Jack dropped a quick kiss on her head, his strong kicks and arm strokes keeping them moving. It was hard to breathe through her sobs, and now that she knew he was safe, she was humiliated by her weakness, but she couldn’t stop crying. “I’m here,” he said. “We’re safe, but we have to get out of the water.” Jack was looking around, on guard. “We don’t know who’s watching.”
That reminder gave her a jolt of energy. “I can swim.” Pushing out of his arms, she fought her exhaustion and swam. “What the hell happened?” Stroke after stroke, Hannah slowly made progress to shore with Jack easily keeping pace next to her, still scanning the shore.
“A bomb,” he said. “The fucking boat blew up.”
“No. I mean, where were you?” Anger was replacing sorrow at a fast pace.
“We were thrown on different sides of the gangway. I heard you calling, but you didn’t hear me respond.”
Because she’d been swimming underwater looking for him! She felt even more a fool, and weak. Every arm stroke was a little less effective in getting her to the damaged gangway. “You’re bleeding.”
He shook water from his eyes. “My forehead burns.”
They were finally at the gangway and the crowd had grown. Witnesses. Maybe the perp. She didn’t see the dockmaster. “Bolger? You see Bolger?” Her kingdom for a camera. She studied faces as she patted her pocket, searching for her phone. It was still there in its protective case, containing the only record of what they’d seen on the yacht…the wall of pictures.
“No.” Jack swam behind her and used the leverage of the gangway to hoist Hannah out of the water. Charlie Foulkes, rushed forward, pushing through the crowd.
“Are you two all right?” He set his case down and reached for her. Hannah grabbed his forearm to steady herself as she climbed the last bit onto the mangled gangway. His blue Forensic BPD windbreaker was slick against her palm, but Charlie held tight. He was strong, pulling her the rest of the way out, one-handed. A handsome and muscular redhead, Charlie had a bit of the geek about him. Just a bit. She wondered how Deming knew him, and told herself to ask at some point. Later. When she didn’t feel like she was dying.
Jack pressed up onto the gangway, dripping harbor water. He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone, testing that his waterproof case had done its job. She wiped the water from her eyes, blinking, and peered at her own phone. It turned on…a relief. They weren’t leaving empty-handed.
Hannah’s wobbly smile fizzled under the weight of Jack’s angry stare. He obviously blamed her for their current predicament. He had to. Pepperidge was going to bench her for sure.
“What happened?” Charlie was scanning the radius of the blast.
“It went boom.” Hannah was suddenly freezing, though it was mid-August and the sun shone brightly. The sea breeze made it worse.
Jack gave his head a shake and sprayed them with water. “Could this water smell any worse?”
Charlie frowned. “The bomb. What did it look like?”
“An IED; two propane tanks, small block of C4, detonated by a ringing cell phone.” Jack pressed his palm to his bleeding brow.
Charlie extended his hand. “Charlie Foulkes, by the way. We’ve talked on the phone, but haven’t met face-to-face.” They shook. Charlie indicated Jack’s head wound. “EMTs pulled up behind my truck. I’d patch you up, but my skills lean toward the dead.”
Jack gave his head another shake. “Other than a ringing in my ears, I’m fine.”
Charlie nodded, but his interest lay elsewhere: the burning yacht. “I’m going to need you to describe in detail what you saw. It will increase our chances of finding any surviving pieces of the bomb.”
Hannah’s shaking had grown worse. Shock and exhaustion had drained the last of her reserves, and she knew if she didn’t sit soon, she’d collapse. Jack didn’t look any worse for wear. His clothes were plastered to his body, showcasing his amazing physique. Minus the smell, he could have been a model that had been wet down for a photo shoot. It wasn’t fair. Hannah knew she had to look like a drowned rat. An exhausted, pale, drowned rat. Pregnancy and then extended bed rest did nothing for the cardiovascular system. She’d been working out a bit, but still wasn’t up to her fighting shape, so reality was, she’d welcome a gurney with a heated blanket right about now.
“We could have been watched,” Jack said. “The phone rang while we were in there.” He flagged down a uniformed officer racing toward them, and flashed his credentials. She recognized Sergeant O’Neil immediately. “My name is Special Agent Jack Benton. I’m liaising with the New Sudbury precinct,” he nodded to Charlie, who nodded in agreement. “I want the marina’s dockmaster tracked down,” he said, pointing toward the office. “Have your men bring him to the precinct and have him wait there for me. In fact, ask Detective Ferguson to sit with him, see what shakes loose.”
“I know who you are.” The sergeant turned to Hannah, concern written all over him. “Special Agent Cambridge. You good?”
She nodded. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
Jack’s impatience with the man sharpened his tone. “The dockmaster, Sergeant.” O’Neil nodded to Hannah, obviously conflicted, but he left on task, though the look he gave Jack said he wasn’t happy.
“How to make friends and influence people,” she said. “He’s been kind to me, Jack. Try to play nice with others for a change.”
“The dockmaster a suspect?” Charlie said.
“Maybe.” He indicated the burning yacht. “How long will the search take?”
“It’s still afloat. There’s a chance we’ll find something that might lead to the bomb maker. Maybe shrapnel with a finger print, if we’re lucky, but don’t count on it happening any time soon. No way to give you a realistic timeline. Best guess is damned if I know.” Charlie indicated their dripping clothes with a glance. “How are you two alive?”
“We flew.” She hid her trembling hands behind her back and could have kicked herself when her own words brought the scary incident back, as if it were happening in real time. Which triggered a panic attack. “Nice seeing you again, Charlie. Jack? We’ve got to go.” Her words echoed in her ears as her vision narrowed. She started walking, hoping to hide before she unraveled with an audience.
“Go?” Jack took her arm and forced her to stop walking. “We’re not going anywhere. This is our perp’s last crime scene.”
Charlie picked up a shard of decking. “It could take us days to pick through this flotsam. And if the yacht sinks, we’ll need divers, which will lengthen the process.” Hannah swayed on her feet. “My people are taking photos of the crowd, Special Agent Benton,” Charlie said. “You might as well get cleaned up.”
“Sure.” Jack released her arm, allowing Hannah to walk again.
“I’m not feeling well,” she whispered, trying to walk past him, but Jack wouldn’t back off. He kept pace with her. “Please. Let me meet you back at the precinct.”
“The ambulance first. We need to have you checked out,” Jack said. “That was a hard blast.”
She shook her head. There’s be no hiding her panic attack from medical professionals. She’d be pulled from the case. That was not acceptable. “I need dry clothes. Maybe grab lunch. I’ll be fine.” She headed back to Jack’s car.
“Special Agent Benton,” Charlie shouted after them. “You really should get that cut looked at. There are bacteria in the harbor you don’t want infecting that cut.” Whatever Jack replied was lost to Hannah as she was left to focus on her breathing, the weird buzzing in her ears, and the growing blurriness to her vision. She could make out the EMT truck parked near the office, but if Jack hadn’t grabbed her elbow and escorted her past it, she wouldn’t have known where she was going.
“Please tell me you still have your car keys,” she said, hoping Jack would ascribe her shaking to the cold.
“I do, but we’re not gett
ing anywhere near my leather seats with Boston Harbor stink on us. One of the patrolmen can drive us back. This way.” He led her toward the cruisers in the parking lot.
Great, she thought. And her heart sank. This day was killing her. “I need to upload the photos to the precinct’s secure site,” she said. “Vivian can access it, so she can download the pictures and print them out by the time we return.” Her teeth were chattering.
“We’re going to your apartment to change.” His words seemed innocuous. They made sense. She needed dry clothes.
“Wait, what?” she said. He couldn’t go to her apartment just yet. Her heart skipped a beat. It was too soon for him to meet Ellen! “Later. I want the team to see these photos first.” She’d suffer the physical discomfort, and suck it up. She had to.
“They’ll keep. You need dry clothes. So do I.”
“No.” Her denial came out sharp to her sensitive ears, and when she searched for an excuse to back it up, for staying in stinking, harbor-wet clothes, she didn’t have to stretch the truth. It was obvious, low-hanging fruit. “Pepperidge might demand you take me off the case. Bring me to the incident room, Jack, so I can consult with the team while I still have access to them. I need their take on the photos and the yacht.” She swayed on her feet, feeling dizzy.
“Fine. But I should bench you. You know that, right?” He didn’t look happy, but since when did she require him to be happy? All she’d ever asked was that he be there, with her, and even that had been too much for him to commit to.
She wanted to thank him, but couldn’t force the words past her lips. She was falling into a stress-induced fugue, her emotions shutting down, and even her voice sounded distant and hollow to her. Jack opened the cruiser’s back door for her, and she slipped inside just in time to stop herself from falling to the pavement.
As she sat there, shivering, Jack called Vivian, told her about the upload to the precinct’s secure site. With shaking hands, Hannah managed to do that simple task without help. Then she used the rest of the ride to process what had happened and calm her body’s reaction. Soon, she settled into a familiar exhaustion, and thankfully, the pain in her chest subsided. Everything was going to be okay, she told herself. She would be okay.
In the twenty minutes it took to arrive back at the BPD New Sudbury precinct, Hannah managed to shed most of her symptoms. She was getting better at it, and that made her think maybe she was getting better. The panic attacks had begun when Jack died. Maybe she was right to think Jack’s resurrection would make them go away.
Once inside the building, past security and up the elevator, they hurried to homicide’s incident room. They were both impatient to discuss what they had found. Ferguson met them outside the door, holding it open as they rushed inside. “The dockmaster, Bolger, is a piece of work. Even Vivian doesn’t like him.” And Vivian liked everyone.
“Where is he?” Jack said.
“Interrogation Room 1.” Ferguson scowled at Jack when he said it, making Hannah think he was remembering this morning, and the fight he’d witnessed between her and Jack. And the kiss. A blush heated her cheeks, mostly because she knew that kiss had been the least of her inappropriate behavior today. Sex in the lieutenant’s office, and then boarding the boat without a warrant. “Vivian is printing the pictures now,” Ferguson said. “Lot of photos. Hannah, you had no business going on that yacht. Were those pictures worth your life? Sergeant O’Neil called me and said you nearly died twice.”
“It’s over.” Hannah knew he was right. She’d almost killed her and Jack, and it was making her see this whole case from a different perspective. Jack was right. She hadn’t considered the target on her back affecting anyone but her and Ellen. It put a target on Jack’s back as well. “Is there any coffee left?” She was so cold.
Ferguson rolled his eyes. “It’s not over, Hannah. You’re alive. Our guy doesn’t leave his targets alive.”
“Detective Ferguson, stop,” Vivian said. “Can’t you see she’s exhausted?” Vivian was wringing her hands, noticeably upset.
“Yes, she is.” Jack plopped his wet suit jacket into the trash bin next to his desk. “Everyone give her some space.”
Gilroy adjusted his tie as he walked up to the gathering crowd, scanning their faces. “Death by tempest. Got to hand it to the perp. That’s unique.” He pulled out his phone and Googled the word. “Tempest is…the definition says tumult. Now I have to look up tumult. What the hell is a tumult? Here it is. ‘A violent commotion.’ I guess blowing up a boat constitutes a tempest.” He swore under his breath. “Just my luck I catch a case where you need to be a nineteenth-century poet to understand the perp.”
“It was a yacht.” Jack scanned the room. “Where’s Deming?”
“She said I was cramping her style,” Ferguson said, “so we separated. She went to Copp’s Hill Burying Ground and I went to Lewis Wharf. Nothing there labeled here’s where the perp will hit next. Complete waste of time. I’ve been calling her, trying to tell her just that all morning. She’s not responding. I don’t think she likes me.” He smiled, not at all unhappy at the thought.
Hannah poured herself a cup of decaf, gripping the pot so tightly her knuckles paled. She sipped the bitter brew, studying the murder board. The new photos still weren’t taped up. Impatience with herself and the situation sharpened her tone. “Vivian, where are my uploads?” Hannah stepped to the IT tech’s desk and saw them displayed on her monitor. Pointing at one, Hannah overshot the distance and slammed her finger onto the delicate screen. It startled Vivian and embarrassed Hannah. “Print that photo first,” she said. Jack grabbed tissues from Vivian’s desk and pressed them to his brow. “Is it still bleeding?”
He glanced at the tissue. “No. It’s nothing.” Hannah could see it no longer bled, but it didn’t look like nothing. It looked bruised and angry; like it hurt. Turning his attention toward Vivian, Jack said, “What are you printing?”
“It’s a copy of Hannah’s stanza,” Vivian said. “The perp thought the yacht was where she’d die. He’s good. Who could hear the word tempest and not associate it with a teapot?”
Hannah narrowed her eyes at Jack and then Ferguson, refusing to say I told you so. But she wanted to. Badly.
Ferguson was ignoring her, dialing. “Deming,” he said into his phone. “Where the hell are you? Hannah almost died.” Then he hung up.
It didn’t go unnoticed that he failed to mention Jack’s brush with death. If she hadn’t been under such a strain, she might have smiled at Jack’s reaction. He did not like Ferguson.
Vivian handed Jack her pump bottle of hand sanitizer, though never once did she take her eyes off the screen. “Dost thou not in pride and scorn, Fill with tempests all my morn, And with jealousies and fears, Fill my pleasant nights with tears?” She nodded. “Yup. That’s her stanza.”
“Vivian, why am I holding your hand sanitizer?” Jack had blood-smeared tissues in one hand and the bottle in the other, and he didn’t look happy.
Gilroy took it from his hand and squirted some on a tissue. “For your cut. I hope your tetanus shot is up to date.” Then he pressed it to Jack’s cut.
“Shit.” Jack recoiled from the pain, squeezing his eyes shut and grimacing. “That burns.”
“Nowhere does that stanza refer to an IED.” Gilroy released the tissue when Jack took over. Then he took more tissues and wiped his hands.
Hannah sipped her hot coffee. Its heat soothed. Then she walked to her desk and returned to Vivian’s with her first aid kit. She handed it to Jack. “We didn’t know I’d be on that yacht until moments before I stepped on it.” She was glad they’d thought to put a protective duty on her apartment, because she knew Ellen was safe, but she was impatient for Natalie’s arrival. Things were escalating fast, and Hannah wanted her friend in charge of her daughter when Hannah couldn’t be. “Is the killer following me? Because there is no way it could have been planned t
his way. Right?”
Jack shrugged, rummaging through the first aid kit. “That bomb was for you. The stanza on the wall tells us that.” He opened a few antiseptic wipes and attempted to do a more thorough job on his cut, failing miserably. Hannah took the wipes from his hand and peered at the cut, dabbing.
“Let’s walk through how you got there,” Ferguson said. “Maybe it will give us an idea of how the killer lured you there.”
Hannah nodded. “The geographical profile.” She took out a butterfly bandage and indicated Jack should lean down so she could put it on his cut.
“Our killer knows police procedure.” Gilroy folded his arms over his chest. “So…what? A cop who knows William Blake? He should stand out like a sore thumb.”
Jack’s breath caressed Hannah’s cheek as she pressed the two sides of his cut together and applied the bandage. She hadn’t expected the moment to be so intimate, and it unnerved her, made her feel as if she was under scrutiny as her heart was revealed to all and sundry. Everyone knew she loved Jack. They’d heard the “interrogation” this morning, so everything she did with him would be colored by her confession. Even something as mundane as putting a bandage on a cut. When she was done, Jack didn’t pull away, but instead watched her closely. Strangely enough, it was only then, when she was done, that it occurred to her that Jack would be the one who interpreted her behavior as a reflection of her feelings for him.
“Thanks.” He winked at her, then straightened up.
It broke the spell he’d cast, and allowed her to move. A quick glance told her no one was paying attention, thankfully. They were looking at Vivian’s monitor.
“He’s using our protocol against us.” Vivian leaned her elbows on the desk, staring at the photos. “But even so, he couldn’t have known Hannah would be the one to check out the marina this time.”
Jack met Hannah’s gaze again. “Another indication he is watching you. The photos show he’s been watching since you were assigned to this case.”
Catch a Killer Page 10