by Judi Lind
Nor could Trace forget her dreamy gaze watching him through the mirror, before the salesclerks dropped that nearly sheer veil over her eyes and blurred the hypnotic communion between Mary and Trace.
He sat up and punched the pillow. He turned on his left side and counted sheep. One, two, three white woolly lambs jumping over the pasture fence. Little lambs being led to slaughter. Mary had a little lamb. Mary. Mary...
What was he going to do about Mary?
When Trace’s wife had left him—how many years ago had she been gone now? Five? Six? It didn’t matter. He’d never seen her again. She’d left him a note saying she was tired of living from payday to payday on the paltry salary of a man who was rarely home. Trace couldn’t really blame her. Diane, like any woman, needed more than a man who dropped in from time to time like a visiting relative.
Since Diane’s defection, he’d managed to completely shut away his heart. After a while, he’d even learned to ignore the emptiness he felt in those rare nights alone in his condo. He’d told himself with the type of work he did, he didn’t have time for a steady relationship, and certainly didn’t have much chance at maintaining a successful one.
Back when he’d first realized the depths of Diane’s unhappiness, it had never occurred to him to look into pursuing a different type of work. But for a woman like Mary...
Bloody hell! He flipped onto his back. He had to stop obsessing about Mary. His only connection with her was as her bodyguard. His job was to protect Mary Wilder, not fall in love with her. But Trace wondered if it wasn’t already too late.
Fate had handed him a wonderful gift, but had wrapped it with barbed wire. Suddenly, he had the capacity to care again. To feel again. And, unless he was seriously mistaken, Mary was beginning to have feelings for him, as well.
But she was engaged to be married to one of the richest men in the state—maybe even in the entire country. A man who was rumored to be the favorite son in the Virginia congressional race next year.
Get real, Armstrong. Like you have a chance against a man like Jonathan Regent. The Mary of Trace’s fantasy wouldn’t judge the measure of a man by the size of his wallet. But in reality, he had to face the fact that Mary was betrothed to a multimillionaire. What woman would give up so much for so little? And if Trace truly cared about her, he’d have her best interests at heart and wouldn’t ask her to.
* * *
THERE WERE NO further incidents over the next couple of days. Trace and Mary went over her background again and again, but she could dredge up no incident, no relationship gone sour that might have provoked this relentless campaign of terror.
They made lists of every person she’d met since she’d moved to the District; one by one, they’d eliminated the names on those lists. All but one.
Jonathan’s assistant, Bob Newland.
Newland’s antagonism wasn’t a figment of Mary’s overwrought imagination. Trace vividly recalled Newland’s disparaging comments about Mary, and the fanatical light of ambition that shone in his eyes.
Was it jealousy that incurred such rancor in the assistant? Or simple disapproval?
Perhaps more important than determining the man’s motivation was finding out if Newland had acted on his dislike, counting on the stalker to frighten Mary from going through with her wedding plans.
Rather than challenge Newland head-on as they’d done with Mark Lester and Camille, Mary and Trace decided to discover everything they could about Newland before they forced a confrontation. Maybe something in the man’s background would provide hard evidence they could use.
After meeting with Madame Guillarge to approve the design of her attendants’ dresses, Mary and Trace drove south to the quaint resort town of Occoquan, Virginia, for lunch.
Trace had made a luncheon date for them with an old friend of his, Harley Tobias, who was currently on assignment as an instructor at the FBI academy in nearby Quantico.
It was another glorious spring day, and the proprietor of the seafood restaurant slapped Trace on the back like an old friend and led them to a table on a deck overlooking the river. They ordered iced tea while they waited for Harley, and a moment later, a tall, exceedingly handsome man appeared at their table carrying two glasses of tea.
“Harley Tobias! You old sonofagun.” Trace jumped to his feet to greet his friend and former colleague. After setting the glasses on the table, Trace clasped his arms around Harley’s back. “So it’s finally happened, huh? The bureau fired you, so you got a job waiting tables.”
“There’s any waitin’ to be done, you can wait on me, Armstrong,” Harley said laughingly as he extended his large hand to Mary. “And who’s this lovely lady with such bad taste in lunch companions?”
Trace made the introductions and drew up a third chair. The two old buddies entertained Mary with outlandish war stories during an excellent meal of crab cake sandwiches and coleslaw. After the plates had been cleared away, Harley leaned back in his chair, apparently waiting for Trace to broach the real reason for their visit.
While the waitress refilled their glasses, Trace laid a credit card on the bill. When she’d left, he filled Harley in on the details of Mary’s perilous past few weeks.
Trace had just finished recounting the story, when the waitress returned with the credit slip for his signature. Again, Harley said nothing while Trace completed the transaction, but when he spoke again, his thick black eyebrows dipped low in a thunderous scowl.
“Don’t mean to scare you, ma’am, but sounds like you’ve got yourself a first-class psycho. What does the Metro PD say?”
Trace shook his head. “The usual. Until we have an actual crime, there isn’t much they can do. Anonymous notes don’t rank real high when the police are fighting a drug war that averages a shooting death each day.”
Harley nodded knowingly. “So what can I do to help? I don’t see how the bureau can get involved. Stalking isn’t a federal offense. Hell, it isn’t even a criminal offense in some states. If we could just find a way to claim federal jurisdiction...”
Mary leaned forward. “We do have one suspect.”
Harley laughed, exposing gleaming white teeth. “You been hangin’ around Armstrong so long, you’re talkin’ the talk. Who’s your suspect?”
Reaching into her handbag, Mary extracted the thin file of information they’d been able to compile on Bob Newland. Although his life was apparently an open book, the lack of any kind of criminal past had limited the information they’d been able to glean from the newspapers and public records.
Harley glanced through the file. “Says here he served a hitch in the navy. Went to college on the G.I. Bill. There should’ve been some kind of B.I. done.”
“What’s a B.I.?” Mary asked.
“Background investigation,” the men answered in unison.
“How long do you think it will take?” Trace knew he didn’t have to ask Harley if he’d do it. In the unspoken rules of their friendship, Trace wouldn’t have asked for his friend’s help if it wasn’t extremely important. And neither man would refuse the other if the need was great.
Harley stood up. “Give me a day or two. Your number in this file?” he asked Mary.
“No. Let me write it down for you.” Taking a pen from her purse, she scribbled her name and phone number on the front of the manila folder.
After a few more moments of pleasantries, Harley left, taking the file with him.
As Trace and Mary drove back toward the city a short time later, she said, “I guess there’s nothing else we can do until we hear from Harley. I hope it doesn’t take him too long.”
Trace switched lanes; one car had been behind them longer than he was comfortable with. The car didn’t change lanes with them and he breathed a little easier. “Harley will give it priority, don’t worry.”
As he negotiated the heavy traffic around the Capitol, Mary pondered whether they were acting wisely to pin all their suspicions on Bob Newland. Surely, there must be something else they could do whil
e they waited for Harley’s report. Any action at all was better than sitting around doing nothing while the stalker planned his next assault.
Once in the parking garage of the Georgetown Regent, they followed a now-familiar routine. Mary stayed in the car while Trace pulled his weapon and carefully scrutinized the dark garage. Once he determined no one was lurking about, he escorted her from the car to the elevator, his drawn gun ready at his side.
Once the elevator doors whispered open, she remained hidden from view while Trace scanned the hallway. Only after they were safely locked in her apartment, did he usually reholster his weapon.
Today, they followed the usual procedure.
With one major difference. When they reached Mary’s apartment, the door was wide open.
Holding her back with his hand, Trace murmured, “Stay here. Don’t move out of the doorway. If you see anyone coming—and I mean anyone at all—scream as loud as you can.”
He disappeared inside and Mary waited, her heart thumping like a jungle drum, until he returned. Finally, after what seemed like hours, she heard his footsteps on the tile foyer floor. “What happened? Did the maid just forget to close the door securely?”
Trace shook his head as he stepped out into the hall and started to lead her away.
“What are you doing?” Mary asked.
He draped his free hand around her shoulders. In the other hand, he still held his revolver. “Someone broke into your apartment. We’re going down to the lobby and call the police.”
Mary felt the blood drain from her cheeks. She felt incredibly cold, yet a fire was starting deep in her soul. Her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “Do you think he’s still inside?”
Drawing her close, Trace responded, “No. I checked pretty thoroughly. He’d done his dirty work and gone already.”
She looked up at Trace with a bewildered expression on her face. “Then why don’t we just use my phone?”
Leaving the door ajar, he strode toward the elevators, the strength of his arm forcing her along.
“Trace! Answer me, what’s going on? Why did you leave the door open?”
“In case of fingerprints.”
Horror growing inside with each passing second, Mary pulled free and stared at his blank expression. “Tell me.”
“Later. Right now we have to call the cops.”
Furious at his treating her like a child who can’t be told adult problems, Mary whirled and ran through the open doorway into her apartment.
She’d taken no more than a half-dozen steps, when she stopped, shocked immobile by the chaotic scene that greeted her. The lovely Chinese vase usually on the phone table now lay in broken shards on the tile floor. The walls were smeared with streaks of bloodred paint.
Mary gulped, swallowing her terror. At least, she hoped it was only paint.
Without consciously realizing she’d taken any action, she took a step forward. Then another. Nothing within range of her vision had escaped the brutal assault on her home. The canvas on the expensive paintings was slashed, their ornate plaster frames smashed. The glass dining-room table was cracked; a heavy hammer lay abandoned on its crazed surface.
Still, her feet propelled her farther into the horror.
Somehow, she was dimly aware of Trace behind her. His sustaining presence was the only barrier between Mary and complete collapse.
When she reached the living room, she reached the end of her emotional endurance. The scream she’d been stifling began somewhere in her middle and welled up, through her chest, into her throat and at last, with a painful burning sensation, past her vocal cords. Yet only a pitiful little squeak emerged from her lips.
As she’d walked through her home, Mary had been battered by the images that met her. Her eyes were assaulted by the destruction but she’d been able to hold on to her lucidity by telling herself these were only things the madman had destroyed. He hadn’t really touched her. Things could be replaced. Things didn’t define her.
But here, in her living room, the sense of violation was so real, so potent, Mary ached as though she’d been physically battered. That ugly, abominable red paint was everywhere; on the furniture, the walls, the carpeting. The room she’d loved this morning now looked like a charnel house.
The mirror, which had hung behind the sofa, had been pulled from the wall and broken. Tiny fragments of shiny glass crunched beneath her sneakered feet. On the wall where the mirror had hung, the frenzied vandal had added his coup de grace.
Like a huge, jagged wound dripping red blood, the words JEZEBEL BEWARE! screamed at her.
Mary’s stomach curled in fear and revulsion. The biblical reference was only too clear. Jezebel had been known as the whore of Babylon, and was pitched off a rooftop to die on the street below. Mary’s eyes trailed to the balcony outside her living room. She imagined the busy pavement eight stories beneath her apartment and wondered if that horrible death was what the stalker had in mind for her.
The very idea of falling, faster and faster to her sudden ghastly death caused a shudder to undulate through her body. She felt as though an earthquake were erupting beneath her very flesh, tearing up her body and breaking down her spirit. Mary’s legs suddenly folded, and she dropped slowly onto the ragged and torn sofa, finding little solace in her favorite corner.
She didn’t know how long she sat there, drifting in and out of awareness. Taking part in but not absorbing the activity that bustled around her. She had a vague awareness of Trace finding an unbroken bottle of some kind of liquor, and then a bitter taste in her mouth as the stinging contents slid down her throat. She recognized but didn’t relate to the team of paramedics who showed up and checked her for symptoms of shock.
Later, she was told that she answered all the questions of the hotel security men, then the police; but Mary couldn’t recall talking at all.
Then, finally, thankfully, the circus was over and she and Trace were alone in the debris that had been her home. As if she’d been asleep for a very long time, Mary felt herself slowly returning to conscious perception. She was aware of Trace hovering over her, speaking in muted tones. She realized the apartment was silent but for the echoes of the madman who had ravaged it. How much time had passed since she’d drifted off?
Blinking rapidly, she brought Trace’s concerned face into focus. He was kneeling in front of her and was gazing up, his expression drawn and wary.
“Everyone’s gone?” she asked shakily.
His fingertips gently tracked the faint worry lines etched along the side of her mouth. Trailing upward, his fingers skimmed the soft skin, and followed the endearing trail of the small scar at the edge of her lip. “Yeah, they’re all gone. Are you okay? The paramedics said you weren’t in shock, but you seemed out of it to me. Not that you don’t have every right or reason to just check out.”
Worry had etched fresh crinkled furrows along his forehead, and smudged charcoal circles beneath his eyes. In a distracted manner, he shoved his hand through his hair with such force it was a wonder he didn’t withdraw a clump of black hair.
Oddly enough, the gesture brought a weak smile to her face and her hand reached out to smooth the rumpled silkiness back into place.
For the briefest moment, Mary allowed herself to wallow in his tenderness, his all-encompassing warmth. He was always there when she needed him. His slightly sarcastic wit hid a heart filled to overflowing with gentleness. Her own heart burbled with gratitude and...something more. Something much stronger. Some emotion Mary was afraid to identify.
Trace grabbed her hand, bringing her icy fingertips to the warmth of his cheek. “Please, answer me, Mary. Say something. You haven’t said a dozen words since the police left.”
Again, that faint tremulous smile. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard a man complain because a woman wasn’t talking.”
Trace rocked back on his heels and laughed. “You’re some kind of woman, Mary Wilder. Now, if you’re feeling up to it, let’s get some clothes gathered
up for you and get the hell out of Dodge.”
Knowing that Trace was doing his best to ease the horror in this abhorrent and bizarre situation, Mary managed a shaky half smile in return. Rising slowly to her feet, she said in what she hoped was a conversational tone, “So what was the final word from the police? I think I...kind of faded out a little there at the end.”
His relieved smile disappeared, replaced by a furrow of concern plowing across his forehead. “Maybe we should call your own physician.”
She waved off his suggestion. “I’m fine. Truly. I was just a little wobbly there for a while, but I think I deserved it.”
A relieved grin was her reward. “Yeah, Mary Mary Quite Extraordinary, I’d say you deserved it. Anyway, the cops made a report and brushed the apartment for fingerprints, but unless our perp has completely changed his MO, any prints that aren’t ours will end up belonging to the maid.”
“In other words, they aren’t going to do anything,” she said bitterly.
Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, he gently pulled her close. “In other words, until and unless he surfaces again, there isn’t much they can do. The only description we were able to offer was pretty vague—white male, late thirties-early forties, medium height, medium build, unknown hair and eye color and wearing a purple cap with a gold insignia of a howling wolf. Except for the cap, that description would fit nearly half the men in the country.”
Mary felt her spirits sagging with the news. “I just feel so darned helpless. There must be something we could be doing.”
Keeping his arm firmly wrapped around her shoulders, Trace guided her down the hall toward the bedrooms. “There is. On the off-chance that our perp did this himself, instead of hiring someone to do it, we can check on the whereabouts of our suspects when your apartment was being trashed.”
Mary nodded glumly. “We already know Camille didn’t do it, since we’re her alibi for the time of the break-in.”
“Maybe. But let’s find out where Newland and Lester spent their morning.”
Locating Mary’s suitcase wasn’t much of a problem. It was already reposing in the middle of her bedroom floor, where the intruder had yanked it from the closet. He’d also thoughtfully pitched her clothing into a heap nearby. A few articles had been ripped or smeared with red paint, but for the most part, Mary’s clothing was in better condition than most of her other belongings.