past where
the hooker was now sliding into the car, turned around, and headed back toward
the QuikStop. She would park there, make a couple of phone calls. It was called taking back her life. Then, maybe, if the gods were kind and the
heavens smiled and her luck was just a little bit good, she would be going
home. Or maybe not. ELEVEN Saturday,
August 16 By the time the taxi dropped her off at the
airport, it was nearly five a.m. Pulling her little black suitcase behind her,
Maddie headed for long-term parking, so tired that just putting one foot in
front of the other required a serious effort. But she felt better. Not good,
but better. Safer. She thought she'd managed to call off the dogs. The number was seared into her brain. She had
called it often enough, years ago. The phone was still operational, still
answered in the same way. "A-One Plastics." The company didn't really exist, of course. Or,
rather, it did, but only as a front for the real operation: a loan-sharking
outfit with ties to the Mob. She'd asked for Bob Johnson, and had been answered
by a couple of heartbeats' worth of dead silence. Then the man on the other end of the phone had
asked sharply, "Who's this?" His voice had bristled with paranoia. Identifying herself, Maddie had almost smiled.
She was still scared to death of them, of what they could do; she knew
her life hinged on how this phone call turned out; but still, it felt almost
good to carry the war into the enemy's camp at last. The man had denied any knowledge of Bob Johnson,
but had asked her to leave a number where she could be reached. Not very many minutes later, her cell phone had
rung, just as she had known it would. "This is Bob Johnson," the voice said.
Maddie thought she recognized it, but she couldn't be sure. It had been a long
time ago. And, after all, Bob Johnson was a code, not a man. For all she knew,
maybe more than one person answered to it. Or maybe the person answering to it had
changed. "Who is this again?" Maddie identified herself for a second time, and
the pause with which her name was greeted told her that he recognized it.
"Where are you, babe?" he asked finally. That was so blatant that
Maddie laughed. "Like I'm going to tell you," she
said, then glanced nervously around the lighted parking lot to make sure that
they had not already managed to track her to this out-of-the-way QuikStop. The
Chrysler had been replaced by a red Dodge Neon. Its owner, a black man in a blue
mechanic's uniform, was busy pumping gas. She nestled the small silver phone
closer to her face. "Remember all those 'errands' you guys had my father
run? He kept things from them. Evidence. Enough to put quite a few people away
for a long time. I'm just calling to tell you that if anything happens to me,
if I die younger than eighty in any place other than my bed, letters are going
to be mailed, giving certain locations where certain things are hidden, and
that evidence is going to start popping up all over the place like a bad rash,
and a lot of people are going to go down." This time the silence wasn't as
long. "You know what happens to little girls who
make big threats?" The voice had turned ugly. "Things that aren't so
nice." Maddie laughed again, the sound as brittle as
she felt. "You mean, like somebody sending a hit man to knock me off? Oh,
wait, somebody's already done that. But he messed up, and I'm still here. And I
mean to stay that way. Look, I don't want any trouble. I just want to live my life
in peace. So I'm trying to come up with something here that works out for all
of us. Nobody bothers me, and I don't bother anybody. That evidence never sees
the light of day." "What kind of evidence are we talking
about?" Maddie thought fast. "You want an example?
Okay. My father was there the night that Ted Cicero was whacked. The guy who
did it threw the gun away afterwards. Later, my father went back and got the
gun." She paused for effect. "I can't be sure, of course, but I'd be
willing to bet that there are fingerprints all over it." The sound of an indrawn breath told her that
she'd scored. She remembered well the night her father had come back from
witnessing the hit on Ted Cicero. He'd gotten drunk and cried, and told her
everything, to her horror. "Where is it?" he asked, rasping now. "I want to be let alone," she said,
keeping her voice steady with an effort. "If I even think there's a hit
man in my vicinity, I'm going give the gun—and everything else my father
kept—to the FBI. They've already been in touch with me, you know. Looking for
your hit man. I don't want to, but if I have to choose between getting whacked
and going to the feds, I pick the feds." She could hear him breathing hard. "If I
recall right, you got a history with the feds yourself." "So don't make me choose." Maddie could feel his tension emanating through
the phone. "What kind of other stuff are we talking
about here?" Her heart was racing, and her stomach had tied
itself in so many knots by this time that Houdini himself couldn't have
straightened it out. But she didn't let so much as a hint of that come out in
her voice. She knew these guys: They were jackals who preyed on the weak. The
key to surviving was to convince them that she was strong. Strong enough to
carry out her threats. "Tapes, for one thing. He used to carry a
little mini tape recorder in his pocket sometimes. When he went out on jobs.
And, let's see... oh, yeah, there was that stack of hundred-dollar bills Junior
Rizzo gave him—I don't know what job it was from, but I'm sure the feds would
find it interesting. And other things. Lots of other things. He liked keeping
souvenirs." There was more silence. Then, "Babe, let me give you some advice.
The smart thing for you to do is to come on back here where you belong, and bring
all this stuff you're talking about with you. Hand it over, and quit
threatening people. Nobody wants to have to hurt you." Maddie snorted. "Don't give me that. Nobody
gives a shit about hurting me. But I'm telling you: You hurt me, and you hurt
yourselves. I have enough evidence here to put a lot of people away for a long
time. And I've arranged it so that if anything happens to me, anything at all,
if I have a heart attack or choke to death on a pretzel or whatever, you better
believe the shit's going to hit the fan—for you and yours." "Potty mouth," he said, sounding angry
now. "In my book, there's nothing worse than a woman with a potty mouth.
Just for the record, I don't know nothing about no hit man. Or no Fat Ted
Cicero. Or Junior Rizzo." "What, are you afraid somebody's listening
in? They're not, at least not from my side. Like you said, I don't want
anything to do with the feds. Not unless you make me choose." "I don't know nothin' about anything you're
talking about." Maddie made a sound of disgust. "You go
tell whoever's in charge what I said," she said. "And get back to me.
Real soon. Like within the next couple of hours. Or I'm going to have to start
making some moves to protect myself." With that, she hung up. Then, not sure how
technologically advanced the goons might have become since she'd last had
occasion to cross paths with them, she peeled rubber out of the QuikStop and
headed back toward the city, where she drove aimlessly around the interstates
because she was afraid to stop anywhere. Call her paranoid, but she had hideous visions
of hit men with global-positioning devices zeroing in on her cell phone. Maybe
they had some twisted version of an On-Star service of their own now, an
automatic locater, something like 1-800-Bang-Bang-You're-Dead. By the time the phone rang again, she was a raw
bundle of nerves, having scared herself to the point where she was on the verge
of chucking the whole plan and hightailing it for as far away from St. Louis as
she could get. But then Bob had gotten back to her, telling her that while
nobody had any knowledge concerning any of the stuff she'd been talking about
earlier, they had a deal. Basically, live and let live. Of course, when the Mob acts like you're their
new best pal, the next thing you're liable to feel is their knife in your back. Maddie knew that as well as anyone, although she
thought she had succeeded in making them think that they had more to lose than
to gain by killing her. On the plus side, she was telling the absolute
truth about the stash of evidence. Her father had always been convinced that
someday he could use the things he had secretly squirreled away to free himself
from the Mob's grip. He had called his accumulation of stuff his
"insurance policy," and had kept it in a locked strongbox, which he
carefully hid. Unfortunately, the last time she had seen that strongbox had
been about a week before she'd fled. But since she was the only one who knew that, it
didn't really matter. Having the evidence didn't help her at all. Having them think
she had the evidence was what mattered. And it just might be enough to keep her alive.
It was a risk, a gamble. Up until this moment, she'd never thought she had a
propensity for gambling. But it seemed that now that the chips were down, she
was proving to be her father's daughter after all. Everything she had ever wanted was suddenly
within her grasp. During the last seven years, she had even managed to make
herself over into the person she had always wanted to be. The
wrong-side-of-the-tracks, lock-up-your-sons, her-father-is-a-criminal girl was
respectable now. Looked up to, even. A pillar of the community. "An
inspiration to others," as the president of the Chamber of Commerce had
described her at the dinner where she'd gotten her award. She was not going to just close the book on
that, or on the life that went with it. It had been too hard-won. Having done
everything that it was in her power to do to make sure she kept safe, she was
going to take a chance. She was going to stay. Which is how she came to be walking wearily past
rows of cars in the St. Louis airport's long-term parking lot as the sun pushed
its first tentative feelers of color over the horizon. It was still dark, but
not as dark as it had been. It was, rather, the deep, hazy charcoal of a
newborn dawn. Beyond the yellow glow of the tall halogen lamps that illuminated
the area, the airport was still and somnolent, not yet alive with the day's
bustle. In the distance she could hear the swoosh of an airplane as it
raced along the runway. Closer at hand, the only sound was the steady hum of
traffic from the nearby interstate. The faintest tinge of motor oil hung in the
air. Even at such an early hour, it was still hot and humid outside—it was
always hot and humid in St. Louis in August—but as she headed toward her blue
Camry, Maddie was shivering. But not with the cold. She was scared, there was no getting around
that. And she probably would be for a long time to come, until she had
determined to her own satisfaction that her threats had worked to stuff the
bogeyman back under the bed. But she should be safe enough at the moment, she
calculated. To begin with, she was almost certain that she had not been
followed on her aborted run. And if she had not been followed, then logic
dictated that the hit man— whom she had last encountered in New Orleans—would
not be lurking in this particular parking lot at this particular ungodly hour,
just waiting to pick her off. Her flight had landed almost eleven hours before.
Even if he had followed her to St. Louis, even if he had found her car in the
lot, what were the chances that he was still around? Slim, she judged. But not quite none. Which left her as jittery as a caged bird in a
roomful of cats. The nervous looks she could not help casting around were purely
involuntary. So, too, was the quickening of her step as she neared the spot at
the back of the lot where she had parked her car. When she had parked the car,
on a bright, sunny Thursday afternoon, when the thought that her carefully
constructed house of cards might be in imminent danger of collapse had never
crossed her mind, it had seemed like as good a place as any, as well as a
chance to work in a little aerobic exercise before she boarded her flight. Now,
the closer she got to the space, the more isolated it seemed. The misty pools of light thrown down by the
overhead lamps were a fair distance apart, and her Camry, in the last row, was
almost beyond the reach of all of them. The farther she got from the last
streetlight, the darker it got. The darker it got, the antsier she got. Her
eyes darted hither and yon like bees drunk on picnic beer. Behind the line of
cars, a tall, grassy bank rose just high enough to block a view of the road
that veered off from the central artery to the terminal to feed the long-term
lot. To her right, across another vast, mostly empty expanse of asphalt,
clustered a group of large metal buildings, probably airplane hangars. To her
left, even farther away, was the blocky concrete box that was the terminal. The good news was, there was not another human
being in sight. That was also the bad news. What she wouldn't have given, just at that
moment, for a patrolling cop. She was close enough to her car now so that she
could almost read the license plate. The weariness that had caused her steps to
drag just moments before had been wiped out by a burst of fear-fueled
adrenaline. Walking faster, probing shadows for possible danger, she cursed the
rattle her suitcase wheels made because she could not hear anything much over
them and because they gave her presence away. Maybe she was being paranoid, but
they seemed about as loud as a marching band. So loud that no one within
earshot could be ignorant of her approach. But then, no one was within earshot—were they? Her nerves were getting the better of her, she
knew. But she couldn't help it. Her imagination went into overdrive, seeing
danger in every swooping moth and hearing it with every random sound. She was
alone. She was sure she was alone. But her body refused to be convinced. Independent
of logic, her pulse raced and her stomach fluttered and her mouth went dry. As she drew even with the Camry's back fender,
her heart was pounding so hard that she could barely even hear the clatter the
suitcase was making over the drumming in her ears. The sense of being isolated
and vulnerable was so strong as she turned into the cramped space between her
car and the Town Car beside it that she had to fight the urge to just abandon
her suitcase on the spot and jump inside her car and zoom out of there as fast
as she could go. But she couldn't leave Fudgie—or her other things, either.
Stowing them in the backseat would take just a few seconds more. Anyway, she was being totally paranoid. She
couldn't see anyone. She couldn't hear anyone. And the reason for that was—ta-dah!—there
was no one else in the parking lot. Punching the button on her key ring that
unlocked the car, she hurried to grab the door handle at the same time as the
interior lit up. Her breath stopped. Her eyes widened. She
recoiled. There was a man in her car. In the driver's
seat. Bent over, as though he was hiding. Waiting. For her. In the split second it took her brain to
register what her eyes saw, he moved, straightening, his head twisting as he
looked around at her. Maddie screamed, dropped the handle of her
suitcase as if it had suddenly gone red-hot, and turned to run. And smacked full-tilt into a warm, solid body
that grabbed her arms and held on. Reacting instinctively, screeching so loudly
that she wouldn't have been surprised to learn that windows were shattering in
Kansas City, she shoved him away as hard as she could and jammed a knee up into
his groin. "Oomph!" He let go and doubled over.
She whirled to run. "Hold on there." Strong male arms clamped around her waist, dragging
her back into a bear hug that imprisoned her elbows. Heart racing like a NASCAR
engine, terror tying her stomach into a cold, hard knot, she screamed and
fought like a wild thing as she was swung up off her feet. He staggered
sideways with her, his grip all but crushing her rib cage, and her feet found
the side of her car. Pushing off with all her might, she nearly succeeded in
knocking both of them over. But he held on grimly, somehow managing to stay on
his feet while he carted her backward over about a yard of concrete. In a
single petrified glance around, she caught just a glimpse of a white panel van,
the rear doors of which were being swung open to receive her. Another set of
hands reached out to help subdue her... "Help!" she screeched, even as she was
being bundled inside. "Somebody, help!" The man doing most of the bundling said
something, but she couldn't hear him over her screams, which were cut off
abruptly as she was dropped on her stomach in the carpeted cargo area of the
van and all the air wooshed out of her lungs. "I don't fucking believe this," a man
in the front passenger seat said. Invisible except as a shape because of the
darkness, he had twisted around to watch as she was shoved inside the van. He
was too far away to reach her, and so she forgot about him as, strengthened by
panic, she rebounded onto her knees. Her blood pounded in her ears; her lungs
expanded as she sucked in air. Having recovered her ability to scream, she
shrieked like a banshee as she tried to dive past her captor to freedom. But he
blocked her, shoving her down onto her stomach on the carpet a second time and
then yanking her right arm behind her back. He was in the process of fastening
something cold and metallic around her wrist as the other man bellowed, in the
tone of someone who had said it more than once, "Gomez! Let her go!" Something about the voice, about the shape of
the head and shoulders silhouetted against the windshield, rang a bell of
recognition in her head. She stopped struggling, and her head snapped up
so fast she nearly sprained her neck. "But you saw her!" the man holding her
protested. "She kneed Hendricks! She..." "I said let her go." His voice was
quieter now, probably because he no longer had to make himself heard over her
screams. "This is Miz Fitzgerald." That drawled Miz was what did it. "You," she gasped, staring at him in total disbelief.
"What are you doing here?" But if Mr. Special Agent from New Orleans heard,
he didn't reply. Instead, he swung out of the van and came around toward the
back, as the man holding her arm reluctantly released it. Maddie whipped
around, rising to her knees. Then, as it became obvious that she was no longer
in danger and, in fact, had not been since she'd spotted the man—almost
certainly an FBI agent—in her car, all the adrenaline drained out of her like
water out of an unplugged bathtub. Her body accordioned and she sat abruptly on
her folded legs. Glaring at the wiry guy with the brown brush cut and navy
sport coat who had thrown her into the van—he was backlit by a halogen glow
that made it impossible for her to see enough of his face to form an impression
of it—she transferred that glare to Mr. Special Agent as he joined the party. "Nice to see you again, Miz
Fitzgerald." The dry drawl earned him a full-blown scowl,
which he probably was unable to fully appreciate because of the darkness in the
back of the van. Like his friend, he was backlit, which made him look tall and
broad and formidable. "Give me the key," he added in a
resigned tone to the other man, holding out his hand. It was only then that
Maddie realized that a pair of shiny silver handcuffs dangled from her wrist. "You've got to be kidding me." She
held up her cuffed wrist and looked down at the restraint hanging from it in
disbelief. "Handcuffs?" "I think what happened here was a slight
case of mistaken identity." McCabe took hold of her wrist, held it up, and
leaned forward to squint at it. "Mistaken..." Her voice trailed off. She remembered the warmth of that hand. The size
of that hand. "Madeline Fitzgerald, meet Special Agent
Pete Gomez." Resisting her attempt to tug her hand free,
McCabe lifted her wrist higher and turned it this way and that, apparently
trying to catch enough light to enable him to fit the key into the cuffs. "Hope I didn't scare you," Gomez said
sheepishly. "I think you can safely assume that
grabbing her and throwing her into the back of a van scared her." McCabe
was talking to Gomez, even as his thumb slid over Maddie's wrist. The tender
skin there registered the heat of that hard, masculine thumb, instinctively
recording how long and strong it felt, even as her mind rejected the inevitable
association. "Let go of my hand," she said through
her teeth, and jerked her wrist from his hold. The handcuffs jingled as she
pressed her hand to her chest. He shrugged, focused on her now. "Your
call. People might think you have odd taste in jewelry, though." Maddie's lips compressed. She really couldn't go
through life with a set of handcuffs attached to her wrist. "Fine. Get it off." She held out her
arm to him again. His fingers slid around her wrist. "Just
hold still a minute..." This time, Maddie refused to notice how his hand
felt and was rewarded just a few seconds later when the key slid into the lock.
A turn, a click, and the bracelet fell away from her wrist. McCabe caught it
and released her hand. "You said she was wearing a white skirt
suit. How was I supposed to know? And then she kneed Hendricks," Gomez
said, sounding aggrieved. "You changed clothes," McCabe said to
Maddie. "That would account for some of the confusion, I think." He
handed the cuffs back to Gomez. Maddie experienced another moment of panic as
she realized that she was indeed still wearing the jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers
that she'd bought at Dillard's to run in. But, of course, she reassured herself
even as her heart gave a sudden lurch, he couldn't know why she'd bought them
or that she'd meant to run. The Escort had been returned to its garage, the new
tapestry suitcase had joined her emergency kit in the trunk, and she'd made her
way back to the airport by a route every bit as circuitous as the one she'd
used to leave it. He couldn't know any of that. He... "Wait a minute," she said, as the full
implications of his presence burst upon her. "You were just in New
Orleans. Are you following me?" McCabe stuck his hands in the front pockets of
his jeans and rocked back on his heels. If ever there'd been a stance that
denoted guilt, Maddie thought, she was looking at it right there. "It just so happened that we were in the
neighborhood," he said. "Oh, yeah. Right. St. Louis is definitely
in the same neighborhood as New Orleans." Her brows furrowed. "You
are, aren't you? You're following me!" "I'd like to point out here that you found
us. We didn't find you. So tell me how that's following you." "That's just splitting hairs, and you know
it." As she spoke, she sat down and swung her legs
around in front of her, scooting out of the van. McCabe grasped her arm as she
slid to her feet, steadying her. That big, strong hand imprinted itself on her
skin all over again. Maddie jerked her arm from his grasp with a little more
emphasis than was strictly necessary, took a step away from him, and then
stopped abruptly as she came face-to-face with the seemingly solid wall of people
that had materialized behind him. They curved around the back of the van,
making it impossible for her to reach her car without strong-arming her way
through them—which she was not entirely certain they were prepared to let her
do. "What is this, a convention? Who are all
these people?" she demanded, rounding on McCabe. But her peripheral vision
had already picked out the giant at the back of the crowd. The frizzy golden
nimbus that the weird light made of his hair was unmistakable. Seeing that her
gaze rested on him— Maddie realized then that the lights that
backlit them must illuminate her face to a certain degree—he gave her a feeble
wave. "They're FBI agents, too!" she gasped
before he could reply. "Aren't you?" she said to them. "Aren't
they?" she said to McCabe. He sighed. "Special Agent Mel Hendricks.
Special Agent Cynthia Gardner. And you already know Wynne. And Gomez." As he introduced them, McCabe gestured to each
one in turn. Hendricks, whom Gomez had identified as the man she had kneed,
seemed slightly stoop-shouldered. Maddie didn't know if that was his natural
posture or the result of lingering pain. Gardner, the only woman in the group,
was as tall as most of the men. She had opened the doors of the van for Gomez.
And replaying the scene in her head again, she realized that Wynne had been the
man in her front seat. That cherub-on-steroids look was hard to mistake. "What were you doing in my car?" she
asked him. Then her eyes swung back to McCabe. "What was he doing in my
car?" "Searching it?" Wynne's tone made it
more of a question than an answer. "Searching it," McCabe confirmed. Outraged, Maddie drew herself up to her full
height as the wheels in her head began to turn. So many agents in St. Louis for
a murder in New Orleans—what was wrong with this picture? Did somebody say
"overkill"? Her stomach clenched as the question occurred to her: Did
they know? But if they did, wouldn't she already be under arrest? McCabe
had made his fellow agent take the cuffs off.... They didn't know. They were present strictly for
reasons of their own. And it didn't take a genius to figure out what those
reasons were. Unfortunately for their plans, however, FBI agents on her tail
were the last thing she wanted. Except, of course, a hit man on her tail, but
she was relatively certain she'd already taken care of him. If, however, the Mob were to somehow get wind of
their presence and think she was in bed with the FBI, she knew as well as she
knew her own name that all bets would be off. The thought of having her hard-won deal screwed
by the meddling presence of the feds she despised maddened her. Her eyes
narrowed at McCabe. "Where the hell do you get off searching my car?" His tone was probably meant to be soothing.
"Your plane landed eleven hours ago. You never picked up your car. We were
worried about you." "Hah!" Maddie glared at him, then let
her eyes flash around the circle before her gaze once again fastened on McCabe.
"That's the lamest thing I ever heard. You think I don't know what you're
doing? You're following me because you think that guy in New Orleans is going
to take another shot at me, and you want to use me to catch him!" The silence with which that was greeted told her
that she was right on. "Well, you can forget it," she said,
and stormed right through the group, which parted like the Red Sea to
accommodate her. "Miz Fitzgerald..." McCabe was right
behind her. A sizzling glance over her shoulder told her that his fellow agents
were following him like a tail follows a dog. "It's in your best interest
to cooperate with us. It seems to me that you don't fully understand the danger
you're in. I don't know how to put this any more plainly: There's a killer
out there, and I'm as sure as it's humanly possible to be that he's coming
after you." Maddie bent to snag the handle of her suitcase,
which, thanks to the weight of the briefcase secured to the top of it, had
fallen over on its side, and snatch up her keys, which had dropped to the
pavement not far from the suitcase. "So what's your plan? To follow me until he
kills me, and then arrest him?" Opening the Camry's rear door, she wheeled
the suitcase up to the threshold and wrestled it, briefcase and all, into the
backseat. "Maybe that works for you, Mr. Special Agent, but it doesn't
work for me." Slamming the door, she shot poison darts at
McCabe with her eyes. "Actually, we were kind of counting on
arresting him before he kills you." "No." Maddie opened the driver's-side
door. He caught her arm, his long fingers gripping
hard as he stepped close, so close that she had to look up to meet his gaze.
His eyes were dark and intent. "You're not hearing me. You need us. You're
in danger." Maddie snorted. "The only dangerous people
I see around here are you"—she hit McCabe with another venomous
glance—"and you"—the next one was for Wynne, who was right behind
him—"and the rest of you." As a finale, she shared the wealth. "Miz Fitzgerald..." "Let go," she said through her teeth,
jerking her arm from his grasp. "And step back." She sketched an area
around herself with her index finger. "This is my personal space. Stay
out of it." She slid into the driver's seat and reached out
to pull the door closed. "Miz Fitzgerald..." "No," she repeated, pausing to glare
up at McCabe. "I don't want you following me. I want you to leave me
alone. I refuse. So go away." She slammed the door and started the car. After
a glance in the mirror to make sure that McCabe and the rest of them were out
of the way, she backed out of the parking spot. McCabe, with his henchmen
behind him, had regrouped behind the open-doored van, which, not
coincidentally, was parked directly behind the spot her car had just vacated.
Reversing past them, she shoved the transmission into drive and glanced their
way again. The halogen glow coupled with the lightening sky permitted her to
see them all more or less clearly now. Gomez looked young, Hendricks looked
grumpy, Wynne looked tired, and Gardner had spiky, red hair. They were all
watching her, and so was McCabe. His arms were folded over his chest and his
feet were planted slightly apart as he tracked the Camry's progress. From what
she could tell, he was still wearing the same grungy jeans and T-shirt that
he'd had on the previous day, he needed a shave more than ever, and his eyes
were so narrowed and hooded beneath the thick, black brows that were drawn
together over them that if she hadn't known who and what he was, he would have
won her choice for best candidate for hit man hands down. He was also wearing that sardonic little smile
of his again. She didn't like that smile. She didn't trust
that smile. Pulling even with them, she braked and rolled
down her window. "I mean it," she said forcefully when
he raised his eyebrows at her. "I refuse to have you following me. So back
off." "The thing is," he said, his drawl
more pronounced than she could remember hearing it, "we don't really need
your permission." He smiled at her. She scowled at him. Then she
rolled up her window and peeled rubber toward the exit. TWELVE Maddie wasn't really surprised to glance in her rearview
mirror some few minutes later and discover the white van behind her. She was,
however, furious. Her jaw clenched, her hands tightened around the steering
wheel, and she muttered something not very nice under her breath. Then she came
to her senses and jerked her eyes back to the road. The very last thing she
needed was to have a wreck because she wasn't paying attention to her driving. Having told McCabe to leave her alone, and
having been ignored, she didn't see exactly what else she could do to rid
herself of her escort. Except fume. And ignore them. This she set herself to do. Breathing in deeply,
she relaxed her grip on the steering wheel and turned on the radio. The soaring
vocals of Christina Aguilera's rendition of "Beautiful" filled the
car. That was good. Easy to listen to. Humming along, she deliberately did not
look in the rearview mirror again, instead concentrating on easing around the
U-shaped entrance ramp that emptied out onto I-270. It was still not quite full
dawn, and besides her Camry and the van several discreet car lengths behind it,
only a few vehicles were on the road. Lights from cars going in the opposite
direction flashed through her windows as she headed south. She lived in Clayton, a moderately upscale older
suburb that contained a mix of housing, from huge old single-family homes to
square brick apartment buildings and commercial buildings. Convenient to
shopping and other amenities, it was about fifteen minutes from the airport.
Once she was safely inside her apartment, she planned to shower and fall into
bed. She'd now been basically without sleep for almost forty-eight hours, and
she was so tired that her eyes burned. It probably wasn't even safe for her to
drive. It then occurred to her that if the FBI was
planning to stake out her apartment, which she assumed was the next step in
their plan, one good thing might yet come of their meddling: She should at
least be able to catch a few hours of decent sleep. With the feds providing
multiple eyes to watch and ears to listen, at least she would feel safer inside
her apartment in the short term. On her own, she certainly would have slept,
because she was too exhausted not to. But she would have been afraid. She would
have had nightmares. And every squeaking floorboard in a building with lots of
them would have startled her awake. Just in case. As she turned off the expressway onto Big Bend
Boulevard, she noticed that the sky was growing lighter. The entire eastern
horizon was limned with fiery orange now, and she was able to see, with help
from the dimming illumination of the streetlights that lined the road, dew
shining on the grassy median. She turned left, into the residential section
where she lived, and eased around a garbage truck parked by a curb. The
trashman was in the process of dumping the contents of a can into the back of
his truck as she passed. The clank of garbage being emptied into the big green
crusher compartment rose above the rushing sound of the commuter train just
blocks away as it headed into the city. For a moment, as she pulled onto her street,
Maddie thought that she'd lost the van. Or perhaps they had decided not to
follow her after all. Because they weren't there in her rearview mirror when
she glanced back. But by the time she drove into the lot behind
the house in which her apartment was located, she'd caught sight of it again.
They were just turning onto her street, so far back that she wasn't even sure
they could still see her car. Maybe she had lostthem? Almost?
Then it occurred to her that they didn't have to follow her all that closely.
They were the FBI, after all. She was willing to bet dollars to doughnuts that
they already knew precisely where she lived. And with that, she remembered just exactly why
she experienced fear and loathing every time she thought of the FBI. Her apartment was on the third floor of a big
old Arts and Crafts-style house that had been converted into multiple units
years before. The third floor, with its dormer windows and odd angles, was the
smallest, and she had it all to herself. The house itself was a homey-looking
place, all deep brown siding and covered porches and gables. The front yard was
the size of a postage stamp, and the backyard had been converted into a parking
lot, but honeysuckle bushes grew riotously around the front entrance and had
tangled themselves into a thick hedge behind the parking area, and tall old
oaks and elms shaded the fresh new asphalt. Maddie knew she would be enfolded
by the intoxicating scent of the honeysuckles as soon as she stepped out of the
car. It was one of the reasons she loved living there. It was one of those
little somethings that made a place feel like home. It also didn't hurt that the rent was very
reasonable. Only June Matthews's green PT Cruiser was parked
in the shadowy lot, Maddie saw as she cast a quick glance around. A divorced
middle-school teacher, June rented one of the two apartments on the second
floor. The other tenants, a young couple and a single woman lawyer in each of
the two first-floor apartments and a pair of sixtyish sisters who shared the
other second-floor apartment, didn't appear to be home. At least, their cars
weren't home. Maddie nosed the Camry into her designated spot
beside the walkway to the back porch. Actually, her lease allotted her two—each
apartment came with two parking spaces, for a total of ten—but she never used
the other one, so it had been designated the guest spot by common consent. She
braked, put the transmission into park, and slewed around to look for the van.
By now she should be able to see its lights. This was private property. She was a little hazy
on the laws, but she didn't think that they had any right to follow her here. Of course, in practical terms, the FBI was
pretty much like the proverbial eight-hundred-pound gorilla. It could do
anything it... Something stung her left shoulder, and both the
front and rear windshields shattered with a thunderclap-loud boom, all
at approximately the same instant. BBs of glass blew inward, showering her with
what felt like an explosion of hail. Reflexively closing her eyes, still
registering the unexpected burning heat of the sting, she reopened them almost
instantly and turned back around to gape in blank incomprehension at the open
hole where the windshield had been. Then she felt something—a bee?—whiz past
her left cheek. Not a bee. A bullet. Oh, God, someone was shooting at her. That sting—it was a bullet. She'd been shot. Making the connection, Maddie threw herself
across the seat. At a minimum, survival meant getting down below the level of
the dashboard. The sound of squealing brakes and slamming doors
somewhere close at hand was followed almost instantly by the thud of running
feet. Someone wrenched open the driver's-side door. The interior light blinked
on. Maddie screamed—the sound was shrill and high, like an infant's wail—and
recoiled from the man who crouched there, doing her best to scramble over the
console in a frantic, instinct-fueled attempt to escape. "Stay down!" McCabe. She recognized him with a great rush of relief as he pushed
her down again, then threw what felt like his entire body on top of her. As his
weight crushed her against the hard plastic casing of the console between the
seats, she cried out, instinctively shifting onto her stomach a little to ease
the pressure, but she didn't even think about trying to push him off. He was
putting himself between her and the next bullet, putting his life on the line
to keep her alive. Another shot could come at any second. It could
penetrate the car s thin aluminum skin, hit him, tear through his flesh, then
bury itself in hers. Maddie realized that she was trembling. Her
stomach roiled. Her heart raced like a runaway train. Terror swirled over her
skin like an icy wind. Every tiny hair on her body sprang to prickling life. Please, God, keep us safe. Both of us. What could have been seconds or minutes or hours
later, she felt him shift. He started to ease off her. Maddie's lips parted and
she sucked in much-needed air as she clutched him, caught his shoulder, his
arm, his hand, and held on. "Don't leave me," she said. Her voice
sounded like nothing she had ever heard emerge from her throat before. Their
gazes met. He loomed above her, his eyes black and hard and alive with some
emotion she couldn't quite name. His expression was grim. "I'm not leaving you," he promised,
but still her cold fingers twined with his warm ones and clung with every bit
of strength they possessed to make sure he kept his word. He slid out of the
car then, and when she tried to follow he freed his hand to catch her hipbones
and pull her out after him. She ended up sitting flat on her bottom on the warm
asphalt with her back against the rear door of her car and her knees bent.
Little chunks of glass from her windshield littered the pavement all around
her. McCabe crouched in front of her, his shoulders blocking most of her view
of their surroundings, and she realized that he was once again placing himself
between her and possible danger. Behind him, at a little distance, she thought
she saw the bulk of the white van. To her right, the open door provided more
protection. The dim glow of the car's interior light illuminated them both
clearly but made everything beyond their small circle look hazy and dark. The shooter could he anywhere. At the thought, Maddie sucked in air, looking
all around, desperately trying to see through the darkness. Van and door
notwithstanding, the pool of light they were in made her feel as though they
were easy targets. They needed to run. "It's all right. By now he'll be long
gone," McCabe said in the calmest of voices, apparently correctly
interpreting the abortive attempt she made to get her legs beneath her. It
didn't work. She was still too shaken, and her muscles seemed to have a mind of
their own. So she sat and breathed, and kept her eyes fixed
on him because he was the only thing within view that didn't scare her
senseless. He looked big and tough and comfortingly capable of fending off all
comers. Her eyes widened as she realized that he was holding a gun. Probably a good thing, but, looking at it, she
started to shake all over again. He cast a quick, seemingly calculating look
around, and then the gun disappeared behind his back as he thrust it somewhere
out of sight. When his hand reappeared, he rested it gently on her arm. Her left
arm. The one that, she saw as she glanced down at his hand, was covered with
blood. Oh, God, she'd been shot. She'd been shot, and
the funny thing was, it didn't even really hurt. "You're bleeding," he said. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. Everything—McCabe,
the parking lot, the rustling bushes beyond it— began to dissolve. "Don't faint on me," he said, and she
guessed she must have been in the process of turning a whiter shade of pale
because he slid a hand around the nape of her neck and pushed her head down
between her raised knees. "I've never fainted in my life." Her
voice was faint, distant-sounding, but gritty. Clenching her teeth, Maddie
fought the dizziness that threatened to whirl her away with it. She could feel
the hard heat of his hand on her bloodied arm, feel his long fingers delving
cautiously beneath the hem of her sleeve. It created an island of warmth in the
sea of ice that seemed to be slowly swallowing her up. "My shoulder." She remembered the
sting. "I think it hit the back of my shoulder." If she hadn't turned at that precise moment to
look for his van, the bullet wouldn't have slammed into her shoulder. It would
have—it was an effort to rerun
the sequence of events in her mind to arrive at the exact position she'd been
in just seconds before she'd been hit—struck her in the approximate vicinity
of her heart. She felt faint all over again. McCabe withdrew his hand from her sleeve and
touched her neck. The solid warmth of his hand sliding down the sensitive chord
that ran from ear to shoulder was welcome, comforting, distracting even, and
she was sorry when it was withdrawn. She only realized that he was cautiously
lifting the back of her T-shirt away from her body when she felt the painful
stab of cloth being pulled out of what she realized must be her wound. "Ouch," she said. He let go of her shirt. "Sorry. You got
anything on you I can use to staunch the bleeding?" "A couple of tissues—in my pocket."
Maddie slowly and deliberately breathed in and out, trying to regain some measure
of composure as he made a disgusted sound under his breath to indicate what he
thought of her offering. "How bad is it?" "Not bad, as bullet wounds go. About three
inches long, looks like more of a graze than anything. But it's bleeding pretty
good." She could feel him moving, hear what sounded
like the slither of cloth over flesh. Lifting her head, she was just in time to
watch McCabe pull his T-shirt over his head. Having a very masculine-looking
chest suddenly appear at eye level was a surprise, and she blinked. His
shoulders were broad and heavy with muscle, his chest wide and adorned with a
nice amount of black hair. As he stripped his shirt the rest of the way off,
she watched the play of muscles under his skin with a kind of detached
interest. His biceps flexed as he lowered his arms, holding his crumpled shirt
in one hand. Her eyes slid lower, to discover that he had a nice six-pack
disappearing into his jeans. "What are you doing?" she asked, still
processing assorted thoughts, feelings, and concerns in connection with that
chest. "It's called administering first aid."
He wadded the shirt up into a ball and flattened a hand on the back of her
head, pushing her head down between her knees again. As he leaned over her to press his shirt firmly
against the wound in her shoulder, Maddie winced. Some of the numbness—the
shock—was starting to wear off, and the wound throbbed and burned. He was very
close to her now; she could feel the sinewy strength of his forearm pressing
against her upper arm. Her fingertips—her hands were resting on her knees—
brushed his chest. She curled her hands into fists to escape the contact, but
not before she registered the crispness of his chest hair, and the firm, smooth
warmth of the flesh beneath. But what she could not avoid even with her eyes
closed and her fists clenched was his body heat, which made her want to scoot
closer, and the distinctively masculine scent of him. It was like aromatherapy
for the traumatized, she thought; simply breathing it in made her feel safer. He
made her feel safer, and aware of him in a way she didn't want to be. Which
was not a good thing, she realized with dismay. With any other man, under any
other circumstances, she would have labeled what she was experiencing here as
serious attraction. The sheer surprise of it caused her head to lift
again. "Hold still," McCabe said irritably,
the pressure he was putting on her wound keeping her shoulder horizontal even
as their gazes met. "You'll make it bleed worse." "She okay?" The voice belonged to
Wynne, and it came from behind McCabe. Wynne stood just outside the circle of
light, and, although in her current position she couldn't see him, Maddie could
feel his eyes on her. He seemed to be panting slightly. She couldn't be sure,
but she had the hazy impression that he—and whoever else had been in the
van—had gone running past her car, toward the honeysuckle hedge and beyond,
while McCabe had stopped to tend to her. "Flesh wound. Across the shoulder
blade." McCabe's tone changed as he added, "Anything?" "Nothing. Gardner and the others are still
out there looking, though. Think he made us?" "Maybe." As they continued to talk above her, Maddie quit
listening and rested her head on her knees. Taking a deep breath replete with eau
de man, she pondered the situation. The first conclusion she reached was
that she was going to live. That being the case, she had to decide what to do.
If the deal she'd made with her friend Bob had been bogus, just a sop to keep
her happy until they could try again to kill her, then she was faced with a
choice: She could run again, with no turning back this time, or she could turn
herself, along with everything she knew, over to the FBI. Which, as she knew
from experience, would probably be a huge mistake, and one that she never
before would have even contemplated. So why now? She grimaced and realized that
the answer lay about six inches from the tip of her nose. Another sneaking
glance at McCabe confirmed it: He was the only reason she was even considering
such a thing. Almost against her will, she was beginning to think she might be
able to trust him. And if nothing else, he—they— would keep her alive. For a while, at least. But then again, McCabe's hunkiness quotient—and
she had to admit that crouched all shirtless and buff beside her, he was
looking pretty good— might be clouding her judgment. And, like running,
spilling all to the FBI would be the equivalent of dropping a nuclear bomb on
her life: When the smoke cleared, nothing recognizable would be left. Including Creative Partners. Including the
Brehmer account. Yes, she wanted to live. But she also wanted her
life. Anyway, the FBI couldn't keep her alive forever.
Sooner or later, they would get everything they wanted out of her and she would
cease being the flavor of the month. Then she would be left to manage on her
own—and the Mob would be waiting. The mob was like an elephant—it never forgot. Before she did anything, anything at all, Maddie
decided, she needed to get on the phone and call her good friend Bob and see
what the hell was going on. Not that he would tell her if he had been lying, of
course. But it was possible—maybe even likely—that the word to back off had not
yet filtered down through the ranks to the hit man. If that was the case, she meant to make sure it
did. Pronto. The wail of a siren made her lift her head
again. "Here comes the cavalry," McCabe said
on a note of extreme irony, looking in the direction of the sound, which seemed
to be growing louder by the second. Maddie realized that they were all gathered
around her now: Wynne, Gomez, Gardner, and Hendricks. And, like her, they were
all looking down the street, where flashing blue lights were just coming into
view. As suspected, the lights were headed their way. Just what she needed, Maddie thought dismally: more
cops. By the time the local police had left, along with the ambulance
whose crew had treated Maddie's wound when she had declined to be taken to the
hospital, it was full morning. The heat was starting to get oppressive. A dog
barked in the distance. A motorcycle roared past on the street. Maddie was
safely tucked away in her apartment with Gardner playing guard dog. Now wearing
a white T-shirt he had pulled out of his bag in the back of the van, and his
jeans, McCabe watched the last police car drive away, then turned in time to
catch the eye of the thin, fortyish, dried-up looking woman who had popped out
of the house briefly earlier, wearing her robe, to say something to Maddie,
then popped back in again, and was at that moment walking down the back steps,
eyeing him with obvious reservations. A neighbor, McCabe assumed. She had short
blond hair and a long nose, and was now dressed in floral capris, a white
blouse, and sandals. McCabe endured the nervous glance she gave him as she
passed stoically. At one point, drawn by the police car and
ambulance, quite a few neighbors had crowded around, but when nothing more of
interest had happened, they'd dispersed by ones and twos to go to jobs or
whatever until there was no one left. Except the woman who was now getting into
her PT Cruiser, of course. "No way that was random," Wynne said,
coming up beside him. Wynne was chewing his gum again, and the smell of grape
Dubble Bubble combined with the scent of honeysuckle from the hedges, which was
particularly strong now that they'd been disturbed by being thoroughly
searched, was an unfortunate mix in the ovenlike heat. Along with Gomez and
Hendricks, Wynne had been scouring neighboring yards for evidence. So far
nothing had turned up, not an indentation in the grass to show where the
shooter had lain in wait, not a bullet lodged in a tree, nothing. Of course,
the fact that they were all so tired by now that they were practically out on
their feet might have something to do with it. The way he, personally, was
feeling, he was pretty sure that he couldn't find a whale in a bathroom. "Possible, of course, but I don't think
so." A random gunshot—apparently such happenings weren't unknown in the
area—had been the local yokels' preferred explanation. Sam understood, of
course. As a solution, it involved a hell of a lot less paperwork. But he
didn't believe it. If nothing else, it was too much of a coincidence, and he
had stopped believing in coincidence a long time ago. "You think he'll be back?" Wynne had a
twig caught in his hair, Sam noticed, and his shorts and hula-girl shirt looked
like he'd slept in them for a week. The whites of his eyes pretty much matched
the red of his shirt, and for the first time since Sam had known him, he was
able to see the beginnings of curly, gold fuzz on Wynne's chin. Since Wynne
rarely had to shave, that was significant. It told him they'd been working
flat-out for a hell of a long time. "Oh, yeah." Sam had been thinking
about that. "I don't think we could scare this guy off if we tried. If he
made us—and he might or might not have, depending on how fast he got out of
here and how far away he was— I don't think it's going to make any difference.
I think he's going to keep coming after her until either we catch him or she's
dead. Hell, he might even like the idea of trying to kill her right under our
noses. He seems to get off on knowing we're right behind him." The thought of just how close Maddie had come to
being dead still had the power to weaken his knees. They'd been pulling into
the lot when her windows shattered. One second she'd been sitting there behind
the wheel of her car, and the next her windows had exploded and she'd fallen
out of sight. Christ, he'd thought she was hit. Hit worse than a gash on her
shoulder. Hit as in dead. He didn't like remembering how that had made him
feel. Way worse than it should have, considering Maddie Fitzgerald's role in
his life. Okay, reality check: She had no role in his
life. Except as the object of a surveillance operation. Never mind that she had silky soft skin and big
take-me-to-bed eyes and smelled of—what was it?—strawberries? His lip curled. Now there was a true romantic
for you. Think of a girl, picture food. "Think we ought to pull her out of here,
take her into protective custody or something?" Wynne asked. "That
was close. Too close." Sam had been thinking about that, too. "She can't stay in protective custody
forever. Sooner or later, she'll get cut loose. And unless we've caught the
bastard by then, he'll be waiting." "Who the fuck is this guy?"
Wynne's frustration showed in the kick he aimed at a rock on the asphalt. His
exhaustion showed in the fact that he completely whiffed. Sam had to smile at the stunned look on Wynne's
face. But something was niggling at the back of his mind, something that if he
wasn't so tired, he thought he might be able to shape into a point of
significance. His smile faded. "The thing is," he said slowly,
"this guy's not trying to keep what he's doing a secret. He's been taking
us right with him all along. He wants us to know where he is. Just as long as
we stay a step behind." Gomez and Hendricks came pushing through the
bushes at the back of the parking lot just then, both looking slightly the
worse for wear. Gomez had lost the jacket and tie, and his short-sleeved white
shirt was untucked and bore several obvious smears of dirt. Hendricks's tan
dress slacks had a rip in the knee, and, Sam saw as he drew closer, the tassels
to one of his shiny brown loafers was missing. "Damn big-ass dog in a backyard about half
a block down," Hendricks said by way of an explanation, seeing where Sam's
gaze focused. "I had to vault the fence." "Thing got his pants leg, then his
shoe." Gomez was grinning. "Hey, Hendricks, are you having a bad day
or what? First you take a knee to the nuts, then Cujo tries to eat you
alive." "Shut up, Gomez." "Find anything?" Sam asked, before the
situation could deteriorate. They both shook their heads. "Keep looking." Gomez grimaced. Then, at the expression on Sam's
face, he burst into speech. "The thing is, Hendricks and I have been up
all night. We need some sleep, bad. From the look of you guys, you do,
too." Hendricks nodded. "It's not like there's
anyplace around here we haven't searched. Anyway, those shots could have come
from anywhere. A couple of streets over, even. I can tell you already, we're
not going to find crap." Sam frowned. This case ate at him, and he hated
to take a break from it, even for a few hours, because time was definitely not
on their side. What it had turned into, basically, was a race. If the killer
won—and so far he was winning big—somebody died. But Gomez had a point. In
order to function at anything approaching maximum efficiency, they needed
sleep. They had Maddie safe upstairs. The next clue to the identity of Walter
could come at any time, but he didn't actually expect it before tomorrow at the
earliest. That left open this brief window of opportunity where they could
sleep, eat, do all the little things ordinarily deemed necessary to human
existence. Like shave. "Yeah," he said. "Okay. Get out
of here. I'll call you when I need you. I'll need the van back ASAP,
though." "No problem." Gomez looked at
Hendricks. "I'll drive you to your car, then you can follow me back over
here. Then you can take me to my car." "I'll drive you to my car," Hendricks
said. "It's closer." "You could start banging on doors asking
the neighbors if they saw anything," Sam suggested. Gomez and Hendricks looked at each other. "We did that," Hendricks said.
"Nobody saw crap." Gomez made a face. "Okay, you drive," he said to
Hendricks, and then they took themselves off with quick see ya's, clearly
afraid that Sam would find something else for them to do if they gave him time
to think about it. Minutes later, the van pulled out of the lot. "So, what's the plan?" Wynne asked,
still beside him. "You mean we've got a plan? " Sam's
voice was dry. His eyes skimmed over the parking lot. Maddie's Camry, shattered
windows and all, remained where she had parked it, not far from where they were
standing. Other than that, the lot was empty. "We were going to stay undercover and keep
Ms. Hot Bod under surveillance," Wynne prompted him. Sam was getting used
to the sound of gum smacking in his ear now. He was even starting to find it
kind of soothing. Not. "Ye-a-ah." Sam drew it out. Gomez had
started referring to Maddie as Ms. Hot Bod after the full-body wrestling match
he had engaged in with her in the airport parking lot. Wynne and Hendricks had
picked it up, much to Gardner's loudly expressed disgust. Sam didn't doubt that
Maddie would have a problem with it, too, if she ever heard it, but, hey, the
truth was, it was apt. "I'd have to say that under the circumstances,
that's no longer operational." "Since she made us," Wynne said. "Exactly." "So?" "So we forget the undercover bit and just
keep her under surveillance." Wynne stopped chewing and looked at him.
"How do we do that? She knows we're here." "We enlist her cooperation," Sam said. "Oh, boy. Yeah. Like she's going to go for
that." "So we persuade her," Sam said, and
turned toward the house. THIRTEEN Gardner opened the door to Sam's knock. Having
snatched a couple hours of sleep on the plane, she was looking marginally less
bleary-eyed than either he or Wynne. That didn't mean that she was looking
good, however. Her bottle-brush hairdo was flat on one side, and the only
makeup she seemed to have left had morphed into black smudges under both eyes.
She had traded her black skirt for snug, black pants before they had boarded
the plane, and with them she was wearing a clingy black T-shirt. Tucked in.
With what looked like the same wide black belt as before cinched around her
waist. Combined with the double D's and the J.Lo butt, the outfit made her look
hot. And hungry. Like a woman on the hunt. She smiled at him, which sent a warning chill
racing down Sam's spine. He’d found himself in dangerous situations often
enough to recognize them when they occurred. And this was definitely one. "Yo," he said. "Everything
okay?" "Just peachy keen." Her smile widened
as she pushed the door wide. Finding himself caught squarely in the
crosshairs, Sam's instinct for self-preservation kicked into high gear. To save
himself, he offered up a sacrifice: He took a step back and pushed Wynne
through the door ahead of him. Wynne looked at Gardner as she closed and locked
the door. Sam looked around the apartment. His initial impression was that it was cheerful.
Homey, even. The walls of the room he was in, the living room, were a soft,
bright yellow. The floors were hardwood. The huge couch that dominated one
whole wall was—he didn't want to call it pink; call it, rather, the color of
raspberries. Two armchairs, one green, one flowery, were drawn up on either
side of the couch. There was a rug, a couple of tables and lamps, a coffee
table. A TV. A trio of big windows directly opposite the door looked out into a
vista of leafy tree branches. Sniper city? The branches he could see all looked
like they might hold about ten pounds max, so not unless the sniper was a
squirrel. Just to double-check, Sam crossed to the window and looked out,
evaluating the risk. He could see down into about a dozen tiny backyards, all
separated into grids by a myriad of fences. About four fences over, a big black
dog snoozed on its side in the grass. Even from this distance it looked about
the size of a small pony, and, remembering Hendricks, Sam grinned: He was
pretty sure he was looking at Cujo. The upper stories of neighboring houses
were obscured by the leafy foliage of big old oaks and maples, with the
occasional elm and chestnut-trunked birch thrown in. Good. Nobody was going to
be shooting through the windows from nearby roofs. Relaxing slightly, he turned
to survey the rest of the apartment. To his right he could see part of a
kitchen. To his left, a pair of closed doors. "So where is she?" he asked Gardner
when his visual sweep turned up no sign of Maddie. "Taking a shower. We all should be so
lucky." Gardner had dropped into a corner of the couch while Sam had been
looking out the window. Her legs were crossed and she had twisted herself into
a position that he suspected was calculated to show off her eye-popping figure.
Now she nodded at the closed door on the left to indicate where Maddie could be
found, then let her head drop back to rest on the high, rolled back of the
couch. Sam immediately realized exactly how half of her hairdo had ended up
flat. "Come sit down. I think this is where we do that thing called hurry
up and wait." Gardner made shameless eyes at him from beneath
half-closed lids, and patted the couch beside her invitingly. Wynne frowned,
while Sam caught himself leaning backward just a little, probably an
instinctive result of his determination to stay well out of harm's way. "You checked the bathroom out before she
went in there, didn't you?" Sam asked, ignoring Gardner's gesture in favor
of walking toward the closed door. Beyond it, very faintly, he could hear the
sound of water running. Gardner gave him a look that said yes, she
definitely had. For his part, Wynne headed toward the couch, then veered off at
the last minute and lowered himself into the green armchair. Lips thinning in
exasperation, Sam had to fight the urge to walk over and smack him upside the
head. Faint heart never won fair lady, you big wimp.
Sit on the couch. "So, what's the plan?" Gardner asked,
just as Wynne had minutes before. "Same plan." Restless, Sam prowled
toward the kitchen. "We keep watching Miz Fitzgerald until we catch our
UNSUB." The kitchen was old-fashioned, with white
Formica countertops and tall wood cabinets and a gold-speckled linoleum floor.
The refrigerator and stove were white, freestanding rather than built-in. There
was a stainless-steel sink in front of another window. As he glanced out, he
saw that the squirrel thing applied to this one, too. A rectangular oak table
with four chairs occupied the center of the room. On the counter beside the
sink, a draining board held a single white cereal bowl. Looking at it, Sam wasn't all that surprised to
feel his stomach rumble. Jesus, how long had it been since he'd eaten? He tried
to remember. Not today. Yesterday. Fast food in the hotel room. If he was
lucky, sometime today he might snag more of the same. Yum. The only area of concern was a rear door. Sam
crossed to it, looked out the multipaned window in the upper half, then opened
it and stepped out into the muggy morning. He found himself on a small wooden
stoop, which was connected by three zigzagging flights of open wooden steps to
the ground. Clearly a do-it-yourselfer's version of a fire escape, probably
added when the house was converted to apartments. He checked the lock—it was a
deadbolt, but flimsy—and made a mental note to do what he could to make the
rear entrance more secure. Pronto. Retracing his steps, he returned to the living
room and found Wynne watching Gardner, who had cut her eyes toward him as soon
as he had reentered the room. With an inward roll of his eyes, Sam gave up on
the whole matchmaking thing and started pacing again. What the hell was she doing in there? "Okay. We need sleep, we need food. We also
need to keep Miz Fitzgerald under a twenty-four-hour watch. Which means for the
time being we'll be taking shifts." He glanced at Gardner. She smiled at
him. Christ. "I assume you've got the computer working on locating
possible targets?" "Oh, yeah. By now we probably have a
database of about a hundred thousand people with Walter for a first or last
name in the cities the computer deems most likely to be the location for the
next killing. Without anything more specific than a single name to go on,
though, it's pretty useless. Take our girl in there, for example. She didn't
even live in New Orleans, so her name didn't come up on any of the searches I
ran. Neither did the dead one's, for that matter." Get her focused on work and she turns totally
professional. Go figure. "Yeah." Sam was already well
acquainted with the ways in which their attempts to locate the next victim
could get screwed up before the sick bastard did his thing again. And just to
complicate matters more, now that his plans had been thrown off by Maddie's
survival, the parameters of the game might well have changed. They could no
longer take anything for granted. Except, Sam was almost certain, that he'd be
coming after Maddie again. "You're something with that computer,"
Wynne said admiringly to Gardner. "Thanks." She smiled at him, and Sam
watched with fascination as a flush the color of Maddie's couch started to
creep over Wynne's face. Jesus. The perils of being blond. "Right," he said by way of a distraction.
"First thing is, we need to establish a base here. There's bound to be a
hotel somewhere nearby. Next..." He outlined the way he expected the next few
days to play out. By the time he finished, the atmosphere was strictly business
all around. Also, he'd circled the room about ten times, and there was still no
sign of Maddie. Pausing outside the closed bathroom door, he
frowned at it. What the hell was she doing in there? "Why don't I take the first shift with her?
At least I got a couple hours of sleep on the plane," Gardner suggested.
"And I have trouble sleeping during the day anyway. You guys go on, get us
a hotel, get some sleep." Sam nodded absently. It was a good suggestion.
He didn't expect another attack to come today; the UNSUB was as human as the
rest of them, and if he was the shooter—and Sam was fairly positive that he
was—he had to be suffering from lack of sleep, too. He seemed to like to work
under cover of darkness, and by the time night fell again, Sam had every
intention of being personally back on the job. But he didn't say any of that.
Instead, he was concentrating on the sounds he could hear beyond the closed
door. Water still running? Yes, but something else,
too. His brows snapped together. Was she talking to
someone? He glanced sharply at Gardner. "She have a pet or anything?" "Not that I saw. Why?" "She's talking to someone." Could the
UNSUB somehow have gotten into the bathroom with her? Sam could feel his
muscles tensing even as he rejected the thought as unlikely. Unlikely, but not impossible. He rapped sharply on the door. Just like that, she shut up. "Miz Fitzgerald?" He banged again. He
didn't know why, exactly, but he was getting the feeling that something about
the situation wasn't quite right. "Could you open the door, please?" He could no longer hear water running. Just as
he registered that, the door opened a few inches. Sam found himself looking
down into narrowed honey-colored eyes. With straight black brows furrowed into
a V above them. Even frowning at him, she was pretty, he
registered against his will. Tired-looking. Pale as paper. Face marred by a
faint, blue-tinged bruise angling across her left cheekbone. But still very,
very pretty. The last time he'd looked down into those eyes,
they'd been big and scared. Now she just looked annoyed. "Did you want something?" she asked. Sam had expected her to be all damp and dewy,
maybe wrapped in a bath towel and showing more skin than it was probably good
for him to see. And she was, indeed, wrapped in a bath towel, a fluffy blue
one. And she was, indeed, showing some skin. The towel fit snugly up under her
armpits and was tucked in between her breasts, he saw as his gaze swept her. He
could see a nice amount of cleavage, her bare shoulders, and the neat white
bandage on her back the paramedics had left her with. Below the towel, which
ended at approximately mid-thigh, her legs were long and slender and shapely.
They were, as he had noticed before, great legs. The thing was, though, she wasn't all damp and
dewy. In fact, she was dry as a bone. Her hair still hung in tangles around her
face. There was a faint smear of blood on her jaw, and another down her arm
where the paramedics hadn't quite gotten her all cleaned up. She'd traded her
bloody clothes for the towel, but otherwise, as far as he could tell, nothing
about her except her expression had changed a lick from when he had last set
eyes on her. In other words, she hadn't been taking a shower. "What on earth have you been doing in
there?" Surprise probably rendered him something less than diplomatic.
She'd been in the bathroom a good twenty minutes that he knew of, with the
water running the entire time. And she wasn't even wet. Maybe she'd been answering nature's call? He
toyed with the idea, rejected it. Not for that long. She smiled way too sweetly at him. Oh, God, the
attitude was back. "Maybe you want to tell me how that's any
of your business?" He remembered then why he'd banged on the door
in the first place. "Were you talking to someone?" The too-sweet smile faded. "How to put
this? Not your business." She had let the door fall open a little wider as
they'd talked, and he was able to see past her into most of the bathroom now.
His gaze swept the room. It was a typical bathroom, smallish, with a tub/shower
combo, toilet, and vanity sink. A big mirror covered the wall behind the sink.
Lots of white tile, trimmed in a kind of sea green. Clean. Empty except for
her. There was a cell phone on the vanity. Light
dawned. "You were talking on the phone." Her lips compressed as she followed his gaze. "What, are you my keeper now? So I was
talking on the phone. Big deal." Her eyes met his again. They were less
than friendly. "Why are you still here, anyway? You've done your thing.
Not wanting to be rude or anything, but it's probably time you toddled off on
your way now." His eyes narrowed. "What happened to don't
leave me?" "I got over the shock," she snapped. He almost smiled. There was that hostility of
hers again in spades. He wasn't sure if it was directed at him personally, if
she just didn't like men in general, or if there was something else going on
here that he hadn't quite tumbled to yet. Not that he minded it particularly.
It was kind of cute, kind of different. The thing was, though, right at the
moment it was damned inconvenient. Then another odd thing hit him. The mirror.
It was clear as a summer's day. Not steamed up a bit. The water she'd been
running since before he'd entered her apartment had not been hot. Either she was into cold showers—and she didn't
seem like the type— or a shower had not been on her agenda when she'd turned
the water on. Which meant she'd been running the water for some other reason.
To cover up a sound. Of using the toilet? Maybe, especially if she was shy. But
the water had been running a long time. To cover up the sound of her voice as
she talked on the cell phone? Bingo. "Mind telling me who you were talking
to?" "My boyfriend, okay?" Her eyes flashed
at him. "What's it to you?" Good question. Maybe somewhere deep in his subconscious, he'd suspected
she was talking to a boyfriend all along. Maybe that was what was bugging him. Because something was. He was definitely getting
one of those little niggles of his again. Hell, maybe it was just knowing that
she was naked under that towel that was throwing his thought processes off. The
thing was, he was so damned tired that he couldn't think straight enough to
reason out the whys and wherefores of this feeling he had that something here
was not quite right. "If you really want to know, I was calling
my insurance company about my car," Maddie said, her tone a little
friendlier now. "And the reason I'm not in the shower yet was that I can't
quite figure out how to do this without getting my shoulder wet, too." O-kay. That made sense. Kind of. "Plastic bag," Gardner said from her
position on the couch, and Mad-die looked past McCabe to where the other two
were, clearly, taking in every word. Since Maddie had appeared in the towel, Sam
realized with some chagrin that he had completely forgotten that they were even
in the room. "You got trash bags?" Wynne asked her.
When Maddie nodded, he heaved himself to his feet. "I'll get you one.
Where are they?" "In the kitchen under the sink."
Maddie looked at Sam again. "Is there anything else you want to
know?" "Since I'm going to be leaving in a
minute"—he watched her face brighten—"we need to talk about a few
things." "Such as?" "What you can and can't do. The kinds of
precautions you need to take. Wynne and I are going to be taking off for a few
hours, but Gardner's going to be here with you. We probably won't have outside
backup until tonight. That means you..." Maddie's brows snapped together again.
"Whoa. Hold on just a minute. What?" Wynne came up behind them and held a white
plastic trash bag out to Maddie. "Just poke a couple of holes in it for
your arm and your head, then scotch it up everywhere you don't need protection.
It should keep the water off that wound." Momentarily distracted, she took it, giving
Wynne a quick smile and a thanks. Then, as Wynne retreated, her eyes
immediately refocused on Sam. And the frown returned. "What are you talking about?" "One of us is going to be with you
twenty-four hours a day until this guy is caught. Gardner's on for the next few
hours, and it would probably be best if you stayed inside your apartment. I
don't really expect anything to..." She was shaking her head. "Wait. Stop. Uh-uh.
No way. I already told you, I don't want to be kept under surveillance. I
appreciate the offer, but no. What part of 'I refuse my permission' did you not
understand?" Sam could feel another one of those killer
headaches coming on, but he held on to his patience with some effort. "I
was hoping that since we saved your life out there, you might have rethought
that." A beat passed. "You did not save my life." Sam's brows twitched together. "You're
alive, aren't you?" "Whoever fired that shot missed. That's what
saved my life." Sam took a deep breath. "The point is,
you're alive. And we mean to keep you that way. It would help if you would
cooperate. By that, I mean you want to stay inside as much as possible. You
want to take care to keep your curtains closed at night. If you have to go out,
you want to get into and out of buildings as fast as you can. One of us will be
with you..." "No," Maddie said. "I'm not going to do this. I refuse."
Sam's head throbbed. His patience, never his strong suit, wobbled dangerously.
"You can't refuse." "Oh, yes, I can." "Mind telling me why you have a problem
with this?" "Because I have a company to run, and right now things
are kicking into high gear for us. I have clients to see, advertising campaigns
to work on, PR to do. Having an FBI agent dogging my every step is probably not
going to make anybody real eager to do business with me, in case you haven't
figured that out. In fact, just the opposite. Anyway, the police said the
shooting was probably random, and I agree with the police. So I appreciate the
offer, but no. Thank you. If it makes you feel better to know this, I'll be
extra careful. But I don't want you." Sam looked at her for a moment without saying
anything at all. Her eyes glinted militantly at him. Her jaw looked mulish. He sighed. "Look, I'm not going to argue
about this. I'm dead on my feet here. We all are, you probably included. So
here's the deal: Either you cooperate, or I'll take you into protective custody
and whisk you off to a safe house so fast you won't know what hit you, and let
you try running your company from there. At least that's one way to keep you
from getting killed while we try to figure this thing out." Her eyes flashed. "Is that another threat,
Mr. Special Agent? Well, guess what? This time I'm not buying it. You can't
just take somebody into custody because you feel like it." Sam's patience crashed and burned. "Can't I?" He smiled, and from the way
he was feeling, it was not a nice smile. "Try me." Their eyes clashed, and Sam was reminded
forcibly of the old saying about irresistible forces and immovable objects. In this case, the immovable object—that would be
him—won. Which, under the circumstances, wasn't surprising, since he'd meant
every word he'd said, and she must have been able to read that in his eyes. Because for a long moment all he got was a
sizzling look. Then... "Fine," she snapped, and slammed the
door in his face. Seconds later, from the other side, he distinctly heard her
mutter, "Jackass." Glad his nose hadn't been any closer to the
solid wood panel when it connected with the jamb, he turned away from the
closed door to find Wynne and Gardner looking at him. "Way to be persuasive," Wynne said,
giving him a thumbs-up, and Gardner looked at Wynne and laughed. Unbelievable, Maddie thought hours later. There was an FBI agent making himself at home on
her couch, and there didn't seem to be a thing in the world she could do about
it. He had what was left of the pizza they'd had for dinner on the table by his
side, his stockinged feet were on her coffee table, and her remote control was
in his hand. The sounds emanating from the TV jumped spastically from cartoon
voices to a feverish play-by-play for some ball game to eerie mood music to a
talking head waxing eloquent about the falling economy as he, apparently,
flipped channels indiscriminately. From where she lay—flopped on her stomach in the
middle of her queen-size bed in her shadowy bedroom—she couldn't see the TV.
She couldn't even see him. But that was the position he'd been in when she'd
last exited the bathroom at a little past midnight—it was now shortly before
one a.m.— and if her ears were any judge, nothing had changed. For the last hour she'd been trying to sleep,
without success. It was possible that the exhausted nap she'd succumbed to in
the middle of the afternoon had something to do with that. Or maybe sleep was
elusive because her shoulder throbbed, or her thoughts raced, or she kept
having flashbacks to the moment she'd gotten shot every time she closed her
eyes. Or maybe because there was an FBI agent in her living room.
McCabe, to be precise. Or any combination of the above. "I'm trying to sleep here," she
finally yelled in frustration through the door he had insisted she keep
partially open. "Think you could turn it down?" If he replied, she missed it, but the volume
lessened. Maddie rolled onto her good side and pulled her
knees up under her chin. Her movements were gingerly, because her shoulder
ached like she'd been shot—oh, wait, she had been—and the pain pill she'd taken
around nine didn't seem to be touching it. If she had been alone, she would
have gotten up to watch TV, but her babysitter was already doing that and,
since she had only the one set, that meant TV was pretty much out. Unless she wanted to watch TV with him. Definitely out. Closing her eyes, snuggling under the smooth top
sheet that was the only covering she could stand, given the sweaty realities of
third-floor apartments, inefficient air-conditioning, and tropical heat, she
breathed in the faint sea-breeze scent of the fabric softener sheets she
habitually used in the dryer and tried to put herself to sleep by counting her
blessings. She was alive. She was home, with her life still
intact. And they'd gotten the Brehmer account. All good. All, unfortunately, also subject to
change at any moment. Before she could stop herself, her mind went
over to the dark side. Number one, there was an FBI agent on her
couch. Number two, she'd spent the entire day cooped up
in her apartment with a woman who looked like Rambo Barbie. On a really bad
hair day. Number three, she hadn't gotten any of her usual
Saturday errands done. Her dry cleaning was still at the cleaners, she was out
of bread and cereal, the milk in her refrigerator expired two days ago, and she
had three rented DVDs that were racking up late charges even as she lay there. Number four, her car was pretty much undrivable
until they came to replace the glass, which she'd been told would happen
sometime Monday. And number five—this was the biggie—someone was
trying to kill her. Although her friend Bob, whom she'd been talking
to in the bathroom that morning when McCabe had come banging on the door, had
sworn it wasn't true. If there had been a contract out on her—which he had no
knowledge of whatsoever—it had been withdrawn after their previous
conversation. If a shot had been fired at her that morning—which again he had
no knowledge of whatsoever—it was an accident, and had nothing to do with them
at all. Or—ahem—an easily rectified mistake. They had no reason to kill her, he assured her,
as long as she kept her end of the deal and stayed away from the feds. As far as Maddie was concerned, however, there
were two problems with Bob's assurances: First, someone had taken a shot
at her; and, second, even as her buddy Bob had warned her to stay away from the
feds, one had been banging on her bathroom door. And he was still here. Since getting rid of McCabe and Co. clearly
wasn't going to happen anytime soon, all she could do was try her best to
maneuver around him. The only thing her protests had done so far was make him
start to wonder why she wasn't just jumping up and down with joy at the prospect
of taking advantage of his offer of government-funded bodyguards; she'd seen it
in his eyes. So she had given in—possibly with something less than good grace,
but, hey, as far as she was concerned, losing well was overrated—and now she
was stuck. Performing the highwire act that her life had
turned into. As long as Bob and his friends kept their word
and didn't find out about her new babysitters, she was good. And as long as
McCabe and Co. didn't know about her past, she was equally good. But if any of
them found out about the rest of them, the situation was going to go to hell in
a handbasket. Worrying about just such a mischance was
probably the primary reason she couldn't fall asleep. That, and the fear that
one of her patented nightmares hovered waiting in the wings. Tonight of all
nights, when the scary truth that she had to once more be afraid for her life
was really starting to sink in, being transported back seven years in her sleep
would be more than she thought she could bear. And, oh, yeah, there was the little fact that
someone had tried to kill her. Twice now. Wasn't there some saying about third
time being the charm? Even the thought made her shiver. After another fifteen minutes or so of
wriggling—she couldn't toss and turn because of her injured shoulder—Maddie was
still wide awake, and forced to admit that she had a new problem: She had to go
to the bathroom. And given the fact that her apartment was just
old-fashioned and inexpensive enough so that it only had one bathroom,
which wasn't connected to her bedroom but opened off the living room, that
meant that she was going to have to walk past McCabe. She felt funny about the whole thing. She felt
funny about walking past him knowing that she had on her little shortie
nightgown, even if she was going to pull her big terry-cloth bathrobe on over
it. She felt funny about him knowing she had to wee. She felt funny about
having him in her apartment, period. But whether she felt funny or not, she decided a
few minutes later, she had no choice: She really, really had to go. Sliding out of bed, pulling her robe
on—carefully, because of her shoulder—and tying it around her waist, she
hesitated, looking at the partly open door that glowed blue from the TV, then
took a deep breath, headed toward it, and paused in the opening to glare his
way. Just as she had suspected, McCabe was still
parked on her couch. As far as she could tell, he hadn't switched positions in
a couple hours. Except, maybe, to change the channel and stuff his mouth. The
TV provided the only illumination in the apartment, and by its flickering light
he was little more than a big, solid, dark presence that dominated the small
room. Much as she hated to face it, though, she didn't need light to know just
exactly what he looked like. His black hair and coffee-brown eyes and mobile
mouth and chiseled chin—to say nothing of his muscular bod—seemed to have
implanted themselves in her consciousness, whether she liked it or not. When he
had arrived at about eleven p.m. to take over from Wynne, who had taken over
from Rambo Barbie at four, McCabe had been looking good. In fact, in a clean
navy polo shirt and jeans, freshly shaven and with his hair combed, he had been
looking handsome. Actually, way handsome. And way sexy. To her chagrin, she had realized that the
serious attraction she'd felt toward him earlier was definitely not a figment
of her imagination. FBI agent or not. Not that this had in any way endeared him to
her, then or now. In fact, just the opposite. A complication of that sort she
absolutely did not need. So quit looking at him, she told herself, and, taking her own advice,
averted her gaze and marched toward the bathroom. Caught in the act of taking a swig out of a can
of Diet Coke, McCabe choked and swung his feet to the floor as her sudden
appearance apparently caught him by surprise. "Something the matter?" he asked when
he had recovered from his coughing fit. She was already halfway across the
living room by that time. "Not a thing in the world," she said,
glancing over her shoulder. Their eyes met, and she realized he'd been tracking
her across the room. If he was as flustered by her presence as she
was by his, he did a darn good job of hiding it. "Oh. Good." With that, his attention
returned to the TV, and he relaxed into the couch again. Having reached the bathroom by that time, Maddie
turned on the light, shut the door and locked it with a decided click, then
paused to eye her surroundings. A thought occurred, and she turned on the
faucet in the sink. The idea that he might be able to hear her using the
facilities even over the TV was embarrassing, of course. But the idea that she
might be able to allay any suspicions she had aroused in him that morning when
he had caught her running the shower to cover her phone conversation was a
consideration, too. If she was lucky, he might just hear the shower and think
that she always used running water to cover bathroom sounds. Play the hand out. That's what her father would have told her, and
that's just what she was going to do. Emerging from the bathroom a few minutes later,
Maddie padded back across the smooth, cool hardwood floor toward her bedroom.
Beyond casting a single glance her way when the door opened, McCabe ignored
her, for which she was grateful. The easiest way to deal with having him in her
apartment was to simply pretend he wasn't there. But, even when she had crawled back into bed and
pulled the sheet up around her neck and closed her eyes, she couldn't get the
thought that he was approximately twenty feet away out of her head. She wriggled some more and dug deep in her mind
for pleasant thoughts and counted everything she could think of to count, then
finally gave up all thought of sleep and lay, listening unwillingly to the TV.
It was about then that she realized something: If she had been in her apartment
alone, she would have been curled up in a little ball in the farthest corner of
her closet by that time, gibbering with terror. At least, with McCabe in the next room, she was
not afraid. FOURTEEN Sunday,
August 17 When Maddie awoke the next morning, her bedroom
was dark. That might seem like a small thing, but it was enough to remind her
of how radically her life had changed: Her bedroom was never dark in the
mornings. She always opened the thick, oyster-colored silk curtains that
covered the window just behind her bed right before she fell asleep so that the
single halogen that illuminated the parking lot could cast its distant glow
over her as she slept. That way she could turn off the lights, yet never have
to sleep in the dark. Fudgie, too, was out of place. Instead of watching over
her from his usual spot on her dresser, he'd been tucked away in a drawer. Fudgie was like her that way: He and the feds
were fundamentally incompatible. As she swung her legs over the side of the bed,
it occurred to her that she was going to have to walk past McCabe again to get
to the bathroom. That made her frown. On the best of mornings she was something
less than a rosy-faced, sleep-tousled beauty. This was not the best of mornings.
Her shoulder throbbed, her head ached, and she needed caffeine like a vampire
needs blood. When she got to her feet and opened the curtains, blinking in the
sudden brightness, then glanced in the mirror over her dresser, her reflection
confirmed it: Her hair was all over the place, there was a red crease across
her cheek where she'd slept on her pillow wrong, and her eyes were all puffy
and heavy-lidded. She looked, in a word, scary. She hated the thought of having McCabe see her
that way. And she really hated the thought that she hated the thought of
having him see her that way. There was no help for it, though. Although her
instinct was to spend the day skulking in her bedroom, out of sight, she
couldn't: Once again, she had to go to the bathroom. To hell with it. Looking good for Mr. Special
Agent was not something she needed to be trying to do anyway. Shrugging into her robe, running her fingers
through her hair, determined to do her best to behave as though she were home
alone, Maddie gathered up her clothes, marched to the bedroom door, opened
it—and heard voices. Multiple voices. Coming from the kitchen. A peek into the
living room confirmed it. The coast was clear. Her babysitters—all three of
them from the sound of it—were nowhere in sight. Huffing a quick sigh of relief, she scuttled for
the bathroom. When she emerged some twenty minutes later, she
was looking—and feeling—much better, having showered and blown her hair dry and
dressed in navy shorts and a loose sun-yellow camp shirt that put no pressure
on her tender shoulder. She'd flicked on mascara, slicked on lipgloss—things
she normally wouldn't have bothered to do on a lazy Sunday morning unless she
was heading out to church—and patted concealer over the bruise on her cheek.
The one on her throat was in the process of changing from purple to an even
uglier yellowish green, and she didn't even bother to try to hide it. After
examining it in the mirror, she had concluded that there was not enough
concealer in the world. The best thing about having a houseful of FBI
agents, she reflected, was that it gave her a really good excuse not to go to
church as compared to her usual lousy one of sleeping in. The worst thing about
it was everything else. Padding barefoot toward the kitchen, drawn by
the smell of coffee, she frowned slightly as she realized that she heard
nothing. Total silence was potentially not such a good thing, Maddie realized,
and as the possible ramifications began to revolve through her brain, her step
slowed, her heart speeded up, and her stomach went all fluttery. A sideways
glance at the front door showed her that it was still in one piece, and the
lock seemed to be intact. A quick visual sweep of the room found nothing out of
place. But still—no voices, no TV, no sound at all except, from behind her, the
steady drip of the shower, which always took a few minutes to shut off
completely. Her mind raced. What if the hit man had broken in and murdered her
minders while she was in the shower, blissfully unaware? What if he was waiting
for her somewhere in the apartment? What if... Someone walked out of the kitchen. Squeaking—she
only barely managed to swallow the rest of what would have been a full-blown
scream if it had gotten all the way out—Maddie reflexively jumped a good foot
in the air even as she recognized Rambo Barbie, today dressed in black pants
and an acid-green T-shirt, with the ubiquitous black belt circling her waist.
She, too, was looking better today. Her Raggedy Ann-red hair was clean and
actually more tousled than spiky, her makeup, while a little heavy on the black
eyeliner, was at least where it was supposed to be, and her cornflower blue
eyes were clear. "Did I scare you? Sorry." Gardner
didn't sound sorry as her eyes slid over Maddie. She sounded just the
slightest bit contemptuous of a woman who would jump and squeal when surprised.
She was carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper—Maddie couldn't be
sure, but she guessed it was probably her newspaper, retrieved from the
rush mat in front of the apartment door—in the other. "No, not at all," Maddie said,
skirting the other woman to reach the kitchen. "I always jump and squeal
first thing in the morning. Gets the blood circulating." A green-and-white Krispy Kreme box took pride of
place in the center of the table. Other than that, the kitchen looked just as
it always did: clean and neat and empty, except for a few dishes in the sink
that hadn't been there when she'd gone to bed. Pale morning sunlight streamed
in through the window over the sink; the refrigerator hummed. She was just
starting to feel disappointed because she had missed McCabe—and registering
with alarm that she was feeling disappointed—when she spotted him
through the window in the kitchen door. He had his back to her and was standing
on the back stoop, talking to Wynne. As her gaze slid over as much of him as she
could see, over the back of his head, over his wide shoulders and strong arms
and tapered back, her heart gave an odd little skip. You're being really stupid here, Maddie thought, and wrenched her eyes away from
him. It helped that she could smell coffee. Directing her gaze toward the
coffeemaker instead was, therefore, not quite as difficult as it might have
been, and was amply rewarded. A freshly brewed pot of coffee sat on the burner,
keeping warm. Maddie had just poured herself a cup when the
back door opened and McCabe—and Wynne—walked into the kitchen. "All clear outside?" she asked, as
much to cover the sudden confusion she felt when her gaze encountered McCabe's
as because she had any real doubt of the answer. "A few birds, a couple of squirrels.
Nothing potentially fatal." McCabe grinned at her. The sudden warming of
his eyes as they met hers—to say nothing of the dimples that appeared on either
side of his mouth—made her breath catch. Stupid, her brain warned all on its own. "Glad to hear it," she said, proud of
how casually offhand she sounded. Lifting her cup, she took a swallow, hoping
that the caffeine would jolt her to her senses. It was nothing short of idiocy
to notice that his hair was all mussed and his chin sported a nice, studly
amount of five-o'clock shadow and his eyes looked sleepy. Of course, unlike
herself, he had stayed up all night. Knowing that he was keeping watch was what
had enabled her, eventually, to fall asleep. "How's your shoulder?" The grin had
faded. His eyes darkened as they touched on her shoulder. "Oh, I don't know—kind of feels like I got
shot yesterday," she said wryly. He laughed, and, lo and behold, there were those
dimples again. Funny, Maddie thought, until she met him she never would have
believed that she could be such a sucker for dimples. "Want a doughnut? Help yourself,"
Wynne said, having crossed to the table and opened the box. He was talking to
her and, glad to be distracted, Maddie tore her eyes away from McCabe and moved
toward the table just in time to watch Wynne hook one out of the box. "Thanks." Except for the fact that he
was an FBI agent, she actually had no beef with Wynne, who was looking even
more cherubic than usual this morning in a candy-pink polo shirt and khakis.
She smiled at him as she set her coffee cup on the table, then fished out a
chocolate-covered doughnut from the already half-empty box and took a bite. "I thought you were watching your
weight," Gardner said from the doorway. This was directed at Wynne, who
swallowed the last bite of doughnut with a guilty air as he looked at her. "I am. I'm watching it creep toward three
hundred." "You know, it's probably counterproductive
to quit smoking and then eat yourself to death." Wynne flushed. "It's hard to quit smoking." To her
own surprise, Maddie found herself leaping to Wynne's defense. Okay, he was a
grown man, and an FBI agent to boot, but under his fellow agent's disapproving
gaze he suddenly looked so—vulnerable. "I would think that anything
somebody could do to make it through until the craving gets easier would be a
good thing." "You smoke?" Wynne asked her, clearly
grateful for the distraction. "No. My father did, though. He kept saying
he was going to quit, but he never made it longer than maybe a day and a
half." Then it occurred to her that talking about her father in such
company was probably not wise. Although that particular memory was harmless,
she didn't even want to start the conversation down that path. "How long has it been now?" McCabe
asked Wynne, joining them at the table. He stopped so close to Maddie that his
arm brushed hers, warm skin against warm skin, and to her annoyance she felt
that brief contact all the way down to her toes. Sidling sideways away from him
even as she chomped down on her doughnut for cover—and if ever there was a
waste of a good doughnut that had to be it, because she suddenly couldn't even
taste it—she glanced around the kitchen for a distraction. Those dishes in the
sink—three plates, three cups, a couple of spoons. Maddie realized that what
she had heard earlier was the three of them chatting over coffee and doughnuts. "Two months, four days, and"—Wynne
glanced at the clock over the window; it was not quite nine a.m.—"nine
hours." "That's impressive," Maddie told him
through her mouthful of tasteless fat and sugar. "Okay, Elvis, I admit it: It is impressive,"
Gardner said, coming toward them. "I didn't think you had it in you. Now
all you need to do is wean yourself off the food you used to wean yourself off
the cigarettes." "Elvis?" Maddie looked at Wynne. "It's his name," McCabe said to
Maddie. "Elvis Presley Wynne." Maddie couldn't help it. She smiled. "Gets that reaction every time," Wynne
said glumly. "That's why I pretty much go by Wynne." "All right, enough picking on Wynne,"
McCabe said, and held something out to Maddie. Taking it, she saw that it was a
key. "It's to your back door," he said in
response to her questioning look. "We replaced the lock, just so you know.
We're still getting things in place, so for today it would be best if you'd
just stay inside your apartment. The hardest thing to guard against is a sniper
shot, and we saw yesterday that he's willing to try to take you out
long-distance. That's actually a good sign, it means he's desperate enough to
get to you that he's willing to abandon his usual MO, but what we want him to
have to do is to come after you physically. If he breaks into your apartment,
we’ve got him. If he comes into your workplace after you, we've got him. What
we want him to have to do is put himself where we can see him. That's all we
need, and then it'll be over. Just to make sure we cover all the bases, I'm
having your car windows replaced with bulletproof glass as we speak, so when
they're done you should be able to drive without worrying about a repeat of
yesterday morning. We'll be following your vehicle everyplace you go, so if he
tries anything while you're en route somewhere, we'll be right there. Oh, yeah,
and we'll be sweeping your car periodically for bombs." "Bombs?" The thought of a bomb being
placed in her car was so unnerving that Maddie momentarily quit breathing. She
hadn't thought of that, and she realized she should have. Her blood ran cold as
she wondered just what else she hadn't thought of yet. Of course, she reminded herself quickly, the
odds were good that she had managed to get the hit called off. If she had,
McCabe and Co. could follow her until the cows came home and they would come up
empty-handed. Eventually, they would get tired of following her and go away,
and her life could get back to normal. That was poor justice for the dead woman
who'd had the misfortune to share her name, she knew; but then, no amount of
justice would help that other Madeline Fitzgerald now. What she had to
do was concentrate on saving herself. "You're scaring her," Wynne said to
McCabe in a reproving tone, which made Maddie wonder exactly what he'd seen in
her face. She wanted to be careful about that. McCabe seemed uncannily attuned
to her emotions, and he was looking at her, too, with an inscrutable expression
that made her faintly uneasy. Hunky or not, when all was said and done he was a
fed, and it would behoove her not to forget it. "I was just thinking." Maddie looked
at Wynne. "If there’d been a bomb in my car yesterday morning at the
airport, you would have been toast." "We checked it before I got in," Wynne
assured her, absentmindedly reaching for another doughnut. "Oh, no you don't, Elvis." Gardner
snatched the box out of reach. "Listen, Cynthia, the last thing I
need is for you to go around acting like the calorie police." For the
first time since Maddie had set eyes on him, she saw Wynne frown. It was
directed at Gardner, who scowled right back at him. "You need somebody to," Gardner retorted,
hugging the box to her. "Put the damned doughnuts down." "No." "Okay, I'm out of here," McCabe said
to the room in general. He glanced at Maddie. "I don't expect him to try
anything while you're at home today. Too bright out, too many people around,
and he'll think he'll get a better chance later. Still, I wouldn't want to be
proved wrong, so consider yourself grounded for the day and stay inside."
He headed toward the door, then glanced back over his shoulder.
"Wynne?" Wynne was still glowering at Gardner, who was
glaring back with both arms wrapped around the box. "Yeah, I'm
coming." "Wait a minute." Hurrying, Maddie
followed McCabe across the living room to the door. "I can't just stay
inside. I have errands to run. I have to go to the grocery, for one thing. And
I need to pick up my dry cleaning. And..." He paused with one hand on the knob. She was
only a couple feet behind him as he turned back toward her, barely arm's length
away, close enough so that he had to look down to meet her eyes. "Like I said, I want to make this hard for
him." His voice was dry. "Well, I want to go to the
grocery." "Maybe tomorrow," he said, as though
it was entirely his decision to make. Maddie's lips tightened, but before she could
reply his hand came up to cup the side of her face. The gesture was so
unexpected that anything that she might have been going to say was instantly
forgotten. Her eyes widened as the warmth of his skin coupled with the feel of
his big, capable hand against her cheek just blew her away. Her gaze locked
with his. "Your bruise is getting better," he
said, and his thumb brushed her cheekbone. Her insides turned to liquid. Just like that.
All it took was the slide of his thumb over her skin. "Exercise," she heard Gardner say
behind her. Thank God for small favors, Maddie thought as the interruption startled her
enough to break the spell. McCabe's hand dropped away from her face. Taking a
quick step back, she glanced around to find Wynne charging toward her with the
Krispy Kreme box in his arms and Gardner right behind him. Wynne was looking
over his shoulder at Gardner. Gardner, however, was suddenly looking at Maddie. "I know, I know," Wynne said
over his shoulder. "Sheez, we've been on the road for a month. I'm not
smoking. I can eat doughnuts if I want. Give me a break." McCabe opened the door for Wynne, who stomped
through it while at the same time waving a dismissive hand behind him at
Gardner. "Keep her inside," McCabe said over
Maddie's head to Gardner. Then, to Maddie, with the faintest hint of a smile in
his eyes, "Be good." He was gone before she could reply. For a moment Maddie simply stared at the closed
door. Then she got a grip and turned away to find Gardner watching her. "So you've got a thing for McCabe, do
you?" Gardner said, her eyes narrowed. Then she snorted. "Honey,
might as well get in line." Maddie was momentarily struck dumb. "I do not have a thing for McCabe,"
she said with what dignity she could muster when she had regained her power of
speech. Gardner dropped onto the couch and picked up the newspaper she had left
on the coffee table along with her cup of coffee. Not that she was trying to
end the conversation or anything, but Maddie headed toward the kitchen. Somebody had to put those dishes in the
dishwasher. "Don't bullshit me." Gardner snapped
the paper open. "I can spot a fellow sufferer a mile away." Arrested, Maddie stopped just short of the
kitchen doorway and turned to look at Gardner. "You've got a thing for McCabe?" Gardner looked at her over the top of the paper. "Oh, yeah," she said wryly. "He
knows it, too. I'd hop in the sack with him like that." She snapped
her fingers. "Problem is, I'd have to knock him cold to get him there. I'm
not really his type." Maddie couldn't help it. She knew she should
drop it, knew she should walk away, but the topic was just too fascinating.
Folding her arms over her chest, she cocked her head inquiringly at Gardner. "So what's his type?" she asked
cautiously. "Slim. Pretty. Brunette. Youngish—under
thirty. Sweet little wholesome girls. Yeah, in case you're wondering, you fit
the type." Maddie blinked. "What?" Gardner nodded. "You're his type. One
hundred percent. On the plane up here from New Orleans, he was about to jump
out of his skin from worrying that the UNSUB—the sick bastard we’re
chasing—would get to you before we did. As soon as I saw you, I had it figured
out: He was so worried because you're his type." "Do men even have a type?" Gardner lowered the paper to her lap. "You
mean you haven't noticed? Honey, where've you been? Of course they do. They all
have a type. And if you don't fit his type, you have to work like the devil to
get a particular guy to even look at you." The faint undertone of bitterness underlying
that comment made Maddie look at Gardner in a whole new light. She sounded
genuinely pained. "So you're really interested in him?
McCabe, I mean?" Maddie approached the seating group and sank down into
the squashy depths of her green corduroy armchair. Yesterday she and Gardner
had barely exchanged half a dozen words. Today they were going to chat? This
was new. Intriguing, though. "If he gave me half a chance, I'd have his
babies." Gardner gave a wry little grimace. "I'd take him home to
Mama. I'd wrap him up in cellophane and... well, you get the idea. Maybe it's
something to do with my age. I'm thirty-seven. All of a sudden, I keep hearing
my biological clock ticking. And every time I hear it tick, McCabe's is the
face I see." "He's not married, then?" Maddie asked
cautiously. It was bad enough to be asking the question. It was worse to be so
interested in the answer. "Single, just like me. Just like
Wynne." Gardner made a face. "Hell, who would have us? Except Wynne.
Somebody might take Wynne." "Wynne seems nice." "Wynne is nice. Just the nicest guy
around. But you have to admit, he's no stud-muffin." Maddie thought about that. "Maybe a
stud-muffin isn't the best choice to give you what you want. Maybe for a
long-term relationship—for babies—you should be thinking in terms of just a
really nice guy." "Like Wynne." Gardner sounded less
than convinced. Then she sighed. "To tell you the truth, the thought's
crossed my mind. The thing is, Wynne seems to be interested in me. So far,
McCabe doesn't. And I know Wynne's probably a better long-term prospect. But I
hate it that he smokes...." "He quit," Maddie interjected swiftly. "And I hate it that he doesn't take better
care of himself." "The doughnuts," Maddie said, suddenly
understanding. "Yes. Exactly. You saw him with the
doughnuts." Gardner sighed. "See? It's always something. That's the
thing with men. None of them—not one I've ever met—is perfect." "Unlike us," Maddie said. Gardner looked at her sharply. Then she grinned.
"All right. Point taken. But if I could somehow take Wynne's personality
and stuff it inside McCabe's body..." She paused, her eyes gleaming. Then
her face fell. "The new perfect hybrid would not be interested in me. How
dismal is that? Oh, forget it. Hey, you want part of the paper?" Maddie laughed, and accepted the Metro section. By late afternoon, though, Maddie was going
stir-crazy. Having been stuck inside her apartment—which, ordinarily, she
loved—for almost two full days, she was ready to climb the walls. After
finishing the paper, she'd worked on her laptop. She'd played back all the
phone messages that had been left—it was amazing how fast the news had gotten
around that her car windows had been shot out—and returned a judicious few. She
and Cynthia—they were on a first-name basis by that time—shared soup and
crackers for lunch, as Maddie's cupboard was practically bare. Over the meal,
she'd learned just about everything there was left to know about the other
woman. In a nutshell, Cynthia had been born and raised in New Jersey, her
marriage had been right out of high school and had lasted two years before
ending in divorce, and she'd joined the FBI twelve years earlier, as soon as
she had finished college. Maddie had also learned a great deal about Wynne.
Wynne was also thirty-seven, also divorced once, also childless. He'd grown up
in Connecticut and had very WASPish elderly parents still living there, to whom
he was devoted. He visited them all the time, whenever he got the chance, and
Cynthia had met them once. They hadn't seemed overly impressed with her, which
Cynthia professed to find amusing. As for McCabe—Maddie especially enjoyed the
nuggets Cynthia let drop about McCabe, although she did her best not to ask any
more leading questions about him than she could help. According to Cynthia, he
had parents still living, too, although she had never met them, a gaggle of
siblings she had likewise never met, and a string of ex-girlfriends—Maddie
imagined all the aforementioned slim, pretty brunettes—a mile long. He was
thirty-five years old, never wed, and basically married to his job. And Cynthia wanted him bad. It had been on that note, reiterated with a kind
of wry smile, that Wynne had knocked on the door. Cynthia had immediately
reverted to Rambo Barbie mode, motioning to Maddie to stay back while she
looked through the peephole. Recognizing Wynne, she had relaxed and let him in.
When Maddie saw that he was bearing bags of groceries, she was ready to fall on
his neck. Cynthia left, and Maddie fixed a light
supper—spaghetti and salad, which had the dual advantage of being easy and
nutritious—for herself and Wynne. They talked while they ate, and Maddie got
the distinct impression that Wynne was as taken with Cynthia as Cynthia was
with McCabe. Not that Wynne said so in so many words. Unlike Cynthia, he seemed
inclined to keep his secrets. After supper, Wynne helped her clean up and then
watched TV while she settled down with her laptop at the kitchen table. She
checked her e-mail, checked the next week's schedule, and gave some thought to
a campaign Creative Partners was preparing to pitch to a local ice-cream chain,
making a few sketches and writing a few lines of copy that she was unhappy with
almost as soon as she finished them. Vowing to work on it more the next day,
Maddie allowed herself a moment to bask in the remembered glow of Friday's success—we
got the Brehmer account—then packed her laptop into her briefcase and left
the kitchen. Given the fact that she hadn't been able to get to the cleaners,
her choice of outfits for the morrow was somewhat limited, so she settled on
her favorite basic black summer dress. Sleeveless and made of some kind of
wrinkle-proof synthetic that looked like slubby raw linen, it was cool and
comfortable. Add a loose white linen jacket to wear with clients and spectator
pumps, and she was good to go. By then it was after ten. McCabe would be coming
at eleven. Maddie took a bath, applied ointment and a fresh bandage to her
shoulder—which, she was glad to observe, was healing nicely—put on her
nightclothes and, with a quick good-night to Wynne, retreated to her bedroom.
There she meant to stay until the following morning. She'd been careful to limit her liquid intake
after supper, so there should be no need for her to see McCabe at all. A thing for him. Even if she had one, which, okay, she might, she
was absolutely not stupid enough to encourage it. Given what he was—and what
she was—she would stand a better chance of emerging whole from a game of
Russian roulette. She was already in bed with the lights off,
trying desperately to go to sleep, when she heard McCabe arrive. He and Wynne
talked for a few minutes. Although she couldn't quite hear what they were
saying over the TV, the deep drawl of his voice was unmistakable. Wynne's tones
were a little higher-pitched, a little more clipped, milk chocolate rather than
dark. Listening, Maddie was ready to concede that Cynthia was exactly right—
Wynne even sounded like the nicest guy in the world. McCabe sounded like pure sex. On that sleep-inducing thought, Maddie pulled
the sheet up over her head and squeezed her eyes shut. It only helped
marginally. She heard McCabe laugh, heard the door close, heard a pop as
though he had opened a tab-top can. More Diet Coke? Probably. She lay there
with the door ajar, listening to what sounded like ESPN, unable to keep from
picturing McCabe sprawled out on her couch—and fell asleep. The dream came, as she had known that sooner or
later it must. It was late at night, and she was in bed—another bed, a long-ago
bed. In a house that wasn't hers. It was a narrow bed—a cot, really—and it was
old and creaky and smelled faintly of mildew. She was alone in it, alone in the
room. The dark room. So dark that even with her eyes open, she couldn't see the
broken chest that she knew was pushed up against the opposite wall just a few
feet away. There were people in the house—people who scared her. She could hear
them talking. The voices got louder, and she could feel the pulse knocking
below her ear. Her fingertips throbbed—her hands were tied behind her back.
Something stabbed painfully into her palm—her nails. She was just absorbing
this when, without warning, the door opened. A rectangle of light spilled over
the bed. Her eyes closed instantly, and she lay very still. A shadow fell
across the bed, across her. A terror unlike any she had ever known twisted her
stomach, tightened her throat. Even as cold sweat drenched her, she took care
to breathe—in, out, in, out—in the slow cadence of deep sleep. All the
while she watched the shadow from the tiny slit between her upper and lower
lids, watched the horrible elongated thing that spilled like pure evil from the
dark figure silhouetted in the doorway. She watched it, and prayed that he
wouldn't come any closer, wouldn't come into the room. In, out, in, out. Lying
still as death, just breathing in that interminable rhythm, while her heart
beat like a trapped wild thing in her chest, she started to shake. God, he
would see.... Don't let me die. Please, don't let me die. Then the
shadow rippled, moved—a scream crowded into her throat but she forced it back—in,
out, in, out.. Maddie startled awake. For a moment, she lay
blinking up into the darkness, her heart pounding, her breathing coming in
shuddering gasps. The dream—of course it was the dream. Would she never be rid
of it? Then it hit her. Darkness... her room was dark.
She wasn't dreaming, and her room was dark. The apartment was dark, too, and
quiet. Too quiet. The TV... it was off, dark, soundless. Her ears picked up a sound, a movement. Her
breathing stopped as her eyes swung blindly in the direction from which it
came. This time it was for real. There was someone in her room. FIFTEEN "Maddie." It was McCabe's voice, the
merest thread of sound. Maddie drew in a shuddering breath and sat up.
Her thundering heart slowed, and the knot in her stomach seemed to loosen. "McCabe?" "Shh." He was beside her, beside the bed. She could see him now,
indistinctly, as a denser shadow in the darkness. It wasn't absolute, she saw.
Not the pitch-blackness of her dream... She shuddered at the memory. "Get up." His tone was urgent. His
hand touched her arm, slid around her back. Before she responded, he was all
but lifting her off the bed. "What?" Whispering, too, trying to get
her still-foggy mind around what was happening, she slid to her feet, then
stumbled against him. His chest was a solid wall that kept her from falling.
His arm tightened around her, hard and supportive—and insistent. "Someone's coming up the fire escape. I
want you to get in the bathroom, lock the door." He was already hustling her out of the bedroom.
Still slightly dazed, not one hundred percent sure she wasn't dreaming this,
too, she went with him, shivering slightly despite the warmth of his arm around
her, weak and drained as she always was in the aftermath of the dream. As they
moved into the living room, the darkness lightened a degree, and Maddie saw
that the long curtains covering the windows did not quite meet in the middle. A
sliver of moonlight slid between them to paint a pale gray line across the
floor. There was just enough light to permit her to see that in his other hand,
the hand that was not clamped around her waist, McCabe held a gun. Her heart lurched. What was happening became
suddenly, sharply real. They reached the bathroom and he thrust her
inside. "Lock it," he said, voice low, and pulled
the door closed behind him. "And stay put. I'll be back." Maddie locked the door. Then she leaned against
the thin panel, fingers wrapped around the knob, bare toes curling against the
cold tile. The bathroom had no window, and she dared not turn on a light. The
darkness was absolute, rendering her effectively blind. The faint scent of soap
reached her nostrils. Shivering, pressing her cheek against the smooth painted
wood, she listened with every fiber of her being. The toilet ran slightly; the
air-conditioning hummed. Above those homely sounds, she could hear nothing—no
footsteps, no rush of movement, nothing. Except the drumming of her own heart in her
ears. A man is coming up my fire escape. Cold panic curled deep inside her stomach at the
thought. Her knees went weak. Oh, God, would this never end? Where was McCabe? There was no way to tell. He might be right
outside the door. He might be in the kitchen. He might have rushed down the
fire escape to confront the intruder. He might be silently, horribly dead... All she knew for sure was that she was alone in
the dark, the terrifying dark, waiting for something to happen, for someone to
come... Swaying, she clutched the doorknob for support.
She was shivering, breathing fast. Her heart knocked against her ribs. The dream still had her in its thrall. Maddie
recognized that she was reacting to the situation she saw over and over again
in her nightmares rather than to what was happening right at that moment, in
what was now her real life. It was an effort to remember that the girl who had
shivered so helplessly on that bed was long gone. She had grown up, grown
resourceful, grown strong. Get a grip, Maddie said it to herself savagely. Taking a deep breath,
straightening her spine, willing her rubbery knees to hold up, she turned away
from the door. Feeling her way along the tile wall, she found the sink, then
the cabinet above it. Opening it, flinching slightly at the tiny creak, she
touched the shelves, reaching for the can of hair spray she knew was there. As a weapon, it didn't even make the charts, she
realized as she lifted the smooth metal cylinder from its accustomed spot. Mace
or pepper spray it wasn't. But in a pinch, if aimed at an intruder's face, it
might buy her time— maybe even enough time to get away. In any case, it was the
closest thing to a weapon she could get her hands on. Pressing the small of her back up against the
unyielding contours of the sink so that she faced the door, her every sense
trained on the deathly silence beyond the bathroom, Maddie clutched the can and
waited. Time spun out interminably. A quick footstep just outside the door. She caught her breath. A brisk tap. "Maddie?" Exhaling, Maddie rushed to the door and opened
it. The apartment was still lit only by that sliver of moon. She could see no
more of him than a powerful, dark shape. But even if the voice hadn't
identified him, she would have known it was McCabe. It was clear from his tone, his knock: The
danger was past. Her knees gave out, and she practically fell
forward against him. "Hey," he said on a surprised note,
catching her by her elbows. "It's over. It's okay." "Did you get him?" She was cold, so
cold that she was shivering in her thin little ivory slip of a nightgown, and
weak with reaction to the dream and the scare combined. "No." McCabe must have felt the
tremors that racked her, because he wrapped hard arms around her, pulling her
comfortingly close even as he answered her question. He felt strong and solid,
and he smelled of the outdoors and the faint but intoxicating eau de man that
she had noticed before, and, best of all, he radiated heat like a stove. She
absorbed the warmth greedily, snuggling closer yet, unable to resist the
temptation to let her head droop forward like a too-heavy flower to rest against
the firm, broad expanse of his chest. Encouraging him to hold her like this was
probably a mistake, she knew. But she couldn't seem to summon the willpower to
push herself out of his arms. Always, she'd had to stand on her own two feet.
Always, she'd had to take care of herself, to be strong. Where was the harm,
for once in her life, in surrendering for just a few moments to the pure luxury
of having somebody to lean on? "Was it—him?" she asked in a faint
voice. "I don't know. He was about a third of the way
up your back stairs when something apparently spooked him. He took off like a
bat out of hell." Maddie closed her eyes. What were the chances
that this was a totally random thing? In the four years she had lived in her
apartment, no one had ever been caught climbing her fire escape in the middle
of the night—until now. "I'm glad you were here." It was quite
an admission, and she recognized its enormity even as the words came out of her
mouth. Her eyes popped open in alarm and she glanced up at him. Of course, it
was impossible to see anything more than shadows upon shadows in the gloom. "Yeah. Me, too." His tone told her that he had no clue just how
huge her admission had been. She took a deep breath, knowing that she had to
make a move and yet not able, just at that moment, to do so, and his arms
tightened fractionally around her. His body was tense, and Maddie guessed that
he was still wired, on edge, from the intruder. He exuded controlled power, and
without any real surprise at all, she discovered that she had absolute faith in
his ability to keep her safe. From night-crawling hit men, at least. The problem was, who was going to keep her safe
from him? With that thought, Maddie started to regain her
sense of self-preservation. What are you doing? she scolded herself. He's an FBI agent, you numbskull. Willing herself to get back with the program
while she still could, she lifted her head from his chest. At the same moment,
he moved. Maddie only realized that he was reaching behind her for the switch
when the bathroom light clicked on. She blinked with surprise, glanced up to
discover just how close his face was, and found herself a little unnerved. He
was looking down at her, frowning slightly. Her eyes were on a level with the
top of his shoulder, and in the space of a heartbeat she took in the wide
expanse of those shoulders in the dark green T-shirt she had only felt until
now, absorbed the sturdy bronze column of his neck and the flexing muscles of
his arm that was in the process of dropping away from the light switch. She saw
that his chin was once again dark with stubble, and his hair was mussed like
he'd been running his hands through it, and his brows had twitched together so
that there were faint lines corrugating the space between them. His mouth was
only inches from hers. She fixated on that hard, masculine mouth and felt her
own lips part. He seemed to be breathing harder now than his strictly
stationary posture called for, she realized. She could feel his chest rising
and falling against her breasts, and the warmth of his breath brushed her face
where she hadn't been aware of it before. Their eyes met, and in the
coffee-brown depths of his, she saw something—a hot little flicker. An
awareness... The air between them was suddenly charged.
Maddie felt the electricity, and heat curled somewhere deep inside her. Her
breathing quickened. Her body began to tighten, to throb. Oh God, she thought, panicking. I want him. His eyes slid to her mouth. Which promptly went
dry. Then his gaze dropped lower still and his frown
deepened. "What the hell?" Confused, Maddie followed his gaze and
discovered, to her own surprise, that she was still clutching the can of hair
spray. It was sandwiched between them, its little black spray nozzle pointed
directly at his chest. "Oh," she said, feeling foolish.
Apparently, while she'd been busy getting all hot and bothered, he'd been
passing the time wondering about the hard, round thing that was poking him in
the chest. Struggling to think of this amorous lapse on his part as a positive
development, she looked up at him. "Uh—it's hair spray." "I can see that." His lips twitched,
and then he grinned, a lopsided, charming grin that warmed his eyes and brought
those to-die-for dimples into roguish life. "Planning to style somebody's
hair?" "I was in the bathroom. It was the only
thing I could think of to use as a weapon," she said with dignity. He laughed out loud. "Pencils. Hair spray.
Darlin', God help the bad guys if you ever get your hands on a gun." Outraged, she pushed against his chest, aerosol
can and all. "Let go." "You don't want me to," he said. Then he kissed her. Maddie was so surprised that, for the space of
maybe a heartbeat, she didn't even move. She just stood there with her eyes
wide open, clutching the aerosol can while he pulled her so close that the
can's metal edge dug into the side of her breast, and slanted his lips across
hers and licked into her mouth with a hungry urgency that sent fire shooting
clear down to her toes. How long had it been since someone had kissed
her like this? Too long. Never. The question, complete with its telling answer,
ricocheted through her stunned brain even as her body reacted quite
independently. Her eyes closed, her lips parted all on their own, and her free
hand slid around his nape, her fingers curling into the short, crisp hair at
the back of his head. He deepened the kiss, and the heat of it melted away the
last rational thought left to her name. Head reeling, she kissed him back,
feeling the hot, slick glide of his tongue against hers, tasting the faint tang
of Diet Coke in his mouth. His hands splayed over her back, big and strong and
hot through the thin nylon of her gown. Pulse racing, she surged against him,
loving the silky slide of her gown against his clothes. Hot little ripples of
pleasure slid down her thighs as she discovered the hard bulge beneath his
jeans and moved sensuously against it. He broke off the kiss, lifted his head, sucked
in air. "McCabe," she whispered, rocking
against him then going up on tiptoe to seek his mouth again. "Christ," he said and bent his head, kissing her harder, exploring
her mouth with an expertise that made her dizzy. The hot, sweet throbbing in
her loins that he'd awakened earlier was back, times ten. Her breasts swelled,
and her nipples contracted until they were needy little nubs pressing urgently
against his chest. His lips left hers, found the soft, sensitive
spot beneath her ear, then slid down her neck. His mouth was hot and wet and
firm, and the feel of it crawling over her skin made her dizzy. Her heart
lurched, her bones liquified, and if he hadn't been holding her so tightly, she
thought she would have melted into a sizzling little puddle at his feet. She made a small, hungry sound deep in her
throat and pressed as close to him as she could get. His head lifted, and then
his mouth was on hers again. He was unmistakably turned-on, hard and hot with
wanting her, holding her close and kissing her silly and making her feel things
she had almost forgotten she could feel. She was on fire for him, burning deep
inside, wanting to get naked and horizontal with him so badly that if he hadn't
been bigger than she was, and stronger than she was, and such a really
impressive kisser besides, she would have thrown him down on the floor and stripped
off her nightgown and had her way with him there and then. But then his hands
flattened on her back, slid lower, and she shivered, glad she had waited. They
were big and long-fingered and strong, the kind of hands she loved, and she
tracked their sensuous glide over the silky nylon with quivering anticipation.
They slid over her butt, cupping her cheeks, and she moaned her pleasure into
his mouth. She could feel the heat and strength and size of those hands with
every nerve ending she possessed, even as he pulled her tight against him and
rocked into her. A quick hard knock on the front door made Maddie
jump. McCabe's hands froze, and he lifted his head. They both looked toward the
sound. "McCabe..." The voice, a man's, was muffled but clearly
audible nonetheless. Maddie was too dazed and confused to feel so much as the
first flicker of fear, and. anyway, a hit man would not be knocking on the
front door and calling out to McCabe. "Shit," McCabe said and looked back
down at her. Her eyes met the superheated gleam of his, and held. For a
sizzling instant she would have been hard put to remember anything as basic as
her name. Then his arms around her loosened and dropped away. He headed for the
door. "Go put your robe on," he said over
his shoulder. Breathing too fast, heart racing, her body
tingling in places she'd almost forgotten she had, Maddie took a moment to
process what had just happened, while her eyes tracked him to the door. His
hand wrapped around the knob. Shrouded in shadows now, he glanced back at her.
It was only then that she realized that she was still standing in the bright
oblong of light that spilled out of the bathroom, wearing nothing but her thin,
white nightgown that, backlit as it was, undoubtedly revealed as much as it
concealed. He was still looking at her with his hand on the
knob when the knock sounded again. "McCabe..." The voice was louder now,
impatient. Maddie fled toward her bedroom. "Don't turn on the light," he said as
she reached it. "If he's got any idea about doubling back, we don't want
to scare him off." She stopped, standing stock-still for a moment
as she registered the idea that whoever had been on her steps might be coming
back. Then she heard the metallic click of the deadbolt unlocking. By the time
McCabe had the door open, she was safely in her room. In order to have any light at all, she had to
leave her bedroom door ajar. Maddie crossed to the dresser, put down the can
that, ridiculously, she discovered she was still holding, found her robe, and
pulled it on. Then she hesitated. She was still shaken, from the dream and the
fright and, yes, that impossibly hot kiss. She was alarmed. She was befuddled.
What she could do—what she should do—was try to thrust her worries out
of her head until she could think them through more calmly on the morrow, go
back to bed, and trust McCabe to keep watch. But even as she had the thought,
she knew that she couldn't do it. Sleep was clearly going to be impossible
after what had happened. And the lure of the murmuring voices was too strong.
She badly wanted to know what was going on. And there was no way she could just
leave things as they were with McCabe. Tightening the belt on her robe, Maddie padded
out into the dark living room. The front door was closed, and McCabe was there
in front of it with his back turned to her, standing in the dark with two men
that she didn't at first recognize. But the bathroom light was still on,
providing just enough illumination to allow her to discern features in the
gloom. As she drew closer and they acknowledged her presence with glances and
nods, she realized that she was looking at Gomez and Hendricks. All three men
fell silent as she stopped beside McCabe. "So what's happened?" she asked,
thrusting her hands deep into the pockets of her robe. "He got away," Gomez said. There was
chagrin on his boyish face. "He must have seen us," Hendricks
added. "We were careful as hell, too." "It was that damned streetlight. We were
right under it when he started leaping back down the stairs." He cast an
accusing look at Hendricks. "I told you we should have gone around
it." "If we'd gone around it, he would've had
time to get up here and kick down the apartment door and blast the hell out of
everybody inside before we got to him." Maddie felt a cold chill snake down her spine at
this graphic description of what might have happened. She had to fight the urge
to lean into McCabe. "Anyway, we're not even sure he saw
us," Hendricks said to Sam. "Something spooked him." "Yeah, probably he's afraid of spiders and
there was a big one about halfway up the stairs," Gomez said in disgust.
Hendricks shot him a dirty look. "Whatever happened, he's gone," McCabe
said. So far he hadn't so much as glanced at Maddie, who had noticed. "Maybe the locals will pick him up. They're
out there cruising around now." "Maybe," McCabe said. "You guys
did good, by the way." "Thanks," Hendricks replied without
enthusiasm. "Come on, Gomez. We better be getting back." "We'll get him next time," Gomez said.
"He's not getting away again. It's uncomfortable as hell in that
van." With that, they left. McCabe locked the door
behind them. Looking at his broad back as he closed the door and tried the
lock, Maddie felt her heart speed up again. Wanting him was such a stupid thing to do. He turned away from the door and their eyes met.
Heat surged between them, as sudden and electric as a bolt of lightning. The
tension in his stance told her that he felt it, too. But she could see his face
clearly enough in the gloom to realize that he didn't look particularly happy
about the fact. Not at all the way a man should look if he thought he was about
to get lucky. In fact, she registered with a slight knitting of her brows, he
was looking downright grim. "At a guess I'd say that's all the
excitement for tonight," he said, skirting around her like she was giving
off radioactive cootie rays to head for the kitchen. "Whoever was on the
stairs almost certainly won't be back. You should go on to bed." O-kay. Clearly, sweet nothings weren't in the cards. To say
nothing of down-and-dirty, really hot sex. Damn. "Where did Gomez and Hendricks come
from?" she asked, following him. She'd thought that only he, Wynne, and
Gardner were sharing guard duty. Discovering that she had more babysitters even
than she'd thought was just a little mind-boggling. Pausing in the doorway, she
watched him open her refrigerator door. The faint, frosty light illuminated the
front of him from the top of his tousled, black head to the toes of his
sneakers. He wasn't looking at her. He was perusing the available food instead.
But his eyes were narrowed, his jaw was clenched, and his mouth was tight.
Unless he was having an emotional reaction to the leftover salad, that
expression was for her. "They're watching your back door from a van
in a parking lot two doors down. I've got two more guys out on the street in a
Blazer, watching your front door. We stay in touch." He reached for a
quart of milk—she usually drank skim, but this, courtesy of Wynne, was whole
milk—and glanced at her. "You mind?" He was asking if she minded if he drank some of
what wasn't even properly her milk. "Help yourself," she said and declined
his offer to pour her some with a shake of her head. He filled his own glass,
returned the milk to the refrigerator, shut the door, and drank. Way to
avoid a difficult conversation, she thought wryly. With the curtains drawn
over the windows and the refrigerator shut, the kitchen was almost as dark as
the rest of the apartment. But not quite. The streetlight that Gomez had
complained of filtered through the thin cotton panels so that she could see
McCabe tip his head back to finish the milk, then hear the faint click as he
set the glass in the sink. By then she had made up her mind. It was her
life and she could be stupid if she wanted to. And, yeah, she wanted to. A lot.
The problem was, he didn't seem inclined to cooperate any longer. Leaning
against the door-jamb and folding her arms over her chest, she decided to take
the battle into the enemy camp. "That kiss was a mistake, okay?" she
said. He turned back from the sink to look at her. She
could see the shape of his head and the outline of his powerful shoulders
silhouetted against the curtains, but his expression was lost in darkness. "I think that should've been my line."
His voice was dry. "I shouldn't have kissed you. I'm sorry." Great. He was apologizing when all she really
wanted him to do was kiss her again. "Stuff happens." With a delicate,
no-big-deal shrug, she turned and padded back into the living room. A wiser
woman—or a braver one— would undoubtedly have headed back to her bedroom,
jumped into bed, pulled the covers over her head, and thanked God for saving
her from her own folly. She sank down on the couch. "Don't you have to get up and go to work in
the morning? It's almost two a.m." He had followed her into the living
room and now stood beside the TV, looking at her—was it warily? It was
difficult to be sure, given the vagaries of the light, but she thought so. "Like I'm going to be able to sleep after
that. Maybe it's just me, but knowing that there's somebody out there who's
trying to kill me kind of gives me insomnia." It was so true she shivered,
then firmly thrust the thought of marauding hit men out of her mind. That was a
subject to be pondered when her mind was clearer. "Can we turn on the TV,
or would that be a violation of the blackout?" "Go ahead and turn it on. I was watching
ESPN when I got the word that someone was headed up your back stairs." "I hate ESPN," Maddie said, picking up
the remote from the coffee table and pressing the power button. The TV
flickered to life. "Watch whatever you want." The irony of being invited to watch what she
wanted on her own TV was not lost on her. Settling into a corner and curling
her feet up beside her, Maddie started clicking through the channels. McCabe,
meanwhile, crossed to the bathroom and turned off the light. Then he returned
to the seating group and lowered himself into the big green chair. "So, what is this we're watching?" he
asked after a moment. Maddie flicked a look at him. He was slouched in
the chair, his long legs thrust out in front of him. He'd kicked his shoes off,
and his thick, white athletic socks glowed faintly in the bluish light. "Dark Victory," she said with relish, naming the 1940s Bette
Davis weeper. She'd chosen it deliberately as a kind of subtle revenge for all
the hours of sports she'd been forced to listen to since the FBI had barged
into her life—and also for his reaction to that aborted kiss. He gave a grunt of disgust. "Why you women
like that kind of stuff..." "The end makes us cry. It's
cathartic." "Well, the middle's going to put me to
sleep. Do you think we could possibly watch something else?" "Like what? Not sports." "I'm open to compromise." Since she wasn't really feeling like a weeper,
either—if she felt like being depressed, she had plenty of things in her real
life at that moment that would more than do the trick—she flipped channels.
After a few minutes of negotiation, they settled on a Seinfeld rerun. "I've been meaning to ask," McCabe said
as the screen switched to a commercial, "did you get that account you were
trying for?" The memory came complete with its own special
little glow. The one great moment in a really crappy week. "Yeah, we did." "Good for you." "It's a really big deal for my
company." Despite everything, she was starting to feel sleepy. The couch
was huge and comfy and upholstered in chenille, which made it cozy, and, after
wrapping her robe closely about her legs to make sure she stayed decent, she
scooted down so that her head rested on the big, squishy armrest. "So how did you come to be the owner of an
advertising agency?" McCabe asked as Seinfeld reappeared on the
screen. "I worked there. The previous owner wanted
to sell it. I wanted to buy it. So I did." "What, do you have a rich uncle?"
There was the faintest note of humor underlying the question. "I wish." Maddie made a little face
and snuggled lower into the cushions. "Since Creative Partners was barely
turning a profit, it wasn't all that expensive. I had enough saved up for the
initial payment, and Mr. Owens— that's the previous owner—arranged it so that I
make monthly payments to him until I own it one hundred percent." "That new account large enough to
help?" "Oh, yeah," Maddie said, smiling a
little at the thought. "It's large enough." "So what does your family think about you
being a big, bad business mogul?" Her family. Maddie registered that and flicked a
look at him. His gaze was focused on the TV. "I don't really have any family left,"
she said, and turned the tables. "How does your family feel about you
being an FBI agent?" That won her a glance and a glimmer of a smile.
"They're in favor of it, by and large. My grandma gets it confused with
the CIA, though. She thinks I'm a spy, and she keeps volunteering to
help." "You have a grandma?" She tried hard
not to sound wistful. All her life she'd wanted a grandma—and a mom, and some
siblings—but her mother had died when she was two and, since then, all she'd
ever had was her dad. "Oh, yeah." "Tell me about her. Tell me about your
whole family." She'd always loved hearing about families—real families,
whole families. To her they were like fairy stories, enchanting tales of
never-to-be-visited lands. He sent her another look. "Well, my grandma
is eighty-two, sharp as a tack except for the few things she occasionally gets
confused, like the difference between the FBI and the CIA. She says they're all
initialsso what the hell, and nobody's going to argue
with her because if you argue with her, she's liable to crack you over the head
with one of her big wooden spoons. My dad's a former cop who retired last year,
my mom's a home-maker who secretly rules the roost, and I have two brothers—one
a cop, one a lawyer—and a baby sister, who is currently in grad school at the University
of South Carolina." "Wow," Maddie breathed, picturing all
those relatives with bedazzle-ment. "Are you close with them? Do you see
them often?" "When I can." His mouth curled into a
smile. "I make it to all the big holidays, anyway." "Sounds wonderful," she said. She was
so cozy and comfortable that she was feeling almost boneless now. With McCabe
only an arm's length away, the twin specters of bad dreams and determined
killers seemed impossibly distant. "Do you live near each other?" "Everybody except my lawyer brother and I
live in Greenville, South Carolina, where we grew up. He lives in Savannah, and
I keep a condo near Quantico." Her brow contracted, and she tilted her head a
little on the armrest so that she could see him better. Kicked back in the
chair, with the light from the TV playing over him and his long legs stretched
out in front of him, he looked about as relaxed as she felt. "So what were you doing in New
Orleans?" she asked. His eyes cut to her. His hands tightened on the
arms of the chair. "My job," he said. "Just like
you." His job. For a little while there, she'd almost
forgotten what he was. Anxiety twisted her insides, and suddenly she wasn't
quite as sleepy anymore. "McCabe," she said. "What happens
when somebody at your job says it's time for you to leave?" He met her gaze. Alive with the glow of the TV,
his eyes gleamed at her. "What happens to you, you mean?" he
asked. Maddie gave a little nod. "I won't leave you until I'm sure you're
safe. You don't have to worry." "I wasn't worried," she said, although
she was. "I just wanted to know what to expect." Although she'd known, of course, from the very
beginning. The FBI used people, and when they had no more use for them they
discarded them like so much trash. How stupid was she to let herself forget that? SIXTEEN Monday,
August 18 When Sam opened the door to Gardner at shortly
before eight the next morning, he was not in the best of moods. After Maddie
had finally fallen asleep on the couch, he had let her be for a while, trying
to concentrate on the TV and his own thoughts instead of noticing the picture
she made lying there or her occasional restless movements or the soft sound of
her breathing. But ignoring her had proved impossible. Curled on her side with
one hand tucked beneath her cheek, she had looked sweet and sexy and
vulnerable. Her lashes formed dark crescents on her cheeks; her lips were just
barely parted. Her body—no, he wasn't going there; he wasn't even going to think
about her body. But even when he'd kept his eyes resolutely glued to the
screen, he had been unable to push from his mind the knowledge that she was
curled up little more than an arm's length away. When he caught himself
glancing her way when he should have been watching Shaq mow down Yao Ming, he knew
he had to do something. Out of sight, out of mind, he'd thought—too
optimistically, as it had turned out—and had scooped her up in his arms and
carried her to her bed. She hadn't so much as flickered an eyelid, and,
deadweight, she'd been a substantial armful, but as he'd lugged her into the
bedroom and deposited her, still wrapped in her robe, in the middle of her big
bed, he'd made a grim discovery. His deep, atavistic response to their kiss had
not been an aberration. Holding the soft, curvy warmth of her in his arms,
inhaling the sweet, light scent of her, feeling the satiny smoothness of her
skin, he'd gotten hot all over again. So hot, in fact, that it had taken a
large effort of will to stop himself from dropping down beside her and
awakening her with a kiss and taking up where they'd left off. She would have
welcomed him, he knew. He wasn't a kid; he'd had his share of women. The look
in her eyes as she had followed him around after Gomez and Hendricks left was
unmistakable. She might as well have been wearing a sign reading Do me now. What
had stopped him was the knowledge that he was on the job, dammit, and her last
line of defense besides. And the little voice inside his head warning
that with her, he just might be heading for trouble. It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that zing.
Damn Grandma anyway for putting
the phrase in his head. Because with Maddie, he'd recognized it: zing.
Zing in spades. In the very last place he ever would have wanted
to find it. His job was to keep her alive, not get her into bed. Although he
seemed to be having a problem keeping that firmly fixed in the forefront of his
mind. "Hard night?" Gardner looked at him
keenly as she walked past him into the apartment. Sam replied with a grunt, then asked, "Did
you bring it?" as he closed the door behind her. "Right here." Gardner jiggled the
black vinyl tote she was carrying. Her hair was brushed close to her head so
that it looked sleek rather than spiky, her eyes were bright, her makeup
relatively subdued. She was wearing a black blazer over a white T-shirt and
black pants. Her waist was cinched, her pants were tight, and her heels were
high, but clearly she'd taken the information that she would be protecting
Maddie in a business environment to heart as she dressed. "I heard about your visitor last
night," she added. "Think it was our UNSUB?" Sam shrugged. "I don't know. Seems kind of
amateurish for this guy." "That's what I thought, too." She
looked toward the closed bedroom door and raised her voice. "Morning,
Maddie." "Oh, hi, Cynthia," Maddie called back
from the other side of that door, her voice faintly muffled. "I'm almost
ready." "Take your time," Gardner responded.
"Nobody's going anywhere without you." She glanced at Sam. "Is
that coffee I smell?" He grunted again, this time as an affirmative.
He had, in fact, made a fresh pot—his third since he'd walked away and left
Maddie peacefully sleeping in her bed—when he'd heard Maddie get up. Busying
himself in the kitchen had meant that he didn't have to watch her emerge all
tousle-haired and sleepy-eyed from her bedroom. Which, considering the zing,
was probably not an image he wanted to burden himself with. Not until he
had a handle on how he felt. "What, are you two bosom buddies now or
something?" Sam asked sourly, following Gardner to the kitchen. Last time
he'd paid the matter any attention, the two women had seemed to be just about
civil and that was it. "We talked." Gardner dropped the tote
on the kitchen table, snagged a cup from the cabinet, and filled it while Sam
moved to lean against the counter beneath the window. Outside, he saw at a
glance, the world was awash in sparkly sunshine. Birds twittered. Butterflies
fluttered. Branches burst with leafy greenery. Inside, he just felt grumpy.
"We bonded," Gardner added. Something about that didn't sound like it boded
well for him. "You bonded?" "Yep." Gardner gulped down some coffee
and made a face at him. "Over men. Over you." "What?" "She's your type, isn't she? I recognized
it as soon as I saw her." "What the hell are you talking about?"
God deliver him from women. They were all—every single one he'd ever met—screwy
as hell. "Maddie. She's your type." Gardner
sounded regretful. "It's one of those things nobody can do anything about.
That's why I decided to cut my losses." "What?" Sam scowled at her for a second, then decided that he
really didn't want to go there. Not this morning, not ever. He shook his head.
"Never mind. I don't want to know." Time to change the subject.
"Any of that stuff we sent off come back yet?" He was referring to the evidentiary material
from both New Orleans crime scenes that had been sent off to the FBI lab for
analysis. Gardner assumed her game face, thank God.
"Not yet. They said it would take a few days. They're busy." "Aren't we all. How about the in-depth
backgrounds on our two Miz Fitzgeralds?" "Stuff's coming in in bits and pieces. The
ex-husband's alibi seems to be holding up." "Yeah. I'd already pretty much
crossed him off my list." Gardner looked at him over her cup. "I take
it the UNSUB hasn't called again?" "Not yet." Along with the zing factor,
that was one of the things that was making him so antsy. Where was the
guy? Of course, if he was creeping around Maddie's back stairs, maybe at the
moment he had priorities other than picking up the phone. But Sam didn't think so. Didn't think he was
creeping around Maddie's back stairs, and didn't think he had other priorities.
The sick bastard enjoyed the chase too much. In fact, Sam got the feeling that
the sick bastard enjoyed taunting him too much. It was personal. Sam suddenly felt as if bells and whistles had
just gone off in his brain and somebody inside there had just stood up and
shouted, "Eureka!" "What?" Gardner said. Sam didn't know
what his expression looked like, but Gardner had lowered her cup to stare at
him. "I know this guy," Sam said, the
wheels still turning. "Or he knows me. He's got to be somebody I've
busted, or somebody connected with somebody I've busted, or somebody somehow
connected with one of the cases I've worked." "Well, that narrows it down."
Grimacing, Gardner resumed drinking her coffee. "To maybe a cast of
thousands. How long you been with the Bureau? Ten years? You work on what,
maybe a hundred cases a year? Yep, a cast of thousands." "Not just anyone could pull this off,"
Sam said slowly. "This guy's a pro. A sick fuck, but a pro." Maddie appeared in the doorway just then, and
Sam shelved the matter as something to be looked into as soon as he got back to
their command post in the hotel room where Wynne, hopefully, was holding down
the fort. "I'm ready to go," Maddie addressed
Gardner, ignoring Sam completely. So far that morning, she hadn't said a word
to him. She hadn't so much as looked at him. As determined as he was to get
their relationship back on strictly professional footing, he had to admit that
it bugged him to realize that she seemed to have pretty much the same idea. "Not so fast," Sam said. "Gardner
brought you a present." She looked at him then. Raised her eyebrows
inquiringly. Sam felt the impact of those honey-colored eyes in places he
didn't even want to think about. God, she was pretty, with her big do-me eyes
and waves of shiny, dark hair and her soft, kissable mouth. Okay, don't go
there. Like Gardner, she was wearing black and white, only her outfit
consisted of a sexy little black dress that ended just above her knees beneath
a loose white jacket. Unlike Gardner, though, she looked so hot he could
practically feel the sizzle from where he stood. Which wasn't good. "What kind of present?" she asked
suspiciously. They were the first words she'd spoken to him that morning. Sam straightened, took the few steps necessary
to reach the table, picked up the tote, and handed it to her. "Here you go." Maddie looked at him, looked at the tote, then
pulled out what, if someone didn't know better, could possibly be mistaken for
a pale gray, sleeveless windbreaker. For a moment, she simply frowned at it in
evident bewilderment. "It's a bulletproof vest," Gardner
said. Maddie's eyes widened. She unfolded the Kevlar
vest and held it up in front of her, looking at it incredulously. Lightweight
and thin, the garment was state-of-the-art. "You've got to be kidding me." Her
eyes met his. "Nope. Ordinarily it goes under your
clothes, but since you're only going to be wearing it while you're outside, you
can put it on over your dress and under your jacket, if you want." She looked from the vest to him again. "Do
I really need this?" "Let's see, aren't you the person who got
shot a couple of days back?" Her lips compressed, her eyes flickered, and he
could tell that had registered. "Good point," she said, and, putting
the vest down on the table, took off her jacket. Sam couldn't help noticing how
slim and shapely she looked in the formfitting dress that somehow managed to be
business-appropriate while still hugging every delectable curve. Then she had
the vest on and was struggling to zip it up. Still distracted by the view, he
reached out to help her automatically, only realizing that this might not be
the best idea when his knuckles brushed against cool cloth covering the
flatness of her belly and he felt an unexpected spark of heat. Then the scent
of her hit him—fresh and clean, with that mysterious hint of strawberries—and
he had an instant flashback to how she had felt in his arms. Gritting his
teeth, banishing the memory to outer darkness, he pulled the zipper up with
cool efficiency and stepped back. Hoping like hell that he was only imagining the
sweat popping out on his brow. "You wear it from the time you leave your
apartment until you're safely inside your office building," he said as she
pulled her jacket back on and looked down at the result doubtfully. "When
you leave your office building to come home, you wear it. If you leave your
office building for anything, you wear it. Anytime you go outside for any
reason, you wear it. Got it?" She nodded. He thought, maybe, that she might
have turned a shade paler than before. "Okay, I have to ask it." She looked
up, met his gaze, turned sideways, and gestured at herself. "Does this
bulletproof vest make me look fat?" Then, as Gardner gave a snort of laughter,
Maddie grinned at him. And his heart turned over. It was as simple as that. Because he wasn't imagining it. Despite the
brave front she was putting on, there was fear in her eyes. She wasn't alone,
either. Now that he was about to send her out where he didn't have total
control of the environment and she might really be vulnerable, he was
struggling with a whole boatload of second thoughts himself. If he'd been able
to think of anything else that might work as well as using her as bait, he
would have scrapped the plan right there and then. The problem was, he
couldn't. Lips tightening, he reached out and buttoned her
jacket for her, so that as little of the damned vest showed as possible. She
had tied a scarf around her neck, he noticed for the first time, a black, gauzy
one, and he realized that she was wearing it to hide the bruise where the sick
fuck had choked her. Sam was suddenly so angry he wanted to kill. "Do you actually think he's going to take
another shot at me?" Her grin had faded. She was looking at him steadily.
He hadn't been mistaken about the fear: He could see it in everything from the
set of her jaw to the tension around her eyes. But she wasn't going to let it
show if she could help it, and she was going to go through with the plan
regardless. "I don't know," Sam said, his tone
rougher than it needed to be because she was getting to him despite his best
efforts to keep it from happening. She was being courageous, gallant even. And
he? Hell, face the truth: What he was doing here was using her. Putting her in
danger, even while she trusted him to keep her safe. Or, to put the best
possible face on it, he was simply doing his job. Which, like now, sometimes
sucked. "But there's no point in taking any chances. Wear the damned vest,
okay?" Now I know what it feels like to have an
entourage, Maddie thought wryly
as the equivalent of the presidential motorcade escorted her to work. It was
rush hour, and the expressway was jammed. The urge to put in a call to her good
buddy Bob was growing stronger by the minute—You want to explain what a man
was doing sneaking up my back stairs in the middle of the night?—but there
were too many eyes watching and, possibly, ears listening to make that wise.
Under the circumstances, her best choice—her only choice—was to sit
tight, so that's what she did. She sat tight right in the driver's seat of her
Camry as she headed east on I-64 toward downtown St. Louis. In front of her was
a gray Maxima carrying two agents whose names she didn't know. Behind her,
Cynthia was driving McCabe in a black Blazer. She could see them anytime she
wanted with a flick of her eyes to her rearview mirror. Behind them came the
white van, with Gomez driving and Hendricks beside him. None of the vehicles
was too close—apparently, the idea was to make it look as if she were on her
own, just in case the hit man might still be harboring some illusions about
that—but Maddie was acutely aware of them nonetheless. The sky was a high, brilliant blue, dotted here
and there with cottony clouds. The shimmer of heat that would rise above the
city later was not yet in evidence. She drove toward the arch, which gleamed
silver in the bright morning sunlight as it curved like a colossus across the
horizon. Clustered around it, the angular skyscrapers and Victorian-era domes
and needlelike church steeples that filled in the skyline seemed to stretch out
endlessly. Maddie got just a glimpse of the mud-brown waters of the Mississippi
River rolling lazily by on her right as she turned off onto Market Street. For
a moment she marveled as all three vehicles escorting her made the turn with
ease despite the crush of traffic, no zooming over from the far lane, no cutting
in front of other cars, no squealing brakes or honking horns. Each simply
pulled onto the ramp as if, instead of taking their cue from her, they had
known exactly where they were going all the time. Which, Maddie realized with
an internal duh seconds later, of course they did. They were the FBI,
after all. Knowing where she worked and how to get there was something straight
out of Snooping 101 to them. Finding herself once again sandwiched in the
middle of the procession, Maddie was suddenly all too conscious of the cold
weight of the bulletproof vest dragging at her shoulders. Knowing that she was
wearing it made her jumpy. Just being back in the car again made her jumpy.
McCabe had said that the new glass was all bulletproof, but knowing she was
safe and feeling like she was safe were, she was discovering, two entirely
different things. The awful moment when that shot had exploded through her
windshield had been indelibly etched on her mind, and finding herself back in
the catbird's seat, as it were, was nerve-racking. She caught herself glancing
around nervously as she drove. Now that she knew how it happened—-fast,
bang, out of nowhere, and you're dead—she didn't think she'd ever be
entirely comfortable in any open area again. By the time she reached the Anheuser-Busch
Building, where Creative Partners had offices on the sixth floor, her palms
were damp. The trickiest part, of course, she realized as
she parked in the lot behind the building, was getting from her car into the
building. Without the shell of the Camry for protection, Maddie felt hideously
vulnerable as she got out and headed for the chrome-trimmed glass double doors
of the rear entrance. Juggling briefcase and purse, breathing in the tarry
smell of the asphalt underfoot and the fishy odor of the Mighty Mississippi
with every step, she scrunched up her shoulders protectively and hotfooted it
across the pavement while trying to project a business-as-usual air to any and
all onlookers. But she was hideously conscious of every passing car, every
pedestrian, every metallic glint in a high-up window. Sounds seemed to be
magnified—the swoosh of tires on pavement, the rumble of a city bus as it
passed, the slamming of car doors near and far. Her minders were fanned out all
around her—McCabe and Cynthia in a parking spot a dozen feet or so to her left,
the two unknown agents circling the lot near the back, Gomez and Hendricks
pulling to the curb on the street near where she'd parked— but for those three
hundred or so yards, she felt as alone as she ever had in her life. Even so
early in the morning, it was already hot as a steam bath, typical August in St.
Louis, with the promise of yet another miserably sultry day to come. But by the
time Maddie had made it halfway to the door, she was freezing. It was chilling to know that the hit man could
be anywhere. Even now he could be lifting a rifle, lining up the crosshairs,
targeting her. Pushing through the door, Maddie practically
fell into the building's air-conditioned gloom. She had to pause for a second in
the small rear vestibule, pressing her hands to her face, trying to get her
breathing under control. Her fingers felt as cold as ice. Her heart pounded as
though she'd just run a marathon. Her mouth was dry. Get a grip, she told herself. Dropping her hands, she took a deep
breath, squared her shoulders, and carried on. The marble-floored lobby that
the vestibule opened into was crowded, which was typical at this time on a
Monday morning as her fellow tenants headed up to their jobs. Several people
greeted her as she joined a group waiting for the elevators. Acutely conscious
of the bulletproof vest herself, she was surprised when no one seemed to notice
anything unusual about her appearance. Still so on edge that she jumped when
someone in the crowd sneezed, Maddie smiled and chatted to a couple of people
without even knowing what she was saying or being aware of to whom she was
talking. She was, she supposed, operating on autopilot, which might or might
not be a good thing. It kept her from attracting the curious attention of her
acquaintances, but it might also work against her if she was too out of it to
notice something that might give the hit man away before he could strike. Just as she was stepping into the elevator, her
cell phone rang. Maddie jumped before she realized what it was, then glanced
nervously around to see if anyone had noticed her reaction. It seemed as though
no one had. The blasted thing kept on ringing. It was in her purse, and she had
to dig for it. When she finally found it and answered, the elevator was
shuddering to a halt on the third floor. "You're doing great," McCabe said in
his patented dark-chocolate drawl as two women squeezed out the door.
"There's a short, pudgy bald guy carrying a newspaper on the elevator with
you. Do you see him?" Alarmed, Maddie glanced quickly around as the
elevator doors closed and they started up again. Was McCabe describing the hit
man, warning that he was near? The elevator was still almost full, but it took
just seconds to spot the man standing behind her on the left. Her heart kicked
up a notch. As her widened eyes met his, the pudgy guy gave her a slight smile.
Heart in throat, Maddie hastily looked forward again. "Y-es," she said into the phone on a
slightly squeaky note. "Well, pretend you don't. That's Special
Agent George Molan. I want you to ignore him, act like he's not even there.
He'll see you safely into your office. Gardner's on her way up." Maddie practically passed out with relief right
there in the elevator. "Okay." "You've got nothing to be afraid of. We've
got you covered so tightly that a mosquito won't be able to bite you without us
swatting it first." Good to know, Maddie thought, but before she could say anything, he
disconnected. Sure enough, Molan got off on the sixth floor,
trailed behind her as she walked briskly toward the seven-room suite that
Creative Partners occupied on the northwest side of the building, then stayed
behind to bend over the water fountain as she went inside. Louise was not at her desk just inside the door.
Maddie frowned as she realized that. Her gaze swept the reception area. It was
a large room, sleekly modern like the rest of the office, with pearl-gray walls
and carpet, and chrome and black furniture. Sunlight streamed through a row of
tall windows to cast bright rectangles across the blown-up stills from their
most successful advertising campaigns that adorned the walls. Magazines
highlighting Creative Partners' campaigns and clients were arranged neatly on
various tables. Bold and functional, it was an attractive space, if she did say
so herself. Of course, she wasn't exactly an impartial source: She'd designed
and decorated it. Since buying the business, she'd put every spare
penny and every spare minute and every spare thought she'd had into making Creative
Partners a success. And the look of the place was an important ingredient in
impressing clients. Achieving the right look on a piggy-bank budget had been a
challenge. She'd scrounged office furniture closeout sales to find new chairs
and tables for the reception room, and the modular black leather couch had come
from a yard sale. She and the rest of the staff had painted the walls
themselves. They'd made the blowups to hang on them. They'd—well, they'd done
everything. In the last year and a half or so, they had totally remade Creative
Partners in every way to reflect the more dynamic company that they all hoped
it would become. Every single change bore Maddie’s personal stamp, and she
couldn't have been prouder of the result if the company had been her child. In
a way, she thought, it was her child. The little advertising agency that could. The hand-painted slogan hung on the wall behind
Louise's desk. That was how they thought of themselves, and they'd labored as
tirelessly as ants to make it true. Then, on Friday, they'd won the Brehmer account.
And just like that, the world had changed. All the hopes and dreams that each
of them had put into the rebuilding of the company now trembled on the brink of
coming true. Or not. The thought that she might be going to lose it
all hung over Maddie's head like a dark cloud as she looked around. She... Someone pushed through the door behind her.
Maddie jumped, cutting her eyes nervously toward the newcomer. "Yo," Cynthia said, then, responding
to something she must have seen in Maddie's face, added, "Everything
okay?" Maddie breathed again. "Fine. It's
just—Louise— the receptionist isn't at
her desk." "Is she usually?" "She usually comes in, sits right down at
her desk, and has her breakfast." Maddie shrugged, and started walking.
Besides the reception area, there were four offices—one each for Jon, Judy,
Herb, and herself—a conference room, and a workroom with office machines, file
cabinets, and a desk for Ana. "She's probably in the restroom. Or making coffee." All right, so having a babysitter was a little
irksome, Maddie reflected as
she glanced in Jon's, Judy's, and Herb's doors in turn on the way to her own,
only to find their offices deserted, too. If Cynthia hadn't been right behind
her, her hand moving beneath her jacket to rest on what Maddie hoped was a very
large gun as they progressed, she would have been freaked to the point of
running out of the office by the time she'd made it to the end of the hall. "Louise? Jon? Anybody?" she called,
sticking her head into the workroom. Nobody answered, and for a very good reason:
Nobody was there. "Let me open it," Cynthia said, moving
in front of her as Maddie reached her office door and started to grasp the
knob. "I know this place is secure; we had it searched before the
building opened and we've had it staked out since, but..." Her voice trailed off as she turned the knob.
Maddie knew just what she meant. Finding the office silent and empty was
unnerving. Cynthia threw the door open wide. "Surprise!" screamed five voices in
unison, echoed by a chorus of loud pops that made Maddie jump and Cynthia take
a hasty step back. A shower of glittery confetti filled the air. Brightly
colored balloons bounced against the ceiling. A big banner stretched across the
windows, proclaiming We got the Brehmer account! A small sheet cake took
center stage in the middle of her desk. Glancing around, Maddie sucked in air. They were all there—Jon, Louise, Judy, Herb, and
Ana. As Maddie looked from one grinning face to the other, they began to clap. "You guys,"she said,
her heart swelling, and walked into her office. Sam slept, only to be startled awake what could
have been minutes or hours later by the ringing of a phone. His phone.
His heart jolted. Lifting his head from the pillow it was buried in, fumbling
for his cell phone, which he'd left on the bedside table, he found it and
squinted at the message window. The damned thing was impossible to read in the
gloom. Blinking at it, still groggy, he realized even as he flipped the thing
open that he was in the dark because the curtains were drawn tightly over the
windows, and he had been asleep in his room at the Hampton Court Inn.
"McCabe," he growled into the phone. "What the hell are you doing in St.
Louis?" a voice boomed at him. It took him a second to recognize Smolski's
bluff tones. "Last I heard, you had the UNSUB pegged to head west from New
Orleans." "There's a woman..." Sam began, still
trying to collect his wits enough to be coherent, only to be interrupted. "Isn't there always?" Smolski sounded
faintly bitter. "Every damn trouble man has ever gotten himself into in
this world seems like it begins and ends with a woman." He sighed.
"So how is it that you're in St. Louis because of a woman?" By that time, Sam was sitting up, and felt
slightly more capable of intelligent thought. He filled Smolski in on the state
of the investigation. "I hear you've commandeered about half the
St. Louis field office's available agents," Smolski said when Sam had
finished. "They called up, griping about how they're shorthanded to begin
with. Hell, I hear you've got agents mobilized in three damned states working
on this. I've had calls from Virginia to Texas. You want to explain this to
me?" "I'm pretty sure that Walter—the next
victim—is going to be hit in Texas. It fits the geographical pattern. The
chances that we’re going to find out who he or she is before our guy does his
thing is remote, I grant you, but I feel like we've got to try. And there are
people doing some background work where the previous victims were hit." "And you feel like your best move right now
is sticking to that woman in St. Louis," Smolski said. Something in his
voice made Sam think he might disagree. "Yeah, I do." That was nonnegotiable, he realized, even as he
said it. Sam was surprised to find just how nonnegotiable it was. If Smolski
flat-out ordered him elsewhere, he wouldn't go. There was no power on
earth that was going to get him to leave Maddie before the sick bastard was
taken out. "Your case, your call. They've all got
other cases of their own under way. I just ask you to keep that in mind,"
Smolski said, and Sam guessed that the complaining from certain quarters—Lewis
in New Orleans came to mind— was getting fairly loud. Smolski's tone changed.
"The woman you're with— would she be that pretty little chickie I saw you
hustle into a car when I watched that TV news fiasco?" "That would be her." "Tough job we're paying you to do,"
Smolski observed dryly, and after a few more remarks hung up. Sam yawned as he set the phone back down on the
bedside table, glanced at the clock—it was not quite two p.m.—and got up.
Sleep, though necessary for optimum functioning, felt like a waste of urgently
needed time, and he had things to do. The fact that the sick bastard hadn't
called him for going on three days now was weighing heavily on his mind. This
was a change—and as far as this case went, he had the feeling that change was
not good. Crossing to the window, he pulled the curtains open and immediately
shut his eyes as the dazzling afternoon sunlight blinded him. Opening his eyes
again cautiously, he found himself looking down at the parking lot two stories
below. It was only about a quarter full—this was the kind of hotel that people
checked into at dark then left early in the morning—and he could see the Blazer
parked on the opposite side of the lot from where he had left it. From that, he
deduced that Wynne had been out and about and was now back again. Even as he
had the thought, Wynne himself came into view. Sam watched in slack-jawed
disbelief as his partner, clad in a sweat-stained white T-shirt and flimsy blue
bike shorts, trotted slowly across the parking lot to the sidewalk, where the
overhang hid him from view. It took a few seconds for his mind to accept the
truth of what he had seen: Wynne was jogging. Will wonders never cease? Sam
thought, and grinned. Then, feeling a lot more wide awake than he had five
minutes before, he headed for the bathroom to grab a shower. Despite the party, the morning could not be said
to have been an unqualified success. First, Maddie snuck off to the bathroom no
fewer than three times to try to reach her pal Bob, but all she got was an
automated answering machine announcing that A-One Plastics was unable to answer
the phone. Not wanting to leave a number in case her call was returned at an
inopportune time—such as any time she wasn't in the bathroom—Maddie was left in
limbo to stew. Second, she saw no alternative to introducing Cynthia and
explaining to her increasingly wide-eyed staff why an FBI agent was shadowing
her every move. They had already heard that her car windows had been shot
out—both Louise and Jon had left messages on her answering machine Saturday,
which she had returned the next day—but when Maddie confessed that she had been
shot, too, and mentioned that the FBI thought that the New Orleans mugger might
actually be a hit man who was now trying to kill her, the resulting babble of
horrified exclamations and questions had been so loud that she'd clapped her
hands to her ears to drown out the cacophony. By the time she'd answered all
their questions, listened to their loudly expressed horror, and shown off both
her wound and the bulletproof vest, her whole staff had been jumping at
unexpected noises. Then Judy and Herb had to hurry off to appointments with
clients, Ana had to rush off to class, and she and Jon had to put the final
touches on the presentation they'd put together for Happy's Ice Cream Parlors,
which was scheduled for one-thirty in the conference room. And, not incidentally,
everybody who was left had to pitch in to clean up the mess from the party. The
promised four-star lunch turned out to be takeout deli sandwiches fetched by
Louise and augmented by the rest of the cake, which they gobbled down in the
workroom. Not that Maddie was particularly sorry. Between the bulletproof vest
that she had to wear if she stepped outside the door and Cynthia's ubiquitous
presence, lunch out was clearly going to be more of a production than she felt
prepared to handle. Word that Creative Partners had landed the
Brehmer account had spread through the small advertising community with
jungle-drum speed, and Louise reported happily that she was fielding calls left
and right. After the Happy's people left, Maddie started putting together a tentative
schedule for implementing Creative Partners' plans for Brehmer's. Her gut
feeling, given Mrs. Brehmer's capriciousness, was that the sooner they got
going on it, the better. Jon was in his office, and she went over to talk to
him about the logistics of getting camera crews and actors and everything else
they needed lined up ASAP. Leaving that in his capable hands, she made a quick
bathroom trip—still no answer at A-One Plastics—and returned to her office.
Unnerved by not being able to get in touch, she suspected that she would have
had a total meltdown at her desk had it not been for Cynthia's almost equally
disquieting presence—and the panacea of work. The things that she needed to be
doing were seemingly endless, and she threw herself into them with something
approaching relief. Then Louise started putting calls through, and she spent
the next hour and a half on the phone, talking to clients and competitors and
giving interviews to reporters for BusinessMonthly and Advertising
Age. When she finally stood up, Cynthia, who'd been parked in a chair in a
corner leafing through magazines for the past hour, stood up, too, and
stretched. "Now I know why McCabe assigned me to the
day shift," Cynthia said, her voice wry. "It's the one where nothing
ever happens." "You say that like that's a bad
thing," said a familiar drawling voice from the doorway. Still standing
behind her desk, Maddie glanced up in surprise to see McCabe walk into her
office with Wynne behind him and Louise, looking a little flustered, behind
them. The rush of pleasure she felt at seeing McCabe caught her by surprise,
and the smile with which she greeted him was big and spontaneous. "Guess it's okay for them to come in
then," Louise said to no one in particular, apparently in response to Maddie's
expression, and retreated. Maddie barely noticed. With the best will in the
world for it not to be so, she was focused almost exclusively on McCabe. "Hey," he said, meeting her gaze and
smiling slowly back at her so that his eyes crinkled and his dimples showed.
Her heart beat faster and she suffered an instant flashback to that
mind-blowing kiss. Feeling her face—and other, more private places—start to
heat, she forced the memory from her mind. It therefore took her a few seconds
to realize that he was clean-shaven and clad in gray dress slacks, a white
shirt, a navy patterned tie, and navy sport coat. Everything was slightly
rumpled—Jon's crown as king of the dandies was definitely not in jeopardy—but
McCabe actually looked like a bona fide FBI agent for once. With his black hair
and swarthy skin and athlete’s powerful build, he was always
second-glance-worthy, but now that he was all gussied up, he looked so handsome
that Maddie was momentarily bedazzled. Wynne, too, was Bureau-worthy in a
jacket, tie, and khakis. Although his bedazzlement quotient did not quite equal
McCabe's, the look was a big improvement on his usual. "Whoa, aren't we looking spiffy?"
Cynthia looked the pair of them up and down. "What—or rather who—is this
for?" McCabe shot her a quelling look. "We had to go into the field office here to
have a chat with Tom Finster, who's the acting agent-in-charge while
Needleman's on vacation," McCabe said. "He was wanting to pull his
guys off the case." "So did you persuade him?" Cynthia
asked. "Finster ended up telling him to get the
hell out of his office." Wynne's voice was dry. He was, Maddie noticed,
once again chewing gum. "Chalk up one more victory for those people
skills of yours," Cynthia said, grinning at McCabe. "Hey, I got him to let us keep Gomez and
Hendricks, and to agree to provide backup on an as-needed basis, so it wasn't a
dead loss," McCabe said. "We're just a little leaner and meaner than
I consider optimal, is all." His gaze met Maddie's. "We got you covered,
don't worry." "I'm not worried," she said,
truthfully as far as it went. About his ability to keep her safe, she wasn't
worried at all. It was the rest of the sorry mess that was concerning her. "They're out in the parking lot now,
sweeping your car. We're here to escort you from the building whenever you're
ready to go." He grinned at her. "So, are you ready to go?" It was only then that Maddie glanced at the
clock and realized, to her surprise, that it was five minutes until five.
Although five o'clock was the company's official quitting time, Maddie—and the
others, too, when necessary—often stayed until six or later. Before Maddie could answer, Jon appeared in the
doorway. An hour before, he'd been looking dapper. Now the jacket to his
charcoal suit was missing, his shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and his tie
was askew. His gaze swept the room and it was clear from the flicker in his
eyes that he registered the newcomers' presence. It was an indication of the
magnitude of the stress he was apparently laboring under that he didn't
acknowledge them at all. He spoke directly to Maddie. "I just got off the phone with Susan
Allen," he said. "Houston, we've got a problem." SEVENTEEN Maddie felt her stomach tighten as she stared at
Jon. "What sort of problem?" "She's on her way here." Jon walked
toward her, making a helpless gesture with his hands, clearly agitated.
"Susan. With the dog. I tried to tell her that we didn't have things quite
set up yet, but she wouldn't listen. She said that Mrs. Brehmer wanted us to
get started right away. Like tomorrow. If we can't, they're going to be taking
their business elsewhere." "You've got to be kidding me."
Maddie's heart lurched, and she folded her arms over her chest. Shaking his
head, Jon planted both hands on the opposite side of her desk and leaned toward
her as they looked at each other in mutual consternation. "I wish I was," Jon said. "Crap,
Maddie, what are we going to do?" "Oh my goodness," Louise said from the
doorway, having apparently followed Jon down the hall and overheard. "I
knew us landing a ten-million-dollar account was too good to be true. And I've
already sent out the press releases. Oh my goodness." Maddie looked at Louise, who was standing in the
doorway, wringing her hands. Her plump body was clad in polyester pants—today's
were pale blue—and a matching floral blouse. An open cardigan, pale blue like
the pants, hung from her shoulders. Giant clip-on daisies hugged her ears. Her
curls looked iron-gray rather than silver in the unforgiving fluorescent light,
and her soft, round face sagged with dismay. Her gentle blue eyes were wide
behind her spectacles, and, just like Jon's, they were fastened on Maddie. For
a moment, Maddie felt like closing her eyes and throwing up her hands and
yelling I give up at the top of her lungs. Capricious clients, on top of
predatory hit men and prowling FBI agents and the balancing act she was having
to do just to survive, were almost more than she could deal with at the moment.
Then she remembered: She owned the company. If it was Creative Partners'
problem, it was her problem. She had to deal with it. Maddie Fitzgerald, this is your life. She took a deep breath. "So, Susan Allen is on her way to St. Louis
with Zelda," Maddie said carefully, striving for calm in the face of
crisis. "Now?" Jon nodded. "She said they would be leaving
for the airport right after she and I finished speaking." "She surely won't be able to get a flight
at such short notice." Maddie was thinking furiously, seeking any loophole
to the looming disaster that she could find. "Especially with a dog." "We're not talking commercial airlines
here. You forget, we're playing in a whole new league with them. They're flying
in in Mrs. Brehmer's private plane. Susan said they'd be landing in St. Louis
about ten tonight. She wanted to know if we could have someone meet them at the
airport. Of course I said yes." Jon straightened and tugged compulsively
on his tie, which subsequently hung crooked on the left instead of on the
right. "What else could I have said?" "Nothing else. You did the right
thing." Maddie moved around behind her chair and gripped its padded back
hard. "We knew going in that this wasn't going to be totally smooth
sailing. Mrs. Brehmer has a reputation for being difficult, and this is
probably just the first manifestation of it. But we can handle it. We will
handle it. You say Susan's bringing Zelda? Fine. Let's do the easiest thing
first. We'll set up a shoot for some photos we can use for their new logo.
Zelda in cute outfits, that kind of thing. You go try to line up a
photographer, and I'll start contacting stylists." She rolled her eyes.
"Do they even have dog stylists? Who the heck knows?" "Maybe you want a groomer," Louise
suggested. "Dogs have groomers. My JoJo goes to the groomer when his hair
gets in a tangle." Maddie remembered Mrs. Brehmer complaining about
Zelda's groomer. And JoJo was Louise's elderly shih tzu, so Louise, as a dog
owner, would presumably know about such things. "Okay, groomer," she said. "And
costumes. We need doggie costumes. Where do people get those, anyway?" "If you want, I could start calling costume
rental shops," Louise offered. "And I can get you the number of
JoJo's groomer." "Good thought," Maddie said. Pulling
the chair out again, she sat down and reached for the phone. "Okay,
people, we've got a plan. Let's get it done." Louise nodded and bustled
off. "I'll meet them at the airport at
ten." Jon, looking heartened, smoothed his tie until it hung almost
straight again. "I'll call Susan back and let her know." "Tell her that we can't wait to get
started," Maddie instructed with her hand on the phone. "And I'll go
with you to the airport." Nodding, Jon started toward the door, stopped
abruptly, and turned back to frown at her. "Uh, Maddie—what about them?" He
looked significantly at the three FBI agents, who had been listening to this
exchange with varying degrees of bemusement on their faces. Maddie looked at them, too. Wynne looked stoic.
Cynthia made a face and waggled her fingers at them. "They'll just have to come with us,"
she said, her eyes meeting McCabe’s to see if this worked for him. "Whither thou goest..." McCabe said
with the smallest of smiles. "Maybe we shouldn't tell Susan they're FBI
agents," Jon suggested. "Knowing that they're following you around
because they think some wacko wants to kill you is probably not going to give
her a real good feeling about being associated with Creative Partners." "Good point," Maddie said, and looked
at McCabe again. "You won't even see us," McCabe
promised. "Unless you need us, that is." "Great." Refusing to allow the
chilling implications of that to even enter her mind, Maddie rolled her eyes.
"Is this turning into a three-ring circus or what?" "It's the Brehmer account," Jon, who
was already on his way out the door again, reminded her over his shoulder.
"Think ten million dollars a year in advertising." "There's that," Maddie said, and sat
down at her desk again. For an account that size, she could jump through a few
hoops. By nine-twenty, everything was in place. Limp
with exhaustion, Maddie leaned back in her chair and let her hands dangle
toward the floor. Cynthia and Wynne had gone, although Wynne was expected to
return at any minute. McCabe was sitting in one of the two
black-leather-and-chrome chairs in front of her desk. Having walked into her
office just minutes before, Jon perched on the edge of her desk, outlining the
arrangements he'd made. Louise, who'd followed Jon in, sat in the other
leather-and-chrome chair, taking notes. As Jon continued, McCabe rose and crossed
to the windows, which took up the whole of the north wall. Maddie's eyes
followed him even as she listened to Jon. McCabe had shed his jacket several
hours before. For a long time afterward, every time she'd looked at him all
she'd been able to see was the very businesslike gun in the shoulder holster
slung across the left side of his chest. Now, with his back turned to her, her
gaze instinctively shifted lower: His gray slacks hugged a trim waist and an
athlete's high, tight butt. Maddie admired both, then let her gaze slide up to
watch as he lifted an arm to pull the chain at one side of the windows that
closed the vertical blinds. The white dress shirt he was wearing tightened
across his broad shoulders. Sexy, she thought, then, annoyed at herself,
immediately sought a distraction. She glanced past him, out the window, as the
blinds slid shut, and saw that it was darker outside than it should have been.
Nine-twenty on an August evening in St. Louis was usually a gorgeous, golden
time, with long shadows falling across the ground and the sun just beginning to
sink beneath the horizon in a burst of oranges and purples. But heavy gray
clouds had rolled in during the past few hours to cover the sky so that now it
looked almost like full night outside. It occurred to Maddie then that McCabe
had pulled the blinds to keep anyone who might be in a position to do so—from
an office inside the skyscraper across the street, say, or on the roof of the
smaller building next door to the skyscraper—from seeing in, or worse. In the
crush of setting things up for the morrow, she'd almost forgotten the reason
McCabe was lounging in her office in the first place. But now, as he turned
away from the window and her eyes met his, she remembered, and gave an
involuntary little shiver. They were on the sixth floor, true, and the chances
that a bullet would come crashing through the window seemed remote. But she
didn't think she would ever get over the trauma of knowing that it was
possible. "So it's all set," Jon concluded.
Maddie's gaze switched from McCabe back to him, and she nodded. Jon was looking
a little less pumped up than when he had entered her office five minutes
before, she noticed as she met his gaze, and there was a faint tightness around
his mouth and eyes that was new. But his tie was once again firmly in place,
his collar was buttoned, and he looked altogether more calm and collected than
he had when the news had hit that Susan Allen and Zelda were on their way. In
other words, he looked spiffy as usual, which, she concluded, was a sign that
all was once again right in his world. "You done good," she said, smiling at
him. Glancing over at Louise, she included her in the smile. "We done
good." She pushed back from the desk and stood up. "Now, let's go
kick some difficult client butt." Jon slid off the corner of her desk. "You
want to ride with me to the airport?" Maddie’s eyes slipped to McCabe, who was still
standing over by the windows but was facing her now. He shook his head slightly
at her. She looked back at Jon. "Uh—I think I'll go
in my own car, thanks." "Fine," Jon said, a little shortly.
"I'll just go get my jacket." Was it her imagination, or did his mouth look
noticeably thinner as he left the room? Before Maddie had time to decide,
Louise spoke up. "Do you want me to come to the airport,
too, Maddie?" "No thanks, Louise. You can go on home. I
appreciate you staying so late." "Oh, I'm glad to. I'm just so pleased
things are going so well for us." Louise beamed at her. "Whoever
would have thought where we'd be right now, when you took over from Mr. Owens?
It's just a dream come true for all of us." Her smile faltered, and she
glanced a little uncertainly at McCabe, then looked back at Maddie again.
"You sure you don't need me? I'd be glad to come along with you. I could
even come over and spend the night if you want me to. Or you could spend the
night at my house." Her meaning was clear: in case Maddie was
afraid. And Maddie was pretty sure that Louise was including McCabe in her
mental list of things that Maddie might reasonably fear. Maddie shook her head. "I'll be fine. Don't
worry about me, my babysitter is actually very efficient. See you in the
morning." "Well, if you're sure." With another doubtful glance at McCabe, who gave
her a small ironic smile, Louise left the room. "Do you have to look quite so
menacing?" Maddie asked McCabe as she came around her desk to head for the
door. "You're scaring Louise." "Actually, I thought I was projecting
hungry and tired more than menacing." He snagged his jacket from the back
of the chair he'd been sitting in, shrugged it on, and said something into the
two-way radio he extracted from his pocket as he followed her into the hall.
She turned off the light to her office as she went. "If I'd known you were
meaning to put in another half-day's work when I got here at five, I would have
grabbed something to eat on the way in." "I'm hungry, too," Maddie admitted,
opening the door to the hall closet where everyone's coats were kept and
extracting her jacket. "There's salad in the refrigerator at home." It struck her that it felt good to say "at
home" to him, and know that he would be sharing the apartment—and the
contents of her refrigerator— with her. She had never realized it before, but
maybe, just maybe, she'd been living alone too long. Maybe she'd been lonely. If so, she reminded herself grimly, McCabe was
certainly not the remedy of choice. "Yippee." McCabe sounded less than
enthused. "Forget salad. What I need is a steak." "Sorry, fresh out." Louise was walking through the suite, turning
off lights, and now only Jon's office and the reception room were lit. Maddie
started to put on her jacket. "Hang on a minute." McCabe came up
behind her and reached past her into the closet. "Aren't you forgetting
something?" He pulled out the bulletproof vest, dangling it
in front of her. Maddie looked at it, looked at him, and sighed. "This is a giant pain in my posterior, you
know." He smiled. "Better than a giant pain
elsewhere." "True." He took her jacket from her,
and she slipped the vest on. When she had trouble getting the zipper engaged,
he watched for a couple tries, made an impatient sound under his breath,
brushed her hands aside, and said, "Here, let me." He engaged the clasp with just a little
difficulty, then zipped her up with brisk efficiency. Meanwhile, Maddie found
herself studying the flicker of his eyelashes against his bronze cheeks as he
looked down to watch his hands at work; the slight twist to his mouth as he
struggled to get the clasp into position; and the five o'clock shadow that was
back in all its glory, darkening the hard angles of his jaw. When he had the
ends of the zipper together at last and glanced up to meet her gaze as he
pulled it up, she realized that her heart was beating way faster than it should
have been, and her breathing was just a little erratic. He must have seen
something of what was going on with her in her eyes, because for a moment after
the zipper was fastened, he kept hold of the tab and held her gaze without
moving or saying anything at all. The memory of that sizzling kiss suddenly
seemed to scorch the air between them. I want him. "Ready?" Jon asked, emerging from his
office. He paused in the doorway, one hand reaching behind him to grope for his
light switch, and frowned at them. His gaze flickered from Maddie's face to
McCabe. From where Jon stood, of course, all he could see of the other man was
his back. Only Maddie could see the heat in McCabe's eyes. McCabe let go of the zipper tab and stepped
back. For a moment longer, their eyes held. His had darkened, she thought. In
the uncertain light, they looked almost black. "All set," Maddie said. Refusing to
feel flustered, or at least to show it if she did, she took her jacket from
McCabe with an assumption of nonchalance and slipped it on. As she moved past
McCabe toward where Jon, having switched off his light, now stood in the
semidarkness, waiting for her, she buttoned it up over the vest. A little bit
still showed at the top, but that couldn't be helped. She only hoped that Susan
Allen would simply think she was into layering. "Wynne's secured the elevator," McCabe
said behind her. "Gomez and Hendricks are waiting down in the parking lot.
They've just finished checking out your car. We're good to go." "So, what's up with you and that guy?"
Jon asked Maddie as they waited side by side in the small terminal at the St.
Louis airport that serviced private planes. The waiting area was relatively
plush, all beige walls and blond wood and brown-leather chairs, with a slick
stone floor underfoot. It operated under different security rules than the much
larger commercial facility next door, and Maddie and Jon were standing in front
of the wall of huge windows, black now except for the halogen glow that lit the
wet tarmac outside that looked out over the area where the small planes taxied
in. Maddie had already eyed those windows askance, but the chance that a
shooter could somehow get out there in the runway area seemed pretty small, and
anyway, McCabe didn't seem concerned, so Maddie had made up her mind not to be.
The Brehmer's Pet Food plane was already on the ground, a brown-uniformed
attendant had just informed them, and they had just risen to their feet and
stepped forward in anticipation of greeting Susan Allen as soon as she walked
off the plane. Maddie, having swallowed the last of her Diet Coke, was in the
process of setting the can down as Jon spoke. Jon, who'd been chomping on
peanut M&M's, twisted the small yellow bag closed at the top and stuck it
in his jacket pocket. "What guy?" Maddie asked,
straightening to glance at Jon in surprise. Of course, she knew who he was
talking about as soon as she said it. But he'd caught her off guard. "The FBI guy. McClain, or whatever his name
is." "McCabe," Maddie corrected automatically, "and
nothing's up." Even as she spoke, she was having to make a conscious
effort not to glance around at the man in question. McCabe and Wynne were both
inside the terminal with them. McCabe was seated in a chair on the opposite
side of the waiting area, his posture deceptively casual as he gave every
appearance of reading the day's newspaper. Wynne was leaning against the wall
near the exit, staring reflectively at the ceiling as he chewed his gum. With
perhaps another dozen people spread out over the waiting area, they weren't
particularly conspicuous. Unless you knew who and what they were, that is.
"Yeah, right. If you seriously expect anybody to believe that, you might
want to quit looking at him like jumping his bones is the next item on your
agenda." Maddie stiffened. "I do not—I do not look
at him like that." "You do," Jon said, his tone slightly
grim. "Look, since it doesn't look like it's going to be me anytime soon,
who you sleep with is strictly your business. But that guy—not a good choice.
You're letting the gun and the macho FBI agent stuff snow you. You're just
going to end up getting hurt, and I'd hate to see that." He was frowning as he met her gaze. It struck
her that, besides being perhaps a little jealous of what he saw as her interest
in another man, he was also, at some level, genuinely concerned for her
well-being. As a friend. She smiled at him, a warm and affectionate smile
that made his frown deepen. "Just for the record, I'm not sleeping with
him. But thanks for worrying about me. That's nice." Jon looked impatient, and started to say
something more, but just then the door they were standing in front of was
opened by an attendant, and the sound of a frantically barking dog reached
their ears. Immediately, both their heads swiveled toward the sound. Their eyes
fixed on the open doorway. "Zelda," Maddie said, and Jon nodded. The high-pitched yips grew louder. Then Susan
appeared in the doorway, looking tired and harassed and ready to call the whole
thing off. She was staggering slightly under the weight of a large garment bag
and a medium-size duffel bag, both of which she had slung over one shoulder,
and a small plastic animal carrier, which she gripped in one hand. That
carrier, Maddie saw at a glance, did indeed contain Zelda. A clearly very unhappy
Zelda. A Zelda who was not at all shy about expressing her feelings. Pinning a bright smile on her face, Maddie
stepped forward to shake Susan's one free hand. "So glad to see you," she said, only
to have her greeting drowned out by Zelda's frenzied barking. Susan's answering
smile looked more like a grimace, and she replied with something that Maddie
couldn't quite hear. Jon stepped forward in turn, doing an excellent job of not
wincing at the noise. As they shook hands, Maddie saw with a single comprehensive
glance that Susan's short brown hair was ruffled, her face
was pale and tight, and her lipstick was both freshly applied and crooked, as
though she had put it on fast, at the last possible minute before she stepped
off the plane. Maddie saw, too, that there was a small rip near the button
placket in her neat white blouse. Golden brown dog hairs clung to her navy
skirt. An enormous run laddered the left leg of her nude hose. In other words, Susan looked like she had
recently been in an accident. Or a fight. The profusion of brown hairs on her skirt told
its own tale: Zelda. Maddie's gaze shifted to the animal carrier.
Zelda's monkey face and shiny black eyes were shoved against the grate at the
front, and she was scratching desperately at the unyielding bottom. She was
clearly— vocally—displeased, and having a fit to get out of her plastic jail.
The carrier shook. The grate rattled. Jon said something—Maddie thought it was on the
order of good dog— and tried patting the top of the carrier. It was a
mistake. Tiny white teeth snapped together viciously. Jon jerked his hand back.
Thwarted, Zelda gave vent to her emotions in the only way that remained to her.
She let loose with an ear-splitting howl. Susan gave the carrier a monitory
shake. Zelda then seemed to find her inner wolf: She cranked up the volume, and
the howl went from deafening to downright hair-raising. Shades of The Exorcist, Maddie thought in
horror, resisting the urge to clap her hands over her ears. A roll of her eyes
told her that every face in the place was now turned toward them. A gate
attendant was hurrying their way. Forget that thing about necessity being
the mother of invention, she thought. In this case, desperation was. Having
looked, listened, and cringed, Maddie had an epiphany: She remembered the
cream-filled pastry. Jon was standing right beside her. Thrusting a hand into
the pocket of his jacket, she pulled out the bag of M&M's, untwisted it,
fished one out—a nice, big, yellow one—and thrust it through the crisscrossed
black bars of the grate. The howls cut off as abruptly as if the dog had
a power source and someone had pulled the plug. "Oh, thank God," Susan gasped as
silence reigned, looking ready to collapse. Maddie’s own ears were still
ringing, so she could just imagine what Susan, who had presumably been enduring
the onslaught for a lot longer, was going through. "But—she's on a special
diet and she's never allowed to have sweets, and you shouldn't...
shouldn't..." The crunching sound that had replaced the howls
ceased. The monkey face pressed against the grate again. Zelda gave several
loud sniffs. "Give her another one," Susan directed
hastily. Maddie did. Zelda crunched. "Let's get out of here," Jon said in
Maddie's ear. He was clearly getting no more enjoyment out of being the
cynosure of all eyes than Maddie was. She gave a barely perceptible nod. The
attendant, Maddie was glad to see, was retreating now that peace had been
restored. Remembering their manners, a few people were even starting to look
away. Susan had booked a suite at the Hyatt downtown
for herself and Zelda. The thing to do was get them into it at all speed. "So nice of you to come and meet us,"
Susan said, still breathing hard and giving every indication of being more than
glad to relinquish the carrier to Jon as he reached in to take it from her.
"I'm sorry not to have given you more notice, but Mrs. B. was very
insistent on getting started at once." "Not a problem." Jon smiled at her,
exuding charm as always, and passed the plastic carrier on to Maddie, who
accepted it with some trepidation. The thing was surprisingly heavy, and the
contents—she would sooner have been responsible for a werewolf. Jon, meanwhile,
took the garment bag and the other bag from Susan. In the spirit of warding off
trouble, Maddie, hearing a warning sniff, poked another M&M through
the grate. Crunch. "I'm just so embarrassed," Susan said
as they all started moving toward the exit. "I can't believe that Zelda
made such a fuss. It's all because the airport people insisted that she had to
be in a carrier before they would let her inside the terminal. Of course, she
hates being in a carrier and she fought me when I tried to put her in it, and
when I finally got her in there she just had a fit..." "Totally understandable," Jon said. "We’re just so excited that Zelda's going
to be the new face of Brehmer's Pet Food," Maddie put in, not entirely
insincerely, as she did her best not to list under the weight of the carrier.
The plastic handle dug into her hand. The carrier shook slightly as Zelda moved
around inside it. Then Maddie heard that telltale snuffling sound
again, and took preventive action: One more peanut M&M was launched through
the holes. Realizing then that keeping Zelda happy was going to be an ongoing
activity, sort of like keeping a parking meter in the black, Maddie hastily
dumped the rest of the M&M's into her pocket. Then, when she heard that
warning sniff again, it was easy to fish one out and thrust it at Zelda. "We're excited, too," Susan replied.
If she sounded somewhat less sincere than Maddie, well, Maddie couldn't blame
her. From the look of her, Susan had already endured much at the hands—or,
rather, paws—of advertising's newest prospective star. Wynne exited the terminal first. Maddie saw him
go. Gomez and Hendricks were in the van, she knew, parked where they could keep
an eye on her as she left the building, as well as watch her car while she was
inside. McCabe came out last. As she glanced back instinctively to see if he
was following—he was—she saw that every head in the terminal had turned to
watch them go. The arrangement was that Jon would drive Susan
and Zelda to the hotel, while Maddie, hampered by the trailing FBI agents and
the hit man they were hoping would take another crack at killing her, was going
to go straight home from the airport. "Do you want to wait here while I go get
the car, or—?" Jon asked Susan as they paused under the overhang. The
fluorescent lights set into the concrete ceiling were yellowy and dim. Beyond
the overhang the parking lot— this particular terminal had its own—was dark,
except for the pools of uncertain light thrown down by tall halogens. The rain
had picked up and was now coming down at a steady rate. Little puffs of vapor
rose from the pavement. The rain didn't cool things off, as one might have
expected. It just made the night muggier. A damp smell hung in the air. Cars
drove past pulling into and out of the parking lot, their tires swishing, their
lights glancing off the terminal as they followed the curve of the drive. One paused
not far from where they stood, and a man in a lightweight raincoat got out,
slammed the door, and hurried inside. The car moved on. "Go get the car," Maddie said, with an
eye to taking care of their guest, although she suddenly felt very exposed. The
back side of the airport was protected. This side was not. Anyone could use the
parking lot, or be positioned on one of the roads leading to the terminal or
somewhere nearby. McCabe apparently thought so, too. He’d been
idling back near the door, not letting on by look or word that he was connected
to them in any way, but as Jon turned his collar up against the rain and walked
away, McCabe moved—subtly, she had to give him that—until he stood between her
and the parking lot. To all outward appearances, he was simply a man who was
waiting for a ride. Maddie did him one better. She took a couple
steps to the side and hid behind a giant concrete pillar. Take that, hit man, she thought. McCabe glanced around at her and gave a twitch
of his lips that was the equivalent of a thumbs-up when he saw where she was. "... expect to be here at least a
week," Susan was saying when Maddie tuned back into her. She had followed
Maddie sideways, apparently subconsciously, and was talking away a mile a
minute. "Or even longer, if that's what it takes." "Wonderful," Maddie said, though she
had only the vaguest idea of what they were talking about. The carrier handle
was killing her fingers. Maddie set the carrier down on the pavement, sighed
with relief, and lobbed another M&M into Zelda. Zelda crunched and
snuffled. Maddie fed the beast. "You know, that idea you and Jon had of
using Zelda as the face of Brehmer's was simply brilliant," Susan said.
"Mrs. B. is just thrilled with it." "I'm so glad." Maddie watched a car
coming toward them from the parking lot—was it Jon's? Yes, she thought it
was—and dug in her pocket for another M&M. Unfortunately, she didn't find one. Her fingers
probed frantically into every corner of her pocket. Empty. All gone. "I'm out of M&M's," she said, breaking
in on whatever Susan had been saying, her voice tight with horror. "Oh, no." They looked at each other in mutual
consternation. The huffing sounds coming from the carrier grew ominously loud.
In desperation, Maddie crouched and looked in at Zelda. Her furry little face
was pressed against the grate; her black eyes gleamed. "Allout,"Maddieenunciatedthewordsslowly,asifshewerespeaking to a hard-of-hearing foreigner with a limited
grasp of English, and held out her empty hands, palms up, so that Zelda would
get the idea. Zelda got it, all right. She howled. "No! No! No!" Susan set up a howl of
her own, clapping her hands over her ears and stamping her feet in their
sensible blue pumps and basically throwing a tantrum worthy of a two-year-old.
Maddie shot upright, so surprised that she was gaping, at a loss as to how to
deal with a grown woman— a client—who was totally losing it. "Susan, please..." she began, fighting
the urge to cover her own ears. A car door slammed. Maddie looked toward the
sound to discover that Jon was back at last and striding toward them. Beyond
him, McCabe was grinning as he watched bedlam unfold. Beside Maddie, Zelda
howled. And Susan, Maddie saw to her horror, now clenched her fists, stomped
her feet— and wept. "I can't take it, I can't, I can't, that
dog is a monster..." Susan's face was shining with tears. Looking past
her, Maddie saw a security guard, who had materialized seemingly from out of
nowhere, striding toward them. "She's an ungrateful, undeserving mutt." Zelda, insulted, kicked it up a notch. "What the... ?" Jon gave Maddie an
accusing look and put an arm around Susan. "Susan..." "I hate that dog," Susan wailed, and
buried her face in Jon's shoulder. "What you need is a break," Maddie
said desperately, almost shouting to be heard over Zelda's inner wolf. Jon was
looking pretty desperate himself while doing that clumsy patting thing men do
to weeping women, to little apparent effect. "Listen, how about if I keep
her tonight and let you get a good rest without having to worry about
her?" The effect was almost magical. Susan's head
lifted from Jon's shoulder. She looked around at Maddie, and gave a shuddering
gasp. "Would you?" Ten million dollars, Maddie reminded herself. "I'd be glad to," Maddie lied, trying
not to think about how her neighbors were going to react to having a mad dog in
the house, to say nothing about how her own nerves would hold out. Then she had
an instant vision of McCabe's probable reaction, and that almost—almost—made
the whole thing worthwhile. EIGHTEEN Fifteen minutes later, Maddie pulled into the
McDonald's on Clayton. "Fine," she said to the yodeling dog in the
shaking plastic carrier on the front passenger seat. "You want food? Let's
get you food." As she drove around to the drive-through window,
her cell phone began to ring. Not that she heard it, exactly. Zelda made
hearing anything almost impossible. But it was in her jacket pocket and she
felt it vibrate. Fishing it out just as she reached the plastic
speaker where they take your order, she snapped "What?" into the
phone as she rolled down the window and yelled "large fry" at the
intercom. Not that she exactly heard anyone ask for her order over Zelda, but
she assumed. "What are you doing?"McCabe's
voice said in her ear. "Feeding this damned dog," Maddie
replied, heard a snort of laughter, and snapped the phone closed. She drove on
to the first window and paid for the food. "Doggy's not very happy," the clerk
observed as he handed back her change. Duh, Maddie thought, but managed not to say it. Moving to the
next window, she practically snatched the bag from the girl who handed it over.
Fishing out a fry before she even thought about rolling up the window or
driving on, she thrust it through the grate. Zelda's histrionics stopped as abruptly as if
Maggie had shut off a valve. "Thank God," Maddie said devoutly, and
drove on, rolling up her window as she went. Her cell phone rang again. "What?" "Stop right there," McCabe said. She was still in the parking lot just a few
yards beyond the pickup window. "What? Why?" As she automatically hit
the brakes, she was looking fearfully all around. The parking lot was well lit
and... "We're getting a couple of Big Macs. Want
anything?" Jeez. For a minute there, she'd remembered to be
scared. "No." Maddie glanced in her rearview
mirror. Sure enough, there was the Blazer, stopped at the intercom. Apparently,
being so close to food that wasn't salad was more temptation than McCabe—and
Wynne, who was driving—could stand. Zelda snuffled, and Maddie hastily poked
another fry through the grate. The smell of fresh, hot grease wafted to her
nostrils. "Okay. Fine. Get me a large fry. And a hamburger. And a
chocolate shake. No, wait," she added with a glance at the carrier,
"make that about four large fries." "I like a girl who eats," McCabe said,
laughing. "The fries are for the dog,"Maddie growled, then disconnected, pulled into an empty parking space, and
spent the next few minutes feeding french fries to Zelda and watching as first
McCabe and Wynne in the Blazer and then Gomez and Hendricks in the van went
through the drive-through line. It was still raining, not hard but a little,
and the swish of the windshield wipers coupled with the sound of the droplets
pattering down against the Camry's roof were practically music to her abused
ears. Her phone rang. "What now?" she said into it, knowing
it was McCabe. "A kid who works here is bringing out your
food. I didn't want you to have a heart attack when he tapped on your
window." Nice thought. "Thank you," she said. "You know, next time you decide to make a
stop we haven't been told about, you might want to give somebody a heads-up
before you do it. You lost Gomez back there." The van had been in front of her as she'd driven
past the McDonald's and had her eureka moment about the fries. The Blazer had
been behind her. "It was an emergency," Maddie
explained. "McDonald's is an emergency?" "You're not up here riding with this dog,"
Maddie said, heard another snort of laughter, and snapped the phone shut. Sure enough, in a couple minutes a kid in a
McDonald's shirt tapped on her window, passed her two big bags of food, and
disappeared back toward the restaurant. "We're set now," she said to Zelda,
and took off. Five more minutes, and she was turning down her
street. The blacktop gleamed slickly black and reflected the headlight beams
like the surface of a wavery mirror. Inside the car, the faint smell of wet
earth and perfumed dog mixed with the stronger scent of fast food. The radio,
which she'd turned on as soon as she'd started the car in an effort—futile, as
it had turned out—to drown out Zelda, played Britney Spears's latest hit.
Zelda, appeased by a continuing infusion of fries, was actually proving to be
decent company. Maddie ate too, slurping up her milkshake between bites of
hamburger and the occasional fry—she wanted to be sure to save plenty for
Zelda—and the two of them munched companionably. Maddie had an uncomfortable
deja-vu moment as she pulled into her parking lot, but, she reminded herself,
her windshield was bulletproof now. If the hit man was on the job and tried
taking another potshot at her, the bullet would, presumably, bounce off. Or
something like that. No worries, mate. Just so as not to attract any lingering bad
karma, Maddie nosed the Camry into a different spot. Beside her, Zelda gave a
delicate little burp. Then a far less delicate sound emerged from the depths of
the carrier. Followed by the most noxious odor Maddie had
ever smelled. "Oh my God," she said, staring in
horror at the carrier. Zelda whined. M&M's. French fries. Scarfed up with abandon
by a dog who'd been on a strictly controlled diet. Forget that howling fit. This was what
Maddie called an emergency. Trying not to gag at the smell, Maddie slammed
the transmission into park, turned the car off, slewed around, and reached into
the backseat. The halogen shed fuzzy pale light over the motley collection of
cars in the lot as well as the tall bushes and scraggly grass at the edge of
the pavement, and provided a modicum of illumination inside the car, just
enough for her to see that the carrier was ominously still. Equally ominously,
its occupant was silent, which, since she hadn't hit Zelda with a fry lately,
struck Maddie as possibly being a bad thing. Maddie groped frantically
around in the backseat. Somewhere back there, along with the duffel bag
containing Zelda's belongings that Susan had handed over before escaping, was a
leash. Zelda whined again. "Hang on," Maddie urged her, trying
not to breathe. Her questing fingers touched duffel bag, briefcase, leash... "Got it!" Her phone rang as she turned back around.
Cursing under her breath, she fumbled to open it. "What?" she snapped. "What are you doing now?" "This dog's got to go." To Maddie's horror, another one of those long,
slow, wet raspberry noises came from the carrier. The smell rose and spread
like a mushroom cloud. Talk about your WMDs... "You shouldn't've offered..." McCabe's
voice was impatient. "Poop. She's got to go poop." Dropping the phone, Maddie thrust another french
fry through the grate, then took advantage of Zelda's momentary distraction to
unlatch it. The dog bounded out, but Maddie was too fast for her. Hooking a
hand in her collar, praying that the animal was too full of food to feel like
biting anything else, Maddie snapped Zelda's leash on her. Gotcha. She would have sunk back in relief, except for
the smell. Gagging, she thrust open the door, swung her
feet to the shiny, wet pavement, and got out in the rain, sucking in the
revivifying smell of wet honeysuckle and steamy asphalt, holding on to the
leash with a death grip all the while. Behind her, Zelda got out, too, jumping
to the pavement with surprising agility. And let loose with another of those ominous
sounds. "Come on!" Maddie slammed the door and half dragged her
over to the grass. Zelda immediately hunched and did her thing. "Thank God," Maddie said. Zelda gave a
little grunt, which Maddie took for agreement. "What the hell do you think you're
doing?" The muted roar behind her made Maddie jump and whirl toward the
source of the sound: McCabe, of course. She knew who it was in mid-levitation.
Backlit by the halogen, he was a menacingly large shape that practically
radiated aggravation as he came toward her in quick strides from the Blazer,
which was now parked beside her car. Any sensible human being would have been
startled half to death by his near bellow—and, apparently, it was enough to
startle any sensible dog, too. Because Zelda jumped at the sound right along
with Maddie, and rocketed away into outer darkness. Maddie stared blankly down at her empty hand.
She was no longer holding the leash. Oh my God. Shed lost Zelda. "Zelda!" Maddie cried as the full
enormity of the catastrophe hit her, then yelled, "Now look what you've
done!" at McCabe, and took off in hot pursuit. Unfortunately, it turned out that hot pursuit
and high heels were pretty much mutually exclusive things. Maddie made that
discovery as she rounded the end of the honeysuckle hedge, skidded in the wet
grass, and nearly went down. Windmilling to regain her balance, she kept on
going, kicking off her shoes as she went. "Maddie! Come back here!" McCabe was giving chase, too, but she didn't
have time to wait for him. She had to get Zelda back. If she didn't, Creative
Partners could kiss the Brehmer account good-bye. Panic made her short of
breath. More thankful for the halogen light than she had ever dreamed she could
be, she peered through the translucent veil of rain, doing a lightning scan of
twenty feet of shiny, wet grass crisscrossed with swaying shadows. There! She
caught just a glimpse of a golden brown backside disappearing beneath the
four-board fence that bordered the house next door. "Zelda! Here, Zelda!" she called
frantically, running toward the spot. That worked. Damned dog didn't even slow down. Okay, for her going under the fence was not an
option. Hitching up her skirt, Maddie swarmed over it, caught sight of Zelda
scrambling around a kiddie pool in the next yard, her leash flapping behind
her, and sprinted after her. The rain was hitting the surface of the pool, the
sound a quick rat-a-tat that echoed the hurried beat of her heart. She was wet,
and getting wetter by the moment. The grass was slick as ice beneath her
pantyhose-clad feet. Tree roots and rocks and who knew what else bruised her
poor, tender soles as she pounded after Zelda. The yards grew progressively
darker as she got farther away from the streetlights. But she could still see,
thanks in large measure to the light filtering through the curtained windows of
the houses whose backyards she was invading. "Maddie! Stop." Running, too, his feet making squelching noises
on the soggy ground, McCabe was right behind her as she reached the next fence.
Behind him, way behind him, she saw with a wild glance over her
shoulder, Wynne was heaving himself over a fence. Even as Maddie put one abused
foot on the lowest board, McCabe's arm shot forward. Grabbing the back of her
jacket, he jerked her back. She fell against him, her back colliding with his
chest with a solid thump, her feet slipping out from under her. She would have
fallen smack on her butt if he hadn't hooked a hard arm around her waist just
as she started to go down. "Damn it to hell," he said,
hauling her upright. "Are you nuts?" Both arms were around her now. Except for the
fact that they were practically crushing her ribs, she could hardly feel them
through the bulletproof vest. "Let go." She glanced wildly up and back at him as she
regained her feet and shoved at those imprisoning arms with both hands. "I
have to get Zelda." "Don't be a..." he began furiously,
looming over her with a "that's it, I've had it" air that Maddie
didn't have to be clairvoyant to realize meant that he was on the verge of
losing his temper. An explosion of ferocious barks split the air,
drowning out the rest of what he said. Deep barks. Bass barks. Profundo barks.
Mingled with a stream of high-pitched, frantic yips. "Baron," Maddie whispered weakly,
sagging against McCabe as she named the rottweiler mix that was the scourge of
the neighborhood cats. Then, in a voice strengthened by horror, she added,
"Zelda!" As the yips turned to yelps and the bass barks
went insane, she fought like a tigress to be free. "Stop it, dammit! You're going to hurt
yourself!" "Let me go! He'll kill her!" "Shit," McCabe muttered, thrusting her
away from him. Maddie found herself colliding with Wynne's huge bulk as McCabe
added to Wynne, who'd just come puffing up to join them, "Hang on to
her." Wynne's arms obediently locked around her waist.
"Zelda!" Maddie cried, straining toward the fence. To her surprise,
she saw that McCabe was already vaulting it. He disappeared through the bushes
as the sounds of Zelda being devoured reached cosmic proportions and more
lights started coming on in the surrounding houses. Maddie could see a little
of what was happening now, even through the rain and the screen of bushes that
grew profusely on the other side of the fence, and what she saw horrified her.
The huge, hulking shape that was Baron had Zelda cornered under something—a
child's ATV?—and was barking insanely at her as he tried to get to her. Not
that Maddie could see Zelda. What she could do was hear her. Zelda clearly
recognized that she had gotten in way over her head. She was letting loose with
her trademark howl. "Zelda! Wynne, let me go! I've got
to help her!" Wynne's hold tightened. "No way." As Maddie struggled to free herself, Baron,
still barking, stuck his big head partly under the ATV's frame. Beholding doom,
Zelda cranked up the volume. Maddie gasped, knowing that she was about to watch
the thing flip. When it did, she was pretty sure Zelda would be sushi. "Dog!" McCabe yelled over the din, and
Maddie saw that he was skirting the edge of the backyard, keeping a wary
distance between himself and the action even as he tried to attract Baron's
attention. The backyard was dark, shadowy, silvered with rain. McCabe had
something in his hand, something he was waving. "Dog! Look over
here!" "His name's Baron!" Maddie shouted. "Baron! Here,
Baron! Look over here!" That did the trick. Baron quit barking, lifted
his head, looked around, saw the man waving something at him and seemed to take
a long, hard look. Then he whirled and charged. "Shit. "Throwing whatever it
was he was holding, McCabe bolted for the fence. Behind him, with a fearsome
volley of barks, the behemoth hit full-throttle. Maddie's jaw dropped. Her breathing suspended.
Her eyes widened as she watched McCabe race toward them like the hounds of hell
were on his heels. Oh, wait, one of them was. Movement at the rear of the action caught
Maddie's attention as she goggled at McCabe's leg-pumping dash for the fence.
Zelda, no fool, was taking advantage of the reprieve to dart away. "Zelda!" she shrieked. "Here,
Zelda, this way!" Zelda seemed to hear, because she tore up the
ground, heading in the opposite direction. "Run!" Wynne yelled encouragement.
Maddie realized, with some indignation, that he was shaking with laughter. Then her indignation lessened as she figured out
that, instead of focusing on Zelda, he was cheering on McCabe. "D'you want me to shoot it? D'you want me
to shoot it?" Gomez screamed, practically dancing with agitation beside
them as he waved his gun. Until that moment, Maddie hadn't even noticed that he
and Hendricks had joined them. "No!" Maddie cried, horror-stricken at
the idea of murdering a neighbor's pet. "No shooting," McCabe roared. He was
only about six feet from the fence and coming on like a freight train. Baron,
open-jawed and roaring, was almost close enough to take a huge chomp out of his
ass. NINETEEN "Jump for it! It's gaining on you!"
Wynne bellowed. McCabe glanced behind him. "Shit." McCabe dived for the fence from about a yard out just as
the snarling, slavering beast leaped for him. And came up short at the end of a chain. McCabe hurtled through the bushes and crashed to
the ground. Baron yelped and crashed to the ground. On opposite sides of the
fence. The men around Maddie let out a collective whoosh
of breath. "That thing's a man-killer." Gomez
sounded awed. "Told you," Hendricks said. Then, with Maddie in tow, they all kind of
sidled over to look down at McCabe. Having landed on his stomach, he had now
rolled onto his back, where he lay motionless and spread-eagled, eyes closed,
chest heaving, with the rain pattering down on his face. "Now that,"Wynne said
thoughtfully, "I would have paid good money to see." "Fuck off," McCabe said without
opening his eyes. Having recovered quicker than McCabe, Baron was
once again on his feet, straining at his chain and barking hysterically at them
from the other side of the fence. All of a sudden the back door to his house
opened and a man stood in the opening, silhouetted against the light. "Baron! Shut up!" the man yelled, in a
tone that sounded like he meant business. The dog kept barking hysterically.
The man slammed the door shut again, vanishing from sight. "Way to control your dog," Wynne said
wryly. His hand was locked around Maddie's wrist now. No way was she going
anywhere, even if she had wanted to, which, she discovered, she no longer did.
Still... "Zelda," Maddie said in a forlorn
voice. McCabe's eyes opened. Lifting a hand to shield
them from the rain, he seemed to look her way. "That was just about the stupidest damned
thing I ever saw," McCabe said to her with an unmistakable edge to his
voice. Baron was still barking, but his enthusiasm was starting to wane and
Maddie heard McCabe's words quite clearly. Maddie knew what he meant, since that was more
or less what she just had been thinking herself: Running into the dark like
that after Zelda had been nothing short of dumb. In her panic over the dog's
escape, though, she had all but forgotten that there was somebody out there
who wanted to kill her. And A-One Plastics was still incommunicado... But thinking she'd probably done something dumb
and having McCabe yell at her for doing something dumb were two entirely
different things. She channeled her best Robert De Niro, planted
her one free hand on her hip, and glared down at him. "Are you talkin'
to me?" McCabe sat up. From the way he looked at her,
Maddie got the impression that he was spoiling for a fight. "You think?" "So, kiddies, how 'bout we head on back to
Maddie's apartment before somebody starts taking potshots at us?" Wynne
said, making a hasty intervention before things could heat up. "Good idea." It would have been a
perfectly pleasant reply—if McCabe hadn't said it through his teeth. "I need to look for Zelda," Maddie
said mutinously as McCabe got to his feet. "To hell with Zelda," he said, looming
over her. Maddie bristled. "Easy for you to say. It's not your business
that'll go down the tubes if I lose the damned dog." "To hell with your business, too." "Time-out." Wynne started to walk back
in the direction from which they'd come, pulling Maddie along behind him. From
that position, she glared back at McCabe. "I need that dog." "What you need is your head examined." "Cool it, both of you," Wynne ordered.
Then, to Maddie in a soothing tone, "After we get you safely back to your
apartment, we'll find the dog. Promise." McCabe was right behind her, close but not close
enough so that Maddie could read his expression. She could, however, feel the
vibes he was giving off. And the vibes told her that he was in a towering snit.
If she'd been less mature, she would have stuck out her tongue at him. If there
had been no one to see but McCabe, she would have stuck out her tongue at him.
But Gomez and Hendricks were back there, too, so she reluctantly put the
impulse on the back burner. Sick with worry over Zelda—all right, over the
Brehmer account—as she might be, Maddie nevertheless realized that letting the
men look for the dog was only good sense. As vital as recovering Zelda was, it
wasn't worth getting herself killed over. "Well, lookee there," Wynne said
softly as they rounded the honeysuckle hedge. He nodded in the direction of the
parked cars. Maddie was bent over, scooping up her abandoned
shoes—what with the rain and the mud, they were never going to be the same
again—but something about the tone of his voice made her look up instantly. Her
eyes widened, and she sucked in a breath of soggy, sweet-smelling air. There was Zelda by the Camry, scarfing up french
fries that must have spilled to the pavement when Maddie had exited the car so
vigorously. Zelda, Maddie almost cried, but, remembering how Zelda had
responded to being called by name before, she swallowed the impulse, freezing
in place instead so as not to startle her. The men behind Maddie nearly bumped
into her before they, too, got with the program and stopped. "Shit. Here we go again." Maddie could
tell by the disgusted tone of McCabe's voice that he, too, was looking at
Zelda. His next words were growled in her ear. "Leave it to us this time,
okay? We'll get the damned dog for you." Then, slightly louder, he added,
"Wynne, you take Maddie on inside." "Will do." Wynne's hand tightened around Maddie's wrist,
but he needn't have bothered. Being at the edge of her parking lot had made her
remember how she had been shot, and remembering how she had been shot made her
glance nervously all around and want to run for the hills. If three big, bad
FBI men couldn't capture one little dog, the country was in more trouble even
than she was, was how Maddie figured it. So as Wynne started moving, she went
with him without protest, contenting herself with watching over her shoulder as
Gomez and Hendricks, after a hasty consultation with McCabe, crept around
behind the Camry. There was no way to be certain, of course, but she guessed
that once they were in position somebody would give a signal and the three of
them would close in on Zelda, who was still stuffing her face. Unfortunately, if she was putting money down on
the outcome, she'd have to put it on Zelda. On that happy thought, they reached the door and
Wynne ushered her inside. The house was dimly lit and quiet, as it generally
tended to be, given the nearly soundproof 1920s construction, plus the work
schedules and dispositions of the tenants. The doors on either side of the
grand oak stairway that led to the second and third floors were both closed.
Maddie trudged upward, her feet in their now-shredded pantyhose slippery on the
stairs, her ears keenly attuned to any sounds she might be able to hear from
the parking lot. Still in his navy jacket and khakis but now looking a great
deal the worse for wear, Wynne huffed behind her, one hand on the banister,
leaving a trail of damp footprints in his wake. At the sound of footsteps above
them, Maddie glanced up to see June Matthews coming along the second-floor hall
toward the stairs. Carrying a folded umbrella and wearing a lightweight black
raincoat and heels, she was clearly on her way somewhere. Her face changed as
Maddie and then Wynne reached the second-floor landing and she got a good look
at them. "Hey, June," Maddie said. "Is everything all right?" June asked
in a wary tone, pausing with one hand on the newel post to watch as they headed
on up toward the third floor. Maddie glanced back at her, saw her knit brows,
and realized in that split second how the situation must appear: herself wet,
disheveled, and shoeless, sporting huge runs in her pantyhose and a scowl to
boot, with a huge and equally wet and disheveled man right behind her, clearly
following her upstairs to her apartment. "Everything's fine, but thanks for
asking," she said, summoning a would-be cheery smile. Wynne, who had
looked around when June spoke, smiled too, showing large, even white teeth.
Coupled with that cherub thing he had going on, the smile must have done the
trick, because June relaxed and continued on her way. Then Maddie and Wynne
reached Maggie's apartment, and he followed her inside. The apartment was dark except for the dim glow
of the outside halogen spilling in through the windows. Maddie started
automatically for the curtains—closing them before she turned on the lights was
what she had in mind—when a series of shrill beeps penetrated her
consciousness, stopping her in her tracks just a couple steps into the room.
Her eyes widened. Her immediate thought was bomb. "What... what... ?" she sputtered,
even as her eyes flew to Wynne and she realized that he didn't look the least
bit perturbed. Either he was deaf, or there was something she was missing here. "Security system. McCabe had it installed
this afternoon. Because we're kind of shorthanded now, you know." He
turned to a keypad by her front door that was a new addition to the wall decor
and punched in numbers. As Maddie goggled, the beeps stopped. "Your code
is the last four digits of your phone number, by the way. Or you can change it
if you want." "Did anybody ask me..." Maddie
began hotly. Then her voice petered out as it occurred to her that under the
circumstances a security system was probably an excellent thing to have. She
finished in a milder tone. "I'm glad I didn't come home alone." And proceeded across the room to close the
curtains. "I don't think you're supposed to be alone
right now. I think that's the point." Wynne flipped the switch that turned
on the lights. "You know, you really shouldn't've took off like that out
there. It could have been dangerous." "Don't you start, too." Having closed
the curtains, Maddie turned to scowl at him, realized that he was dripping all
over her hardwood floor, and crossed to the bathroom, from which she extracted
a towel. "Here." She threw it to him. "Thanks." He started toweling off.
Maddie watched critically. He was such a big man. She tossed him another towel. "When you disappeared into the dark like
that, I gotta tell you, you scared us," Wynne looked up from vigorously
rubbing his head to fix her with reproving blue eyes. Wet and woolly now, his
hair puffed out like golden dandelion fluff around his head. "McCabe about
went ape-shit. He was out the door before I even got the car stopped. He's
probably still going to be a little ticked off when he gets up here." Wynne sounded like he was warning her. "Good for him," Maddie said,
unimpressed. She'd shed her jacket and the bulletproof vest by this time, and
was standing just inside the bathroom door and rubbing her hair with a towel,
too. The area that had been covered by the vest was relatively dry. The rest of
her was pretty much soaked through. It showed just how wet she was that the
air-conditioning, for just about the only time in her experience of it,
actually felt cold. She could feel the chill as it blew over her skin. "Especially considering how he got chased
by the dog and all," Wynne added in a reminiscent tone. Their eyes met.
Wynne grinned. A vibrating sound made Wynne lose the grin.
Reaching under his jacket, he unclipped something from his belt. Maddie saw
that it was a two-way radio. "Yeah," Wynne said into it. "Damn dog took off again," Maddie
could hear McCabe's growling voice clearly. "Looks like we're going to be
out here a little while longer." "Okay." The calm professionalism of
his voice in no way reflected Wynne's new and wider grin. The Brehmer account hung in the balance, and
Maddie knew it. But she couldn't help it. She grinned, too. Chalk one up for Zelda. "They'll get her," Wynne assured her,
clipping the radio back on his belt again, then shedding his jacket, which he
carefully draped over the back of the floral chair. Beneath it, he was almost
dry. Maddie could only hope he was right. But since
there was nothing she could do about it, she decided to move on to the next
thing. "I'm going to take a shower," she
said, and Wynne nodded. Some twenty minutes later, she had just finished
blowing her hair dry when she heard a muffled knock on the front door. McCabe, Maddie thought, and took a last critical look at herself in
the mirror. Stupidly, she'd already applied the merest hint of rosy pink
lipgloss and a touch of powder and mascara, because she wasn't planning on
going to bed until she knew Zelda was safe, and waiting for Zelda involved
seeing McCabe. Which brought her to the stupid part. The makeup had been on
account of McCabe. She wanted to look good for him. Acknowledging that made her frown, and she was
frowning still as she shrugged into her robe and pulled open the bathroom door. McCabe was standing in a pool of warm lamplight
just inside the living room, talking to Wynne. He’d lost his tie and shoulder
holster but gained Zelda's duffel bag, which he had slung over one shoulder.
Disheveled, with his black hair mussed and his jaw dark with stubble, he once
again looked more like a thug than an FBI agent. He was unsmiling, soaking wet,
and smeared liberally with mud, and despite all that, he was still so
hunky-looking that Maddie's heart gave a little skip. His once-white shirt was
plastered to his broad shoulders and brawny arms, and was just transparent
enough so that she could see both his sculpted pecs and the wedge of hair that
darkened his chest. His gray slacks clung to his narrow hips and the powerful
muscles of his thighs, and closely molded what Maddie already knew was a very impressive
package. Remembering how it had felt against her, she
felt a quick instinctive tightening in her loins. Quit looking at him like jumping his bones is
the next item on your agenda... She could almost hear Jon saying it. Realizing that that was exactly what she was
doing, Maddie felt a quick flush of both embarrassment and a whole other kind
of heat, and hastily shifted her gaze to focus on the squirming navy blue
bundle tucked securely under his arm. It took Maddie a moment to realize that
the navy blue part of the bundle was McCabe's jacket, and the squirmy part was
Zelda. Clearly taking no chances, he'd wrapped the dog in it so that not so
much as a furry paw was visible. Maddie felt a flood of relief. "Zelda," she said on a thankful note,
and went to claim the bundle. As she approached, McCabe's eyes slid over her
and his mouth tightened, but he let the duffel slide to the floor. Then he
crouched to pull his jacket off Zelda and set her on her feet. The little dog promptly shook herself, sending
muddy droplets flying everywhere. Maddie winced a little as she observed the
resultant mess. Floor, wall, McCabe's legs—all were the unlucky recipients of
Zelda's largesse. McCabe’s expression turned sardonic as he looked down at his
legs, which were already so wet and muddy that a few more drops surely couldn't
matter. Meanwhile, Zelda took a few tottering steps forward, then sank down on
her haunches. Panting, ears alert, she scanned her surroundings. Maddie's eyes
widened as she looked at her. Like McCabe, Zelda was soaked; her coat was
muddy and bedraggled; her tail left wet marks on the floor with every twitch.
And her topknot had wilted so that it hung limply in front of her left eye, its
tiny lavender bow wildly askew. "Now that's what I call a bad hair
day," Wynne observed. Maddie's lips twitched. "Oh, dear," Maddie said, and, moving
rather warily, picked up the end of the once-elegant lavender leash, which was
filthy and limp now. Once she had the end in her hand, she felt more secure.
"Come on, let's get you cleaned up." Zelda looked up at her just as warily, her black
eyes gleaming, but made no attempt to run—or worse. Probably, Maddie thought,
given all the excitement, she was exhausted. Which, considering Zelda's propensities, was a
good thing. "You could have been killed," Maddie
scolded as she led her toward the kitchen with its linoleum floor and supply of
paper towels. A snort pulled her attention from the dog. Her eyes collided with
McCabe's. "Seems like you're not the only one around
here with a death wish, doesn't it?" he said, his drawl more pronounced
than she had ever heard it. Her brows twitched together. "You know what, you probably want to go and
take a shower," Wynne said to McCabe in a way-too-hearty tone. "How
about I hang around with Maddie while you do that?" "Yeah." McCabe gave her a long, hard
look before glancing at Wynne. "Get Gomez or Hendricks to bring my bag up
from the Blazer, would you? I've got some clothes in it." "Will do." As McCabe headed off toward the bathroom, Wynne
followed Maddie into the kitchen, bringing the duffel bag with him. The
curtains were closed and the light was on when she entered, so she surmised
Wynne had visited the kitchen while she was in the shower. The smallest of
smiles touched her mouth: If he'd been raiding her refrigerator, he'd probably
been disappointed; the cold cuts and cheese and potato salad he'd bought the
other day were all gone, largely thanks to him. Basically, all he would have
found to eat was the salad McCabe had turned his nose up at earlier. "You need groceries," Wynne said,
confirming her surmise. He set the duffel bag on the counter and started
rooting around in it. "There's salad," Maddie replied with a
straight face. Wynne made an unenthusiastic sound. Glancing around at him—he
still was checking out the contents of the duffle—Maddie grinned. "Is
there a bowl in there, by the way? Zelda's probably thirsty." "Yeah." He produced a bowl and passed
it to Maddie. It was silver and heavy, and had Zelda's name engraved on it. Her
eyes widened slightly as she turned it over, checked the mark, and realized
that she was holding a sterling-silver dog dish. "This is sterling," she said to Wynne. He grimaced. "Dog lives better than I
do." "Me, too." She filled it with water
and set it down in front of Zelda, who lifted her head. "Water, your
highness." Zelda looked at her, looked at the bowl, then
stood up and took a few dainty laps. Maddie took advantage of her distraction
to start patting her clown rather gingerly with paper towels. Finishing with
the water long before Maddie had finished with her, the dog sat and panted but
offered no resistance when Maddie gave up on trying to fix the bow on her
topknot and instead tugged it from her hair. The look that resulted was kind of
an early Beatles mop-top, more sheepdog than Pekingese. "Cute," Maddie told her. Zelda looked
unconvinced. "Want this?" Wynne reached into the
duffel bag and came up with a wire-bristled brush, which he proffered to
Maddie. Maddie looked at Zelda, looked at the brush, and shook her head. "No point in pressing my luck. Anyway,
she's going to a groomer first thing in the morning." Wynne grinned. "Good thought." "Isn't it?" Having done all she could
do to restore Zelda to her former glory and survived to tell the tale, Maddie
washed her hands in the sink. From the relative lack of water pressure, she
deduced that McCabe was still in the shower. Knowing how the water supply to her apartment
worked, she had to smile. He'd either just been blasted with ice water or
scalded. Zelda was lying flat on the linoleum and Wynne
was leaning against the table when she turned around. Zelda, who still gave off
a faint wet-dog smell, was doing her fur-rug thing again, only with breathing
this time. Wynne chewed gum, gave off noxious grape fumes, and regarded her
thoughtfully. "You know, it's getting late," he
said. "You might want to go on to bed now." Maddie cocked her head at him. A glance at the
clock told her that it was getting on toward midnight, but somehow she didn't
think that concern over whether or not she got enough sleep had prompted his
suggestion. "Are you trying to keep me from getting
yelled at when McCabe gets out of the shower? That's really sweet of you, but
I'm not all that thin-skinned." Wynne's smile was rueful. "The thing
is, like I thought, he still seems to be a little ticked off at you. Hey, you
scared him. He'll be over it by morning, though. Why not take the easy way out
and just stay out of his way until then?" Maddie's answering smile was noncommittal. The
truth was, the thought of quarreling with McCabe had a lot of appeal.
"Actually, that's probably a good idea." Which it was, she realized as she thought about
it, but not because of the getting-yelled-at part. Because of the heat. She
could feel it blistering the air between herself and McCabe whenever they
looked at each other now. The truth was, she wanted him. And he wanted
her, too. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in his touch, read it in his
responses to her. His current bad mood was a case in point. He was mad at her
because the idea of her getting hurt had scared him. They were getting emotionally involved. The thought rocked her back on her heels. There
it was, the thing she hadn't wanted to face. She was falling hard for an FBI
agent, and he, unless she was very much mistaken, was falling hard for her
right back. Which was stupid. No, worse than stupid: It was
dangerous. Under the circumstances, then, the smart thing
to do was exactly what Wynne had suggested: run away to bed while McCabe was in
the shower, and stay put until morning. Then keep out of his way as much as she
could until this whole thing was over. However it ended, whether she fell off the
tightrope or managed to keep balancing until the end, getting involved with
McCabe was the last thing she needed to do. Maddie made up her mind. "You're a good guy, Wynne," she said
with a wry smile. "Yeah." He was looking at her
steadily. "The thing is, I just don't want to see you get hurt." Maddie was taken aback. The meaning of that was
hard to mistake. Was it so obvious what was happening? She took refuge in
denial. "I don't know what you mean." "Yeah, you do. You and McCabe—anybody can
see where that's headed. Don't get me wrong, he's a super guy. In fact, he's my
best friend in the world. Wherever we are, whatever we do, he's got my back,
and I've got his. But you—you're a real nice girl, and you don't seem like the
quickie-love-affair type." "And that's what this would be." The
way Maddie said it, it wasn't a question. It was a statement, because she
already knew the answer. "As soon as we get our guy, we're out of
here. You know that." Wynne looked almost apologetic. "Yeah. But thanks for reminding me."
Maddie blew out a little puff of air, then gave him a rueful smile. "By
the way, while we're exchanging advice, you should put some moves on Cynthia.
She's interested, you know." Wynne stopped chewing his gum. His eyes widened.
A deep puce flush started to crawl up his face. "Cynthia?" he asked cagily, as if he'd
never heard of her before. Maddie folded her arms, leaned back against the
counter, and gave him a don't-give-me-that look. "Come off it, Wynne.
You're every bit as transparent as I am, believe me." A beat passed. Wynne fiddled with the cord on
the duffel bag, then looked up. "So what makes you think she's
interested?" "She told me." He looked stunned. "Really?" "Would I make something like that up? Yes,
really. And now I think I'll take your really good advice and go to
bed." Wynne was still looking lost in thought when she bent down to pick up
the leash. "Come on, Zelda." Without lifting her head from the floor, Zelda
gave her an assessing look. "Zelda." Maddie tugged encouragingly
at the leash. Zelda sighed and stood up. Wynne seemed to surface again just as
they were on their way out of the kitchen. "Night, Maddie." "Night, Wynne. And thanks." "Yeah. You, too." Maddie could feel Wynne watching her as, with a
surprisingly docile Zelda trailing behind her, she headed off toward her
bedroom. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it,
McCabe was still nowhere in sight. She closed her bedroom door all but a few
inches, got Zelda settled on a folded blanket, climbed into bed, and turned off
the light. Zelda jumped up on the bed. "Hey," Maddie said. Zelda turned around a few times at the foot and
plopped down with a sigh. Maddie considered. Zelda wasn't howling, she
wasn't biting, and she wasn't lost. As far as Zelda was concerned, this was
probably about as good as it was going to get. This was, in fact, a battle she
didn't really want to fight. There were far worse things than letting a doggy
diva sleep at the foot of her bed. "Night, Zelda," Maddie said. A rattling little snore was her only reply. Maddie lay on her back with her head propped up
on a pair of pillows and her arms crossed over her chest, listening to Zelda
blissout and thinking about sleeping. With the bedroom door ajar, the room
wasn't particularly dark and, in addition, she could hear everything going on
in the apartment. She listened to McCabe emerge from the bathroom, to him and
Wynne talking, and, finally, to Wynne leaving. This was followed by a series of
tiny beeps that had Maddie frowning for a moment until she figured out that it
must be McCabe setting the new alarm. Good to know that one day, when her resident FBI
agent went bye-bye, she wouldn't be left entirely unprotected. There was more
hair spray in the bathroom, too. The light in the living room went out. The TV
came on, flipping from channel to channel. In a matter of minutes she was
treated to the sounds of about four dozen different programs, maybe more. It
didn't require genius to deduce that McCabe was once again parked on her couch
with her remote in one hand. To her disgust, the very thought made her heart
beat faster. Every iota of common sense she possessed told
her to close her eyes, block out the sounds, and try to sleep. Every scrap of
self-preservation that remained told her to at least stay put and stare at the
flickering shadows on the ceiling if sleep just wasn't in the cards. The very last
thing in the world she needed to do under the circumstances was get out of bed
and walk into the living room and pick a fight with McCabe. Unless she wanted to end up in bed with him,
that is. She lay there a moment longer, then abruptly sat
up and swung her legs out of bed, carefully so as not to disturb Zelda. McCabe
was a temporary fixture in her life, here today and gone tomorrow. Nobody
anybody with any sense would allow herself to get attached to. Wynne had warned
her. Not that he needed to; she knew it perfectly well herself. At best, a
quickie love affair was all that was in the cards. But then, life was uncertain
at best. Her life was more uncertain than most. The hard truth was, it could
come crashing down around her ears at any moment. The only thing she had for
sure was tonight. And tonight she wanted McCabe. So call her stupid. TWENTY Tuesday,
August 19 Except for the flickering TV, the living room
was dark when Maddie walked through the bedroom door. That was no surprise, of
course. She'd known that all the lights in the apartment were out, and that she
would find McCabe sprawled on the couch, watching something mind-deadening like
ESPN. Except, he wasn't there. The couch was empty. The TV had no audience. A
sweeping glance around confirmed it: McCabe was nowhere to be seen. Maddie frowned. Every bit of good sense she
possessed combined forces with the last flicker of her self-preservation
instinct to urge her to thank her lucky stars for the reprieve and head
straight back to bed. But she didn't do it. Instead, she zeroed in on
the faintest of whitish glows that seemed to be coming from the kitchen, and
headed that way. I'm a sick man, Sam concluded glumly as he studied the meager contents of
Maddie's refrigerator. He was turning himself on. Or, at least the strawberry
smell he couldn't seem to lose was turning him on. He breathed in, and he pictured Maddie. The mental images were
so vivid that they had driven him from the couch to the kitchen in search of
distraction. Unfortunately, the distractions in her refrigerator were minimal:
Besides milk and orange juice, the only marginally edible thing was a Saran
Wrap—covered bowl of salad. Yech. Grimacing, he picked up the half-gallon of milk,
tried to check the expiration date, couldn't read it with only the dim light
from the refrigerator for illumination, and opened the carton to sniff at the
contents suspiciously. And he got a big whiff of strawberry-scented
shampoo for his pains. Damn it to hell and back anyway. If he'd known,
when he'd used her shampoo in the shower, that he was going to be tortured like
this for the rest of the night, he would have stayed dirty. He’d figured it out
about halfway through scrubbing his head, when he'd inhaled the scent of
strawberries and thought, for a sudden, heart-stopping second that Maddie had
stepped into the shower with him. His eyes had popped open—damned shampoo had
burned the hell out of them, too—and he'd immediately figured the whole thing
out: He was alone, and the smell was the shampoo. So far, his damned stupid dick hadn't caught on. He'd taken the longest shower he just about ever
had in his life, trying to rinse off the smell, to no avail. It still clung to
him like skunk scent, driving him out of his mind with its erotic associations
every time he inhaled. With each breath, he had brief, tantalizing visions of
Maddie's big, honey-colored eyes looking all dazed with desire as he'd lifted
his head up from kissing her, her mouth all soft and sweet and seductive as her
lips parted for him, her body—God, that body—all hot and willing. Willing. That was the thing that made it so
torturous. She was his for the
taking, and he knew it. She wanted him. She would welcome him. All he had to do
was walk into her bedroom and... No. Hell, no. He wasn't going there. He'd already made a decision about
that. He wasn't going to do it. She was his job, damn it, not his girlfriend.
He was there for one purpose: to catch a killer. Bedding his bait was not in the program. Okay, so maybe she was more than bait. Maybe she
was more than just a body to be bedded, too. Maybe she'd gotten to him, just as
he'd feared she was going to. Maybe her feistiness, and her courage, and the
sweetness with which she'd rocketed to Wynne's defense, and the surprising way
she'd won Gardner over, and the intelligence and passion and plain old hard
work she brought to running her business had clicked with something inside him.
Maybe... Hell, maybe he was breathing in too damned much
strawberry shampoo. With that thought, Sam decided to throw caution
to the wind. Tilting the carton to his mouth, he took a big gulp of milk. "Are you drinking out of the carton?"
an outraged voice demanded out of the darkness. Sam jumped and almost spit the milk back out
again. Lowering the carton, he looked around, choking a
little as he swallowed. Maddie stood in the doorway. She was wearing her big
white bathrobe over what he was pretty sure would be a slinky little nightgown,
and her fists were planted on her hips in a way that told him he was in the
doghouse big-time. The robe ended at her knees, and below it, her killer legs
and feet were bare. Her hair waved in a loose, dark cloud around her face. Her
skin was pale and smooth. Her mouth, even pursed disapprovingly as it currently
was, made him hot just looking at it. And her eyes were big and luminous and
fixed accusingly on him. Except for the accusing part, he thought, taking
her in with one sweeping glance, she looked like the embodiment of every erotic
dream he'd ever had. And trouble. Standing there in the doorway,
glaring at him, she definitely looked like trouble. Trouble with a capital T. "It was the last little bit," he
defended himself in a mild tone, closing the refrigerator door and setting the
empty carton down on the counter, knowingeven as he turned back to face
her that he was playing with fire here.
If he wasn't way careful, he was going to end up getting burned. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that drinking
milk out of the carton is not only disgusting, it's unsanitary?" Maddie
shook a monitory finger at him. He'd jumped guiltily when she'd caught him with
the milk, which had actually been kind of cute, she thought. He was facing her
now, leaning back against the counter with his hands propped on either side of
his hips. With the refrigerator closed and the window behind him, she couldn't
make out his expression at all. He was a tall, broad-shouldered shape in the
dark, and if she hadn't known him, she would have described him as
formidable-looking. But since she did, the description that came to mind was sexy
as hell. Her heart gave a little lurch. "Like I said, it was the last little
bit." If he was still mad at her, she couldn't tell it from his tone.
"Why are you up?" "Maybe because listening to you flip
channels lacks something as a sleep aid." She crossed the kitchen toward him and thought
he tensed, although it was hard to tell in the gloom. But her ostensible target
was the milk carton, which she removed from the counter and tossed in the trash
can near the back door. That brought her to within three feet of him. Close,
but not— quite—close—enough. "So, the TV bothers you?" he asked,
folding his arms over his chest. "Fine. I'll turn it off." Maddie frowned, leaned a hip against the table,
and considered him. This was not going the way she had hoped. He was being way
too accommodating. Too cool. What she wanted to do here was spark some heat. "And do what?" Her tone was
deliberately provocative. "Sit there in the dark and twiddle your
thumbs?" "I've done it before." Her eyes narrowed. "All part of the job,
huh?" "Yep." "Just like I'm part of the job?" He hesitated a second, as if mentally testing
that. "Yeah." This wasn't working. He was getting cooler by
the second; she was the one who was starting to get ticked off. "So why did you get so mad at me for
chasing off after Zelda?" "Because that was one damned dumb thing to
do." Yes. She couldn't see his expression, but she could hear the
hardening of his voice. "I could have been killed," she said,
with a deliberate touch of mockery. "Yeah, you could've been." His tone
was positively flinty. " 'Course, if you're bound and determined to give
that guy out there another chance to get in some target practice, there's only
so much I can do." A beat passed. Her voice went soft. "So what's it to
you?" McCabe didn't reply right away. Their eyes met,
but the enveloping shadows made it impossible to read anything in his
expression. Silence stretched out between them, vibrating with a tension that
was almost tangible. "Darlin', believe me, I'm not in favor of anybody
being killed," he said finally. Cool again. And casual. Too cool and
casual. To hell with it. Subtlety had never been her
strong suit anyway. Tightening the belt on her robe with the air of a fighter
getting ready to step into the ring, Maddie took the three steps necessary to
put her directly in front of him. He still leaned against the counter, but he
stiffened a little and almost seemed to brace himself. This close, she could
see the black, restless gleam of his eyes, the high, hard cheekbones, the long,
mobile mouth, the lean stubbled jaw. He looked big, dark, and dangerous. Her heart turned over. "McCabe..." "Hmm?" He sounded slightly wary. "Did it ever occur to you that maybe we're
developing a relationship here?" "A relationship?" There was no
slightly about the wary this time. His eyes narrowed. His jaw hardened. His
fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. He was suddenly as still as
if he'd been carved out of stone. Not that he had to say anything. Electricity
leaped between them, so strong it practically ignited the air. "Yeah," she said. "A
relationship. As in, I'm crazy about you, you're crazy about me..." His eyes flared at her. Holding his gaze, she
reached out and ran a semi-teasing finger down the center of his chest. As she
had thought, he was wearing a T-shirt. It felt old and soft, and the muscular
contours beneath felt masculine and hard. She'd wanted heat. Now she was feeling it in
spades. He sucked in air through his teeth. His hand
came up to catch hers. She felt that big, warm hand wrapping around her slender
one clear down to her toes. He kept her hand trapped, a willing prisoner
flattened against his chest, and her pulse rate skyrocketed. "Maddie..." "Hmm?" His eyes were suddenly as black and shiny as jet. "For all kinds of reasons, a relationship
between us right now would be a really bad idea." With her hand pressed to his chest, she could
feel the rhythm of his heart. It was beating hard and fast—way too hard and
fast for a man who was basically telling her to take a hike. He wanted her.
There was no mistaking that. "Too late," she said softly, almost
whimsically, and took a step nearer. She was so close now that the hem of her
robe brushed his jeans. "What do you mean, too late?" His
voice was low and a little rough around the edges. She could feel the pounding
of his heart beneath her hand. "I told you: I'm crazy about you. I'm sorry
if it's a problem for you, but it's too late to do anything about it." She smiled up into his eyes, and he straightened
away from the counter fast, releasing her hand in favor of catching her by the
elbows and holding her as if he couldn't decide whether to pull her close or
push her away. Her hands flattened against his chest, fingers pressing into the
warm, resilient muscles there, and his grip on her elbows tightened. She was
tingling all over, tingling in places she didn't know she had, and filled with
a spreading warmth that had its center somewhere deep inside her body. Whatever
came of this, she was going into it with no regrets. Once again, she was
proving herself to be her father's daughter: She was taking a gamble, going for
it, making a play for what she wanted. And what she wanted—so badly that her heart was
pounding and her blood was racing and her throat was dry—was him. "Maddie..." There was strain in his
voice, and a sense of deliberately exercised control. "This isn't
something we need to be doing right now." She could feel the tension emanating from him,
and the heat. She could feel the slamming of his heart beneath her hands. "Are you saying you're not crazy about me?
" A beat passed. "No," he said at last. "I'm not
saying that." And for that piece of honesty, she went up on
her tiptoes and kissed him. For just a second his lips were warm and soft
beneath hers, but as she deepened the kiss they hardened and parted. "McCabe," she whispered, licking into
his mouth. He made an inarticulate sound, and his hands
released her elbows to slide around her waist. Suddenly he was kissing her,
pulling her close and slanting his mouth across hers as she wrapped her arms
around his neck and kissed him back. His lips were warm and dry, and the inside
of his mouth was hot and wet and tasted, very faintly, of milk. His tongue slid
against hers, claimed her mouth, and her stomach clenched and her knees went
weak. His arms around her were taut with muscle, and his body was taut with
muscle, too, and taller than hers and broader than hers and harder than hers.
Excitingly harder than hers. She could feel the unmistakable evidence of his
desire pressing against her abdomen even through her robe, and sucked in her
breath. He deepened the kiss, leaning back against the
counter again, pulling her against him. Her heart pounded and her legs trembled
and her stomach tied itself in knots. She could feel the urgency in him, feel
the tension in the arms around her, in the rigidity of his shoulders and back
and neck beneath her hands. Letting him take her weight, she pressed herself
against him, sliding her tongue deep into his mouth, sliding her fingers through
the short, crisp strands of hair at the back of his head. She was melting for him. Hungry for him. Her
body was on fire... His mouth left hers to feather kisses along the
line of her jaw. "You're beautiful," he whispered
against her skin. "Gorgeous. Sexy. Edible." He nibbled at her earlobe. Maddie's breath caught. Her knees gave. If his
arms hadn't been around her, she would have dissolved into a little puddle of
desire at his feet. "And you're crazy about me." She was
surprised she could talk at all. He raised his head to look down at her. The
diamond-hard glint in his eyes was enough to make her racing heart skip a beat. "Yeah," he said. "There's
that." "Thought so," Maddie breathed, and he
smiled and she got all gooey inside over his dimples, and while she was still
distracted he kissed her again, with a hungry urgency that made her dizzier
than she already was. She clung to him, kissing him back as if she'd die if she
didn't, while her head spun and desire coiled tightly inside her body and
delicious little shivers of anticipation raced over her skin. "McCabe," she whispered, trembling a
little at the hot, wet slide of his mouth along the exquisitely sensitive chord
at the side of her neck. He lifted his head and looked at her. The gleam
in his eyes was almost tender. "Don't you think it's about time you
started calling me Sam?" His voice was low and husky, but with a touch of
humor mixed in there, too. Maddie gave a shaky little laugh. "Sam," she said obediently. Then, "Sam,
"because his hands were parting the edges of her robe and sliding
beneath it, pushing it from her shoulders so that it crumpled to the linoleum
with the faintest whisper of sound. Big, warm, long-fingered hands that were
moving over the satiny pistachio slip that she'd chosen to sleep in just
because it was the sexiest nightgown she owned, and she wanted to be sexy for
him. Strong and capable hands that stroked over her breasts and teased her
nipples and molded her waist and slid down over her butt to pull her tight
against him. Expert masculine hands that slid under the edge of her slip... "Sam," she moaned as his hands closed
on her bare cheeks. Her slip had ridden up around her navel now so that there
was no longer any barrier at all between her body and the hard, urgent mound
beneath the cool abrasion of his jeans. Rocking her against him, he kissed her
mouth, her neck, her ear, while her heart pounded and her breathing came short
and fast and her body quaked and burned and throbbed. "This is such a bad idea," he said in
a thick voice, pulling her closer yet and sliding a thigh between her legs and
moving it against her in a way that felt so incredibly good that all she could
do was gasp and shiver and wrap her arms around his neck and hang on for the
ride. "I don't care," she replied, barely
able to think, let alone speak. His thigh between her legs was a revelation, a
pleasure-giving machine of awesome proportions, and she pressed back against it
instinctively. The resulting undulating waves of desire made her moan with
dazzled surprise. "Hell, me neither." His voice was
hoarse and thick, scarcely louder than a growl. His mouth found hers again, and she kissed him
back with the kind of abandon that came from being totally, completely,
toe-curlingly turned-on. She wanted him. God, she wanted him. She wanted
him naked and inside her and... First things first. Her hands measured the breadth of his shoulders,
slipped down the front of his chest, found the edge of his T-shirt. Then they
moved beneath it, flattening against his lean middle, loving the firmness of
the muscles there, loving the satin-over-steel quality of his skin. She could
feel him breathing, feel his chest heaving as if he'd been running for miles,
feel the pounding of his heart as she slid her hands up over his rib cage. Her
own heart was pounding, too, and her breathing came fast and erratic as she
stroked the thicket of hair that covered the center of his chest, flattened her
palms over the wide, firm curves of his pecs, then touched his flat male
nipples. He lifted his head at that and inhaled. "You're killing me here," he said in a
low, shaken voice. For a moment he simply breathed and looked at her, his eyes
heavy-lidded and so hot that they made her dizzy, and then with a quick,
sweeping movement he pulled his T-shirt over his head. She could see the
heavily muscled contours of his wide shoulders silhouetted against the
curtains. She could feel the damp heat of his skin all around her, beneath her
hands and against her arms and burning through the thin nylon of her gown. She
could smell something vaguely sweet—her brow wrinkled; was it strawberries?—and
beneath it his own special brand of eau de man. Her loins clenched. Her heart gave a great,
shuddering leap. Leaning into him, she pressed her open mouth to the salt-tinged
column of his neck and slid her hand over the tensile, hair-roughened six-pack
of his belly. Encountering his waistband, she slipped her hand beneath it. He was there, right there, burning hot, damp,
and so huge and hard that he was all but bursting out of his jeans. She touched
him, wrapped her hand around... "Damn." He said it through clenched teeth. Lifting her head, she
saw that his face was hard and fierce and his eyes blazed down at her. Wanting
him so much that she was dizzy with it, she withdrew her hand and began to
fumble with the button on his jeans. For a moment he stayed perfectly still.
Then his hands tightened on the round curves of her cheeks and he lifted her up
off her feet. Squeaking with surprise, she clutched at his shoulders as he took
two steps with her and put her down. Barebottomed. On the cool, smooth oak
surface of her kitchen table. And pulled her nightgown over her head. Before Maddie had quite grasped that she was now
sitting on her kitchen table naked, he was kissing her again and
shucking his jeans and spreading her legs and moving between them. It was dark,
but not so dark that she couldn't see that he was huge and hung and ready for
action. Her heart pounded, her body burned and clenched, and she trembled with
anticipation. She reached for him, but he caught her hands before she could
make contact and guided them to his shoulders. "Sam..." "Sit tight." Perched almost on the edge of the table, she
clung, breathing hard as that huge, hot part of him just brushed her while he slid
slow, thrilling hands up the insides of her thighs. At the exquisite sensation, she gritted her
teeth and curled her toes and almost forgot to breathe. "Do me now," she said, shocked
at herself, but wanting him so much that she didn't care, loving the way
he felt between her thighs, so turned-on that she was woozy with it, so ready
for him to come inside her that she could scream—but he didn't. "Soon," he promised, his voice
guttural now. He bent his head and put his hot, wet mouth on her breast, and slid
one of those big, warm, long-fingered hands down between her legs. "Sam," she whispered. Then, as his
mouth tightened and pulled on her breast and his hand started working its
magic, she said in a very different tone, "Oh, Sam." He kissed her breasts and delved into the
velvety delta between her thighs, finding that part of her that ached and
yearned and burned for his touch, then leaned her back against the table and
kissed her there, too, keeping at it until she was mindless, until she had no
inhibitions left, until she was arching her back and reaching for him and
begging. When she was almost there, when she shivered and quaked and dug her
nails into the oak and thrashed and moaned, he stood up and gripped her
hipbones and pushed into her, filling her to capacity, so big and hard and hot
that she cried out and twined her legs around his waist and surged to meet him.
Then he took her, hard and fast, plunging into her with a series of fierce,
deep thrusts until she lost all sense of time and place, until she was crying
out at the wonder of it, until finally she came with a shattering intensity
that caused the night to explode against her closed eyelids in a burst of
thousands of glittering stars. "Maddie," he groaned then, thrusting
himself deep inside her shaking body and holding himself there as, at last, he
found his own release. The sex had been great. Mind-blowing.
Earth-shattering. The aftermath was—awkward. When a woman had just been thoroughly done on
top of her very own kitchen table, there was just no romantic, dignified, or
even moderately unembarrassing way to bridge the transition from hot sex to
cold reality, Maddie decided. However, continuing to lie naked in the center
of said table like a turkey on a platter was probably the most humiliating of
the available choices. She sat up, and slid off. Sam was watching her. He was a few feet away, he
was naked, and even with the bloom off the rose, so to speak, he was looking
hot. Unfortunately, she was feeling cold. And
embarrassed. And very, very grateful that the kitchen was dark. A lesser woman would have wrapped her arms
around herself and scuttled from the room at that point. A more poised one
would have come up with something witty and charming to say to ease the
situation. But with his eyes on her and her mind still
semi-blown and the memory of really hot sex simmering in the air between them,
the best she could manage was a weak, drawn-out, "So..." "Want your robe?" he asked, holding it
out to her. She hadn't realized he'd been holding it in one hand until then. He
sounded like himself again, like McCabe rather than Sam, and the familiar,
drawling cadence had the unexpected effect of making her tingle, just a little. "Thanks." She took her robe, pulled it
on, and immediately felt a little less vulnerable. Okay, no point in
pussyfooting around. Might as well get the thing right out in the open and have
done with it. With what she considered a very creditable assumption of ease,
she tightened her belt and said, "Tell me we did not just do it on the
kitchen table." "Yeah," he said, folding his arms over
his chest and leaning a hip against the counter and looking her over. His eyes
gleamed at her. "We did." So much for ease. Her heartbeat quickened under
the silent perusal of those heavy-lidded black eyes. What was he thinking? Was
he sorry? She couldn't tell. She couldn't see him well enough to read his
expression at that distance—and it was impossible to divine anything from his
tone. But he might well be sorry. If she was going to look the truth squarely
in the eye, she had to admit it: She had seduced him. I'm crazy about you... She could almost hear herself saying it. The
thing was, he'd never actually said it back. "Well—I think I'll just go take a quick
shower." As far as graceful exit lines went, that left something to be
desired, she knew. But under the circumstances, it was absolutely, positively
the best she could do. What she needed was time alone to regroup. And a little
personal grooming wouldn't go amiss, either, in case he should at some point
decide to turn on a light. Her mouth felt swollen, and her hair was a bush...
When she'd recovered her equilibrium and was feeling more like herself, she
could pursue this thing between them—maybe. Or maybe not. Maybe she'd just leave it at a single session of
really mind-blowing sex. "Sounds like a plan," he said, and
started picking up his clothes. Swallowing, feeling as ridiculously
uncomfortable as a teenager on a first date, she headed out of the kitchen. "Maddie." His voice stopped her just
as she reached the doorway. She turned back to glance at him inquiringly.
"Forgot something." He tossed her nightgown to her. Even as she
caught it, even as she felt the slide of the silky nylon through her fingers
and breathed in the scent of sex that seemed to cling to it, she had an instant
flashback to the moment when he'd pulled it over her head. Just like that her loins clenched, her breasts
tightened and swelled, and she felt a sudden, unmistakable upsurge of heat. Her eyes met his, and her breath caught, and she
knew: For her, this was already more than a quickie love affair. Turning on her heel, clutching her nightgown in
suddenly nerveless fingers, she headed for the bathroom and sanctuary. But even
as she closed the door and turned on the taps, she could not escape the refrain
that beat endlessly in her brain. It was one word, repeated over and over
again: Stupid. It was the scent of strawberries that was to
blame. Sam came to that conclusion as he walked into the bathroom five minutes
later and inhaled it along with a lungful of steam. The security system was on,
the bathroom door was unlocked, and his firm intention not to fuck his bait was
blown all to hell. He was nuts, and he knew it, and that was the only
explanation he could find: The faint, insidious smell that had been haunting
him since he had first met Maddie had finally driven him totally insane. That being the case, he was going to go with it. She was still in the shower, and he was still
naked. Seemed like destiny to him. Pulling the curtain aside—she jumped and
squeaked, and he had to grab her arm to steady her—he stepped into the tub and
moved under the warm spray with her. Crowded, she backed up and looked up at
him, wide-eyed, the shampoo bottle clutched in her hand. Her face was shiny wet
and suds were in her hair and water sluiced over her drop-dead body and dripped
from her delectable rosy-tipped breasts. His gaze touched on creamy shoulders
and those perfect round breasts, then slid over the slender curve of her waist
and the satiny flatness of her belly to the soft, sable triangle of curls
between her truly gorgeous legs. She was so damned beautiful that his stomach
clenched. Along with several other notable body parts. "What are you doing?"she
demanded. So far, he realized, he hadn't said a word, and
she was looking at him like he was crazy. Not a surprise, since he clearly was. "I forgot to tell you something." He
took the shampoo bottle from her hand and reached around her to set it back in
the white wire rack that hung from the shower nozzle. That brought him so close
to her that he could feel the jiggle of her soft, warm breasts against his
chest. He looked down at the strawberry-tipped, creamy
pale globes nudging into his chest hair and felt himself getting the mother of
all hard-ons. "What?" "I'm crazy as hell about you," he
said, and wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him and kissed
her. Then he proceeded to do what he could to prove it. Later, much later, they were in her bed. All
three of them. Sam lay on his back with one arm curled beneath his head and
Maddie draped across his chest. That damned nuisance of a dog sprawled at their
feet. He and Maddie were naked, and she and the dog, whom he'd given up trying
to kick off the bed, were asleep. One of them was snoring, delicate rattling
gasps that were as rhythmic as the tick of the bedside clock. He was pretty
sure it was the dog, but he was too tired to look and see. The pretty little strawberry-scented thing on
top of him had just about worn him out, Sam reflected, and he would have
grinned if he could have mustered the energy. He wouldn't have believed such a
thing was possible if he hadn't just experienced it. She'd been surprising him since they'd met, and
she had surprised him between the sheets, too. Just as he had foreseen, he'd played with fire
and had gotten burned. Or, rather, gone up in flames. Not that, with the wisdom
of hindsight, he was thinking that was such a bad thing. She'd made him hot. She'd made him crazy. He'd
made her his. Seemed like a pretty fair trade to him. Sam was just thinking that, except for a few
minor problems like a killer on the loose, all was nearer to being right in his
world than it had been for a long time, when his cell phone started to ring. It was on the bedside table, along with his gun.
Tensing, he reached for it. Maddie lifted her head. The dog looked up. "Sam?" Maddie said on a questioning
note, even as he picked the thing up and it continued to ring. "It's my phone." He fumbled with the
bedside lamp. Turning it on, he looked at the ID window. Error, it said. "Shit." He was suddenly as juiced as
if he'd just taken a hit of speed. "What? " she asked, scooting off to
lie beside him, her eyes wide on his face. "Don't make a sound," he warned her,
and, sitting up, flipped open his phone. "McCabe." "Hey, asshole," the familiar voice
said. "Miss me?" "Like a bad case of the clap." It hit
him that he was talking to the sick bastard who had tried—was trying—to kill
Maddie, and he felt a murderous spurt of rage. She was staring at him, propped
up on her elbows beside him, flushed with sex and naked, and he felt a fierce,
hard rush of protectiveness and possession. "Where you been?" I'm gonna take you down, he promised the guy silently. He listened hard,
heard something in the background. He couldn't quite make out what it was. The
computers would automatically pick up the call, he knew. Later they could get
the background sounds enhanced... "Busy. I've been busy." The son of a
bitch sounded almost affable. The sounds in the background—Sam still couldn't
quite place them. But he was getting a bad feeling about this. Something was
wrong. "You quit playing the game, McCabe." "What are you talking about?" Time. He had to play for time. One of these
days, the sick bastard was going to talk too long and they'd have him. Just one
second too long, and it would be all over. The computers would be busy now,
trying to locate him. Gardner would have heard the call come in. She would be
up and listening. "Our game. The game we've been playing. You
quit on me. So I've decided to up the ante." "We're not playing any game." Sam
hoped the alarm he was beginning to feel wasn't audible in his voice. Cool.
Stay cool. "Say hello to Carol Walter, asshole." The sounds in the background were getting
louder, like they were coming closer to the phone, or the phone was coming
closer to them. It sounded like—sobs. Someone sobbing. Someone who was now weeping into the phone. He
could hear gasping sounds, sniffles... "Help. Please help me. Please.
Please." A woman's voice, terrified, shaking, the words interspersed with
sobs. Jesus. Sam's gut clenched. He knew. He already knew... "I'm
going to kill her now. And you're going to listen." "No!" Sam
yelled, catapulting out of bed, but he was helpless, he couldn't stop it, he
could only stand there beside the bed and listen as the woman wept and begged,
at a slight distance from the phone now, "Please don't, please
don..." Bang. The first shot echoed through the phone, through
his head, through his soul. "No!" Sam yelled again, and then, his voice shaking, "You
sick fuck, we're going to get you. We're going to..." Bang. The second shot rang out, stopping Sam in full
spiel. Insurance, of course. The woman was already dead. He knew it, but he
still felt that shot like a body blow. His heart slammed against his rib cage.
Sweat streamed out of his pores. "Now you're playing again." The
bastard was back on the line, sounding delighted. "That's good. I'm in
Dallas, by the way. 4214 Holmsby Court. And once again, you're too late." Keep him talking. The computers—and Gardner—were hearing this, too,
and the cops would be on the way. "I didn't know we were playing a
game," Sam said, trying to clamp down on every emotion except the need to
catch a killer. It required the effort of a lifetime to sound cool, sound
dispassionate. "Now you do. And now that I'm having so
much fun, I'm going to up the ante even more. Next time, I might even let yon
watch." "Next time..." Sam began. He was
interrupted. "Here's your first clue. Where in the world
is—Kerry?" Sam thought he could hear, very distantly, the
sound of sirens coming over the phone. Keep him talking. "I don't..." Definitely sirens. The cavalry was on the way.
Just keep him talking... "Better hurry, asshole." There was a click, and suddenly Sam found
himself talking to air. "Shit," Sam said, feeling as if he was
bleeding inside. "Shit, shit, shit." He looked up and saw that Maddie was staring at
him. She was sitting up now in the middle of the bed, her eyes wide as saucers,
her mouth open, her skin paper-white. The covers were clamped under her
armpits, and the dog was huddled against her legs. She'd heard everything, it
was clear. Probably she'd been traumatized for life. But he couldn't worry about that now. "Sam..." she said in a thin, high
voice. "Who... ?" "Wait." He was already punching
numbers into the phone. "One minute." Gardner answered, sounding wide-awake despite
the fact—he glanced at the clock—that it was 3:28 a.m. Probably she'd been
goosed by adrenaline, too. "Did you get that?" he asked. "Yeah," she said, rock-steady as
always. "The cops should be pulling into the driveway of 4214 Holmsby
Court any minute now." Too late, Sam thought. Too fucking late. Snapping the phone
shut, he nearly crushed it in his fist. Then he looked at Maddie and thought, That
could have been you. At the image that thought conjured up, he felt as if
all the air had suddenly been sucked out of the room. It required real physical
effort on his part to force himself to breathe. TWENTY-ONE I'm in mourning, Maddie thought. That was the only way to describe how she
felt as she basically sleepwalked through the following day. Listening to that
poor woman being murdered last night had been a horror almost past bearing.
She'd been up the rest of the night, unable to sleep, unable to get the sounds
and the terrible images they had conjured up out of her mind. It was almost as
if she'd been there and seen what had happened—and she knew why. She had been
there, once upon a time. She had seen what had happened. Seven years ago... Then it had occurred to her with a rush of icy
fear that she had almost shared Carol Walter's fate in that hotel room in New
Orleans. That was the death her attacker had planned for her. Still had planned for her. At that realization, Maddie had broken into a
cold sweat. Seeing her fear, Sam had pulled her into his
arms and buried his face in her hair and sworn to her that whatever happened,
he would keep her safe. And then he'd kissed her, a deep, fierce kiss,
before putting her away from him and getting to work. Curled in a corner of the couch, she'd watched
him pacing restlessly through her small apartment, tracking the progress of the
investigation over the phone. She'd been forcibly reminded that he was an FBI
agent, and it hadn't mattered. He was, simply, Sam to her now. He had assumed a
veneer of hard professionalism. She had seen through it, though. Seen his
guilt. Seen his pain. Just like he had seen her fear. It had been then, as they waited for Wynne, who
had immediately rushed over to babysit her while Sam headed for their hotel to
take long-distance charge of the frenzied hunt for the killer, that Sam had
told her the whole thing, in quick bits and pieces interspersed between phone
calls. Maddie had listened, appalled, to the story of how he had chased the
killer across the country, of the phoned-in clues and the rising body count and
the constant race to save yet another life. And by the time he had finished,
she had realized something: She was going to have to tell Sam the truth. She didn't know who the killer was, but she knew
where to start looking. With seven people already dead and another life on the
line, the price of keeping her secret had suddenly grown too high. She'd almost told him last night. The words had
trembled on the tip of her tongue as they had waited for Wynne. But then she'd
looked at Sam, and the truth had stuck in her throat. She was crazy about
him—no, face it, she was crazy in love with him—and what she was going to tell
him would blow this shiny, new, wonderful thing between them sky-high. Imagining how Sam would look at her once he knew
made her feel like she was shriveling up and dying inside. And there was Creative Partners, too. And Jon
and Louise and Judy and Herb and Ana. The Brehmer account. Her apartment. Her life. If she told the truth, it was gone, all of it.
The clock would strike midnight. Her fancy coach would turn back into a
pumpkin. Her glittering gown would revert to rags. As for her handsome prince —
well, he would stay a handsome prince. She was the one who would be turning into a
frog. "What the hell areyoustilldoinginSt.Louis?"Smolskibellowed over the phone. "You're supposed to be in
charge of this investigation, so get your ass down to Dallas and take charge of
it." "I'm staying put," Sam said. It was
shortly after three p.m. He and Gardner were in the hotel room that served as
their base of operations. The curtains were open, and they had a prime view of
brilliant blue sky, busy interstate, and the nearly empty parking lot two floors
below. The air conditioner hummed, working hard. The files he'd been reviewing
when the phone rang—the most recent of the cases he'd been working on were
spread out across the bed. Gardner was seated at the desk, working at her
laptop. A printer attached to another laptop across the room was spewing out
pages of composite photos based on witness descriptions of suspicious persons
observed in the vicinity of last night's crime scene. Unfortunately, the
witness descriptions were all over the map, and so far none of the resulting
photos matched composites from the previous crime scenes, making it unlikely
that anyone who'd been interviewed so far had seen the actual killer. "What do you mean, you're staying put? You
got any dead bodies in St. Louis? Hell, no. The dead body's in Dallas. What you
got in St. Louis is a piece of ass." "He's going to come for her. I mean to be
here when he does." Smolski grunted and said, "You don't know
that." "I'm as sure of it as it's possible to
be." "What about this new target, huh?
Whosit—what'd you say the name was?" "Kerry." "What about Kerry, huh?" "We're working on it here, and we've got
people out doing legwork in every likely city, trying to come up with an ID.
Just like we got people doing legwork in Dallas on last night's homicide." "But you think the best thing you and your
team can do is stick with that hot little St. Louis gal." There was no
mistaking the sarcasm in Smolski's tone. Sam kept his voice steady. "Yeah, that's
what I think." "What if I ordered you to get your ass down
to Dallas?" Sam grimaced. Knowing Smolski as he did, he had
been expecting this. "Then I'd have to decline. Respectfully." Smolski grunted. "Respectfully, my
ass." A beat passed. "Like I said before, your case, your call. But
McCabe—" "Yeah?" "If we don't get the UNSUB pretty shortly,
it's your ass." With that, he hung up. "Shit," Sam said, and turned back to
see what Gardner was doing. Her fingers had stopped moving over the keyboard.
She was staring at her computer screen, seemingly transfixed. "Something up?" he asked, his
attention caught, and moved over to stand behind her. Looking at the images
glowing up at him from her screen, he realized she'd just come up with a
fingerprint match. "You are not going to believe this,"
she said in a strangled voice. And she pointed at a way too familiar picture on
the screen. "Come on, Zelda," Maddie said
dispiritedly, trying to hurry Zelda across the parking lot and inside the
Brehmer's Pet Food factory. The QuikStop where she had gotten gas was just
visible to her left through the tall chain-link fence. To her right, the
interstate overpass blocked her view of the corner where she'd seen the hooker
at work. The drone of traffic rushing past on the expressway provided
background noise to the nearer sound of cars cruising through the lot, looking
for a place to park. The white gate at the entrance gave a dull thud each time
it was raised or lowered to allow a vehicle to pass through. It was getting on
toward five, and she was supposed to meet Susan and Jon, who'd been checking
out various interior locations in the plant as possible spots for the
soon-to-be-filmed commercials featuring Zelda, in the manager's office at five,
at which time she would hand over the poky pooch to her rightful guardian. Thank
goodness. Not that Zelda wasn't being reasonably well behaved, because she was.
At the groomers, at the photo shoot, at lunch, at the office—everywhere they'd
been that day, Zelda had been as little trouble as anyone could expect an
animal she'd had to take everywhere with her and pamper like a doggy
diva-to-be. Of course, some of Zelda's good behavior could be thanks to the
supply of snacks Maddie had armed herself with. Right now, the pocket of her
aqua linen jacket was half-full of goldfish crackers, which she'd been
dispensing judiciously throughout the car ride from her office to the plant.
Unfortunately, since Zelda had already consumed a large quantity of pretzels,
bagel bits, and french fries (Maddie had decided against giving her any more
candy after Louise had told her that chocolate was bad for dogs), she'd had
some gastric issues over the course of the afternoon. All in all, though, Maddie considered noxious
gas and near-hourly dumps a small price to pay for relative peace. And as far as she was concerned, the problem
would soon be resolved, because it would soon be Susan's. Meanwhile, the air smelled of car exhaust and
melting asphalt, the heat was tropical and intense, and the sun blazed in the
endless blue sky, although just at that moment the shadow of the building in
front of her sheltered her from the worst of its rays. The parking lot was
filled to overflowing with cars, as another shift arrived to replace the
workers who would soon be going home. As soon as she handed Zelda over to Susan,
she would be heading home, too. According to Wynne, who was trailing at a more
or less discreet distance behind her, Sam would meet them at her apartment to
take over for him. The prospect made Maddie nauseous. The moment of truth was speeding toward her on
winged feet. The sad thing was, for one brief shining moment
last night, she'd taken a look around her bedroom and realized that she finally
had everything she'd ever wanted: an unbelievably sexy man, a cute little dog,
and a successful, respectable life. Too bad none of it was hers to keep. "You can't stop and sniff everything,"
Maddie told Zelda with exasperation, tugging on the leash as the little dog,
trailing behind, stopped in her tracks yet again, then took a detour beneath
the bumper of a small red pickup. She emerged moments later, looking pleased
with herself as she chomped on what looked like the remains of a burrito. "Zelda, no!" But it was too late. The burrito was gone. Zelda
licked her lips, looked at Maddie with shining black eyes, and wagged her tail.
Then she gave an unmistakable belch. "Oh, Zelda." "Dog must be part goat," Wynne said,
coming up behind her. She glanced around at him. He was wearing a
bright blue Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts, and a baseball cap in what she
assumed was an effort to look like something other than the FBI agent he was.
He succeeded in that, but he did not succeed in being inconspicuous. In St.
Louis, giant blond cherubs were pretty thin on the ground. "She's been kept on a strict diet,"
Maddie said excusingly, and dredged up a smile. The thing was, just looking at
Wynne made her stomach twist. Soon he was going to know the truth. Ridiculous
as it seemed, over the course of the last few days she had come to consider him
a friend. She'd be losing that, too. The list of losses she was getting ready to
suffer was growing so long that she could hardly bear to think about it. "Think you two could move it along
here?" Wynne asked as he walked past her. "Remember, the objective is
to get inside the building as fast as you can." He stopped about three cars up from her, propped
his sneaker on a bumper, and made a business out of tying his shoe. He was
trying to pretend that he wasn't with her, that they were strangers exchanging
casual conversation in a parking lot, Maddie knew. Gomez and Hendricks were
present, too, watching from the van, which they had parked not far from her
car. The entire exercise seemed pretty pointless, however. Unless the hit man
did his thing within the next half-hour or so, he was out of luck. She was
going to be sounding the death knell on this little travesty herself. "Come on, Zelda." Sniffing around the truck for a second course,
Zelda ignored her. Maddie tugged at the leash, sighed, and faced the truth:
Unless she was prepared to drag Zelda across the parking lot, they were
basically going nowhere fast. It was too hot to be covered in dog hair,
especially given the fact that she was zipped up from neck to hips in a
bulletproof vest, and her jacket and matching tank and white linen pants had just
come back from the cleaners, but there was no help for it if she wanted to get
inside the factory anytime soon. She bent to scoop the animal up. So far today,
Zelda had shown no inclination to bite the hand that fed her, and with that in
mind, Maddie held another goldfish cracker in front of the dog's flat little
face as she headed toward the plant. Zelda gobbled it up, and rewarded her with a
lick on the wrist. "I know the way to your heart,"
Maddie said sourly. She had almost reached the gray metal door set into the
side of the building marked Office when she heard Wynne, who was once
again some small distance behind her, speak. "Yo, what are you two doing here?" he
said, sounding surprised. "Gardner'll fill you in." It was Sam's
voice, and its tone was grim. Maddie turned so fast that her jacket swirled.
Despite everything, a smile trembled on her lips. Sure enough, it was Sam. He was wearing jeans,
sneakers, and a white polo shirt that hugged his broad shoulders and wide chest
and made his hair look as black as the melting asphalt and his skin
mouthwateringly tan. He was in his dark-and-dangerous mode, with a
hint of stubble, no trace of a smile, and a pair of Ray-Bans wrapped around his
eyes to shield them from the sun. He was closing the distance between them
fast, his tall, powerful body cutting like a knife through the shimmering veil
of heat that rose from the pavement. Her eyes flicked beyond him to Cynthia,
who was dressed in a black T-shirt and slacks and had a hand on Wynne's arm.
She was saying something to Wynne, and he was frowning down at her. Then she looked at Sam again, and her heart
lurched. There was something about the way he moved... Her smile died. "Sam?" As he reached her, she looked
up at him uncertainly. His jaw was hard and set. His mouth was a thin, straight
line. His head tilted toward her, and she thought he was looking at her, though
it was impossible to be sure with the sunglasses hiding his eyes. "We need to talk," he said. Taking
hold of her arm, he turned her about and took her with him into the building.
There was nothing remotely gentle in his grip. Where before she had been almost
suffocatingly hot, now she felt suddenly very cold. It was possible that this
was because she'd just stepped out of the sun and into an air-conditioned
building, but she didn't think so. "What—what is it?" Her heart was
beating very fast. His fingers holding her were like iron. She glanced up at
him as he hustled her down the hall past the manager's office, where Jon and
Susan were probably already waiting. The harsh fluorescent lighting in the
narrow hall hid nothing. She could see the whiteness at the corners of his
mouth, see the tension in his face, see the muscles bunched in his jaw. This was bad.
Her breathing quickened. Little curls of panic
twisted in her stomach. She could feel a hard knot of dread tightening beneath
her breastbone. "Sam..." She tried again, fighting for
a measure of calm, looking up at him almost pleadingly. "Wait till we get somewhere private."
The words were clipped, the tone harsh. Maddie despaired. He knew. She knew he did.
There was no other explanation for his behavior. She'd just found him, just
fallen in love with him, and now he knew and was lost to her forever. She said nothing more as he pushed open one door
after another and marched her along a series of hallways. She wasn't even
surprised that he seemed to know exactly where he was going. Of course he knew
the layout of the plant, knew where to find privacy in a factory teeming with
people. He would have checked. He would have found out before coming. He was an
FBI agent, after all. It was the FBI agent whose hand was wrapped
around her arm. Maddie realized that she was shivering as he
pushed open one last door and she stepped through it to discover that they were
at the very back of the building, in a high-ceilinged, metal-walled,
cement-floored space that she guessed, from the tractor-trailer-sized garage
doors, was the loading dock. It was the size of a small warehouse, and sunlight
filtered in through grimy little windows set high up in the walls. The huge
overhead doors were closed, but a smaller, ordinary-size door was propped open
in the corner to her right. Dust motes hung in the air, and the place smelled,
vaguely, of beef. He shut the door through which they had just
entered behind him, and let go of her arm. Maddie stepped a few paces away,
then turned to face him. She was hugging Zelda close, too close for the little
dog's liking, in a reflexive attempt to find what comfort she could. Only when
Zelda squirmed did she realize that she had the dog in her arms at all. Taking
a good grip on the leash, she set Zelda on her feet and straightened, looking
at Sam apprehensively. He took off his sunglasses. His eyes were as
cold and hard as chips of black ice as they met hers. His jaw was unyielding.
His face could have been carved from granite. She wet her lips. "Sam," she said. To her dismay, she
realized that her voice sounded all croaky. His eyes flashed at her. "A funny thing happened this
afternoon," he began almost conversationally, hooking the sunglasses in
the neck of his shirt and folding his arms over his chest. There was a terrible
burning anger at the backs of his eyes that stopped her breath. "We ran
all the fingerprints that came out of your hotel room in New Orleans through
the Automated Fingerprint Identification System a couple of days ago, and the
results came back today. There was only one set of flagged prints. They came
complete with a picture. The picture was of you. The name that went with it was
Leslie Dolan. That ring any bells?" She'd known it, of course. Known it from the
moment she got a look at his face. Still, his words hit her like a blow to the
solar plexus. She hugged her stomach, shivering, feeling bile rising in her
throat, as corrosive as acid. "Sam," she said. Her voice was piteous
now. She would have been ashamed of the poor, pitiful begging sound of it if
she hadn't been so busy listening to her world shattering into a million tiny
pieces around her like a dropped globe of delicate handblown glass. "Just to jog your memory, Leslie Dolan was
arrested in Baltimore eight years ago and charged with being an accessory after
the fact to first-degree murder as well as with money laundering, racketeering,
and a whole bunch of other, slightly less impressive charges. She was looking
at a sentence of maybe twenty, twenty-five years of hard time. But she never
came to trial. Somebody sprung her on bail. Then, a little over a year after
she was arrested, Leslie Dolan died." Something about the flatness of his tone coupled
with the hard, black glitter of his eyes made her physically ill. If he didn't
stop, she feared she might vomit. She shook her head, took a step back. "Are you saying you deny it?" His
voice was suddenly sharp, as cutting as his eyes. "Before you do, maybe I
should tell you that I didn't believe it at first. I thought there had to be
some mistake, identity theft, something. So I checked into the background of
Maddie Fitzgerald. Madeline Elaine Fitzgerald. You, right? And you know what?
Nothing checks out. Western Illinois University has no record that a student by
that name ever attended. Holloman High School in Winnipeg, Illinois—Maddie
Fitzgerald's high school—has no record that a student by that name ever
attended. Parents, John Fitzgerald, dentist, and Elaine Fitzgerald, homemaker,
don't turn up on any records anywhere. Credit agencies, Social Security, the
IRS—everywhere we checked came up empty. For the parents always, and for Maddie
Fitzgerald, until just about seven years ago. You know what that means?" A
deep, high flush had crept up to stain his cheekbones. His voice cracked like a
whip at her. "Until seven years ago, Madeline Elaine Fitzgerald—
you—didn't exist." The words echoed around the four walls, bounced
off the ceiling. Maddie felt faint. Her head spun. Tears blurred her eyes as
she looked at him. "I was going to tell you." "You were going to tell me." The words
were heavy as stones. "Tonight. I was going to tell you
tonight." "You are Leslie Dolan." It was a statement,
not a question. She shuddered and nodded. He was looking at her as if he wanted to kill
her. "No wonder you didn't want to talk to me. No wonder you didn't want
us protecting you. You were hostile from the beginning—and that's fucking
why." "Last night..." she began, meaning to
explain to him how hearing Carol Walter's murder had tipped the scales for her,
made her see that she couldn't keep the secret any longer. Meaning to beg him
to listen, to try to understand. "Last night," he interrupted, his eyes
blazing at her. He took two hasty steps toward her, grabbed her by the arms and
hauled her up against him. Her heart hammered. His face was hard with anger.
His voice was harsh with it. "Last night. Yeah, let's talk about
last night. What, did you decide to fuck me to soften me up for when I found
out?" Maddie recoiled as if from a blow. "That's a terrible thing to say," she
whispered, shaking. "A terrible thing to say? You've got to be kidding me. A terrible thing
to say? Darlin', as far as I'm concerned, skipping out on your old life to
beat an accessory-to-murder charge, creating a whole new identity, living a lie
for seven years, and then, when you had to realize you were about to be found
out, fucking the fed who was in line to bring you in is a terrible thing to
do." "No." Maddie had to fight for air.
"That's not how it was." "So how was it?" His hands tightened
on her arms. His fingers dug into her skin, and for a moment she thought he was
going to shake her. "I'm listening. Go on, Leslie Dolan. Tell me how it
was." Hearing herself addressed by the name she hadn't
used for seven years tore something inside her. It was as if a lid had been
ripped off her emotions, and suddenly everything she'd been bottling up inside
for all those years flooded through her: the shame, the fear, the anger, the
hatred. He was an FBI agent. She hated them most of all. "You," she said, glaring up into his
eyes, loathing him at that moment. "You. With your badge and your
gun and your power. You, with your grandma and your family and your
whole white-bread world. What can you possibly know about me?" Ripping herself from his hold, she took a step
back, stumbled, and nearly fell. He caught her arm, kept her from hitting the
floor, pulled her upright again. "Let go of me." Jerking her arm from
his grasp, she took a deep breath and stood up, proud and tall. If she was
shaking to pieces inside, if part of her was dying inside, she was too wild
with anger and fear—and, yes, grief—for what she was losing now and for the
girl she had once been to notice. "All tight, yes, my name was—is—Leslie
Dolan. So now you know. What are you going to do about it? You want to arrest
me? Well, I'm right here. You got your woman, Mr. Special Agent. Go ahead and
take me in." Fury blazed at her from his eyes as she thrust
both hands out at him, close together as if waiting to be handcuffed. "You want to cuff me? You can cuff me. You
can march me right out of this building and turn me over to whoever the hell it
is that arrogant jackasses like you turn people over to, and then you can go on
back to your nice, safe life, knowing that you've taken a dangerous criminal
off the streets." She didn't realize that the tears that had been
stinging her eyes had spilled over until she felt them, wet and hot, running
down her cheeks. God, she was crying. She hated that she was
crying. How pathetic; how weak... Dropping her hands, she turned her back on him
and started walking away. She might not be able to stop herself from crying,
but she could stop him from watching. He wasn't Sam any longer, not to her. Sam
was gone. In his place was this hard-eyed federal agent who was not ever again
going to be able to see past who she had been. And now, she realized with a dreadful clarity,
who she was once again. "Goddamn it to hell and back," he
said, his voice low and harsh. He had seen her tears. She could tell it from
his tone. A glance over her shoulder showed her that he was standing
stock-still where she had left him, staring after her, his face dark with
anger, his hands curled into hard fists at his sides. He made an abortive
movement, and for a moment she thought he was going to come after her. But he
didn't. Muttering something under his breath, he swung around and started
walking very fast in the opposite direction. At least, if she was now a frog, so was her
handsome prince. She found herself by the open door and leaned
against it for a moment, welcoming the heat now as an antidote to the terrible
shivering cold that seemed to be creeping through her bones. She felt broken,
shattered, raw. Impossible to believe that the world still smelled prosaically
of melting asphalt and ozone. Impossible to believe that it was the same bright
blazing afternoon that she had left behind when Sam had dragged her into the
building. Impossible to believe that there were still lazy tendrils of white
clouds floating across the brilliant blue sky and that heat still rose from the
macadam and that people still went about their daily lives. For the garbage
men, for instance, who were backing their rumbling green truck up to one of the
three huge metal Dumpsters that lined this end of the lot, nothing had changed.
The factory worker, apparently late to his job, who was hurrying across the
pavement, was still going about his business as usual. The driver of the white
pickup she could see heading for the exit had no idea that behind him, a life
had just ended. Her life. Tears streamed down her face at the thought. Okay, get a grip, she told herself savagely, and scrubbed at her streaming
eyes with both hands. As she had already learned many times over in her life,
tears didn't do anything except give you a stuffy nose. The truth was out, and
the happy, healthy, hopeful world that she had created as Maddie Fitzgerald had
crashed and burned. Those were the facts. She was just going to have to deal
with them. I could run. The thought of her secret garage, of her car and
her emergency kit, popped into her head like a shiny, tempting bauble. No one
knew about those... She was standing in an open doorway at the top
of a quartet of narrow concrete steps that led down to the parking lot. If she
could get to her car... Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Sam was
clear on the other side of the loading dock. He had stopped pacing, and was
standing with his back to her, his head down, his hands locked behind his neck,
thinking or cursing or getting a grip on his anger, she had no idea which. He
looked tall and dark and handsome, all of those clichйs, and for a moment, just
a moment more, she let herself grieve the loss. Then she looked determinedly toward the future. And saw Zelda darting under the wheels of the
garbage truck. Until that moment, she had forgotten all about her. Now she
realized that the leash, which was trailing after Zelda, had also just
disappeared beneath the truck. She had no idea when it had dropped from her
hand. "Zelda!" Maddie cried,
horror-stricken, and swarmed down the steps as everything flew out of her head
except the need to protect the little dog from her gluttonous self. The truck was rumbling as it backed up, the
sound loud enough to block out almost everything else. But it was moving very
slowly, inch by terrifying inch. "Stop!" Maddie raced toward it, waving
at the driver, who was looking over his shoulder and didn't see her.
"Zelda!" Darting around the cab—she wasn't quite stupid
enough to run behind the thing when it was backing up—she found herself in the
narrow, shady space between the truck and the chain-link fence, with its thin
line of weedy trees. And she saw Zelda. The little dog was trotting
out from beneath the huge truck, not inches away from a wheel big enough to
turn her into puppy pizza, as if she didn't have a worry in the world. A red McDonald's fry container was clutched
between her teeth. "Zelda!" Laughing, crying, almost
nauseous with relief and reaction and God knew what else, she swooped down on
the runaway, gathering her up in her arms. She was still hugging the dog when,
with her peripheral vision, she became aware of a tall, shadowy figure looming
behind her. "Hello, Leslie," a man's voice said in
her ear, and in that instant she realized that the unthinkable had happened.
Her past had just caught up with her again. And this time it might very well
prove fatal. She started to whirl, opened her mouth to
scream, filled with a mindless, soul-shattering terror. She didn’t want to die... Something slammed hard into the side of her
head, and everything went black. TWENTY-TWO Maddie—for Maddie, she discovered, was how she
still thought of herself—came back to awareness slowly, reluctantly, resisting
consciousness with every fiber of her being. Consciousness hurt. No, she hurt.
Her head felt as though it had been split in two, her hip ached, and her hands
and feet felt swollen and numb. They felt that way because they were bound, with
some kind of thin, smooth rope that had been pulled so tightly that it was
cutting into her skin. The realization that she was tied—shades of her
dream—made her stomach contract with fear. She was out of the sun, indoors,
lying on her side on a hard, cool surface—concrete. A concrete floor. She could
smell oil and a musty odor that made her think of damp earth. And... and some
kind of food. Something greasy. The smell of it made her want to heave. If she
looked, she would know exactly what it was. But looking struck her as a really
bad idea. If there was food, there were probably people.
And, though she didn't hear any sounds that would confirm it, she got the sense
that she wasn't alone. The good news was that she wasn't dead. The bad
news was that that fact could change at any second. For the moment, she preferred to concentrate on
the good news. She remembered then. Remembered that a man had
said her name—her old name—just before something had exploded into the side of
her head. Oh, God. Have I been shot? Had the hit man... No. If the hit man had found her, she wouldn't be alive. Something cold and wet touched her face. She
jerked, unable to control the reaction in time. It was all she could do not to
scream. Zelda. She knew it even before she heard the
telltale snuffling sound, even before she gave in to overwhelming temptation
and opened her eyes a slit to find the small, monkeyish face not three inches
away from hers. It was Zelda all right, complete with a mustache of goldfish-cracker
crumbs, munching away. Maddie realized that she was no longer wearing her
jacket—or her bulletproof vest, for that matter—and surmised that Zelda had
discovered the jacket somewhere nearby. Except for those items, she was fully
dressed in her aqua tank and white pants. She only hoped that whoever had taken
off her jacket and vest had done so in some kind of search for, say, a gun. The thought of anything else happening while she
was unconscious made her skin crawl. Zelda was regarding her from behind unblinking
black eyes. Her leash still hung from her collar, and her tiny satin bow—pink
again, freshly styled by the groomer that morning—was askew. Maddie took what
she realized was a ridiculous amount of comfort from the little dog's presence. It was possible that the hit man might be
keeping her alive for some nefarious purpose of his own. But would that somehow
include Zelda? She didn't think so. The sound of a door opening made Zelda look off
to the left. Maddie would have looked, too, except she couldn't. She was too
busy playing unconscious. But she had a funny feeling that the door opening was
not a good thing. "DiMatteo says we should get her to tell us
where the stuff is." The speaker was male, about medium height, she
thought, although it was hard to judge from her position on the floor,
heavyset, fortyish, with thinning black hair swept back from his face, small
eyes and mouth, big nose, jowls. He was wearing pale gray Sansabelt slacks with
a cheap-looking black rayon shirt tucked into it. The shirt was unbuttoned far
enough that a thick silver necklace, a deep V of pale
skin, and a meager quantity of black chest hair were on view. In other words,
too far. The hit man? She didn't know. But her heart was
beating very fast. She watched through her lashes as he walked
across the garage—now that Zelda had moved on, she could see that she was
inside a multicar garage, though only a blue Ford F-150 pickup truck was
currently parked in it— toward another man, who was sitting at one end of what
looked like a workbench built into the far wall of the garage. "So, how do we do that?" the other man
asked, chewing. This guy was thin, wiry even, too thin to be the man who had
attacked her in New Orleans. He was maybe in his early thirties, with thick
black hair and big, loose lips and a receding chin, and he wore a short-sleeved
blue shirt. She could only see him from the chest up, because he was seated at
the table, so the rest of him remained a mystery. The heavy man shrugged. "Torture her, I
guess." "You torture her. I'm eating." The heavy man looked around at her. Horrified,
she just managed to remember to breathe. "Hell's bells, Fish, why me? I had to carry
her in here. She's no feather, that's for sure." Maddie would have felt insulted at that if she
hadn't been so scared. "Because I'm eating, lunkhead. Can't you
see? Me—eat." He took a huge bite out of what looked like a fast-food
burger. "What about me? I'm hungry, too." "Torture her, then eat." "My food'll be cold." "You can put it in the microwave." "Shit." Lunkhead sighed. Then he came
toward her, and she felt her blood run cold. "If I have to torture her,
then you have to shoot the dog. I don't do nothin' to dogs." "I don't know why you brought the damned
thing anyway." "Because it was there. Because it was
barking. Another couple of minutes, and everybody in the damned factory would
have been coming out to see what was going on. Lucky I was able to grab hold of
its leash. It would have given us away." Lunkhead was standing over her
now, and Maddie concentrated on emptying her mind of everything, imagined being
in a calm, serene place, concentrated on her breathing. In out, in out. Like
in her dream. She shuddered. "I saw that," Lunkhead said
triumphantly. He reached down, grabbed her under her arm, and hauled her
roughly upright, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. "Come on, I
know you're awake. Don't make me hit you." That was said so casually that she knew it
wasn't an idle threat. Her eyes flew open, and she sucked in a deep breath as
she tried to find her balance. But with her ankles bound and her feet numb, she
couldn't. Her shoes were gone, she realized, as her bare feet made contact with
the cold floor. She couldn't get her feet squarely beneath her, and she had a
feeling that, even if she could, they wouldn't support her weight. Unable to
help herself, she sagged heavily against him. He was soft with flab and smelled
of cologne. He didn't feel like her attacker, either. Unless her senses were deceiving her, the hit
man wasn't in the room. Not that that meant she was in the clear. It
just meant that multiple people seemed to want to do her harm. "Over to the table." Lunkhead gripped
her tighter and started dragging her in the direction he wanted her to go. She gave a little hop, then, overbalanced, fell
heavily forward onto her knees. Her kneecaps banged into the concrete. It hurt,
and she cried out. "Get up." Lunkhead loomed over her. "I—I can't." He kicked her, his shiny black loafer making
brutal contact with her thigh. Pain exploded up and down her leg. She yelped,
crumpled. "Now try." He reached down to drag her
upright again. "My feet... ?" The disorientation she'd experienced on first
regaining consciousness was totally gone now. In its place was pain and a hard
cold fear. This guy's casual brutality told its own tale—he had no qualms about
hurting her. He would have no qualms about killing her. "Oh, jeez, untie her feet. She's not going
anywhere," the man at the table said. "Yeah." The fingers digging into her arm let go. Maddie
hit her knees again, then toppled forward, barely managing to twist enough to
smack the concrete with her shoulder rather than her face. She cried out again
as pain shot through her knees, her hip, her arm. Then, as she lay, panting, on
her side on the concrete, she saw something that made her temporarily forget
both pain and fear. Sam was sprawled on his back on the concrete
floor not far from where she lay. His eyes were closed, blood trickled
sluggishly from a corner of his mouth and smeared his white shirt, and his arms
were stretched over his head. Eyes widening with horror, she saw that he was
handcuffed to the truck's bumper. "Get up," Lunkhead said again, and
hauled her upright. The rope around her ankles had been cut—she caught a glint
of silver as he refolded a serviceable switchblade and stowed it in his
pocket—but she had been so fodused on Sam that she hadn't even realized that he
was doing it. Was he badly hurt? That
was her first, instinctive thought. Then, as she was forced to walk on her
tingling, throbbing feet, she remembered that she hated him. But not enough for this. "Sit down," Fish said when Lunkhead
had dragged her, hobbling, to the workbench. It was table-height, made of
unfinished planks, with an open toolbox and various tools jumbled together and
shoved toward the wall. Fish's lunch was spread out in front of him on a
sandwich wrapper: a half-eaten fish sandwich, a couple of unopened packs of
tartar sauce, fries, and a large soft drink with a straw and a lid. Moby
Dick's, Maddie saw from the other small, white bag that waited near the edge of
the table with its top rolled shut. This, clearly, was Lunkhead's meal, which
he had not yet had time to eat. Three cheap plastic chairs had been pulled up
to the workbench, one at each end and one in the middle. Lunkhead pulled out
the chair in the middle and shoved Maddie into it. Fish was to her left,
Lunkhead behind her chair. If she glanced sideways, she could see Sam. She was terrified, she realized—and not just for
herself. A door opened at the rear of the garage, and
Zelda, lucky dog, disappeared beneath the truck. A man stood in the opening,
scowling at them. He was stocky, bald, and dressed in dark suit pants, a
striped dress shirt, and tie. The hit man? She didn't know. There was no way to
tell. But the build was right. Her heart started slamming against her ribs in
quick, panicked strokes. Her breathing suspended. Would he come in now and kill
her? If he did, there was nothing she could do. No escape .. . Be calm, she told herself. Focus. Behind the new arrival, she
could see the outdoors: a strip of concrete and, beyond it, grass and the
crowded trunks of a stand of skinny pines. Where were they? Impossible to tell. Zelda, we're not in Kansas anymore. "You know what we just heard on the police
scanner, shit-for-brains?" the guy in the door demanded. "An APB for
the fed. What the hell did you have to dick around with him for?" "I told you, we didn't have any
choice," Lunkhead said. "He came around the side of the truck just as
I was throwing the dog in. He saw me. He was going for his gun." "If I hadn't been right there to clobber
him with that tire iron, he would've had us. I didn't even have time to pull
out my stun gun," Fish chimed in. "Yeah, we weren't expecting him. Had her,
had the dog then here he came. What are you gonna do?" Lunkhead shook Ins
head and shi ugged "Well, idiots, yon just escalated our
problems, big time. They wouldn't have looked that hard for her. They'll look
like hell for him, and now we got no choice but to kill him. Just make sure,
when you do it, that you get rid of the body someplace where it's not gonna be
found. Chop it up or something and bury the parts separately. Got it?"
Maddie went all light-headed. "Yeah," Fish said. The man in the doorway turned his head sharply,
as if he heard something. Then he disappeared from view, leaving the door ajar.
The light outside had the mellow, golden quality common to a summer evening.
The trees cast long shadows toward the east, which told her that sundown was
near-ing. The meal Fish was eating and Lunkhead wasn't must be supper. The terrible thing was, freedom was less than
twenty feet away. It might as well have been a thousand miles. Two men inside,
undoubtedly armed and clearly ready, willing, and able to kill her. At least one
man outside, and probably more. And handcuffed to a truck, one man whom, Maddie
realized, she wasn't willing to leave behind even if she should somehow get the
opportunity to run. "He's pissed," Lunkhead said to Fish,
sounding glum. "Yeah. Well, we better be getting them what they need,
then." Fish looked at Maddie. His eyes were cold now, and hard. Fear
tightened her stomach, dried her mouth. He could kill her, she realized, and go
right back to eating his fish sandwich. "This is all your damned
fault," he said to her. "Why the hell didn't you just stay off
TV?" Maddie was so surprised by his comment that she
forgot, for a moment, to be afraid. "What?" "TV. What kind of stupid person who's on
the run goes on TV? You got us all in trouble here." He looked at
Lunkhead. "Cut her hands free." Maddie felt her stomach clench. Why does this
not sound like good news? "What? What?" she said, as much to
keep them talking as for any other reason. Lunkhead was using his knife on the
rope that bound her wrists. She could hear the sawing sound it made, feel a
painful increase in pressure as the rope dug tighter into her skin. "What
are you talking about? I never went on TV." Fish looked at her with disgust. "You got
some big business award. Velasco saw it on the news. He's one of our guys now,
but he used to live in Baltimore and he recognized you. Said he remembered you
because you were such hot stuff. Only you had some trouble, and you were
supposed to be dead. He kept wondering about it, and finally he gave the guys in
Baltimore a buzz. Then all hell broke loose." Her hands were free now. The blood flowing back
into them made her fingers tingle and throb painfully. She scarcely noticed.
All this—all this— because they'd run a clip of her receiving the
Chamber of Commerce award on the evening news? Talk about your butterfly effect. She would've
had to laugh if she hadn't felt so much like crying. Fish grabbed hold of her wrist and put her hand
down on the table. Maddie was still looking at her outstretched fingers in surprise
when he picked up a hammer and brought it down hard on her pinkie. She screamed, snatching her hand away. Smirking,
he let it go. The pain was blinding, intense, made even more horrible because
it was so unexpected. Her stomach turned inside out. She went all woozy. If
Lunkhead hadn't been behind her, holding on to her shoulders, she would have
fallen sideways out of the chair. "That's just a sample of what's going to
happen if you give us any problems," Fish said. He'd already put down the
hammer, Maddie saw, as her vision cleared enough for her to be able to see
again, and was taking another hungry bite out of his sandwich. The pain,
coupled with the smell, made her want to vomit. "That stuff you said you
had—I want to know where it is." "What stuff?" Maddie cradled her
injured hand close to her chest. She was nauseated, dizzy. The end of her
pinkie was purplish and already starting to swell, and blood welled into a
small cut beside the nail. Maggie realized it was where her skin had split, and
felt cold sweat begin to ooze from her pores. "Don't play dumb." Fish was eating his
sandwich as though this was the most ordinary of conversations. "The stuff
you told Mikey you had. When you called him." "When I called..." Mikey being Bob
Johnson, of course. It wasn't so much that Maddie was slow on the uptake,
although pain and fear certainly were having some mind-clouding effects. It was
that she could see where this was going all too clearly. If she didn't tell
them what they wanted to know, they'd continue causing her pain until she did.
If she did tell them, she would die. Fish put down his sandwich and reached for her
hand again. "No," she gasped, cold sweat drenching
her in waves. She cradled her hand tighter against her chest while Lunkhead,
behind her, bore down harder on her shoulders. "It—I'm just not thinking
so clearly because—because you hurt my hand. I know what call you mean. A-One
Plastics. When I called them, right?" "That's right," Lunkhead said behind
her. "You shouldn't go around threatening people, you know. Nobody likes
that." "Shut up, would you?" Fish growled,
shooting Lunkhead a look. Then, to Maddie, "I'm gonna ask you one more
time, nice, then I'm gonna smash another finger. Where's all that evidence you
said your dad took?" Maddie's stomach cramped. Ice-cold terror shot
through her veins. But terror wouldn't help her. Calm, clear thinking probably
wouldn't, either. But it was all she had, so she fought back the terror and
went with the calm-and-clear thing. They were in a garage, which was obviously
attached to a house. The door the man had left open led to a parking area.
Beyond it was— someplace better than here. If she wanted to survive, what she
had to do was make it to the door and run. They were armed, she was almost positive. They'd
shoot her in the back if she was able to outrun them. But she'd rather die
trying to escape than be tortured until they killed her. Sam. She couldn't leave Sam. Glancing sideways,
she discovered to her surprise that his posture had changed. His body was in
the same position as before, but his muscles seemed to have tensed. And she
couldn't be sure—his lashes still fanned his cheeks—but she was almost positive
that he was looking at her. "What, do you think we've got all night
here? Time's up." Fish grabbed her wrist with one hand and the hammer with
the other. Maddie screamed, resisting his attempts to lay her hand on the
table. "No, no, I was just thinking..." she
babbled. "I'll tell you, okay? I'll tell you." She drew a deep, sobbing breath, thinking furiously
all the while. He let go of her wrist and put the hammer back down. Sam was
watching her, she was almost sure of it now. She was positive he'd stiffened
when she screamed. But there was nothing he could do. He was as helpless as
she. Zelda, equally useless, was close, too. Maddie could feel the little dog
snuffling around her ankles. Probably she was smelling food, and hoping for a
handout from the table. "You're stalling." Fish grabbed for her hand
again. "The evidence is in a strongbox near where we used to live in
Baltimore," Maddie gasped, jerking her hand back and, in the course of the
small struggle that ensued, managing to knock the bag containing Lunkhead's
food on the floor. "Yo, that's my..." Lunkhead began,
letting go of her shoulders to retrieve it. Then, just as Maddie had prayed she might, Zelda
popped out from under the workbench, grabbed the bag in her teeth, and trotted
away. "Hey, that's my dinner," Lunkhead
said, sounding more surprised than anything as he lunged after her. Zelda saw
him coming and, bless her gluttonous little soul, put the pedal to the metal,
scuttling across the floor with a really impressive burst of speed and racing
out the door, bag and all. "Goddamn dog! Come back here with
that!" Lunkhead roared, giving chase. She, Fish, and, she thought, Sam, too, were all
so surprised that all they could do was stare after Lunkhead as he pelted
through the door. But, since it was more or less what she'd kind of planned,
Maddie recovered fastest. Hammer time. Lunging across the table, she snatched up the
hammer. Even as Fish reacted, milliseconds too late to do any good, she slammed
it down on his head with every last bit of strength she had left. The resulting
thunk was almost as satisfying as watching his eyes roll back in his
head before he collapsed sideways onto the floor. Take that, you creep, Maddie thought exultantly, and gave herself a
mental high-five as she sprang away from the table and her gaze swung around to
Sam. His eyes were open. He was struggling to sit up. "In his left front pants pocket. The keys
to the handcuffs are in his left front pants pocket," Sam said urgently,
as her gaze locked with his. Jesus, God, and every other heavenly being, let
Lunkhead not come back. Heart pounding, operating on adrenaline now,
Maddie stuck her hand into Fish's pocket and, since it was the only thing in
it, came up with the key at once. Then, with one wary eye on the door, she
darted to Sam. "Hurry," he said. No shit, Sherlock, was the rejoinder that popped into her head, but she was
too busy sweating bullets and trying to fit the teeny, tiny key into the teeny,
tiny lock to answer. Shaking, panting, one eye on the door, she finally got it
in there and turned it. That was all it took. Jerking free of the bumper
as the cuffs dropped to the floor with a metallic clatter, Sam scrambled to his
feet and headed for Fish, who was beginning to stir. "What are you doing?"Maddie
was already racing for the door. "If he's got a gun, I want it," Sam
said, leaning over Fish. Maddie was treated to the gratifying sight of him
slamming his fist hard into Fish's jaw. As Fish went limp again, Sam patted him
down. "Shit." Maddie took that to mean no gun. "Come on."As far as she
could tell, the coast was clear, but it was unlikely to stay that way for long.
There were two cars in the paved area beyond the garage—and a garbage truck. Maddie had an instant epiphany: The bad guys had
been in the garbage truck. Then she saw something that completely erased
everything else from her mind. Like a boomerang, Zelda was returning. Leash
flapping behind her, she raced back toward the open garage door with the bag
still in her mouth and Lunkhead in hot pursuit. "Oh, no!" Heart pounding, panic
clutching at her stomach, Maddie jumped back from the door and looked at Sam,
who was straightening away from a now limp and supine Fish. "He's coming
back. Lunkhead's coming back." "Get in the truck." As he said it, Sam was already leaping for the
garage door directly behind it. The door was metal, and looked to be heavy-duty.
Not the kind of garage door even a Ford F-150 could just burst through. "Sam..." "Here. They were in the slimeball's other
pocket. If we run out of time, if something happens, you go."He
tossed her the keys. She caught them instinctively. "But..." Leave him if necessary, he meant, which wasn't
happening. But she wasn't going to argue about it at the moment. She scrambled
behind the wheel. He turned the lock with a sound so loud it made her jump, and
bent down to drag up the garage door. Fish was moving again. Then three things happened simultaneously. Handicapped by her throbbing finger, Maddie
fumbled with the keys, found the right one, thrust it into the ignition, and
turned the engine over. The garage door went rattling up. And Zelda, with panic in her eyes, burst through
the open door. She'd saved them, so saving her back was nothing
short of quid pro quo. And she was cute, kind of, when she wasn't being a pain
in the ass. And there was the Brehmer account. Not that Maggie was probably
ever going to have to worry about it again, but... "Zelda," Maddie cried, opening the
truck door and wrenching at the gearshift at the same time. Seeing Maddie,
Zelda scrambled toward the truck and took a flying leap that landed her almost
on Maddie's lap. Maddie grabbed her collar and hauled her the rest of the way
on board. "Hit it." Sam dove into the passenger
seat beside her. The transmission locked into reverse... "Now, "Sam yelled, slamming his door, and Maddie hit it,
slamming her door and elbowing Zelda to the middle at the same time as she
stomped on the gas. "What the—?" Lunkhead burst through
the door just as the truck shot backward out of the garage. He ran into the
space they'd just vacated, fumbling behind his back for what Maddie assumed was
a gun. Maddie caught just a glimpse of Fish shaking his
head groggily and sitting up as she steered in a wide reverse doughnut that
barely missed the garbage truck. "Forward! Go forward!" Sam screamed in
her ear. She had the impression that if he hadn't been afraid of making them
wreck, he would have shifted for her. No duh, she thought, but this was
definitely not the time for conversation. With her heart pounding so hard that
it felt as though it was going to beat clear out of her chest, she slammed on
the brakes, throwing all three of them forward, then shoved the transmission
into drive. The rear window exploded. Maddie screamed,
ducked, and stepped on the gas so hard that the truck catapulted forward like a
rock out of a slingshot. TWENTY-THREE Keep your head down!" Sam yelled, hanging
on to the dashboard as another bullet whistled past Maddie's ear, shattering
the windshield. Glass blew out over the front of the pickup, rattling like
hail. More glass from the rear window littered the seat like spilled popcorn,
bouncing and sliding onto the floor as the truck shot away from the house.
Zelda, bag and all, had been thrown down into the passenger's footwell when
Maddie hit the brakes, and she stayed down there, clearly smart enough to
recognize that she had found the safest place in the vehicle. A place where she
could devour her booty undisturbed. "I'm trying!" Crouched as low as she
could get and still see where they were going, Maddie hung grimly onto the
steering wheel and kept her foot mashed down on the gas. The road was a winding gravel track with thick
piney woods on one side and a brush-covered ravine ending in more thick piney
woods on the other. A hunted glance into the rearview mirror showed her a
one-story lodge-looking house in a clearing behind them. Hills covered with
more piney woods rose behind it, and the sun in all its orange and purple and
pink glory was just getting ready to sink behind the hills. The garage they'd
just exited was to the side of the house. Lunkhead stood in two-handed firing
stance on the paved area in front of the garage, while Fish and two other men
ran for the cars. "Keep your eyes on the road!" Maddie looked forward again just in time to see
that they were coming up on a curve. She swung the wheel hard, and gravel
spurted up around them, hitting the side of the truck. In seconds they were
around the curve, out of sight of the house—and still on the road. His face grim, Sam reached around her, grabbed
her seat belt, pulled it across her body, and clicked it into place. Maddie
barely noticed. "They were in the garbage truck." She
was still having trouble getting her mind around that. Something about the
garbage truck bothered her... "I figured that out about the time I woke
up in the back of it and that fat dude hit me with a stun gun. Just be glad
there wasn't any garbage in it." Sam's voice was wry. He was fastening his
own seat belt as he spoke. "There was a garbage truck near my
apartment the morning I got shot," Maddie gasped as her mind hit on the
elusive memory. She glanced back reflexively to see if the bad guys had rounded
the curve yet. "Shit. We got trouble," Sam said. At
first Maddie thought he was talking about something she was missing behind
them. Then she looked forward. A small yellow car had just rounded the next
bend, and was hurtling up the track toward them. It was smack-dab in the middle
of the road. Clearly it wasn't intending to let them get by. Maddie did some quick mental calculations. Big
truck, little car—could anyone say "Let's play chicken"? "Yee-haw," she said grimly, and
charged toward it without giving an inch. Beside her, Sam sucked in air. His
eyes widened as they stayed glued to the oncoming car. "Maybe you want to... swerve right!" Maddie did, at the last possible second, just as
the car, in the same desperate attempt to avoid a head-on collision, swerved
the other way. They zoomed past each other with inches to spare. "Jesus." Sam looked sideways at her.
"And I thought Wynne was a scary-ass driver." Maddie laughed. And then something hit the back of the truck
with all the force of an exploding grenade. The truck's rear end slewed
sideways as if in an insane attempt to pass the front. And the truck slid off
the road and plunged down the ravine. Maddie screamed and stomped the brake. Sam
yelled and held on. The truck hurtled downward, bouncing over the ground like a
kid on a trampoline. Bushes and scrub trees flashed past. As the bottom rushed
up at them, Maddie could clearly see what looked like a solid wall of trees... She was steering hard to the left when they hit
with a bang. She must have blacked out, because the next
thing she was aware of was that she was being dragged out from behind the
wheel. Hard hands under her armpits. Her left ankle thumping down painfully on
the running board. Someone locking an arm around her waist, dragging her
upright. "What?" She tried to resist. Her eyes
blinked open. "It's okay; it's me," Sam said. Blood
ran from his nose. Before Maddie could register more than that, he said,
"Hold on," and heaved her over his shoulder. Then he took off at what felt like a dead run. Maddie clutched the back of his shirt and hung
on. His shoulder dug into her stomach, making breathing an effort. With her
head bouncing against his back like a basketball being dribbled, it was hard to
think, let alone see. But she knew that they were in the woods because she
could see the brown carpet of fallen needles and the thin, gray trunks with
their stubby, denuded branches like small arms as they flashed past. It was
already a deep purple twilight there, where the last rays of the sun couldn't
reach. The air was cooler andsmelled
strongly of pine. The high-pitched chorus of insects was almost drowned out by
the thud of Sam's feet on the ground and the harsh rasp of his breathing. Zelda was with them: Maddie could see her
bounding along behind, her leash slithering like a lavender snake over the pine
needles. Whatever else she was, Zelda was no fool. She
clearly knew the bad guys from the good. As she gradually became aware enough to take
inventory, Maddie realized that she had the mother of all headaches; her
stomach was being pounded to smithereens; and the little finger of her left
hand throbbed horribly She also realized that Sam was tiring. His
breathing was growing more labored, and his steps were slowing. His shirt felt
damp, and she realized that he was sweating. As Lunkhead had said, she wasn't any feather. "Sam." She tugged on his shirt, then
poked his ribs to get his attention. When he flinched, she knew she'd
succeeded. "Sam." She poked him again. He slowed, then stopped as she poked him once
more, and leaned forward so that she spilled off his shoulder. To her surprise,
her knees refused to support her. They buckled, and, with his hands on her
waist to keep her from collapsing completely, she maneuvered into a sitting
position on the ground. The scent of pine rose all around her. The needles were
as thick as good carpet, and felt smooth beneath her. Zelda came limping over
and collapsed beside her, panting. Her top-knot hung down over her left eye
again, and Maddie, performing an act of mercy, pulled the bow off. "What?" Sam was leaning over as he
looked at her, his hands on his thighs, gasping for breath. Okay, so maybe she wasn't any feather. But she
wasn't all that heavy. "Are you all right?" "Just... winded." "You don't have to carry me any farther. I
can walk." His eyes slid over her skeptically. "Looks
like it." "I can. Just give me a minute." "That's about all we have: a minute."
His nose was still bleeding, but only a trickle now, and he must have felt it
because he dashed it away with the back of his hand. His face was liberally
smeared with blood. His shirt was splotched with it, ugly dark flowers against
a white background. "They're chasing us, right?" Maddie
felt a clutch of fear. Not a really strong clutch, because she was now so
battered and sore and shell-shocked that her sensory processing center was
about out of room. But a clutch nonetheless. "By now? Oh, yeah. But I don't think they
saw us go off the road. At least, I saw their cars shoot past as I was dragging
you out of the truck. But it wouldn't take them long to figure out we weren't
ahead of them, and then they'll backtrack. We have to assume that by now
they've found the truck." His voice was grim. Fear elbowed everything else out of the way and
made itself some room. "So what happened? It felt like we got
rear-ended, but when I glanced back, there wasn't anything there." "I think they shot out a tire. Whoever was
in the yellow car. That's what it felt like, anyway." He straightened,
took a deep breath, and leaned against a tree. Maddie grimaced. The reality of the situation
was starting to set in again. They were, it seemed clear, still somewhere in
Missouri—at a guess, not that far from St. Louis. But from the quick look
around that she'd gotten as they'd driven away from the house, they were on one
of the many small mountains that ridged the countryside west of the city. It
was a sparsely settled area, and she hadn't seen any other houses or buildings.
Though, admittedly, she'd had only a brief glimpse. On a positive note—the only time in her life
that she had ever considered this a positive note, come to think of it—she was
with an FBI agent. A highly trained, highly skilled, highly competent
law-enforcement professional who would certainly know what to do in a situation
like this. "Okay, Mr. Special Agent, so what's the
plan?" He laughed. The sound was short, unamused.
"We walk. We hide. We try to stay alive." "Well, shoot, I could've come up
with that," she said, disappointed. "They took my gun, they took my cell phone.
We got no wheels. Sorry, darlin', but that kind of leaves us fresh out of
options." That drawled darlin' didsomething
to her insides. Her stomach went all fluttery and her heart skipped a beat. For
the briefest of moments, she simply looked at him and remembered that this time
last night, they'd been falling in love. "Maddie..." He must have seen
something of what she was feeling in her eyes, or felt something of the same
himself, because his voice was suddenly low and deep, achingly intimate. Then
his face hardened abruptly, and his voice went flat. "Leslie, I mean. I
take it that you know what that was all about back there?" Suddenly her past and the rift it had created
between them hung in the air, as tangible as the scent of pine. Her heart ached, and the taste of regret for
what they'd had and lost was bitter on her tongue. But there was no changing
what was, and now that the truth was out in the open, she was not going to
shrink from it. She'd lost everything else. Pride was just about all she had
left. "Maddie works. I left Leslie behind a long
time ago." "Maddie, then." It was dark under the
trees now, she realized, because she could no longer read what was in his eyes.
"So?" She realized that he was prompting her to answer
his question. "They're mob," she said. "The guy
who's been trying to kill me, who killed Carol Walter and all those other
people—I'm pretty sure he's a professional hit man." "Yeah." Sam didn't sound as though
that was some big news flash. "Either of those guys back there, you
think?" Maddie shook her head. "I don't know. I
don't think so. The man who was in my hotel room—they didn't seem to fit with
what I remembered. But the guy in the doorway—the third guy—maybe. He looked
about the right size and everything but, like I told you before, I didn't see
the guy who attacked me." "Okay. I heard you say something about some
plastics company—and a strongbox full of evidence?" Maddie sighed. "A-One Plastics is one of
the names they use as a front in Baltimore. When I realized that they'd found
me—that would be when I was attacked in New Orleans—I called them up and made
some threats about some stuff my dad, who used to do some jobs for them, kept
in case he ever had to use it as leverage. The thing is, I left the strongbox
behind when I left Baltimore, but they don't know that. I thought maybe I could
get them to back off." "You called them up?" There was a
curious note in his voice. He was watching her closely, but she couldn't read
anything in his expression. Her chin came up. "Yeah. If you want their
number, I'll give it to you when—if—we get home." "I definitely want their number." She
could see him frowning. "You made threats to the mob?" "I didn't know what else to do. I thought
about running, but I figured if they found me once, they could do it again.
Especially now that they know I'm alive." A beat passed. "You ever think about telling me?I was right there. Convenient." The hint of sarcasm in his voice stung. "I thought you'd probably react just
exactly the way you're reacting." "How the hell else am I supposed to react?
You..." But she'd stopped listening. Zelda's head had
come up. The little dog was looking at something back in the direction from
which they'd come, and Maddie, following her gaze, caught her breath. At first
glance she'd thought the bobbing yellow spheres in the distance were lightning
bugs, so tiny were they. But then they'd grown a little larger, and she'd
recognized them for what they were: flashlights. Distant, but headed their way. She felt an icy thrust of pure terror. "Sam..." she breathed, pointing. He looked, stiffened, turned back to her.
"Shit. Let's go." Then he reached down to grab her elbows, and she
let him pull her up. "Give me the damned leash. Why the hell you
didn't leave her—too late now. If they find her, they'll know which way we
came." Maddie had been holding on to Zelda's leash for
dear life since she'd seen the flashlights—Zelda was a dog, after all; counting
on her continued good sense could be a bad thing—but she handed it over without
protest. She felt shaky, weak, ill. Her head hurt, her finger throbbed. Her
thigh ached where Lunkhead had kicked her. Her heart hurt, too. It felt bruised and
battered and sore just like the rest of her. Because despite everything, she'd
discovered, to her dismay, she was still in love with Sam. And, considering who he was and who she was,
that was a bad thing. "No," she said, shaking her head when
he made a move to swing her back over his shoulder again. "I can make it
on my own." "Fine." There was a clipped quality to
his voice. "Come on, then." Grabbing her uninjured hand, Sam took off
through the trees at a steady jog. Gritting her teeth and calling on reserves
of determination she'd forgotten she had, Maddie managed to stay with him.
Zelda scuttled along silently beside them, seeming to realize their danger.
They ran at a right angle to the path the flashlights seemed to be taking, and
after a while they couldn't see them anymore. The woods were so dark now that the
trees were no more than grayish blurs as they flashed by. The insect chorus
grew louder. An owl hooted. Here and there the eyes of a nocturnal animal
glowed at them. Ordinarily, Maddie would have shivered at the thought of the
creatures that might be roaming the woods, but tonight she was just too darned
tired, and, anyway, nothing was as scary as the two-legged predators on their
trail. The pine needles were cool and slippery underfoot, and would have made a
decent running surface if it hadn't been for the things hidden beneath them.
Having lost her shoes, Maddie had no protection from the roots and rocks and
pinecones and other mushy things she preferred not to even think about, with
which the ground was littered. They found a creek and ran parallel to it,
turning downhill. Head pounding, stomach churning, her knees feeling like they
might give out at any second, Maddie concentrated on putting one foot in front
of the other. And ran. And ran. And ran. Until, finally, she stopped. "That's it," she said, wheezing and
bending double, brought low by a stitch in her side. Sam had stopped, too—she'd
pulled her hand from his— and loomed over her, Zelda now tucked like a football
beneath his arm. "Okay, I think we can walk now." At least he had the decency to be breathing
hard. She would have felt better about that, except she could scarcely breathe
at all. "No. No walk." "Just a little farther." "No." "So I'll carry you." "No." "Just as far as the rocks up there. See
them?" Maddie looked up. Maybe it was just her, because
her head was pounding so hard that it was making her eyes all blurry, but all
she saw was a whole lot of dark. "I don't want to scare you, but they may be
looking for us with night-vision goggles by now. I was getting ready to stop
because of that anyway, but we need to find some shelter so they can't see us
if they scan this patch of trees." Crap. She straightened, both hands on her hips as she
sucked in air, and narrowed her eyes at him. He was no more than a big
charcoal-gray silhouette in the dark. "Fine," she said. She thought he grinned, but her eyes were too
blurry and it was too dark to be sure. Anyway, she didn't care. All she wanted
to do was rest. Which she eventually got to do, after scrambling
over a lot of big rocks and edging around what felt like a wall of solid stone
cliffs that rose straight up from the creek bed and, finally, collapsing in the
squishy depression carved out of the bottom of yet another cliff that he deemed
safe. TWENTY-FOUR Wednesday,
August 20 The ground was covered with pine needles.
Whatever was beneath the needles was spongy, soft. Maddie preferred to think
that it was grass. Or moss. Yes, moss. Velvety green moss as thick as a
mattress. And if it wasn't moss, she didn't want to know. She flopped down on her back, closed her eyes,
and breathed. The scent of pine combined with a tinge of earthy dampness from
the moss filled her nostrils. The pine needles slithered beneath her
outstretched arms. After a moment, she opened her eyes, inhaled, and found
herself looking up into a whole heaven's worth of stars. They were sprinkled
like glitter across the satin midnight sky, twinkling down at her. The moon
wasn't visible— what she was seeing was basically a cutout circle of sky framed
by jagged-edged cliffs—but it wasn't needed. The universe wheeled above her,
perfect and whole. "Sam," she breathed, forgetting that
they had issues in her eagerness to share the vision overhead. No answer. She cut her eyes around their little
hideaway, which basically looked like a giant had taken a bite out of the base
of a rocky cliff. No Sam. Groaning, she sat up and took a better look around.
The space wasn't that big, a semicircle maybe ten feet deep by eight feet wide
at its widest point. Certainly not big enough to conceal a full-grown man, even
in the dark. Maddie looked carefully around at the rock walls
one more time, and reached the inescapable conclusion: Sam was not there.
Neither, now that she thought about it, was Zelda. Panic was starting to feel like her natural
state. Clambering to her feet, she took a couple steps
forward and stopped. What was she going to do? Hunting around a dark forest
populated by night-vision-goggle—wearing mobsters who wanted to do her harm was
clearly not a good idea. Likewise, yelling was out. Sam came around the edge of the opening just
then, making Maddie jump. He was carrying a small bundle under one arm, and
Zelda trailed him wearily. "You scared the life out of me," she
said through her teeth. The fact that she was whispering did not in any way take
away from the vehemence of her tone. "Where did you go?" "I backtracked a little. I thought that was
an old campsite we passed back there, and sure enough, it was. Look, we hit the
mother lode. A blanket"— he held up a tattered scrap of cloth about the size
of a beach towel—"and a jacket"—it looked like a man's long-abandoned
windbreaker, and Maddie thought that she'd have to be naked in Siberia before
she wore it—"and a can. I even filled it at the creek and brought you back
some water. You've got blood on your face, and I thought you might want to wash
it off before you start attracting bears. They're drawn to the smell of blood,
you know." Maddie's eyes widened as she took what looked
and felt like a battered tin can out of his hand. "You're kidding." With the sky open above them, there was just
enough light to see him smile. "Maybe about the bears. Not about the blood
on your face. You've got a liny little cut just... here." He readied out a
forefinger to feather a touch across her cheekbone just below her eye, almost
exactly as he'd done once before. And her heart skipped a beat. Stupid. "Thank you," she almost growled at
him, backing away with the can. "And you've got blood on your face, too,
by the way." "Not anymore. I washed it off in the
creek." "Oh. Well. It's too dark to tell." Maddie retreated with the can to the edge of the
enclosure so that she wouldn't get their mossy carpet wet, then rinsed her
face, her neck, her hands. The cool water felt so good to her poor, abused
finger that she let it soak inside the can for several long moments. When she
pulled it out at last, though, it throbbed even worse than it had before, as if
somehow she'd woken sleeping nerve endings. Grimacing, she dried it on the hem
of her shirt, and then used what was left of the water in the can on her feet.
Her poor bruised and tender feet that, wet, picked up dozens of pine needles
when, having finished her impromptu bath and abandoning the can, she tromped
back toward Sam. He was sitting at the very back of their little dugout with
his back leaning against the wall, one knee bent and Zelda in fur-rug mode at
his side. "Feel better?" he asked as she sat
down, not too close, on his other side. "A little." She leaned her head back
against the rock and looked up at the stars. Squinting, she thought she could
just make out part of the Little Dipper. "Sam?" "Hmm?" She looked sideways at him. His head was turned
her way, and he met her gaze. Glinting black eyes in the dark... At the memories that image conjured up, her body
tightened somewhere deep inside. "Do you think we're safe here?" He made a face. "As safe as it's possible
to be under the circumstances. Unless they stumble across us by accident,
they're not going to find us. Night-vision goggles can't see through rock. And
if they should try using heat-seeking devices, the rocks will block those,
too." "Heat-seeking devices? Do you think they
have those?" Maddie never would have thought of that. It was scary to
think that on her own, she would still be stumbling around through the woods,
vulnerable to detection by devices that had never even crossed her mind. "Hey, the world's gone high-tech." There was a pause in which Maddie stared up at
the stars and contemplated that. "I think you saved my life a couple of
times today. Thank you." "Just doing my job," he said with no
inflection at all. There it was, then. Her answer. For him, there
was no going back to what they'd had. She might as well face it: As she had
known it would, the truth had changed everything. "Yes, I know," she said, looking back
up at the stars while her throat ached with what felt uncomfortably like unshed
tears. "But thanks." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his head
turn toward her again. "Anyway, I owe you, too. You could have
left me cuffed to the bumper of that truck," he said. A quick smile trembled around the edges of her
mouth. "Not if I wanted to drive it." "There's that." He was smiling, too, faintly. Maddie felt
another sharp pang in the region of her heart. The truth had changed
everything—except the connection they still seemed to have. There was an
easiness, a comfortableness, a friendship between them. That was going
to be almost harder to lose than the rest. "Sam..." She didn't know what she
meant to say. Something, anything, to make it all better. Even knowing that
there was nothing that could make it all better. Nothing that could take her
past away. He cut her off. "Look, why don't you try to
sleep a little? As soon as the sun's up, we've got to get moving. Here, take
the blanket, take the jacket, make a bed." She accepted the items he produced from the
shadows behind Zelda and held out to her, then hesitated. "What about
you?" "Darlin', I'm an FBI agent. Going without
sleep is what us agents do." The darlin' got her, and the joking tone
got her. Her throat closed up. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. She
wanted to turn back time. She wanted to scoot over next to him and wrap her
arms around his neck and rest her head on his chest and have him hold her. She
wanted... ... what she couldn't have. So she shook the blanket and spread it out not
far from him, then shook the jacket, too, and rolled it into a pillow. Trying
not to think about how filthy the items probably were and what they might have
been used for in the past, she lay down on her makeshift bed, then turned onto
her side so that her back was toward him, closed her eyes, and tried to sleep.
It was almost certainly after midnight, she calculated, although it was hard to
judge precisely how long it had been since the truck had run off the road. Her
body ached from head to toe. If she had to pick the thing that pained her most,
though, it would have to be her poor pinkie. Having been awakened by the water,
it didn't seem to want to return to its former semi-numb state. Cradling her injured
hand close to her chest, she had an instant mental picture of Fish slamming the
hammer down onto it and shivered. Don't think about it, she told herself. Then her thoughts skittered to
Sam, and that wasn't sleep-inducing, either, so she deliberately tried to empty
her mind. Immediately, the sounds of the night seemed to increase tenfold. She
could hear every whir, squeak, and hoot. She could hear the whisper of a breeze
blowing over the top of the cliffs, although she couldn't feel it down in her cozy
nest. She could hear the rumble of the nearby creek. She could hear the soft
rattle of Zelda's snores. She was counting them when she fell asleep. Sometime later, the dream came. Once again she was lying on that small, narrow
bed in that house that wasn't hers, bound hands and feet, shaking with terror.
The dark silhouette of a man watched her from the doorway. He was going to kill her... "Maddie! Jesus, Maddie!" She came awake to the sound of Sam's voice, to
the feel of his hand pressing down over her mouth, to the sight of his face
looming over her Her eyes opened wide, but it was a moment before she
registered more than just those facts. Then she saw the starry sky high above
his head, and smelled the scent of pine, and felt the coarse blanket beneath her
aching body. And she remembered where she was, and what had happened. No wonder she'd had the dream. "Maddie? Jesus, what was that?" Sam removed his hand from her mouth cautiously,
and she saw that his face was hard and anxious, and his eyes were worried. She
was flat on her back now, and he was lying on his side beside her, propped on
an elbow, his hand still hovering above her mouth. "Did I... yell?" Maddie couldn't help
it. Her voice quavered. "Screamed is more like it." "Oh, God." She closed her eyes. She
was shaking all over, she realized still terrified, as she always was in the
aftermath of the dream— and terrified, too, that she might have given them
away. "Do you think anybody heard?" He shook his head. "Not unless they're so
close they're about to find us anyway. Not much can get past these rocks." Thank God for the rocks. Maddie closed her eyes and tried to slop
shaking. Tried to push the nightmare images from her mind. "Bad dream?" She nodded. His hand slid down her arm, paused
halfway. "You're trembling." "It's a really bad dream." She
got the words out with an effort. But she couldn't make the trembling go away. "About what happened today?" "N-no. I get it—sometimes. It's
about—my—about something that happened in the past." She could feel tears leaking out past her
eyelids. She could no more stop them than she could stop the trembling. "Shit." He must have seen, because his
arms came around her, and he pulled her against him, stretching out at full
length on the blanket beside her and settling her so that her head rested on
his shoulder and her hand with its poor, injured pinkie lay atop his chest. He
sounded almost resigned. "All right, darlin'. Talk to me." "Sam..." His tone registered. He was
talking to Maddie-with-a-past, and the knowledge hurt so much that she could
hardly bear it. Her eyes opened, and she took a deep, shaking breath. Tears
were sliding down her cheeks without her being able to do anything about them,
and she blinked and sniffed, and wiped her eyes. "It's a bad dream, okay?
I get it sometimes. No big deal." "Looks like it." His tone was
skeptical. Then he sighed. "We were going to have this conversation in a
few days, when we were safe out of this mess and emotions had had time to cool
down. But you're having nightmares and crying, and I've got nothing but time.
So talk to me. You don't want to tell me about your dream, fine. Tell me about
your past. You said your father was in the mob." Maddie shook her head and sniffed again. "I
said he used to do jobs for the mob." "There's a difference?" She nodded. The tears had slowed to a trickle
now. Soon, she knew, they'd stop entirely. "My dad hated the mob. He hated
what they made him do. He just... couldn't help himself." "What do you mean, he couldn't help
himself?" Maddie glanced up at him, slightly surprised to
find his face so close. He smelled of creek water, a little, and of fresh air
and himself, and he felt warm and solid and very male against her. The
starlight touched on his eyes, making them gleam. Her eyes slid over his lean,
bronzed cheeks, his banged-up nose, his square, unshaven chin. His wide
shoulder seemed made to pillow her head, and she could feel the gentle rise and
fall of his chest beneath her hand. Being held like this in his arms felt so
good, so right, that she didn't even want to move away although she knew, in
the interest of salvaging what she could of her poor, battered heart, that she
should. Instead, she gave a little sigh of surrender. For better or worse, she
was going to bare her soul to him. It was up to him to make of the truth what
he would. "My dad—Charles, his name was Charles
Dolan—was a gambler." The faintest of smiles touched her mouth. "A
very bad gambler. He always lost. Way more than he—we—had." "He's dead?" She nodded. Her throat threatened to close up. "What about your mother?" That was easier. "She died when I was two.
I don't even really remember her. My dad kept a few pictures, and when I think
about her, one of those pictures is what I see." "Brothers and sisters?" Maddie shook her head. "Just me and my dad.
It was always just me and my dad." "So, tell me about him. You said he was a
gambler." "When I was a little girl, he had a job. He
worked for a car lot in Baltimore. He didn't make a lot, but we had a nice
apartment and groceries and the whole bit. But he gambled, all the time. On
everything. I found out later that when he lost, he'd do something to get the
money. Skim parts from the dealership he worked for, or break into a bunch of
cars and steal stuff out of them and sell it, or something. Eventually he lost
his job, of course, and that's when we started moving around, from apartment to
apartment, mostly in Baltimore, sometimes in D.C. He'd work at whatever he
could find, and I'd go to school wherever we were. When I was fourteen, I lied
about my age and got a job as a checkout clerk in a Walgreens after school. It
didn't pay much, but we were living in a cheap little apartment, and what I
made each month would just about barely cover the rent. I usually managed to
catch my dad whenever he got paid to get enough for groceries and the utility
bill, so we didn't go hungry or anything. I thought we were doing all right.
Not fantastic, not even real good, but all right. But he was gambling. I didn't
know how much he was gambling." "It's a sickness with some people,"
Sam murmured. His arm was sliding up and down her arm, just barely, offering
wordless comfort, she thought. "It was a sickness with him," Maddie
confirmed. "He was a great guy except for that one thing." "So how did he start doing jobs for the
mob?" Maddie drew a breath. "It was the gambling.
He made a big bet and he lost. He borrowed money from a loan shark to cover it,
and then he couldn't pay. I didn't know anything about it until one night these
two guys beat my dad up in the parking lot of our apartment building. It was
summer. I had just graduated from high school, and I was working full-time. I
got home from work and saw my dad on the ground and these two guys just
pounding on him and kicking him. He was a big guy, strong, and he just lay
there and covered up his head and let them do it. I started screaming and ran
over there to help him, and they just stopped and got into a car and drove off.
And... and one of them yelled out his window that I should tell my dad that he
ought to pay his debts or next time he was going to wind up dead." "Shit," Sam said, and the hand that
had been moving on her arm stilled. Glancing up at him, she could see that his
eyes had narrowed and his jaw was hard. "You give any thought to going to
the police?" "That's your answer for everything, isn't
it? The police," Maddie said with gentle scorn. "Actually, at the
time, I wanted to call the police, but Dad wouldn't let me. He said if I did,
they'd kill him. So I didn't. But he was hurt and shaken up, and he told me
about the loan shark. It was so much money. I knew it would take us years to
pay it off, if we ever could. So the next day I went to the loan shark—it was
this one guy, John Silva, who had a business called Paycheck Loans—to see if we
couldn't set up a payment plan or something." "Why am I not surprised at that?" Sam
asked into the air, closing his eyes. Then he looked back down at her. "So
what did the loan shark say?" "He wasn't a bad guy," Maddie said
defensively. "At least, I didn't think so then. He laughed. He said he
didn't do payment plans, but if I wanted to work for his company and try to pay
it off, that would be okay. And he said he'd give my dad some jobs that he
could do to pay it off, too." She felt him take a breath. "Let me guess: You and your dad both
started working for the loan shark, and your dad kept gambling and getting in
deeper." "Yeah." Maddie's tone was rueful.
"Dad just couldn't get out from under it, and Mr. Silva started loaning
him to other people, mob people, to do things—bad things, I found out later...
and then... and then..." "And then what?" Sam prompted when
Maddie's voice trailed off. "Then these two FBI agents started sniffing
around Paycheck Loans." Her voice was flat. " 'Course, I didn't know
what they were at first. They were undercover." "Ahh. "The drawn-out syllable signified that light had
dawned. "Go on." "But one day one of them came by the
apartment when I was there by myself and told me that he was an FBI agent. He
told me my dad was involved in illegal activities, and if I didn't want to see
him arrested and put away for a long time, I had to get some information from
Mr. Silva's files for them." "Shit," Sam said, and the arms around
her tightened. A beat passed, in which he seemed to be thinking about
something. "You wouldn't have happened to have caught their names, would
you?" "One went by Ken Welsh and the other by
Richard Shelton, but I'm almost positive those weren't their real names." "Probably not, if they were running an
undercover operation," Sam conceded. "So then you were on a slippery
slope, hmm?" Maddie nodded. "They kept wanting me to do
more for them. They kept coming back for more, threatening me as well as my dad
with going to jail if I didn't do what they wanted. Then... then my dad got
into something way over his head. He... he went out on a collection job that
turned into a murder. He came home and broke down, just cried all over me and
told me everything. The guv was someone he knew, a man named Ted Cicero, and he
said he just had to stand there and watch the guy he was with whack him." "So, what did you do?" Sam asked. "I was scared. I was scared for me, and I
was scared for my dad. So I did what I thought was the one thing that might get
us out of the whole thing for good. I went to Ken Welsh and Richard Shelton and
told them everything." She sucked in air. "Instead of helping me,
though, they used what I told them for leverage. They wanted my dad to start
wearing a wire for them. He wouldn't do it. So they arrested me and charged me
with all that stuff, and told my dad the charges would be dropped if he
cooperated. So he did. He wore a wire on a couple of jobs. And they found it on
him." "Oh, Jesus." Sam closed his eyes, then
opened them again and looked down at her. "Was it bad?" Maddie nodded. There was a constriction in her
chest now that made it hard to breathe. This was the part that hurt to
remember. This was the stuff of the nightmare that had haunted her for seven
years. "They grabbed me in the parking lot, and
tied me up and took me to this little shotgun house not that far from our
apartment. Mr. Silva was there, and three men I didn't know, and my dad. They
had my dad tied to a kitchen chair. He was beaten up real bad. They took me
over to stand in front of him and told him they were going to kill me in front
of him and make him watch and then kill him. And my dad started crying." Maddie's voice broke. "Then they took me into a bedroom, and
threw me on a bed, and tied me there. And... and I had to listen while they beat
up my dad some more. I could hear them talking, and one guy—this one guy with
this really oily black hair and a big, swoopy mustache—kept coming to the
bedroom door and l-looking at me. Oh, God, I was so scared he was going to come
in and get me, because I knew when he did it would be because he was going to
kill me, and then kill my dad. I kept praying he wouldn't come in, but finally
he did." She paused, took a deep, shuddering breath, and continued, almost
oblivious now to the tension in Sam's body, or the hard arms around her, or his
hand stroking her arm. "They untied my feet and took me into the living
room. Ken Welsh was there. I was really surprised to see him. I was just so
thankful, though, I thought we were saved, I thought it was all over, so I
didn't really think it through. But he just looked at me and kind of smirked as
this guy dragged me on past him, and then I saw that Mr. Silva was showing him
some money, a briefcase filled with money. Then Ken Welsh took the money and
left. He just left us there, my dad and I. To die." "They paid him off," Sam said softly,
his hand stilled, his arms like steel bands around her now. "They paid him
off to leave them alone." Maddie nodded. That was the conclusion she'd
come to, too, over the years. God, she hated to remember. Her heart was racing.
Her stomach was in knots. She was starting to tremble. Maybe she should just
stop there. Maybe that was enough... "Okay." Sam's mouth was grim. "I
know this is hard for you, but I need to hear it. What happened to you and your
dad?" Maddie took a deep breath. He wanted to know.
She wanted him to know. She wanted him to hear the full, complete truth. So she
gathered up every last scrap of inner strength she had, and went ahead. "They stood me in front of him and the guy
with the mustache put a gun to my head." She spoke rapidly, trying to get
it all out as quickly as she could. "I thought I was going to die right
that minute. But this other guy said—I can still hear him saying it—'Wait a
minute. Why just shoot her? Hell, let's have some fun with her first.' And he
dragged me back off toward the bedroom. I looked back over my shoulder and saw
them put a gun to my dad's head. Then I couldn't see anymore because I was
inside the bedroom, but I heard a shot. And a... a kind of... gurgle." Her eyes closed, and more tears leaked out. Sam
cursed and turned onto his side, wrapping both arms around her. Her head was
pillowed on his arm, and she clutched the front of his shirt and hung on for
dear life. "Tell me the rest, baby." His voice
was impossibly gentle. She wanted to, but she could hardly speak. Her
voice was a poor broken thing, but she managed to force the words out. "I knew they shot him. I knew it. I just...
went crazy. The guy was trying to k-kiss me and I bit his tongue. Savagely.
Just as hard as I could. He screamed and threw me away from him so hard that I
crashed partway through the window. Then he started coming toward me and blood
was pouring out of his mouth and I just kind of threw myself at the broken
window, trying to smash through it, trying to get out. And the house blew up.
Just like that. And somehow I was thrown out through the window, thrown clear.
And... and I lay there in that overgrown backyard, bleeding and crying and
w-watching as that little one-story house turned into a blowtorch in about the
blink of an eye. There was no way anyone who was in there lived. My dad—even if
they didn't shoot him, he was gone." Even after all these years, the scene was as
vivid in her mind as if it were happening in front of her. Tears poured from
her eyes. "I'm sorry. So sorry, baby," Sam
whispered, rocking her against him. The pain was so intense that she couldn't speak.
She closed her eyes, shaking, holding on to him as if he were the only solid
thing in an insane world. She felt his mouth against her temple, then against
her cheeks, which were wet with tears. Then he lifted her poor, injured hand
and pressed first the palm and then, very gently, the injured pinkie to his
mouth. "Sam," she whispered, opening her eyes
to watch this touch of his mouth on her hand through a veil of tears. He put
her hand back gently against his chest, then bent his head to kiss her mouth. TWENTY-FIVE His arms around her were warm and hard; his body
was firm and muscular; his mouth was wet and hot. And he was Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam. She discovered that she was saying it aloud,
that she was whispering his name against his skin as he lifted his mouth from
hers to press comforting little kisses against her cheeks, against her ear,
along the line of her jaw. His bristly cheek brushed over the softness of her
skin, and she loved the prickly abrasion of it; his hands stroked her
shoulders, her arms, her back, and she loved the size and warmth of them; she
pressed her mouth to his neck, and loved the salt-tinged flavor of his skin. "Don't cry, baby; it's all over. It was a
long time ago. Everything's going to be all right now." He was murmuring
to her between kisses—soft, disjointed phrases that she only partly
heard—offering what comfort he could. "Sam," she whispered against his neck,
because it seemed to be the only thing she could say. "I've got you safe," she heard, and
that almost made her smile despite the tears that were still sliding down her
face because they were so very far from safe, and she knew it, and he knew it,
and still, with him holding her, she felt safe, which was stupid. Stupid. "I love you, Sam," she said clearly,
because she did and there was just no doing anything about it. He lifted his
head and looked down at her, the dark, hard lines of his face faintly silvered,
his eyes gleaming black and hot in the starlight, and her heart swelled and
throbbed and ached, and she knew that what she'd just said was true, that she
loved him, that somehow, amidst terror and danger and heartbreak, she'd found
the man who was supposed to be hers. And she didn't care if it was stupid. "I love you, too, whoever you are," he
whispered against her mouth, and because it was just exactly what she wanted to
hear yet sounded so absurd, she was smiling a little when his lips slanted over
hers. She noticed that he was smiling, too, with those dimples just visible for
an instant, and realized that he'd said it that way precisely to make her
smile, before she closed her eyes and forgot everything except that he was
kissing her. Her hands slid up under his shirt and flattened
on the warmth of his skin. She felt the softness of his chest hair, the wide
firmness of the muscles beneath, the quick, hard beating of his heart. And she
wanted him. Wanted him with a desperateness that was quite outside her
experience, with a deep, primal need that tightened her loins and made her
breasts swell against his chest, with a life-affirming urge that had her
reaching for him, stroking over the hard bulge at the front of his jeans as his
hand flattened hard over her breast. She needed this, she needed Sam. She
needed to feel warm again. She needed to block out the memories. She needed to
feel alive. "Sam," she breathed, her blood heating
to scalding as she pressed close against that big, warm hand. "Maddie," he answered in a deep,
guttural voice, and ran his lips down her neck. His hands went beneath her tank
top, pushing it up out of his way, and his mouth was on her breast, burning her
through the thin white lace of her bra, and she gasped at the goodness of it,
the rightness of it, the wonder of it. Then he released the clasp of her bra
and pushed the flimsy thing out of his way and opened his mouth over her
nipple, stroking his tongue over it, making it quiver and tighten and ache. "Make love to me," she whispered, her
fingers curling around his waistband and then quite forgetting their mission as
his lips slid across her body. His tongue branded her, leaving a trail of fire
as it licked its way up the slope of her other breast. Then she arched up into
the heat of his mouth as it claimed her nipple, and cried out. "You are so beautiful you take my breath
away." He lifted his head, pulled her tank top and bra off, and then, as
she lay bared to the waist with the starlight playing over her, just looked
down at her for a moment, devouring her with his eyes. "Let's get you
naked." "And you," she said, her heart
pounding, her body tightening and aching and burning. Then she remembered what
she had been doing before and reached for his zipper again. "I want you
naked, too." "Oh, yeah," he said. "That was
the plan." But she was naked first, because he peeled her
pants and underwear off before she could even get a good grip on that damned
hard-to-manipulate button that always seemed to fasten jeans. But that was
okay, because he took care of the problem himself, stripping off his clothes
like a man in a hurry to get down to business until, for an instant, he stood
naked in the starlight. His hair shone blacker than the night, and his
face was hidden in shadow. But she could see the muscled breadth of his
shoulders, the classic V
of his torso, the lean hips, the
long, powerful legs. And what was between them. She stared, and felt the urgent tightening in
her loins pulse hotter and faster. She wanted him. God, she wanted him. But first... She sat up, then curled up onto her knees and
took him in her mouth, her hands sliding around to caress the tight, round
curves of his butt. He froze for, perhaps, the space of a heartbeat. Then he
groaned and buried his fingers in her hair, and said "Maddie" in a
voice that sounded like it was killing him to talk at all. Finally he said "damn" and pulled
away. Before Maddie had time to do more than open her eyes, he was pushing her
back and coming down on top of her and thrusting inside her and taking her so
hard and fast and urgently that she could do nothing but wrap her arms and legs
around him and hold on for the ride. He made love to her until the air around
them turned to steam, until she was mindless with passion, writhing with it,
needing... "Oh, God, Sam,"she
gasped, unable to bear it any longer, her body peaking and breaking and going
into hard, tight convulsions that he must have felt, because his arms clenched
around her and he came into her with deep, fierce thrusts that carried her
right over the edge, that carried her to some blissful nirvana that she had
never before even imagined existed, that caused the starry night sky to burst
in all its glorious profusion around her even though her eyes were firmly
closed. "Maddie," he groaned, and held himself
inside her, and came. I understand I'm your type," Maddie said a
long time later. Sam was lying flat on his back, listening to the dog snore and
the creek run and the insects canoodle, and she was sprawled naked on top of
him, playing with his chest hair. "What type is that?" Sam asked,
glancing down at her. He had been staring up at the star-sprinkled night sky,
not really seeing it because there was too much else on his mind, from the
firm, warm curves of the woman on top of him, to the possible whereabouts of
the hunting party that was almost certainly still combing the woods for them,
to the tantalizing knowledge that, thanks to Maddie's story, he now had the key
to the identity of the sick bastard he'd been chasing for the past month. The problem was, he just didn't know which door
the key unlocked yet. "Slim, pretty brunettes. Sweet little
wholesome girls." She sounded like she was quoting from memory. She also
didn't sound really happy about it. Sam considered that for a moment. She had her
chin resting on her hand now, looking at him seriously. As dark as it was, he
couldn't see the things that made his gut clench, like the small cut on her
cheek or the red, swollen tip of her little finger. All he could see was the
dark cloud of hair around her lovely, luminous face, and her eyes—those big,
honey-colored eyes— gleaming at him. "You're kidding me, right?" he asked.
Then, realizing where she must have heard it, he added in a resigned tone,
"You've been talking to Gardner, haven't you?" Her eyes narrowed a little. "Maybe." A
beat. "So, am I your type?" This, Sam felt, was a loaded question. One of
those damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't conundrums beloved by women
worldwide that, fortunately, he didn't have to think his way out of on this
occasion, because the truth was so irrefutably obvious. "I hate to break this to you, but if that's
my type, you must be shit out of luck." "What's that supposed to mean?" She
sounded all huffy now. For some kind of masochistic reason that he'd have to
puzzle out at some other time, he loved it when she got huffy. Besides the
obvious, of course, that's what had attracted him to her from the very
beginning, he realized. Forget "lie down and die." When backed into a
corner, this babe was full of fight. "Okay, you're a slim, pretty brunette, I'll
grant you that. A sweet little wholesome girl? You may be stretching it there,
but that's nothing I'd want to claim anyway. You leave it at that, and half the
female population of the country's probably my type. But you—you're something
special. You're gorgeous and sexy and smart—and no matter how hairy things get,
you never say die. You got balls, babe. You're one of a kind." A beat passed. "That's a compliment, right?" Maddie
asked, eyeing him with a trace of suspicion. "Yeah," Sam said. "It is." "Sort of a clumsy, masculine way of saying
you love me, right?" "Absolutely." Sam grinned, and rolled
with her so that she was on her back and he was looming over her.
"Darlin', in case you haven't realized it yet, you pretty much had me the
first time you scowled at me." "Oh, yeah?" "Yeah." She was smiling up at him, and her cool, smooth
hands were sliding up his arms, and he remembered, suddenly, fiercely, the
explosive spurt of murderous rage he'd felt when that thug had brought the
hammer down on her delicate little finger. That's when he'd first begun to
suspect that, no matter how furious and betrayed and suspicious of her motives
he'd felt, the feelings he had for her were not just going to go away. He’d
known then that he was in love—for better, worse, good solid citizen or
criminal—even if he didn't much like it. He'd still been hooked, even when he'd
thought the worst. When he heard her story, though, heard the hell she'd suffered
through, and the abuse and the pain, only to emerge triumphant on the other
side, even if she might not quite be legally in the right, he'd been hit by a
combination of tenderness and protectiveness and pride and fury on her behalf
that had been like a lightning bolt striking deep into his soul. His grandma had always told him that he would
know it when it happened, and, as annoying as it was, she was once again proved
absolutely right: He had recognized it right then. What he felt for Maddie was
a forever kind of thing. He wasn't quite sappy enough to put all that
into words, but the way he chose to express himself was more fun anyway. He kissed her. Then he showed her. Maddie only realized that she had fallen asleep
when someone shook her awake. For a moment she was disoriented, not quite
understanding who it could be or where she was. "Maddie," a voice said from somewhere
not too far above her ear. "Go away." It couldn't be time to get
up yet, she didn't have to be at work until eight, or, actually, since it was
her company, whenever she wanted to get there, and... "Maddie." The hand on her shoulder
shook her again. Her eyes opened. Sam was leaning over her, looking more
disreputable than ever as he hunkered down, fully dressed, beside her. There was
a swollen bump on the bridge of his nose that hadn't been there before, he
needed a shave badly, and he looked tired as hell. She blinked sleepily up at
him, felt her heart swell with joy—and then saw the purplish-gray sky behind
him, dotted with only a few stars now, and remembered with a flash of dismay
where they were and what had happened. Dawn was at hand. In this case, that was
definitely not good news. "Oh, God," she groaned, lifting a
throbbing hand to her aching head, and sat up. Sam grinned at her, or maybe smirked was a
better word, in an annoying, masculine way that let her know that she was naked
and he was enjoying the view. Beside him sat Zelda, looking just about as
disheveled and full of get-up-and-go as Maddie felt. "We need to be making tracks,
beautiful." That earned him a scowl. She didn't feel
beautiful. Heck, she didn't even feel human. And she had certain personal needs
that absolutely did not require his presence. "Don't you have somewhere else you need to
be for a few minutes?" She was careful to add "for a few
minutes" to that, because the thought of him disappearing for any longer
was enough to give her palpitations. "I brought you more water. It's right
there." He nodded at the can before giving her another of those all-seeing
looks and then leaving her to her own devices. Zelda tottered over to the can and started
lapping. "Great," Maddie said, watching
dispiritedly. When Zelda had drunk her fill, she turned and looked at Maddie
and whined. "No food. Sorry." Maddie held out her empty
hands to demonstrate, and Zelda looked disappointed. She flopped down on her
belly again, and watched with a moody expression as Maddie washed and dressed
in the water the dog left and did what she needed to do. Sam came back just as she was starting to worry
about him. He was carrying a stout stick a little longer than and about the
thickness of a baseball bat. It was, Maddie realized with dismay, their only
weapon. "Here," he said, handing her
something. It took her a minute, but she realized that they were his socks. "You can't go running around
barefoot," he said impatiently as she looked at the big, semi-white things
with mild revulsion. "Your feet are already all scratched up. I'd give you
my shoes, but they'd fall off your feet." A glance down at what looked like his
size-twelves confirmed that. With a sigh, Maddie surrendered the last of her
hygiene standards. "Did you see anything?" she asked as
she pulled the socks on. Now that they were about to leave their little
hidey-hole, she felt scared all over again. He shook his head. "You don't think we should just stay here,
do you?" she asked in a small voice as she finished pulling on the socks
and stood up. "They haven't found us yet." "They will eventually." That was so chilling that Maddie shivered. Sam
saw, dropped a quick, hard kiss on her mouth and another, gentler, one on her
injured hand, then headed out around the edge of the enclosure. With Zelda
trailing forlornly behind her, Maddie hurried to keep up with him. "Tell me we've got some kind of plan,"
she said as they skirted the base of the cliffs. It was still dark, but dawn
was definitely coming. The birds were starting to call to one another. The
creek tinkled merrily alongside them. Zelda munched on trash she'd found along
the creek bed. There was happiness in the world, Maddie reflected. At the
moment, however, she just wasn't feeling it. Sam grinned at her, but he must have realized
that she was too scared and tired and achy for humor, because he gave her a
straight answer. "The house they took us to yesterday was on
the east side of the mountain. The driveway led downhill. We're still on the
east side of the same mountain, so I'm guessing that if we go far enough
downhill, we'll find a road. We can follow it out, or hitchhike, which is a
little dicey because we don't know who'll stop. Our best bet, probably, is to
find a phone. If there was one house up here, there are bound to be more. And
there's always the chance that the cavalry will show up. Believe me, they're
busting their asses right now to find us." What he didn't add, but Maddie knew, was that
finding them would be like looking for a needle in a haystack. No matter how
optimistically she tried to look at it, she didn't think waiting to be rescued
was going to work. They followed the creek downstream as the sky
lightened gradually above them, walking until the cliffs were a distant memory
and they were once again in the heart of the piney woods. It was still dark
under the trees, but more of a thick gray now than a pitch black. The air
smelled of pine and dampness. The humidity was tangible. It was almost as if
the ground itself was sweating. Mist hung beneath the trees like fog, making it
impossible to see farther than a few feet in every direction. The footing was
slippery and treacherous, especially for Maddie in her socks. The sounds of the
forest were all around them, but if there were any other humans within shouting
distance, Maddie couldn't tell it. Conversely, this made her jittery. Goose
bumps crept over her skin. She kept glancing nervously all around, and every
crack of a twig or unexpected sound made her jump. It was eerie being there among the trees in the
foggy gray hush of dawn. Especially knowing as well as she did that a shot
could come out of nowhere at any time, or that behind any given bush, or hidden
within any shadowy clump of trees, someone could be waiting... When Sam stopped, it was so unexpected that she
nearly bumped into him. "What?" she whispered, her heart
pounding as she peered around him. "Bingo," he said, his voice low, too.
"If we’re lucky, we'll be back at your place in time for breakfast." Then she saw it. A small log cabin stood on a
slight rise in front of them, its shingled roof rising above the mist. The
trees had been cleared around it, and a narrow dirt track led up past it to a
shed or barn or garage. Maddie's heart gave a great, hopeful leap... But what if they weren't lucky? Maddie had a
sudden vision of Hansel and Gretel, and the witch's gingerbread house. "What if whoever lives there is a bad
guy?" Maddie asked, still surveying the house doubtfully from the shelter
of Sam's back. "Then we've got trouble," Sam said,
way more cheerfully than the situation called for. "See the lines leading
to the house? There's a phone in there. You wait here, and I'll go summon the
cavalry." "Not in this life." Maddie grabbed his
arm, alarm in every syllable. "No way am I staying here alone. If you go,
I go." He looked around at her. What he saw in her face
must have persuaded him that she meant what she said, because he sighed. "Will you at least promise me that if
there's trouble, you'll run for it and leave me to handle it?" "Sure," Maddie said. "I
promise." Meaning she'd wait and evaluate the situation
when and if it happened. But right at that moment, the chance of her abandoning
him was looking like it was somewhere between slim and none. Sam looked at Zelda, who was drooping like a
wilted flower. "Could we at least leave the dog tied to a
tree?" Sam asked. "She'll bark. Anyway, if they find her,
they'll kill her. You heard what they said." "I feel like I'm leading a parade,"
Sam said. "All right, come on." They had just started walking again when a sharp
craaak pierced the charcoal-gray dawn. And something smacked hard into
the trunk of a pine not six inches from Maddie's head. TWENTY-SIX "Shit!" Sam yelled, grabbing her hand. "Run!" Maddie didn't need him to tell her a second
time. She bolted like a deer from hunters, head low, feet slipping and sliding
on the pine needles underfoot. Head spinning, heart pounding, sure she was
going to die at any second, she ran as though the hit man was on her heels. Oh, wait, he was. Craaak. Another bullet smacked a nearby tree, so close that she
felt a blowback of splinters spray her cheek. Maddie almost screamed, but she
choked the sound back just in time. It would only help the hit man take better
aim. Having lost his stick, Sam pounded along beside her, head down, dodging
and weaving among the trees, and somewhere, poor Zelda was lost in the gloom.
Maddie had dropped the leash when she started running. She said a heartfelt little prayer for Zelda—and
for herself and Sam. "Marino, they're to your left," a
man's voice yelled. Maddie had just registered that his voice sounded fairly
distant and that he was somewhere behind them and to the right when there was
another sharp craaak. A shower of pine needles rained over them.
Maddie realized that once again their bullet had been heart-stoppingly close. "Jesus," Sam said, and there was
something in his voice that scared Maddie almost more than the bullets. The charcoal silhouette of a man stepped out of
the mist not thirty feet in front of them, a rifle at his shoulder pointed
straight at them. "Freeze!" he yelled. "Keep going." Sam let go of her hand and pushed her hard to her
right so that there was a little stand of trees between her and the shooter.
Then, to her horror, he ran straight for the man, crouching low, barreling
headlong through the trees. He’d made the choice for her. She could only go for
it. Heart slamming, stomach churning, gasping for air and trying to watch Sam
at the same time, she ran for her life. "Over here, they're over here!"
someone cried. That voice came from the right, too, and sounded closer than the
first. Craaak. The mouth of the rifle Sam was running toward blazed yellow
through the fog. To her horror, Maddie realized that she could no longer see
Sam. Oh, God, is he hit? Maddie's heart gave a terrified lurch and her stomach
dropped clear to her toes. There was no way to know, and nothing she could do.
Except run. And pray. Please, God, please... Pulse pounding, sobbing for breath, running for
her life, she heard what sounded like thudding footsteps nearby, but she
couldn't be sure; it might have been the beating of her pulse against her
eardrums, and the mist was so dense she couldn't see—and then another man
stepped out of the trees directly ahead of her, so close that she almost
smacked into him. He lunged toward Maddie, and she screamed. "Got her," he yelled as he grabbed
her, catching her by her hair as she tried to dodge and yanking her back
against him. With a single terrified glance she saw that it was Fish and that
he had a rifle in his other hand. It was pointed toward the ground as he
struggled with her. Heart hammering, breath rattling in her throat as though
she was dying, she realized that this was her chance, maybe her only chance, to
escape. Fueled by a burst of adrenaline, she whirled in his grip and slugged
him in the nose as hard as she could. She felt the impact all the way up her arm to
her shoulder. The sound made her think of a melon hitting the floor and
splitting open. Fish howled and she tore free, leaving strands
of hair behind in his fist. Almost falling to her knees, she recovered and
scrambled away. "Where? Where are they?" The cry, from
multiple voices, echoed through the trees. As panicked as she was, Maddie
thought that they came from all around her, everywhere. All she could see was
mist and trees. All she could hear, besides the dying echo of the voices, was
the frantic thudding of her own heart. A flying tackle brought her down. It hit her in
the small of the back, knocked the breath out of her, knocked her off her feet.
She slammed to the ground, then skidded face-forward through the mulch on the
forest floor. With a burst of stomach-twisting terror, she realized that it was
Fish who was on top of her. She struggled wildly, her nails digging into the
ground as she tried to fight her way free. "You're dead now, bitch," Fish howled,
straddling her, and slammed his fist hard into the back of her head. Maddie
gasped and saw stars. "Don't you fucking move," Sam said, in
a deadly voice unlike anything Maddie had ever heard come out of his mouth.
"Go on, give me an excuse to blow your head off. I want to." For a moment she thought that she must be
hallucinating, that the blow was causing her mind to play tricks on her, but
Fish, though he still straddled her, went as still as if he'd been turned to
stone. "Get your hands in the air," Sam
ordered, and Maddie felt Fish move and guessed that he had obeyed. Shaking, breathing like she had been running for
miles, she dared a glance around then and saw that her mind hadn't been playing
tricks on her, that it was Sam who was standing not six feet away, mist
swirling waist-deep around him, stalking closer with a rifle against his
shoulder that was pointed at Fish's head. She felt a wave of thankfulness
stronger than anything she had ever known because he was still alive, and a
fresh wave of terror, too. Just because he was alive this minute didn't mean
that in the next he might not be dead. He'd come back for her. He'd saved her life by
pushing her away from the shooter, then gone after him and wrested a rifle away
from him and come back to save her again. ... And then she heard it, echoing through the
forest like multiple blasts from a chorus of synchronized bugles. "Federal Agents! Drop your weapons! Don't
anybody move!" The cavalry had arrived. They were saved. She went limp with relief, letting her head fall
back down to rest against the cool, damp mulch, breathing hard, heart still
pounding as her body tried to absorb the news that the danger had passed. "Get off her," Sam said to Fish, still
in that deadly voice. "Maddie, are you okay?" "Fine," she said, which was the truth
because "fine" meant that she was alive and he was alive and it was
all over and they would both live to see another day. Fish got off her, moving
slowly and carefully, and she rolled onto her side, watching as Sam
spread-eagled Fish against a tree and started patting him down. The rifle that
Fish had apparently dropped when he dived after her now rested against a tree
near Sam's side. "McCabe! Maddie!" It was Wynne's
voice, echoing out of the mist. "Over here," Sam yelled while Maddie
slowly, carefully sat up. "You okay?" she asked. "Fine." He grinned at her over his
shoulder, faintly breathless, and Maddie felt her chest slowly expand, as if
she could breathe again. It was over. "Thank God," she said. "We're
alive. We made it." "You sound like you had doubts." "Maybe just a few." Sam grinned at her again. "Just for the
record, me, too." He took something from Fish and stepped back, then, as
Fish made a restive movement Sam said to him in an entirely different tone,
"You want to live, you don't move unless I tell you to move." It was growing lighter under the trees now, and
she could see that he was looking cheerful and pleased with himself and more
lighthearted than she had ever seen him. Her heart gave a little lurch. It was
over and they were both alive and she loved him. That was what was important.
Actually, that was all that mattered. But now the truth was out. She was going to have
to deal with that. There was general commotion in the surrounding area, voices
and thuds and the clink of metal, the sound of many people moving through the
trees. Then Wynne materialized out of the mist. "What took you?" Sam said to him, his
eyes and the rifle still on Fish. "Think finding this place was
easy?" Wynne's eyes moved over Fish, then slid down to Maddie before
returning to Sam. "You can thank Cynthia that we got here at all." "Cynthia?" McCabe cast Wynne a
sideways glance and then shouted for somebody to come and take Fish away.
"What did Cynthia do?" "I saved your ass, McCabe, that's what I
did," Cynthia said, appearing through the mist along with another man whom
Maddie didn't know but who was apparently another law-enforcement type, because
he slapped cuffs on Fish and hustled him off. Sam reached a hand down to Maddie, and she let
him pull her to her feet. Wynne, meanwhile, was looking at Cynthia like a proud
parent might look at a precocious child. "Cynthia checked Maddie's... I mean, uh,
Leslie Dolan's"—this was accompanied by a quick, almost covert glance at
Maddie, who was by then leaning against Sam's side—"cell-phone records,
and found that she'd placed a whole bunch of calls to a plastics company in
Baltimore over the last few days. Turned out it was a front for a mob
operation, and our guys at that end had been investigating them anyway. With
what we told them, they had enough to run 'em in, and then they leaned on them
until they gave up Evergreen Waste and Disposal right back here in St. Louis.
Seems the Baltimore group had asked the Saint Louis group for a favor, and the
Saint Louis group had agreed to do it." "What kind of favor?" Sam growled.
They were walking by that time, slowly, the four of them, moving through the
mist toward the voices of the other law-enforcement agents and the sounds that
accompanied a gang of thugs being rounded up and placed under arrest. Sam was
holding the rifle in one hand and had the other arm wrapped around Maddie’s
waist. Weak-kneed and a little shaky as reaction set in, she had an arm around
him, too, and was leaning against him as they moved. Wynne and Gardner walked
together on her other side, and kept shooting her little sideways glances.
Maddie was too drained to care. "Well, first they wanted, uh, her killed—best
we can figure it, that's when she got shot in her car—and then they changed
that to kidnapped and forced to hand over some evidence she's apparently been
trying to blackmail them with and then killed. The guy sneaking up her
back stairs and yesterday's snatch by the garbage truck were apparently part of
the kidnapping plan." "What about the Carol Walter murder? And
the others? We got a handle on the guy who did that, the one who attacked
Maddie in her hotel room?" Sam's tone was urgent. Maddie remembered that
another victim had already been designated, and shivered. Gardner shook her head. "Nobody's jumped
out at us in regards to that yet," she said regretfully. "But then,
we haven't been talking to them long." "Okay." Sam's tone was absent, as if
he was thinking about something. "We need to keep after it. So what
happened when you zeroed in on our friendly neighborhood garbage company?" "They folded." Wynne grinned
reminiscently. "Once they knew we were on to them, nobody at Evergreen
wanted anything to do with the murder of a federal agent. They couldn't tell us
where they'd taken you fast enough. Then, of course, we got out to that house
where you'd been held that was about an hour ago—and nobody was there. But we
found Maddie's—uh, er..." "Maddie works," Sam said as Wynne
hesitated over the name again. "I'll tell you the whole story later. But
she's not a criminal." "Good to know." Wynne shot Maddie a
slightly less uneasy look. "Yeah," Cynthia said, giving Maddie a
little smile. "We like her. And looks like McCabe loooves her." "Shut up, Gardner," Sam said
good-naturedly, and the arm around Maddie tightened fractionally. "I like you, too," Maddie said to
Gardner and Wynne. Sam made an impatient sound. "Go on, Wynne.
You found Maddie's... ? " "Her jacket. And her vest. Kind of scared
us, to tell you the truth. She'd been there—and we were pretty sure you were
with her—but when we got there, she wasn't. That kind of thing is enough to
give you cold chills." "He was picturing you guys buried out in a
field somewhere," Gardner said. "But then we found the wrecked truck,
and that gave us something to go on. After that it was easy. A couple of
helicopters, a few dozen heat-seeking devices"—Sam smirked at Maddie
here—"half the law-enforcement officers in Missouri, and the thing was
done." "Of course, it helped a lot that they were
shooting at you there at the end," Wynne added. "Made you kind of
hard to miss." "Yeah." Sam grinned. "I bet it
did." The mist was starting to thin now, and Maddie
could see the man walking toward them quite clearly. It was Gomez. And at his
feet trailed Zelda. "Lose something?" Gomez called as he
got closer. "Zelda," Maddie said thankfully,
accepting the proffered leash. She was ashamed to realize that she had
forgotten about the little dog in the last few hectic minutes. "You can have french fries when we get
home," she told Zelda, who gave a feeble wag of her tail as if in
acknowledgment. "You guys didn't walk all the way here from
the truck, did you?" Sam asked as Gomez fell in beside them. "If you'd kept on going the way you were
going, you would have hit a road in about another quarter mile," Wynne said.
"That's where we're parked. You almost ran right into us." "Way to conduct an investigation," Sam
said and grinned. Sure enough, in another few minutes they emerged
from the piney woods onto the narrow blacktop road that curled around the
mountain. The sun was rising directly ahead of them now, painting the horizon
in bold shapes of purple and red and gold. A fleet of marked police cruisers,
unmarked cars, paddy wagons, and an ambulance were parked partly off the road,
strobe lights flashing. Uniformed cops and plainclothes law-enforcement
officers of various stripes herded miscreants into the backs of various
vehicles. It looked like a cast of hundreds. Probably, Maddie thought, it was a
little less. Given the number of head blows she'd suffered,
Sam insisted that she go to the hospital to be checked out, and Maddie didn't
feel like arguing, so she agreed. She had half feared being arrested by him or
someone else as soon as they were out of danger, but it didn't happen, and she
started to relax a little. With Wynne driving, Gardner riding shotgun, and
Zelda, pacified by a pit stop through a McDonald's drive-through, on her lap,
Sam rode with her back to St. Louis, which was about half an hour away. On the
way, he gave Wynne and Gardner the abbreviated version of Maddie's story, and
told her that he was fairly certain that, given the circumstances, he could
talk to the district attorney's office in Baltimore and get the charges
dismissed. That left Maddie feeling a whole lot better than she had in a long time. By the time Sam left her in the emergency room
in favor of the urgent press of work, Maddie felt as though her life was moving
in a more positive direction than it had for some time. Of course, the fact
that Sam insisted that Gardner stay with her, and his warning that until they
had positively identified the hit man, they couldn't be sure they had him, was
a little daunting. But still, Maddie realized, she was happier than
she had been in years. The whole staff of Creative Partners, agog,
converged on her at the hospital. Maddie was relieved to discover that they
knew no more of what had happened than that the man who'd been trying to kill
her had made another failed attempt, and that he now seemed to be under arrest.
The truth about her identity, the secret she'd kept for so long, was personal,
and she didn't want to reveal it, even to these trusted friends, unless she had
to. If it was possible, she wanted to remain the woman she had made herself
into. Leslie Dolan was her past. Maddie Fitzgerald was her present, and her
future. With that in mind, she handed Zelda off to
Louise with instructions to rush her right off to the groomer. And she sent
Jon, who with true presence of mind had kept Susan Allen from learning anything
at all about Maddie and Zelda going missing by hurrying her away from the
factory as soon as he'd realized something was amiss, to babysit Susan for
another day. And then she'd hugged the others, promised them that she was fine
and would be back on the job without fail the next day, and sent them off to
work. Finally, when the hospital had finished with her, she had headed home
with Cynthia, taken a shower, eaten a meal, and fallen into her own clean,
comfortable bed. And slept like a log. No dreams at all. Until she woke up to a dark apartment, and the
feeling that something wasn't right. TWENTY SEVEN Maddie sat up. It was ten-forty p.m., she saw
with a glance at the bedside clock, and the apartment was dark because night
had fallen while she'd slept. The flickering blue light from the living room
told her that the TV was on. It was, apparently, the only light in the
apartment. Now that she was fully awake, she could hear it. It wasn't quite as
loud as she was accustomed to, because Cynthia was watching it rather than Sam.
The thought made her smile a little. Sam would be there soon enough. Swinging her legs out of bed, she got up and
padded barefoot to the doorway. Since it had been the middle of the afternoon
when she'd fallen asleep, she was wearing loose, gray sweatpants and a white
T-shirt. No bra, but otherwise, she was fully dressed. Cynthia was sitting on
the couch with her legs curled up beside her, watching something on TV. Unlike
Sam or Wynne, she wasn't flipping channels. She, like most sane people,
actually watched a program all the way through. A glance around the room confirmed it:
Everything was fine. That uneasy feeling that had awakened her was probably the
result of the adventures she'd been having lately. Her mind, like her body, had
clearly not yet fully recovered from the trauma. She went into the bathroom, came back out, and
stood for a moment beside the couch. Cynthia was watching QVC. Why that seemed
funny, Mad-die couldn't have said. She had already learned that Cynthia was far
more feminine than she looked. "How you feeling?" Cynthia asked. "Hungry, but otherwise okay," Maddie
said, although the list of her aches and pains was long. The pain pill she'd
taken before falling into bed was supposed to be operational for another two
hours. Maddie shuddered to think what she would feel like when it wore off. "McCabe'll be here soon." Cynthia gave
her a little smirking smile. "I know." "You guys make a cute couple." Maddie paused en route to the kitchen to look
Cynthia over searchingly. She was wearing stretchy black pants and a soft pink
T-shirt, and her hair was softer looking than when Maddie had first met her. "Do you mind?" Maddie asked. "About you and McCabe?" Cynthia
grimaced. "Nah. I decided that sexy hunks of burning love aren't my
type." "Really?" The description made Maddie
grin. Sam would love it—not. "Yeah. But you go for it, honey. I can see
he really likes you. I've never seen him that lovey-dovey with anybody." This thing she had with Sam—it was too new and
too precious for her to easily talk about. It had to sink in for her first. "I'm going to get something to eat. You
want anything from the kitchen?" she asked. Cynthia shook her head. Maddie walked into the kitchen, which was dark
except for the filtered glow of the streetlight behind the curtain. The sounds
of a woman hawking a pantsuit for $29.95 followed her. She was thirsty rather
than hungry, she decided, and opened the refrigerator to get some orange juice.
She would've preferred milk, but she was fresh out. Sam had seen to that. The thought made her smile, and she was still
smiling and reaching for the juice when a hand clamped down hard over her
mouth, yanking her backward while the mouth of a gun jammed painfully into her
temple. She jumped, instinctively started to struggle,
to scream, while her heart went from zero to sixty in under a second and every
tiny hair on her body stood upright. "Make a sound, and I'll put a bullet in
your head where you stand," a man's harsh voice whispered in her ear. The
hand over her mouth had her in what was basically a headlock, clamping her
close to the burly body behind her. He was wearing gloves, Maddie realized, and
her blood went cold. This was the man from her hotel room—the hit man. Gun or
no gun, she was going to have to scream, to fight, to get Cynthia in here,
because no matter what she did, he was going to kill her. "We can do this one of two ways," that
terrifying voice whispered. "You and I can walk out this back door and
down these steps together quietly, and settle our differences between
ourselves. Or you can make a commotion that gets your friend in here, and I can
kill you first and be ready to kill her when she walks through the door. Your
call." Maddie went very still as she thought about
Cynthia in the next room, watching TV all unsuspecting. She remembered the
night in her hotel room in a burst of terrifying detail. His gun had a
silencer—he could put a bullet in her brain that second and Cynthia wouldn't
even hear the shot. She nodded once, jerkily, then went very still
while her heart slammed against her rib cage like a wild animal trying to
escape and cold sweat broke out over her body in waves. "Smart girl." He was already shoving
her toward the door. Maddie thought about the security system with a wild burst
of hope. It was on, she was sure it was on, she was almost positive she'd seen
its little blinking red light on the living-room wall when she'd been talking
to Cynthia. But then she realized that he was inside; if it was on, how had he
gotten inside? "Open the door," he said. She turned
the lock, turned the knob, opened the door—and nothing happened. No tinny
little beeping. No sound at all. Except the pounding of her heart as he shoved
her through the door onto the little platform at the top of the stairs. "Close it," he said, and she did, her
hand slippery with sweat as she pulled the door closed behind her, very softly,
no point in getting Cynthia killed, too. "Now walk very carefully down the
stairs." Then as he shoved her forward, Maddie caught a
glimpse of his face, and terror rose like bile in her throat. He had changed a
lot, and if she hadn't seen him up close, she might not even have recognized
him. But there was no mistaking the shape of his nose and mouth, or those cruel
eyes. It was Ken Welsh. Like the truth, the killer was out there. Sam
knew he was close, felt it in his gut, could almost taste it. But he couldn't
quite find him. The problem with the number of mob goons they'd arrested last
night and that morning was that there were a lot of them, both in Saint Louis
and Baltimore. A lot of goons meant a lot of processing, a lot of background
checks, a lot of interviews. Just a lot ofcrap to wade through, with no
guarantee that the kernel of truth he was seeking was anywhere in that
particular dung heap. His gut told him that it wasn't. Not that he didn't trust the new owner of his
heart, but Sam had checked—skepticism was a trait highly prized by the FBI—and
every verifiable detail of Maddie's story had proved to be true. He'd traced
Leslie Dolan from birth to the moment she had "died." Records showed
that a small shotgun house in a rundown section of Baltimore had indeed been
blown apart by a bomb seven years ago, killing everyone inside. The inferno had
been such that only minute amounts of human remains had been found. IDs had been
based on certain personal effects that had been recovered from the periphery of
the blast site—in Leslie Dolan's case, it had been part of a burned jacket and a shoe—and the
identities of people known to be
inside. A neighbor had seen her going in. No one had seen her leave. The general feeling was that it was a hit, but
not much of an investigation had been done. It was a poor neighborhood, and the
victims were known to have ties to the mob. The sad truth of the matter was
that no one had much cared about their fate. Sam was waiting for a records check to come back
with the names of the agents who had been working in the Baltimore field office
at that time. He was really interested in learning the true identities of Ken
Welsh and Richard Shelton. "Wynne came up behind him. Sam knew who it
was without even having to look around. The smell of grape bubblegum was a dead
giveaway. "Anything?" Wynne asked. They were in the St. Louis field office, the
better to process the reams of information that had come in over the course of
the day. It was late, getting on toward eleven p.m., but the office was still
bustling. Like he'd said earlier, when that many crooks went down, it made a
lot of work for everyone involved. But Sam, personally, was dead beat—he'd had no
sleep the night before—and he was ready to call it a day. The thought of going home to Maddie—because
that's what his upcoming stint of night duty felt like—made him smile. "Not yet." Sam pushed back from the
desk. What he'd been doing was cross-checking, comparing material from the hit
man's victims with material from Maddie's past with material from cases he'd
worked on, seeing if he could find a common thread. So far, nothing jumped out
at him. He had a feeling that it was there, though. He just wasn't seeing it.
Maybe tomorrow, when he wasn't so tired. "You ready to go?" Wynne asked, and
Sam nodded and stood up. It was a big room, beige and nondescript, divided into
small cubicles with walls that didn't reach all the way to the ceiling. People
were coming in and out, and a few had gathered in a conference room to the
rear. Computers glowed in a number of cubicles around the room. Gomez was
seated in front of one of them, typing away. He and Hendricks were supposed to
be on duty, staking out Maddie's apartment starting at dark, and the sight of
him sitting there made Sam frown. "Yeah," Sam said, and walked over to
Gomez. "I thought you were supposed to be on surveillance." Gomez threw him a distracted look over his
shoulder. "I'm coming. Just let me finish this and get Hendricks, and
we'll be there. God, did you ever see so much paperwork in your life?" "The paperwork can wait. You need to get
your asses over there." "We're coming, we're coming." "You don't think we've got our boy
yet?" Wynne asked as Sam rejoined him and they headed for the door. "Who the hell knows? But I'm not willing to
chance it." Not when Maddie's life was at stake. Wynne had just come back for him after being
gone for about an hour, and Sam got his first good look at him since his return
as they rode down in the elevator together. Sam's brows twitched. He was so
tired he was almost punch-drunk, he had a lot on his mind, and his nose was
giving him some pain. But he didn't think Wynne had been wearing a jacket and
tie, to say nothing of a white shirt and pressed khakis, the last time he'd set
eyes on him. "You change clothes?" he asked,
slightly amazed, as the elevator delivered them to the ground floor. "Yeah." Wynne looked almost
embarrassed. "Why?" "I got a date, okay?" They were out in the parking lot by that time.
It was a postage stamp-sized square of asphalt next to a large silver rectangle
of a skyscraper. Halogens glowed yellow overhead, holding back the night. "A date?" Sam's mind boggled. Wynne
all dressed up for a late date in St. Louis? Who... A lightbulb clicked on in
his mind. "Gardner." Puce was starling to creep into Wynne's cheeks.
"Yeah. We're going to Morton's. We were going to go last night—it would
have been our first date—but, ahem, circumstances intervened." Circumstances meaning the frantic search for him and Maddie, Sam knew.
They had reached the car by that time. Opening the driver's door—he'd had
enough of scary-ass drivers now to last a lifetime—Sam grinned at Wynne over
the roof. "Way to go, dude." "Yeah." Wynne grinned back, and they
got in the car. Sam's cell phone started to ring just as they
were pulling out of the lot. He tensed reflexively, fished it out of his
pocket, looked at the ID window, and relaxed. "McCabe," he answered, turning right
into a steady stream of traffic. It was late for so much traffic downtown, and
he guessed a ball game or a concert or something must have just let out. "She's gone," Gardner yelled in his
ear. She sounded distraught, frantic even. "She's gone. She's not here.
McCabe, are you hearing me? Maddie's disappeared from the apartment." Maddie's stomach was cramping, and she was so
frightened that she was light-headed. They were in his car, something big and
black. She was pinned in the front passenger seat, her hands cuffed behind her
back, the seat belt pulled tightly across her body to hold her in place. Behind
them, her apartment building was fast receding into the distance. She had kept
expecting the cavalry to show up—Gomez and Hendricks, or whoever was supposed
to be staking out her building; Cynthia, having realized that she was gone;
Sam, who was due back at the apartment any minute—somebody. Anybody. But
nobody had come, and he'd taken her down the stairs and cuffed her and put her
into the car and she hadn't even resisted. And the chance of
rescue was growing more remote with every yard of pavement that passed beneath
the wheels. He hung a left on Big Bend, and she went into shock as she faced
the truth: She was on her own with a killer. "What do you want with me?" she asked.
The light from the streetlights flickered in and out of the car as it passed
beneath them, and she was able to see him clearly. She hated to look—the
terrible familiarity of his profile was enough to make her break out in a cold
sweat—but she couldn't help herself. There was a horrible fascination to seeing
this face out of her nightmare in the flesh again. "I want that strongbox of Charlie's. And
you're going to tell me where it is." Oh, God, nobody had ever called her dad Charlie
but him... It had been a way of
cutting Charles Dolan down to size, of letting him know who was in charge. The
lights and passing trees and buildings blurred as tears sprang to her eyes. "I don't know." "We're going to find out, aren't we?
Believe me, dollface, if you know, you'll end up telling me." He sent her
a mean little smile that sent an icy finger of fear sliding down her spine.
"Actually, you're lucky I want it. You get to live a little longer. I
would have whacked you right there in your kitchen if I hadn't. Last time we
met, in your hotel room—'member that, baby? You fucking stabbed me in the leg,
didn't you?—I didn't know about it. Nice of you to start calling up all your
old friends and warning them about what you had." He sent her a look that made the hairs prickle
to life on the back of her neck. He was going to make her pay for that pencil
in the leg. He was going to hurt her—and then he was going to kill her. Maddie
wanted to scream. She wanted to bang her head against the window in a futile
attempt to attract attention, to smash it, to try to escape. She looked out the
windows, hoping desperately to see a passing cop car. If she did she
would—what? She couldn't reach the horn, the lights, the accelerator. She
couldn't even roll down the window. And... "Oh, look," Welsh said. "There
goes your boyfriend's car. Want to talk to him, baby? How about we give him a
call?" Maddie looked, and sure enough, there went the
Blazer, speeding in the opposite direction with Sam at the wheel. There was no
mistaking Wynne's blond Brillo-pad curls shining in the glow of the
streetlights. "He jimmied the security system."
Sam's blood raced. His heart pounded like a trip-hammer. He had just run up to
the apartment, taking the stairs two at a time, ascertained that Maddie was not
there and that the security system was still armed, and run down the back
stairs to check the box outside the building. The system was designed so that
if anyone tried to tamper with it, an alarm immediately sounded and a call was
routed to the police. But it had been rigged with a double loop of wires that
tricked the system into thinking it was still armed, even though it wasn't. Sam
looked at it and felt bells go off in his head. Not many people knew how to circumvent a system
like that. He did, though. It was exactly the kind of rerouting legerdemain
that he might have used himself if he wanted to break into a secure building. He'd learned it from the FBI. "He's a fed," Sam said, trying to stay
calm, trying not to think of what might be happening to Maddie at that very
instant as he turned to look at Wynne and Gardner, who were behind him. Gardner
was ashen with guilt, her usually confident demeanor shattered. Wynne was
protective and grim at the same time. Sam spoke to Gardner. "Get on the
computer, get on the phone, I don't care how you do it, but get me the names of
the agents who worked in the Baltimore office seven years ago now." Gardner
nodded and started running toward her car. Sam looked at Wynne. "You stay
here and take charge of things." The alert had already gone out to the St. Louis
field office, to the local cops, to everybody Gardner could think of to call.
Sam could already hear the sirens in the distance. Sam had one foot on the stairs when his cell
phone started to ring. He froze, then dug in his pocket and pulled out
the phone. He knew, he already knew, before he saw the ID window: Error, it
said. "McCabe," he said, trying to keep his
voice steady as icy terror flooded his veins. His gut clenched. He already knew
what he was going to hear. "Hey, asshole," the digitally altered
voice said. "Welcome back to the game." "There is no game." Maddie could hear
Sam's voice clearly. It was strong and steady, and she yearned toward it,
aching, willing him to feel her through the phone, to be able to somehow divine
where she was. "Sure there's a game," Welsh said. His
expression was gloating, triumphant, and Maddie hated him so much that she
shook with it. He used to look at her like that, at her father like that. When
he thought he had them under his thumb. "I took your little girlfriend.
The tables are turned, my friend. You thought you were going to use her to trap
me?" He gave a brutal little laugh. "Now I've got her. You come find
her. You better hurry, though." "We can work something out," Sam said,
and Maddie thought his voice sounded hoarse. "If you don't kill her. A
plea bargain for the others. Take the death penalty off the table, maybe." "Oh-ho." Welsh sounded delighted. He cast a glance at Maddie,
clearly eager for her reaction and enjoying the fact that she was there to see
him gloat. "Now you are playing. Just one problem, asshole. Why
should I worry about a plea bargain when you're not going to catch me?" "Oh, yeah," Sam said. "I am going
to catch you. I'm close. Closer than you think. Right on your tail." This made Welsh frown and cast a quick, furtive
look in the rearview mirror. For a moment, Maddie felt a wild rush of hope. But
then Welsh's face cleared and his smirk returned. "You're blowing smoke out your ass,
dickhead. You're nowhere near catching me." "You're a fed," Sam said. Welsh stiffened. "Not even close." "Yeah, it's close. And I can get even
closer. I got two names for you. Want to hear them?" "More smoke." "Richard Shelton. Ken Welsh. Those ring a
bell?" Welsh cast Maddie a glance that made her shiver.
He looked positively evil, driving through the night with his teeth clenched
and his eyes hard and his cheeks flushed with growing rage. "Remember, last time we talked, how I told
you I was going to up the ante? Remember how I told you that next time I
whacked someone, I was going to let you watch? Well, here's what your threats
got you, asshole. I'm going to take your girlfriend here somewhere and shoot
her. And I'm going to get it on videotape. Then I'm going to send it to you and
let you watch." "Wait," Sam said sharply, but Welsh
wasn't listening. He held the phone in front of Maddie's face. She stared at
it, heart racing, falling apart inside, wanting to scream, to cry, to beg... "Say bye," Welsh said to her. "Sam," Maddie said instead. And
couldn't help it if her voice shook. She heard a sound as though he inhaled. Then Welsh disconnected. "Did you get it? Did you get it?" Sam
was sweating bullets. His heart was pounding as hard as if he'd just run for a
hundred miles. For a moment, Maddie had been there, on the other end of the
phone, and he'd wanted to reach down in there and pull her through it, to grab
her, to save her—and he couldn't. The bastard had disconnected. He was going to kill her. Sam had talked to him
enough that he recognized the rising excitement in the sick bastard's voice,
the escalating violence, the anticipation of causing pain, of causing fear. He was getting all psyched up, like a predator
toying with its prey before the kill. Gardner was sitting beside him, in the front
seat of her car in Maddie's parking lot, with the laptop she always kept in her
car open on her lap. The screen glowed up at him, all digital lines and images. Please, he thought. Please. Gardner looked up at him, her face white. "Not enough time," she said. "You." Welsh said, looking at her with
loathing. "You told him, didn't you? You gave him my name." "Yes," Maddie said, hating him, not
seeing any point in lying because he knew, and he was going to kill her anyway. Welsh swore, his face dark and ugly now, his
eyes cutting toward her with a viciousness that made her cringe. Then he
backhanded her across the face, snapping her head back against the whiplash
guard. The blow hurt, and she cried out. "If I had killed you, that night in your hotel
room, none of this would have happened. But I made a mistake, one damned lousy
little mistake—who would have thought that there'd be two damned women staying
there under the name Madeline Fitzgerald? What are the chances of that?—and
look what happened. The whole thing. The whole thing's going to hell because of
you. He backhanded her again. Maddie whimpered and
cringed against the door. Then, as her eyes watered and her vision blurred
in reaction, she saw that the phone, which he'd dropped onto the console, had
been knocked into her seat. It rested between her butt and the seat back,
and if she moved forward a little, just a little, it might drop behind her
back. She couldn't let him realize... "Why didn't you just leave me alone in the
first place?" she asked, to cover what she was doing. "I wasn't
bothering you. Leslie Dolan was in the past. I made a whole new life." Blinking to clear her vision, she tried
wriggling forward just a little, and the phone did just what she had hoped: It
slid behind her back. If she could just manage to pick it up... "Because I made a whole new life, too. I'm
going places now, big places, and I can't have little pissant nobodies popping
up out of the woodwork every time I turn around. One day you might have seen
me, recognized me, said something—and there it would all go. Same thing for the
others, too. You are all part of my past that I want to keep in the past.
Skeletons in my closet, and I'm cleaning the closet out." "I wouldn't have told on you," she
said, easing her cuffed hands sideways, touching the phone, fumbling with it.
"I still won't, if you let me go." That was bullshit and she knew it, and knew he
knew it too, but she wanted to keep him occupied so that he wouldn't realize
what she was trying to do. "Give it up." He was breathing hard
now, and she got the feeling that he was growing more agitated. Heart pounding,
stomach churning, terrified that he might notice the phone was missing at any
moment, she finally managed to pick up the phone. "I already got a plan for
you. I think McCabe was bluffing. I think he just picked those names out of
some little sob story you told him and used them to rattle me. There's no way
he can find out who I am. Not if I get rid of you, and Thomas Kerry. Then it's
all done. Except for McCabe, I mean. I meant to save him for last. But I don't
think I will." His voice turned thoughtful, and he glanced at
her. Maddie froze, feeling the blood pumping through her veins. Did he know
what she was up to? Did he guess? She had one shot at this, and one shot only. But he looked back out at the road again.
"I'm going to kill you, then call him and tell him where you are. When he
comes to find you, I'm going to kill him. He was going to use you as bait to
catch me? Watch this: I'll use you as bait to kill him." Welsh had held the phone up to her face when
he'd told her to say goodbye to Sam. She had stared at it, imagining Sam on the
other end, trying to conjure him up through the phone—and that might stand her
in good stead now. Clutching the phone, she concentrated, trying to visualize
the arrangement of the buttons. Her fingers slid over the buttons.
She said a little prayer, then hit what she hoped was the redial button. Sam was in the car with Gardner, driving her
toward the hotel that they were using as a command post, when the phone rang
again. He snatched it from the console where he'd placed it and looked at the
ID window. Error, it said. His heart stopped, the world receded, and when
he flipped the phone open, he realized his fingers were shaking. There was only one reason why the sick bastard
would be calling him back, he feared. He'd never considered himself a particularly
religious man. But as he lifted the phone to his ear he found himself praying
like he'd never prayed in his life. Please, God, don't let him kill her. Please,
please, please... "McCabe," he said. "You hate him, don't you?" Maddie
said, continuing the conversation. She had to keep him talking, had to keep
talking to him, because it had occurred to her that if she'd been able to hear
Sam's voice, Welsh would probably be able to hear it, too, and Sam would surely
answer with his customary McCabe even if he said nothing else. "McCabe?" Welsh glanced at her.
"Hell, yeah, I hate the bastard, damned workaholic Boy Scout. He's incorruptible."
Welsh's tone made this a bitter sneer. "He never lets up, never quits,
never fucking goes home. You know what he did? He started looking into some old
cases. Years old. Closed. Gone. And he started trying to solve them in his free
time. You remember how it was back in the day. Shit happened, and one of these
cases was about some of my shit that happened. He was digging into it, too. I
had to distract him, to get his fucking mind off it, before he dug deep enough
to find out I was the one who whacked Leroy Bowman." "Leroy Bowman?" Maddie said faintly.
She hadn't heard a thing from the phone, but then again, Welsh's voice was
growing louder the longer he talked. All she could do was pray she'd pressed
the right button. "Another fucking incorruptible special
agent," Welsh said with disgust. "You deal with guys like that, they
don't see reason, they don't look at the big picture, what are you gonna do? He
was easier than McCabe, though. Just boom, one night, and that was it. I
was afraid that if I whacked McCabe while he was digging into the Bowman case,
which everybody knew he was doing, somebody else would pick it up, thinking
that maybe that was the reason. So I had to get him out on the road, provide a
distraction, another reason why he'd get hit. And I needed to clean up some
previous messes, too, like I told you. So I decided to combine it all, take
care of the people I needed to take care of, lure McCabe out onto the road
until I could whack him, and put a tidy little end to the whole problem at once
so I could move on with my life." "Just like you put an end to your problems
when you blew up that house my father was in?" Maddie could feel sweat
running down her spine. They'd been driving on back roads that had grown
progressively darker and less busy, and she had completely lost all sense of
direction some time back. Now he seemed to be peering out through the
windshield, like he was looking for something, a landmark or something, that he
was afraid he might miss in the dark. Maddie had a feeling that this was not a good
sign. "You're smart, aren't you?" Welsh sent
her a glance filled with venom rather than admiration as the car topped a rise
and came down the other side. "Yeah, I did that. And it almost put
an end to my problems. Except for you. Again. Always you." They were at the bottom of the hill now. He
pulled off the side of the road. Glancing around with widening eyes, realizing
that this might be it, Maddie saw that they were in a bowl-like depression with
hills rising all around. The area was rural, with no lights visible at all. To
her left, across a field of scraggly, knee-high weeds, she saw the gleam of
water. It was a small pond, a farm pond, peaceful under the sky, which was vast
and black and covered with endless stars. On the other side of the pond was a
dilapidated-looking barn. Beyond that, the land rose up into rolling hills
covered with scrub pine. The tires bounced over grass and gravel. And
then he stopped the car. "I found this place yesterday," he
said, looking at her with a terrifying smile. Just having him smile at her like
that made her blood run cold. "Just for you." He turned off the engine and the lights and got
out. Oh, God, this was it. I don't want to die. Please, please don't let me
die. He was coming around the front of the car toward
her. She was suddenly so frightened that she seemed to be disassociating from
her body. She felt weird, light-headed, queasy. Her palms were sweaty, her
fingers like ice. Was there nothing she could do? She struggled against the seat
belt, but it held her fast. Could she somehow manage to twist her arms around
and unlatch it? She tried—he was almost at her door—she couldn't do it. She
couldn't do it. He reached for the door handle. The starlight
gleamed off something metallic in his other hand—a gun. All of a sudden, with hideous clarity, she
remembered the sounds of Carol Walter being murdered. Now she was getting ready
to find out what it felt like to die that way. Would she beg, too? Would she
cry? The door opened. The sweet smell of summer grass
reached her nostrils. The chorus of insects was suddenly loud. "C'mon, dollface, time to get out." Maddie's stomach twisted itself into a knot. Her
heart threatened to pound its way out of her chest. Cold sweat poured over her
in waves No. He reached in around her and unfastened the seat
belt. Then he grabbed a handful of her hair and pulled her from the car. And saw the cell phone on her seat. "What the hell?" He looked back at
her, his face ugly, scary. Maddie's legs went all rubbery. Then a helicopter topped the rise and plunged
toward them. A bright searchlight caught them in its beam. "FBI! Freeze! Drop your weapon!" The order boomed through the air. Glancing up as
the chopper hovered over them, Maddie saw a sharpshooter armed with a rifle.
His weapon was pointed at Welsh. Then, over the rise, she saw a whole convoy of
headlights speeding toward them, and heard the distant sound of sirens. "Drop your weapon! Now!" Welsh did. With a single deadly glance at her,
he let go of her hair and raised his hands. Then the ground troops were there,
and it was over. Maddie's knees gave out, and she collapsed in a little
shivering heap on the ground. Leaping from the first car as it screeched to a
stop, Sam saw her collapse and thought, for one heart-stopping moment, that the
bastard had shot her. Icy terror ricocheted through his veins. His life passed
before his eyes. He raced toward her, crouching beside her as the rest of the
cavalry rushed to take control of the suspect. Who, he was surprised and yet not surprised to
see, was Leonard Smolski. He and Gardner had listened to every word the bastard
had said from the time the cell phone had been activated. They hadn't
recognized his voice—the technology he'd used to disguise it had held up— but
some of the things he'd said, plus the information that Smolski had worked in
the Baltimore field office during the time in question, which had come in over
Cynthia's cell phone as they had driven in hot pursuit of their suspect, had
made the discovery much less of a shock than it would have been. "Sam," Maddie said in a voice like a
sob when she saw that he was there, and wrapped her arms around him. He did a
quick check to make sure that she was in one piece, then gathered her up in his
arms and buried his face in her hair and held her until they both stopped
shaking. OEPILOGUE Friday, August 22 Maddie hurried into the small private terminal
at St. Louis airport at shortly before five p.m. Jon had called her an hour
before to tell her that Susan Allen had gotten an urgent call and was returning
to New Orleans. As Creative Partners' owner, she wanted to see
Susan—and Zelda—off. The last day and a half had been hectic. Sam had
had to fly back to Virginia to wrap things up, although he was scheduled to
return today. She would be picking him up after seeing Susan off. He’d called
last night to tell her that, among other things, the strongbox had been found.
The key to locating it was an address her father had scrawled on the back of a
business card and told her to keep. She'd snatched it, Fudgie, and a few
necessities from their apartment before running, then sewn it, along with a
last few relics of her life as Leslie Dolan—the watch her father had given her,
her senior-class ring—into Fudgie's stuffing. The strongbox had been just where
Charles Dolan had left it, and in it had been enough evidence to put all kinds
of bad guys away for a long time—and to completely clear her name. Charles
Dolan had recorded Ken Welsh—Smolski—talking about the charges that had been filed
against his daughter, and had asked him point-blank if it bothered him that
they were bogus. And Smolski had laughed and said not at all. Maddie spotted Jon and Susan and Zelda across
the plush beige waiting room before she was anywhere near them. Not that they
were hard to spot. Zelda, confined to her carrier, was once again giving vent
to her inner wolf. Everyone in the terminal was staring. The gate
attendants were hovering around helplessly. Jon was trying to comfort Susan,
who looked on the verge of an apoplexy. And no one was feeding Zelda. Maddie rolled her eyes. "Does anyone have any food?" she asked
over the din. Jon fished in his pocket and produced a mint.
Maddie snatched it, unwrapped it, and popped it through the grate. The howling
stopped instantly, and Maddie heard the familiar snuffle. Her heart gave a little pang. She was actually
going to miss Zelda. "You like her, don't you?" Susan
asked, looking at Maddie intently. The gate attendant was opening the door that
led out to Brehmer's plane. "I adore her," Maddie said, and
realized that she wasn't being insincere at all. "Then keep her." "Keep Zelda?"Maddie
asked, wondering if Susan had lost her mind. "That isn't Zelda," Susan said with a
sniff, and Maddie's jaw dropped. "That is a dog I picked up from a
Pekingese rescue organization in New Orleans. She's had three different
families and nobody's ever kept her and I can see why." She shot a venomous look at the crate, from
which ominous snuffling sounds were emerging. "Do you have another mint?" Maddie
asked Jon urgently. Jon obliged, and Maddie pacified Zelda. "What happened to the real Zelda?" Jon
asked, looking as floored as she felt. "She got away from the groomers,"
Susan said. "They're friends of mine, and we've all been searching frantically
for her for the past three weeks. We even hired pet detectives. I didn't dare
tell Mrs. B., of course." Susan shuddered. "But I got a call this
morning: They found her. Thank God. So I can go home." "You can go home?" Maddie asked. "I only brought Zelda—no, not Zelda, that
dog—here on such short notice because I was afraid Mrs. B. was starting to
suspect. And don't worry, it won't affect your having our advertising account
at all. Just consider this a dry run." Maddie knew her mouth must be hanging open,
because Jon's was. "Miss," the gate attendant said,
"are you ready to go?" "Yes," Susan said. "I'm
leaving." She looked at Maddie. "Do you want her or not? I can always
take her back to the rescue society if you don't. Although I hate to fly with
her again." She gave a shudder. Zelda was snuffling. "Mint," Maddie said urgently to Jon,
who complied. She popped one in to Zelda, and suddenly knew that there was
nothing in the whole world she would like better than to keep her. "I'd love to have Zelda," Maddie said. "That is not Zelda." Susan
turned to go. "I'll be back in a couple of weeks with the real
Zelda." "Are you nuts?"Jon said
when Susan had gone and they were exiting the terminal. Since he was now out of
mints, Zelda had once again started to howl. "That dog is a monster." "No she isn't." Maddie set the carrier
on the pavement and carefully opened the grate. The dog bounded out, silenced
by the prospect of freedom, and Maddie grabbed the end of her leash just in
time. Then she reeled her in, picked her up, and looked her in her bulbous
black eyes. "You're mine," she said. "And
just for the record, you'll always be Zelda to me." Then, walking across the pavement toward her,
she saw Sam. He was dressed in a jacket and tie, and looked so handsome that she
caught her breath. He looked up and smiled when he saw her, and Maddie felt her
heart skip a beat. Then it occurred to her: She finally had
everything she'd always wanted. A man. A dog. And her life back. For keeps. |
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