Reality hit her like a tidal wave, causing her heart to ache and simultaneously pound inside her chest. Was Bliss dead already? Or was she being tortured at this very moment? Caitlyn looked around the shadowed room, hearing only her shallow breathing and an alarm clock ticking on the nightstand. A faint memory now danced at the edge of her mind, one of Reid tucking her into bed and kissing her forehead. He’d told her everything would be all right. But she didn’t feel that way. Instead what she felt was an incredible helplessness.
She couldn’t go back to sleep.
Pushing away the covers, Caitlyn got out of bed and carefully felt her way down the short, unlit hallway that led into the apartment’s living room. What she expected to find was Reid, lying on the sofa with one of the bed pillows tucked under his head, sleeping. But the couch was empty. Only a crumpled blanket indicated anyone had been there. As her eyes continued adjusting, she made out his tall form. He was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his head in his hands.
She went to him. “Reid?”
His skin felt clammy where she touched him. She could see the brush of his black lashes against his cheeks, his eyes closed in pain.
“Reid, please answer me!”
“I’m…okay.” His voice sounded weak. “It’s just a headache.”
Caitlyn wondered how long he’d been like this. “Where is your medication?”
“I’ve already taken it,” he said quietly. “Go back to bed, Caitlyn.”
“You need to lie down.”
Slowly, she coaxed him to the sofa, then guided him down onto it. Once he had stretched out, she went into the bathroom and ran cool water onto a washcloth. Gently, she placed it over his eyes, studying his tightened features as he seemed to fight some internal menace. Sitting on the edge of the cushion, she waited in silence beside him, watching for nearly twenty minutes until his frame finally began to release some of its tension. After another interval of time he lifted the washcloth from his eyes and ran it over his face.
“Better?”
He nodded faintly. “Yeah.”
“Something’s wrong.”
His eyes remained closed. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Caitlyn argued. “I saw the message on the notepad, Reid. Dr. Isrelsen’s office called about some test results.”
He paused, swallowed. “I’m having some residual pain, that’s all. My last MRI was clean.”
“I want to believe that,” she said softly.
Reid gazed at her, his eyes glassy and fevered. “Believe it, Caitlyn. I don’t want you to worry about anything else right now—”
“I do worry,” she whispered. “I’m worried about you.”
He reached for her uninjured hand.
“Everything’s going to be okay,” he assured her for the second time that night. “It’s just a headache, that’s all. Nothing more. I’m back on duty in a few days. And I swear to you I’m going to catch this bastard if it’s the last thing I do—”
“Sssh,” she urged. It was just a saying, she knew, but it still frightened her. “Just rest, all right?”
Caitlyn threaded her fingers through his damp hair. His entire body was hot, perspiring.
“Come lie down with me,” she suggested. “You’re too big for the couch to be comfortable. I just want you to get some sleep.”
“Caitlyn…” He said her name on a weary sigh.
“Let me take care of you.” She stood, waiting until he pushed himself up from the couch. The migraine or whatever he’d experienced seemed to have receded. Still, he appeared spent, wrung out. How long had the pain ravaged him before she’d found him? A half hour? More? As Reid walked to the bedroom, Caitlyn stopped in the bathroom and refreshed the damp cloth. When she reached him, he was already lying on the mattress on his back, still dressed in the jeans and T-shirt he’d had on the previous evening.
Caitlyn placed the cloth over his eyes and was rewarded with a murmur of thanks. Then she lay down beside him, resting her head in the crook of his shoulder. In less than two minutes, he was asleep. As her fingers stroked his broad chest, Caitlyn stared into the darkness.
Did she believe him about the headache? She wanted to, desperately. Still, what she’d witnessed didn’t seem normal, and the message from the neurologist was especially troubling. A seed of worry germinated inside her. Her mind raced with questions. How long had he been experiencing these headaches? Who was he hiding them from—his family, the Bureau…himself?
The possible answers, she realized, scared her more than the copycat.
29
Squinting through safety glasses at the target in front of him, Reid fired off another series of careful shots. The squeeze of the trigger, the repeated kick of the Glock in his hands, the explosive sound of each discharge—they were reminders of his training days at Quantico. With an electronic whir, the wire-strung cardboard target moved back another twenty-five feet.
“Fire!” the instructor called from behind him.
Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop.
“Halt!”
The smell of gunpowder burned his nose as Reid engaged the gun’s safety. The target moved toward him once again. Even before the instructor stepped into the partitioned space to take it off the line, Reid could see from the visible holes that he’d done well. The silhouetted figure of a man had distinctive marks at the head, shoulder and chest.
“You’ve still got it, Novak,” the instructor commented. He initialed the target and placed it in a drawer underneath his stand. “The time away didn’t hurt you any.”
Removing his glasses and protective earmuffs, Reid felt relief—relief that he’d easily passed the first part of the firearms recertification, and even more important, that the loud noises hadn’t caused another headache. He hadn’t been able to identify a cause. Sound? Stress? Whatever it was, he hated that Caitlyn had witnessed one of his more severe bouts last night. And that he’d lied to her about the message from Dr. Isrelsen.
Reid holstered his firearm. He felt strong today—his vision was clear, and there were no signs of the tremors he’d experienced in his hands before the brain tumor had been diagnosed. Didn’t that mean something? He just needed to make the call to Dr. Isrelsen, find out what the hell was going on. He knew that.
Soon.
His mind heavy as he exited the FBI firing range, he ran into Mitch, who had apparently been watching from behind the shooting platform.
“Not bad,” Mitch commented as he removed his own protective headset. “Exactly how much practicing have you been doing?”
“Some.”
“You bona fide yet?”
“Not yet,” Reid said as they walked from the facility and into the sun-filled parking lot. His SUV stood out among the sea of sedate, dark sedans—government-issued vehicles. “I’ve still got the course to go.”
The obstacle course was a miniature-scale city street with human figures that popped up in random locations without warning. Some were intended to be armed criminals, some civilians. The course was meant to gauge reaction time and how well an agent could assess threat levels under pressure.
“Any update on Bliss Harper?” he asked.
Mitch shook his head. “Morehouse is with the family now. I’ve been up most of the night working on leads with the task force, but it’s all been a dead end so far. I just wanted to drop by and check on you. I’m considering going back to the office and crashing in one of the cots in the back room.”
He fished his sunglasses from the inside pocket of his suit coat and put them on. “Look, Reid. I’ve got some news you’re probably not going to like.”
“About what?”
“SAC Johnston called this morning. The Bureau’s refusing security detail for Ms. Cahill.”
Reid released a breath. In some ways, he wasn’t entirely surprised considering how stretched FBI resources were right now. “Even with the attack on her two days ago?”
“There’s no direct evidence linking the attack to the seria
l murder investigation,” Mitch said. “For all they know, it could have been a random attempted robbery or rape.”
“Right.” Reid’s tone was sarcastic. “Random victims aren’t lured by a phone call.”
“You’re preaching to the choir,” Mitch said. “Unfortunately, the supposed lack of evidence wasn’t enough to keep the media from speculating about the attack. I got a call last night from a reporter at the Post, asking about the incident in the parking garage. I told him no comment, of course. But I’m amazed they hadn’t caught wind of it before now.”
“What about the surveillance on Hunter’s residence?” Reid asked. Mitch had accompanied him to where the Explorer was parked.
“That we have, sort of,” Mitch said. “Since he’s considered a fugitive from the law, the D.C. police have a plainclothes stationed in the neighborhood. No sign of him so far, though. From what I understand, his home’s about to go into foreclosure. It’s a nice place, too—big house, upscale neighborhood. But the lawn’s a mess. Overgrown grass and weeds. The homeowners association’s up in arms about it. They’ve left a half-dozen citations on the front door.”
Reid frowned as he opened his vehicle. The poorly maintained home was an apt metaphor for David Hunter’s deteriorating life. After the loss of his wife, he had lost the will to care for it, for anything. “Were you able to get a search warrant for the house?”
“Not yet. The judge is being a real son of a bitch about probable cause. The unofficial word is that he knows Hunter from his days as a prosecuting attorney and he’s sympathetic. We’re trying to get it in front of someone else.” Mitch shoved his hands into his pockets. “Jesus, I’m starving. Got any lunch plans?”
Reid checked his watch. “It’s nine-fifteen.”
“Okay, breakfast.”
“I don’t have time,” Reid said. “I’ve got the second part of the exam in a half hour—I’m on my way to the course now—and afterward I have some things to take care of.”
“Guess I’m eating alone then, but no problem. Glad you’re back, man.” Mitch turned and walked toward his own car.
Glad you’re back, man.
Was he back? It all depended on what Dr. Isrelsen had to tell him.
“Caitlyn, it’s me.” Reid knocked as he stood outside his apartment door. He’d given her strict instructions not to open it for anyone else. Soon, he heard the slide of the lock and then the turn of the dead bolt.
She stood in front of him, already dressed. He wondered how long it had taken her to manage that feat on her own. He also noticed the sling that was supposed to stabilize her injured hand was missing. Reid felt it was too soon, but didn’t want to criticize. Instead, she was wearing only the brace they’d picked up at the hospital pharmacy the day before.
As he closed the door behind him, she asked, “How did it go?”
“I passed.”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine, Caitlyn,” Reid reassured. He removed his gun and holster clip and laid them on the desk near the kitchen, suspecting he was about to be questioned. “Last night was an isolated incident. You don’t need to worry.”
“Isolated? Meaning it hasn’t happened before?” Her eyes searched his as she waited for a response. Reid wanted to give her solace, but he wasn’t sure what to say. He didn’t want to lie to her further.
“Were you able to sleep after I left?”
“Not really. I watched TV. Bliss’s abduction is all over the news.” She added somberly, “So am I.”
Reid followed her gaze to the television set. Although the network was currently airing a commercial, he guessed the local stations were having a field day with the story, especially since the abduction had taken place at the Cahill residence. Something like that was an obvious tie-in to the original Capital Killer case.
“Is there any update on Bliss?”
“I’m sorry, Caitlyn. No.”
She bit her lip. But she seemed to fight her way through her emotion, instead turning toward the kitchen. “I made some coffee and toast. I hope you don’t mind.”
“That’s fine. You could have made some eggs, too.”
“I wasn’t that hungry,” she admitted. “Would you like coffee?”
“That would be great.”
Her hair had been pulled behind her head in a loose, messy bun. Reid’s heart lifted a little when he saw the hair clip she’d used.
“Hello Kitty?” he asked.
“What? Oh.” Handing him a cup of coffee, Caitlyn absently touched the back of her hair. “Isabelle must have left it. And since I currently have the manual dexterity of a six-year-old, I was able to use it.”
Reid took a sip of coffee. The hair clip seemed to have broken the solemn mood a little, until the string of commercials on the television ended and a female reporter began talking about the abduction. An image of a blonde, smiling Bliss Harper, taken on a sunny beach somewhere, appeared behind her.
“…In a possibly related story, authorities confirm that Caitlyn Cahill, daughter of the late Senator Braden Cahill, was assaulted two mornings ago inside a parking deck at George Washington University Medical Center. Law enforcement won’t verify whether the attack on Ms. Cahill is related to the copycat investigation. Caitlyn Cahill played a prominent role in helping bring her brother, Joshua Edward Cahill, to justice for the murders of six women in the D.C. area two years ago. Ms. Cahill was released from the hospital yesterday morning….”
“I’m going back home,” Caitlyn said. “Right away.”
“Caitlyn—”
“This isn’t up for discussion. News like this is going to affect the therapy program. I need to be there to show everyone it’s business as usual. I’ve worked too hard to let things fall apart. If you’re dead set on having a bunch of FBI agents camped out there, fine.”
Reid released a breath. He might as well tell her the rest of it. “We didn’t get approval for the security detail. The Bureau denied the request.”
Caitlyn frowned, busying herself with folding a dish towel she’d left on the counter.
“I know you’re scared, Caitlyn. You have a right to be. You can stay here.”
Her eyes met his. “I can’t. I have to get back.”
“You’ll be unprotected—”
“I don’t care.” She moved toward the bedroom. “I’m going to get my things together. If you can just drive me to my car—”
Reid caught her arm, causing her to look up at him. Her eyes were wide, haunted. He’d been about to give her a stern lecture, but it died on his lips.
“Manny will be back from his trip on Sunday,” she said, trying to sound businesslike. “He can help with security. And I know very well how to use a gun.”
“Caitlyn,” Reid murmured. Her bravery both impressed and scared the hell out of him. He toyed with a strand of her blond hair that had escaped the confines of the clasp. “Counting today, I have four days before I’m officially back to work. If you want to go home, all right. But I’m going with you. I don’t want you out there alone.”
30
Caitlyn watched from inside the stables as Reid spoke with the reporter who’d brazenly appeared from a news van that had traveled up the dirt road. Although she couldn’t hear what he was saying, she had seen him flash his shield at the beginning of the discussion. Reid wore jeans, a flannel shirt and hiking boots, his gun holstered at his hip.
She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t glad to have him here. Even if it were only for a few days.
Caitlyn hadn’t taken her pain medication so that she could drive her own car back from the District despite her injured hand. Reid had followed in his SUV. When they’d arrived, things were exactly as she had predicted. Several reporters were roaming the stables, and flustered therapists had delayed sessions due to the disruption. Reid had quickly escorted the media out, warning them not to pass beyond the front gates at the stables’ main entrance. Caitlyn breathed a sigh of relief as the reporter he was currently talking to got back
into the van. Within moments, it made a sharp U-turn and disappeared down the road.
Reid’s eyes met hers, his gaze watchful. She turned as a shaggy-haired, adolescent male approached.
“The horses should have been brushed at noon.” Aaron Fleming held both a dandy brush and currycomb. He spoke in a monotone, his eyes glued to the ground. “We should use long, sweeping strokes that follow the direction the hair grows. It’s important to start on one side and then move around to the other side from the front…”
Caitlyn listened patiently as he continued a one-sided discussion on the various steps for brushing down a horse. He fidgeted as he spoke, his body weight shifting from one foot to the other.
“You’re right, Aaron, we’re late getting started with the grooming. Maybe in the meantime you can check the brushes and make sure they’re all clean and ready to use?”
He gave a faint shrug that looked like indifference, but Caitlyn knew he’d follow her instructions to the letter. “What happened to your hand and face?”
“I fell,” she said simply, leaving out the details.
“That’s Aaron,” she told Reid, who joined her once the teen headed in the direction of the tack room. “He has Asperger’s. There’s a group here on Tuesdays and Thursdays. We have a really amazing therapist who specializes in the disorder.”
“Working with the horses helps?”
“It builds personal interaction, since Asperger’s children often lack basic social skills and can be very remote. The occupational therapy is also good for stress management.”
Reid nodded thoughtfully. He seemed to be taking in the busy stable area, which had begun to settle down to business as usual once the media circus had dispersed. The Asperger’s group was gathering around a docile, sable-coated horse named Romeo, petting him and feeding him slices of apple. Outside in the equestrian ring, a therapist was showing children from an urban program how to properly mount and dismount a horse.
“How many horses do you have?” Reid asked.
“There’re eighteen used in the therapy program—over half of them are rescue horses.” Caitlyn felt a pang as she realized she’d subtracted her beloved Aggie from the total. Aggie’s stall remained empty, its gate closed, and someone had placed a wreath of daisies on the gate. The flowers had been there for a while, and were drooping and brown. “I also have two that aren’t used in the program. They’re a bit high-spirited.”
Midnight Fear Page 17