Taylor

by Irish Winters

  “What? My stepson tried to kill his cousin. My father is a murderer and I’m as bad as he is. I see nothing good in that.”

  “I’m not judging you. Look at what I did when I panicked. I hit Taylor. I’m—” Her heart stuttered at her own cruelty. They all seemed ruled more by passion than common sense.

  “He looks just like her,” Luke said sadly. “I miss my sisters, Gracie. I miss Martha’s quick wit and Mary’s laughter. I miss the way they both made the winter snows warm just by their happy spirits filling our house. I miss their bright smiles and their love. I miss the way they smelled of flowers in the spring. God Almighty, I miss them so much it hurts. Every day.”

  Gracie gave him a sisterly squeeze. The White Hawk men had suffered in silence for too long. No wonder passion ruled them now. It might have been better if Taylor had never met his family, but maybe—just maybe—this blood hunt would bring closure to the crimes against the beleaguered White Hawks. Maybe the Great Spirit really did understand.

  She offered the only thing she had. “Don’t give up, Luke. Martha’s lost son is home. There is still hope.”

  Chapter Five

  Damn. First shot. Now restrained? This bullshit’s getting old.

  Taylor attempted to roll over. He could barely move either arm, and upon squinting through bleary eyes, he knew why. Both wrists were belted securely to the side of an old-fashioned hospital bed. A belt looped over his arm, and through the side rails, the buckle situated where he couldn’t reach it.

  Where the hell am I?

  Stiff and sore, he stilled to get his bearings. The smells that filled his nostrils were the same as a hospital’s: antiseptic and clean. A headache pounded behind his eyes. His head rested on an ice bag. By the look and feel of it, his shoulder had been treated and bandaged. It still hurt plenty, but nowhere like before.

  He squirmed. Just as quickly the pain in his chest ricocheted from front to back with razor sharpness that took his breath away.

  The rest of the room came into focus. A nightstand stood to his left, a dresser to his right. The sunlight told him it was morning. He’d been unconscious most of the night, then. At least the bed faced the door. No one could sneak up and smack him on the head again.

  Muted voices sounded in the adjoining room. He stilled and listened.

  “I don’t care. He must be told...” That was a woman’s gentle voice. It sounded vaguely familiar, but she spoke too low for Taylor to hear her entire comment.

  “I know. I know.” The man’s voice changed from defensive to sorrowful. “I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “Yes... now he’ll... extra care... glad you called...”

  Taylor could barely make out her soft murmurings, but she sounded as sorrowful as the man. Who the hell’s out there? The killer? Is that where I am, in the Chronicle Killer’s lair?

  Again the man spoke. “It will be done soon.” This time he sounded firm and definite. Unyielding. Older. Taylor held his breath to hear more of the conversation.

  “I mean it, Luke, you... Please?”

  A screen door opened and shut. Boots crunched against gravel as the man walked away. A vehicle door opened and closed. An engine turned over. Okay. The clattering rumble of the engine was unmistakable. That Luke guy drove a diesel. He was leaving. Just by the fact the woman had called him by his first name meant he was not her father. Brother, then? Friend, maybe? Husband?

  Taylor pulled against his restraints. No such luck. They might as well have been super glued for the little they moved. The belts weren’t uncomfortable, just firm.

  He changed his mind and relaxed back onto the pillow, needing a drink and his Ruger.

  Aside from being confined against his will, he was clean and comfortable, but this was no hospital. He was in someone’s private residence.

  Quiet footsteps sounded outside his room. A refrigerator door opened and closed. Water ran from a faucet. Cupboard doors opened and shut, and soon he heard chopping, like a knife on a wooden cutting board. The pleasant aroma of coffee, bacon, and onions twitched his nose, now cleared of blood and working overtime. His stomach growled in agreement.

  The footsteps headed in his direction and the bedroom door squeaked open. “Oh? You’re awake. Good.”

  He couldn’t believe his eyes. This was no Chronicle Killer. Hell, no.

  The woman from his dream stood calm and serene at the door, with smiling dark eyes that seemed too large for her elegant face. A vision in blushing bronze, she was gorgeous. Long dark hair swept off her shoulders. His heart whispered he knew her, but no way. He’d remember a woman like this one.

  For a foolish second he thought maybe she’d come to his aid. But rescuers don’t usually tie the guy they rescued to bed rails, not with the sturdy restraints she’d used.

  She came to the bed and straightened his blanket, smoothing the wrinkles. “I’m sorry about this. Can I get you anything to drink or eat?”

  Taylor came to his senses. Cute didn’t matter so much in a kidnapper or a killer, if that’s what she was. “What day is this? Where am I?”

  “It’s Tuesday. Luke and I brought you here last night.”

  “Luke who? Is he the Chronicle Killer? Are you?” Maybe not the smartest question to lead with, but hell. A guy needs to know who he’s up against.

  Her brows furrowed. “The Chronicle Killer? Oh, for heaven’s sake. No.”

  “Then where am I? How’d I get here?” Adrenaline seemed to have a good hold on his big mouth. He couldn’t stop shaking any more than he could zip his lip.

  She nodded. “Sure. I understand. You’re upset and you need to know what happened. You’re in my home. My name is Gracie, and if you—”

  He cut her off. “I need a phone and a—”

  “No. You don’t. No phone.”

  “What’s going on? You can’t keep me—”

  “Yes, I can.” This Gracie woman had a definite tone of authority in her voice. “I can and I will keep you here as long as I need to. Trust me. Please. You are Taylor Armstrong.”

  That shut him up. The military response of name, rank, and serial number came instantly to mind. Rescuer, nothing. She knew exactly who he was or he wouldn’t be trussed up like a turkey in the first place.

  She kept smiling, her voice calm and soothing, like she wanted him to settle down. “It’s okay. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. In fact, you don’t have to do anything. Not really. Just lay back and rest. Let me take care of you while you heal. The only thing you can’t do is leave. Not yet.” She smoothed the back of her fingers against his cheek. then lightly over his forehead. “I hope you don’t mind, but I gave you a sponge bath last night. I thought you’d sleep more comfortably if you were clean, and you looked so miserable. I didn’t want you to get sick on top of being hurt.”

  That last info bite was not the best thing she could’ve said. Hey, I’ve invaded your privacy while you were out cold. Checked out your junk. Hope you liked it.

  He jerked from her touch, needing distance and answers. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m Gracie and—”

  “That’s not what I meant. Who are you to keep me here against my will? Why am I tied to this bed?”

  Something in his chest pinched the hell out of him just looking up into those pretty doe eyes. There was no malice hidden there, and boy, did he know malice. He’d seen plenty of dark eyes full of it on the other side of the world, but hers were different. Long eyelashes fluttered over sincerity and compassion. For a kidnapper, she was delicately built, her frame slight and feminine, but strong.

  She broke the visual connection and pulled a folding chair next to his bed where he could see her. “Believe me, I don’t want to do this anymore than you do, but it’s better this way.”

  “What’s going on? Why am I—”

  “Shush now—”

  “Don’t tell me to shush, damn—” He tried to sit. Just as quickly, the puncture wound stabbed him. He grimaced and shook off the pain, but
he also sank back against the pillow, robbed of breath and panting for air.

  Gracie was immediately off her chair and at his side. “Don’t do that. You’ll hurt yourself and—”

  “Damn it,” he muttered, trying to move as little as possible. “I didn’t shoot myself with an arrow and I didn’t tie myself to this bed. You did.”

  She blinked down at him and, want to or not, he couldn’t help but notice her palm on his bare bicep. If she meant it to settle him, oddly it did. Just that fast, another problem manifested.

  Where the hell are my clothes? No jeans. No underwear. Not even socks. Only the medal around his neck. He lowered his eyes, not feeling as lethal as he wanted. Every curse word in his mental playbook sprang to his lips, but he bit them back at this latest humiliation. Sponge bath, huh? Try psychological warfare. Taking a guy’s clothes away from him was all about power.

  “I want my pants.”

  “Sure. They’re in the washer. As soon as they’re dry, you can have them back.” She smoothed her hand against his cheek again. “I’ll tell you as much as I can, but you have to do something for me, too.”

  He wanted to hate this woman, but damn it, her touch was hypnotically sweet. It calmed the fight out of him again. How did she do that?

  Focus, dumb ass.

  “What do you want?”

  “You have to stay calm so you don’t hurt yourself, okay? The doctor was here last night. He stitched the hole in your back, but he left the one on your chest open so it could drain. Do you want something for the pain?”

  He blinked up at her. Laugh lines crinkled at the corners of her eyes. There was no evil in this woman, only concern and something else he couldn’t identify. Determination, maybe? Nothing of cruelty.

  “Answers. I want answers. That’s all.” This woman was not going to turn him into some boy toy, but come to think of it, his chest was killing him. And he was hungry. Thirsty as hell, too. He sighed at the conflicting feelings in his head. She’d helped him, but she’d also tied him to a bed and he hadn’t a clue why.

  “Okay, then.” She scooted her chair closer. “Let’s start at the beginning.”

  Alex was not a trusting man. He’d been burned too many times in the past to accept at face value anything another federal agency or the police wanted him to believe. Since the Mayor and the City Council of Alexandria made a public request for poor Mr. Webster, it seemed only fitting that they allow Alex full access to the evidence associated with the Chronicle Killer murders. Surprisingly, Mayor Gaskin agreed.

  Harley and Gabe had returned from their search for Taylor. All they’d found was a jack and some blood, notably in the same area where Whisper and Smoke scented Taylor. Even now, swabs from that blood were at the police lab for DNA analysis. God help the bastard behind Taylor’s disappearance.

  While Mark accompanied Izza and Steven to Quantico, Alex drove Mother and Ember to the police station for copies of their reports and pictures of all the evidence. He also took the opportunity to examine the murder weapons, the arrows, while there.

  Despite their gory purpose, it was impossible not to be impressed with the craftsmanship behind the deadly implements. They were both amazing works of art. All footed arrows, the tips of the cylindrical shafts were constructed of ash, while the rest was cedar, carefully melded into the ash.

  As a woodworking hobbyist himself, Alex knew the physics behind their construction. Whoever’d made these arrows had reinforced the point of impact with a hardwood that wouldn’t shatter. But that individual had also maintained flexibility by using a soft wood for the length of the shaft. Cedar made the arrows lightweight and lethal.

  The nocks at the end of each arrow were in meticulous line with the wood grain. Again, that was something only an expert archer would appreciate. Three white feathers completed the fletching. He lifted the arrow to his nose. Goose feathers. Geese were not lethal or known for speed. He’d expected eagle. Maybe hawk. Something as deadly as the arrow. Interesting.

  The tips were handcrafted as expertly, each carved from bone and thrice-barbed, which made them impossible to extract from their entry point, not that Vicki Levitt or Bob Hemmings could’ve pulled them out. They’d probably never seen what hit them.

  But it was the detailed on each feather that caught Alex’s eye. Three bright red dots followed by three dashes, then three more dots—the international Morse code for distress. The Chronicle Killer had sent a message along with his death sentence.

  Alex understood the barbaric symbolism of the sliced tongues. Clearly, the murderer wanted the world to know these two reporters were dishonest. He couldn’t disagree with the man’s estimation of Levitt and Hemmings. They were without a doubt the worst kind of reporter in the business. But an SOS? A cry for help?

  It didn’t fit with two very well planned executions. No. Whoever the Chronicle Killer was, the last thing he needed was anyone’s help. If anything, Alex felt a twinge of respect for the guy. He hadn’t tortured his victims, which he seemed capable of doing. Both kills were clean. Methodical. Hell, both kills constituted perfect crimes. The killer had left nothing of himself behind except the cryptic call for help. But help for whom? Levitt or Hemmings? The killer?

  Where have I seen that before?

  By the time he returned to his office, Ember was already fast-tracking the shards of glass on the electronic tablet she always carried. Mother went to her desk. Alex walked straight into his desk, still reading the police report copies in his hand.

  Both murders were assigned to the same detective, an older man named Rolf Cunningham. That was the first problem. One man in control of an investigation of this magnitude was never a good way to conduct police business.

  Mother knocked at his door, letting herself in just as he’d settled at his desk. “About those green napkins.”

  “Yes?” Alex peered over his reading glasses at her. Trim, white-haired and intelligent, she could’ve passed for his sister if he’d had one. Her blue eyes equaled the color of his. If only she knew when to mind her business.

  She shrugged. “I had Charles look into them. They’re just green linen napkins. You can buy them by the gross at any restaurant supply store. He checked a couple in the area. They’re all made in China, just like everything else these days.”

  “What about the glass in the vics’ throats?”

  “Ember’s still on the phone with a local lighting distributor. He thinks they might be his. She’ll be in to tell you what she’s found in a couple minutes. Sorry.”

  “Forget it. See if you can find any other murders with a green napkin for a calling card. Maybe our killer’s tossing breadcrumbs.”

  “You think he wants to get caught?”

  The SOS signal on the arrow came to mind. “Not necessarily. Could be he’s leaving a message.”

  “I’ll put Charles right on it.” Mother walked out of his office smiling.

  Alex smirked. His genius computer techie was always happiest when she was up to her ears in too much work or bossing one of the new agents around.

  Charles, a California senator’s son, had approached Mother for a job. That seemed a little odd at the time, but Alex dismissed it as a sign of The TEAM’s solid reputation. The guy had a decent Army record, nothing to brag about but decent, so Alex hired him. So far he’d proven to be an asset to The TEAM, again nothing to brag about, but steady.

  Alex turned back to the police profile that purported the Chronicle Killer to be mentally unstable, most likely a young male looking for his fifteen minutes of fame. The detective on the case provided the profile instead of an expert profiler. Alex dug deeper.

  Where Detective Cunningham claimed a disorganized mind behind the murders, Alex saw precision and deliberate attention to detail. Where Cunningham chalked the ritualistic killings up to a touch of insanity, Alex saw premeditation and expertise. The skillfully designed arrows, the green glass and napkins read like a road map instead of random acts of a teenager out for the thrill of the kill. The more h
e read the police reports, the more things didn’t add up.

  What the hell was Cunningham trying to do, throw the investigation? Sure seemed like it. The profile stunk of a cover up.

  Ember’s rap at his door drew his attention from the police report. “Look at this.” She handed him an enhanced color photo of glass shards. “All of these pieces fit together. They’re from the exact same Tiffany lamp.”

  Alex waited for her to elaborate.

  “You do know what Tiffany lamps are, don’t you?”

  “Sure. They’re stained glass lampshades. O’Connor’s has a row of green ones with gold dragonflies hanging over their bar.”

  “Very good, Alex.” She praised him and pointed to the photo again.

  Alex noticed the subtlety with which she dealt with him until lately. The motherly side of her had emerged since her marriage to Rory. She seemed intent on treating him, the boss, like a kid. There weren’t too many people who could get away with that. Only Ember.

  “So here’s the deal. Most people buy whatever inventory the lighting stores have on hand, but not always. Sometimes people request special designs. You know, some people like roses so they order a lamp covered with roses. Some business, like O’Connor’s, might order specific designs to suit their décor. Stuff like that.”

  “So who ordered these?”

  “I’m not sure yet, but Justin, the guy at the lighting distributor, recognized these particular pieces. See here? This one has three different shades of green, and it’s not like the colors are swirled together in the same pane of glass, either. See how they’re all separate?” Ember pointed to the shard in question. “And see this black curlicue? It’s part of the number eight. Justin thinks these pieces came from a specialty order they filled years ago. He made the lamps himself, but he can’t remember who ordered them. He’s looking for the invoice.”

  “Good work. Thanks.”

  She waved his comment off. “Don’t thank me yet. This is an old order. There’s no digital copy. Justin has to look through boxes of paper receipts to find what we need. I’m headed over there to help him.”