Waking Nightmare

by Kylie Brant

  Because it meant he’d underestimated Abbie. Badly. And she’d made it pretty clear what that was going to cost him.

  His palms went damp. “Listen . . .”

  “I’m stopping to pick Callie up now. I’ll talk to you later.”

  The call disconnected. It took several long moments before Ryne put his cell away, mentally calling himself seven kinds of a fool. Damn, how could a decision that had seemed so right only hours ago make him feel like such a shit now? This was exactly why he’d always steered clear of relationships. They were full of minefields. The least misstep and they blew up in your face.

  “Robel, call for you on line three,” Marcy called.

  But it took another moment for Ryne to reach for the phone. And more effort than it should have to shift his focus to the caller.

  “Detective Robel?” The woman’s voice was breathy, excited. “This is Cyn Paulus. I called back just as soon as I heard your message. I didn’t get it until today because I was away from home a few days on a buying trip. I have this little shop, you see, and I sell all sorts of—”

  Ruthlessly, Ryne cut through the woman’s rambling. “Thanks for calling back. I have a question about a name I ran across on your blog. A former classmate of yours. Trevor Holden.”

  “Why, what’s he done?”

  Ignoring her question, he asked one of his own. “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Weeell . . .” There was a pout in the drawn-out word. “I didn’t know him that well. We didn’t exactly run in the same circles. But I wanted to invite all the classmates, and he did graduate with us, even if he was only around a couple years or so.”

  Patience thinning, Ryne asked, “Why is that?”

  “He was one of those delinquents from the State Training School.” Ryne felt a flare of excitement at her words. “None of them showed up for the reunion, of course, which was just as well. But I told my girlfriend, I have to at least invite them, just to be fair. . . .”

  He shifted to a more comfortable position. Something told him that this conversation was going to take a while. “Can you tell me what you remember about Holden in particular?”

  “He was sort of creepy, I remember that. Had a way of looking at girls like he was stripping us naked in his mind, you know what I mean?”

  Something in Ryne went still. “Schools are rumor mills, right? Did you ever hear what he was sent to State for?”

  “If I did, I don’t recall. We just sort of steered clear of the staties. Sorry, that’s what we called the State School residents. And it’s not like any of them wanted to be friends with us. They all sort of hung together.”

  “So you’d have no idea where Holden is now. What he’s doing.”

  “Oh, I heard some talk at the reunion.” The woman gave an audible sniff. “Have a hard time believing any of it. One guy, Danny Sorenson, says Holden attended the same junior college as his cousin. Said they were in a lot of the same classes. He even tried telling us his cousin claims Holden is working for some sort of drug company.”

  Satisfaction surged. “Any idea where? Or for what company?”

  “No, like I said, no one believes it. Danny said it’s somewhere out West. Most of us figure the most likely place to find him out there is Yuma Prison.”

  Ryne probed further, until he was convinced he’d learned all the woman knew. About to end the conversation, he had a second thought. “You wouldn’t happen to have a picture of Holden, would you? Something in a high school yearbook maybe?”

  “Sure, he’s probably in there. Most of the staties didn’t get senior pictures, of course, but our principal had the high school yearbook staff take pictures to be sure they were included in the annuals.”

  “Could you find that picture and fax it to me?” Ryne gave her his fax number.

  “Maybe,” she responded coyly. “If you tell me what this is all about. Is Holden in some sort of trouble? I’ll bet he is. Are you going to arrest him?”

  Ryne rubbed one temple, to alleviate the throb that had suddenly appeared there. He reached for diplomacy, found it harder than usual to summon. “I’m just following a lead. I’m not at liberty to divulge any information, Ms. Paulus. But I can tell you your help could be vital to an ongoing investigation here.”

  Her voice perked up. “Vital?”

  “Absolutely, ma’am,” he said soberly, leaning back in his chair to stare at the ceiling. Some clown had thrown several pencils up to remain stuck in the soft tiles. Probably while having a conversation much like this one.

  “Well, you can be sure I’ll do anything I can to help. I’ll get on it right away.”

  Given the enthusiasm lacing her tone, he had no doubt she’d do just that. Recalling his earlier conversation with Abbie, he added, “Could you also send a photo of any of Holden’s buddies?”

  “I’m not sure I remember who he hung out with. Like I said, we didn’t—”

  “Run in the same circles. Right. But maybe one of your friends will help jog your memory.”

  “Maybe.” She sounded dubious. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your assistance.” Looking up, Ryne noted Captain Brown heading toward his desk. “If you can send them as soon as possible, that will be a big help.”

  He disconnected the call as Brown halted next to him, looked up inquiringly.

  “I just got off the phone with Commander Dixon,” the man said without preamble. “He’s going to be in my office in ten minutes and wants a recap on the case.”

  Jesus. Ryne just barely restrained an audible groan. Could this day get any worse? “All right. I’ll run off my latest investigation report.”

  Brown’s broad freckled face looked grim. “Better come prepared with more than that. He’s on a tear, Ryne. He’s talking about replacing you as lead detective on this case.”

  It was times like these that Ryne missed drinking.

  He sat slouched in his desk chair, head tilted back, gaze trained on those pencils protruding from the ceiling tiles. There had been a time when Jim Beam had been a damn good friend after a long bitch of a day. God knew, this day had been the mother of all bitches.

  But it wasn’t alcohol he craved right now. It wasn’t one of the nameless faceless women who’d matched him shot for shot, then invited him home for diversion of another sort.

  It was one woman. The one woman who’d walked away from him today, making it very clear she considered them over.

  He eyed the ceiling balefully. And that was far worse than the last few hours, although they’d been hell by anyone’s standards.

  McElroy was still fucking up this investigation. The idiot had gone to Dixon about getting reinstated, and the result had been predictable. In his eagerness to color himself indispensable, he made it sound like he was still actively involved in this case, citing the photos that he’d handed over to Ryne. That had shifted the focus of Dixon’s ire from McElroy to Ryne. Believing that Ryne had ignored McElroy’s suspension, the commander had delivered a world-class paint-peeling ass chewing that had to have traveled through the squad room and beyond.

  It had taken some careful tap dancing around the facts to convince Dixon that McElroy wasn’t being utilized in any way, while not broaching the subject of the pictures the man had taken. But Ryne couldn’t help thinking Dixon’s loss of control had been over the top. He must be taking some heavy-duty pressure on this investigation from the higher-ups.

  Or maybe he just had woman problems. Maybe his wife had finally wised up and kicked his lying adulterous ass out on the street.

  Serve the bastard right.

  Ryne scrubbed both hands over his face. He knew from all too recent experience just how fucked up a man could get over a woman. He sure as hell wasn’t going to sit here and brood about how he’d give anything right now to be sitting next to Abbie. Just looking at her. Bouncing ideas off her. Or burying himself inside her.

  Because that would make him pathetic, as well as pissed off.

&
nbsp; Straightening, he checked the time, mentally shrugged. It was close to dark, but there nothing to go home for. No one to go home to.

  Wearily, he scraped back his chair and stood, crossing the office to retrieve the faxes Paulus had sent him. On his way he met Mallory, coming back into the squad room.

  “Dale. What are you doing back here?”

  The man gave a sheepish grin. “Couldn’t shake the case off tonight. My wife finally got tired of repeating everything she said and told me to go on back to work. It’s where my mind was anyhow.”

  Ryne grunted and reached for the faxes. “Understanding wife.”

  “More annoyed than understanding, but here I am. You may as well put me to work.”

  Only half listening, Ryne looked at the first sheet of photos. The black-and-white pictures were even grainier on a fax, but Paulus had circled Holden’s picture and underlined his name. He was inclined to agree with her assessment. The guy was spooky.

  Mallory peered over his shoulder. “That the same Holden working the Ketrum trials?”

  “I’ll scan the photo and e-mail it to Montana. See if the sheriff there can ID him for me.” As he spoke, he looked at the second page. Stilled. This one also had a photo circled. A name underlined. Big loopy cursive letters formed a caption that read: Holden’s only buddy that we can recall.

  Ryne stared hard at the picture. Not trusting his eyes, he cocked again and looked again from a different angle.

  “What is it?”

  Ryne held out the second page. “Try to concentrate just on the face. Who does this look like?”

  The detective frowned. Squinted. Bent to peer closer.

  Then he let out a long low whistle and lifted his gaze to Ryne’s. “Holy shit.”

  “Yeah,” Ryne said grimly. “Holy shit.”

  “I thought Dr. Solem seemed nice. Competent.”

  Callie lifted a shoulder in response to Abbie’s statement, hooking a finger in the front shades to look out at the street. “She’s a shrink. They’re all the same.”

  And so was her sister’s response to therapists.

  Abbie set her purse on the back of the couch. Callie had been candid with the doctor, she reminded herself, trying to lift her flagging spirits, although the session had been more of an initial information-gathering meeting than anything else. Callie had signed an authorization for an exchange of information between Faulkner and Solem at the hospital the other night, so the new psychiatrist had a copy of her case file.

  And she seemed calmer. More settled. From experience, Abbie believed she really was taking the medication again. The challenge would be to get her to continue.

  Watching her sister roam the small room restlessly, Abbie reflected that she’d learned to celebrate the small accomplishments, because the setbacks could be so disappointing.

  It was Ryne’s fault she wasn’t more enthused about these steps Callie was taking. He was the reason for the doubt that even now circled, looking for hidden nuances in every word Callie uttered. Worrying every time her always secretive sister was less than forthcoming.

  “You’re jumpy.” Abbie stood in the doorway separating the kitchen from the living room and surveyed her sister. As a matter of fact, Callie had seemed increasingly edgy through dinner, for once insisting on coming straight back here.

  “Not jumpy. Eager. I have something I want to tell you. To show you.”

  Instincts and experience had her distrusting her sister’s smile. But she made sure to keep the emotion from showing when she responded, “What’s that?”

  “I think the appropriate question would be ‘Who’s that?’ ” A figure stepped out of Abbie’s darkened bedroom. With only the kitchen light behind her and the lamp in the living room, it was impossible to make out a face.

  The voice was eerily familiar.

  Callie threw the newcomer a sly smile. “You’re so impatient, baby. I was getting to you.” She went to the figure and slipped her arm around his waist.

  Trepidation circling, Abbie stepped farther into the room, peering at the man her sister was hugging so intimately. And then she stopped abruptly, as recognition slammed into her.

  She could be forgiven for not recognizing him at first. She was used to seeing the long blond hair curled. Full makeup. Nails neatly polished.

  She was used to seeing him as Karen Larsen.

  Callie’s laugh gurgled out. “You should see your face.” She turned to Larsen and said confidingly, “I think you startled her, Sean.”

  “Is that your real name?” Abbie asked conversationally, her mind racing. She’d checked out Larsen herself. Had even spoken to one of the woman’s former nursing instructors. Karen Larsen existed. The identification he’d shown was valid.

  It just belonged to someone else.

  “Don’t be such a cop.” Callie’s voice was peeved as Larsen—or Sean—stared across the room at Abbie. “Of course it’s his real name. Sean Grant. I wanted you to meet him because he and I have become . . .” She gave a wicked laugh and leaned in to nip at his neck. “Close.”

  Without releasing Abbie’s gaze, the man slid his arm around her shoulders. Seeing the syringe in his hand, Abbie lunged forward. “No!”

  But Callie merely seemed puzzled, looking from the needle in her arm to Grant. “What’s that? This really isn’t the time, baby. My little sister doesn’t approve.” The last word slurred and she gave a surprised laugh. “Was that smack? ’Cuz I don’t do smack anymore. Had a bad . . . trip.” She stumbled, clung to Grant for support, and when he shoved her away, she fell to the floor, giggling helplessly.

  “Your bitch sister knows what it is.” The man took a step forward. “At least she knows what it does.” His smile was ugly as he addressed Abbie. “According to the news, you pretty much know everything. And apparently you’re an expert on me. So why don’t you tell her who I am. Better yet, tell us both just what I have planned for you two tonight.”

  Oh, God. Her lungs were strangled. Ice filled her veins. Abbie flicked a glance in Callie’s direction, but her sister was lethargically trying to raise one arm, and frowning at the exertion it took.

  “She isn’t involved in this,” Abbie said steadily. “It’s me you want, isn’t it? Let her go.”

  “On the contrary.” Grant crossed his arms, surveying her with something like amusement on his face. “I want you both. And I’m still waiting for you to read my mind. Tell me what I’m going to do. You should know because you’re the fucking expert!” With one quick movement, he picked up a framed picture from the mantle and sent it hurtling in her direction.

  She ducked, never taking her eyes off him. It bounced harmlessly against the couch and clattered to the floor. Experience had her replying smoothly, without thinking. “I’m not an expert on you. You’re far too smart for me to predict.” Play to his ego, obviously outraged that she’d dared to evaluate him. His motives. His next move.

  “Now that’s the first true thing I’ve heard you say. Too bad the media isn’t broadcasting this.” He squatted to where Callie was trying to pull herself up on a chair and slammed a fist into her face.

  Abbie used the split second to bend, grabbing for her weapon, but by the time her gun cleared its holster, he’d pulled a large knife that must have been secreted in the back of his waistband. The large blade glinted as he placed the tip against a motionless Callie’s throat. “I don’t think you want to do that, do you, Abbie?”

  Her cell phone rang, the sound an incongruous thread of normalcy in an otherwise deadly situation. She swallowed, watching the blood well as the knife tip pricked the skin. Never surrender your weapon. Raiker’s mantra had been drummed into his staff. Once you’ve been disarmed, your chances for survival diminish drastically.

  “Put down the gun and slide it over to me. And then your purse.”

  After several rings the cell went abruptly silent. “I don’t think so.” Abbie edged to the side to get a better angle for the shot. He was too close to Callie. And the blood was flowing
more freely from the increasing pressure on the blade.

  “This is her carotid artery. She won’t survive a blade through it.” He shrugged. “No loss, if you ask me. She’s just another worthless cunt. But I’m surprised you’d chance it.” He increased the pressure on the blade and the blood oozed faster. “After all she sacrificed for you.”

  Sick fear congealed in her stomach. “All right.” Abbie lowered her weapon slowly but sidled inches closer. If she could get him to relax his guard, just for an instant, she may be able to take him by surprise. But she wouldn’t risk her sister.

  “Stop right there!” The venom in his voice had her halting in her tracks. “You still think you can outsmart me? Put down the gun now or I will kill her.”

  “I am.” She bent and set the weapon on the floor. “You’re in control here. I know that.”

  “You should know it, but you’re still lying. Slide it over here.” When Abbie obeyed, Grant smiled. “You’ll understand before the night is over, though. I’ll see to that.” Because Callie had started to stir, he reached over to grip her hair and slammed her head against the floor. Then rising, he reached for Abbie’s gun and slipped it into his waistband.

  Abbie sent a quick glance to her sister, but she lay motionless, her eyes closed.

  “Now the purse.” His face twisted. “I’ve learned not to underestimate what a whore carries inside it. Toss it over here.”

  Her purse. Mentally she did a frantic catalog of its contents. There wasn’t anything in it she could use to defend herself.

  But her cell phone was inside it.

  Mind racing, she reversed course and walked backward to the couch again. Reached for her purse. Opened it. “Nothing in here to be afraid of.” She reached inside it, flipped her phone open. Retrieving her keys, she pulled them out, held them up. “These can’t hurt you.” She tossed them lightly in his direction. They landed near his feet.

  His mouth twisted. “Do you think I’m playing games with you, bitch?”

  Her breath was stopped up in her lungs. It took effort to haul in oxygen. Her hand dipped in her purse again, fingers fumbling with the phone. Hoping she pushed the right buttons. The ones that would redial the last number she’d called.