by Trisha Wolfe
“He won’t be in a hotel,” I say, climbing into the van. “And he won’t have Avery at his house. You need to take the search back further, to places he visited six months ago.”
Agent Rollins snaps his fingers. “Get her out of here,” he orders one of the agents.
“Proctor sent me,” I say, jerking my arm free of the agent’s grip. “I’m to be debriefed, and there’s no way you’re shutting me out if there’s a chance our M.E. is still alive.”
I hear Carson and Colton enter the van, and Agent Rollins slams his hand against the wall. “You amateurs have already botched things good enough. What? You want to see if we can get the perp off on a technicality, too?”
“Can I leave?”
Our heads swing toward the woman hired to be my double.
Rollins glares at her. “Not unless you want the full weight of your charges brought against you. Sit down.”
She rolls her eyes with exaggeration, and Carson takes it upon himself to lead her toward the back of the van.
“Did she ID him?” I ask Rollins.
“She did,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. “She confirms Simon Whitmore, a tech from your own department lab, hired her to dance with him at the club and lead Reed out the side entrance. She claims she doesn’t know anything else. But she’s going into interrogation just to be sure.”
The UNSUB has been on a mission today, closing up loose ends. Why not her?
“You wouldn’t have half the information you do now without us putting our lives on the line,” I say, turning my back to him and moving closer to the monitors. “You will give us the respect we’re due, and you will either work with us now to help our M.E., or you can get the fuck out of the way.”
The air of the van thickens with tension. I can feel Rollins simmering, his close proximity hovering behind me. I’m sure he’s about to have me escorted from the vehicle when he says, “I better not regret this, Agent Bonds.”
He has one of the analysts bring up Simon’s financial records for the past six months. “See if you can find a recurring payment on property—rent, mortgage, or it might even be disguised as a car payment. Go back further into his records and see if he inherited any property. Any gifts he tried to get past the IRS.”
Carson appears at the head of the van. “He’s not what I expected,” he says. “I feel almost…disappointed.”
This is true. Simon Whitmore is a shadow. He was easy to overlook because nothing about him stood out. Average looks. Average height. Average life. He’s so unassuming that no one would bother to look too closely…if they ever bothered to notice him at all.
“You’ve had an ideal suspect in mind for two years,” I say to Carson. “It’s hard to imagine anyone outside that profile once you’ve made up your mind.”
Our gazes connect briefly, letting an unsaid understanding pass between us out of respect for Colton. Julian couldn’t be the apprentice. He was too much of an alpha to ever submit to anyone else.
I look at Rollins. “We need to compare the evidence of the crime scenes to this knew information.”
Rollins tosses a pile of files down on the table in the center of the van. “Knock yourselves out.”
Feeling like this night is about to swallow me, I take up a seat next to Colton, the weight of this day finally catching up. I tweak a file from the stack and flip it open.
My vision blurs. I blink hard, trying to focus on the crime scene image from the suspended vic. It was what Avery was last working on. There has to be something here I missed. It’s the only scene where a mistake was made—one he caught, but just barely. He was devolving rapidly at this point; he could’ve made another mistake.
“I’m sorry, goddess,” Colton whispers near my ear.
My insides hum. Just hearing him say goddess takes me away from the cruel reality gripping my mind. “You don’t have to be,” I say. “I never would’ve let you go.”
His jaw clenches. “I almost didn’t…I was close to locking you up in my room.”
I smile. For him. “I promised you we would get through this.” I look into his eyes. “Why did you—?”
“I thought Quinn was the UNSUB.”
I huff a weak laugh. “He couldn’t be. Well, I might’ve questioned him at one point. He went through a rough divorce a few months ago; that’s enough of a trigger for anyone to commit homicide. And he’s a neat freak. I cut my eyes a few times at him with suspicion…but no.” I shake my head. “Quinn isn’t subservient enough. Also, he didn’t spend enough time in Roanoke to build a connection with Connelly. If anything, Quinn would be the master, not the apprentice.”
Colton’s eyes skim my face, then travel lower as he lifts the tattered hem of my dress. “When I first saw you…all I could imagine was Quinn attacking you. Or someone hurting you. I learned the hard way you can’t break out of handcuffs.”
I take his hand in mine and run my fingers over the bloody welts around his wrist. “I’m sorry I put you through this.” I swallow hard. “Quinn was attacked. Not me.”
“I wouldn’t put it past Quinn to fake an attack. To throw suspicion off of him.”
“I doubt Quinn would’ve pulled his own tooth,” I say, returning my gaze to the crime scene image. “He won’t go anywhere near dentists. He’s squeamish about anything that has to do with them.”
Colton stares at the image from over my shoulder. “I don’t understand why he’d use a bowline knot to hoist the victim,” he says suddenly.
My head jerks up. “What?”
“At this crime scene. He tied a bowline knot.” He gets closer to me to whisper. “If it were me, I’d use a blood knot. Ten times as strong, better to support a body, and it’s more poetic. Keeping to the theme of the Blood Countess.”
I turn my gaze on him. “Who would use a bowline knot?”
He shrugs. “It’s a basic knot. Easy to learn. So really anyone. But you mostly see it used on boats. Like sailboats.”
A surge of hope springs me to my feet. “See if Simon has access to a boat. No wait… Pull up Lyle Connelly’s financials and look for—”
“I have it,” the tech says. “There was a title transfer between Connelly and Whitmore five months ago. A sailboat was gifted to Whitmore. To avoid paying taxes, Connelly’s lawyer drew up the paperwork in a charity’s name registered through Whitmore.”
I’m back at the front, staring at the screen as if I can find Simon on the map. Proctor stands beside me. “Bring up every boat slip between Arlington and DC. He might not have it registered in his name. Crosscheck the slips and the names of the boats.”
“I found one, sir.” The tech transfers the data from one screen to another, zooming in on an aerial view of the Columbia Island Marina. “The Countess. It’s docked at the marina now.”
“That’s just a few minutes away.” Quinn’s voice comes from behind.
I whip around. “Am I removed from the field?”
He frowns. “Could I order you to stay put?”
“Not a chance.”
16
The Countess
Sadie
My necklace rests safely in the pocket of my hoodie. There’s a tiny glimmer of optimism sparking within me that Avery is still alive—and I don’t want to corrupt that hope, that faith. Normally, I don’t give in to superstition. But I feel like as long as I don’t show anyone…if no one actually sees the proof of her blood…then it won’t come true.
Since the attack on Quinn at TRI, the UNSUB has gone silent. He’s sent no communication to me about Avery’s condition. And one piece of evidence in the form of Simon’s DNA has granted us a warrant to search his sailboat with strict parameters to locate Avery there.
It’s the most logical place as to where she’s being kept.
The Feds have taken the lead on this assignment. After Proctor thoroughly reamed Quinn for my side op, he almost benched Quinn and the whole task force for our blatant disregard of protocol. But seeing as they need our numbers to make a clean
collar of Simon Whitmore, and to assure the operation goes down safely, it was in his best interest to let us “tag along.”
I don’t care about the bureaucracy. I’ve never been concerned with politics. And quite frankly, I went into this field knowing my ethics were questionable. You don’t come out of the other side of a dark moment in time to the light. It doesn’t conclude on a fairytale ending. Prince Charming doesn’t swoop in and save the damsel in distress. The heroine doesn’t suddenly experience a life-altering realization that she can conquer her demons and become a beacon—a role model for all suffering souls to follow in her footsteps…
This is not that story.
My abductor will forever taint my reality. The nightmares will live on inside my soul, and I will cry out in the middle of the night. Though there is now someone there to wrap his arms around me when the dreams claw me back down to the dungeon, they will never truly cease to exist within me.
And now, through me, because I have altered a moment in time through my own lingering, haunting darkness, another soul has been touched. Avery will never truly overcome this. She will search for someone to hold her in the night, and she will seek acceptance for her altered reality not only from herself, but from everyone she comes into contact with in the future.
We’ll share a similar but silent bond—we’ll look into each other’s eyes and know: we’re the same. But we will never talk about it. Not to the depths or extent that it has irrevocably impacted our lives.
This is our secret world.
My thoughts drift away, back into the abyss, as Quinn takes up the front. We’re pressed against the marina’s facility building, our backs to the brick. The Pentagon sits just across the harbor. To get here unnoticed, we had to move in small groups. The first group is headed up by Proctor and closest to The Countess. Proctor got a warrant to commandeer Simon’s neighboring sailboat; the owner’s of that vessel are being kept at the station out of harm’s way.
Four FBI agents are aboard the vessel now.
Quinn taps at his earpiece. “There’s movement on The Countess. Proctor’s going in with the first group.” He glances over his shoulder. “When we move in, watch your six.”
I nod. I want to be the one to look Simon in his eyes when he sees his end coming. When the knowledge that he won’t ever advance to “master” first lights his eyes. But I’ll settle for looking into them during the aftermath.
I just hope they don’t have to kill him before I get that chance.
A crackle sounds through my own earpiece, and my muscles tense, my grip on my gun tightens. Quinn is first in command for our small group of three. Just me, Quinn, and Carson. I could almost laugh that it’s come down to this—stuck between two men that only a week ago, I almost pegged for accomplices.
Carson and Quinn would’ve made an interesting team—but truthfully, I’m not sure who would be the master, and who would be the apprentice. They’re both too stubborn to take clear directives from the other. Though I give Carson credit, he does try awfully hard to impress Quinn.
My train of thought stops suddenly as a shout comes through my feed. Hands up! Hands up! Then the rest happens too quickly for me to distinguish.
A shot rings out…my heart slams against my chest, my foot digs into the earth…and the order to move in sounds through the earpiece. Quinn throws his hand forward, ordering us to advance.
The earth moves up and down in my vision. The thud of footfalls bounces heavy in my ears. An out-of-body euphoria washes over me. And for one, clear second, I take notice of the moonlit river. The reflection of the luminescent orb shimmering and reflecting off tranquil waters.
The Countess is a large sailboat. I note this also, along with the rocking of the boat. Something this massive shouldn’t stir so easily as we board the vessel.
“Fall back!” Proctor stands with his gun hiked to his shoulder, giving orders. “The suspect is down. Group two, search the rest of the cabin. Apprehend anyone else on this vessel.”
I hear the order. I’m following Quinn’s lead as he heads below into the hull, Carson right behind me. But my eyes are taking in everything—trying to understand why they haven’t seen Avery yet.
“Quinn—”
“We’ll find her,” he says.
The deeper we go into the cabin, the darker it becomes. The thicker the air settles around us. It’s like going underground, the feel of entering a tomb. A coldness bites into my skin, and I clamp both hands around my SIG for comfort.
The noise above becomes a muffled annoyance. I realize the walls are covered with padding. This is familiar; my abductor did the same to his basement. As we descend, the steps creaking beneath our feet, one sound—one beautiful sound—catches my ears.
A whimper.
It’s the sound of terror—but it’s lovely. It’s the sound I made when Jackson Randall Lovett was shot to death beside me, and I looked into the beams of the flashlights, right into the barrels of the guns. And then into the eyes of the FBI agents.
Avery is making that sound now.
“Clear the room,” Quinn orders. “Cover everywhere.”
It’s an impossible directive to follow when all I want to do is rush to Avery—but this time, I follow the order. Enough rules have been broken. I need to stay the course to make sure she survives this.
“Clear!” Carson shouts.
“Clear here, too,” Quinn says from the corner of the dungeon.
Because that’s what this is. A verified hell in the belly of a ship.
I finish checking my corner, forcing my fingers to ease off the handle of my gun. “Clear.” Only I’m not so sure…
Along one wall, in beautiful script: She walks in beauty, like the night…
And on the opposite wall: Her walls talk…
The next wall displays another verse from the dreaded poem: Had half impaired the nameless grace… Which waves in every raven tress
And above Avery, written in perfect penmanship: We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
The final clue—a quote from Ernest Hemmingway. How poetic.
I release a lengthy breath and meet Quinn’s eyes. He nods once, giving me permission, and I don’t hesitate. I holster my gun and drop down beside Avery.
“It’s okay,” I assure her. My arms link her bare shoulders. The red dress has been mutilated. I can feel the welts covering her skin against my arms. Her body shakes, tremors and I’m sure sheer exhaustion wracking her limbs. “Shh…” I soothe. “Avery, it’s going to be okay.”
I continue to repeat reassurances to her as the EMTs enter the hull. Carson has located bolt cutters and proceeds to cut her chains away at the go-ahead from one of the EMTs.
Her body is broken. Her mind isn’t fairing any better. Her once vibrant brown irises are glazed and refuse to make contact with mine. She hasn’t looked up from the floor once to acknowledge anyone. She’s been staring at the ground for so long, beaten and trained to stare at it—and she’s in shock.
But she’s alive.
This is not her fairytale ending.
She won’t spring to her feet and whoop for joy to her saviors, like they do in the movies. She won’t even cry tears of relief. She will tremble and puke and roil in the sickness until the medics clear her to be given a sedative where she can sleep off the shock.
For once, I wish she could experience just one more thing of mine. I wish he was killed right before her. I fear she will never be able to go into a dark room, or turn off the lights in her lab to inspect evidence, without the fear of him finding her again.
And so that’s what I offer her.
As I follow the EMTs escorting Avery toward the deck level of the boat, I clasp her hand, squeeze tightly until her head whips around and her eyes finally see—really see—mine.
Against protocol, I pull her away and toward the dead man being photographed on the ship’s floor. “Look at him,” I say to her as I kneel down and tear his mask away. “Imprint him into your m
emory.”
For just a moment, as her gaze takes in his limp body, her shivers subside. Then, turning to me, she says, “Thank you.”
* * *
It’s past midnight, and the hospital is still catering to the ACPD. Lukewarm coffee and donuts have been brought in by the unis. Prayers have been uttered in the hallways. Nurses offer weak but reassuring smiles to the cops littering the waiting room.
Avery deserves all the encouragement. No one has been able to see her, which is for the best. She’s not ready. But she will appreciate so many of her fellow crime fighters offering their support. When she’s ready.
I sit with my back up against the cool wall, savoring the quiet. In this wing of the hospital, it’s slow and dim. An overhead light is blown, and my eyes desperately need a break from the fluorescents.
I don’t know when I shut my eyes, but they pop open at the feel of a cup slipping between my hands. It’s warm…much warmer than the weak coffee I had earlier. I take a sip. “Thanks.”
Quinn slips down on the floor beside me. “I almost didn’t wake you, but you looked too comfortable.”
I smile. “That’s a bad thing, apparently.”
“Terrible.” He brings his own coffee up and takes a long sip. “So they found my tooth in Simon’s pocket.”
“You going to get it back?”
“Funny.” He glances at me. “Obviously, it’s going into an evidence locker where it will rot.”
I shrug against the wall. “Too bad. We could’ve given it a proper burial. I know how you’ll miss it.”
“Smart ass.”
Silence settles between us as we drink our coffee. As the uncomfort of it stretches out, my chest tightens. “I need to see my mother, and Colton…before you bring me in,” I say, breaking the quiet.
He runs his palms along his slacks, wiping away the creases. Even now, he has to keep things in order. “I’ve made a decision on that,” he says, continuing to rub at nonexistent wrinkles. “I just came from my debriefing. Proctor had a pile of paperwork for me.”