by CJ Lyons
"Judge took a long lunch, otherwise I'd have gotten back to you sooner. Right now I'm looking at a free Russian waltzing his way down the courthouse steps."
Caitlyn leaned against the door. Her headache pounded so loud she could barely hear Royal. The smell of carnations was overpowering. "You're right there with him?"
"About ten feet away. You want a picture? Hang on." There was a pause. "Did it come through?"
Caitlyn squinted at her phone's screen. A few moments later a slightly fuzzy picture of a man dressed in a black suit with a black shirt and red tie appeared. "That's Korsakov? The monster you were telling me about? But he's so—"
"Short. Pale. Ordinary. I know. Hey, they can't all be tall, beautiful black men like me. We can't follow him, we don't have probable cause for any surveillance, but I can tell you he's headed your way."
"What's that?"
"He's booked on a flight into Kennedy, will be arriving tomorrow morning." Royal's voice grew serious—something that rarely happened in Caitlyn's experience. "Don't you mess with this guy, Cat. He's one sick, twisted bastard. I don't know what the hell you've got yourself in, but you get one whiff that Korsakov's anywhere near and I want you to promise me you'll take off running."
"I can take care of myself," she said. It was difficult to force the words out, her stomach was in such upheaval that she had slid halfway down the door. "Bye."
"No, wait! I mean it. Caitlyn don't you dare hang up—"
His voice died as she fumbled the End button on the phone. Her vision blurred with pain. She debated between simply falling the rest of the way to the floor and trying to force herself up, escaping from the room. There were carnations everywhere she looked: lined along the walls, cascading over the closed casket in the center of the room, hemming her in on all sides.
Pain stampeded over her. She was awash in the stench of carnations, being pulled under, drowning, unable to breathe, to think, to see. Her vision darkened to a too-bright pinhole of stabbing light. Her stomach clenched and the room spun around her.
All she could do was blindly reach out, searching for something, anything to hold onto as she fell into an oblivion of pain.
Her fingers clamped onto a man's arm. Hal, the name came from somewhere in the dim recesses of her brain. His face swam before her blurred vision, creased in concern.
Merton's voice stabbed into her brain. "What's wrong with her? Did she faint?" He sounded excited by the prospect.
His voice boomed then faded as Caitlyn felt her body shrink. Everything around her became monstrously large, towering over her like she was an ant crawling on the ground, looking up at the monsters intent on stamping out its life.
She closed her eyes against the vertigo, the pain pounding against her barriers until she fled to the far recesses of her memory.
Nine, she'd been nine then. Drowning in carnations: white, pink, brilliant red, they surrounded her on all sides, spilling out from buckets as she hid, cowered beneath the table in the rear of the funeral home.
Two pairs of stout, stocking clad legs blocked her escape. She wanted to scream, to cry, to just be alone, but she was trapped. She clamped her hands over her mouth, breathing through her nose, awash in the sickly sweet scent of funeral flowers.
"Too good for the likes of him, I tell you," one of the women said, green leaves and stems flying below the table top and into Caitlyn's field of vision as she spoke. "Always knew no good would come of him. She's lucky they're even letting her hold a Christian service. Of course he'll be cremated—can't be buried in consecrated ground."
"No viewing?" the second woman's voice, higher pitched and cruel in its rapacious curiosity, echoed above Caitlyn's hiding place.
"Willa! The man blew half his face off!"
"It was the daughter who found him?"
"She weren't supposed to be there—typical though." The woman clucked in disapproval. "Stubborn that one. Just like her father, she is. I had her in my Sunday school class and she stood up and argued with me about the miracle of the loaves and fishes. Eight years old and blaspheming to my face!"
"It's that red hair. What did you do?"
"I slapped her, couldn't help myself, she shocked me so. I took her by her hair and dragged her out to Pastor Paul. The girl refused to apologize, insisted she was right, her momma was about in tears with shame. Then the father stormed in, yells at me to take my hands off his child and gathers her in his arms, carries her out."
"You're kidding."
"Pastor Paul was speechless. And you know the worse? The girl looked back at me and smiled the most evil grin you've ever seen. I tell you, the devil is in that girl."
"Her poor momma."
"Mark my words, she'll come to an evil end. Just like her father."
The witches' voices faded into the past, where they belonged. Replacing them was Hal's soothing tone, coming from a distance, barely audible over the pounding in her brain. "You're all right, now. Just relax."
With the suddenness of a lightning strike, the pain collapsed, returning Caitlyn to her senses. She was bent double, vomiting into a trash bin, Hal's hands supporting her, holding her hair out of her face.
She blinked. They were outside, behind the mortuary. The early evening sun shimmered off the asphalt drive, there was a small glade of trees and bushes beyond.
"You okay now?" Hal asked. He raised her up, the hinged lid of the trash bin closing with a bang that made her wince.
The headache wasn't vanquished—merely maneuvering to out-flank her. It gathered strength at the edge of her mind. She shook her head, instantly regretting the small movement.
"Get me out of here." Each word cost her ground, the headache advancing relentlessly.
Hal straightened, looked past her to his truck, then hugged her against his body, half-carrying her in the other direction. "Come with me," he said, his voice beginning to recede into roiling mists of pain. "I know what you need."
He led her past a sign reading: Serenity Grove. Caitlyn stumbled as her vision blurred with bright flashing lights, laser beams burning holes in her brain. She squeezed her eyes shut against the assault, allowing him to lead her along a mulched path.
The sounds of water reverberated in time with the thunder and lightning storming through her mind, sweeping aside all conscious thought as she surrendered to the pain. Her body crumbled but didn't hit the ground, rather it felt as if she floated down to land on a soft, grassy pillow. She curled up into a fetal position, hands fisted over her eyes, but still the fading sunlight crept in, a sneak attack of scarlet pain.
Her whimpers of pain mixed with the roar of water. Her face pressed against the ground, the sweet scent of damp earth and grass mixing with the burnt-flesh odor accompanying her migraine.
Her body arched, trying to curl tighter into a smaller target, but the pain only gained in intensity. She reached a hand out blindly.
"My bag," she moaned, the two syllables costing her dearly.
The earth quaked as her purse thudded to the ground beside her. A shadow passed over her and she dared to squint her eyes open, her hand still fumbling, reaching for the salvation hidden within the leather confines. Through a scarlet haze of pain she watched as a man's hands, grown large and spindly as an ogre's in her distorted vision, reached into her purse.
Her gun, he had her gun. Fear sliced into her, fueling her torment. It's okay, he's one of us, a brother in arms, a whisper tried to reassure her, but it quickly died away. Caitlyn's hand slapped against the earth as she reached for her weapon and fell short. She couldn't trust him, shouldn't trust him.
Soon her credentials joined the Glock, their leather cover gleaming in the sunlight.
"What have we here?" Hal's voice came from a distance mountaintop, thundering down at her like Zeus hurling a lightning bolt. "Sumtriptyline. Phenergan. Toradol. Fiorcet." He paused. She tried to turn her head, to meet his gaze, plead her case, but she didn't have the strength. "I'm going to assume you have a legit prescription for these, seeing
as you have enough to kill a horse."
He dropped the purse and walked away, his shadow abandoning her to the cruel sunlight. She cried out, pulling her head down again, trying her best to bury herself beneath the cool soil.
The ground shook as his footsteps returned, each step exploding a landmine in her brain. Sweat poured out of her, smothering her in a sour stench of fear and loathing. Her gun, where was her gun? she thought, her last remnants of sanity cowering beneath the onslaught.
Last chance, last resort.
Like father, like daughter.
Her hand shot out, groping for the familiar, comforting grip of her Glock.
Instead she found a man's hand. He moved behind her, wrapped his arms around her and lifted her into his lap. Her hands covered her face, shielding them from the cruel sunbeams, her forehead resting against the ground. Gathering her hair in his hand, he slid a cool, wet cloth over her exposed neck, circling around to her cheeks, easing it between her hands.
"It's okay, just breathe," he whispered. Explosions of pain blew apart the words, almost destroying their meaning, but some primal part of Caitlyn's brain still had the will to fight back. She took a breath.
First one, then another. The stink of burnt flesh receded, replaced by lavender.
His fingers stroked her neck, massaging away the tension there, then moved up to her scalp. She shuddered and cried out when he touched the scar buried beneath the hair on the right side of her scalp.
"Sorry, I'm sorry." The sound of rippling water and his touch returned, now accompanied by cool, soothing tendrils of water that he skimmed across her flesh. The flames burning through her consciousness began to subside, leaving Caitlyn in a smoldering wasteland of smoke, a minefield of torment. One wrong step and the pain would blast her to smithereens.
But it was her only chance for escape.
She inched her mind forward, trying to follow the trial he blazed. His fingers, cool, soothing, trailing droplets of water, moved down her shoulders, along her spine. Her sleeveless blouse buttoned in the back. He undid the buttons, unsnapped her bra. A welcome breeze combined with his touch to cool her fevered, sweat-slicked skin. His fingers continued their magic, kneading, massaging, chasing the pain from her tortured muscles, working their way back up to her scalp. This time his touch brought no further onslaught as he smoothed the puckered scar tissue above her ear.
Caitlyn felt as if she were floating, the pain easing from her, releasing her. Her hands relaxed, she opened her eyes and, when the fading sunlight didn't bring a fresh bout of pain, dared to turn her head. She was lying on a wet bandanna, a cluster of crushed lavender and other herbs in the center of it.
She drew her breath in, relishing the chance to finally fill her lungs. Still, his hands didn't stop. Her blouse and bra fell, exposing her to anyone, but there was no one except her and Hal. The only sound was the cheerful tinkle of a fountain to their left.
"Thank you." Her words came in a strained whisper as if the torrent of pain had shredded her vocal cords.
"Was it a brain tumor?" he asked, his fingers skimming her scar. "My wife—" He cleared his throat. "She had headaches like yours. Medulloblastoma, nothing helped—"
She tilted her head, looking at him upside down and tried her best to give him a comforting smile. "I'm sorry. Sorry that either of you had to go through that."
"She's gone now." He wasn't looking at her, his gaze raised up, fixed on a spot far past the tree tops. "Been gone awhile now."
He rocked back on his heels, his hands sliding away from her body. Caitlyn missed his soothing touch immediately. She gathered her strength and slowly sat up. Twisting her body, she knelt before him. "Thank you."
His eyes met hers and she was surprised to see him blush. "Sorry. Didn't mean to get so personal." His gaze flicked down her body, to her partially exposed breasts. "Just, that was the only way I could help Lily. Thought it might help you, too."
Caitlyn reached out and took one of his hands. It took both of hers to wrap around his large palm and callused fingers. "It did. You did."
They sat there for a long, sun-drenched minute. She watched as his flush deepened and felt a familiar tingle of heat stir in her pelvis. His eyes were blue, the color of stone-washed denim. A scar crossed through his chin to end in a notch at his lower lip, his nose had been broken at least once, and his jaw was strong, bristled with the faint shadow of a beard already.
She hadn't noticed before how attractive he was—too busy sparring with him, trying to prove herself to him. Now she smiled at him, not breaking the contact, felt his palm grow sweaty in her grasp, his pulse throbbing against her fingertips. His gaze trailed down her face, focusing on her mouth as his own lips parted. He pushed himself to his feet, using his hand in hers to help her up.
She wobbled for a heartbeat, but Hal was there to steady her. Caitlyn felt drained from her battle, yet also energized by his touch, his nearness, the chance for something to happen.
He smiled, slid his hand out from hers. Then he stepped behind her, his fingers skimming over her skin as he reached for her bra and re-fastened it.
"Not here," he said in a voice so low it thrummed through her veins, a whisper of invitation—one that they could both deny and dismiss if need be. His hands lingered before they tugged her blouse shut and began to button it. "Not until you feel up to it, strong enough."
She turned within his embrace, his hands coming to rest on her hips. Raising a fingertip to his lips, she felt a playful grin stretch her face. It felt good. "Don't worry about me, Chief. I'm a fast healer."
CHAPTER 23
"Their" tree was a sprawling sugar maple standing beside the creek in a clearing behind the house. This was where she had taught Sam how to read the night sky, where Sam had debuted his songs, where she had proposed to him and he declined, where Josh had been conceived, where he had proposed to her and she accepted.
Sarah remained hidden in the stand of hemlocks about twenty yards from the maple, watching. She had allowed Alan to feed her, fuss over her and finally bade him an early, strained goodnight. They hadn't spoken much during dinner—well, maybe Alan had, she hadn't paid much attention.
As soon as Alan was gone and she had the house to herself, she'd rushed to the bathroom and examined the mirror. As before, it was empty of any hidden messages from beyond the grave. She'd taken a scalding hot shower, emerged, and it was still empty.
Too empty. Too clean. Where were the dozens of toothpaste splatters speckling the glass? She hadn't cleaned it in over a week. She'd glanced down at her now sparkling clean floor, no remnants of red wine marred its surface after Alan's efforts.
Alan. She always teased him about his touch of neat freakness. Why would he wipe away the message? Maybe he was trying to protect her from what he thought was a sick joke.
Now, close to the appointed time, Sarah crouched down, peering between the branches that concealed her. Her fingers raked through the fallen needles at her side, twirling them into patterns as she tried to make sense of everything.
Maybe Alan knew Sam was alive? If Sam was alive.
She shook her head, frowning. How? Alan hadn't arrived in Hopewell until two weeks after Sam and Josh had disappeared. The two men had never met.
She stared into the star-bright night, her emotions churning. She could have simply gone to the maple, waited there. After all it was her tree, her land, she had every right to be there, message or not. Fear held her back. Fear that Sam was alive—if so, then why had he hidden these past two years? Why had he taken Josh from her? Why hadn't he returned or at least sent word that they were safe?
If Sam was alive, then how could he have abandoned her to the hell she'd lived with?
Even worse—if he was dead, then Josh was as well. And whoever left that note for her did it because they wanted to hurt her, wanted to drive her back to the dark abyss of despair that had almost taken her once.
She crouched in the darkness like a thief in the night, refusing to hope, refusing t
o believe, refusing to move until she had some answers.
A sharp crack disturbed the night, silencing the frogs and crickets. Another followed. A man's form appeared in the edge of her vision, walking through the grass from the direction of the lane. Clouds scudded past the moon and the man turned, looking over his shoulder, revealing his profile.
Alan. He was answering the message. The message left for her. From Sam.
As if in answer to her prayers, a man's silhouette separated itself from the shadows surrounding the maple. Pine needles speared her palm as her fist tightened. It was Sam.
She almost broke cover, rushed into his arms. But she held back, torn between love and rage. The man she had loved, who had promised to love her for all eternity, could never have done the things Sam had done to her.
If he could betray her, then what had he done with Josh?
Sam strode, reaching Alan in two steps. Even from this distance Sarah could see the angry way his jaw protruded. He'd shaved his head and now had a short goatee, but it was definitely Sam. No one could mimic that stride, the way his hips rolled as if he were wading through shallow water.
Without warning he lashed out with a roundhouse punch. A loud smack sliced through the silence. Alan staggered back, shaking his head, palms up in surrender.
Sam raised his arm, readying another blow.
"I wouldn't, if I were you," Alan said. "Not if you're planning to get out of this alive."
That sounded like a threat to Sarah. A threat between two men who knew each other—but Sam and Alan had never met before. Or had they?
Sam hesitated, lowered his fist. "Where's Sarah? What the hell have you done with her?"
He actually sounded worried. Sarah strained to catch every word, cursing the open space of the meadow and the cheerful night noises of the stream and insects.
"Nothing. Yet." Alan cocked his head. "You've changed, old friend. You look worried, older. These past few years haven't been kind to you, have they?" Nodding scornfully at Sam's faded jeans, flannel shirt worn over a grey T-shirt, he smoothed the cuffs of his own designer suit. "What, no surfer chicks and killer waves waiting for you wherever you ran to?" Alan laughed, a raw sound that sent shivers down Sarah's neck. This wasn't the man she knew. The man who cared about her, who had taken care of her.