Kitabı oxu: «So Close the Hand of Death»

Praise for the novels of J.T. Ellison

“Mystery fiction has a new name to watch.”

—John Connolly

“The Cold Room combines

The Silence of the Lambs with The Wire.”

—January Magazine

“Outstanding…potent characterization and clever plotting, and Ellison systematically cranks up the intensity all the way to the riveting ending.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Immortals [starred review]

“Flawlessly plotted, with well-defined characters and conflict…quite simply a gem.”

—RT Book Reviews [Top Pick] on The Cold Room

“A tight and powerful story.

Judas Kiss moves at a rapid-fire rate…rushing like adrenaline through the bloodstream.”

—The Strand Magazine

“Carefully orchestrated plot twists and engrossing characters… Flawed yet identifiable characters and genuinely terrifying villains populate this impressive and arresting thriller.”

—Publishers Weekly on Judas Kiss [starred review]

“A twisty, creepy and wonderful book… Ellison is relentless and grabs the reader from the first page and refuses to let go until the soul-tearing climax.”

—Crimespree on 14

“A terrific lead character, terrific suspense, terrific twists…a completely convincing debut.”

—Lee Child on All the Pretty Girls

“All the Pretty Girls is a spellbinding suspense novel and Tennessee has a new dark poet.

A turbocharged thrill ride of a debut.”

—Julia Spencer-Fleming

So Close the Hand of Death
J.T. Ellison

For David Achord, who gave me the tools.

And for my Randy.

By three methods may we learn wisdom: first, by reflection, which is noblest; second, by imitation, which is easiest; and third, by experience, which is the most bitter.

—Confucius

Imitation is suicide.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

Contents

November 5

Chapter One

November 6

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

November 7

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

November 8

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Two Weeks Later

November 22

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Acknowledgments

November 5

One

Boston, Massachusetts

8:12 p.m.

To: troy14@ncr.tr.com

From: bostonboy@ncr.bb.com

Subject: Boston

Dear Troy,

All is well.

BB

Quiet, except for the pounding of his heart.

She was home now, the week of late nights at the office finally over. He’d been starting to wonder if she’d ever make it back and was amused at the relief he felt when he saw her trundling down the street, her heavy wool coat dragging her steps. He had been more concerned than he expected, considering the stakes. This was just a game for him, after all. A lovely game.

She’d walked right past the truck without giving him a second glance. A few feet more and she was at her building. The wrought-iron kissing gate was broken, listing slightly, ajar. She pushed it open with her left hand and plodded up the steps. He watched with his head bent, eyes slid to the side as she unlocked the door and slipped inside. She never turned her head, never thought for a moment that she wasn’t safe. Her millionth mistake this week.

He’d give it just one more minute, let her get upstairs. He busied himself with the package, the hard, plastic electronic-signature tablet, the straps on the box, all the while counting.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi.

Once he hit sixty, he followed her path to the door. He pushed his finger into the white button, heard the shrill bell ringing. A woman’s voice, tinny and thin, said, “Yes?”

“Delivery for June Earhart.”

She buzzed him in without saying anything else. The door unlocked with a snap and he pulled it wide, allowing enough room for the handcart to fit in, adjusting his cap lower on his head. He didn’t want his face to be seen. There were cameras in the foyer, he knew from earlier reconnaissance.

He thought about his target. He loved the way June looked. Brown hair, brown eyes, five foot six, somewhat lumpy, but that was just because she enjoyed her food and didn’t exercise. Not lazy, never lazy. Just…padded.

He’d watched her take lunch all this week: Monday was McDonald’s, Tuesday Subway, Wednesday a couple of iced crullers and a sugary juice smoothie from Dunkin’ Donuts. Thursday she’d stayed in, but this afternoon she’d gone for a grinder, thick with salami and ham and cheese, with a side of potato chips. He wondered if she would smell like onions or if she’d been considerate enough to chew some gum, or suck on a Tic-Tac. He’d wager the latter; June was a self-conscious woman.

Granted, she’d walked from her office to each of these places, but she’d passed the pita joint and the all natural juice-and-salad bar on the way. She chose the fattening food, and he knew it was because she was afraid to be alone but needed a defense mechanism to justify her single status to herself. He knew she sat in her dingy apartment, night after night, reading fitness and yoga magazines, dreaming about what it would be like to have a hard, lithe body, knowing that if she did, if she put in the effort, then she would be irresistible. And irresistible meant the paralegal from the office next door would notice her.

But she was afraid, and so dreamed only, her traitorous actions affording her a little more time. He knew she planned to join a gym at the beginning of the new year—it had been scribbled in purple ink on a list of possible New Year’s resolutions discarded in her kitchen trashcan. He bet she made that resolution every year. June was the type of woman who made New Year’s resolutions in November and never, ever saw them through. A woman who dreamed. A woman who would buzz a total stranger into her building because she never expected to be a victim.

His kind of woman.

The handcart made the trip awkward, bumping, bumping, bumping along the risers as he climbed. It would have helped if June hadn’t ordered wine—he could have carried a normal box up the stairs. But this fit the image he had of a delivery man. Safe and unassuming, too busy with his work to be a threat.

He was at the door of June’s second-story walk-up now. He straightened his cap, arranged the handcart in front of him, the heavy wooden box tied tightly to the metal. He felt in his pocket—yes, everything was there. He arranged his features into something close to a smile and knocked.

June opened the door, still a little out of breath from her climb up the stairs. She’d taken off the heavy coat but her scarf was still wound around her neck in a breathtaking knot. Face-to-face with her, he didn’t realize that he’d frozen until she said, “Kind of late for a delivery, isn’t it?”

Moving his lips even wider over his teeth, he said, “Yes, ma’am. Apologies, ma’am. Got behind today.”

“I never thought the damn stuff would get here. Put it over there,” June said, pointing to an uncluttered alcove just before the kitchen. The same alcove he’d been in last night, watching June watch television. She’d never known he was there, and he’d slipped out after she fell asleep.

He wrestled the handcart into the foyer and made for the alcove, reached into his pocket and depressed the call button on his disposable phone. June’s phone began to ring. He saw a brief flicker of debate in her eyes, then she shrugged and let the door close behind him as she started toward the living room to attend to the call. The moment her back was turned, he attacked. He whipped her scarf up into her mouth so she couldn’t scream, then picked her up and moved toward the bedroom. Might as well be comfortable about it.

She was struggling, so he clouted her over the ear, just enough to daze her. That did the trick. June’s eyes got woozy and the panic in them dulled. He stripped her down and tossed her on the bed, but took care in removing his own clothing piece by piece, folding the brown pants with the seams in, the shirt with sleeves together, then in half. He’d need to reclothe the driver, he didn’t want anything getting on the uniform. June was groggy but cognizant, and when he rolled on the condom and took her, she tried to scream and get away. But he was much bigger, much stronger, and she had no chance. All her wriggling made it go quicker than he’d prefer, but at the end, he wrapped the trailing ends of the scarf around her throat and pulled them tight…and felt another kind of release flow through his veins.

When her eyes bugged out he pulled the scarf tighter still, watching critically as her skin turned a mottled red, and the whites of her eyes began to fill with blood. After three long, excruciating, joyful minutes, she went completely limp beneath him.

He cleaned up quickly, the truck was sure to be noticed soon. When everything was in place, he unwound the scarf from her neck and tied it in a jaunty bow. He kissed June on the forehead, briefly felt sorry that she’d never make it to the gym, dressed carefully then left the apartment, locking the push button lock behind him. He was surprised at how quietly the door closed, a silent witness to the death of its owner and the stranger going gently into that good night.

The night air was brisk. Snow was coming. He turned up his collar and pushed the handcart in front of him to the delivery truck. He’d been lucky: the original driver was his size, and his uniform fit perfectly. He clambered into the truck, drove around the corner to a quiet, deserted cul-de-sac. He stripped, replaced the brown uniform with his own street clothes, struggled a bit getting the dead limbs of the driver back into the arm and leg holes, but finally had things in their proper places. He patted the empty-eyed driver on the head. Collateral damage, but necessary.

He looked out the window on either side. The street was empty, the lights off in the two houses that flanked him. He was confident he hadn’t been seen. He slid out the side of the truck and started to whistle, a tune he’d long forgotten. Strangers in the night…exchanging glances…

One down. Many, many more to go.

New York, New York

10:12 p.m.

To: troy14@ncr.tr.com

From: 44cal@ncr.ss.com

Subject: New York

Dear Troy,

Hey man. I’m on schedule.

44

The bag was rustling, damn it. He knew keeping the gun in the bag wasn’t a good idea. Every step he took, all he could hear was the crackle, crackle, crackle against his leg. How was he supposed to sneak up on anyone like this? And he couldn’t take the gun out and carry it properly—this was New York, after all. A cop on every corner, a chicken in every pot. Tourists every few steps, wide-eyed and camera happy.

The directions had been explicit, though. The paper bag was required.

The dog made me do it. The dog, the dog, the dog.

There. He was back in character.

A light snow began to fall. He knew it was dusting his body, his head, but he couldn’t feel it, he’d pulled a black watch cap over his bald scalp. He got too cold otherwise. He crossed Houston and jogged into Washington Square Park, skipping around a puddle. Crackle, crackle, crackle. Maybe if he put his hand in his pocket he could shush the noise, but no, he’d look furtive and strange walking with his hand deep in his cargo pants. He remembered the instructions. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Walk tall, shoulders back, meet the eyes of those you pass. No one remembers the ones who look at you. They only remember the ones who look away.

The dog made me do it.

He spied his quarry. Two men leaning close in to one another, one blond, one dark, oblivious on the green park bench. He felt his heart soar. Everything was going according to plan. Unbeknownst to their wives, who thought their respective spouses were at the gym—or a card game, or a movie, a late dinner, a meeting run long, terrible traffic—the men came to this bench every night. They sat and talked and dreamed together. Sometimes, if they were feeling terribly risky, a finger would softly stroke a palm, or a bit of pressure would be felt against a thigh. And on the glorious nights—the ones they both looked forward to the most—after a decent interval of time, they’d slink, one after the other, to a small, dingy apartment they borrowed for their occasional physical assignations, make hurried love, then disappear back to their lives. No one could know. No one did know.

Except one. And now two.

The dog made me do it.

He walked right up to them, the fornicators. The wretched, abnormal bastards. He stopped three feet away, reached in his pocket and pulled out an American Spirit. He lit it, took a long, hard drag and blew a plume of smoke out of his nose. He knew he looked like a dragon, did it again for his own amusement.

They hadn’t looked up. They were completely wrapped up in their conversation. He felt a moment of disgust—men weren’t supposed to feel like that about one another, it wasn’t right—but their distraction was good. He was just another guy on the street, taking a smoke break. He finished the cigarette, savoring the deep, husky burn in his lungs, then tossed the butt away into the bushes.

He glanced over his shoulder. Washington Square was strangely deserted. It must be the cold, or providence. The angel sitting on his shoulder squeaked. He ignored him, like he’d been ignoring him for the past six weeks. He was bored, and ready. Ready to have some fun.

The men leaned closer together.

He sniffed once, like he was deciding what to do, then whipped the gun out of his pants pocket. The suppressor coughed and blood burst from the wounds. Two shots, each to the head. They never knew what hit them. He crumpled the letter and tossed it at them, then fled. The sinners slumped together, gray sweats and red brains commingling on the hard cold bench, little spatters of blood dropping into the dusting of snow beneath them. He heard the drip as he left.

The dog made me do it.

He was a block away when his angel told him he wasn’t crackling anymore. Son of a bitch. He searched his pockets and found nothing but the gun, his cigarettes and the lighter. The bag had come out with the gun and dropped to the ground, he’d been too caught up in the furious noises the angel was making to notice. Shit. He wasn’t supposed to leave anything behind except the note. Shit, shit.

He snapped right out of character, panic invading his bloodstream.

The angel talked to him. Breathe. That’s good, man. Breathe. Keep walking. It’s just a brown paper bag, not like anyone can identify where it came from. He made a mental note to throw the receipt for the package of lunch bags away as soon as he got home, just in case. He didn’t want to leave anything behind that might implicate him. Orders were orders, after all.

The angel was on a roll now. Fucking dog. Who blames a dog? Some crazy ass motherfucker, that’s who. Dog made me do it, my ass.

He wasn’t a very good angel.

Behind him, sirens started. He felt the panic start in the pit of his stomach, gone watery at the noise. He needed to go. He needed to run. He started to break away, but the angel yelled in his ear.

Walk, homey. Walk away.

He stopped, and took a deep breath. Remembered the look of surprise on their faces. Turned to look at a bar window as the flashing lights cruised past, feigning interest. Just another guy on his way home, thinking about stopping in for one more drink. Smiled into his beard.

All in all, it had been a good night.

San Francisco, California

11:00 p.m.

To: troy14@ncr.tr.com

From: crypto@ncr.zk.com

Subject: San Francisco

Dear Troy,

It’s going well. Will be in touch if anything goes

wrong.

ZK

His palms were sweating.

He fought the urge to vomit, swallowed hard against the rising gorge. The gloves felt tight, itchy, claustrophobic. Defying orders, he whisked them off. Cool air made his damp skin prickle. There. Better. He tucked the gloves into the back pocket of his black jeans. His grip on the gun became surer, stronger. The metal was slick, hot in his hand. He’d imagined this moment for years. Now he had a chance, a real chance, to fulfill his fantasies and make some money at the same time. Save himself from the day-to-day grind he was living. The hateful job that laid him off. The hateful house the bank was taking. The hateful car he could barely make payments on. He was homeless, broke and hungry to try his hand at murder. The money would be a nice bonus. This opportunity had come at the perfect time.

Twenty yards away, two figures writhed in the front seat of a Toyota Tercel. A whisper of music emanated from the darkened vehicle. The windows were steamed, he couldn’t see any details. But he knew it was a couple. Teenagers, out for a late-night grope. Their names didn’t matter to him. Their lives didn’t matter. They were just props. An illusion.

He inched closer, careful not to shift the gravel. This road was neglected, full of ruts and dust. The close smell of stagnant lake water wasn’t a deterrent. The old road was commonly known as a lover’s lane, the perfect place to go for privacy. Only the moon lit his path.

Ten yards now, and the nausea was back with a vengeance. He paused and breathed deeply through his mouth, willing his heart to slow, felt the adrenaline pulsing through his body like the stinging venom of a million tiny fire ants.

It was here. The moment he’d been dreaming of for years. Finally!

He talked himself back. Remember what you’re doing here. Remember what’s at stake. Think of what can be.

That was better. The nerves were gone, he was caught up in the moment.

It was time.

He took the last few steps electrified with excitement. He pulled the Maglite from his jacket pocket, hefted it into place. He could hear moaning now, see the thin flesh of the girl as she rose and plunged onto her lover’s body. Over and over and over. He felt a tingle in his balls, like he felt when he was watching a porno. Recognized his nervous excitement for what it really was—arousal. Realized he liked that feeling a lot.

Using the blunt end of the Maglite, he tapped on the driver’s-side window.

A small shriek; he’d surprised them. Good. He placed the silver shield up against the window. Watched the boy’s eyes go white. A quick fumbling—they probably had some alcohol or drugs within easy reach—then the electronic window whirred down. Music spilled into the air. He recognized the tune, some old-school lovin’ jam. The boy’s spooked face filled the window frame. The girl retreated to the passenger seat, surreptitiously plucking at her skirt.

The boy cleared his throat. His lips were red and raw in the harsh beam of light.

“What is it, Officer? What’s the problem?”

“No problem,” he said, and squeezed the trigger. He caught the boy right under the left eye. Perfect! He hesitated for a moment, staring at the neat hole, astonished by the amount of blood that sprayed across the seat. The gun was so much louder than he expected—on the range, with ear defenders blocking the noise, it wasn’t ever this intense, his ears were ringing but he could make out another sound, someone screaming. The girl.

He was jolted back to the moment. She was fumbling with the door latch, damn, she’d gotten the door open. He moved around the front of the car swiftly. Reached her as she started to run. She was crying in panicked little grunts. When she looked over her shoulder and saw him advancing, she started running backward and fell hard on her bottom. Scrabbling crablike, her feet catching in the dry twigs and gravel, she tried to scoot away. He took the shot.

The bullet entered her chest with a whump and she fell back, arms and legs tangled up, eyes staring heavenward. It was a clean shot to the heart. It only took a minute for her to die. Her breathing labored for a moment, hitching as her body realized that it had ceased to be alive. He ignored her kittenish whimpers and stared at the blood. Fascinating: the viscosity, the color. He reached out and touched the growing pool; his hand came away shimmering with red.

He realized he had the most intense erection. For the briefest of moments, he imagined touching himself, the candy-red wrapping around the hardened flesh, and that was enough to drive him right over the edge.

Sated, trying to catch his breath, he stowed the gun inside his jacket and brought out the camera. He took fifteen shots, from various angles and distances, then returned to the boy and did the same. He glanced at his watch. Just past midnight. Time to go.

He loped off into the woods, along the well-trodden path that led to the lake, pleased with the night’s adventure, already thinking ahead to the next step. His nerves were gone now. He got to use the knife next.

Nashville, Tennessee

Midnight

Taylor Jackson started awake, heart hammering in her throat. She rarely slept soundly, but she must have been deeply under; she felt like she was swimming through the murky gray matter of her brain, trying to get the synapses to fire and open her eyes. Something had wakened her, something loud and close.

She reached her hand under the pillow, felt the cold steel of her Glock. Trying not to rustle the sheets, she drew the weapon to her chest, got a good grip on it, then bolted upright from the bed, gun sighted on the blank darkness of her room.

She heard the noise again and felt a chill move down her spine. An owl.

Shuddering, she lay back down and secreted the gun in its resting spot. She crossed her hands on her chest and willed her heart rate back to normal. The ceiling seemed closer than usual, moon spikes traversed the luminous paint.

Just this afternoon, her friend—if you could call Ariadne that—told Taylor the owl was her totem, her spirit guide. The owl would bring signs to her world. Not that Taylor really believed any of that mumbo jumbo; the Pagan priestess was full of warnings and prevarications. But hearing the owl hoot once more—that made three distinct hoots—she felt the dread begin to build. If she were to listen to Ariadne, she had to call this a sign.

She didn’t need an owl to tell her things were about to go south. It had only been forty-eight hours since she’d been forced to shoot and kill a teenage boy. Time was not healing her wounds. If anything, she was worse now than the day of the shooting.

She rolled over, trying to force the boy’s face from her mind. “Think about something else,” Ariadne had told her. “It will get better.”

That was a lie, though. It wasn’t getting better. As a matter of fact, things were devolving rather quickly. She knew what was about to happen. She could feel it in her bones. She didn’t need hooting owls or witches to tell her trouble was coming; her own gut instinct was on fire.

Her greatest enemy was finally making his move.

She stared at the ceiling. The Pretender, that psychopathic son of a bitch, had kidnapped Pete Fitzgerald, her dear friend Fitz, her sergeant and father figure. He’d held him and tortured him, but allowed him to live. A testament to the power the Pretender had, he held life and death in the palm of his hand. She understood the point loud and clear—he could take her. Anytime, anywhere.

He left behind a present for Taylor, a mockery of her abilities, and a warning, in an old Airstream trailer in the mountains of North Carolina. There was a note attached to Fitz’s detached eyeball, written in Hebrew. Ayin tahat ayin. The translation quite literal: an eye for an eye.

Fitz may be breathing, but he’d been disfigured for life. She had no idea what other damage had been inflicted, could only imagine the worst.

But she’d know soon enough. She was heading to Nags Head, North Carolina, in a few hours to bring him home.

She rolled over, the sheets tangling in her legs. She kicked at the whisper-soft fabric, let them settle around her like an obedient cloud.

The darkness filled her again, her mind still working in overdrive. The feeling that everything was falling apart, that she’d lost her edge, crept back in. The past two days had been among the worst in her life. Two days of recalling every moment in her head, the gun kicking in her palm, the sting in her wrist as she fired again, and again, the ringing in her ears deafening, the look of pure shock, and hatred, in the boy’s eyes. For the thousandth time she wondered, Could I have done differently? Of course not, he’d drawn down on her. Suicide by cop, they called the phenomenon. The disturbed suspect trying to get the officer to end it for him because he didn’t have the courage to end it himself.

Her mind shifted back to Fitz, to the pain he must be in, to visions of what it must have been like having his eye taken out. She prayed he’d been unconscious. She felt the gorge rise in her throat. Just speaking to him had dragged her out of her funk, momentarily. When he’d called, to tell her he was alive and okay, he hadn’t gone into the details of his ordeal. But he had given her a message from the Pretender, oblique and taunting. Two words, full of meaning.

“He said to tell you, ‘Let’s play.’”

She rolled back the other way, punched the pillow to get the goose down plumped up, then smashed her head into the softness. It wasn’t just the shooting and Fitz’s pain that had her disturbed.

Let’s play.

The Pretender hadn’t been terribly subtle. There had been phone calls to the house. The bullet and note left in her mailbox while she was out of the country, chasing yet another madman—always another madman out there, waiting to be found… The all-pervasive feeling that she was being watched. The lengthy silence from Fitz, his reappearance, was the real message. See what power I have, Taylor? I can touch those closest to you, anytime I want.

The Pretender wouldn’t be satisfied with hurting her friends. Not anymore.

Let’s play.

She wished Baldwin were home. His enforced return to Quantico meant he’d been away for the past two days. She didn’t realize just how much she needed him, had come to depend on his logic, and comfort, until he was gone. She’d been faced with one of her biggest challenges, had made it through just fine, but she longed to have him near. A small flash of happiness came over her. She’d see him tomorrow, if his disciplinary hearing didn’t keep him longer. If tomorrow ever came.

The clock read 12:17 a.m. now.

With a deep sigh, she got out of the bed. She pulled on a pair of black yoga pants, slid the Glock .40 into the waistband at the back. It was heavy, and dragged on the elastic, so she tightened the strings. There, that was better.

Her beloved pool table was just the length of a hallway away. Once in the bonus room, she turned on a banker’s lamp, the green cap casting an unearthly glow across the shadows. She flipped on the television. It was tuned to Fox News, and one of her favorite shows was on. Red Eye never ceased to amuse her; she especially liked the Halftime Report with Andy Levy. If she couldn’t cry tonight, maybe she could laugh.

She pulled the cover off the table and took her time chalking her stick, listening to the television with one ear. She racked, broke, pocketed the balls in turn, then did it again.

The owl affected her more than anything she’d experienced before. Maybe she’d finally bought into the witch’s insight. Ariadne had told Taylor she had no choice in the shooting, that she’d saved lives, that it was the right thing to do. She’d told Taylor Fitz would live, but be hurt. That Taylor and Baldwin were inextricably linked, and she could, and should, depend on him. Ariadne had insinuated herself into Taylor’s life, acting as a surrogate in Baldwin’s absence. So Taylor hadn’t been totally alone with her worries. Which was good, because she couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was collapsing around her. The Pretender was coming for her, and this time, he wouldn’t be satisfied with passing her in the night.

She didn’t know why he’d chosen this particular moment to act, to reach out. Why he’d chosen her in the first place, truth be told. He was a threat to her very existence, that she did know. Alarms and guns and protection aside, he wanted her for something.

Let’s play.

She broke again, the balls scattering in her vehemence, the cue ball sloppily careening off the table onto the floor with a thud. She bent to retrieve it, set it gently back onto the green felt.

Am I ready for him?

First things first.

She was going to North Carolina to collect Fitz.

November 6

Two

The Outer Banks, North Carolina

The Gulfstream’s flight attendant, if asked, would have been circumspect and silent, as befitted her job. She worked for the deputy director of the Federal Bureau of Investigations, and discretion was her middle name. Which meant she saw a great deal that mere mortals weren’t privy to. She saw her boss talking with other discreet and powerful men. She saw people transported who might otherwise come under scrutiny if they traveled by normal routes. She saw new widows and the now childless. She saw much, yet never spoke about it.

But the gray-eyed woman sitting midcabin in the expansive leather chair, a crystal-cut glass of Voss water untouched at her elbow, was a bit of a surprise. The flight attendant, whose name was Cici, had initially been charmed by the pleasant smile, mesmerized by the mismatched eyes, the right slightly darker than the left, like it hadn’t made up its mind to embrace gray just yet. She’d loved the smoky, Southern drawl that emanated from the woman’s mouth when she said good morning, the blond hair tied back from her face in a perfectly messy bun. Cici fingered her own limp locks and wished, for the millionth time, for some fullness, some body, so she could wind her hair up and leave it alone for the day.

She had been envious of the woman’s height, about six feet tall without heels, and her whole look: a flattering black cashmere turtleneck, black leather jacket, low-slung jeans and black Frye motorcycle boots. She’d seen the holster and badge attached to the waistband of the jeans and felt a mild shock of surprise: this woman didn’t look like a cop. But she was a cop—Cici knew from the manifest. A Homicide lieutenant from Nashville, Tennessee.

The lieutenant sat in the wide leather chair with an uncommon stillness—no fidgeting, no crossing and recrossing of legs, no drumming of fingers. Her hands were folded loosely in her lap, her head turned away slightly so she could stare out the window. This lack of motion left Cici feeling uneasy, and she tiptoed around the cabin so as not to disturb.

Cici also knew the woman was closely attached to one of Cici’s favorite men in the whole wide world: Dr. John Baldwin. Baldwin was her boss’s darling, and she understood why. His handsomeness aside—oh, those green eyes are to die for!—Baldwin was insightful, and caring. He was the glue that held her boss together, the son he’d never had. She knew that because Garrett Woods had told her so, once, when he’d been drinking something stronger than Voss water.

Baldwin had led men and women into battle, fighting the forces of evil that came across their desks, pushing back the tides of blood that swept out before their opponents’ wickedness. He was polite, so much so that she sometimes wondered if it was an act. Who could be like that all the time? So contained. So like his woman. She’d often wondered just what made Dr. John Baldwin tick. Cici was no profiler, but she’d studied psychology in school. His calm facade was a veneer, she was sure of it. He had demons, coiled and writhing in his gut. Guilt, and shame, and hate. Everyone did, right? Right?

She felt that same sort of fight going on behind the lieutenant’s gray eyes. Guilt, and shame, and hate. And if Cici wasn’t mistaken—remember, she was no expert and would be the first to tell you that—if Cici wasn’t mistaken, there was something else lurking in those loch-gray depths.

Fear.

Taylor felt the landing gear unfold and lock into place. The tarmac appeared beneath her, gray and chilly. The jet landed softly, came to a halt within minutes. Baldwin had arranged for his boss’s plane to collect her in Nashville and fly her to North Carolina. She had to admit, flying in the Gulfstream was a habit she could get used to.

The attendant opened the galley door, bid her farewell. Taylor wasn’t sad the flight was over; the woman was as twitchy as a deer in an open meadow, pale and staring from under nearly lashless lids.

She stepped down the stairs onto the tarmac, surprised to see little flakes of snow drifting swiftly from the slate sky. She could already feel it accumulating on her hair, so she shook it out and wound it back up into a ponytail.

Baldwin was waiting for her. His deep green eyes lit up when he saw her step down the stairs. He hadn’t shaved since he left her Monday morning, and he looked like he belonged on a billboard, a perfectly groomed-to-be-scruffy model. She felt that strange pull of desire deep in her gut, and the uncontrollable joy at being near him again made a huge smile break out on her face. He smiled in return, grabbed her by the waist and kissed her deeply. When they broke for air they both spoke at the same time.

“Was your flight okay?”

“Is Fitz here?”

They laughed, and Taylor said, “You first.”

“He’s not here. The North Carolina State Bureau of Investigations agents have him. They’re still doing a debrief, and he’s scheduled for surgery this afternoon. He’s going to be flown to Duke. There’s a specialist who’s been retained to help.”

“We have specialists in Nashville. Why can’t we bring him home?”

“Because the North Carolina SBI want to keep him in their jurisdiction for the time being. They have three district offices involved. This is a big case for them, a score. They want hands on him at all times. You know how it is. Besides, this guy at Duke is one of the best. They’re going to clean up the eye socket, put in an orbital spacer so the ocular muscles won’t collapse. Then they’ll transfer him to Vanderbilt for the duration of his recovery. I’ve seen Fitz, but just briefly. I know he’ll be thrilled to see you though.”

See me. That spike drove right through her. “His poor eye. Is he in much pain?”

“He was stable enough to be checked out of the emergency room and taken to the police station for questioning, so I’m sure they’ve given him everything he needs. He’s a tough old bird, too. He’s going to be just fine.

They said the damage was fixable, and he’ll be able to have a prosthetic in about a month.”

“I want to talk to him. See if he’d rather go back to Nashville. They can’t treat him like a suspect. It should be his choice.”

They started walking toward the terminal. The private airstrip in Duck was tiny, accommodating only the smallest of jets and single-engine planes.

“Any other news?” Taylor asked.

“Yes, actually. The harbormaster discovered Fitz’s boat. It’s been docked at the marina here for a week or so. He went to collect the rent and knew immediately something was wrong, pulled out and called the cops. There’s a lot of blood. The Nags Head Police found Susie’s body stuffed in the head. Multiple stab wounds.”

Taylor felt a wave of nausea pass through her. Susie McDonald was the best thing that had happened to Fitz in a long time. Taylor had liked her, Fitz had loved her. Her loss would be enormous.

“Poor Susie. Does Fitz know?”

“Just that she’s dead, not the details. He was there when Susie died, though, so he probably has some ideas. He’s in remarkably good shape, considering what he’s been through. Losing an eye isn’t life-threatening. Painful as hell, but he’s going to be just fine. I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it.”

“Does the marina have cameras? Did they see anyone leaving the boat?”

“They do have cameras, but nothing has been found yet. We’re early days, remember. I just got down here myself.”

Taylor watched the snow fall in graceful dances. It was gathering quickly. The forecast was for at least three inches, quite a lot this early in the season for this neck of the woods.

“The Pretender isn’t stupid, Baldwin. He’s trying to draw me out. Hurting Fitz is a guarantee. He knows I’m coming for him, and if I don’t, he’ll come for me.”

“Taylor.”

“Seriously. No more foreplay. I want to see the bastard bleed.”

He sighed deeply. “Which is why you’ve got a security detail on you 24/7 as soon as I send you home. I refuse to let him get his hands on you.”

“I know. You’ve said that before. I don’t need a detail.”

He stopped short of the terminal door and pulled her around to face him.

“You listen to me. I am not kidding. This is building to a head. I know you can feel that, too. We have to be alert.”

“I’m alert. I’m alert. Stop fretting.” She patted her waist, the Glock nestled in its holster on her hip, then reached into the front pocket of her jeans and brought out a single .40-caliber Winchester jacketed hollow point.

“See? I’m even carrying the bullet the bastard sent me. I’m saving this one for him.”

Baldwin’s mouth twitched, she could tell he was fighting a smile.

“What’s on it?” he asked finally.

She flipped the bullet into his hand. She’d used a marker to draw a lopsided hamsa, the hand of Fatima, on the casing. The eye felt like a talisman of sorts to her. It was juvenile, she knew that, but the action had given her great satisfaction.

“I have every intention of letting the Pretender know exactly how I feel about his eye-for-an-eye mentality.”

Baldwin shook his head and sighed.

She pulled on his arm. “Come on. Let’s go. What’s happened since your hearing? Have you heard anything?”

He hesitated for the briefest of moments, then said, “Yes. But not now. We’ll talk about it when we’re alone.”

Something was wrong. He was hedging. She could feel him pulling away slightly as they walked. The hearing at Quantico had been disciplinary—a case from Baldwin’s past—she knew that, but he hadn’t gone into detail. She was wrapped up enough in her own pain that she hadn’t pushed. Maybe that had been a mistake.

Biting her lip, she followed him through the tiny terminal building, through the glass double doors and into the parking lot. The State Bureau of Investigations had sent a car for them. She could see it idling, black and square, so conspicuously federal, the foggy condensed air shuttling out of the tailpipes. The driver wore shades despite the lack of sun. It was oppressively warm in the backseat. Baldwin asked the agent to turn the heat down. He acquiesced, then pulled out onto the main road slowly. It wasn’t icy yet, that would come later, but the snow was making everything slick.

The landscape was exotic and familiar at the same time. Taylor hadn’t been to the Outer Banks since she was a girl, and never during the cold months. Snow drifted down onto the sand: a mismatched postcard. Come celebrate winter at the beach. It conjured images of roaring bonfires, happy dogs running up and down the lengths of sand, people in warm woolen sweaters braving the icy shores. Of the North, not the South.

She was surprised to find it so appealing. She was a Nashvillian born and bred, which meant she both hated snow and revered it with the wonder of a child. Aside from the huge Christmas storm they had last year, snow was more of an anomaly in Nashville. Ice, sleet, yes, but these fluffy, prancing flakes were utterly foreign, and completely charming.

She didn’t know if she’d want it around all the time, to be sure. But this, the snow falling on the fine sand in silent whispers, felt right. Like forgiveness.

Baldwin took her hand and squeezed as if he knew her thoughts. He always seemed to be able to see right past her skin, past the bone, directly into her being. Granted, he was a psychiatrist, but this was more than having a clinical understanding. He felt the pain she was experiencing. He knew that every time she used her gun, another little bit of her soul stripped away into nothingness. She could only hope that if he continued to love her, maybe, just maybe, Baldwin could stop her humanity from slipping away.

“Have you been sleeping?” he asked.

She smiled. “The pool table’s been getting a workout, but I slept some last night.”

“You know I could give you something for that. Or Sam could.”

“Sam’s busy,” she said, looking away. “She has a lot on her mind. She wasn’t planning on getting pregnant again so soon. It’s a strain on both her and Simon.”

“Are you two fighting again?”

“No. She’s… I just don’t want to drug myself to sleep.”

Because if I’m out, and he comes for me, I’ll be completely defenseless.

Things between her and Sam Loughley had been tense lately, but Taylor didn’t want to share that with Baldwin. No sense in getting him more upset than he already was. It wasn’t fun to be in a spat with your best friend, especially one you had to work with almost daily because she was the chief medical examiner. She’d known Sam since kindergarten, and they’d fought many times over the years. They always made up; it would happen again.

The trouble had started when James “Memphis” Highsmythe, late of New Scotland Yard and the FBI’s new liaison back to his own group, had made a play for her. Taylor had foolishly flirted back, and Sam had called her on it. The situation was Taylor’s fault, she knew that. But the whole thing wearied her. She assiduously avoided thinking of Memphis if at all possible, confident that the little crush he had on her would go away if the feelings weren’t reciprocated. Hashing things out with Sam just meant she’d been thinking about Memphis, and the kiss they’d shared, and she just didn’t have the desire to go there. Not now. Not with everything feeling so damn precarious.

He took her hand.

“Okay, okay. How’d the session go with Dr. Willig?”

“Victoria? Fine.”

He sensed the lie, but didn’t say anything. After the shooting, all the deaths, all those blameless lives ended, Taylor’s commander, Joan Huston, had insisted she get checked out before she returned to active duty. More than the cursory checkup required by the department after a shooting. And that meant time with Willig, Metro’s department psychologist. Taylor had spent a grand total of ten minutes with the shrink. She wasn’t in the mood to hash through the details out loud.

She looked at the ocean, the roiling waves crashing on the sand, and identified a bit too much.

Recognizing that Taylor was through talking, Baldwin sank back into the deep leather seats and retreated into his own world to check his BlackBerry. She was relieved the interrogation was over. She was still learning how to share with him. She’d been alone long enough to learn true emotional self-reliance, and the fact that she had a soul mate beyond her childhood friends could be disconcerting. She still found herself holding back, not saying everything she felt. Dr. Willig would tell her that wasn’t healthy, but she’d get there. She was going to marry Baldwin, and soon, which meant allowing those last few barriers to be battered. Thankfully, he was a patient man, and knew her well enough to back off when he felt her closing down.

They were quiet for a mile or two, until the car turned into a shell-covered driveway, the entrance to the Nags Head Police Station. The building was as informal as the rest of Nags Head—weathered gray shingles, white trim, a second story as a defense against the inevitable hurricane season flooding. The car came to a halt. Their driver got out and lit a cigarette before silently disappearing around the corner of the building.

A slim man came out the main doors, waving in welcome. He had brown hair and matching eyes, was dressed for the weather in chinos and a battered tan wool sweater.

They exited the vehicle and took the short sidewalk to him. The man smiled up at Taylor in appreciation.

“Good grief, you touch the sky, don’t you?” he said.

She heard Baldwin stifle a laugh. If she had ten cents for every time someone commented on her height…

“I try not to fly too close to the sun. Nice to meet you,” she replied.

They shook hands. “Steve Nadis, I’m the chief here in Nags Head. How ya doing?”

“Lieutenant Taylor Jackson, Metro Nashville Homicide. I’m good. And you?”

“Fine, fine. Got a whole host of strange cops and a few Feds roaming the place, but we’re all good. Come on in, I just made some coffee. Colder than a witch’s teat in a brass bra out here. Snow. This early, too. Strange weather for us. Dr. Baldwin, good to see you again.”

“You, too, Chief.”

They followed him inside the station, which held all the classic cop shop paraphernalia. Taylor felt immediately at home. There was something about being with cops—she never quite trusted people who weren’t in law enforcement. Though she’d come across her fair share of jerks behind the blue wall, for the most part, she only felt like herself around people who had been there, who could relate to her permanent mind-set. It was what made her relationship with Baldwin work so well.

They passed a wooden counter and the office assistant working behind glass, then went through a rabbit warren of hallways until they reached the door that was informally marked “Chief” with a brown-and-white placard.

The comforting scent of roasted coffee beans drifted down the hallway.

Nadis gestured to two chairs facing his desk. “How do you take it, Lieutenant? I know Dr. B here likes his black.”

“Light, please. Lots of cream and sugar.” Taylor wasn’t a huge fan of coffee, it had a tendency to tear up her insides if she wasn’t careful, but she didn’t want to be rude. She was chilled, something warm would help.

Nadis disappeared, whistling, and Taylor smiled at Baldwin. The Nags Head chief was a bit like a cheerful firefly. Fitting for a beach cop. Taylor had noticed there was a certain mentality in some of the more unique law enforcement regions. It took a special personality to live at the beach full-time, and a specific kind of person to govern those free spirits. Her own chief would be an absolute disaster in a laid-back town.

Nadis returned with the two coffees, handed them out, then sat at his desk facing them. The liveliness had disappeared from his face.

“We don’t get a lot of murders out here. I have four good people in my CID, but I knew the SBI was already involved, so we gave them a shout. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Taylor said. “I would have done the same thing if I was in your position. Tell me, do you, they, have any leads?”

“I’m afraid not. Like I told the doc here, there’s a bunch of evidence that’s been collected, and the state boys are running the show now. Your friend’s been through a lot. Good fellow. I can see he’s been a fine cop.”

“He still is. I doubt this will derail Fitz at all.” Her tone was sharper than she intended, and she felt bad when Nadis declined his head in apology.

“Of course he still is. I didn’t mean that. Sorry.”

She shrugged it away. There were more important things to deal with. “How did he come to be here, in Nags Head?”

“We found him yesterday morning, early, wandering on the side of the road in his skivvies. Face was cut up. He couldn’t tell us how he’d gotten there.”

Baldwin interjected, “We assume they dropped him after they killed Susie. When the harbormaster found the boat, she’d been dead at least forty-eight hours, maybe more.”

Jesus.

Nadis rocked back in his chair. “A couple of agents from the west branch of the SBI found his eye earlier in the week, in that trailer near Asheville. It’s not a quick drive, over seven hours. His captor, or captors, would have had plenty of time to get him here. He was probably drugged.”

“Or he’s been here in Nags Head the whole time, on the boat. They found his eye four days ago. I wonder if the suspect just delivered the eye to Asheville to throw us off the trail,” Taylor said.

Nadis looked at her with new appreciation. “Now that you mention it, that does make more sense. Sergeant Fitzgerald was pretty nonsensical when we found him. We took him to the hospital, got him cleaned up. He couldn’t tell us much about what had happened, just his name and his badge number. He was in shock, of course. But we’d seen the alerts, called up to the FBI. Dr. Baldwin got on a plane down here, the SBI coots showed up first thing this morning, and Bob’s your uncle. That’s all we got right now.”

“Why didn’t y’all keep him in the hospital?”

“I figured you’d ask—our hospital is kind of small, and there was a food poisoning outbreak last night. They needed the bed, he was stable, so we brought him here.”

Taylor didn’t realize she was tapping her fingers on the side of her cup until Baldwin set his coffee down on the chief’s desk. “I know Lieutenant Jackson would like to see her sergeant. Can we make that happen?”

“I think that’s a good idea.” Nadis glanced at his watch. “Those SBI folks have been going at him for a couple of hours now. He’s probably ready for a break. But, Lieutenant, I need to warn you. He’s seen a lot the past few days, been through a lot. You may want to—”

“Chief, no offense, but Fitz is like a father to me. I won’t push him. But I would like to see him. If you wouldn’t mind?”

“Okay.” Nadis stood and gestured for them to follow him. The hallway seemed to go on forever, and led to a steel door. Nadis knocked twice as a warning, then inputted his code into a numbered lock, explaining as he did. “This is a secure area, we usually use it to let some of the local yahoos sleep off their buzz. We don’t have a jail, per se, here in the building, just holding cells, so this works for our needs. The corrections facility is a mile down the road.”

The door clicked open, and he led them through. A woman stood on the other side, staring into a window with her arms crossed on her chest. She was about five foot four, trim and athletic, with bushy brown hair tied back from her face. Her black suit was well made, and Taylor could see the bulge of a shoulder holster under her left arm.

She turned and saw the entourage, stepped away and introduced herself.

“You must be the sergeant’s lieutenant. I’m Renee Sansom, SBI. Hey, Dr. Baldwin. My boys are in with your guy right now. You want to see him?”

Taylor shook Sansom’s hand. “Yes, I would.”

“He’s been through a lot,” the woman said simply, then knocked on the window. Taylor knew it was a one-way mirror, acrylic, unbreakable, but for some reason avoided looking into the room. It seemed impolite to stare at him when he couldn’t see her. And with so many warnings on Fitz’s condition, she was starting to worry about him even more.

The door opened and two men stepped out, blue suited, wearing red-and-white striped ties. Two of a kind. They nodded professionally and the second one held the door open for her.

Taylor took a deep breath and entered.

Fitz had shrunk since she’d seen him last. He’d lost weight, his shoulders were hunched together. He seemed to be folded in on himself, protecting the kernel of pain that was driving him. Taylor knew he must be exhausted, and that hurt her as much as his obvious grief.

He turned as she entered. The left side of his face was covered with a large white pressure bandage, the skin of his cheek tinged with the yellow of Betadine, the iodine base discoloring the flesh around the dressing. But his remaining eye, round and dark blue, lit up when he saw her.

“Good to see you, little girl,” he said gruffly, and she heard the tears in his voice.

And then she had her arms around him, holding on for dear life.