She’d thrown on sweats after taking her very long hot shower—decent enough, she decided. Stepping out into the hallway she hurried to the front door.
Her ever-watchful cop was there—questioning a man.
The man looked up. Vickie recognized Hank Fremont, looking older, a little broader and very confused.
“Vickie! Will you tell this man, please, that I’m an old friend!” he asked.
Hank appeared woebegone and lost—the way he’d always looked the few times their team had lost a football game.
She smiled. “It is okay, Officer! He is a friend,” she said.
“I’m out here if you need me,” the officer called.
“Thank you!”
“Wow!” Hank said, adjusting his jacket. “You’re under protection, Vickie!” He started to hug her, an old friend hug, but then stopped, looking back at the cop. Vickie laughed and hugged him.
“Come on in. Roxanne just told me you were back in Boston—working with produce?”
“Yeah, a bit shy of the NFL, huh?”
“Sounds like a good job.”
“It is,” Hank agreed. He followed her in. “You want to make me some tea?”
“Tea?” she asked. “I mean, sure—I don’t think I have much else in here right now.”
He grinned. “Believe it or not, you were the best thing that ever happened to me, Vickie.”
She let him in; while she made tea, he talked about the years he’d wasted, the way he’d discovered he’d wasted his years and meeting his new girl, June Jensen.
“I’d actually applied to online college before I met June, and I was so glad. She’s encouraging, she’s helpful, wonderful... I’d love you to meet her.”
“That would be great,” Vickie told him. “Is she from here?”
“Originally. She has family out in western Massachusetts, too. But anyway, she’s working here now. She’s a secretary for an ad agency. And I’m with a company called Great Organics. Whoever figured I’d be a happy man talking broccoli with old Mario?”
Vickie laughed and brought cups of tea out to the parlor. “I’m just glad.”
She’d barely set the tea down before there was a really hard knock at the door.
The cop didn’t let people get close if he hadn’t checked them out—he knew who lived in the building and who didn’t, and he was always on them to make sure they locked the door to the house itself, but people always forgot.
She had just forgotten. And the lock wasn’t automatic, so...
She looked through the peephole.
This time, it was Griffin.
She opened the door. He swept in, looking around as if he was on high alert, ready to forge into battle.
Hank stood. “Hey!” he said. “Griffin Pryce. Special Agent Griffin Pryce. You were the cop here when...well, way back when. Good to see you, sir.”
He offered Griffin a hand. Griffin seemed to hesitate just a second. Then he shook Hank’s hand.
“Glad you’re here again. Vick probably needs someone like you watching over her now,” Hank said.
“It’s a tough time in Boston at the moment, yes,” Griffin said.
“Tough for the poor Ballantine family!” Hank said. He looked from Vickie to Griffin and grinned awkwardly. “Well, so, I guess I’m going to head on home. I hadn’t seen Vickie yet—just got back into the city again myself recently. Anyway, good to see you both.”
“Take care,” Griffin said.
“Don’t forget, we’ve all got to have dinner, Vickie!” Hank said.
“I won’t forget,” she told him.
Hank left. Griffin was still there.
“Vickie, look, I’m not trying to mess with your life, but this isn’t the time to be letting people into your apartment. I know you and Hank were a big item, but if you know him now, if you’re back into correspondence, or back into a relationship, you’ve just got to be really careful.”
“Ah,” she murmured. “I shouldn’t see old friends, huh?”
“Vickie...” He paused for a long moment. “Old friends might be new enemies.”
“What?”
“Hank—he was around when Aldridge escaped. He wasn’t a bad kid, just an idiot kid, drinking, pot, all that, in high school. He was out in the western part of the state—now, he’s here.”
“You think Hank could be a killer?” she said incredulously.
“I know he was basically a carnie out with an amusement park for years. I know he’s started seeing a woman who grew up on the south side.”
“You know all that?”
“Vickie, naturally. We’re the FBI. We look into everything. We look into everyone. Hell, we’re even looking into George Ballantine!”
“Wait, wait—back up! Hank Fremont was a kid when Aldridge attacked the Ballantine house. George Ballantine was at a company dinner. That’s all crazy. And George Ballantine would hardly bury his own wife in his own basement!” she said.
He was silent.
“You mean...you really think that could happen?”
“We really believe someone who knows you is involved, yes,” he said quietly. “Look, seriously, I’m not trying to interfere with your life, your hopes, anything you want, anyone you want, but—and I’m truly sorry!—this involves you. You have to be careful.”
“You’re yelling.”
“I’m not yelling. I’m a government agent. I don’t yell.”
“Yeah? Well, you’re yelling.”
Vickie stared at him, hands on her hips. And she suddenly felt like laughing—he really was something, he had always been a rock of fitness, ethics—and sexuality. Images tumbled before her; him in his BPD uniform, holding her and Noah as she shook, him stopping by her parents’ home to see that she was okay, him in the court room, him...years later, standing in her parents’ house again.
His face as he plunged into the water after her...
And she remembered Jackson Crow’s advice to her as well.
She suddenly walked across the room, rejection be damned, and protocol be damned.
She slipped her arms around his neck, pressed against him and kissed his lips.
For a moment, he was stiff as a concrete wall.
Then his arms swept around her. She might have kissed him first, but he was kissing her then, and their mouths were wide, tongues plunging, and it was all ridiculously hot and wet and steaming. She was glad his arms were around her, holding her close to him, because her knees were like rubber and she was trembling and weak and still...ready to burst into something that was fire and electric and filled with strength and energy.
Their mouths broke apart; he seemed to be trying to get himself under control.
“Vickie, we shouldn’t, I shouldn’t...”
“Do you ever shut up?” she asked him. “For the love of God, please quit thinking!” she told him.
He stared down at her, eyes so dark and ever enigmatic. He kissed her again, this time fumbling with her flannel pullover sweatshirt, breaking the kiss long enough for the shirt to come over her head. They kissed and broke and kissed and broke, divesting clothing, backing toward the hallway and her bedroom all the while.
He paused long enough to see that his gun and holster were carefully set on the bedside table, and then they were into the comedy of trying never to lose contact while ridding themselves of all the clothing that now seemed so obnoxious between them.
She realized she’d waited forever to run her fingers over his flesh. To feel the twitching and contortion of his muscles as she touched him. To drown in the sensation of feeling his hands on her. So good, too good. She fell back, luxuriating in him resting half atop her, half to her side. Feeling his mouth again on hers, traveling to her throat, her breasts, her midriff.
His
heat and energy soared into her. She halfway rose, capturing his face again, finding his lips, slipping down the length of his chest.
They rolled again, each touching the other, playing, teasing, desperate...
And then he stopped.
“No thinking!” she pleaded.
“Just asking. Are we...okay?”
“Yes! Still on birth control. No talking, please!”
“Talking can be good.”
“As long as there’s no thinking.”
“No thinking...except...oh, yes, there, and there and there...”
She laughed softly, and felt his mouth on her flesh again.
“And there, and there and there...” she agreed.
She marveled that reality could be more sensual than ever her imagination had dared venture; she allowed herself to feel and revel in every touch of his fingers and his lips. She dared to touch and tease and hold and torment, kiss and caress...
And indulge in every kiss and caress, allowing him to slip down the length of her body, tease the length of her limbs...abdomen again, limbs again...around, between...
And she arched against him, rolled again, alive and kinetic, returning every touch and brush and stroke until he lifted her atop him, brought her slowly down, and their eyes met as their bodies joined. She knew no one else would have ever been right, he was what she had wanted, and she’d waited, and somehow, life had brought them together.
Then she stopped thinking.
She moved and writhed and whimpered, moaned and cried out.
Then there was breathing, desperate breathing, and her heart racing as it had never raced before, a drumbeat of wonder.
It was sex, of course, just sex.
Good sex.
Great sex.
Incredible sex...
And after the gasping for breath and the heart pounding, it began all over again, and she was unaware of time or place. Just the scent of his flesh, the heat of him, the wonder of him.
Eventually, she realized she was exhausted.
Sated, and yet...
She’d never really be sated, she thought, she’d always want him. She’d known it when she had been just on the verge of eighteen.
She knew it now.
They lay together, curled side by side, and for once, he was silent, holding her.
Then he spoke softly at last.
“Maybe I should yell more often.”
“Don’t you dare!”
“Seemed to work well.”
“What? It was me, all me. Obviously, I had to shut you up.”
“Hmm. Frightening concept. I mean, you don’t always end your arguments this way, do you?”
“I wasn’t arguing. You were.”
“I was scared,” he said softly, holding her even closer.
She drew away, halfway sitting up to look at him, a frown on her brow. “Griffin, really? You can’t possibly think Hank is a killer.”
“I didn’t know him like you knew him—he was a kid, yes, back when we met briefly. And that’s the thing with the way we work—back at the main office, of course, they’re drawing up dossiers on all kinds of people. Don’t worry, please, it’s not like Big Brother is watching—I don’t even know exactly who Big Brother is, or what he watches. But yes, we have researched a lot of people. Sometimes, you just have to eliminate people. And you do have to look at anyone who was involved with Aldridge closely. So, yes, we’ve known Hank Fremont was back in the city after an extended time out in the Springfield area. We are watching the Ballantine family in many ways. We’ve investigated Grown Ups. We know your publishers, and, of course, your parents are as squeaky clean as a pair of babes.” He sighed softly. “Your mom won’t like this.”
Vickie laughed. “You’re going to tell her?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I’m thinking after the next time or the next or the next...we’re probably going to have to say something.”
She smiled and laughed and curled back down beside him. “So, there will be a next time?”
“Please don’t say there won’t be.”
“You know, you really had me over eight years ago.”
“You were seventeen.”
“I think you can actually marry at that age in some states!”
“But this is you, and me.”
“And now is right?” she whispered.
“Now is right.”
She knew he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, and that he was thinking.
“What?”
“I’m aggravated. No clear-cut suspects. Decaying bodies out of time, someone from the past—and a couple from the present, no forensic clues, just the dead—and the waiting. For another note to the media—and another missing woman,” he said. He rolled toward her. “Well, tomorrow, we see Aldridge.”
“Aldridge. Yes, who knows...maybe he will give us something,” Vickie said. Then she suddenly bounded out of bed, looking around for a robe. She found one and grabbed it.
“Um...what’s up?” Griffin asked, startled.
“I think I have my kids tomorrow.”
“Your kids?”
“Grown Ups. My young adults. I think we’re supposed to do our Duck Tour tomorrow.”
“What time?”
“After school—three thirty.”
“You’re fine. We see Aldridge at 9:00 a.m.”
“Oh. Oh, well, good! Excellent. I can do both.”
“Right.”
“Right.”
“So, why are you still standing there?” he asked.
“Um...”
He patted the bed. “Come on in—we’re going to have to get up early. I’ve obviously got to get back to my hotel room...it’s going to be a long day. Of course, it’s quite cool to make it a long night beforehand...”
“Oh? Oh.”
“Yes, well, I guess we’ve both been waiting a long time.”
“Too long,” she said softly.
And she cast off the robe, and joined him again.
And it was a delightfully long night.
11
Bertram Aldridge was seated at a metal table in a small room; he was handcuffed to the table.
There was no doubt he was considered to be dangerous, even in shackles, even behind bars.
Griffin wouldn’t have thought anything about coming to see the man with Jackson, or even on his own.
There was no way not to note every detail of the situation when he and Jackson were accompanied by Vickie Preston.
They arrived punctually at 9:00 a.m.
The summer sun was rising high, but not even the brightness could dispel the air of gloom that hung over the barbed-wire fences and fortifications of the prison.
Vickie had dressed conservatively for their appointment—white tailored blouse buttoned to the throat, navy slacks and suit jacket.
But, Griffin thought, she could have bundled up in burlap and she would still be a striking woman, with her deep green eyes, near-black hair, with a lithe and shapely form. She was tall and sleek, and something in the way she walked seemed to make her glide. She was, in short, beautiful, and it bothered him on an elemental level to bring her anywhere near the sea of murderers, rapists and thieves they were about to enter.
He wondered if it had been the right decision, bringing her here. Seeing her again was probably something Aldridge would truly enjoy. And, yet, if they were going to get the man to say anything, she just might be the little edge that could make it happen.
And, actually, they didn’t have to interact with anyone other than the warden and a number of the guards; the room where Aldridge had been brought was behind the security checkpoint, but before they reached the area of the general population. Griffin just had a
heightened sensitivity to where they were—and he was very aware of the depravities that had been practiced by some of the inmates who were near.
Of course, Aldridge himself was disturbing enough.
The man’s hair was now iron gray; more wrinkles furrowed his brow and lean cheeks. In his youth he had been a handsome man, and while some of his appearance had faded with time and circumstance, he had maintained something of his looks, even in prison. He smiled when they entered, raising a hand halfway to greet them, then shrugging and letting his smile deepen to show that hey, he was cuffed to the table. It was easy to see how he had disarmed his victims.
Three seats waited for them. They were accompanied in by one of the prison guards, and there were two more just the other side of the barred door.
“Behave, Aldridge,” the guard muttered darkly.
“Behave?” Aldridge asked. “But of course! Visitors are so rare. Not even my dear, sainted mother anymore—that blessed lady has gone on to her eternal rest! Today, I have these esteemed gentlemen and a lady. What a lady. No, sir, I shall feast my eyes—and not cause the least amount of trouble! And, of course, what a pleasure to see Officer Pryce again. Except it’s not ‘officer’ anymore, is it? Special Agent! Oh, my. And your friend! Another ‘special’ agent. I am honored.”
“Sure you are,” Griffin said. The man was most likely mentally licking his chops; the way he studied Vickie, his slick smile in place, made Griffin long to slug him hard in the jaw and throw a bag over his head.
“Truly. I’ve been in here a long time. I’ll be in here until the day I die. It is a thrill to see you.”
“Anything out of the ordinary has to be a thrill for you,” Jackson said. “Because, yes, this is your life. You will not be pardoned. You will not escape, ever again, though I’m certain you live with the belief that you will.”
“So, then, not that I would look a gift horse in the mouth, but...why are you here?” Aldridge asked pleasantly.
“Because you know something,” Griffin said flatly.
“I know the earth is round. Winter is cold. I know that McGregor—standing guard there—is an ass, and the food here is far less than gourmet,” Aldridge said, still smiling pleasantly.
Dying Breath--A Heart-Stopping Novel of Paranormal Romantic Suspense Page 19