"Black at Heart" - читать интересную книгу автора (Parrish Leslie)Chapter 4When he'd brought Lily here last March, after more than a month in the hospital and a private rehab center, Wyatt had stayed with her for a couple of weeks, ignoring his own discomfort and loathing of the house. The renovations he'd ordered had been completed at top speed, with crews working 24-7, so the place at least looked different enough to allow him to pretend it was another building entirely. And the construction, the gutting of the central part of the house so it was now a huge, airy space full of light and brightness, had been worth it, for Lily's sake. He'd wanted to make sure she felt safe and comfortable and had the strength to remain on her own. He'd also overseen the installation of the security system she'd asked for, even while he tried again to convince her that he could protect her and she did not need to stay in hiding. To no avail. She had asked him to let the world think her dead. And on that bitter cold night, when she had seemed so close to death anyway, he had given his word. So had Brandon, the one person Wyatt had contacted after getting Lily's pained call for help. To this day, he honestly didn't know why he had called only Brandon and none of the rest of the team. Maybe it was because he'd been so desperate, panicking when he Hell, maybe even because somehow, with the sixth sense he'd always relied upon, he had already known he was racing into a tangled situation that could very well end up hanging him. Brandon, though, was young and single. Utterly brilliant. And a rule breaker. He'd also been the closest to Lily, sharing an office with her, not to mention a warm friendship. Looking back, would he have done it any other way? Brought in the cavalry so there would never have been any question of whether Lily Fletcher would return to her life or cease to exist altogether? He didn't know. And it was too late to worry about it now. There were other things to worry about. "HeIp me, Wyatt." Her voice was faint, though he heard it clearly. Just as he had the very first night they'd spent here and he'd realized she was tormented by nightmares. The beach house wasn't overly large, just two bedrooms and a loft upstairs. Even over the churning of the surf and the gusty March winds, he had easily heard her tormented cries. Like now. He didn't go to check on her, to see if she truly needed help. Lily was physically fine, not battling any real demons, just the ones in her head. In the beginning, he often tried to console her, going to her, letting her know she was safe. He would whisper soft reassurances from the doorway of her room, not wanting to enter and startle her with the presence of a man reaching for her in the darkness. He knew better. She'd told him enough about her ordeal for him to realize that much. His voice often quieted her and she'd stop thrashing and moaning. He would remain there, watching her slowly drift back into a deeper sleep, the vulnerability of her features stark against the scarred head covered in a layer of pale blond fuzz. But it hadn't helped every time. On a few occasions, his whispers that he had found her and she was going to be all right hadn't done the trick. And at those times, he had known she was dreaming about something other than the night he'd rescued her. Those nightmares were more heartbreaking. She wouldn't talk about them, but he had his suspicions about the horrors she saw in her sleeping hours. Perhaps the face of her nephew, peering in terror through the window of a dark van driven by the sick bastard who had kidnapped him. Lily had, after all, been the last one to see him alive. She had even had to testify in the murder trial against Jesse Boyd, the sexual predator convicted of killing the child. Or perhaps her dreams were of a few weeks later, when she'd walked into her sister's home and found her twin in the bathtub, her wrists open and weeping blood. Such sights could haunt a person for life, drive them right into madness. Or into a need for complete, emotionless self-control. But her dreams might not have been merely about the torture of losing her loved ones. They could have been of the week she'd spent blindfolded in that old shack. Learning the real meaning of torture. She cried out again. He got out of the bed, crossing the room in silence, resisting the urge to continue into the hallway, to her door. He didn't do that anymore. Not ever. When Lily had been so injured, frail, and helpless, he had felt like nothing more than a friend or caretaker looking after a child. But she was no longer injured, frail, or helpless. And not at all childlike. He'd acknowledged that one night in July when he'd gone to her, only to have her wake up and stare at him from the bed. The full moon and the glimmer of the outside floodlights had brightened her room. Enough for him to see the strong jut of her jaw, the hint of angry determination in her expression as she brought herself under control. Not to mention the flush of color in her lovely face, the fullness of her lips as she heaved in deep, gasping breaths. Or the clinginess of the thin nightgown that skimmed over her body. Their stares had met and locked. Her breaths had slowed. His had deepened. Neither spoke, but their thoughts were communicated nonetheless. In that one long, heavy moment, he'd stopped seeing Lily, the girl he had liked and taken care o£ And had begun to see the woman she was now. Strong. Fierce. Beautiful. It was as if he were seeing her for the first time. He'd wanted her. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. Completely. God help him, he had wanted to touch her and pleasure her and give her one night of heated sexuality to replace the coldness of her dreams. Which was utterly impossible. Wanting Lily was almost as unacceptable as actually having her. He was her protector; he'd been her boss. She was a decade his junior and trusted him to keep his distance. He'd told himself all those things. But still, Lily's image had intruded any time he had even thought about another woman since that night. So, no. He no longer went to her room when she cried out in her sleep. After fiercely insisting she was strong and capable of looking after herself, and didn't need to be coddled, Lily probably suspected that was why he had backed off. It wasn't her strength he had doubted. It was his own. Frankly, he was also beginning to question his own sanity. Was it possible he was really considering her a suspect in the lily murders? "It's insane," he whispered, all the suspicions that had driven him here to see her this weekend having faded into ridiculous conjecture once he was back in her company. Ridiculous conjecture or not, he had a job to do. And ruling Lily Fletcher out as a suspect was chief on his to-do list. Ruling her in, he didn't even want to contemplate. He heard movement and leaned closer to the door, silent, quieting even his breaths. Lily's bedroom door opened. She stepped into the hall, her footsteps firm, as if she had leapt out of bed. angry at her own subconscious. But they faltered when she reached his room. Wyatt closed his eyes, his hand flat on the middle panel of the door, his fingers splayed. Would she knock? Would he answer? A moment more. She moved on. Not sure whether he was relieved or disappointed, he remained there, waiting for her to return. She had likely gone downstairs to get a drink of water, take a sleeping pill, perhaps. But the minutes stretched on. And on. Until finally, he needed to make sure she was okay. He moved silently through the house and down the stairs, expecting to find her in the kitchen. It was empty, as was the living room. "I'm out here," a voice said from the darkness without. The coldness inside finally registered, as did the open patio door. He stepped out to find her at the railing, staring down at the beach. She wore simple cotton shorts and a T-shirt and should have been shivering from the night air, but seemed oblivious to it. Oblivious to everything, really, except the sound of the waves and the newly lit cigarette in her hand. "Haven't quit yet, hmm?" She gestured toward the table but didn't look around. "That's the same pack I bought in May." The small package was still half-full. It rested beside her laptop, which was open and turned on, an Internet news page displayed on the monitor. "You know, before the nightmares, I never smoked a single time in my life." "I know." She'd told him once that on the worst of those nights, it was either light a cigarette or down a few glasses of vodka. Still on pain meds and antidepressants at the time, she'd figured smoking was the lesser of two evils and apparently hadn't kicked the habit. "I've never done it in the house." "I know that as well." Not that he'd give a damn if a stray match burned the entire place to the ground, once Lily was well and had no need for it anymore. He'd certainly considered it over the years. Just demolishing the place. But something had stopped him. Perhaps just knowing his grandparents had held on to it for him, never even letting him know until their declining years that it was his, still there on the cliff, silent and dead. He'd never come to see it before last winter. Nor, however, had he let it go. She glanced down, then wordlessly crushed the unsmoked cigarette into the railing. Finally turning to look at him, she admitted, "I guess conversation beats inhalation." He smiled faintly. "You ready to talk?" "Well, you sure had nothing to say at dinner." No, he hadn't. At dinner he had been too busy wondering how to break the news to Brandon that Lily had been able to get around whatever firewalls and constraints he had placed around the group's files. Not to mention how to get Lily to open up and tell him why she was doing it. While he was lying in bed trying to fall asleep a little while ago, the answer had, of course, come to him. "You know I'd tell you if we had anything on him." Her brow lifted, though her tone sounded unsurprised. "What? "The Lovesprettyboys investigation is stalled. That doesn't mean it will never be solved. You've got to trust me." He couldn't imagine how frustrating it must be for her, knowing the man who had attacked her had gotten away and had never been identified. Lily had never stopped believing he was out there, looking for her, wanting to finish what he started. Not only because he held her responsible for his downfall, but also because she might somehow be able to identify him. "Damn it, Wyatt. It's been seven months," she said, her anguish clear. Her voice, her face, her twisting hands, her shaking arms, all confirmed how far on the edge she truly was-and confirmed that she might do something crazy, like a little hacking, to get some answers. "How the hell can you still not know who he is?" They had leads and theories, but hadn't been able to prove a thing. "You know how these things go. You said yourself it would be almost impossible for you to ID his face." "Yes, but someone else could! The vagrant he picked up to help him that night. He was an eyewitness, for God's sake." "Not a reliable one," he replied evenly. "Just a drugged-out guy from the street who could remember only that the man who picked him up was Caucasian and middle-aged." Lily shivered a little, as if finally noticing just how cold and damp it was outside. "Let's go in," he said. She shook her head, grabbed a beach towel from the railing, and draped it over her shoulders, tucking her arms into the folds. "Why isn't this going any faster?" "Do you really have to ask?" He said the words carefully. The woman already bore a lot of weight on her shoulders. He didn't want to add to it. But he did need for her to understand. "The world thinks you "But you can't tell anyone that," she whispered. "No. I can't." Moving slowly to the table, she dropped onto one of the chairs. "Of course." Joining her, Wyatt noted the way she'd visibly deflated. "Look, it doesn't mean we won't find him. It just makes it a little harder." "Maybe I should just come forward, let the media make a big deal out of the FBI agent who faked her death, and let the bastard come and find me." Wyatt stiffened, not even wanting to consider that option. "You're not using yourself as bait." "Don't coddle me, Wyatt." He intentionally sneered, knowing the very last thing Lily wanted was to be treated like a fragile object. Besides, she wasn't fragile. Wounded, yeah. Weak? No way in hell. He didn't like having to remind her that she owed him, but damned if he would let her take unnecessary risks and lose everything she had gained. "We didn't save your ass, put our careers on the line, just so you could go out and get yourself killed." It was a cheap shot and he knew it. Lily flinched, but she also lifted her chin, glad he'd treated her as an equal, a strong woman capable of taking as much as she dished out. It wasn't difficult, because despite how much he wanted to keep her safe, he knew she was strong, his equal in every way. "Understood." She tapped her fingers on the surface of the table and dropped the idea, as he'd known she would. "The owner of the vehicle he ditched before he grabbed me, did you talk to him? Make sure it truly was stolen?" she asked, going back to the case. "She was a well-known, respected plastic surgeon. Very convincing, very reliable." The unsub had stolen a car parked at a ritzy Richmond hotel, intending to break into a house where two young children were supposedly alone, unsupervised. He'd found the children, stalked them, by lurking on a kids' community Web site. Those two unattended children had never existed. Lily had played the role of young girl irritated at having to babysit her little brother for the first time. She'd lured him in like a slimy fish on a baited hook. She'd called herself Tiger Lily, in answer to the handle he'd been using on the site: Peter Pan. The boy who never grew up. Sick fucking bastard. At least the one he'd used at Satan's Playground. Lovesprettyboys-the identity he had admitted to using when he had Lily in his clutches-had been unambiguous. It had revealed him for the twisted degenerate he was. On that January night, fearing a trap, the unsub had waited down the block from the undercover house, slipping a vagrant a twenty to scope out the place first. When he'd realized the whole thing was a setup, he'd tried to run, but he couldn't start the car. The closest vehicle was an FBI van doing exterior surveillance. Inside it, Lily had been watching, listening, waiting for the end of the investigation that had consumed her. The rest of what had happened that night had been thought about, talked about, wondered about, by everyone on the team and others in the bureau. Considering Lily's memories were fuzzy, he doubted they'd ever know the whole story. How, for instance, the killer had stashed Lily in the dilapidated beach shack and then gotten back to the bridge to stage the crash. How he'd gotten away from the crash site without being spotted. If, perhaps, he One of the biggest questions: Had someone helped him? He needed to know all those things. But the only one who could answer the questions was the unsub. At first, as he'd told her, Wyatt and everyone else in the bureau had looked for any Richmond-area middle-aged man who had disappeared unexpectedly the same night Lily had. They'd thought, of course, that he had died. When Wyatt realized one week later that the unsub was still alive, he'd still looked at anyone who was missing, likely in hiding. Then he'd realized the truth. The unsub might have hidden out at the shack with Lily for a day or two, waiting for any hint that his identity had been uncovered, despite all his precautions. When that day hadn't come, though, had the slime simply returned to his real world? Gone back to a normal life, believing no one would come after him? At least as long as nobody ever found out Lily was still alive. How he must have panicked when he got back to the shack and found she had disappeared. Had he been somewhere on the long, deserted beach himself that night, searching for his victim even as Wyatt and Brandon were rescuing her? It was possible. Because he certainly hadn't returned later, when they had been staking the place out. Wyatt imagined that, like a character out of a Poe story, the unsub was tormented by the possibility of discovery, the chance that his victim might have her vengeance on him yet. That waiting and uncertainty would be enough to drive a sane person mad. No one had ever called Lovesprettyboys-Peter Pan-sane. "Tell me what you have." Apparently seeing the instinctive refusal about to come out of his mouth, she urged, "Please. I'm healed; I'm healthy. If you talk about it, maybe it'll spark something and give you a new lead." He stared at her intently, unable to see the depths of blue in those eyes out here in the moonlight. The floodlights over their heads might brighten the cliffs and the stairs. But here they were almost caught in a small pool of night that existed between the house and her security perimeter. Caught between light and darkness, being in the open and remaining hidden in the shadows. Just as Lily was caught. And would be, until he captured the person who had tried to kill her. "Please," she repeated. Sighing heavily, he tried to give her what she wanted, knowing he could not reveal too much. Especially since he was currently investigating two cases that somehow involved Lily Fletcher: her own "murder"… and the murders of three men who had a lot in common with her attacker. "As I just said, the owner of the car was a plastic surgeon from Williamsburg, Virginia, attending a medical convention at that hotel." "Are you "She isn't a suspect. Just the owner of the stolen car. A number of people remember seeing her at the banquet at which her father received a humanitarian award that night, and her sister-in-law shared an elevator ride with her right around the time you were being attacked. We have the surveillance video to prove it." "Where was the car?" "It had been parked by a hotel valet." She immediately leaned forward. "Meaning the valets had access to the keys." He nodded. "But the keys to that particular car were still at the valet stand the next morning." "Hot-wired? That would indicate a certain kind of criminal." "No. Dr. Kean admitted she kept a spare key to the car in a magnetic box inside the fender." "Leaving a key hidden right on the vehicle in this day and age?" she asked, sounding astonished. "Good grief some people are so naive." She used to be one of them. Not that he intended to mention that. "Apparently, the doctor has a teenage son, a new driver, who has already locked himself out of the car several times." "What, and she never heard of OnStar?" Wyatt ignored her sarcasm. "When the vehicle was searched after your attack, that magnetic box was open, the key gone. It's very possible the unsub just went hunting for a car with a spare key hidden on it and struck pay dirt." Lily's frown remained. "Dr. Kean was very upset and concerned about being implicated in any way," he said, seeing she still had doubts. "She was entirely cooperative." "Well, she can rest easy, anyway. I know Lovesprettyboys was not a female." A bitter laugh escaped her mouth. "Though I did hear a woman's voice during those final hours I spent in that shack." Stunned, he leaned closer. Lily immediately shook her head, negating his assumptions. "No, no, it wasn't a real voice. Just one in my head." Probably her own voice encouraging her to not give up, to get away while she still had the chance. He blessed that voice; he really did. "Your own?" "No. A ghost's, I think. My sister's." Wyatt couldn't stop himself from reaching out and clasping her hand, noting the coldness of her fingers. He quickly pulled away, knowing physical contact wasn't what Lily wanted right now. She might never want it again. Besides which, it shouldn't come from him. "Don't be so sure," he said. "It's possible the unsub spoke with a woman, maybe someone walking on the beach, who had no idea he was holding you captive inside. It's one more avenue to explore." "Maybe." He got back to the things they knew for sure. "Dr. Kean claims she had no idea someone had taken the car from valet parking until the next morning, when she reported it stolen and found out it had been used in a crime. Since she was staying at the Richmond hotel, the police hadn't been able to use the vehicle registration to reach her at home the previous night." "Okay, back to the valet parking. What about surveillance video?" "The valet lot was full because of the conference. The attendants started parking overflow in the back alley of the hotel. No cameras." She reached for the cigarettes, drew one out, twisting it between her fingers but making no effort to light. "And the witness? Were you able to get anything from him at all?" "The vagrant told us the unsub had been wearing thick gloves, a heavy coat, a furred cap that disguised his features. Considering he was having withdrawal shakes after just a few hours of interrogation, I'd say that description was pretty good. He also admitted he'd grabbed the key from the ignition while the unsub was retrieving something from the backseat, worrying he would be left behind if things went wrong." "Good move for him. Not so good for me and poor Vince Kowalski." Special Agent Kowalski had been shot dead in the street right in front of Lily's eyes. "Brandon's been working on the cyber angle, of course, and tracked the computer used by the unsub to an IP in central Virginia. The ISP led to a Wi-Fi hot spot in a mall." "Sure. Why not sit in a food court and stalk little kids in an online chat room?" He hadn't been in the food court. Wyatt had gone over every inch of the mall's surveillance tapes. Wherever the unsub had been when he'd picked up the signal, it hadn't been within camera range. Sighing, she mumbled, "That's about all you know, then." She didn't ask about the forensics from inside the stolen van, or the beach shack. Some issues were apparently too much, even for her. Nor did she ask him about the other online leads, what other information they'd gotten from the chat rooms and message boards where she, posting as a little girl, had attracted the attention of their unsub. He suspected he knew why. If Lily hadn't been up here doing her own online investigating, then he was no judge of character at all. Every instinct he owned screamed no. But he had to make certain. He didn't want to spy on her, but he'd gone ahead and checked the mileage on the Jeep. He'd bought it slightly used and had a good idea of what the original mileage had been. If there'd been another several thousand miles on it, his suspicions would have increased. There wasn't, however. That didn't mean she couldn't have driven to the closest bus station, train station, or airport. He always left plenty of cash for her personal use. She remained silent, still, moving only the tips of her fingers on the surface of the table. Her nails tapped out a nervous beat, and she averted her gaze as she mumbled, "I've been doing some thinking." "Undoubtedly." Wyatt stiffened, red flags going up in his head. He already knew that when Lily announced she'd been doing some thinking, he would probably end up trying to talk her out of something. Like, for instance, this whole obsession with tae kwon do and additional weapons training. "We've known all along he was someone with money." "Yes." The unsub had once offered a small fortune to a serial killer to have his ugly fantasies enacted online. "And though he hurt me, he knew enough to keep me alive. To stitch me up." He already knew where she was going. "Of course we've considered all the medical personnel who were at that convention. We've looked into their backgrounds, investigated their location the night in question and the week following. We showed the witness photos of every registered male attendee we could get a picture of. Nothing." She waved a hand. "I know that." "Damn it," he muttered, wondering if she knew her ass might not be on the line for staying dead, but certainly could be if she'd been hacking into an FBI computer system. She came up with a quick explanation, as if realizing he was holding himself on a very short tether regarding his suspicions about her hacking. "I mean, I know you would do that, not that I Of course. "I was just thinking about it the other day, though, and wondered if I might be able to help." "How? Do you want to see the pictures?" "I've seen most of them." He closed his eyes and shook his head. "Oh, come on, would you relax? I'm not spending my days nosing around in your precious system, okay? It didn't take me more than sixty seconds to find out which hotel and which medical convention was going on that weekend. Nor to find a list of the speakers, honorees, and attendees. Most doctors have Web sites now, you know, and most of those sites have photos of their staff members." He didn't take the news as good or bad, knowing from the beginning that she would probably be unable to visually identify the man. "What I was thinking is, if we could possibly get any tapes or recordings from that conference, and I listened to the voices…" He immediately followed. "I'm sorry. I just don't see that working. It was months ago. You were wounded. And you know he was drugging you." She nodded once, undeterred. "Wyatt, I hear that man's voice in my dreams every single night. It is imprinted on my brain." Maybe. But dreams were tricky things. "I'd know him," she insisted. "Maybe six months ago, I wouldn't have. My head was too clouded. I was too scared. Now. though, I'm thinking rationally, seeing things with utter clarity. And I honestly believe I'd know that voice." She shivered slightly. "That cold, mocking voice." He believed her. No, he wasn't certain it would work, but he genuinely believed she thought it would. That didn't mean it was a good idea. "It could be risky for you, emotionally. Are you sure you're capable of doing that?" She leaned over the table, dropping her forearms onto it. "You might be surprised by what I'm capable of doing these days." Seeing the narrowness of her eyes, suspecting the soft blue irises looked more like hard, gray flint right now, he very much doubted that. The soft-spoken Lily he had known might not have been capable of swatting a fly. The woman she had become, on the other hand, appeared capable of just about anything. "Very well." Her expression softened. "Thank you. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it that you don't treat me like some fragile flower in need of protection." "You are in need of protection," he said, blunt and to the point. "There's a man out there who wants you dead. And you can't afford to forget it." "Don't worry," she whispered, haunted, weary. "Not one single minute of one single day goes by without me remembering that." Jesse wasn't supposed to take any unapproved documents back to his cell, and knew he'd have to hide this one before morning. That was fine-he had a few cubbyholes that hadn't yet been discovered during the weekly surprise cell tosses. If it was found, it would be confiscated and he'd find himself punished in all the little ways the guards liked to punish the inmates in this place. Yet Jesse had been unable to give it back to the lawyer after she'd let him read it. He'd carefully slipped it into his jumpsuit before the guard had returned him to the block. He'd just needed to keep it close. Keep it all real. For as long as he possibly could. He needed to keep convincing himself that it had really happened. That next week could really happen. That he could be set free. He read the letter again, alone in his cell, very late that night. The security lights spilling in from the rest of the cellblock provided ample illumination. His fat, stinking cell mate, who had watched while Jesse was held down and assaulted his first week here, snored on, but Jesse was still careful not to rustle the paper, to make no sound at all. Not even a happy sigh as he studied the words he had almost memorized. |
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