by Hinze, Vicki
“Why?” He lifted a finger. “No, wait. Let me save us some time and ask the right question. How did he sign the first note?”
She forced herself to meet Paul’s gaze. “Dead by Dawn.”
* * *
Paul pulled out his phone and started to key in a number.
“Stop,” Della insisted, covering his phone with her hand. “Who are you calling?”
“We need help, Della.” Paul frowned but didn’t touch the keys. “If we can’t prove this incident is case-connected and you can’t draw a connection from Dawson to you, then we’re dealing with an unknown. We need access and resources—and more eyes to keep you safe.”
“I know you’re not calling the Office of Special Investigations.”
In situations where ex-intelligence officers were under threat, that was the protocol, but they’d checked that box, if only unofficially, by his calling Beech. The last thing Della needed was the OSI digging into this. They would proceed as if she’d done something military-related that she shouldn’t have done, until it was proven otherwise. They both knew the drill. They’d worked it, and they understood the necessity for it, but it could put Della in a bad position with the military and hamper her in finding the stalker.
Paul stared at her through the shadowy light cast from the front porch. “We should call them, the local police and the FBI.”
Yes, former military members embedded in intelligence positions with their level of clearances were required to report all threats of any kind to the OSI, not to civilian authorities. But he had said all of them—OSI, local and FBI. She had to be wondering why.
“I don’t understand the FBI.” She kept her hand on his phone. “But please don’t do that to me.”
“You don’t understand—”
“I understand plenty.” Heat crept into her voice. “The OSI has been watching me like a hawk since I got the news about Danny’s death. You know I was a mess. Depression, grief—all that. I worked Intel, Paul. I know too much about too many things, and you know they don’t trust anyone who knows anything and is emotionally stressed. You call them, and the first thing they’re going to do is declare me a security risk. They’ll get my Class-C license revoked. Without it, I can’t do my job as an investigator, not to mention my carry permit. That happens, and if this stalker does try to kill me, I won’t even be able to defend myself.”
“Della, listen to me. Just listen, okay?” Paul paused, clearly hoping she would. “You know my training. You also know my sister.”
“What’s Maggie got to do with this?”
“I’ve protected her since we were kids. I’ve had to. But something happened last year that proved beyond any doubt, when you’re dealing with monsters capable of this kind of evil, one man’s protection isn’t enough. We need help.”
Tension crackled off her like hot live wires. “We’re not going to any of them,” she insisted, then fell silent.
“All right. You’ve got a point. The OSI would consider you a security risk, and probably would work to yank your license and carry permit until you proved you weren’t. But the blood on that knife tested human. Whose blood is it? And this stalker was in your home. He isn’t some amateur. He’s a serious stalker who could be anybody.”
“It has to be Dawson. He used the same words in the note.”
“Dawson is a mental patient. He could have told anyone, dozens already know it, and this stalker could be a copycat or someone who’s read about Dawson in the paper.” Paul winced. At the moment, he would give everything he had—his money, his ranch, even his horses and his beloved rottweiler, Jake—to not have to dispute her. “The fact is, we don’t yet know the stalker’s identity. This incident could be unrelated to Dawson. It could be related to me. I make a lot of enemies at Vet Net. It could be someone trying to get to me through you.”
“Doubtful. You help people reintegrate into civilian life after their military service, rebuild their families and find jobs. Okay, so some get irritated because you’re persistent, pushing for veteran’s rights, but they’re not the kind of people to inflict physical harm.”
“Not always true.” He let her see his worry. “You remember the Gary Crawford case?”
“The notorious serial killer. Sure, everyone not living under a rock knows about him.”
“Maggie was nearly his victim. The Utah incident last year—that was him, and he got away. It’s possible he’s your stalker.”
“Why would he come after me?”
“Because you’re important to me.” Paul clasped her hand. “Della, we can’t discount him. He left notes with his victims that he signed Baby Killer.”
* * *
Shock pumped through Della’s body. “Maggie was profiling Gary Crawford’s case?” She’d been an FBI agent, but she wasn’t anymore.
“Yes.”
“But she’s an artist now.” With her off the case he had no reason to hunt down Maggie, much less her brother, and even less reason to come after her brother’s friend. “No, it’s Dawson. He assaulted me. He bombed my mailbox and killed...”
Paul spared her having to say her son’s name. “Are you a hundred percent positive that you weren’t Leo Dawson’s intended victim?”
She lifted her hands. “I’d been in Afghanistan for months.”
“Did he know that?”
Della opened her mouth to answer but stopped short. Had he known? After a stream of home invasions, robberies and property thefts, the military kept specific deployment dates and names quiet to avoid making victims of those left at home. They even ordered soldiers to have their addresses removed from phone books. Dawson could have assumed the assault had kept her from being deployed. He could have believed she was at home and she would open the mailbox. “I don’t know.”
“So you could have been the intended victim?”
“Maybe.” It actually made more sense. Why would someone bomb a mailbox claiming to be protecting a child or use the “baby killer” slur to harm a child? More guilt layered on inside her. Dawson must have thought she was at home and she would be his victim. Oh, Danny. Mommy is so sorry. She crossed her chest with her arms to hold in the hurt. “Dawson likely did mean to kill me—” her voice cracked “—and my poor baby just got in the way.”
Paul clasped her shoulder. “I don’t know, Della. All I’m saying is that we both have enemies. Everyone in North Bay considers us a couple no matter how many times we tell them we’re not, so we shouldn’t just assume Dawson is your stalker. The reason for this could be tied to me.” The expression on Paul’s face sobered. “I hope not. But it’s possible, and the FBI or the local police could know something we don’t.”
What Paul hadn’t said was as significant as what he had. “You didn’t notify the OSI then—when you and Maggie were attacked?”
“Maggie was the target. I was collateral damage, so no. There was no reason to contact them. But that’s beside the point. I couldn’t protect her alone and—”
“This is why you don’t date much,” Delia interrupted.
The topic shift seemed to surprise him. “I see who I want when I want.”
“But you don’t date because you don’t want to put anyone else in jeopardy.” Finally their relationship made sense. He spent time with Della because they weren’t dating. She was safe.
Except that, while their relationship had started out that way, now everyone thought they were dating no matter what they said.
So why hadn’t he stopped spending so much time with her?
She’d have to think about that. Right now she just wished the idea of them being more than friends didn’t thrill her or make her heart flutter and her breath hitch. But it did, and that terrified her.
“Look, all I’m saying is we need help. This is complicated. Until we can prove who the stalker is, we need to keep an open mind. He could be anyone.”
“I hear you, but I have to say that this is too much like Dawson for me to really believe it’s anyone else.”
&nbs
p; Paul lifted her hands, pressed them to his cheek. “And I can’t dismiss that Gary Crawford could have found out what happened to Danny and is using it to get to me through you. I survived his attack, and he hates loose ends.” Fear flashed through Paul’s eyes. “I’m afraid—”
“He’ll kill me to hurt you,” she interjected. “I understand.” She slid off the porch step, stood up and then moved away from him so she could think beyond the feel of his work-roughened hands on her face. “Did your guy stalk his victims?”
“Yes.” Paul leaned forward, spread his feet and laced his fingers at his knees. “And he’s very good.” He looked up at her. “Whoever sent this package—Dawson, Crawford, some crazy copycat—he’s dangerous and smart. We need help to stop him before he hurts you.”
“I’m not opposed to help. I am opposed to going through normal channels for it.” Her chest went tight. “You have to understand, Paul.” It took all she had to meet his gaze. “I’ve got so little left. Going through normal channels, I could lose it all and gain nothing.”
Anguish crossed his face. “But, Della—”
“No. We need help. I get it. But we’re going to get it my way.” She took his phone and keyed in her boss’s number. “I hate my way, but things are what they are. I have no choice.”
He dragged a frustrated hand through his wind-tossed hair. “What is it you hate—exactly?”
“Bringing my dirty laundry to work.” Della stared into his eyes, motioning for him to scoot over on the step and make room for her. “Madison, it’s Della.” She sat down beside him. Sounds of the party flooded in the background. “Can you hear me?”
“Barely. The diehards are still going strong here, as you can tell.” Madison laughed, soft and melodic. “Let me get somewhere quiet. Just a sec.” A brief pause and then she returned. The background noise faded. “What’s up?”
No sense in sugarcoating it. “I’m in trouble and I need your help.”
“Can we handle it, or should I summon the troops?”
Paul apparently could hear every word. “Tell her to summon the troops. If this is Crawford, we’re going to need all the help we can get.”
“I heard him,” Madison said. “That’s Paul and he said Crawford. As in Gary Crawford?”
“It is, and he did, but we don’t know if Crawford is involved. It could be someone else.” She’d explain in person.
“Either way, Paul sounds worried.”
So, too, did Madison. “He is.” Della held Paul’s gaze. Beyond worried. Guilty. Sick inside that maybe he had led Crawford to put a target on her back. Understanding all too well that displaced guilt felt as real as earned guilt, she clasped his hand.
“I take it he’ll be with you, then?”
“He will.” It’d take an earthquake or a brick of C-4 explosives to hold him back—if Della wanted to and, honestly speaking, she didn’t.
“All right. Be safe on your way in. People are still dancing in the street. The mayor said this is the biggest festival crowd he’s seen in thirty years. We’ll be waiting for you in the conference room.”
“Thanks, Madison.” Della ended the call, locked up the cottage and then returned to Paul on the porch.
“You’ve been crying.”
She hadn’t been. But walking into her home had put her in a cold sweat. “You know I don’t cry anymore.”
“But you’re upset.”
“I am.” She rubbed her arms. “Wondering what he touched.” She shook. “Everything looks fine, but I still feel as if I need a bath.”
“That’s normal.”
“I know. But I still hate it.”
He opened the SUV door. She slid inside, onto the buttery-soft leather seat. “I hope you’re wrong. Dawson’s bad enough, but he’s sick. Crawford is...”
“A monster who likes to kill.” Paul’s eyes burned with worry, guilt and now regret. “Della, if I’ve put you on his radar—”
“Don’t go there. We don’t know, but we are where we are. At least we’ve got each other.” She buckled her safety belt. “Can you get me a dossier on Crawford, just in case?” She honestly didn’t believe he was involved. This smacked of Leo Dawson, but it’d make Paul feel better if she weighed in his concerns.
“It’s waiting for you. I emailed it while you were locking up the cottage.” Paul put the gearshift in Reverse and then backed out of the cottage’s driveway.
He was always thoughtful, prepared and protective. Della loved those qualities in him. “When you get yourself a wife, she’s going to appreciate many things about you, Paul Mason.”
“Yeah, I do good email. That’ll impress her.”
Della smiled at him. “You do good everything.”
“Thank you.” His smile broadened. “I believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Was it? Really? All he’d done for her, and she’d never offered him kind words? That was pathetic. “I think you’re an amazing man. The way you helped get me here and find a job and a place to live.”
“That’s just part of my job.”
So was talking her through the hard times. Being with her on the anniversary no mother should have to acknowledge. “You do it well, and it’s a lot more to those who need it.” She rubbed his arm “I’ve seen people you’ve helped, Paul. They look at you with such respect and admiration.”
“They were in a jam. Anyone could have done what I did.”
“Could have, but didn’t.” She stroked back an errant lock of hair from his ear. “You did.” A tenderness she didn’t want to feel filled her. It startled her. This was Paul. She couldn’t have these feelings for Paul. He was her best friend. And one of the first rules of survival was to never risk what you couldn’t afford to lose.
“Della?”
“Yes?”
“You get to me, too.” He spared her a glance. “We’re going to have to talk about that someday.”
“But not today.” She lifted her phone. “Today—tonight, I need to get sharp on Crawford before we get to the office.”
“That’s fine.” He looked entirely too happy. He knew she didn’t want more. She knew he didn’t want more. They had to keep things the way they were or they could end up with nothing. How in the world could she stand her world without him in it?
“Della?”
She didn’t dare look at him. “Mmm?”
“Quit worrying and just read.”
He knew. He always knew. She loved and hated that. “Reading.”
Two pages in, she was half-sick. Three, and she thought she was going to have to ask Paul to stop the car so she could throw up.
“You okay?” His face shone green in the light from the dash.
“You said he wasn’t sick, he just likes to kill. But this man is truly one sick puppy.”
“What page are you on?”
“Three.”
He grimaced. “You haven’t gotten to the really bad stuff yet.”
Della felt the blood drain from her face. How much worse could it get?
She didn’t want to know. She really didn’t. But if he could be her stalker...
Clasping Paul’s hand, she turned to page four.
* * *
While the street was still full of festival celebrators, the reception area of Lost, Inc., had been cleared of people. The door chime echoed through the empty downstairs. Moments later, Jimmy, the most junior investigator and chief gofer, called down from the top of the stairs to the second floor. “We’re upstairs in the conference room, Della.”
She looked back at Paul. “I wish I felt better about this. Are we making a mistake? If it is Dawson or Crawford, we could be making targets of these people, too.”
Paul paused on the steps. “You’ve seen Dawson’s work. I’ve seen Crawford’s. If we could do it alone, we would. We can’t.”
He was right. She didn’t have to like it, but she would have to be crazy not to admit it. They walked down the narrow hall and into the conference room.
Madison was seated at the head of the long wooden table near the window. Her assistant, Mrs. Renault, sat to her right, and Doc, the agency’s doctor-turned-investigator, next to Mrs. Renault. Jimmy couldn’t take his regular seat to Madison’s left—a man Della had not met sat in it. She stilled, shooting a worried look at Paul and whispered, “Who is he?” With his shaggy golden-brown hair and full jaw colored by five o’clock shadow, he couldn’t be active-duty military.
“Captain Grant Deaver, an OSI officer from the base.”
The hair on Della’s neck stood on end. Had Major Beech reported what had happened at her cottage? “What’s he doing here?”
Paul didn’t look any happier about Deaver being present than Della. “I have no idea.” He sent Madison a questioning look.
“Come and sit down.” Madison smoothed her long blond hair back from her face. “Grant recently left the military and, knowing his qualifications, I snapped him up. He’s on staff here now with the rest of us.”
An odd feeling pitted Della’s stomach. Madison said the right things, but the look in her eye was at odds with her words. Something was off. Why had she really hired Grant Deaver? Unsure, Della took her seat, and Paul sat down beside her.
Mrs. Renault, svelte and sophisticated in all things at all times, opened her notebook and poised her pen, prepared to go. She had the best electronic equipment money could buy—Madison would accept nothing less—and Mrs. Renault used it. But she also still took notes by hand for her backup copy. That determination to cover all bases made her an excellent assistant for Madison as well as a fountain of information for the rest of the staff. The woman seemed to know everything about everything and everyone.
“Della, you said you were in trouble and needed our help.” Madison leaned back in her high-back chair. “Why don’t you tell us what’s going on?”
For the next fifteen minutes, Della briefed them on Leo Dawson and the events from her past, all the way up to receiving the package tonight. It was more information than she had ever given anyone except Paul, and given a choice, she’d have elected to have a root canal without anesthetic over baring her soul to her coworkers now. But Dawson had been in her house. Or Crawford. Or someone else. And that changed everything.