Buried Secrets

by Irene Hannon

  He covered the distance between them in two sprints and kicked the weapon out of her hand.

  When she started to go after it again, he pointed his Sig at her. “Don’t even think about it.”

  Keeping her in his sights, he backed up and flipped the light switch in the room.

  She squinted at him, confusion twisting her features.

  “Stay where you are.” He dropped down beside Lisa, praying as he’d never prayed before while he pressed his fingers against her carotid artery.

  A very faint pulse whispered against his fingertips.

  Thank you, God!

  Craig strode into the room, gun drawn.

  “Secure her.” Mac tipped his head toward Jessica and punched in 911 as Craig proned out the other woman and cuffed her. Once the dispatch operator answered, he gave clipped instructions for County police backup, two ambulances, and the Crime Scene Unit. When the operator asked for an assessment of the victims’ condition, he turned his back on Jessica and focused on Lisa. He couldn’t care less about the other woman’s injuries. “Hang on while I look her over.”

  He set his cell on the ground and gave her a swift but thorough once-over. There was no sign of a wound on her back. He ran his hands over her scalp. No bumps or contusions.

  Gently he rolled her over and inspected her body.

  No blood.

  But something was seriously wrong.

  He swung toward Jessica. “What did you do to her?”

  The woman was lying on her stomach, head turned toward him, eyes open. Her lips were moving, but her words were gibberish. She seemed to be in some weird trancelike state.

  He wasn’t going to get anything out of her.

  Think, McGregor!

  He gave the room a quick survey. It was a gym, just like Craig had said, and Lisa was in her exercise clothes.

  His gaze caught on her slender medical alert ankle bracelet.

  She was diabetic.

  Jessica’s modus operandi was to use existing conditions against her victims. Make murder seem like an accident.

  She must have forced Lisa to do something that would put her in insulin shock—the very condition Lisa had once told him could be deadly.

  His heart skipped a beat. While his SEAL medical training had been excellent for battlefield conditions, it hadn’t covered this kind of emergency.

  “Craig . . . do you know anything about treating insulin shock?”

  “No. Is that what’s wrong with the chief?”

  “I think so. She needs sugar.” He leaned down and gave her a gentle shake. “Lisa. Can you hear me?” If he could coax her to consciousness, the hard candy she’d told him she always had on hand might help her hold on until the paramedics arrived.

  No response.

  He picked up the phone again and relayed Lisa’s condition to the operator. “Is there anything I can do to help her until the paramedics get here?”

  “Can you rouse her enough to give her some sugar?”

  “No. I tried.”

  “Is there any evidence of seizures? Thrashing movements or stiffening of the arms or legs?”

  “No. But she’s pale, and her skin is cool and clammy.”

  “Turn her on her side, angled slightly toward the floor. Keep checking her pulse and respiration. Are you CPR trained?”

  “Yes.”

  “Monitor her and sit tight. The paramedics have been dispatched. Their ETA is less than ten minutes.”

  A lifetime.

  For a man who’d taken out Taliban insurgents, directed underwater demolition crews through heavily mined areas, and crawled on his belly during high-risk reconnaissance missions in the mountains of Afghanistan, sitting tight wasn’t in his DNA.

  But this was one enemy he wasn’t equipped to fight. He had to wait for the experts.

  Mac folded Lisa’s cold hand in his and leaned close to check her breathing. “Hang on, sweetheart. Help is coming.”

  While they waited, the room fell silent. Craig kept a close watch on Jessica, but the woman was zoned out, muttering and moaning. Except for the rumble of thunder and Tally’s howls, no other sound intruded on the heavy stillness.

  The minutes crawled by, until at last, in the far distance, sirens soared over the thunder.

  It was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

  “Why don’t you go unlock the front door and direct them in? I’ve got her covered.” Mac trained his Sig on Jessica.

  “Roger.” Craig skirted the woman, who appeared to be oblivious to the activity around her.

  Hard to believe the disheveled, babbling figure on the floor was the same designer-dressed, high-powered, in-control PR executive they’d interviewed at Peterson-Bradshaw. The woman had totally crumbled.

  The paramedics arrived first, and Mac gave them a quick briefing on Lisa. The County officers were on their heels, and he brought them up to speed so they could secure the scene for the Crime Scene Unit as the paramedics went to work.

  By the time he dropped down beside Lisa again, they’d already pricked her finger, fed a strip into a glucometer, and started an IV.

  “Any idea how long she’s been unconscious?” One of the paramedics tossed the question over his shoulder as he applied a blood pressure cuff.

  “No.” But Jessica knew. “Let me see if I can find out.”

  Another paramedic team was working on the other woman, but he inserted himself into the group and leaned close. Right into her face.

  “When did Lisa lose consciousness, Jessica?” He spoke slowly, enunciating each word.

  No response.

  He gripped her shoulder. Tight. She let out a small moan.

  “Hey!” One of the paramedics grabbed his arm. “She’s hurt, man.”

  He skewered the guy with an icy look and shook him off. “She’s also a murderer—at least twice over. I’m trying to keep her from succeeding with number three.” Without giving the man a chance to respond, he increased the pressure on her shoulder. It was amazing how a little pain could clarify thinking. “Jessica—when did Lisa lose consciousness?”

  Some of the haze in her eyes dissipated. “Maybe . . . ten o’clock.”

  He released her shoulder and moved back to Lisa. “About half an hour ago.”

  The paramedic gave a curt nod but offered nothing more as he continued to swab Lisa’s skin with alcohol and attach electrodes to her wrists, ankles, and chest.

  Mac summoned up the courage to voice the question he didn’t want to ask. “Could she die?”

  “I hope not.” The other technician began connecting the lead wires for the EKG as the first guy responded to him. “But her blood sugar is only nineteen, and insulin shock is dangerous. It can cause a bunch of problems.”

  “Like what?”

  “Seizures, stroke, organ shutdown, cardiac arrest, brain damage.”

  As the man ticked off the list, every word was like a punch in the gut.

  The guy spared him a quick once-over. “You’re law enforcement, aren’t you?” He homed in on the holster.

  “Yeah. But also a friend.”

  The man’s expression softened. “I gave you worst case. Those would be more likely with longer-term insulin shock. If she’s been out less than an hour, my guess is she’ll start to come to any minute, recover fast, and be none the worse for wear.”

  As the man refocused on his patient, Mac studied him. Was he telling the truth or just working on his bedside manner?

  He wanted to believe it was the former, but as he examined the nasty scar marring Lisa’s left shoulder, he also prayed.

  Because this woman had suffered enough—and they had a future together to plan.

  “I think she’s coming around.”

  The words registered deep in Lisa’s subconscious, rising above the background cacophony of unfamiliar voices and odd noises.

  She’d know that rich baritone anywhere.

  Mac was here.

  Her hand was taken in a warm, tender clasp, and the undulati
ng world around her steadied. Stabilized.

  Definitely Mac.

  Squeezing his fingers, she kept her eyes closed as she tried to quell the slight roiling in her stomach and convince her brain to engage.

  “Lisa . . . sweetheart . . . can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?”

  For him . . . anything.

  She blinked herself awake.

  Mac was there, but he wasn’t alone. Paramedics were hovering over her. In the background, uniformed County police officers milled about. Craig was off to the side. Another tall, lean guy in jeans stood in the far corner, posture relaxed but eyes on full alert. He looked familiar . . . but she couldn’t place him.

  Yet all at once the events of the night snapped into sharp focus. “Where’s Jessica?”

  Mac stroked a thumb over the back of her hand. “Another set of paramedics is working on her. You put up quite a fight.”

  “Yeah—but I thought I’d lost.” Her voice choked.

  The pressure of his fingers tightened. “The only loser here tonight is going to spend a long, long time behind bars.”

  Over the noise in the room, she heard the back door open. A crash of thunder shook the house. Tally let out a desperate wail.

  Tally!

  “Mac.” She clutched his fingers. “Please, would you get Tally? He hates storms. You can put him in the basement.”

  He hesitated, but after a moment he released her hand—with obvious reluctance. “I’ll be right back.”

  He rose and disappeared out the door, while one of the paramedics picked up her other hand. “Quick prick.”

  “I’m used to it.” She watched as he fed the test strip into a glucometer. “How low was it?”

  “Nineteen.”

  She swallowed. “Ouch.”

  “More than ouch—but it’s rising fast. You’re already at fifty-five.”

  “Sugar direct to the vein works every time.”

  “You’ve shocked out before?”

  “Once. In a similar traumatic situation, before I was diagnosed. I’m well versed these days on keeping the disease under control—under normal circumstances.”

  A happy yip sounded at the back of the house, and behind her a woman shrieked.

  “No dog! No dog!”

  Had those hysteria-laced words come from Jessica?

  Sounds of thrashing followed, and she tried to look behind her. But her view was blocked as several officers converged on the source of the disturbance.

  A pair of jeans-clad legs moved past her field of vision, and Mac dropped down beside her.

  “Is Tally okay?”

  “Wet but fine.” He glanced over at Jessica. “Weird that a dog would freak out the woman of steel.”

  “I guess we all have our Achilles’ heels—and she certainly knew how to take advantage of other people’s.”

  Mac’s face hardened. “She won’t be doing that again for a lot of years . . . if ever.”

  “We’re set. Let’s transport.”

  Behind her, she heard rustling, and then the sounds diminished as the other team of paramedics exited, accompanied by a couple of the officers.

  “We’re about ready to move here too.” One of the technicians who’d been working on her spoke to his partner.

  Lisa shook her head. “I don’t need to go to the hospital.”

  The technician sent her a dubious look, and Mac took her hand. “Yes, you do. You have insulin shock.”

  “Had. In another few minutes, my blood sugar will be out of the danger range.” She shifted her attention to the technician monitoring her EKG and blood pressure. “Any problems with those?” She motioned toward the equipment.

  “No. Your heart is fine. Blood pressure’s within the normal range. But it wouldn’t hurt to let the ER monitor you for a few hours.”

  “Other than a slight headache, I feel fine. I want to stay home.”

  “There’s going to be a lot of activity here, Lisa. The Crime Scene Unit is on the way.” Mac kept a firm grip on her hand. Like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.

  Which was fine with her.

  “This is the only room we were in, except for cutting through the kitchen. My bedroom and office and bathroom are clean—in an evidence sense. I can’t vouch for the dust.”

  At her touch of humor, the taut line of his shoulders relaxed a hair. “Not into housekeeping?”

  She grimaced. “Not my favorite sport. There are much more interesting things to do in what little free time I have. And even more interesting things in the future, I hope.” Her gaze locked with his. Fused.

  His heated up. “Count on it.”

  The lead paramedic rejoined the conversation. “Um, I would still strongly recommend a trip to the ER. You should continue to monitor your blood sugar for the next few hours, and you can’t do that if you’re sleeping.”

  Mac’s gaze never left hers. “She could if someone woke her up.”

  A man who was willing to give up a night’s sleep to keep her safe and well.

  A keeper, no question about it.

  But he was tired. Asking him to do that would be selfish.

  “No.” Lisa shook her head. “I don’t expect you to hang around all night.” She tried to look stern, but it was hard with her heart singing a joyful song.

  “Me or the ER. Take your pick.”

  Hmm. When he put it that way . . .

  She let her frown morph into a smile. “No contest.”

  “Can you two hang around until we’re certain she’s out of danger?” Mac included both paramedics in his question.

  “Sure. Once she hits eighty or eighty-five—probably in the next five or ten minutes—we should be good to go.” He shifted his attention back to her. “While we wait, we’ll clean you up a little.”

  The paramedic lifted her hand, and she noticed the blood. Not hers. “I guess we won’t need the DNA under my fingernails for evidence, since I survived. I ruined my manicure for nothing.”

  Mac didn’t respond, and she looked over at him.

  He was not smiling.

  So much for her attempt at humor.

  “Do you feel up to giving a statement?” He continued to stroke his thumb over the back of her hand.

  “Sure.”

  He motioned to the jeans-clad guy in the corner, who pushed off from the wall, crossed the room, and dropped down to their level beside the stretcher.

  “Lisa, I think you’ve met Mitch Morgan.”

  Now his identity clicked into place.

  “Yes. The other half of the M&Ms.”

  Mitch arched an eyebrow at Mac, as if to say, “She knows about that?”

  For the first time in their acquaintance, Mac seemed embarrassed. “It, uh, just came up in conversation.”

  “Just came up in conversation. Right.” The man turned back to her, pulled out a notebook and pen, and smiled. “I know you’ve done this a thousand times.”

  “From the other end of the pen. Do you want to record this?”

  He extracted a small digital recorder from his other pocket. “I came prepared when Mac called—even if it is practically the middle of the night and he woke up my wife.” He regarded Mac. “Alison will be sure to remind you of that next time your paths cross at the courthouse.”

  “I’ll mollify her with a Ted Drewes.”

  “A frozen custard bribe, huh?” The other man flashed him a grin. “That’ll work.” He started the recorder, gave the date, location, and other pertinent details, then launched into the interview.

  Lisa provided a detailed recounting of the evening’s events, including Jessica’s admission of culpability in the deaths of Erika and Joe.

  After he finished jotting his notes, Mitch switched off the recorder. “Unfortunately, her confession won’t be admissible until she’s Mirandized.”

  “And the high-priced attorney she’ll hire won’t let her admit a thing. But tonight’s murder attempt is a different story.” Mac touched her cheek. “We have a witness.”
<
br />   Mitch looked between the two of them, closed the notebook, and stood. “I’ll hang around until the CSU tech gets here.”

  Mac nodded. “Thanks.”

  The paramedics finished as the other detective disappeared from her line of sight, and she laced her fingers with Mac’s. “Quite a night, huh?”

  He blew out a breath. “Yeah. Quite a night.”

  “At least we have answers to all our questions now.”

  “There is that.”

  “And I’m counting the hours until Saturday night.”

  Some of the tension in his features melted away. “Are you sure you’ll be up to that?”

  “Are you looking for an excuse to cancel?”

  His eyes darkened and he moved in close. A mere whisper away. “Not a chance, Chief. Saturday belongs to me. And then we’ll talk about all the Saturdays after that . . . and the Sundays, and the weeknights, and the holidays.”

  “Are you trying to monopolize me, Detective McGregor?”

  “Guilty as charged. Any objections?”

  Chuckling, she squeezed his hand. “Not a one.”

  Epilogue

  Five Months Later

  As Bing Crosby crooned “White Christmas” and Mac torqued over an icy spot on the snow-covered rural road, his cell began to vibrate.

  After taming the SUV, he pulled the phone out of his pocket. Peering at the dark road through the monster flakes of swirling snow battering his window, he felt for the talk button. “McGregor.”

  “Yo, bro. Special Agent Lance McGregor here.”

  One corner of Mac’s mouth hitched up. “How’d the graduation go?”

  “Like any graduation. A lot of boring speeches.”

  Despite Lance’s dismissive tone, graduation from the FBI Academy was a big deal—and he’d hated to miss it. “Sorry I didn’t get there. I waited at the airport for hours, hoping they’d reopen, but the place is shut down tight with this storm. Did Mom and Dad make it?”

  “Front row center—or as close as they could get to the primo seats. Finn emailed a message too.”

  Grinning, Mac skirted another icy patch. “Lay it on me. I’m in a laughing mood.” Whatever Finn had come up with by way of best wishes, it was sure to be amusing and irreverent.

  “He said congrats and good luck.”

  Mac squinted. “That’s it? Nothing funny?”