by Hazel Hunter
Isabelle dropped the shoe and steadied herself with a hand on the floor. Her head spun with the long read, the images no more than a mismatched jumble. The room around her was gray but, after a few moments, her eyesight began to return and the beige carpet came into focus. The blond boy was precious, someone that Esme apparently fancied. Yes, he’d been part of the study group. The images began to sort themselves, moving backward through time, slotting into the places that she was familiar with. And, at the parking structure, the priest appeared.
Isabelle froze.
At the parking structure, the girl with the yellow highlighter had seen a priest.
“Are you Catholic?” Isabelle whispered.
“No,” Anita said. “Why do you ask?”
• • • • •
Mac had seen Isabelle arrive but he’d been too caught up in the new tape recording. As he paced at the bottom of the stairs, though, he couldn’t help but think of going up to see her. They couldn’t just leave things the way they were. But as he looked up the stairs, his mind relentlessly went over the bizarre conversation with the killer.
The man claimed God spoke to him and yet his fowl-mouthed anger didn’t quite jive with that. As usual in this case, Mac found himself with mismatched data. It was as though they were dealing with multiple personalities but true multiple-personality disorder was very rare. A multiple-personality who was also a serial killer, even more so. And why had Isabelle’s leaving the case bothered him so much? Hadn’t he said she was the spawn of Satan? Wouldn’t her removal have fit right in with his belief?
“Here it is, Mac,” Sharon said.
He spun toward her and saw her wave him over. The whole room seemed to follow him as he dashed to the couch, Ben right behind him. Conversations immediately hushed. The room was deathly silent as Mac watched the status bar of the download finish on the laptop.
Sharon immediately opened the compressed file and hit the play button.
The killer’s voice had been isolated and thrown into the background.
‘That was a stupid thing to do.’
Then they heard it. Long and low, deep and resonant–the tolling of a bell.
Then, as he said ‘stupid’ again, it struck once more.
Mac glanced at his watch. Nearly three o’clock. The killer had called at two.
“Get me a map of the campus,” Mac barked at the sergeant. “And a five mile radius spreading out from there. I want to know every church in that area but particularly near the campus.”
It’d been staring them in the face. The Bible quotes. The God talk. They were looking for a church.
“There have got to be about a dozen churches right there,” the sergeant said, heading out the front door.
“It’s the Catholic one,” said someone from the stairs. Mac turned to see Isabelle with one glove off. “He’s a priest.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sirens blaring, about a dozen FBI vehicles and another dozen police cars converged on St. Martin of Tours Catholic Church. Just west of the campus, it was on Sunset Boulevard, bordering the wealthy homes of Brentwood.
Though it’d been against Mac’s wishes, Isabelle had come with them. Not that he didn’t want her close by but he didn’t want her in harm’s way. But he could hardly say no. Though he’d never have thought to check the Catholic church first, the priest, in a dark suit, wearing a collar that people trusted made too much sense. Isabelle had been part of bringing the case to this point–a big part. No matter what they were about to see, she had earned the right to be there. As the sergeant brought the SUV to a screeching halt, Mac jumped out of the passenger door, walkie-talkie in hand.
“All right,” Mac said into the radio. “LAPD squads, I want every street here sealed off. No one in or out, by any means. Use those helicopters of yours to watch the backyards. We’re looking for”–he eyed Isabelle in her bulletproof vest as she exited her door–“a priest. Average build. Dark hair. Mustache. Wearing a traditional white collar.”
The police vehicles and officers began to scatter, shouting at one another and pointing down the angled and treelined streets that led to this location.
“Agents,” Mac said to the gathering men and women around him. “We’re going to clear each room of the sanctuary first, one by one, and then the outlying buildings. Team One,” he said pointing at them. “You take the bell tower.” They all looked up to the hexagonal bell tower, the final clue, topped with a single, simple cross. “Team Two,” he said. “You’ll start at ground level, clear the entire cathedral.” A few of the people there nodded. “Team Three, you’re with me. We’re heading to the basement.”
From the beginning, Mac had known the room wouldn’t have windows. The acoustics that the lab had pulled out from the killer’s yelling and Esme’s scream all pointed to a small cement room. Plus, the dimness of the church bell meant it was as far away as they could get.
“Okay, people,” Mac said, withdrawing his weapon. “This man is very likely armed and is to be considered dangerous. Hostage Rescue Team,” he said, nodding to the five-man team in olive-drab, military gear, assault rifles ready. “You take the lead and we’ll follow.” There were nods all around. “Let’s go!”
• • • • •
As the group of FBI agents in front of Isabelle surged down the stairs, Sergeant Dixon grasped her shoulder from behind.
“We’re going to hang back,” he said. “Mac’s orders.”
Frankly, that was fine with her. Everything had happened so quickly. Mac had immediately gone into agent mode when all the facts had clicked. They’d scrambled as though a fire were raging and Isabelle realized that adrenalin was running high. When they’d told her to wear a bullet-proof vest, it’d finally dawned on her what was happening.
Shouts came from beyond the door at the bottom of the stairs.
The sergeant’s walkie-talkie blared.
“We’ve got her,” came Mac’s booming voice. “All teams, we’ve got Esme Olivos and she’s alive.”
“Oh thank god,” Isabelle breathed, starting down the stairs.
“No perpetrator,” Mac said. “I repeat. We are still looking for the perp. Clear every room. And we need a medical team down here ASAP.”
The sergeant held her back again.
“I don’t know if you really want to go down there,” he said.
Isabelle turned on the stairs to look up at him.
“I can already tell you I don’t want to go down there,” she said. “But I have to.”
She gazed down at the open door and listened to the frantic voices and shouted orders.
There was no way she could not see this through.
Slowly, she crept down the remaining carpeted steps and entered the room.
It was enormous, like a cavern. The entire Hostage Rescue Team was there, almost looking casual. Beyond them, Isabelle realized there was another door, just next to a rolling, metal, clothes rack full of bright, blue, choir robes.
She quickly crossed the room, running as fast as she could in heels. Once inside the next room, she realized it was no bigger than a storage closet. She recognized Mac’s back immediately, crouched low over someone laying on the ground. Sharon knelt to his right. Though Isabelle couldn’t see her, she knew that had to be Esme laying there. Esme, the runner. Esme, who fancied the young blond man. Esme…
There seemed to be blood everywhere and Sharon was pressing her hand down over Esme’s knee. Isabelle immediately covered her nose and mouth. Not just at the awful sight but also the wretched smell of blood mixed with human waste. Esme was barely conscious, her eyes trying to roll back in her head. Her lips were completely parched, the lower one cracked and bleeding, and she breathed shallowly through her open mouth.
One of the other agents was taking her pulse and Mac was trying to talk to her.
“Esme,” he said. “Can you hear me?”
There was no response. Isabelle knelt next to Mac, who glanced at her but immediately returned his attention bac
k to Esme.
“How is she?” Isabelle asked, almost afraid of the answer.
“I think she’s going to be fine,” Mac said, as Sharon continued to press on the wound that Isabelle was glad she couldn’t see. “She’s in shock, dehydrated, but she hasn’t lost a lot of blood.”
“Does anybody have smelling salts?” asked Sharon.
Agents checked their pockets. Someone from outside the storage room came in and handed Mac a packet. He quickly tore it open and snapped the capsule under Esme’s nose. Though her head moved sideways, her eyes closed, but her mouth didn’t.
“No go,” Mac said. “We’re going to have to wait.” He turned to the agent in the doorway. “Get me an ETA on that medical.”
“What’s the matter?” Isabelle said quietly.
“The perpetrator might be nearby and we still don’t have a good description of him.”
Esme was the only one who’d gotten a good look at him. Isabelle gazed down at her. Now she saw the lacerated wrists and ankles. The bruise on the side of her face and the swollen lip.
Slowly, she unbuttoned one glove.
“What are you doing?” Mac said.
“The kidnapper is still out there, right?”
“Isabelle,” he said, his voice tense. “Don’t do it.”
“He might be walking down the sidewalk right now,” she said, tugging each of the fingers loose. “Or riding on the bus.” She pulled the glove free. “Or eating at a restaurant.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Mac said, locking gazes with her.
“It wouldn’t help you to catch him if you knew what he looked like?” she asked. Mac grimaced. “To make sure he doesn’t do this to someone else?”
“Of course it would but–”
Isabelle grasped Esme’s limp arm.
A searing pain lanced through her knee and she groaned. The man’s red face floated in front of her.
“Brown eyes,” she hissed. “Mustache. Brown hair. Parted on the left, straight. His mouth and chin are small. A heart shaped face. Heavy eyebrows. Narrow eyes. Straight nose. Glasses without rims.” Suddenly, her mouth felt like cotton and her tongue seemed swollen. “Asked me for directions. Had a map and looked lost.” Her temples suddenly ached. “His car is a gray Corolla. Panicked about the phone.” Isabelle held her head. It felt as though the pain would split it. “Purify me,” she whined.
“Isabelle!” she heard someone shout and the connection with Esme was broken.
“Isabelle!” Mac said again. “Can you hear me?”
Slowly, the basement solidified out of the gray haze that surrounded her. Mac was holding her upright, had grabbed her forearm, and the paramedics had arrived.
“Mac?” Isabelle whispered through dry lips.
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve got you.”
“Did you get that?” she asked, as his face swam into view.
“Yes,” he said. “The description’s already going out. I’ll get you with an artist when you’re up to it.”
“I’m up to it,” she said, though her voice was a little thick and the headache hadn’t gone away. Everything was coming back into focus and she realized Mac had his arms around her. “I’m okay,” she said quietly. “Really.”
Slowly, Mac let her go.
The paramedics were working quickly. A gurney had been set up and Esme already had an intravenous drip.
Mac helped Isabelle to stand so they could get out of the way and she saw the giant wad of bandages that were strapped to Esme’s knee.
“That’s where the knife twisted,” Isabelle said, pointing a trembling finger. The paramedic nearest the knee looked up at her. “And for God’s sake, give her something for the pain.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Going to a hotel must be pretty hard for you,” Mac said as he opened the front door of Isabelle’s apartment for her.
Though at first he hadn’t believed her and then he’d tried to explain away what she did, there could be no denying her ability. It was more than coincidence or good luck. But there had to be a scientific basis to it. DNA? Chemicals in the skin? Something in the way her brain functioned? He’d been peppering her with questions since they’d left the Olivos’s house.
As Isabelle passed him into her living room, she turned on the light switch.
“Hotels, restaurants,” she said, leaving her purse on the little table next to the door. “But the gloves make most things possible.”
He shut the door and locked it.
“Most things?” he asked, as he felt her hands trace the tops of his shoulders.
“You’d be surprised,” she said as he turned and her hands wrapped behind his neck, “how much you miss being able to touch people until you can’t.” His hands wrapped around her waist. “Or maybe you wouldn’t,” she said smiling.
“Then touch me,” he said. “Take off the gloves and touch me.”
Her face grew suddenly serious.
“I don’t think that’d be a good idea,” she said.
Slowly, he ran his hands around to her back, then up and over her shoulders, and then along her arms until he was reaching behind his own neck and feeling her gloves.
“Mac, don’t,” she said, though she didn’t move her hands. “Please. I don’t think we’re ready.” Though her amber eyes were soft and watching his, something in the tone of her voice made him stop. Not ready? Ready for what? She smiled at what must have been a puzzled look on his face. “Just trust me on this, okay?”
It didn’t help that she had nice hands. He thought for an instant of the way she’d taken her glove off, finger by finger, just before she’d read Esme. Somehow he’d never thought of removing gloves as particularly sensual. But now, the thought of it–being able to feel her warm fingers on his skin–was positively distracting.
Isabelle was right. It wasn’t until you couldn’t have something that you realized how much you wanted it.
His phone chimed.
Reluctantly, he let her hands go and checked messages.
“The APB has been out for a couple hours but still no hits.” He scrolled down to read the other texts though he noticed that Isabelle hadn’t moved her hands. “Esme’s conscious and has corroborated your description. Ben sends his thanks. Yet again.” He turned the phone completely off and set it on the table next to her purse. “Now,” he said, sliding his hands around her waist and up her back. “Where was I?”
• • • • •
Isabelle immediately stepped into Mac’s embrace and wound her arms around his neck, relieved. The gloves didn’t seem to be a problem. Mac just didn’t seem to be bothered the way other men had been. He drew her close, gently laid his lips on hers, and she felt the back of her dress open as he tugged down the zipper. The press of his chest reminded her of seeing it, feeling it against her skin, and yet unable to know what it really felt like to skim her hands across it. And maybe because the gloves didn’t bother him, they bothered her more and more.
But as his hands slipped inside her dress and his lips gently pressed into hers, the thought of gloves quickly vanished. Ever since the reading with Esme, Mac had never left her side. He’d hovered close, letting Sharon take care of the crime scene while he took care of her.
And, at last, he believed her.
His kiss was tender, feathery light, as his moist breath washed over her lips. His hands were gentle, moving along her spine, pausing briefly to undo her bra. There was no hurry this time though the lengthy hardness of his arousal against her abdomen said he was more than ready. Instead, an implacable gentleness filled his every touch. His hands left her back to lightly hold her face and his kisses slowly left her mouth to drift back along her jaw and then down her neck. His touch was so light, it was almost unnerving. As his tongue danced along her skin, a tremor of anticipation shuddered up her spine. In one smooth movement, his fingers had lightly grasped the dress and bra straps at her shoulders and deftly shifted them off her and down to her elbows before she’d even realized wh
at he was doing.
But as she lowered her arms to let the garments fall, he curved over her and suddenly his mouth was on her breast. She inhaled sharply at the moist, warm lips, sliding across the suddenly bare breast. The dress and bra stopped midway in their fall, caught between the press of their bodies. His breath poured over her exposed skin, flowing down her ribs. Slowly, his strong arms tightened around her waist, pressing her closer, as his mouth inched its way toward the already quivering tip. And with that maddeningly slow and steady pace, his tongue traced a wet circle entirely around it.
Isabelle found her hands bunching up the material of Mac’s jacket at his shoulders, as another shudder of anticipation seemed to run up the very center of her. Suddenly, his tongue flicked across the hardening nub and she gasped. He inhaled deeply and she felt his shoulders tense.
“I love how you smell,” he said, between suckling kisses that enveloped the entire tip of her breast. “The way you taste.”
He leaned forward, curving her back, as he sucked her nipple completely into his mouth and slowly licked it with his entire tongue. As she let go a breathless gasp, the peak shivered erect in his mouth.
“Mmmm,” he murmured, the deep rumbling from his chest sending vibrations through the aching tip as the other hardened in empathy.
Suddenly, his tongue lashed into her, forcing her to come up on her toes and grab the back of his neck. Her backed arched wildly and her hips pushed hard into his erection. And as his lips closed around her and his mouth sucked furiously, the tip of his tongue pushed into the very center of the sensitive peak.
She whimpered, the sensation there something between pain and pure delight. But as he released her with a final tug and turned his attention to the other breast, it already ached. He gave it a testing, teasing flick of the tip of his tongue. Then, another, and another. Each quick stroke was molten and each time she couldn’t help but whimper until finally he captured the quivering tip between his lips and gently bit.