He looked at his watch for what was probably the tenth time in as many minutes. He did the math, running the number in his head and not liking what he came up with. She’d been gone for two days now—nearly three—and he hadn’t heard a peep. Not one word.
From the living room he caught snippets of conversation. Miss Ettie and Christina getting acquainted. The murmur of the movie they’d put on after dinner. He’d gone out to the barn as soon as the table was cleared, heading straight for the radio. He turned it on and listened to it spit static at him for nearly two hours—far past the communication window he and Ben had set up. Long enough for him to be certain that as far as Sabrina was concerned, he was being kept in the dark.
He tried to convince himself no news was good news. That if something had happened to her, Ben would have told him. If something was wrong he’d know.
The only thing he knew for sure was he was about to lose his fucking mind.
“Back,” he said, commanding the dog away from the front of the door as he dropped his hand on its knob. For a second he thought she’d ignore him but then she complied with a soft whine, looking up at him with soulful brown eyes. Behind her, her tail gave a hopeful swish.
Pulling the door open, he stepped out on the porch, letting the dog proceed him. Watching her race down the steps, Michael sat down in the same chair Sabrina sat in a few days ago when Leon Maddox had showed up and changed everything.
He wasn’t worried about Livingston Shaw dropping down from the sky and he wasn’t worried he’d somehow work his way around the numerous precautions his former partner, Lark and Ben had devised to keep him out of Shaw’s reach. If Shaw found them, Ben would warn him. As for the chip… Michael had resigned himself to a sudden and inevitable death a long time ago. He reached up, pressing his fingers into his lower back. Feeling its smooth edges. The way the pressure he put on it dug into his spine. It was a physical manifestation of every mistake he’d ever made. Every fucked-up choice. Every wrong move—and it was going to kill him. The past year had been a gift. A stay of execution. He’d made Sabrina promise to come back to him but the truth was he knew he couldn’t stay with her.
Not forever. No matter how much he wanted to.
Avasa whined from the stretch of black that blanketed the yard. He could see the shape of her, pacing back and forth along the edge of the water. “I know, girl. I miss her too,” he whispered. He didn’t want to say the rest. That he was powerless. Stuck here with no way to help her. No way of knowing what was happening. If she was okay.
… My days of playing guardian angel are over. Been over for a while now… but I’ll do what I can for her.
Ben hadn’t been able to go with her but he hadn’t sent her alone. That worried him more than anything. Reese was a pilot, not an operator. Ben would see sending him in as Sabrina’s back-up the same as sending an electrician to fix a leaky faucet. Things like loyalty wouldn’t enter into the equation. People were tools. Like his father, Ben manipulated them ruthlessly and applied them appropriately.
That’s where he and Ben differed. To him, loyalty was all that mattered. Blind devotion was all he required. He had his own short list of people he knew he could trust to help her. People who would give their life for her if necessary. No hesitation. No questions. Her former homicide partner, Strickland. Nickels. Both of them would take a bullet for her without even thinking twice… but if anything happened to either of them, Sabrina would never forgive him. If it meant the difference between her living and dying, he didn’t care.
Standing, he walked to the edge of the porch. Beyond the eaves, the sky opened wide, showering him in the light of a million stars. It wasn’t the stars he cared about right now.
He could make out the stark, black outlines of the sheer cliff walls that surrounded their valley. Three days ago, it’d been his sanctuary. Everything he’d ever wanted or needed had been held within it.
A place he’d been able to build a home.
Now it was prison.
Something warm and soft pressed into his knee. He looked down to see Avasa looking up at him, those mournful brown eyes of hers aimed at his face. “I know, girl…” he sighed, dropping a hand to the top of her head to comfort them both. Shifting his gaze from the dog back to the cliffs, he re-oriented himself to the black that surrounded them both. Turning his head, he found the hard ribbon of road that cut its way through the valley.
The only way in. The only way out.
He ruffled the dog’s ears and the abrupt movement seemed to make up his mind. Decision made, he smiled. “Come on, girl—let’s go for a ride.”
20
Yuma, Arizona
“Where did you go?”
Sabrina turned toward the woman pretending to be her partner and studied her. Church wasn’t looking at her, concentrating her attention on the road she was driving down. It was just the two of them again. They’d left Santos and his partner at the crime scene, volunteering to question the witness rather than stand around and twiddle their thumbs. Surprisingly, it’d been Church’s idea—now she knew why.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said dismissively, aiming her gaze out her window. Large, flatbed trucks were scattered through the fields, carrying people in from a day’s work.
Liar, liar, pants on fire…
“Sure you do, Kitten,” Church said, taking a soft right onto a long gravel drive. “You’ve been on auto-pilot for the past twenty minutes.”
Tell her you and me are just getting reacquainted, darling. Tell her all about how busy you’ve been remembering all the nasty things we got up to together in the dark…
“It’s my first murder case in over a year,” she snapped, jerking her head toward the woman sitting next to her. “Cut me some friggin’ slack.”
Church didn’t answer her, at least not right away, nor did she seem stung by her harsh words. She simply drove on, choosing not to speak until they pulled into a circular drive in front of the posh ranch house surrounded by tall cottonwoods and sprawling paloverdes. Parked under one of the trees was a bright red Ford F-350 King Ranch. The truck easily cost more than her annual salary at SFPD.
“Look, you don’t like me—I get that,” Church finally said, killing the engine. “But I deserve to know if you’re going to have some kind of PTSD freak out. It’s just common courtesy, especially considering I’m being expected to keep your ass alive.”
PTSD. She’d been diagnosed with the disorder after her kidnapping and then promptly ignore her condition for over a decade. It always got worse around the anniversary of her abduction but for the most part it’d been manageable. She’d foolishly believed finding and killing the man who’d been responsible for hurting her would lay things to rest but she’d been wrong. Finding out the person who’d held her, tortured and raped her for eighty-three days had been her own half-brother had nearly destroyed her… and Wade had taken the opportunity to squirm his way into her brain and set up shop.
He started talking to her. Taunting her. Reminding her she hadn’t really killed him. That she’d only set him free. What was happening to her when far beyond PTSD. A psychologist would call it a psychotic break. Phillip Song had called it something else.
He’d called it a haunting.
This ain’t no haunting, Darlin’, and I’m no ghost—I’m as real as you are. A part of you. Inside you… right where I belong.
“Sabrina,” Church snapped at her, all playfulness aside. She sounded worried. Sabrina couldn’t blame her.
“I’m fine,” she said in answer, forcing herself to look Church in the eye before aiming her gaze past her, out the windshield, at the deep, wraparound porch that wound around the perimeter of the house, a pair of uniforms planted on either side of the front door. “Let’s just get this over with.”
She popped her door open and Church followed, muttering something under her breath. Church could talk shit all she wanted. No matter what she said to the contrary, confiding in her was a mistake. She couldn’t trust her.<
br />
That’s right, Darlin’. You don’t need her… not when you have me.
“Did you say something?” Church said, looking at her over her shoulder as they mounted the porch steps.
“Nope.” Sabrina stepped forward and in a gesture that already felt practiced, flashed her badge at the uniforms posted on the porch. “We’re here to question the witness,” she said, suddenly sound and feeling like her old self.
“Santos radioed ahead.” The uniform to her left said, reaching for the doorknob. “She’s in with CSU now,” he said, leading them into a spacious foyer. Saltillo tile, interspersed with hand-painted tiles, imported from Mexico. The walls, covering framed family photos, were painted a creamy off-white. The officer led them through a set of double French doors and into what looked like the main living area. Settled into a large leather armchair was a woman who looked to be Miss Ettie’s age, her shock of thick white hair twisted into a braid that fell to the middle of her back. Crouched in front of her was the CSU, dark head bent as she gently removed the old woman’s shoes, placing them in a heavy plastic bag. Her shoulders were held tight. Stiff. She either shared everyone else’s sentiment about the FBI or there was something about her assignment she objected to. Maybe she didn’t appreciate being taken off an active crime scene to gather shoes and take fingerprints.
As soon as they entered the room, a man stood to greet them. “Mr. Vega, these are agents with the FBI—they’d like to ask Mrs. Lopez some questions,” their escort said. Sabrina would’ve had to have been deaf to miss the tone the words had been delivered on. Respect, bordering on reverence, as if the officer was asking for permission rather than simply explaining their presence.
If he’d noticed the officer’s deference, Vega gave it no notice. “Of course,” he said, reaching out to shake her hand and then Church’s. “I think she’s in shock…” Vega cast a concerned glance over his shoulder at the elderly woman behind him. “She hasn’t said a word since the police arrived.”
Behind him the crime tech stood, evidence bag in her hand. “I’m finished,” she said, gaining the attention of everyone in the room. She no longer looked stiff, now she looked downright hostile and suddenly, Sabrina understood why.
It was Ellie Hernandez, Valerie’s little sister. She was here and she was looking right at her.
21
He’d promised not to hurt her if she did what he asked.
He lied.
Maggie lay in the dark, battered cheek pressed against the rough concrete floor, long gone warm under her feverish skin. She was bleeding. She could feel the sluggish weep of it drying against her face. Her back. Her arms. Between her legs.
Thinking of it—of what he’d done to her—made her want to curl into a ball but she couldn’t. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t protect herself. Couldn’t fight back. Couldn’t run.
She’d tried and she’d failed.
What he’d asked her to do was impossible. How could she give someone a miracle? She wasn’t God. She wasn’t anyone. But she’d done as he asked anyway because he’d promised…
I want you to give to Robert what has been given to you. I want you to give him a miracle. Save his life.
Feeling foolish, Maggie’d lifted her bound hands, dropping them onto Robert’s chest. The man standing beside her watched, his gaze riveted to the place where her fingers pressed against the sick man’s sternum. She’d been about to ask if she was doing it right. To tell him she didn’t know what she was doing but then her gaze traveled the length of his arm, giving her a good look at what he held. As a vet tech, she’d seen something like it before. Knew what it was used for. It was a snap-action bolt gun, used by ranchers to kill cattle and horses. Pressed against the base of the skull, once triggered, it would shoot a bolt, as long and as thick as a man’s finger, through bone and soft tissue and into the brain.
Maggie looked away, fixing her eyes on the wire wrapped around her wrists. The raw red rings left from where she’s fought against her restraints. She thought of the woman she’d heard earlier—her terrified screams, the keening wail of them suddenly cut short—and knew how she’d died.
She bowed her head and began to pray. Out of practice, she fumbled the words before she found their familiar rhythm. Her palms flat against the man’s chest, she could feel the shallow rise and fall of it. How close he was to dying.
Hail, Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, our life, our sweetness and our hope, to thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve…
She didn’t know how long she prayed but when she finally raised her head, she looked up to find the man beside her was watching her. As soon as she made eye contact with him, she tried to look away. She didn’t like what she saw there.
“You please me, Margaret,” he said to her, reaching for her hands before she had a chance to pull away. He led her across the room, toward the door. Relief sapped the strength from her bones, causing her knees to buckle slightly and she stumbled to keep pace with him.
He’d take her back to the room he kept her in. She’d sit in dark and wait quietly. She’d be good. Do as he said and he’d keep his promise. She’d get to go home soon.
But he didn’t take her back and he didn’t keep his promise.
Instead, he reached for the screen that stood across from the door. The one she’d seen when she came in. Thinking of what she saw behind it, she jolted backward, yanking on the grip he had on her. Ignoring her protests, he simply jerked her forward before folding the screen back to prop it against the wall, giving her a full view of what she’d only caught a glimpse of before. It looked like a sawhorse, the kind you’d find on a construction site. Harmless—until you noticed the leather straps.
Like the bolt gun, she’d seen this thing before too. It was breeding stand. Dog fighting was prevalent in the area and so was the brutal, disgusting practice of forced breeding. She knew without asking what he intended to do with it.
She pulled against the hold he had on her. The wire bit deeper, chewing at the sensitive flesh of her wrist. “You promised,” she said, digging her blood-stained heels in to the cement floor, even as she started to shake her head. “You said if I did what you wanted, you wouldn’t hurt me.” Her voice climbed an octave, taking on the same hysterical edge she’d heard in the other woman’s screams. “Please—you promised. You can’t—”
He hit her, his closed fist slamming into the side of her head. Stars exploded across her field of vision. She crumpled to the ground, stunned, a high-pitched peel sounding off between her ears, making her nauseous.
“I did no such thing, Margaret,” he said, bending at the waist to lift her to her feet. The sudden shift knocked her off balance and she tilted forward, gagging on the oily roll of her stomach and she pitched forward again, her shoulder hitting the floor with another dull thud. “I said I wouldn’t hurt you—yet…” He sighed as if exasperated and gave up on trying to stand her up. He settled for dragging her to the stand instead. “Unfortunately, suffering is a part of the process,” he said, lifting her again but only far enough to sling her over the back of the bench, looping her bound hands around the hook set at its top. “I hope you understand this gives me no pleasure, Margaret.”
He lied about that too.
She could hear him through the stout metal door, his voice penetrating the dark cocoon she’d wrapped herself in. He was talking. The rise and fall of his tone said he was speaking to someone else but there had been no one. She’d screamed for help and no one came. Strained and tore against the leather straps he’d used to keep her in place. The only person she’d seen had been the man who lay dying in the corner of the room where he’d hurt her. Listening to him, she slipped away. A final thought before the dark pulled her under.
He isn’t alone.
22
What the hell was Ellie Hernandez doing here? Not only in Yuma, but here—at her crime scene?
It took Sabrina a moment to realize while there was plenty of hostility in Ellie’s sharp gaze, there wasn’t an ou
nce of recognition. She was plenty angry but it wasn’t at her. She had no idea who she was.
“Thank you,” she said, shoving aside the shock of seeing Val’s little sister. “Find anything interesting?”
“She has blood on her hands—I think she might have touched the body.” Ellie shot Vega a quick look, the angle of her shoulders making it obvious she was not including him in the conversation. “I took swabs and I took her shoes to do a comparative analysis against the shoe prints we cast at the scene.” Ellie held up the bag she held. Through the heavy plastic casing she could see a pair of sturdy, expensive-looking leather shoes.
Beside her, Church reached into her pocket and pulled out a card. “We’d like everything run through our lab,” she said, handing Ellie the card. “Just call the number on the back and our guys will get you set up.” The lie was so smooth, for a second, Sabrina actually believed they had access to the FBI forensics lab. Then she remembered Ben had things like that—Lear jets that flew him around the world at the drop of a hat and secure, anonymous labs that processed evidence in hours, not weeks. For all she knew it actually was an FBI forensics lab he had access to.
Ellie nodded, aiming another look at Vega over her shoulder. “I’ll do that as soon as I get back to the office,” she said, tucking the card into the front pocket of her pants. If she didn’t know any better, Sabrina would swear she looked relieved. She thought of the way the officer had addressed Vega. Like he was the only one who deserved respect and deference. It was obvious Ellie saw it too and she didn’t share the sentiment.
“Did you know the victim?” She blurted it out, following instincts that felt rusty at best. Ellie would have seen her at the crime scene. If she knew Rachel Meeks, she would have recognized her.
Ellie shifted in her boots. She didn’t look hostile anymore—now she just looked sad. “We went to high school together,” she answered vaguely, shooting another quick glance over her shoulder. “I should go,” she said, making her way toward the door. Before she could say another word Ellie was gone, the front door slamming behind her.
The Sabrina Vaughn series Set 2 Page 43