by J. R. Ward
“Oh . . . my God . . .”
Taking another deep drag, he talked through the exhale. “And you know, even back then, the first thing I did when I saw what was on the molding was look at my own hands. When there was nothing on them, I raced into my bathroom, checked the towels, checked my clothes—same thing I did after the Kroner thing, ironically. And then I realized . . . Shit, the victim. I called nine-one-one and was on the phone with them when I went downstairs.”
“You found her.”
“Yeah.” He rubbed his eyes against images of red blood on a cheap blue rug, a heart made out of human parts. “Yeah, I did, and I knew it was him.”
He could go no further than that, with her or himself. The memory had been shut off for so long that he had hoped it had decayed in a thoughtful, arguably healthful way. But no. The scene he had walked into was still drawn in shades of neon, as if the vapors of the panic and terror he’d felt had tempered and distorted everything about the mental photograph except for its clarity.
“I’ve read about your father—studied him in school,” Reilly said softly.
“But there was nothing about . . .”
“I was seventeen, legally a minor, and my mother didn’t have my last name, so you wouldn’t have known from that. Funny, that was when law enforcement first talked to my father about a victim. Needless to say, they believed him when he said he was grief-stricken—and God knows he was good at faking emotions. Oh, and the prints on the doorjamb? He’d worn latex gloves, naturally, so there was nothing to go by.”
“God, I’m so sorry.”
Veck grew quiet, but didn’t stay that way. “I didn’t see him much. And when he did come by, my mom would disappear with him. She could never get enough of him—he was her drug of choice, the only thing that mattered, the only thing she thought about. Looking back on it, I’m pretty damn sure he engineered her desperation, and it used to piss me off—until I realized what he was and saw that she hadn’t stood a chance. As for his side of things? I guess the shit amused him, but the game got old after a while, apparently.”
At that, he just petered out, like a sprinter who couldn’t go the distance.
“Anyway, that’s why we’re never having dinner at my parents’ house.”
Lame attempt at a joke. Neither of them laughed.
When he got to the end of his cigarette, he ground the glowing tip out on the sole of his shoe—and noticed for the first time that his loafers were not going to come out of this mud bath alive. Reilly, on the other hand, had somehow managed to supply herself with a pair of hiking boots.
So like her. She was always prepared—
When he looked up, she was right in front of him. Her cheeks were pink from the wind and the exertion, and her eyes shone with the kind of warmth that came from not just a good heart, but an open one. Wisps pulling free of her ponytail gave her a red-tinted halo, and her perfume or shampoo or whatever it was reminded him of summer—the normal kind, not the last one he’d had as a “kid.”
And then she stepped into him, put her arms around him, and just held on.
It took him a minute to get with the program, because that was the last thing he expected. But then he embraced her back.
The two of them stood there for God only knew how long.
“I’m not in the habit of dating,” he said roughly.
“Coworkers, you mean?” She pulled back and looked up at him.
“Anyone.” He smoothed her hair with his palms. “And you’re way too good for me.”
There was a brief pause and then she smiled a little. “So the couch is the preferred spot, huh.”
“Call me Casanova.”
“What am I going to do with you,” she murmured, like she was talking to herself.
“Dead honest? I don’t know. If I were a friend of yours, I’d tell you to run, don’t walk, to the exit.”
“They are not you, you know,” she said. “Your parents don’t define you.”
“I’m not so sure about that. She was the sycophant of a psychopath. He’s a demon in a dapper mask. And along came baby in a baby carriage. Let’s face it, up until now, my life has revolved around avoiding the past, wasting the press don and refusing to think about the future—because I’m terrified I don’t just share my father’s name.”
Reilly shook her head. “Listen, I used to be scared that the woman who gave birth to me was going to come back and claim me. For the longest time, I was convinced that whatever my dad did legally wasn’t going to be enough if she wanted me back. It used to keep me up at night—and I still have nightmares that it happens. Matter of fact—and you want to talk about crazy—I still sleep with a copy of the court-certified adoption papers next to me in my bedside table. My point? Just because you’re afraid of something doesn’t give it the power to come true. Fear isn’t going to make it nonfiction.”
There was another long silence.
He was the one who broke it: “Scratch what I said before. I think I am falling in love with you. Right here. Right now.”
CHAPTER 29
As Jim stood a little ways off from Reilly and Veck, he made like a boulder and tried desperately not to overhear every single word they were saying to each other. And when they stepped in close, he turned his head away.
There were advantages to going invisi, but he was so not into the voyeurism thing.
And he was not pleased with this emo delay. They were looking for his Sissy—the lovey-dovey shit could wait until they found her or figured out that the location was a sham.
Stepping off the rock he’d been perched on, he landed in a puddle, the murky water splashing up on his leathers and his combats, but making no sound thanks to the little force-field he’d thrown up around himself. Man, this quarry was like something out of an old Star Trek episode, just without the red shirts and the transporters—
Abruptly, warmth bloomed on the side of his face, and the sensation brought his head up and to the right. A shaft of sunlight was streaming down on him, hitting him on the temple and the jaw.
What the hell, he thought, realizing it was coming from the wrong direction.
Frowning, he moved back and pivoted around, following the path of the lemon yellow stripe . . . which led into the cave behind him.
Something flashed deep inside its dark belly.
“Oh, shit,” Jim whispered as a premonition washed over him like cold rain.
Bracing himself, he walked to the ragged opening. No need to step aside; the illumination went right through him as if he weren’t there.
The aperture was fairly large, about six feet tall, maybe three feet wide, although there was an internal turn almost immediately, so the question was, what had thrown the reflection?
Entering, the sunlight followed him, making him think of Dog in its quiet, comforting companionship. And he didn’t stop to think about how the illumination managed to wrap around the corner or wonder why it seemed to direct him . . .
“Oh . . . God . . .” He had to grab onto the rock wall to hold himself up as he stared at what the light had pulled from the darkness: Back against the fall wall of the cave, wrapped in a rough tarp, there was a body.
Lying there on the ground.
Like discarded garbage.
The glowing beam coalesced over the bundle at one end, and that was when he saw the length of hair.
Clean, it would have been blond.
Jim closed his eyes and collapsed against the rough flank of the cave. The sense that so much had been leading to this moment—shit, that maybe everything had—was like a blaring horn behind his head, going off incessantly, deafening him.
There are no coincidences, he heard Nigel saying.
When a hand landed on his shoulder, he wheeled around at the same time he took out his crystal dagger.
Immediately, he lowered his weapon. “Jesus, Adrian—you want to get stabbed?”
Bad question to ask on a day like today.
And the other angel didn’t reply. He
just looked over to the light that floated above Sissy’s head, a celestial crown of gold to mark her remains. In a low voice, he said, “I wanted to help you with your dead. You helped me with mine.”
Jim stared at the other guy for a number of heartbeats. “Thanks, man.”
Adrian nodded once, as if they had taken and exchanged a vow of some kind, and the accord they reached made Jim wonder . . . If everything had a purpose, had Sissy died for this moment between the two of them? Had this been the reason they’d lost Eddie? Because as Adrian’s dead eyes met his, the pair of them were in the same place, the two hotheads realigned by tragedies that were unrelated, and exactly the same.
Instead of going to his girl, Jim offered his palm to his partner. And when the angel accepted it, he pulled Adrian up against him and held the bastard hard. Over the guy’s shoulder, he focused on Sissy.
Weighing the balance of the interests of the war against all who had lost the girl, as well as the head space where Adrian was at right now, it was a tough call whether those two losses were worth this unexpected unity: As far as Jim could see, the shit was fifty-fifty at best, with only a hair weighing in favor of the battle with Devina.
Except sometimes the straw broke the camel’s back. And families lost their daughters. And best friends didn’t come home at the end of the night.
And life didn’t seem worth living.
But you went on anyway.
When they stepped back, Adrian put his finger on Sissy’s necklace. “She is your girl.”
Jim nodded. “And it’s time to get her out of here.”
Holy shit, Reilly thought. Veck was looking like he was going to kiss her.
And she was feeling like she was going to let him.
And then there was the “love” thing.
As she went stock-still, she wasn’t sure what to say in response. She was falling in love with him, too. But she could barely handle the concept in her mind. Saying it out loud was way too naked.
There were other ways of replying, however.
Just as she leaned in toward his mouth, he eased down, heading for hers—
Someone appeared on the rock outcropping above them. Someone big, who loomed tall and blocked out the sun. As she jumped back from her partner, her immediate thought was, Oh, God, please let it not be anyone from HQ—
Her wish came true, unfortunately: It was the “FBI agent.”
Veck moved so fast, she didn’t know she’d been put behind a human shield until her hands rested on his back. Which was a gallant move, but she didn’t need the cover. Tucking her hand into her coat and finding the butt of her weapon—just as he had done—she stepped back out with her gun pointed upward.
Except . . . the man staring down at them didn’t seem aggressive in the slightest. He looked ruined. Positively destroyed.
“Sissy Barten is right there.” He pointed behind himself. “Against the back wall of the next cave.”
He’s not going to hurt us, she thought with a conviction that came from the soul.
Redirecting the muzzle of her nine to the ground, she frowned. Around his body, there was a subtle glow, a radiance that might be explained by the fact that he was in a shaft of sunshine—except, wait a minute, he wasn’t. It was too late in the day for where he was standing.
“Are you all right?” she heard herself ask the man.
His haunted eyes locked on her. “No. I’m not.”
Veck spoke up, sharp and demanding. “How do you know where the body is.”
“I just saw it.”
“I called the FBI. They’ve never heard of you.”
“Only the current administration.” The tone was bored. “Are you going to go help her or waste time—”
“Impersonating a federal officer is a felony.”
“So get out your cuffs and chase my ass—just come this way.”
As the guy jumped off the rock and disappeared, Veck glared over his shoulder. “You stay here.”
“To hell with that.”
Something in her expression must have told him that arguing would be nothing but a time suck, because he cursed a blue streak—and got moving. Together, they scrambled up the boulder in front of them, surmounting it in clawing grabs. When they got to the top . . .
Jim Heron, or whoever he was, had disappeared.
There was, however, the opening to another large cave.
“Call for backup,” Veck said, leaping down as he got out his flashlight. “I’m going in—and I need you to cover me from out here.”
“Roger that.” She palmed up her radio, but then barked at him, “Stop! You have to watch for footprints. Approach from the edges, okay?”
He looked back at her. “Good call.”
“And be careful.”
“You have my word.”
Leading with the flashlight and his gun, he stepped into the cave, his broad shoulders barely fitting through the entrance. Almost immediately, he must have come to a corner, because the glow dimmed and then got cut off.
As she called for their colleagues and received confirmation that the others were on their way, she carefully lowered herself down to the muddy patch of ground that was the cave’s welcome mat. She knew it was going to take some time for the others to arrive, and prayed that her instincts were right about that big blond man who evidently wasn’t worried about lying or misrepresenting himself—and yet who seemed crushed when it came to Sissy Barten.
If anything happened to Veck on her watch, she’d never forgive herself—
“What . . . the hell?” she murmured.
Reilly frowned and sank down onto her haunches. Smack in the middle of the patch of soggy dirt, the impressions from where Veck had landed were like moon-craters. Likewise, around the rim, his path to the opening was deep and obvious, the sunken impression of smooth-soled shoes dominating the ground and announcing that a man of some two hundred pounds had been by.
Rising up, Reilly braced her foot on a ledge and stretched high to look where Veck and she had crossed over. On the top of the shelf of stone, there were two sets of wet prints, hers and Veck’s. That was it.
Surveying the expanse of the slope, she shook her head. No way Jim Heron or whoever he was could have gotten down here without having his feet get soaked. And no way he could have stood where he had without leaving damp prints behind, as she and Veck had done.
What the hell was going on here?
Behind her, Veck reappeared at the cave opening. “It’s Sissy Barten. He’s right.”
Reilly swallowed hard as she got back down. “Anything else in there?”
“Not that I can see. Did you call us in?”
“Yes. Are you sure it’s her?”
“I didn’t touch anything, but there’s blond hair showing and the body is where Kroner said it would be.” Veck’s brows dropped. “What’s wrong?”
“Were there any other footprints on the floor of that cave?”
“Let me check.” He disappeared. Came back. “Not really. But it’s not the best surface for capturing them. It’s relatively dry, with little soil depth. What are you—”
“It’s like he just dropped out of the sky.”
“Who? Heron?”
“There’s no evidence he’s been here, Veck. Where are his muddy footprints? On the ground? Up there?”
“Wait, aren’t there—”
“Nothing.”
He frowned and glanced around. “Son of a bitch.”
“My feelings exactly.”
Off in the distance, she heard the other officers approaching so she cupped her hands and called out, “Over here! We’re over here!”
Maybe someone else could make sense of this. Because she was coming up with nothing . . . and evidently, the same was true of Veck.
CHAPTER 30
As the last of the day’s sunlight drained from the sky, Sissy Barten’s remains were carefully bagged up and removed from the cave.
Veck was one of four guys who took the handles, bore her
weight, and walked her out into the clean air. He’d stayed close as the afternoon had progressed, but kept his hands to himself, limiting his participation to taking his own photographs with his phone, talking with the coroner when the guy arrived, and helping wherever, and whenever he could with nonessentials.
Reilly had done the same.
And now the only thing left to do here was to get the body up the slope.
“Let’s go this way,” he said to the others. “It’s the best shot we’ve got.”
The four of them headed to the north, taking the least obstructed way—which was a relative term.
And there were plenty of people waiting for their arrival.
Naturally, the news crews had arrived and parked on the rim. God only knew who had tipped them off. No one in an official capacity at the site, that was for sure, but this was a public area and the whole town knew not only about Kroner’s capture and recuperation at St. Francis, but also the victim in that motel, and the other dead girls. The fact that there were a dozen uniforms traipsing around a remote area with a lot of dark places probably didn’t mean someone was having a birthday party at this pile of rocks. Plus now there was a body bag involved.
And God knew every idiot had a cell phone these days.
Which was precisely why, the moment after a positive identification had been made using photographs and birthmarks, de la Cruz had literally run up out of the scene and gone gunning for his car. Although the CPD would not release the name to the press until after the family had been notified, there had been numerous e-mails, texts, and phone calls back and forth with HQ—and there was no way of knowing who might have told their wife, who told her sister, who told someone at the television station.