by Cynthia Eden
She could feel Cash’s eyes on her.
Her fingers slid over the surface. Rough stone. Hard, unyielding. “In that story, Poe’s protagonist wants to get revenge on the guy who did him wrong . . . so as p-punishment,” she stuttered because she’d almost said payback, “Poe’s lead seals his enemy up inside a wall. And he just leaves him there to die.” Slowly.
Her fingers slid over the stone. Rough. Unyielding. And then . . .
Wood.
Wood that had been painted the same color as the stone. At first glance, that segment of the wall blended almost seamlessly with the rest, but Ana could feel a difference. She lifted her hand and knocked on the wood. Sure enough, she heard a hollow sound coming back to her. “Found it,” Ana said, voice quiet. “But how the hell would anyone get back there?” It looked as if another room’s entrance had been sealed off, boarded up, painted and just left like that.
And this isn’t a Poe story. “It’s not like our perp could seal someone inside and not leave a trace behind.” Hard to miss something like that.
Cash’s arm brushed against her side. She tensed, then forced herself to relax. He put his hands on that wooden panel and shoved in, hard.
And the damn thing just swung open. A door, turning on its hinges.
The scent of bleach hit her, stronger, deeper, burning her nose. Her nostrils flared as she stared ahead. It was pitch black inside that new room. And cool air swept out to chill her face.
“Our perp knew his way around this place,” Cash muttered. “Very fucking well.” He pulled out a small pen flashlight—and he unholstered his gun. His gaze slid toward her. “We don’t know what the hell we’ll find in there.” His voice was low, whisper-soft, reaching only to her ears.
Her gut told her they’d be finding plenty in the darkness.
“Stay behind me,” Cash said.
Did he think she was going to argue? Yes, she could take care of herself, but he was the one with the gun. So, by all means . . . Go first, Special Agent. “I’ll watch your back,” she promised him, her voice barely a breath of sound.
He gave a grim nod and then he was stepping inside. It was a tight space, narrow. His flashlight slid to the left, then to the right. It looked as if they were in the middle of some old hallway. Maybe a hallway that had connected the rooms in the basement? Before they’d gotten walled up?
He shone the light on the floor. Odd. There was no dust on the floor. There were cobwebs and dust coating the walls, but the floor appeared to have been swept clean.
As if someone wanted to hide tracks.
The hallway ended in front of them—it fed first into a smaller room, one that was full of old beds. Very, very old beds. Straps hung from the sides of those beds. So that patients could be restrained. A sweep of Cash’s light showed a door to the left.
Ana pulled out her phone, and she hit the button for her flashlight app. The air was thick and heavy in that new space. Cloying. Choking her. The scent of bleach was so strong that she had to cover her mouth.
Then they were advancing into the very back room. Cash’s light swept slowly across the area—
And stopped.
Just as Ana’s breathing seemed to stop for a moment.
She knew why there was so much bleach in the air—someone had tried to use the bleach to mask the scent of death. Of blood and waste.
Cash’s light had landed on the body in the middle of that room, the body of a man . . . who looked . . .
Fresh.
God, that was the wrong word. But though his skin had yellowed and his blood had congealed, he hadn’t started to decompose, not yet.
He died recently.
Cash rushed forward. She followed, slower. The man’s hair was blond and tousled. His eyes were closed. And . . . his mouth was closed . . . closed in . . . a weird way.
“What’s wrong with his mouth?” The lips were puckering. Still pressed together so tightly. In death, shouldn’t his lips have sagged open? It looked as if he were still pursing them. It looked—
Cash swore. “I think his mouth was glued shut.”
Her own lips parted in shock. In disgust.
“That way, he wouldn’t be able to scream.”
Dear God.
Her gaze slid over the dead man. One of his hands was cuffed to the bed that he’d been strapped on. An old bed, just like the ones they’d passed.
His other hand . . . it was open. And a knife lay on the floor a few feet away.
The blood had come from the wound at his throat. Deep, thick, it looked as if someone had plunged a knife into the man’s neck, and Ana remembered her caller’s cold words when she’d asked just what the perp had done to Forrest.
“Didn’t do a thing. He did it to himself.”
Ana took a step forward, then stilled.
Payback? If so . . . payback was hell.
Chapter Nine
The psychiatric facility was a three-ring circus. Patients were flipping out because there were so many cops, FBI agents, and crime scene techs storming the place. Yells and screams echoed through the hospital.
The staff was nearly as bad as the patients. They were all staring at each other with suspicion, everyone swearing they were innocent.
While Dr. Summers just watched the drama with desperate, shocked eyes.
Cash crossed his arms over his chest and studied the scene. The perp had been so very clever. Hiding the victim in the hospital, right beneath the staff’s noses. A closer examination had shown that Forrest’s mouth had been glued shut—freaking super glued shut—so he couldn’t call out for help, and even if he had made noise, no one would have heard him. Not with his being hidden so far in the basement. Not with the washers and dryers running to possibly muffle any noise he created.
It had been the perfect kill spot.
Only Forrest wasn’t killed right away.
Cash knew he’d have to wait for an official report from an ME, but he was betting Forrest Hutchins had been starved for days. Starved and then . . .
Then what? Given a knife? Given a chance to see just how long it would take before his mind broke and he decided to take the easy way out?
Ana appeared in the doorway. He knew she’d been calling LOST and updating her boss. He’d had to do his own updates with the executive assistant director, and Darius had sure been pissed. Especially when Cash told him . . .
We’re dealing with a serial. No other way to look at it. The caller who’d contacted Ana wasn’t bullshitting. He’d been behind the murders of Bernie Tate and Forrest Hutchins. And to pull off these crimes, hell, they were looking at one organized, smart killer.
The kind that was the most dangerous.
Ana walked to his side. “Gabe said he can have Sarah on a plane here tomorrow morning. She can work up a profile for you.”
He was tempted, but . . . “The executive assistant director doesn’t want LOST working on this one.”
“What?” Her eyes widened. “You and your boss were the ones who contacted me! You were—”
“I didn’t say he doesn’t want you, Ana.” And this was the part that was going to piss her off. “The EAD definitely wants you to stay involved. After all, the killer is contacting you. Darius isn’t about to let you slip away.”
He saw the worry flash across her face. “I don’t think I like where this is going.”
No. “He thinks you’re a material witness. He wants me to take you into protective custody.”
“That’s bullshit!”
Several heads turned at her cry. He winced. “Ana.”
“Don’t ‘Ana’ me like that. You know it’s bullshit, too. I’m not a material witness. I’m just the one this crazy jerk is deciding to pull into his web. Probably for the same reason you pulled me in . . . my connection to Bernie.”
“EAD Vail thinks the perp will contact you again.” And so do I.
Ana looked away.
“You think it, too,” he guessed.
“Stands to reason.” Her lips
thinned. “He called me twice, so I figure if he gets the urge to drop another body, then, yes, I’ll be on his speed dial.”
“You could be in danger.”
“Why? I’m not like his prey.” Her laughter held a bitter edge. “I think it’s pretty clear this guy has a certain type.”
“For the moment. But that doesn’t mean he won’t change.” He wanted to take her hand in his, to pull her close, but there were too many people around. “You are the link to this killer, and EAD Vail wants to know why. He wants you in custody. Hell, Ana, he wants me to bring you back to headquarters in D.C. so that he can personally interview you himself.” The executive assistant director also was taking steps to make sure that no call would come through to her phone without the FBI being immediately notified. Cash had already sent in a similar order, but someone had messed up in the chain of command. Cash was pretty sure Darius would be demoting that person and the screwup would not happen again.
On the surface, yeah, it looked as if this perp were taking out killers. The worst of the worst. But the EAD had seen things differently . . .
He’s proving that he can get to anyone, anywhere, anytime. He’s making the prisons look unsafe, making the hospitals out to not be havens. A killer who can attack like this—he’s a threat we have to defeat. And as soon as the press makes the connection on what he’s been doing . . .
They were going to be crucified in the media. So far, the reporters just knew that Bernie Tate had been killed after an escape. They didn’t know about the murderer tied to both Tate and Hutchins.
“Come back to D.C. with me?” Cash said.
“Are you asking me?” Ana eased closer to him. “Or are you giving me an order?”
Both. “Ana, this has to be done.”
She nodded. “So an order. Huh. And here I thought I’d been helping you. My mistake.” She turned to walk away.
Even with the eyes on him, he couldn’t stop. His fingers curled around her shoulder and he swung her back to face him. “You could be a target.” He hated the thought of her in danger. And, yes, if she was in protective custody, he’d be able to watch over her. Did she have any clue just how important she was to him?
“I’m not a killer. I don’t fit his MO.”
“It’s too early to know for certain what his MO is. The guy is calling you. He’s making it personal. Even without the executive assistant director’s orders . . .” They should be clear on this. “I didn’t plan to let you go.”
Her eyes widened. “What?”
“I can’t have you in danger, Ana.”
Dismissively, she shook her head. “My job is about danger. I can handle myself.”
She didn’t understand. The guilt would never stop for him, and if he didn’t do something to help her . . . “Come with me to D.C.”
“Still sounds like an order.”
Because it was.
She smiled at him. “Cash, you have to be more careful.” She rose onto her tiptoes and leaned in toward him. “You can’t make love to a woman one night, then take her into custody the next morning. That’s not the way things are done. It’s just bad form.”
He didn’t have a choice. I want you safe, Ana. And he’d do whatever was necessary to achieve that goal. Bad fucking form and all.
Could Ana kick ass? Hell, yes, he knew she could. But they were dealing with a killer who’d managed to abduct a criminal from a maximum security prison. With a guy who’d hidden Forrest Hutchins in the bowels of the psychiatric hospital, all without leaving a trace of evidence on any camera.
Not amateur hour. Something far, far different.
And the calls to Ana? They chilled him. A bone-deep chill. Because he was afraid the past might be coming back to haunt her.
And him.
“I’m sorry,” he told her, and he meant that. He truly wished things had been different for them. “There isn’t a choice.” Not for either of them.
He looked over Ana’s shoulder and saw that Dr. Summers was watching them. Dark shadows lined her eyes and her hands were fisted at her sides.
She’d been removed from her supervisory position at the facility. And Dr. Summers . . . she definitely had an appointment at the FBI’s office, too. There were plenty of things that the executive assistant director wanted to talk with her about.
Her hospital. The fallout.
And it was the kind of fallout that her career wouldn’t survive.
There were interviews. Dozens of them that had to be conducted. Ana wasn’t allowed to sit in on the interviews, though—oh, no, that just wouldn’t be the thing for a material witness.
Such bull.
So she had to bide her time at the hospital. Had to stand back and watch the crime scene units come in and search the area.
Cash spent hours closed in with the staff, grilling them all. Trying to find a weak link. Someone who’d seen something.
Someone who knew something.
But as more time passed and his expression became grimmer, she knew he was striking out.
So maybe it should be her turn to take a swing. The guards had proven useless. The staff was scared spitless. So that just left . . .
Her gaze slid to the corridor that led to the patient area.
That just left the people that the courts had deemed insane. And she was already cleared to tour the facility, to go wherever she wanted, courtesy of Cash. Time to take advantage of that clearance.
She was sure there were all kinds of rules in place about questioning the patients at River View. She was also sure that she didn’t care. After all, she was a civilian, so any FBI regulations or police procedures wouldn’t apply to her.
Her steps were soundless as she made her way down the hallway. Everyone was in such a frenzy, no one even glanced twice at her. She knew there were all sorts of patients at River View. Violent offenders like Forrest. And . . .
Less violent offenders. Individuals who had broken minds but spirits that were gentle. She saw a few of those patients right then, in the community room. They weren’t cuffed. They weren’t strapped down to anything. They were talking with a counselor as they all sat at a circular table.
Drawing.
For just an instant, she remembered the pictures that had been on Bernie’s walls, and a shiver slid over her. She pushed open the door that would take her inside. The counselor looked up, but Ana had been with Cash when he interviewed that man earlier.
Dr. Robert Mitchell.
So when Dr. Mitchell saw that it was her, he frowned, but then murmured softly to his patients. She observed them. Three patients. One woman, with long, long blond hair—it fell all the way to her waist in a perfectly straight curtain. She was thin, frail, and her head was bent forward as she diligently drew on her paper.
An African American man was to her right. His hand was moving in slow circles on the page, but he wasn’t looking down. He was staring straight ahead, and he seemed a million miles away.
The third patient was an older man. Rough scars—thick, red—twisted the right side of his face. When she’d entered the room, he’d tried to turn away from her, but she’d seen the marks.
He wasn’t drawing. A crayon was gripped tightly in his hand, but the tip of the crayon didn’t touch the paper in front of him.
As she watched the group, Dr. Mitchell said something low and soothing, then he rose and headed toward her. “I didn’t think the FBI was talking to the patients, not yet. Their families need to know—”
“I’m not FBI. And I’m not here to harass them.” She could learn plenty without harassing them.
“But . . . you were with Agent Knox.”
“I’m a liaison,” she said, ever-so-smoothly. “And I just wanted to see how they were doing. I’m sure all these people here can’t be good for them.”
“No.” His jaw clenched. “It’s not. It’s destroying their sense of security. And when word spreads that one of the patients was killed . . .” His blue eyes glittered behind the lens of his glasses. A dark sha
de of blue, turbulent. “Their world will shatter. And I worked so hard to bring them peace.”
Going on a hunch, she said, “Why are there victims in a place with so many criminals?”
He tensed.
“I know scars from a fire when I see them,” she murmured.
“But what makes you think he was the victim?” Dr. Mitchell asked, curious. “Maybe he set the fire.”
The scarred man’s shoulders were hunched. His chin tucked in low toward his neck. She thought she saw a tear glinting at the corner of his eye. “Because the scars from the fire—those aren’t what hurt him the most. He’s grieving. It’s plain to see.” She glanced at the counselor. “Who did he lose in the fire?”
“His wife.” Dr. Mitchell paused. “And his son.”
Her heart ached for him.
“I can’t discuss their treatment but their pasts . . . that’s public record.”
“Then save me some time,” she said quietly, “and tell me about them.”
“Henry started the fire when he left a pot on in the kitchen. He’d been drinking, a few beers with the guys, and when he woke up to the smoke alarm shrieking, he tried to get to his family.”
As she watched, Henry’s hand lifted and stroked his cheek.
“He didn’t get to them in time,” Dr. Mitchell said, his voice sad. “And he hasn’t spoken a single word since that day.”
“And the other man?”
“That’s Charles. Fifty-two-year-old man, with the mind of a child. When he was seven, his mother became angry with him. So angry that she hit him ten times in the head with a baseball bat.”
“Bitch,” Ana whispered.
The blonde girl jerked. Ana could see the woman’s high forehead, the curve of her cheekbone. Something oddly familiar . . .
“Charles needs tranquility. He needs his peace. All of the people here are upsetting him so badly that he can’t do his art, and Charles usually loves to draw.”
She swallowed. I’m sorry, Charles. “And the blonde?”
“Chassity is one of our newer patients. Chassity Pope.”
Now her gaze sharpened on the woman.