Her Last Chance

by Toni Anderson

  “Yes, sir,” Dancer replied smartly. “By the way, I still have that photograph of you in handcuffs…”

  Marsh wanted to curse, but other things weighed too heavily on his mind. “Yeah, yeah, just make the damn call.”

  He hung up and stared through the window. The clench of her jaw and hunch of her shoulders screamed nervous tension, but he doubted she’d break. Not here. Not yet.

  What was she hiding? Why the hell was she hiding it?

  But the only thing that really mattered was she was back in his life and he had no intention of letting anyone hurt her ever again. A hum ran through his blood, an excitement he hadn’t felt in months and he wished to God he didn’t feel now. Josephine was in danger—he didn’t believe in coincidence. The Blade Hunter was trying to finish a job he’d started twenty years ago, and that job was murdering Josephine Maxwell.

  ***

  The urgent need for a shower ate at Josie’s nerves. The scent of sweat, blood and fear clung to her, the memory of her attacker’s touch eroding her skin, gradually being absorbed into her bones and settling there like a bruise.

  She bit the end of the pen. If it wasn’t for Marshall Hayes she’d be in her apartment right now packing.

  To go where?

  She hadn’t figured that out yet. She had options. Connecticut? Montana? Or maybe she should just get on a train with no set destination in mind.

  Squinting at the page she’d written, she put down the pen and glanced up at Special Agent Sam Walker, who sat on the table swinging his leg, the gentle motion rocking the surface beneath her forearms.

  He and Nicholl were reading the latest report on the murder of Angela Morelli. Discussing it quietly between them. Her stomach clenched.

  Despite living in the same building for the last few years, Josie had barely known the woman. And now Angela was dead because of her.

  She worried a loose thread on her jacket, snapped it off. The room was dreary and stuffy, nothing but industrial gray and green. Walker’s gun sat on his hip, close to her elbow.

  Maybe I should become a cop? Too bad she wasn’t big on honesty or law enforcement. She wiped her fingers on her jeans and looked at the black holstered weapon again. Guns were something she’d always avoided—only wise guys and cops carried guns where she came from, and she didn’t trust either.

  Christ, she wanted to get out of here. She scanned what she’d written.

  I checked the mail and someone grabbed me from behind.

  The sharp blade of the hunting knife flashed before her eyes and Agent Walker’s big black gun looked tempting as hell.

  Mrs. Lauder from number three opened the front door and screamed. Attacker jumped up and ran away.

  There were a few more details she could add, but she hadn’t lied.

  The door off the street had opened with a rush of wind and Janet Lauder, her downstairs neighbor, had taken one look at the scene, dropped her groceries and run shrieking into the street.

  Josie had held up her portfolio as a shield in a last desperate defense.

  Mrs. Lauder’s screams had gathered support and loud male voices had responded—if they hadn’t, Josie wouldn’t be sitting here right now. She’d be laid out dead in the morgue. The predator had slid the knife into his pocket and walked toward one of the ground floor apartments. He’d paused long enough to make her a parting promise. “Next time, you’re dead.”

  Asshole.

  She signed the statement neatly with her trademark J Maxwell signature. Her shoulder itched the way it did sometimes but she didn’t try to scratch it. It seemed important not to show any weakness in this bastion of law enforcement.

  “Can I go now?” She shifted her feet, preparing to stand. Despite fatigue that dragged at her eyelids, she smiled. It went against her nature, but the system had taught her that looking miserable got you nothing but therapy and pep talks from dumpy-looking social workers. She was far too old for that crap.

  Nicholl picked up her statement and skimmed through it, frowned at her in that condescending way some men had.

  “Madam, I think it is time you started to tell the truth about your association with this murderer and not some half-cocked story about running into the guy in the hallway. Are you his accomplice? Are you helping him?”

  Now they’re gonna pin this on me? Never trust a frickin’ cop. Rolling her eyes, she threw a look at the mirrored window where she knew Marsh was watching.

  Time for another inch of honesty. “I don’t know what else I can tell you. I got my scars when someone attacked me when I was a kid in Queens. There was a police report.” Holding Agent Walker’s gaze she let sincerity shine through. “I thought he was going to kill me.”

  “How old were you?” Walker asked, frowning. He was watching her lips.

  She withdrew eye contact. “Nine.”

  “Where did you grow up?” Walker crinkled his baby-blues, trying to catch her gaze again and charm her. This wasn’t going where she wanted it. She’d wanted to deflect them away from herself but had nothing else to give them.

  “Brooklyn. I was visiting a friend in Queens.” She rested her palms on her thighs. Held them still and then relaxed against the hard back of the chair as she realized she wasn’t going anywhere soon.

  The room was warm so she slipped out of her jacket and crossed her legs. Both men followed her actions in an automatic male response. She might not be Sharon Stone, but she had moves.

  Josephine glanced at the mirrored window and knew Marsh wouldn’t be so easily diverted. Heat rose in her cheeks as memories of exactly how she’d distracted him returned in vivid detail. Virgins should not dabble in sexual manipulation unless they were prepared to get more than they bargained for.

  “I think I took him by surprise being there, when I was a kid.” She frowned. She’d never really figured out why he hadn’t killed her. Even in the darkness she’d seen the shocked expression in his eyes. Of course, she shouldn’t have been there. Should never have been peeping through that window from the fire escape. So she hadn’t made a sound when he’d gathered her up—hadn’t wanted her mother or her mother’s lover to find out she’d been sitting outside that window watching them.

  She pushed down a sob that came out of nowhere.

  “How old was he? It was a he, right?” Walker persisted.

  Walker was a good-looking guy. Shorter than Marsh, solid, square-jawed, there were lines at the corners of his eyes that suggested he smiled a lot. Lucky him. She concentrated on him and not his crane-like partner, nor the darkly intense man who exuded power even from a room away. Hell, distance was no object for Marshall Hayes.

  “It was definitely a guy.” She conjured up old memories that were always fresh in her mind. “He had blunt fingers, square hands.” She looked at her own tapered fingers, swallowed as she recalled the intimate caress of his hand over the knife handle. “I don’t know how old he was. Hell, I was nine. Anyone over sixteen was old back then.”

  “Was he an adult?”

  “Physically or legally? I don’t know.” She ran her fingers through her hair, pulled. The room spun slightly because she was so tired. “Why don’t you go get the police report? It’s bound to have more details than I can remember.”

  “We will,” Nicholl assured her with a glare.

  He was the prick she voted Most Likely to Succeed.

  “Why do you even think it’s the same guy?” she demanded, picking up the pen and scoring the writing pad with the nib. “It was, what, eighteen, nineteen years ago? I figured he’s dead or in prison with all the other psychos.”

  Maybe her memories had betrayed her…maybe it was a different guy.

  Sam Walker opened a file and laid a picture on the table. Angela Morelli’s dead eyes stared up at her, her torso patterned with exactly the same marks Josie carried on her flesh.

  Bile rose in her throat and she covered her lips with her palm. Son of a bitch. Other photos appeared on the table. Body after body of butchered women, blood soaking b
eneath them in dark pools.

  “Josie, I know this is hard, but you’re the only lead we have on this guy.” The only one left alive. Walker’s voice was coaxing and gentle, totally at odds with the horror laid out on the table. He squatted beside her, put a hand on her knee and she held very, very still.

  She didn’t like to be touched. Never had. But she couldn’t afford to freak out in Law Enforcement Central. Rubbing her arms, she tried to hide her reaction until he removed his hand.

  When he did, she forced herself to try to breathe. To try and remember. It wasn’t like she wanted this nutcase on the loose any more than they did.

  The bastard had knocked her unconscious and carried her down some godforsaken alley. “I really don’t know how I can help.”

  As a child she’d lain frozen as that sharp blade had sliced her skin. Not deep, but deliberately searching out raw nerve-endings. I won’t kill you if you don’t make a sound. She frowned, kept her hands on the tabletop in front of her. There’d been something about his voice, but it was so long ago…

  She’d been too scared to move—just like today. And when he’d flipped her onto her stomach she’d expected him to kill her, but instead he’d scored his blade across her flesh some more, carving a pattern that had defined the rest of her life.

  It had stung like a bitch, but she hadn’t made a sound. At some point she must have passed out because when she’d woken up, he’d been gone.

  That’s when she’d staggered to her feet and run for help.

  She remembered having her fingerprints taken and desperately trying to wash the greasy blackness from her hands even though the movement had pulled her stitches. “The cops got his prints, I think. Off the knife that pinned me to the ground.”

  ***

  Marsh waited in the corridor, checking the latest bureau mandates pinned neatly to the corkboard outside the interview room. The door opened and Josephine walked out, closely followed by Special Agent Walker. She kept her eyes fixed on the floor and would have marched right past him, except he blocked her way.

  Cold fluorescent light emphasized the hollows beneath her cheekbones. The blue of her eyes was the only splash of color in this sterile stretch of corridor. Even though he didn’t trust her, he was helpless in the face of his fascination for her.

  Nicholl hustled out of the interview room checking his wristwatch. Seeing Marsh, he slowed down and shot out a modulated smile.

  “Thanks for the lead, sir.”

  He felt Josephine bristle. Her childhood scars were more than a lead in a case. Shrugging off the thought and knowing he might need Nicholl’s help if he wanted an inside track on this investigation, Marsh shook the man’s hand. Special Agent Walker stood patiently beside Josephine, resting a proprietary hand on the small of her back.

  Marsh stuck out his hand to Walker, just to get him to stop touching her.

  “I’ll see Ms. Maxwell home.” Walker smiled grimly.

  Not in this lifetime. “I’ve got it covered.” Marsh released the agent’s hand fully expecting Josephine to argue, but her eyes held only fatigue and defeat. “We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”

  She flashed a narrowed-eyed scowl at them both. At least she didn’t look defeated anymore.

  Moving quickly she got into the elevator. He shoved his arm through the gap to prevent it from closing on him and followed her inside. Finally they were alone.

  There was an air of fragility about the normally fierce woman as she leaned against the stainless steel walls, her finger pressing the button for the ground floor. It shot a little ache into his chest.

  “What now?” she asked quietly.

  Her hair was caught inside her battered army jacket. Unable to resist, he slipped his fingers inside her collar and pulled it free, smoothed the silky silver tresses over the worn olive canvas. Her lips parted, nostrils flared.

  She felt it too. He could see the echo of uncertainty reflected deep in her eyes, the dance of awareness that ignited between them even though they were both exhausted and wary and burnt from their last encounter. Small white teeth bit pink lips and heat kicked through his groin like a supernova.

  Too smart to play with the jaws of a gin-trap, Marsh withdrew his hand. “We go back to your place and I sleep on the couch.”

  He expected her to argue, but whatever else she might be, Josephine Maxwell was no fool.

  The delicate skin beneath her eyes was darkened, but she still managed to look fierce and battle-ready. “Tomorrow I’ll clear out of town.”

  Her MO was to run. He should have known that would be her answer and couldn’t explain why it pissed him off so much. “And leave the UNSUB to kill more innocent women? I figured you were braver than that, princess.”

  It was a low dig and Josephine responded by baring her teeth. Something about her had always reminded him of a wild animal—most dangerous when cornered. “It’s your job to catch the bad guys, Superman. Why don’t you concentrate on that.”

  There was nothing defeated about her anymore. This was the grit and balls Josephine he’d gone a few rounds with in the spring. Theoretically they’d come off even, but he wasn’t so sure. He’d never recovered, and aside from her encounter with a serial killer, she seemed fine.

  It pissed him off.

  “He’ll come after you.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him, but not before he’d seen the terror flash in their depths. Why couldn’t she drop her guard for once? Why couldn’t he? Marsh crowded her against the elevator wall conscious of the security camera that monitored every move. He wanted to kiss her, wanted to keep her wrapped up safe until the danger passed. But Josephine rarely allowed anyone to sense weakness, certainly never accepted compassion or help, especially not from him.

  They stared at one another, emotions shimmering in her eyes, his heartbeat thudding angrily in his chest. He bit down on words that wanted to spill out. What were they both so scared of?

  The elevator dinged and he stepped away, but not before she swept a scathing look over his frame and tossed her hair over her shoulder with a derisory flick. Like he was nothing. Like he was no one. He almost smiled. One thing was for certain, she knew how to push every one of his buttons. He stuffed his fists into his pockets, waited for her to exit in front of him.

  They made their way through security, then to his car, their footsteps echoing across the plaza and ringing off the tall building. The Stars and Stripes snapped in the brisk wind and Marsh welcomed the chill on his skin. A foghorn sounded across the bay, mournful and sad. New York, New York.

  Josephine caught her heel and stumbled slightly, but Marsh caught her arm. Some primal triumph pumped through his blood when she didn’t shrug away. Pathetic. He was totally pathetic. What he needed to do was use his brain and figure out how to catch this killer.

  A thought struck him. “Are you listed in the phone book?”

  Frowning, she shook her head. “I can give you my number—”

  Marsh already knew her number. He’d chosen not to call it because he was a stubborn ass. “Assuming this is the same guy from your childhood, how did he know where to find you?”

  Traffic was light, the air faintly tinged with brine.

  A puzzled expression creased her brow. “I’m not listed anywhere. I have a website, but it doesn’t give my address.”

  That’s what he’d been afraid of.

  “You a registered voter?”

  She shook her head and they carried on walking. “Elizabeth is. I don’t vote.”

  Marsh shook his head, pissed. People died for the right to vote and it irritated him when they didn’t bother. But it wasn’t important right now.

  She walked around to the passenger door of his car. “Politicians are all the same anyway.”

  He ignored that sentiment because she was probably right. “He might have hired a professional to track you down.” Marsh wondered if it would give the investigation a lead or waste more time.

  It was better than nothing.

 
; A siren whooped, a flash of red light in the distance.

  “He could have gotten my name from the newspapers all those years ago. They reported everything in all its glory.” Josephine climbed into the car, closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. “Can we stop talking about this now? I have a headache.”

  Looking at her strained profile, he kept silent and started the engine. It responded with a smooth purr and he pulled out onto the almost empty street, heading toward the Village. They didn’t speak. Not even when they reached the relative quiet of Grove Street.

  Parking the car, he cut the engine, but Josephine didn’t stir.

  The glow of streetlights swept over her face and gilded her with gold. The gentle rise and fall of her chest told him she was asleep and a kernel of satisfaction moved inside him because he knew damned well she wouldn’t have slept if Agent Walker had driven her home. Though what the hell that said about his sex appeal he didn’t know.

  He wanted to lean over and brush his lips across hers. She wasn’t as cold as she wanted the world to believe and some days it broke his heart, how ruthlessly she pushed people away. Since the day he’d first seen her, she’d stirred a ferocity inside him that no one else skimmed, no one else even guessed existed.

  A strand of hair fell across her cheek. Gently he brushed it aside, absorbing the soft skin and ignoring the ache in his body. What he felt for her wasn’t just physical; that’s why it scared him. She opened her eyes slowly and for a moment he thought he saw his conflicted desire reflected in their depths. She jerked at the door handle and got out.

  He blew out a breath before following her, stopping to retrieve an overnight bag out of the trunk. It was nearly three a.m. People were still on the street, between clubs or walking home after a night out. Drunken laughter tumbled down the avenue, curiously lighthearted for an evening filled with murder.

  “What were you doing in Queens eighteen years ago, Josephine?” It was a question that had nagged him since he’d found out about her childhood attack.

  She stopped in the middle of the street, raised her face to the sky. “Can we leave it alone?”