The Baby Mission

by Marie Ferrarella

“You would have thought you’d have learned after Tom,” she said to the tear-stained face staring back at her in the mirror. “What would it take for you to realize that you aren’t going to find the kind of thing your parents have…that relationships like theirs are the exception, not the rule?”

  C.J. realized she was shouting at herself. “Oh, great, now I’m going crazy. Perfect, just perfect.”

  Trying to pull herself together, she splashed cold water on her face, hoping that would somehow wash away all the unwanted emotions that were running rampant through her.

  She was not about to allow Byron Warrick to have control over her, to affect her this way. They had made love, so what? Not even love, she amended silently, they’d had sex. That was it, pure and simple. Nothing more, just sex.

  A sad smile curved her lips.

  Who was she kidding? Maybe it had been “just sex” to him but not to her, she thought miserably. To her it had been something more, something special.

  Too bad. It hadn’t been to him, and it took two to make a decent relationship. She’d learned that much from Tom. Time to pick up the pieces and move on.

  She realized that she’d wandered into the kitchen. The coffee was still in the filter inside the coffeemaker, where they’d left it. Untouched.

  She debated for a minute, then shrugged. What the hell, she wasn’t going to get any sleep tonight, anyway. Maybe she’d have a cup of coffee and call Culpepper to see if there’d been any new developments.

  C.J. placed the glass coffeepot under the spout and hit the on button. Grumbling noises slowly filled the stillness around her.

  She could feel tears forming again. She needed noise, music, something to fill the awful void she felt inside of her. C.J. switched on the radio on the counter.

  A mournful tune greeted her. Swallowing choice words, C.J. switched the radio off again rather than hunt for another station. With her luck, every station would be playing a sad song about love that had gone wrong.

  She didn’t need music, she told herself. What she needed to do was concentrate on the case.

  The hell with what Warrick thought. As far as she was concerned, she’d come up with a damn good plan. It was a whole lot better than waiting for the Sleeping Beauty Killer to try to do away with another innocent, unsuspecting woman. Even with the task force waiting in the wings to protect her, the next would-be victim would undoubtedly be traumatized by her contact with the serial killer.

  But not her.

  Her nerves were stronger than that. This was what she was paid to do. The only thing that traumatized her were special agents who didn’t turn out to be so special after all.

  She picked up the phone and punched the buttons on the keyboard with the number to Culpepper’s cell phone. He answered after two rings.

  “Hi, it’s Jones. Anything?”

  “What’s the matter, C.J., you can’t sleep?” Culpepper guessed. “Try coming back here. Watching the monitors’ll put you right out. It’s dead as a door-nail outside. It looks like Maxwell’s tucked in for the night. Sure wish I was.”

  She nodded. No escape for her there. “Call me if anything changes.”

  “Other than a cat wandering down the street?”

  She laughed shortly. “Other than that.”

  “You got it. Now go to bed, Jones, or come here and spell me because I could use the sleep.”

  “G’night, Culpepper.” She replaced the receiver and turned to the coffeemaker.

  Clearing off the counter, she opened the cabinet below the sink to throw the crumpled napkin away. The garbage pail was full to overflowing. She thought of just leaving it, but this time of year it was an open invitation to ants. With a sigh she tied up the white garbage bag and pulled it out of the pail.

  She went out to the side of the house where the garbage containers were kept. She threw the bag into the largest one, then turned to go back inside.

  Her head jerked up. She thought she’d heard something.

  Listening, she couldn’t make anything out. Probably just the neighbor’s cat, running through the bushes. With a shrug she went to her door. Opening it, she was almost across the threshold when someone came up behind her and bumped into her. Caught off guard, C.J. stumbled into her living room. She swung around, arms raised defensively in front of her.

  Harry Maxwell was standing inside her house.

  Chapter 15

  Warrick glared into the night, struggling to rein in his anger as he drove down the quiet streets. The windows of his car were down. The air fought a duel as it rushed in on both sides of him, pushing his hair into his eyes. He hardly noticed.

  He flew past a light that was about to turn red, barely squeaking through.

  Damn it, he’d let her get to him. He’d known better, and yet he’d let her get to him.

  His knuckles tightened on the steering wheel as he beat another light before it turned red.

  He should never have let any of this happen. Should have stopped it before it ever started. He wasn’t a novice at this sort of thing. That first kiss should have warned him that he was on dangerous ground and that it would only get worse.

  But that first kiss had stirred him just enough to make him want more.

  Well, he’d gotten more, a hell of a lot more than he bargained for, and the whole thing had just blown up in his face.

  Warrick shook his head. Half an hour ago he’d been in bed with C.J., feeling utterly invulnerable, and now he was driving home, angry and at a complete loss as to what had happened back there, other than the fact that C.J. had gone off like a Roman candle at a Fourth of July display.

  His timing off, Warrick was five feet away from the crosswalk as the light began to turn red. He thought of racing through it. There was no traffic in either direction. At this hour the streets of Bedford were deserted. Shrugging, he eased back on the gas pedal and came to a stop just over the line.

  Any way he sliced it, C.J. had a hell of a lot of explaining to do.

  He let out a long, measured breath, waging a silent battle in his head. He’d always moved on when things turned sour. No reason to change his mode of operation this late in the game. He was just going to go straight home and forget about everything, put all of this behind him.

  When the light turned green, he made a U-turn.

  C.J.’s heart started to race as she stared at the stooped man before her. There were smudges of soot or something black on his beige shirt and across one cheek.

  What was he doing here? How had he gotten past Culpepper and Rodriguez and the surveillance cameras? Wouldn’t they have seen him? But Culpepper had just told her everything was quiet.

  Were there two of Maxwell, a twin they didn’t know about?

  C.J. told herself to remain calm. “Hello.” She smiled warmly at him.

  Harry was fidgeting with the edge of his sweater with one hand. He was holding a single long-stemmed red rose in the other.

  C.J.’s breath hitched in her throat.

  “Is it too late?” Harry asked hesitantly, his eyes fastened on the tips of his run-down loafers. “Because I can come back if it’s too late.”

  Adrenaline was rushing through her veins. She forced herself to tear her eyes away from the rose. She wasn’t going to catch this man by being afraid.

  “No, it’s not too late.” Her voice was deliberately soft, coaxing. She wanted him off his guard. “Did you want to tell me something, Harry?”

  At the mention of his given name, Maxwell looked up shyly, an almost bashful smile playing on his lips. “I like it when you call me Harry.”

  “That’s your name, isn’t it? Harry. Harry Maxwell.” More like Harry Houdini, she thought, if he could elude both the surveillance team and the cameras.

  Harry nodded his head like a child eager to answer a question right, eager to please the teacher.

  The rose made her uneasy. Had he come to kill her? But he seemed so guileless, so uncertain of himself. Could he really be a serial killer?

  She for
ced herself not to look over her shoulder. Her weapon was on the side table, but she felt fairly confident that she could get to it in time if she needed to. Still, she wished she was wearing her spare, the small pistol she kept strapped to the inside of her thigh.

  Well, she’d wanted to play bait. This was her chance. “Would you like to come in, Harry?”

  He nodded again, his hair bobbing into his face. He pushed it away nervously. C.J. stepped back, opening the door farther, her smile inviting.

  Harry moved across the threshold as if an invisible hand was tugging on his sleeve, leading him inside. He looked around like a tourist at a national shrine, taking it all in reverently.

  “This is nice.”

  “Thank you.” She eased the door closed, glancing out into the street. She would have felt a great deal better if she could have spotted a squad car, or one of their own vehicles. But the street was deserted.

  “You’ve changed some things.”

  The comment caught her off guard. C.J. turned away from the door and tried not to stare at him. Had Maxwell been in here before? When she wasn’t at home? She struggled not to shiver at the thought. It gave her the creeps.

  “A little,” she answered evasively. If he was the killer, maybe he was confusing her with one of the women he’d killed. C.J. was careful to keep some room between them. “Do you like it?”

  He nodded, then turned to her. The rose was pointing toward the floor. “You’ve been watching me.”

  Oh damn, she thought. He suspected. Was that why he was here? Was this all just an act?

  “You don’t think I notice, but I do,” he was saying. “I notice you watching me. I’ve been watching you watching me. That’s why I used the old route to get here.”

  “The old route?” She didn’t understand. Was this some ritual he was referring to?

  Maxwell nodded. He drifted about the room, smoke looking for somewhere to settle, leaving a trail in its wake. She moved with him, always wary that he could turn suddenly.

  “Through the basement. I found a tunnel there. It goes to the other building. The one I used to live in with my mother before I went away.”

  Was he referring to being sent to prison? Or when his mother had married his stepfather and they’d moved to another city? She never took her eyes off him.

  “I use that when I don’t want anyone watching me.”

  They needed something more than circumstantial evidence and gut hunches. She needed to get him to say something incriminating.

  C.J. took a step closer to him. Friend, confidante. “Why don’t you want anyone watching you?”

  “Because it’s a secret. The way I feel about you, Claire,” he told her breathlessly, then added, “I can’t tell anyone.”

  Claire, he’d called her Claire. Who was Claire? C.J.’s mind raced, trying to recall the names of all the victims. Wasn’t one of them named Claire?

  And then she remembered. The first victim’s name had been Claire. In his mind was he killing the woman over and over again for some transgression?

  “Why can’t you tell anyone?” she coaxed.

  He began to fidget again, as if to avoid something. “Because they’d laugh at me.” Maxwell raised his eyes to her face. They were filled with pain. “Like you did.”

  Damn, he almost had her going. He was coming across like the victim, not the women he killed. “When, Harry, when did I laugh at you?”

  “The first time.” His eyes were sad as he looked at her. He made her think of a stray puppy. A very dangerous stray puppy, she reminded herself. “When I followed you home from my mother’s shop.” His face clouded at the memory. “I had to get you to stop laughing.”

  Okay, we’re going for the jackpot here. “How, Harry, how did you get me to stop laughing?”

  He looked at her in confusion. “You know how, Claire.” He looked down at his hands as if they were a thing apart from him. “I put my hands where the sound was coming from.” As he spoke, he seemed to be reliving the moment, his voice getting more agitated. “I could feel it under my fingers. Coming up. Hurting me. So I squeezed it.” He looked at her again. “I squeezed until you stopped laughing. And then you were so still.” He smiled the same shy smile. But this time it seemed eerie to her. “You looked like you were sleeping. And then you were mine. Just mine. He couldn’t have you anymore.”

  There was more to this? An accomplice, maybe? “He?”

  “That guy you were with.” Anger contorted his face, looking strangely out of place. “The one who kept touching you.” His eyes darkened as he looked at her accusingly. “He’s back again, isn’t he? He looks different, but he’s back. Touching you. Don’t deny it. I saw him.” He took a step toward her, squaring his shoulders. It was the first time she realized that he was taller than she was. “He can’t have you. You belong to me.” Agitated, Maxwell was yelling now.

  She had to placate him until she could reach her gun, C.J. thought. She’d allowed him to lead her away from the weapon.

  Her tone was soft, compliant. “Okay. I belong to you. Just you.”

  He shook his head stubbornly, like a child refusing to be lied to.

  “No, you say that now, but I know you. You’ll see him again.” He was breathing hard now, struggling with a rage that colored his face. “I don’t want you to. It hurts to see you with him like that. You never look at me like that.”

  She licked her lips, stalling for time. Trying to play up to him. “Like what?”

  “Like you love me,” he pouted.

  Because she was trying to calm him, to lull him into a false sense of security, she took a step closer to him. “But I do, Harry, I do love you.”

  He shook his head again. Maxwell was clutching the rose so hard he was bending the stem. She saw it drooping.

  “That’s what your mouth says, but not your eyes.”

  “That’s not true, Harry,” C.J. protested with feeling.

  It only seemed to anger him more. “Don’t lie to me! You want me to go,” he guessed. “But don’t you see, I can’t go? I love you. I just want to be close to you. To touch you.”

  He combed his fingers awkwardly through her hair. C.J. held herself perfectly still. He was as dangerous as a bear invading a campsite.

  His eyes seemed to bore into her. “You’re afraid of me. Why are you afraid of me?” He dropped his hand to his side. “I won’t hurt you, Claire. It won’t hurt, I promise.”

  Her heart began to hammer. He had come to kill her. “What won’t hurt?” she prodded. “What are you going to do to me, Harry?”

  “Make you mine again. See, I brought you a present.” Digging into his coat pocket, he pulled something out and held it up for her to look at.

  It was a cheap, imitation pearl choker. The same kind that the others had on.

  Bingo.

  He beamed at it proudly. “People say I don’t think. My mother says I don’t think. But I do. I think of everything.” He dangled the necklace before her, eager for her approval. “This is so no one’ll see.”

  Her mouth was so dry, she thought she was going to choke. But she had to keep him talking, had to get him to say he killed the others.

  “See what?”

  Her questions seemed to be annoying him. “How I made you mine.”

  “You mean the bruises?”

  He frowned. “No bruises. You’ll be perfect.” And then he looked at her hands. “You bite your nails.” He beamed proudly. “I can fix that. I’ll make them pretty. Just like you.”

  C.J. took a step back. One more step and she could pivot and lunge for her gun.

  Maxwell saw her looking toward the weapon. His breath shortened and was audible as anger came. “No, you can’t have that, Claire. You can’t hurt me with that, I won’t let you.”

  Okay, maybe a little verbal shock treatment would work here. “I’m not Claire, Harry. I’m Chris. You killed Claire.”

  There was horror in his eyes. “No, no, I didn’t. You’re Claire, my Claire.”


  “We can get help for you, Harry. Your mother’s very worried about you.” She saw rage in his eyes at the mention of his mother. So much for thinking that all serial killers hating their mothers was a load of garbage. Maxwell clearly detested his. “I’m very worried about you.” She put her hand on top of his. “Won’t you let me help you?”

  He jerked his hand away. “I don’t want help, I want you. Forever. This time it’ll be forever.”

  When she tried to turn away, Maxwell grabbed her by the wrist, his fingers closing around it like a vise. He was a great deal stronger than he appeared.

  The sound of breaking glass coming from the back of the house made him jump. It was all the distraction she needed. C.J. yanked her hand out of his grasp and ran for her weapon.

  The next second, searing pain shot through her scalp. Maxwell had grabbed her by her hair. He pulled her to him roughly. “No!”

  He looked crazy, she thought. Was this the face the victims saw before they died? “Harry—”

  “No, you can’t scream.” He shook his head from side to side, adamant. “You can’t. They’ll hear you. Everyone’ll hear you.”

  He released her hair only to grab her by the throat. And then both hands were around it, squeezing, stealing her air. C.J. clawed at his fingers, trying to pull them away, but he wouldn’t release his hold.

  “Let her go, Maxwell!” Warrick roared. His weapon was trained on the other man.

  Warrick. C.J. couldn’t even cry out his name. Her windpipe was closing.

  Harry looked at him as if Warrick had just told him to do something that was beyond his scope.

  “I can’t. She won’t be mine if I let go. She’ll be yours.” He squeezed harder. “You can’t love her like I do.”

  Panic seized Warrick. Maxwell wasn’t going to let her go. He was going to kill her. Warrick cocked his weapon. “Yes, I can, Maxwell. I do. I love her more than you. Now let her go or I’ll shoot!”

  But Harry shook his head again, squeezing harder.

  The air was gone from her lungs, from her body. There was nothing left to draw on. Her head was spinning, the room was darkening.

  She thought she heard an explosion just before she hit the floor.