by Rita Herron
“Call me if you hear from her. I’ll phone her office and the detectives we met with today. She might have gotten tied up with a patient.” Like the one they’d arrested. Claire had been so worried about him, maybe she’d gone to visit him at the jail.
A few minutes later, sheer panic had taken hold. She was not at the police precinct. Neither Black nor Fox had heard from her. And she hadn’t returned to her office. He finally got through to Lassiter’s secretary, but Lassiter hadn’t returned to the hospital after driving Claire home.
“Give me his home phone and cell phone,” Mark said.
“Sir, I can’t release that information.”
“This is Agent Mark Steele of the FBI. It’s an emergency. Dr. Kos may be missing. He might have information about her whereabouts.”
“Well, er…” She hesitated. “I suppose it would be all right.”
Five minutes later he had Lassiter on the line.
“I left Claire at the house,” Lassiter said, although his voice sounded bitter.
“You’d better be telling me the truth.” Mark slammed down the phone and drove like a maniac to Claire’s cottage. He knocked, praying she’d been asleep and hadn’t heard the phone, but pushed open the door. It was unlocked. His heart pounded.
Unholstering his gun, he scanned the room, but found it empty. Then he inched back to the bedroom. The bed covers had been tousled.
A hypodermic lay on the floor.
Dear God, Wheaton wasn’t the serial killer. There was someone else.
And whoever he was, he had Claire.
WHERE WAS SHE?
Claire opened her eyes, but the black hole of emptiness she’d lived in for the past year had grown into an endless dark pit. She struggled to free herself, but she’d been bound and gagged, the ropes cutting off her circulation. A rocking motion sent a wave of dizziness through her, and the scent of salt water and that odd odor permeated her nostrils. A spray of water misted her face. She was on a boat. A fairly small one.
“We should have been together, Claire,” he said in a whispery voice. “You should have saved yourself for me. I knew all your secrets, but I didn’t care. I loved you anyway. Even if you weren’t perfect.”
She wanted to cry out that she was sorry, that she would help him because she knew he was ill, he had to be, but her throat closed. Tears filled her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.
He slid a finger over her cheek and caught one on his finger. “Don’t cry, Claire. You know bad girls have to be punished.”
Panic warred with despair in her chest as her life flashed before her. Or the life she might have had if she and Mark could have forgiven each other for their mistakes.
If she hadn’t given up on love.
Who was this man? His voice sounded familiar, as if she knew him, yet not familiar at all. Maybe he’d disguised it.
“But you chose Steele. Even after he abandoned you, you ran back to him the minute he came to town.”
She loved him. She’d always loved him. And she could never love anyone else. But he wanted her to fight for her sight, and she wasn’t sure she could. She would never be perfect enough….
“I didn’t mind that you were blind, you know,” he said in a small voice. “Because you could see me for what I am. You looked past the scars and saw the man inside.”
More tears choked her, but she swallowed them back. If only he’d remove the gag so she could talk to him. She inhaled again and smelled that odd odor. Mark had said it was an ointment for insect bites and rashes. But this man reeked of the smell—what was wrong with him?
“He should suffer, too, for what he did to you,” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “Yes, we’ll call him, Claire. He should know what he lost by running out on you.”
Claire shook her head wildly. If he called Mark, he would come running to protect her. He’d walk into a trap. She couldn’t let anything happen to him.
“Shh.” He pressed a damp, sweaty finger to her lips. “It’ll be all right, sweetheart. I’m going to take care of everything.”
Claire shook her head again and tried to scream, but the gag caught the sound and muffled her cry to a gurgle. She had to think of a way out, a way to save Mark before they both ended up dead.
“HELLO, LIEUTENANT. Claire’s been a bad girl.”
Mark gripped the phone, his throat constricting.
“She should have chosen me over you,” he whispered, “and now she has to pay.”
“Who is this?”
“You told me how wonderful she was, and you were right,” he murmured. “Her hair is like sunshine, her lips like strawberries. And now she’s finally going to be mine.”
What did he mean? Mark had told him how wonderful she was?
The killer was someone Mark knew? Had he kidnapped Claire to get revenge on Mark?
God. Had they been chasing their tails, looking at false leads and running in circles the entire time?
Rage filled him. “Where have you taken her?”
“Away from you. You don’t deserve her.”
“Maybe not,” Mark said in a dark voice. “But she doesn’t deserve to be hurt, either.”
“You should have stayed away from her,” he said in an eerie voice. “It’s all your fault that she was bad. You came back, and she forgot about me.”
Mark had to keep him talking. To get some clue to his identity. “How did you meet Claire? Are you one of her patients?”
A bitter laugh escaped the man. “No. But we shared our secrets. And now we’re going to share even more.”
The phone suddenly went dead. Mark closed his eyes at the insanity in the man’s voice, his imagination going wild. The man was sick. And he was obviously obsessed with Claire.
What was he going to do to her?
Taking several deep breaths to calm his panic and banish the horrifying images flashing into his mind, he punched in Devlin’s number. He had to figure out the connection, how the killer knew both him and Claire.
Devlin answered on the third ring. Mark explained the call, the clues clicking into place. “He said he knew Claire’s secrets. It must be the man she met in that support group.
“I’ve been looking into the names on that list.”
“Did you find something?”
“According to the links I found on the first victim’s computer, she belonged to an online support group.”
Mark’s fingers tightened around the handset.
“So I checked the other vics’ computers, and all three belonged to online support groups.”
“That’s how he chose his victims. In a support group, people felt safe, they could disclose all their secrets.” Mark inhaled sharply. Damn. “Cross-check the name of the veteran in the group Claire attended with the ones who visited the online groups.”
“I’m on it.”
Mark glanced at his watch, the killer’s threats reverberating in his head. Every second they took might be too long. “Make it fast, Devlin. I don’t know how long this maniac will keep Claire alive.”
Or what he might do to her before he killed her.
CLAIRE’S PULSE raced as her kidnapper jerked her up from the boat, then pushed her up the embankment. Where was he taking her now? Why hadn’t he killed her while they were in the boat and dumped her body overboard? Was he going to kill her now? Or wait until Mark arrived and force him to watch?
That is, if Mark arrived. How would he know where to find them?
Her foot hit a tangle of brush, and she nearly stumbled, but he caught her. The feel of his hands made her skin crawl. A minute later, he shoved her into what she assumed was a house or cabin. Ocean waves crashed against the rocks in a violent frenzy. The air was salty, humid. A seashell crunched below the man’s boots. They were on the beach, but she had no idea where. Had he carried her to his place? An abandoned house maybe?
He led her through the room to another, and she struggled to get her bearings, but she was so disoriented. The room smelled musty, like cigarettes an
d stale beer. And that ointment. Had he been sick recently? In the hospital? Had she met him in the psychiatric ward? Mark had checked Dr. Lassiter and Ferguson’s patients, hadn’t he?
Finally, he pushed her into a chair, and removed the gag.
“Where are we?”
“We’re at my place, Claire.”
“Let me go, and I can help you,” Claire said, trying desperately to buy time.
“No, it’s too late.”
Claire cringed inwardly. “But I’ll tell them you need help,” she said, “I can testify and recommend therapy—”
“I went to therapy,” he said, his tone sharp. “But it didn’t help. I tried to make friends with you, but you ran away from me.”
“I…what? I would never turn away a patient.”
“I wasn’t your patient! I waned to be your friend.”
Claire suddenly placed the voice, searching her memory banks for his name. “You’re the man from the support group? Al Hogan?”
“You finally remember. See, you did notice me.” His breath whisked out, his voice sounding relieved and disturbed at the same time. “But you deserted me. Why did you have to run, Claire?” He whimpered, and she realized he was on the verge of hysteria.
“I was in a bad place back then,” Claire said, remembering how difficult it had been for her to cope with all she’d lost. “It had nothing to do with you. Please believe me. I wasn’t ready for a relationship with anyone.”
“But I came to you before the accident. Steele told me to see you. I thought…I thought you’d help me.”
Claire’s head ached as she tried to follow his logic. He was pacing the room then, his heels clicking on the linoleum. They squeaked when he walked, his tone vacillating between eerily calm and irrational.
“You came to my office because of Mark?”
“Yes,” his breathing grew more erratic. “But the minute I arrived, you ran off to the airport…you were driving in that storm…” his voice cracked. “I tried to stop you.”
“To stop me? Where?”
“Outside, I yelled for you, but you were so infatuated with him, you left. Then I followed you.”
The memories surfaced, painful but clear. The blinding lights… “You were driving behind me?”
“Yes, I followed you and tried to get you to stop, but that truck came along,” his voice rose again, and Claire’s stomach rolled. So, her accident hadn’t entirely been an accident.
“I couldn’t see because of your bright headlights,” she whispered.
“I didn’t mean for that to happen,” his voice warbled, “but I had to stop you. I couldn’t let you marry him, not when I wanted you.”
“But I didn’t know you then. I was suffering myself, don’t you understand? You can’t hold people accountable for their actions when they’re in pain.”
He stroked her hair, and Claire’s insides revolted. “After the accident, I wanted to help you, Claire,” he whispered, “to hold you and comfort you.” He twisted a strand around his finger, then moved so close his breath brushed her cheek. The odd odor nearly suffocated her.
“But you didn’t give me a chance. When I went to that support group, I tried to befriend you, but you refused to even have coffee with me.”
She had rebuked him twice. Unknowingly, of course, but he obviously had fixated on her, and in his eyes, she had hurt him.
“I’m sorry,” Claire whispered. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t know how you felt, but let me help you now.”
“There’s no turning back,” he said in a monotone, his voice fading off with hopeless despair. “It’s too late for both of us.”
AN HOUR LATER, Agent Devlin phoned Mark. He had been pacing the confines of Claire’s cottage, praying for a miracle. “The name Al Hogan came up on all three computer files,” Devlin said.
Mark frowned. Hogan had also attended the support group with Claire. But how did he know Mark?
“Report says he was suffering from posttraumatic stress disorder related to a stint he did in Desert Storm. He was pulled out of some rubble following an explosion—”
“Jeez.” Mark gripped the edge of the coffee table. “I rescued the man. He was incoherent, had some damage to one of his legs. He thought he’d probably lose it and begged me to leave him to die.”
“You’re sure it’s the same guy?”
“Positive,” Mark said. “I remember telling him about Claire, that I was going to propose to her when I returned stateside, and then suggested he find a good therapist to help him.”
“He must have come looking for her.”
“He wasn’t listed as a patient of hers.”
“He met her at the support group. That’s what he meant when he said she’d shared her secrets with him.” Mark rubbed a hand over his face. “Claire told everyone at the group about the accident and…” The baby. Mark exhaled. “And he probably tried to befriend the other women in the online support groups, but they turned him down. Now, he blames Claire.”
“If it is the same guy, maybe we caught a break.” The papers rustled as Devlin fished through the file. “He has a local address on Catcall Island.”
It made sense. “Near the water, where he has easy access to the beach.”
“I’ll phone the locals, issue an APB for him,” Devlin said.
“And I’ll check out the address.”
“He’s got an alias, Arden Holland.”
Mark shook his head in disbelief. “The damn janitor. He’s been right under our noses. But he must have disguised himself. I didn’t recognize him.” Then again, he’d only passed the man a couple of times, and he’d kept his head down while he swept. Claire hadn’t even considered him a suspect. Obviously, he’d worn a disguise. And he wasn’t as old as he claimed or appeared.
“Call the locals for backup,” Devlin ordered.
Mark nodded, although he was already out the door. He couldn’t waste another minute. He had to find Claire.
CLAIRE ATTEMPTED to calm Al Hogan, but the man slipped in and out of reality. One minute, his cries were that of a tormented man, the next, his voice full of anger and vengeance.
“You were in the war, weren’t you?” Claire asked. “Isn’t that why you attended the support group?
“Yes, and things happened over there, things that no one talks about.”
Claire shivered at his tone. “I’d like to hear about them, Al. I’m a good listener.”
“I thought my girl back home was going to wait for me,” he whispered, “but she took one look at me when I was discharged and freaked. She couldn’t handle the scars.”
“Were you injured in combat?”
A bitter sound rushed out, part laugh, part cry.
Claire wished she could see his face, find out what the woman had seen so she could know how to deal with him. “Untie me and let me touch you,” she whispered. “Maybe I can soothe away the pain of her words.”
He went utterly still, and she held her breath, hoping he would play into her hands. It was the only chance she had.
“Please, I don’t know what happened, but your scars won’t bother me.”
He slowly moved toward her, and she inhaled, praying she could find the strength and calm to comfort him and talk him out of this craziness, but suddenly a loud crashing sound exploded behind her. A gunshot rang out.
She pushed herself upright to stand, but Hogan shoved her backward, and she fell, slamming into the wall.
“Stay down, Claire,” Mark yelled. Then another shot pinged through the air. A loud thump followed—a body had hit the floor.
Oh, God, had Mark been shot?
Chapter Sixteen
Mark hadn’t seen the gun. He rolled sideways, pressed a hand to his shoulder and tried to get his bearings. When he’d first looked through the window and spotted Claire tied up with that maniac screeching and pacing in front of her, he’d nearly lost his cool. It had taken every ounce of restraint he possessed to wait until an opportune moment to burst in.
&
nbsp; Blood oozed from his arm, and pain knifed through him, but he ignored it and reached for his gun on the floor. Hogan kicked him in the chin and sent him bouncing backward. Mark grunted and saw stars, then crouched into an attack mode, but Hogan was fast, and the butt of his gun slammed against Mark’s head. He went down, struggling not to pass out, but darkness descended, trapping him in its clutches.
Maybe a half hour later, Mark stirred, his head spinning, his shoulder aching. He blinked back the sweat that had trickled down his forehead into his eyes, furious that Hogan had gotten the better of him and had tied him to a chair.
“Mark?” Claire cried. “Mark, can you hear me? Please wake up.”
“I’m here, Claire,” he whispered. “Hold on, sweetheart—”
“She’s not your sweetheart anymore,” Hogan muttered. “She’s mine.”
Mark grimaced at the wild-eyed look in the man’s thin face. His skin was blotchy red, his pallorsty yellow.
“I don’t belong to anyone,” Claire said in a surprisingly calm voice. Mark realized she’d probably been stalling for time by encouraging Hogan to talk. He had to do the same thing, give Black time to get his message and send backup.
“Why are you doing this, Hogan?” Mark asked.
“Because you don’t deserve her.”
“That may be true.” He slowly maneuvered his hands to untie his restraints. “But Claire hasn’t done anything to hurt you.”
Hogan’s face twisted with rage. “She ran away from me, just like those other women. They don’t want me now that I’m not whole.”
“You look whole to me,” Mark said, although he did appear demented. “I know other men who came out of combat looking much worse. At least you survived, so stop making excuses.” Hopefully, Mark could make him angry enough to snap him out of his self-pity.
His attempt backfired. Hogan raised the gun and slammed it across Mark’s temple. Mark’s head rolled backward. He bit his tongue and tasted blood.