“This is too good for you,” the man hissed. “Why don’t you go like your girlfriend did?”
The word no! screamed in her brain.
She and the boy were spun around. She saw a large, old-fashioned washtub, filled with water. Not the high barrel he’d put her in but still very capable of fulfilling its purpose: drowning someone small and helpless.
Oh, God, no, not this. Anything but this.
The boy resisted weakly, and she struggled with him as she had before. But his small, already nearly dead form was no match for the powerful arms gripping him, pushing him down onto his bony knees beside the tub. Olivia’s stung, too, as sharp rocks sliced into skin.
Then the monster looped an arm around the boy’s waist—her waist—and bent them over, forcing his/her head down toward the tub. Olivia was sobbing now, flailing, desperate to not have to go into that water again, wanting to give Jack all her strength so they could escape this hideous nightmare.
To no avail. The water loomed ever closer.
It wasn’t greenish-black and dirty, as she remembered. It was murky, yes, but not old, as if the tub had been freshly filled with untreated well water.
The details weren’t right. Something was wrong here, very wrong. Her conscious mind realized that, even as the rest of her remained locked in the struggle for Jack’s life.
An inch closer, and she suddenly realized the water was glimmering with beams of bright sunlight. And, in the brightness of that day, she saw another reflection. His reflection. Jack’s.
Olivia moaned, grasping what was so wrong about all of this. Seeing that face so clearly was almost enough to break her mind.
I shouldn’t be seeing you. I didn’t see myself, how can I be seeing you? This makes no sense!
Closer still, the body nearly immobile yet still trying to jerk, making the tub shudder and the water splash.
Then, one more half-angry, half-recriminatory cry from the killer: “You broke my heart.”
Lips almost touching the water now, its sulfurous reek filling his/her nose. A silent scream rose—hers, not his—its urgency growing until she thought her head would explode with the need to let it out.
“G’bye, Jackie-boy,” the man said.
Then, right before the boy/she was pushed under, she heard a faint whisper. The final words of a boy making one last brave effort to reclaim the only part of himself he could in the last seconds of his life.
“My name is Zachary.”
Chapter 7
Ty was getting a little worried. He hadn’t heard a word from his partner for hours, and their last conversation had been pretty surprising. Gabe had called early this morning, saying he had arranged for his witness to examine the bones found at Fast Eddie’s. When Ty had asked him about his change of heart, Gabe had admitted that he’d gone to see Olivia Wainwright and that she’d told him her whole sorry tale. That, combined with the conjecture of Sue-Ann Bowles, who’d stormed into the police station yesterday, had his stoic partner ready to consider using even the most unusual methods to solve this case.
Ty would have liked to go to the coroner’s office, too, wondering exactly what this woman did and how she did it. But Gabe hadn’t extended an invitation. So, instead, he’d come here to the precinct. He’d spent the day tracking down every case involving a missing six- to twelve-year-old Caucasian boy in the Southeast, going back twenty years.
There were more than he would ever have imagined, which depressed him to no end. Some had been solved, the child either returned or, in more cases, found dead. A lot of others involved suspected noncustodial parental kidnappings. But a whole bunch still remained.
He had a plan on how to sort them out, though. Doing some calculations based on what Mrs. Bowles had said, he figured that if her son and Brian Durkee had both been taken at around eight and killed at age twelve, the mysterious “Jack” might have been kidnapped somewhere around 1995. That narrowed the field considerably. Problem was, of those who were left, none of them sounded like the right kid.
“Hey, Wallace! Somebody’s out here wantin’ to see your partner. What is it with that lucky bastard, gettin’ all these hot women chasing him?”
As always, Kinney’s voice was like nails on a chalkboard in Ty’s ears. “I’ll be right out.”
“Better hurry up. You don’t put dibs on her, I’m takin’ my shot.”
Repulsed, Ty rose, determined to spare the unknown woman from Kinney’s unique—vile—brand of charm. He left his desk and went out to the front of the building. The vestibule wasn’t too crowded: a few uniformeds, the on-duty sergeant, and a leering Kinney.
And her. Wow. Her.
That old song from his favorite kid’s show started repeating in his head: “One of these things just doesn’t belong here.”
Because she didn’t belong in this dingy office surrounded by gruff cops talking b.s. and street crime. She was out of their league, something pretty and bright and innocent that didn’t belong in this dark, mundane place.
The woman was of average height, not skinny but not voluptuous by any means. Her light gold hair fell to her shoulders, thick and lustrous, catching the sunlight streaming in from the windows. Her profile was equally as attractive—up-tipped nose, soft cheeks, nice lips. She wore a flowery sundress that looked like summer itself, and her high-heeled sandals emphasized her long legs. An absolute Southern beauty if he’d ever seen one, and Savannah had its share.
But judging by the frown on her face and the way she kept her hands twisted in front of her, not a very happy one right now.
Straightening his tie, he walked over to her, offering her a friendly smile meant to put her at ease. “I’m Detective Tyler Wallace, Detective Cooper’s partner.”
“Brooke Wainwright,” she said. “I need to see your partner right away. It’s about my sister, Olivia.”
Ahh. A sister, and just as pretty as the redhead whose picture he’d seen on that Web site yesterday. Again he noted the frown on her face, the tension in her body, and wondered what had gotten her so upset that she’d come down here to the central precinct on a Saturday afternoon.
As if seeing his confusion, she quickly explained. “Olivia and Gabe came to my father’s house this morning.” Her eyes narrowing, she added, “She told us he was her date.”
His brain went blank. Ms. Wainwright might have made a statement, but she was, without a doubt, asking a question. The last place he wanted to be was in the middle of a lie between two sisters, so he hedged. “Is that right?”
“Yes. But this afternoon, I answered a call at the house from an FBI agent. I’m just glad I answered it, not my dad, because he’d lose his mind if he knew all this was starting up again.”
“All what?” he asked, though he suspected he knew.
“My sister’s kidnapping case. Special Agent Ames told me he heard from a Detective Cooper in Savannah who’s working with Olivia on a case. Meaning her old case?”
Uh-oh.
“He couldn’t reach Cooper, so he called, looking for Olivia. I’ve called her cell and her house, and she’s not answering,” the woman added, her voice rising, shaking a little, though she wasn’t afraid. Merely very worried. “Are they here?”
“No, they’re not. But I believe they are still together, and I’m sure your sister’s fine.”
“Where are they? And why? What exactly is going on? Is my sister in danger?”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” he repeated, meaning it. “Detective Cooper wouldn’t let anything happen to her.”
“Oh, right, he’s a saint,” she said with a sneer. “He came to our family’s home under false pretenses today, lying to all of us.”
He didn’t point out that her sister had been behind the lie, sensing she wouldn’t appreciate the comment. “Look, why don’t we go to one of the back rooms where we can talk.”
If she were going to go ballistic about Gabe allowing her sister to do her psychic act on a bunch of burnt-up bones, he’d prefer she did it out of sight of
the public.
The minute they walked into an interview room, Brooke Wainwright crossed her arms over her chest, piercing him with a steady stare. “Tell me one thing. Does this have anything to do with the body of that boy that was found in that fire earlier this week?”
He didn’t have much of a poker face. Because without a word from him, she muttered a soft curse, tightening her arms even more around herself. “Why won’t this ever end?” she whispered.
He couldn’t help reaching out, awkwardly patting her shoulder, trying to offer some comfort. “It will. If your sister can do what she says she can, this could all be over very soon.”
The woman paled, and her mouth fell open. “She’s not . . . tell me she’s not going to do that. You can’t possibly let her!”
“It’ll be all right. She wanted to help.”
“No, it will not be all right,” she snapped, looking like she wanted to hit him. “Don’t you get it? Every time she does it, a little piece of her dies, too! She carries the weight of them. All of them. And she never fully puts it down.”
He remained very still, the reason for her concern sinking in. Gabe hadn’t told him exactly what Olivia Wainwright intended to do, and he’d been picturing a misty crystal ball kind of moment in the coroner’s office. Something odd but not dangerous. God, no. And he doubted Gabe had ever realized it could be, either.
Her sister wasn’t finished expressing her opinion. Not by a long shot. She lifted a shaking hand, pointing an index finger at Ty in unmistakable warning. “If it’s him, if it’s the boy she’s been looking for all these years, Jack, this could be the one that breaks her for good. And I swear to God, if anything happens to her, I’m going to hold you and your partner responsible.”
As Olivia began to stir, shifting restlessly beneath the lightweight sheet on the bed, Gabe tensed, wondering how she was going to feel about waking up in her bed with him sprawled out right beside her. He and her silent green-eyed cat had both been watching her sleep for over an hour now, the cat from up on top of a bureau and Gabe from right here, in the bed. Even after she’d fallen asleep, he’d stayed put, not wanting to leave in case she woke up and started screaming again.
He didn’t think he’d ever get the sound of her screams out of his mind.
She’d asked him to give her two minutes and ten seconds. He’d made it to the count of ninety-eight before jumping in and grabbing her. Yanking her hard against him to control the deep, violent shudders that racked her ice-cold body, he’d twined his fingers in her hair and whispered in her ear, “You’re okay. It’s over—it’s done.”
He couldn’t have taken any more, couldn’t have watched the tears continue to gush out of her eyes, couldn’t have listened to the tiny gasps as she seemed to struggle for air. Couldn’t have watched her fist flail in the air, swinging at nothing. Couldn’t have stood by while her legs weakened and her body leaned against the table full of bones, which rattled and danced against the metal.
And Gabe could not under any circumstances listen to her scream again. One horrific, heartfelt cry had been wrenched out of her mouth, a sound so grief-stricken, so utterly hopeless, he wasn’t sure he even wanted to know what on earth or in hell she’d seen.
So he had put a stop to it. Dragged her away, ended the connection of flesh to bone. He’d held her tight, not letting her go, allowing her to hammer her fists on his chest, to kick his legs, knowing he wasn’t the one she was fighting in her mind.
Then, suddenly, within a couple of seconds she’d stopped. She understood that it was over and knew who was holding her. Knew she was safe.
He’d expected her to be angry. She hadn’t been. Instead, looking utterly bereft, so pale it seemed as if all the blood had fallen out of her body, she’d merely pleaded, “Take me home.”
That’s exactly what he’d done. Fortunately, the coroner’s office hadn’t been busy, so not many people had been around to see him carrying a teary-eyed, trembling woman through the building and out to his car. He’d gently put her in the seat, buckled her in and driven her back to her place. She hadn’t said a word the entire time, not even protesting when they arrived, and he came around to carry her again.
He liked and respected that about her. She didn’t put up phony walls or pretend she was fine and dandy. She needed help, needed him.
He asked her where her bedroom was, and, following the shaky hand pointing toward the stairs, he carried her up. She kicked off her shoes on the way. But when they reached her room and he bent to lay her on the bed, she kept her arms around his neck and pulled him down with her. There was nothing sexual about the moment—he knew that. She just wanted to stay connected, touched by a warm, living human being. Death’s cold hands had been way too close today, and she wanted—needed—life.
“It’s okay. Go to sleep, sweetheart,” he told her, smoothing her hair back off her face.
Nodding, she curled up on her side against him, her head on his shoulder, her hands curled together beneath her chin like a child saying a prayer. “Please don’t leave.”
“I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
Then, even as her eyes drifted shut, she whispered something else. Something that stunned and horrified him beyond measure.
“It was Jack. And he wasn’t only strangled . . . he was drowned.”
He was drowned.
He couldn’t stop the words from playing over and over in his mind as he watched her sleep. If she really could do what she said she could, and, judging by what he’d seen today, he had no doubt she’d experienced something, then drowning would have to be the absolute worst thing for her to experience. To know the boy who’d helped her had died the same brutal death at the hands of the same vicious killer made it so much worse.
She shifted on the bed, moving even closer. He lay on his back, she on her side, facing him. Her lips were gently parted as she breathed, and he couldn’t help but note how beautiful she was. Nor could he help noting the feel of her soft breasts against his side and the intimate way one of her thighs had ridden over his.
Don’t, he reminded himself, closing his eyes, forcing his mind on other things.
But he was human and male, and he knew the longer he stayed here with her wrapped around him, the more likely he was to remember that he was incredibly attracted to her.
Only a real low-life bastard would take advantage of this situation. And he’d worked his whole life to not be the low-life bastard that everyone had expected him to be, considering he’d been raised by his grandfather after his mama and grandmother had died.
“Gabe?” she whispered.
He glanced down and saw her looking up at him, sleepy-eyed but no longer tearful and not nearly as pale. “How’re you doin’?”
“I’m okay. How long did I sleep?”
“Little over an hour.”
“You stayed.”
“I promised I would.”
“Thank you.” She moved her arm, extending it across his waist, and curled more tightly against him. And that bent leg moved higher on his, until all he could think about was the sensual feel of her as she moved around him.
Well, that and the horrific scene that had led to this moment, where they were twined together on her bed. The one she still hadn’t explained.
“Olivia, what . . .”
“Shh,” she whispered, knowing what he was about to ask. “I can’t think about it yet. Can’t talk about it. Let’s just be still for a little while.”
Be still? When all his blood was rushing through his veins, landing in certain parts of his anatomy with fierce determination? Yeah, right. Might as well ask a toddler to be still and not reach for his own damn birthday cake.
She’s not your birthday cake. She wasn’t his at all. He had no right to be reaching for her.
But she still needed him, needed to draw strength and security from him. No way was he going to fail her. So he did as she asked and stayed still, when what he really wanted to do was get up and put ten feet between them. Or else
roll her onto her back, move over her and kiss the breath out of her mouth. Then move down her body kissing her everywhere else.
He didn’t quite understand it and was sure nothing like this had ever happened to him before, but the truth was, he had a major case for the woman in his arms. He’d thought of nothing but her from the moment they’d met, admiring her more every time they spoke, desiring her more practically every time she moved.
He’d had affairs before, even thought he was in love once. But it had been a long time since he’d felt this mix of confusion and want, frustration and irritation, hunger and tenderness all at the same time, all directed toward the same woman.
Olivia had gotten under his skin fast.
She seemed to read his mind. Either that, or she’d been feeling the same spark and wanted something to happen between them, too. Because, without warning, without another word, even, she moved up and brushed her lips against his jaw.
He groaned, stiffening as a flood of heat washed over him. She smelled good—her skin, her hair, her breath. He wanted to lose himself in all those sweet, delicious scents.
She came closer, tasting her way to the corner of his mouth.
“Liv . . .”
“Just kiss me, please,” she whispered, her longing evident. “One kiss.”
One kiss? One kiss to drive out the bad memories and her fear and make them forget the tears that had filled her eyes and the screams that had filled his ears?
Not such a bad bargain—for either of them.
He bent to her, and their lips brushed lightly, once. They parted, shared a breath, then met again, soft and quiet, new and fresh. Like every first kiss should be.
But, oh, she tasted so good and felt so right, and when she parted her lips and that delicate tongue swept against his, he was helpless to resist taking more of what she was offering. Their tongues met in a slow exploration that reminded him of what he so liked about kissing. The closeness of it, how personal and intimate it was—almost more intimate than sex. Not to mention how good it felt.
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