Waking Nightmare

by Kylie Brant

  Ryne watched her departure, a faint smile on his lips. He knew intuitively that she was still grappling with the comment he’d made back at the scene. And it pleased him, more than it should have, that he’d taken her by surprise. She didn’t know how to handle it. Any more than she knew how to handle them. And damned if he wasn’t entitled to feel just a little smug about that.

  He made his way to his computer and checked his e-mail. He was pleasantly surprised to find a message from Jepperson, and opened it first. It read, “Savannah, I think I got what you need. See below. Hope you have some results for me soon on that data I sent yesterday.” Below the man’s initials was a list of ten names.

  Ryne pressed a command to have the e-mail printed and made a mental note to call the toxicologist tomorrow and give him a push. The scientist had cautioned him that a mere comparison of tox reports would show only similarities in what was present and absent in the victims’ blood, nothing conclusive. But trace amounts of Ecstasy had shown up in all the Savannah victims’ blood. If the same amount showed up on the tox screen of the Montana victim, that’d be enough for Ryne to suspect a link.

  His cell rang. Glancing at the caller ID, he saw it was Mel Thomas, the lead crime scene tech from this morning, and his gut tightened in anticipation.

  “We’ve got a few more fresh bloodstains along a two-block path heading southwest from Bradford’s,” Thomas said without any preliminaries. “We’re taking samples for matches. But we went another couple blocks in all directions and came up with nothing.”

  “So he stopped the bleeding or got in his vehicle and took off,” Ryne surmised. “What do you have in the circumference of that area?”

  “Streets are mostly residential. Lots of cul-de-sacs.” Ryne could hear the faint sounds of traffic in the background. “Other than that, there’s a convenience store, a twenty-four-hour fitness center, and a Subway, before we hit highway to the south.”

  “I’m on my way,” Ryne said, taking a quick glance at his watch. “I’ve already dispatched a dozen officers to help with the canvass.” He disconnected the call and grabbed his suit jacket off the back of his chair as he rose, instincts humming.

  He’d relied on those instincts, in one way or another, since he’d first become a cop. And everything inside him right now said they were very close to nailing the Nightmare Rapist.

  The bandage needed changing. An oath escaped as it was pulled off, the injury examined. The wound was ugly, red and angry, but despite the pain, largely superficial.

  Swing the arm gingerly back and forth. It fucking hurt! But there didn’t seem to be muscle damage. The bullet had passed cleanly through.

  The interruption to the TV program was ignored. The cunt had just gotten lucky. Her other shots had gone wild. But who could have known she’d have a gun? There had been nothing in her files, nothing in her house to indicate it.

  That couldn’t have been foreseen. It wasn’t a mistake. Not really.

  Except for the bag of equipment left behind.

  Carelessness. The old man’s voice sounded as clearly as if he hadn’t been dead for well over a decade. You know what the punishment for carelessness is, don’t you?

  The punishment had always been the same, regardless of the mistake. The old man hadn’t been one to deviate from a proven method. Especially one that had given him so much pleasure.

  Apply the antibacterial cream, tape on another gauze pad. Good as new. But four pain relievers this time, instead of two.

  A familiar scene played on the TV screen. It had played many times already, and each time anger surged anew.

  But wait. This wasn’t a repeat of last week’s press conference. This was a new one.

  Grab the remote. Turn up the volume. And then let the rage flow as that bitch took the microphone.

  Impulsive. Escalation. Did she actually think she could predict a mind so far above hers? What had she ever accomplished in her sniveling cowardly life? She couldn’t possibly understand bold courageous moves and a vision staggering in its genius.

  The remote hurtled through the air, smashed into the screen, and bounced off, leaving a crack right over her face. A portend of things to come.

  Even Einstein had been misunderstood in his day. Being underestimated could be turned to an advantage.

  Smiling now. Dressing carefully. One little setback couldn’t be allowed to derail such masterful vision. There wouldn’t be any staying low, healing in lonely misery.

  There was hunting to be done.

  “You didn’t have to do this. Takeout would have been fine with me.” Abbie felt slightly guilty sipping wine as she watched Ryne cook dinner for her. But that emotion was layered with pleasure.

  He moved capably, the long sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to the elbow, as he stabbed at the spaghetti in the pot with a long wooden fork. The fabric of the shirt stretched across his back, hinted at the muscles beneath. She’d explored those muscles intimately more than once. She was looking forward to doing so again soon.

  “I wanted to. Besides, you get to see the sum total of my culinary skills tonight.”

  “I figured,” she said, amused. She took another drink. “When you told me my choices were pasta or pasta.”

  “I have endless variations, but it all comes down to the same thing. Thank God for the Italians.”

  Smiling, she let her gaze wander around his kitchen. He’d shown her the rest of the house, and it had struck her that despite his having lived there over a year, it didn’t look much more personal than her rental.

  He did have some books, movies, and CDs jammed into a bookcase in the living room. And a TV that rivaled the screen at the drive-in she’d once attended in high school. What was it with men and large-screen TVs? She’d always heard that it was cars that were supposed to be extensions of their manhood.

  But there was nothing on the walls, nothing personal other than the comfortable utilitarian furniture that would stamp this as a man’s place. Any man’s.

  There was a lone picture on the coffee table, of Ryne with his arm around an older woman she assumed was his mother. And that was it. While she spent most of her free time painstakingly leaving her own mark on her home and its contents, he seemed content to live in near anonymity. She wondered what that said about him. Or about her, for that matter.

  “I got phone calls from Sommers, Larsen, and Billings after the press conference aired today,” she told him as he picked up a spoon to stir the sauce he had simmering. “They all wanted to know if we were close to making an arrest.”

  “And you referred them to Commander Dixon, since the whole media blitz was his idea?”

  She shook her head, although he couldn’t see it. “I just said we had new leads we were vigorously pursuing and that we’d be in touch when we had something solid.”

  “Bureaucratic BS, but in this case, right on.” Apparently satisfied with the contents of both pots, he picked up his beer and turned to face her. “This thing is closing in. I can feel it. We got a couple different clients at that twenty-four-hour fitness place near Bradford’s who described the same vehicle in the parking lot when they came and left, even though they were the only ones in the facility at the time. Black Crown Vic, four-door.”

  “No one got a license plate number, I suppose?”

  He shook his head, bringing the bottle of water to his lips. “But it gives us a place to start. Isn’t there something about these guys wanting to buy cars like the police? They’ve got some hard-on about failing to join the force, or military or something?”

  “I’ve worked cases where that was true.” She almost hated to go on. “But I don’t think that’s this UNSUB’s profile. I’m guessing you’ll discover the car was stolen.”

  He gave her a wry grin. “Guess I should leave the profiling to you.”

  His smile deepened the attractive creases beside his mouth, making her realize just how rarely she’d seen him this at ease. The sight brought a pleasant flip in her stomach. The man was si
mply devastating to the senses. And she wasn’t nearly as determined as she’d once been in maintaining an emotional distance.

  Or a physical one. She hadn’t forgotten his parting words to her at Bradford’s about the ease of travel between her city and his. She suspected that had been his intent. But it had occurred to her throughout the day that she didn’t think a thing of hopping a plane at a moment’s notice and flying across country for a new case after a terse phone call from Raiker. That was the job. Why was it unthinkable to fly occasionally to see Ryne?

  Because long-distance relationships were fraught with complications. Everyone knew that. At least, that’s what she’d always heard. She’d never actually engaged in one. Hadn’t ever been tempted to try.

  But she was tempted now. As he bent to check the French bread, she swallowed some more wine. The warmth suffusing her veins wasn’t totally due to the alcohol. This could work between them. Why not? If they both wanted a relationship to succeed, how big a coward would she be to not even try?

  Although she was afraid she knew the answer to that question, her decision had already been made. She wasn’t ready to see the last of Ryne Robel. The thought of not having to walk away from him after this case had relief and joy mingling inside her.

  Knowing he didn’t want it to end was an even greater pleasure. For once in her life, Abbie was going to forget the lessons she’d lived her life by and reach out for what she wanted, without worrying about the possible consequences.

  Her face must have given away something of her thoughts, because when he turned toward her again, he gave her a careful look. “You’re looking awfully pleased with yourself.”

  “Well, I am sitting here drinking wine watching you cook me dinner,” she pointed out. With a sly smile, she added, “The view isn’t half bad.”

  His expression went pained. “Half bad? That’s the best you can do?”

  “How about a spectacularly stunning package of manhood?”

  He winked at her, reached for his water again. “That’s better. It’s nice to know you’ve been admiring my package.” When that rendered her speechless, he smirked. “Unfortunately, my Adonis-like physique and unflagging good nature don’t come without a price, so you can set the table. Dishes are in the cupboard next to the stove.”

  It felt amazingly natural to sit across from him, watching him consume three times the spaghetti she did, while their discussion ranged beyond the case to politics.

  “You’re a bleeding heart liberal,” he accused after she’d vehemently argued a position. He tipped more wine into her glass. “Who would have thought?”

  “And you’re a typical die-hard tough-on-crime conservative who believes the death penalty is the solution for most of society’s ills,” she retorted, leaning back in her chair, pleasantly full.

  “Not all ills,” he said lazily. “Just about half the incarcerated population.”

  “You act tough.” She sipped slowly. “But you don’t see things nearly as black and white as you pretend.”

  “Really.” His tone was challenging. “And you know that how?”

  “I’ll bet you never reported the run-in with McElroy last night.” It was a guess, but she knew immediately from his expression that it was an accurate one. “You never told Dixon. Or Captain Brown.”

  His gaze slid away. “There was no point. He isn’t dumb enough to bother you again. He’s a fuckup, sure. But just because he made his coffin, doesn’t mean I want to be the one who nails down the lid.”

  She smiled, satisfied that she’d read him correctly. “I agree. He’s dug himself a deep enough hole. And Dixon doesn’t strike me as the type to be too tolerant of mistakes.”

  “Only his own.” Ryne mopped up the remaining sauce on his plate with the last of his bread.

  “How’d he ever happen to leave Boston?”

  “I don’t really know. There was talk that he screwed up big-time in the mayor’s office, but then a few weeks after he’d left, I heard he’d landed this job down here, so it was probably just gossip.”

  “I understand his wife is the chief’s niece.” At his raised brows she said, “You’re not the only one who hears talk.”

  “That’s true, but he’s done well enough for himself here.” Pushing away from the table, Ryne crossed to the refrigerator and took out another water. Twisting off the cap, he asked, “Have you heard from Callie today?”

  The question had a sliver of worry piercing Abbie’s sense of well-being. “She isn’t answering her cell or her room phone. She’s staying at the A-1 Suites on Oglethorpe. I’ll swing by and see her tomorrow.” And make sure she was still taking the medication that had been prescribed. She’d feel better once Callie kept her appointment with the new psychiatrist. She also planned to go with her. Her sister couldn’t always be trusted to be forthcoming with a new therapist. Abbie didn’t really think Callie had any meaningful insights into her own behavior.

  “You said she was bipolar. There’s medication for that, right?”

  A feeling of unease filtered through her. She’d never discussed her sister’s problems with anyone other than Callie’s therapists. It always felt disloyal somehow. “She’s had a lot of diagnoses over the years, and accompanying treatments. Bipolar is probably the one that’s most accurate. She’s also been diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder.” And truth be known, that was probably accurate as well. The identification of Callie’s problems was really only of value in terms of treatment, and in understanding the choices she made.

  He drank, then lowered the bottle to regard her steadily. “Prone to bouts of aggression and violence? Uncaring of the consequences her actions have on others? History of sexual promiscuity?”

  Her earlier lighthearted mood evaporated, to be replaced with a sense of foreboding. Setting her glass down carefully on the table, she said, “What’s all this about, Ryne?”

  His expression grew dogged, a sure sign that she wasn’t going to like what he had to say. “I’ve done a little research. Enough to know that you could probably get her put away for observation for a while. Just long enough to be sure she’s getting the help she needs.”

  Her smile was tight. He was lecturing her on how to handle her sister? That was rich. Abbie was well versed in several different states’ laws for involuntary committal. But legality never took into consideration the emotional price of taking such measures. A price she paid, along with her sister. “I know how to take care of Callie.”

  He looked away, his mouth drawn into a flat line she was beginning to recognize. “Sometimes we can be too close. Can’t see what needs to be done because we’re blinded by emotion.”

  “She hurt you, Abbie. You told me once that she never would, but she hurt you bad enough to send you to the emergency room. Even if she’s not a danger to anyone else, she’s sure as hell a danger to you. You have to recognize that. Hell, the profile you developed of the UNSUB should convince you of the kind of damage that can be inflicted by people with abuse in their backgrounds.”

  A steel band was constricting her chest. Abbie struggled to draw in a breath. That he would take what she’d confided to him about the childhood she’d shared with her sister and use it to bolster his argument was more than hurtful. His betrayal sliced through her like a blade. “You’re comparing my sister—my sister—to this sick bastard we’re hunting? Where the hell do you get off?”

  “She’s shown up in the photos. Lots of them that were taken at Juarez’s hangouts. You have to admit there are parallels there . . .”

  “There’s a significant percentage of violent offenders with abuse in their backgrounds,” she said, her voice shaking. Her hands balled in fists, her nails biting into her palms. “But those offenders represent only an infinitesimal percentage of all abuse victims. What happened the other night . . .” She hesitated as a sneaky splinter of doubt stabbed her. “It was a one-time thing,” she said with a certainty she wished she felt. Ryne was responsible for this doubt. Questioning and advising in
an area he knew nothing about, all to strong-arm her into making a decision she suspected would cost both her and Callie for years to come.

  His expression was bleak, his voice low. “I don’t want this to come between us. But it’s clear to me that she’s a ticking time bomb, and when she goes off, you’re the one most likely to get hurt. Think about it. You of all people should know the value of listening to all sides of an issue.”

  The lump in her throat grew boulder sized. And in a quick flash of clarity, she understood exactly why she’d never allowed a man this close before.

  Without another word, she stood, grabbed her purse, and headed for the door.

  His chair scraped behind her. “Abbie, stop. I wouldn’t say anything if I didn’t care.”

  She stopped at the door, gave him one last glance over her shoulder. The sight of him, face resolute, fists clenched, carved a jagged furrow through her chest.

  “Maybe you do. But if this is your definition of ‘caring,’ it comes at too steep a price.”

  Chapter 20

  “I’ll need to take some personal time tomorrow afternoon.”

  Given that they were the first words Abbie had directed toward him since last night, Ryne supposed he should have been grateful. He looked up from the ViCAP binder he was studying to where she stood beside her desk. She’d been gone most of the day, making a return visit to Amanda Richards to update her on the investigation, and then coordinating the removal of some personal things from Bradford’s for Laura’s stay in a motel across town.

  There was no sign of the temper she’d faced him with last night. And, thank God, no sign of the shocked hurt he’d seen in her eyes before she’d left his place, the one that had lanced him with seven kinds of remorse. She wore the same composed mask he recalled from when they first started working together. Its reappearance made him irritable.