For All to See (Bureau Series Book 1)

by Megan Mitcham

  Her gaze jumped to the clock on the oven. On any other Monday she’d be zooming around the place trying to get out the door to meet Nichole at the gym. Today there was no point. She wouldn’t be there. Ever again.

  Numbness traveled from her hip and shoulder, blanketing her in a shroud of apathy. At the very least she needed to get up and get ready for work, but she couldn’t find the will to move.

  Finally she flayed herself from the floor and shuffled into the bathroom. Madelyn stared at her toothbrush for several minutes before turning away. The bathtub knobs squeaked under her hand and the water rushed from the faucet. She popped the diverter and the shower rained like her tears had last night.

  Maybe she’d cried them all out. Because she couldn’t summon even a mist of emotion. She closed the toilet lid, sat, and peeled off one item at a time. Exhaustion taxed her muscles, making the simple task seem as though she were doing it in a vat of syrup.

  When she stepped into the shower cool water jolted her indifference. This wasn’t about her. There were children depending on her to explain the inexplicable. There were children who would undoubtedly need a shoulder to cry on or a coherent party to listen. She had to be that for them. And that necessity was the only thing that got her dressed.

  If Madelyn thought the night was bad, the day was one hundred times worse. The entire school reeled from the news. Children wept, some to themselves, others in groups, while tiny tears drenched her shirt. It was a bit of hell on Earth.

  The sun shined, but the day clouded with grief.

  The night brought fitful sleep until exhaustion took over. But she didn’t wake refreshed. She woke in a vengeful furry. Hate replaced sorrow. Her jaw clenched tight and her nails dug into her palms.

  The spark of Nichole’s murder ignited a long-dormant rage. She dressed in record time and sprinted, churning sand all the way to the gym. Deacon didn’t circle her once. In fact, he kept his distance.

  A rectangle of plywood used to fortify the storefront in case of a hurricane covered the broken glass door. Madelyn yanked the handle and hoisted it open. Jim had wrecked her world. The blatant evidence in the four walls of a place that had represented her new beginning ratcheted her misfit temper.

  Amadi was nowhere to be seen and for that she was grateful. He would have wanted her to calm down and find her center, but she didn’t want peace. Her fists, still squeezed tight, coaxed small hues of red to the surface of her skin where the fingernails cut into her hands. The whites of her knuckles turned red. Her jaw clenched tight as the anger stirred. She wanted blood and fury.

  Today the bag would not do. She needed a person to unleash her hell upon. She jumped on the edge of the ring where two men rehashed the details of their previous triumphs. These were the kind of men she typically shied away from. They fought dirty and took wins however they could get them, but today she didn’t care. She leaped over the rope. The larger man backed away from his friend with a condescending smile. “I’ll let you take this one.”

  Her opponent outweighed her by eighty pounds. The gusts of his meaty arms nearly threw her off balance. One blow would stop her misery cold in its tracks. He planted his feet in the center of the ring. His crooked nose and narrowed eyes taunted her to step into the reach of his fists.

  He was strong, but she was fast, focused, and pissed at the universe. She swept his feet from under him and planted her foot a few inches from his temple, winning the match only a few minutes into the bout. Thirsty for more, she didn’t relish the win. Luckily, his friend wanted to prove his worth. He traveled the ring, dogging her into corners, and forcing her to fight her way out. The sting of her overworked muscles distracted her from the ache in her chest. The burn of her lungs overtook the sizzle of her rage. She lost the bout four to five, but exhaustion numbed the loss that had nothing to do with punches and kicks.

  Arms draped over the top rope, Madelyn sucked in steady breaths. Heavy-hitter and his hard-nosed friend ambled from her right. When she turned to meet their gazes she noticed the audience they’d gathered on the other side of the ring. Red fury had eroded her peripheral vision. Ekene and Nathan Brewer sat on a wooden bench at the ring’s edge.

  Hard-nose offered his hand. “Nice work. You pack a whole lot of anger into that little frame.”

  She shook his hand, but didn’t say anything. What would she say to that?

  Wish I didn’t.

  He and his friend headed toward the lockers and she put her newly found powers of observation to work on Agent Brewer. He sported the same scowl he’d had the night before, but he’d changed from the suit. A nicely worn pair of jeans hugged his thighs. His T-shirt tattooed the FBI crest to his left pec. Sun-kissed arms jutted from the sleeves and stretched them taut.

  Luckily, Ekene’s boisterous claps cut her study short. He whistled though big lips. “Nice…you nearly mopped the floor with their guts, girl. You know, Amadi would give you hell for that little fit.” He shot her a sly smile and turned up his palms. “But he’s not here, is he?”

  Nathan stood and braced both hands on the canvas. “We need to talk.” He bit the words between shiny teeth.

  “Hop in.” She nodded toward the middle of the ring and gave a sweet smile.

  15

  In the face of loss and imminent danger most people would give over any freedoms they possessed to be safe, but not Madelyn Garrett. Nathan had opened and closed her file about five times the previous night. He needed to know what made her tick. Then maybe he’d find a way to get her to concede and let them put her into protective custody. Because this was no copy-cat.

  The Bureau omitted a great deal from the media over the years about the severity and brutality of the crimes. But this guy hadn’t missed one sick trick. As though the bastard studied his previous killings every night in his dreams, he’d carried this one out with enraging perfection.

  And his next victim stubbornly refused protection.

  As things sat he might have to knock her out, toss her over his shoulder, and march her to the safe house to get her to comply. Nathan leaped onto the mat and rolled beneath the ropes. When he stood the mirth fell from her lips.

  “When I win, you leave me alone.” Her hands banded her hips.

  The breaths she sucked in long, even pulls forced her full B-cup against the sweat-soaked material of her tank top. Tiny nipples stretched the blue fabric at the center of those pretty swells.

  “You won’t win,” he groused.

  “You’re awfully cocky.” She bounded on her toes and shook out her arms.

  “I’m motivated.”

  The tension in her muscular legs telegraphed her movement a split second before her body lurched in his direction. She came in like a bolt of lightning. Her balled fist acted as the electrified leader ready to decimate everything in its path.

  Nathan shifted to the outside. The wind from her punch tickled his cheek. The nearness of her arm brought a line of small freckles into perfect view. He grabbed her wrist in his right hand. One step back and a shove to her shoulder sent her reeling. A twist and lift ended the fight she’d gathered in her left hand and foot. She met the mat with a thud.

  He stood over her prone form and held his grip. “You need to let us protect you.”

  His leg buckled. He teetered toward the canvas before his nerve endings registered the burn of pain. He landed on all fours. The muscles in his calf knotted in retaliation to the blow.

  How in the hell she’d worked past the agony of having her wrist locked to be able to knee him in the calf was beyond him.

  “I don’t need protection.” Madelyn rolled onto her back. The end of her ponytail fanned out to one side of her head, while other sprigs stuck to her face. Her brows crinkled and her dark eyes sparked.

  “Will you at least listen to what I have to say?” Nathan used his good leg to stand and offered his hand.

  She stared at his hand for a long minute.

  “Are you going to bite it or take it?” he asked.

  “N
either. We can talk on the steps.” She twisted away and stood under her own steam.

  Anger rolled off her body in waves. As did a subtle, but potent, sex appeal he had no right to notice. It wrapped itself around his brain and siphoned his ability for higher thought. He apparently needed few brain functioning cells to follow her out the door and into the sweltering morning heat.

  Madelyn sat on the top step. Nathan did the same, but put as much distance between them as the width of wood allowed. Deacon plopped down between them with a fifth of the spunk he’d shown only a couple of days before. His person picked at the seam on her shorts and stared into the distance.

  Almost as repressed as her allure was the grief she hid behind the impenetrable wall of rage. So he wouldn’t come off as the creep he apparently was—itching over a women who’d just lost her best friend—Nathan honed in on that defense mechanism and attempted to exploit it.

  “Madelyn, each set of murders occur a year apart. On the night Nichole went missing it had been twelve months since the murder on St. John. There are always two victims per island and the victims have close ties, connections to one another. The two on St. Thomas, Trisha and Summer Sutherland, were sisters.”

  She didn’t move. Didn’t attempt to speak. So, he continued. “Trisha was killed first. Her body was hung on the flagpole in the square of her small town. Two weeks later Summer was found hung in a tree behind the local school. The two on St. John, Nancy Starks and Robin Young, were friends on the same volleyball team. Nancy was hung on a light pole on the main thoroughfare of her town. Robin was found two weeks later on a light pole next to the beach where they used to play. You fit his profile and you were close to Nichole.”

  He turned to see if anything he’d said made an impact. She still picked her shorts’ seam and stared into the lighting sky. “You didn’t see what Jim did to her.” Her tone matched that of a funeral dirge. She hiccupped a breath, and then fortified herself before continuing.

  “Her eyes were swollen shut. As she felt her way down the side of the road, she left a trail of blood. It was a week before she could chew semi-solid foods. He left scars all over her body. I had to feed her, dress her, and even take her to the bathroom for weeks. She was as helpless as a child.”

  She blinked several times and then turned her haunted gaze on him. “I think this time he just finished what he started.” Her hair swished back and forth with the shake of her head. “I don’t think she’s connected to your murders. I don’t think I have anything to worry about, except a dead friend. Thank you for your concern, Agent Brewer, but I can take care of myself.”

  She pushed off the step. “Come, Deacon.” When the dog followed she broke into a run.

  Nathan yelled, “Call me Nathan, you stubborn over-confident pain in my ass.”

  He couldn’t deny it any longer. There was something about this woman.

  Women in general gave Nathan his way. In fact, his mother was the only woman who’d ever stood up to him. She always told him he might as well turn himself around because his handsome face and sly smile wouldn’t work on her. Whereas his high school principal, Mrs. Monroe, told him he could make it to the presidency with his charm.

  Madelyn stood up to him. She was bull headed, reckless, and annoying as hell. She was gorgeous and raw. She was real. Smart. Tough. Loyal. Caring. Interesting. Nathan wanted to be close to her, know more about her, and above all he wanted to protect her.

  16

  Work blurred past. And not because it went by particularly quickly. Madelyn remembered people offering condolences, but she didn’t remember what they said. She remembered people, especially the students, asking questions about the horrible details of the crime, but she couldn’t make herself remember them.

  The fog stayed thick until she grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator. She popped the top and relaxed back in a chair of her thick wooden dining table that rarely sat the two it could. She sipped her Carib Lager and rubbed the head resting in her lap. The familiar bristles of Deacon’s coat soothed her as she sifted through the muck in her head. But the more she sifted the higher her anger built.

  Regret at not inviting Nichole to stay over Thursday night gnawed at her resolve. Helplessness taunted. Rage at knowing Jim Gallow walked free while Nichole lay in a morgue assaulted her senses.

  The anger took over again. She hated the rage inside her. It ate at her soul. She poured the beer down the drain and decided a run would expel the jagged rage.

  The falling sun turned the sky into the best version of a Monet she’d ever seen. The sun’s orange met with red. It faded into purple and blue, and then reflected off the sea and clouds. She breathed it all in—the wet air, the fresh scent of the banana and palm trees. Her anger melted away as she picked up stride.

  Two miles was her usual share of beach. Wanting more of the simplicity, she pushed on. Deacon must’ve called it quits. His paws no longer churned the sand behind her. He probably passed the time digging for fiddler crabs near ocean’s edge.

  Slowly the colorful sky darkened.

  Striding down the shore, she didn’t anticipate the collision. It came from behind. Her face met the sand. The air deserted her lungs. She struggled to orient to the new position. Madelyn lifted her ringing head and gasped for air, but a large hand pinned the back of her neck. It restricted her movement, her vision, her life.

  She inhaled bits of sand. Choking on them she grappled for calm. If she panicked, she’d die. Through shards of pain, she collected a clear breath. Then another. Madelyn barred her hips off the earth, but the weight of a large body trapped hers.

  Click, click, click, click.

  The tiny sound reverberated in her skull. Cool metal manacled her wrists. Panic devoured her whole. She thrashed against the bonds. The ligaments of her arms stretched unnaturally behind her back. Her body sank deeper into the quicksand.

  Not her hands. How could she fight if she didn’t have her hands? It would’ve been wise to take Agent Brewer up on that protective custody offer. But now wasn’t the time to lament past mistakes.

  Madelyn prayed for the first time in a very long time—to the God she wasn’t too sure gave a shit about her—that someone inhabited the marvelous mansion behind her. Maybe they would call Chief and he’d arrive in time to save her. And if she were really lucky, the owner would come out with guns blazing to protect their opulent home.

  She shifted her head in the grit. Like so many times before, her prayers were dashed in darkness. Her slanted glimpse of the house showed blackness. Void of life. And soon, she might very well match.

  Madelyn ground her teeth into her waning courage. No, she didn’t have her hands. But she would use whatever she could to fight. However she could manage, she wouldn’t give up.

  With a face full of sand, she decided to fight.

  He grabbed her screaming shoulders and flipped her over. His weight only lifted for a tiny fragment of a second.

  Her attacker’s face loomed. A black mask hid his identity. Only his dark eyes peeked from the shroud. Her fingers itched to gouge them out. With his hands on the tops of her shoulders he lowered his head to hers. Fear churned in her gut as he moved in closer.

  Madelyn choked it down and waited. His obscured face hung inches from hers. With all the force she could generate while backed against the sand, she lurched forward and slammed her head into his.

  Pain crackled through her brain. Her attacker grunted. His grip released her shoulders. Without thought she planted her feet and thrust her hips up and over, flipping him onto his back.

  Instantly, she curled her butt off the sand and slipped her feet under the loop of cuffs. She could run, but maybe he could too. Maybe she wouldn’t get away. Or maybe he would.

  In one smooth motion she flipped onto him. Straddling his waist she reared her arms to the sky and battered down toward his face. The cuffs jerked to a halt mid-strike. Her wrists wracked against the metal. A cry escaped her lips.

  “Damn it, Madelyn, you busted my lip
!”

  Confused, she struggled to gain control of her hands, promising to do much more than just bust his lip. He held the cuffs tight with one hand and with the other pulled off his mask.

  “What are you doing?” she shrieked.

  “Proving a point.” Special Agent Nathan Brewer hurled the words.

  “What, that you’re insane?”

  “No, that you need protection.”

  “Me? Who has the busted lip?”

  “Who’s in hand cuffs?”

  Nathan released his hold on the manacles. Her hands fell slack on his hard abdomen. He shifted his hips and took advantage of her stupor. She rolled listlessly onto her back. Holding himself directly above her, he stared into her eyes.

  “You didn’t leave me much choice.”

  Madelyn willed her brain to catch up with the action. She couldn’t figure out if she was pissed or completely aroused. He mounted her spread legs like a lover. His weight rested in the cradle of her thighs. In a place where weight hadn’t rested in a long, long time.

  Heat flushed her body from the fight. From the fall of adrenaline. From the contact of their bodies.

  Madelyn tried not to get lost in his penetrating stare. And it was the hardest thing she’d ever done in her life. Finally, she decided pissed was the best option for the moment. Putting on the meanest look she could muster, she tried to let him have it.

  “You know, you’re a real ass.” She planted her cuffed hands on his firm chest and pushed. “Get off me.”

  He didn’t budge. His gaze just bore deeper. “And you’re real stubborn.” The slightest grin tickled his hard expression. “Do I have your attention now?”

  “Yes, you have my attention. Now please…”

  He removed himself and sat facing the ocean next to her sprawled body. “You need some help with those cuffs?”