Taken

by Cynthia Eden

  She put her hand in his and rose. “A retrieval mission.” Bailey blew out a rough breath. “Okay, let’s go retrieve.”

  Hell, yes. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. Then they were heading toward the elevator. Her steps were fast, and Asher saw Bailey glance over her shoulder a few times.

  Obviously, she was a woman used to staying on the right side of the law. And Asher normally toed the line, too, especially since joining LOST, but . . .

  But I can’t let Leigh hurt her. I need to see his notes.

  He pressed the button for the elevator. There was a soft ding just a moment later, and the two doors slid open.

  “Oh my God!” Bailey jerked her hand away from his. She started to step forward.

  Asher grabbed her, locking his hand around her waist. “Sweetheart, no.” The stench had his nose twitching. Blood. Death.

  Blood on the elevator’s walls. Blood on the mirrored glass. Blood on the floor.

  And Dr. Paul Leigh lay sprawled on the floor, his head turned to the side, a long gash where his throat should have been.

  “We have to help him!” Bailey cried out.

  “There’s no help that we can give him.” One look, and Asher knew the guy was dead. His skin had already taken on that chalky color that came from death. Leigh’s body was still, the blood starting to congeal around him.

  He’s been dead awhile. No way was this guy in front of Bailey’s house, revving up his car less than an hour ago.

  But Leigh’s killer very well may have been there. Did you kill the doc then take his ride? Were you coming for Bailey, only she was armed and ready for you? Fuck, but he didn’t like this mess. And Bailey was still straining, trying to get free to help the dead man. “Sweetheart, we can’t contaminate the scene,” Asher said.

  “Asher!” She yanked at his arm.

  “The killer could have left evidence behind.” He pulled her out of the elevator. The doors slid closed once more. “We have to get a crime scene team up here, stat.”

  Bailey had gone stark white. She shuddered against him.

  “Sweetheart?”

  She nodded. “Call Wyatt. I—I’m okay.”

  He eased his hold on her. Bailey slipped away from him. She put her hand up, supporting herself on the nearby wall.

  “You’re not going to faint, are you?” he asked as he fished out his phone.

  “No.” Her eyes closed. “I’m just trying not to vomit all over you.”

  “Good. Keep trying that.”

  Her eyes flew open.

  He put the phone to his ear. Wyatt answered with a furious, “You found the bastard, didn’t you?”

  Asher thought of the blood-spattered elevator. “Oh, yeah, I found him.”

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “His office. And—”

  “Don’t question him until I arrive, got it?” Wyatt’s bluster cut through Asher’s words. “Just keep him there.”

  “Trust me, the guy isn’t going anyplace.” Asher exhaled. “Leigh is dead. His throat has been slashed wide open.”

  Silence. “Son of a bitch.”

  Asher had rather thought the same thing.

  “You’re not still in the building, are you?” Wyatt threw at him.

  Yeah, they were.

  “The killer could be there! Get Bailey out! Get her safe! Get—”

  “Leigh has been dead awhile, and from the look of things, the killer is long gone.” He eyed Bailey with worry. She was taking deep breaths and still looking too green. But she wasn’t vomiting. Good for them both. “I think he killed Leigh and then took his car, because the doc’s body is here but his ride is missing.”

  And that killer went to Bailey’s house.

  “Stay with her,” Wyatt ordered. “Every second, you got me?” His siren wailed in the background.

  Like Asher needed to be told that shit. No, I’m just going to walk away and leave Baily on her own to deal with this hell. The fuck he’d ever do that. He shoved the phone back into his pocket and put his hand on Bailey’s shoulder. “You okay?”

  “No, I am really tired of death.” She drew in a ragged breath and turned toward him. “I’m even more tired of finding bloody bodies.”

  Speaking of that damn body . . . “I’m going to open the elevator again.”

  “What? You said we couldn’t contaminate anything!”

  “I’m not.” He didn’t plan to touch anything. But he thought he’d seen . . . “I just need to look at something, okay?”

  “Fine. Do it,” she muttered. “Just . . . be fast, okay? I so don’t have the stomach for this. I would make a shitty horror-movie star.”

  So said the woman who’d already survived a serial-killer attack. She kind of was horror-movie material.

  He pressed the button on the elevator. Ding. The doors slid open.

  The poor bastard was still sprawled on the floor and, if possible, the stench in there was even worse.

  Asher leaned forward, craning his head. The killer had jerked down the back of Leigh’s shirt—the fancy button-down was stained with his blood, but it looked as if part of the material had been cut away on his shoulder and—

  I see you.

  “Angel wings are on his shoulder,” Asher said. Dark, deep lines and curves. Only this wasn’t like the sloppy job he’d seen on Hannah Finch. This design was oddly compelling, and . . .

  It looks exactly like Bailey’s tattoo.

  “The Death Angel never attacked men,” Bailey said as her shoulder brushed against his arm. He looked down at her. Her lips were trembling, but her eyes were on Leigh’s prone body. “That wasn’t his MO.”

  “Since everyone says the Death Angel is in a grave some place, I think it’s safe to say his rules aren’t in effect any longer.” The new killer was doing things his way.

  They backed up a step and the elevator doors closed.

  Bailey’s shoulders slumped.

  “Wyatt will be here soon,” Asher said. “He’ll have a team with him. They’ll investigate this whole building and maybe we’ll get lucky and they’ll find a link to the killer.”

  “Maybe.”

  His jaw locked. “Leigh wasn’t targeted by chance. He’s connected to you too intimately for that.”

  Her hands twisted. “I—I know.”

  “We still need to see those files.”

  Her head whipped up. “What? You think we’re breaking into his office? Now?”

  “I think the authorities will be here soon. If we want to see those files, we have to move, and move fast.”

  She swallowed. Her shoulders rolled back. “You aren’t going without me.”

  “No, sweetheart, I didn’t plan on going anyplace without you.” Once more, he offered his hand to her.

  Her fingers curled with his. He felt them tremble.

  “We’ll take the stairs,” Asher said.

  “Uh, hell, yes, we will. No elevator. I may never want to take an elevator again.”

  Then they were pushing open the door to the stairs. They hurried up three flights until Bailey told him to stop. “This is his floor.” Her voice seemed to echo in the stairwell.

  Asher opened the door and the thick carpeting swallowed the sounds of their footsteps as they advanced. Only they hadn’t gone too far when Asher realized . . .

  Someone else wanted to see Dr. Leigh’s notes, too.

  Because the door to Dr. Leigh’s office swung open. A fancy glass pane had been to the right of that door—and the pane was smashed now, shattered into a hundred pieces on the floor.

  Shatter the glass, then just unlock the door. Not the most low-key of break-in techniques, but obviously, the previous intruder hadn’t cared about being low-key.

  Is that what happened to Dr. Leigh? Did he walk into the elevator and straight into the person who’d just broken into his office?

  “Why come in here?” Bailey asked as they crept forward. She tiptoed around the glass.

  “Leigh was the self-proc
laimed serial-killer expert,” Asher said. “And I saw the news clips about him—he said he knew the Death Angel best.” Probably based on what he learned from you, sweetheart. He used you to build himself up and to create a profile for the Death Angel.

  Leigh hadn’t been involved with the original investigation at all. Some fancy suit from the FBI had done the profile back then.

  Wonder how Leigh’s profile matches up with the Bureau guy’s?

  He eased through the open door, being careful not to touch the wood or the knob. Bailey followed his movements exactly, slipping inside ever so carefully. They walked through the small reception area. The door to Leigh’s inner office was open, too—and inside, the place was chaos.

  Papers were scattered everywhere. Files overturned. A computer smashed.

  Asher gave a low whistle. “Definitely looking for something.” And from the way the lamp had been thrown against the wall . . . definitely pissed.

  “We aren’t going to be accessing his files on that,” Bailey said as she frowned at the smashed computer.

  No, they wouldn’t. But maybe LOST could get their techs to retrieve the data on it, provided Wyatt was in the mood to cooperate with his team.

  And the filing cabinets were empty. The manila folders were tossed everywhere. Every patient record that the guy had—they were all scattered around the office.

  Scattered . . . but maybe that’s to throw us off. In this chaos, how would we know if a file was missing?

  “That one is mine,” Bailey said as she stooped over a file that had been thrown near the trash. Sure enough, her name was neatly typed on the white label. She picked it up before Asher could caution her and started flipping through the material there. “‘Delusional. Possible dissociative disorder’?” Her words seemed strangled. “‘Can’t handle the trauma so she’s created a second victim. Guilt ridden . . . guilt that is still possibly tied to—’”

  Bailey stopped reading.

  “Bailey?”

  “This is bullshit.” She slammed the file closed. “And no one else is seeing this.” She squeezed the file to her chest.

  “He was wrong about you,” Asher said slowly. “You know that. We found the missing victim.”

  She gave a jerky nod.

  “He was wrong,” Asher said again. “You’re not delusional. You’re not crazy.”

  “Damn straight I’m not.” Her chin notched up in the air. “We’ve got my file—let’s get out of here.”

  Fine. He started to walk forward. The toe of his boot pushed against another file . . . He glanced down automatically.

  Carla Drake.

  “I—I think I hear sirens,” Bailey whispered.

  Asher scooped up that file. Empty. Had the doc made the file, hopefully, anticipating that he could woo Carla into his care? Into contributing to his book?

  Or . . .

  Was she a patient? Had she been seeing Dr. Leigh, too?

  “Asher, let’s go.”

  His gaze scanned that office once more. The files were everywhere. Maybe the paperwork that belonged in Carla’s file was scattered on the floor, but he didn’t have time to retrieve it, not then.

  Because yeah, he did hear sirens. Probably not Wyatt, not coming that fast. The guy must have called for other units to come in.

  Asher and Bailey hurried out of the office and back down the stairs. When they reached the parking garage, he took the file from her and shoved it into one of the motorcycle’s saddlebags.

  Her fingers caught his. “We’re taking evidence.” She bit her lip. “Asher . . .”

  He squeezed her hand. “It’s all right.” What did she think? That he wouldn’t bend the law for her?

  He’d do a whole lot more than snatch up a file.

  For Bailey, I’m realizing that I might do just about anything.

  He was still holding her hand when the first patrol car rushed up to the scene.

  Richard Spawn cracked open his eyes. The light was too damn bright. An antiseptic smell burned his nose and he let out a ragged groan.

  “Sir? Sir, are you in pain?”

  He turned his head and saw a pretty little blonde leaning over him. Concern darkened her eyes. “You’ve just come out of surgery. Everything is going to be fine.”

  Hardly. That little bitch had stabbed him. And taken his camera. He had to find her.

  That camera was his life.

  “I’m going to increase your pain medication, just a bit . . .” She fiddled with his IV line, and a cold surge seemed to seep through his veins.

  Hell, yes, that’s the ticket. He smiled at her.

  She patted his arm. “Just get some rest. You’ll be good as new in no time. No major organs were damaged, and your vitals are stable now. You were a very lucky man.” She turned to leave. He enjoyed the sway of her ass.

  The door shut behind her.

  Richard closed his eyes. Lucky? Maybe. He could spin this story. Say that he’d been the victim of a deranged attack. Say that Carla Drake was a menace. After all, hadn’t she torched that building in Asheville?

  Yeah, yeah, Carla was trouble.

  He was the victim.

  His breathing evened out.

  I just need my damn camera back.

  His eyes started to close. He started to let that sweet morphine take him away when . . .

  “Authorities are still on the hunt for Carla Drake, a person of interest in an ongoing investigation here in Transylvania County.”

  The TV in his room was on. The nurse must have forgotten to turn it off when she left.

  His gaze focused on the television screen, on the reporter with the too-perfect teeth who was delivering the story. I know that bastard. He and Dave Barren had once worked at the same station. Only Dave had risen up the ranks at double-time speed . . .

  And Richard had gotten pushed to the tabloids.

  “This county has faced the terror of a serial killer before.” Dave gazed soulfully out of the TV. “Will they be able to survive again?”

  I don’t know, you little bastard. Let’s just see. Freaking Dave Barren . . . He’s trying to take my story.

  Richard yanked out the IV.

  Carla Drake watched the authorities swarm the nondescript office building. She hunched into the shadows, not wanting any of those swirling police lights to fall onto her.

  As she stood there, she saw Bailey Jones walk outside. The guy—Asher—was right with her. Was he always at her side? Like some kind of freaking guard dog?

  She needed to get Bailey away from that guy. That was the trick. To get Bailey alone. This whole mess was getting worse by the second, and Carla knew she had to take control back.

  Before anything else happened.

  She looked down at her fingers. Rock steady. And she’d gotten the blood off. Finally.

  But her face was being blasted on every news channel. She was being hunted, like some kind of animal.

  This isn’t what I wanted. I just . . . I wanted the pain to stop. I wanted to escape. To put it all behind me.

  She’d stayed in the shadows for so long. She’d minded her own business. Why hadn’t Bailey just left her alone?

  It was all Bailey’s fault.

  Bailey Fucking Jones.

  Asher put his arm around Bailey’s shoulders.

  Move number one would be getting those two apart. Move number two . . . Bailey, you and I aren’t done. Time for them to have a chat.

  Time to bury the past. Because I can’t live like this any longer.

  Wyatt marched out of the parking garage fifteen minutes later, glaring at Asher and Bailey. Bailey’s temples pounded as she stared at him.

  “That isn’t pen ink on his shoulder.”

  She blinked. She certainly hadn’t expected—

  “It’s not a fresh tattoo, either.” Wyatt crossed his arms over his chest. “That tattoo is an exact copy of yours, Bailey. An exact match to the tattoos that all of the Death Angel’s victims had.”

  “You’re sure it’s no
t fresh?” Bailey asked, shaking her head.

  “No. Hell, no, it’s not fresh. No scabbing, no redness. It’s healed damn fine. So what I want to know is . . . why in the hell did your shrink have that tat?”

  “That’s what you want to know?” Bailey rubbed at the back of her neck, trying to loosen the knots there. “Don’t you want to know who killed him? Why?”

  “The killer yanked down his shirt. The killer wanted us to see that tat. So I think the why is pretty obvious.” Wyatt’s jaw had locked down—hard. “It’s still all about the Death Angel. Even in the ground, he is screwing with us. The guy is freaking worm food, and I’m dealing with this shit.”

  “You need to dig up the body.” Asher’s words were low, grim.

  Wyatt jerked toward him. “What?”

  “Whatever remains were pulled out of that cabin on the night you found Bailey, you need to have them exhumed.”

  “There was damn little left!”

  “Yeah, but there was still something. Your ME couldn’t figure out who the guy was, so give LOST a shot.”

  Wyatt rocked forward onto the balls of his feet. “Because LOST is just so on top of things? Way better than the FBI and a bunch of hick deputies?”

  “Wyatt . . .” Bailey began.

  “Actually, what I’m saying”—and Asher’s voice was still mild—“is that our forensic anthropologist, Victoria Palmer, is the best in the nation. The dead speak to her, and if you want to see what the Death Angel might have to say . . . then let her look at those remains. I can have Viki here in hours. If there is any way possible for her to figure out that man’s identity, she’ll do it.”

  That sounded like one fine plan to Bailey. “We need her,” she said, and there was no missing the emotion in her voice.

  “What we need,” Wyatt rasped, the faint lines around his eyes deepening, “is to find Carla Drake. That woman is a danger. You think I didn’t put the pieces together with her, too? She could be the killer! Maybe she had some kind of psychotic break after her attack—that shit happens.”

  Bailey flinched.

  “She sat in my office, as cool as you please, and gave me no clue about all she’d been through. That woman is a manipulator. I want her in custody. She nearly killed you both and she stabbed Richard Spawn.” He huffed out a breath. “And one of my deputies just found her name on a file up on Leigh’s office. If she was his patient, hell . . . don’t you see? It all ties together. She’s the copycat.”