“ASAC has his head up his ass and keeps pairing me with wet-behind-the-ears rookies. I don’t have the patience to babysit.” His tone was so condescending, he might as well have added, especially women.
“Well, you’re not going to babysit me. I know damned well how to do my job. Just make sure you’re doing yours.”
I pushed open the door and scanned the room. Rusk stood with the woman close to me at the door, and Daniels sat in a chair against the wall. When he saw me, he stood. “How is she?”
I smiled. “She’s going to make it. Thank you for helping me get her here so quickly.”
“Miss Killian?”
I tuned to face the female agent. Rich brown skin, high cheekbones and large dark eyes. I’d pictured a stuffy, pinched-face woman in polyester slacks, not this beautiful woman in black designer jeans and a short, hip leather jacket. “Yes?”
“I’m Special Agent Jill Matheson, and you’ve met my partner, Nick Rusk. I’m sorry this accident happened and I’m relieved your dog is going to be fine.”
“The dog attacked me,” Rusk muttered.
I glanced at him, giving him the frostiest glare I could muster, but I didn’t say anything to him. If Sheba had managed to attack him, he wouldn’t have a face left.
I turned to Matheson. “Did you want to speak to me about something?”
“Actually, yes. We have some questions about your involvement with Charles MacNiall and Tasker, the man suspected of breaking into Mr. MacNiall’s home. Could you sit down with us for an interview?”
“Now?”
“If possible, yes. We have some information that we feel you need to know that’s of paramount importance. We believe your safety may be at risk.”
“From Tasker?”
“No,” Matheson replied slowly. “From Mr. MacNiall.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Dr. Wentworth retorted as she joined me. “There’s nothing you could say that would convince me that Mac is a threat to anyone, but especially her.”
“Please, we need to talk to you. We’ll drive you home, and after we’re done, we’ll bring you back here if you’d like so you can check on your dog.”
I shot an imploring look at Deputy Daniels, hoping he could get me out of it, or at least come with me. At least I knew him, better than I knew these two. Sheba liked him, so I instinctively trusted him. He held his hat in his hands, aimlessly shifting the brim around in a circle. He looked at Rusk and then dropped his gaze to the floor without saying anything.
Yeah, I got it. He didn’t have any pull with the FBI.
“Okay,” I replied.
Rusk flashed a grin and started to reach for my arm, but I flinched away, avoiding his touch. His jaw tightened, and I could almost see his hackles rising up. He was a man who wouldn’t take any little sting to his ego well at all.
“Sorry, instinct.” I gave him a faint smile, using his own words against him. “I don’t like to be touched by strangers. Especially men. With guns. Who shot my dog.”
“You can ride with me.” Matheson took a step toward her partner and gestured toward the door. As I walked past her, I realized she’d put her body between me and her partner. That made me trust her a little more. If nothing else, she was at least sympathetic to my vulnerable position.
“I’ll leave my car here, then,” Rusk said, striding after us. “Wouldn’t want to violate procedure, right, Jill?”
It took all my focus not to keep casting worried glances over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t too close.
Hesitating at the driver’s door to her beige sedan, Matheson gave him a silent, unreadable look and then walked around the car to the rear passenger door. “You’re driving then, Nick.”
“Good,” he drawled out, flashing another smug look at me. “I can’t stand women drivers. No offense.”
I dived for the rear passenger door before he could suggest I ride up front with him. Buckled in, I sat silently, soaking in everything I could. Every little movement. The way Rusk adjusted his rearview mirror so he could see me. I swore he kept trying to catch my gaze with his in the mirror, but I’m an expert at hiding my eyes. Just ask Charlie how long it’d taken him to get a direct look from me. I guarded my eyes as religiously as any bank would lock its vault. My eyes were my truth, my soul, the part of me I couldn’t hide, not if you knew what you were looking for.
Uncomfortable silence filled the car. I kept my hands loosely clasped in my lap and waited for one of them to break it. I sure wasn’t going to allow my nerves to get the best of me. The less I talked, the better. The less chance I’d accidentally betray Charlie.
“Have you known Mr. MacNiall long?” Matheson finally asked.
I couldn’t help the twitch of my lips. So many people had asked me that question. “About a year.”
“When did you become involved with him?”
“Christmas Eve eve.”
“When did you discover he was a killer?”
I almost made the mistake of looking at Rusk in the mirror. Almost. I tightened my fingers together in my lap and waited until I controlled my voice. “What do you mean?”
“What he means—” Matheson glared at the back of his head, “—is that we suspect that Mr. MacNiall has a criminal past.” She paused a few moments, watching me, and I realized my mistake. I hadn’t acted shocked or horrified to that allegation. “We haven’t found Tasker’s body. Yet.” She leaned closer to me, trying to win my confidence. “Did Tasker hurt you? Is that why MacNiall went after him?”
“I don’t know. I mean, no, Tasker hadn’t hurt me. But the way he looked at me...” I flickered my gaze up to hers, letting her see the truth in my eyes. “He was going to hurt me. Bad.”
“It’s not too late to help MacNiall,” she said, risking a light touch on my arm. “Help us help him. If he feared for your safety, then there’s a lot we can do to help him. If you care for him, help us.”
I stared down at my hands. I didn’t want her to see exactly how much I cared for Charlie. I’ll even tell you things that will condemn him, because that’s what he ordered me to do. “You said you feared he would hurt me. So I don’t think you’ll believe anything I say, because I know he’d never hurt me.”
“Are you sure about that?” Rusk’s attempt at a slow, casual, friendly tone made me shudder. “Because we’ve got—”
“Wait,” Matheson broke in, settling against the seat. “This isn’t something to discuss in a car in the dark.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Walking into Charlie’s house with two FBI agents was surreal. His house already felt colder, less substantial, as though it sensed that the master’s presence was gone. After working all day, worrying about everything, and now Sheba’s close call, all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep like the dead. I didn’t think I’d lie awake staring at the ceiling tonight.
Though of course that depended on what they were going to tell me about how Charlie was such a threat to me.
I wanted a warm drink, but nothing too stout that might worsen my insomnia, so I grabbed the kettle. I loathed asking them if they wanted anything, but politeness and hospitality were etched into my being. “I’m making some herbal tea. Would you like any?”
“Thank you, yes,” Matheson replied.
I glanced at Rusk and he shook his head. As I filled the kettle at the sink, I watched him look around the house. He barely glanced at the plywood covering the hole in the wall. He was too busy scanning the walls and tables, hovering at the head of the hallway. He might suspect that Charlie was hiding somewhere in the house. Or maybe he just wanted to figure out the layout.
Or maybe he’s trying to find a picture of Charlie. Maybe they don’t have any idea who he is.
“Would you mind if we looked around quickly?” Matheson asked. “We need to make sure no one’s hiding, whether MacNiall or the intruder.”
“Okay,” I said slowly. I tried to remember where I’d left that basket of meager evidence I’d gathered up that contained t
he pictures from Doctors Without Borders. Probably his office. But I wasn’t sure.
While the water heated, I followed them down the hallway. They didn’t draw their guns, but they were careful, peering around doors first one at a time, making sure one of them had a free line of attack if needed. They looked in closets. The bathroom. Matheson was as observant as her partner, but they didn’t touch anything. Thank God I’d made the bed and hadn’t left underwear lying around.
Just in time, the kettle started whistling as I led them back to the kitchen. I poured two teacups and turned around to bring them to the table, but drew up short.
Rusk stood over the table, his finger tracing the holes in the top where Charlie had pinned me with his knives.
“Someone had some trouble cutting up their steak.” He laughed, his eyes locked on me. “Or maybe someone has a temper.”
“Or maybe none of the above,” I replied as calmly as possible. “There’s only two chairs, unless you want to grab one from the office.”
“I’ll stand. So what caused these knife marks in the top of your dining room table?”
I sat down in the chair Charlie usually used, and Matheson took the other. Rusk couldn’t stand behind me that way. In hindsight, that was probably why Charlie always sat here. “It’s private. I don’t think you need to know.”
Matheson laid a manila folder in front of her. “Maybe after you see some of the evidence, you’ll change your mind.”
I sipped my tea, trying not to shake. The warm drink helped settle my anxiety. “I’m listening.”
“The man you know as Charles MacNiall isn’t who he says he is. He can’t be. Because Charles MacNiall is dead.”
I hunched my shoulders slightly, huddled over my steaming cup. “I don’t understand. He’s not dead.”
“The man you know isn’t dead, but he isn’t Charles MacNiall, either.” Matheson slid an official paper over to me. I scanned it quickly, catching death certificate, Charles MacNiall. “It was completely accidental that we stumbled across MacNiall. The Christian County Sheriff’s Office notified us of a potential kidnapping but frankly it was pretty low on our priority list. But the file got flagged because of Blake Enterprises. We’ve long suspected them of mercenary activities, including murder for hire. That got us assigned to dig into the case, and naturally, we started looking into MacNiall.”
“And you.” Rusk looked in my general direction, but I was pretty sure he was still absorbed by the knife marks in the table.
“On paper, he’s perfectly clean,” Matheson continued. “Too clean, actually. The more we looked, the less we could find. He’s quite an enigma.” She passed over a scan of a newspaper article from Montana. “The real Charles MacNiall died seven years ago in a car accident.”
“Now he’s gone again,” Rusk said. “Poof.”
“So who is he?” Matheson asked. “His real identity?”
“I don’t know.” My voice was hoarse, so I sipped my tea. I looked up into her eyes, so she could see I wasn’t trying to lie. “He’s Charlie to me. That’s all I know.”
“All right.” Matheson flipped through several pages in the folder but didn’t show them to me immediately. “Imagine our surprise when we found something else interesting in our investigation. This time, something about you, which led us in a completely unexpected direction.”
I jerked with surprise, splashing tea over my fingers. I set the cup down and reached for a napkin. “Me? I’m the least exciting person I know.”
“The deputy who took your statement made a note in his personal report that he suspected you were being abused, but you said it was consensual.”
That again? The abuse angle was really starting to irritate me. “Yeah. Ever heard of BDSM?”
“Of course.” Matheson smiled, but it was sad, as if she felt sorry for me, which only pissed me off more. “This is going to sound like a detour and a huge stretch, but hear me out, all right?”
Tight lipped, I nodded.
“We’ve been investigating a serial killer. We believe this man trawls various online forums, looking for his victim, and then arranges to meet her offline. They begin an intimate relationship. At first, it’s consensual BDSM and everything’s fine, but eventually, he starts to cross the line. He can’t stop, and he kills her. Then he starts looking for his next victim again.” She paused a moment, her eyes dark and soft, gleaming with compassion. She made an excellent “good” cop, I’d give her that. She almost made me think she cared about me. “We found your online presence as slaverainy. We believe MacNiall targeted you from that profile.”
I stared at her a moment, waiting for my brain to process everything and catch up. “So you’re saying you think Charlie’s a serial killer. Who targets submissive women.”
“Yes.”
I turned my head and stared unseeing at the plywood covering the doorway, hiding my eyes so I could think and feel without betraying my emotions to them. Not just a killer. A serial killer.
It almost sounded plausible. Almost. We’d crossed some lines I never thought I’d ever go beyond. He did have a monstrous need inside him, a darkness that reveled in pain and fear and blood. I’d be a fool to deny that. I’d seen it.
I’d loved it.
But that didn’t mean...
“The key evidence is the marks he leaves on his victims. That’s how we’ve been able to follow him.” She slid a paper over to me. I glanced down at it and automatically tipped my head forward, letting my hair slide down into my eyes.
My picture. The one of his bite on my breast that I’d posted to the forum.
I slid the photo closer to me and dropped my hand over it. The picture hadn’t been intended for general consumption, let alone used as evidence.
Against the lover who’d gifted me with those glorious bruises I’d been so proud of.
I tried to think, to sort through what I was feeling, but I was numb. My brain slipped out of gear and I simply existed, sitting there, trying not to crack into a thousand pieces. It was too much to process. Too close, too real, too...
Charlie.
I don’t believe it. I can’t. It can’t be him.
“She’s shivering,” Matheson said to her partner. “I’ll grab a blanket off the bed. She might be sliding into shock after everything that’s happened tonight.”
She stood and strode toward the bedroom. I didn’t realize what that meant, until Rusk slipped a finger beneath my chin and tipped my face up to his. I was too stunned to block his invasion.
That’s exactly what it was. An invasion, an attack, a deliberate attempt to look into my soul and see all my dirty laundry. All my secrets. Like Charlie had done the first time he looked deeply into my eyes, this man attempted to imprint his will on me. He wanted to claim me. Intimidate me. Scare me. Win me over somehow. Maybe he thought he was being all strong and manly, helping the poor damsel in distress.
Whatever people think about auras, energy, whatever you want to call it, I could feel a person’s presence like a heat signature. Maybe it was my submissive nature that made me so sensitive to it—that innate need in me to please before the master could even ask. I was used to reading people by every little gesture, the way they held their lips and eyebrows, and yes, the sense of their energy. The way they walked and moved, with purpose or not. Especially dominant men. Visiting clubs and hooking up for the night, I’d had to develop a kind of radar that told me who was safe and who wasn’t. Who was a wannabe dom and who was real.
What I felt from Rusk, even with only a fingertip on my chin, made my stomach heave. There was no way in hell I’d ever go with him anywhere. Not alone. I’d certainly never let him tie me up.
“Ah,” Rusk whispered, leaning down to get a better look at my face. “He got you real good. Who exactly is he, pet?”
Breathing hard, I stumbled up out of my chair so fast it tumbled with a crash. “I’m not your pet.”
Matheson gave her partner a narrowed look as she stepped into the room and wrapped the
blanket around my shoulders. “Everything okay here?”
He spread his fingers, hands at his side, and gave her a look I guess he thought was innocent. “I only asked her who MacNiall really is.”
“You touched me,” I whispered fiercely, refusing to give him my gaze again. I righted the chair and sat down, huddled in the blanket. I caught the faintest whiff of Charlie’s cologne and my eyes teared. “Don’t touch me again.”
“Can you talk with us awhile longer?” Matheson scooted her chair closer to me. “We’re almost finished.”
“Yeah.” I hated the thready weakness in my voice, so I cleared my throat and put more oomph in my words. “But nothing you say will make me believe Charlie wants to kill me.”
Matheson took a deep breath and pushed another stack of photos toward me. “I warn you, these are rather graphic. It’s pictures of the other victims.”
Hands trembling, I made myself look at the pictures one by one. Horror bubbled up my throat like acid, but I refused to be sick. I refused to look away. These women had been murdered because of their need to be dominated. My need. They’d trusted someone and been betrayed horribly. If the agents were right, I could be next. Might have been next. If Charlie hadn’t disappeared.
All of the pictures contained bite marks. Deep, vicious, vibrant bites, some older and others bloodier. One woman was missing a hunk from her throat, as if her killer had lost all control in the throes of passion and ripped her throat out.
Light-headed, I pushed the pictures away and sipped my tea. I was shaking so much I kept sloshing tea everywhere and very little went into my mouth. “How—” my teeth chattered but I forced the words out, “—did they die?”
“Strangled,” Matheson replied. “Different items. Sometimes it was rope, a scarf, possibly a silk tie.”
Or strips of cotton from his own T-shirt?
“We’ve taken bite samples and they’re all from the same man. Do you still have any marks that we could measure that would help eliminate Mr. MacNiall as a suspect?”
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