Donovan looked out Ratz’s office windows at the sun coming up, just as Eleri's phone beeped.
"Wade."
He'd be a few hours ahead of them. Enough time for him to look at the photos she'd sent via secure email. But Donovan wondered why he'd reply in a text? That wasn't secure.
She looked up at Donovan, "He said 'It's exactly what you think.'"
Nothing incriminating there. But the words opened a maw in the ground. Donovan had never seen anything like this. Maybe that was why the FBI had called in Westerfield and his NightShade division. Things had officially gone-off-the-charts weird.
Donovan looked at her, his heart beating harder than it should. "So both men blew up from the inside?"
8
Cooper followed the woman down the street. He watched her long legs eat up the ground. Tan and lean, they moved with a rhythmic confidence that was her greatest asset.
She was beautiful, he'd seen her face—not just here, but a year ago, overseas. She had dark, round eyes. Hair so rich a chestnut that it looked like it both swallowed and dispersed the sunlight. It hung in rounded waves that gave the impression she couldn't quite tame it. She wore the clothing of any twenty-something L.A. girl. Her sneakers were cheap as a design to blend in, not from lack of resources. Cooper knew these people; they were well funded.
There was another woman, the one he'd hoped to follow today. She had lighter hair, a chemical process designed to change her appearance. Brown in color, it bore blond streaks now and she wore it stick-straight. She had green, or hazel, in her eyes. All of it was calculated to not look so much like her younger sister.
Cooper thought he'd catch Aziza today, but it was Alya that had come out, with her dark waves and printed top. He hung back, the crowd of people stretching all along Santa Monica Beach providing great cover for a covert follow. He not only paced her, he checked behind him. There was just as much a possibility that they knew about him as not.
He'd thought about this before, about what had happened on that last op. It was dangerous. If Ken Kellen were here, he would spot Cooper from a mile away and it would all go to hell. Maybe literally. There was every possibility that Kellen would shoot him on sight. Cooper was pretty sure he’d tried it more than once before.
Then again, if Ken Kellen were here, Cooper was likely already on his radar, and that was bad news any way he cut it.
His plan had been to talk to the older sister. Get his open door through her, but he hadn't seen her lately. It seemed as soon as he made his decision, she'd quit coming out—or at least she had when he was around.
Today he'd given up waiting and decided Alya was as good a bet as Aziza. He had no last names for the women, not real ones anyway. He'd been given "El Sayed"—a standard Muslim name as common as "Smith"—when he'd first met the family in Fallujah. All the soldiers had known it was a fake name; none had asked them to provide anything more. It was a reasonable way of protecting themselves from surrounding insurgents should it become clear that Americans had been harbored in their home.
Not knowing names had helped everyone. Being Special Forces, none of his people had used their real names either. He'd seen Alya before, but usually only her eyes. She, her sister, and her mother had been in full traditional garb at their own dining table because of the men they had invited to join them.
Back then, he'd been heavily bearded, his hair lighter, his eyes paler from too long in the sun. He knew his current haircut changed the shape of his face; he could only hope that it changed it enough.
Picking up his pace and suddenly believing that this was the right thing to do, Cooper caught up with her. He was just about to tap her on the arm, say hello to her when she turned and went into a store.
Shit. He'd been so close.
Right then, he determined not to give up. He would not come back another day; he would not wait for Aziza. He would try now.
So he ducked into a patch of shade and used what he knew to blend in. Without looking like he was waiting, he bided the nearly full hour before she came out with a single bag.
He couldn't get her attention at the front of the store. The employees might watch the door; they had interacted with her and would be more likely come to her aid if she called out than the average person on the street would be.
Two blocks later, as she approached the Santa Monica Pier, he touched her arm. "Alya?"
She turned, deep brown eyes searching his face and thankfully showing no recognition. "Do I know you?"
He nodded, though it wasn’t really the truth to say he knew her. "I want to help."
"I don't know what you're talking about." She didn't turn away, but she did look at him like he was crazy. It was so American. She nailed it. On the other side of the world a woman would never look at a man as though he were beneath her. It had puzzled him at first, women that acted uninterested in their own welfare. Even dogs protested a poor fate, but these women had learned not to. He wondered if she and her sister had been raised here. If Fallujah had simply been an assignment for them. Anything was possible’ and he aimed to find out.
He started talking. "My name is Cooper Rollins." Without breaking cadence, he watched her face for a sign of recognition. She gave none. "I was stationed in Fallujah. A soldier friend told me about your group. I want to help."
"Why?" She looked at him askance again. Still neither confirming nor denying what he said, she waited him out.
He looked away. It was the right thing to do. "I saw what we did."
"Who told you?"
"A friend."
"I need a name." Though she'd said nothing he could directly link to his request, the fact that she hadn't told him she had no clue what he was talking about said volumes.
"I can't give you one." The only name he could count was Ken Kellen and he had no idea how that would play out. Were they with Kellen? Against him? Cooper still wasn't sure. He only knew he was back on home soil with some crazy and unbelievable footage reeling in his head. He only knew that he'd underestimated Kellen and the others. He only knew that he needed Alya and her people to help him. So he would help them.
"Tomorrow. Right here."
She turned on a heel and walked away.
That was all.
Cooper had no idea what time the meeting would be. No clue who would come. It might even be Ken Kellen.
Donovan stood in the middle of Colonel Ratz’s home office for a second time in as many days. This scene was not cleaned up the way the doctor's office had been. It wasn't considered a crime scene, so it had been cleaned by a private service that handled this kind of thing.
Donovan hoped there was more here. "Eleri, touch things, just walk around."
"It doesn't work that way." She shook her head and stood in the middle of the room, not making contact with more than the soles of her shoes.
"It does work that way, though."
"I get that you've been doing all this reading up, but I'm not like those people. I can't do that. The dreams are what they are." She still didn't move while he went around the room, his fingertips touching everything he could. As though she might follow along if he just demonstrated.
"El. You know it works. That's why you're standing there with your arms crossed, specifically not touching anything." He didn't have to look at her to know. When he thought back, she'd always been very careful, very deliberate about what she touched.
Early on, he'd assumed it was the FBI agent in her—the drilled-in belief of not disturbing the evidence, but now he knew it was her. She was afraid of what might come through if she touched something. And he was afraid what might not come through if she didn't.
He wouldn't manipulate this time. He had to convince her to do it on her own.
"You don't see what I see. If you did, you wouldn't ask." She sighed.
He countered. "You’ll see it anyway. You know that, don't you?"
This time he stopped moving and looked at her. Concerned. He'd heard enough about her dreams, run when she'd woken s
creaming more than just once. Vasquez had raised her eyebrows at a thought of the two of them together, but Donovan had shut that down right away. Eleri was beautiful, and just as damaged as he was. She was also way too insightful to get involved with. Besides, he was simply trying out real friendship for the first time at nearly thirty-five. So he'd run down the hallway to screams, and he'd tell her the truth, and stay at her beach house on occasion. But nothing more.
Eleri's look told him she hadn't yet come to the same conclusion about her visions.
"You'll dream it." he said. "You'll wake up. Maybe this way you can at least be ready. Maybe if you see it now, you can sleep better at night. Maybe it won't invade you as much, make you scream. Maybe you can be alert to the fact that you're an observer."
For almost two full minutes, she didn't say anything. Just stood there in the center of the room, thinking, her arms hugged tight to her. He figured she'd tried it before. Maybe to no avail. Maybe to bad effects. But if she had, she hadn't told him about it.
"I can't do it."
Donovan nodded and resumed touching things of his own wondering what it would be like to see the history of an object. To him, the idea seemed cool, fascinating. To Eleri it was terrifying. "How did you try before?"
"With the pictures. Sometimes with the evidence. I dreamed later, but never did I see anything at the time I was touching the object. It always came later. Always a disturbing surprise." At least as she spoke, she broke form and started walking around. Maybe she'd convinced herself that it wouldn't work. But as he watched, she began touching household objects.
For thirty minutes, they walked that way—him handing her various things that it appeared Ratz had loved. She would hold the object, close her eyes then open them, and declare, "Nothing."
She handed back item after item, each of which he replaced carefully. They were missing something. And sooner or later, someone was going to notice that strangers were prowling the Colonel's house in the middle of the afternoon. Maybe they'd already called the daughter. It wasn't like the two of them could just hang out forever waiting for a touch to yield something.
Eventually, he took her out of the office and into the rest of the house. This time he stood back and didn't handle the things. Maybe his touch was obscuring something. Maybe it was all for shit and she really couldn't do it. Maybe tonight she'd dream about all the things Ratz had done. Who knew? After an hour of trying he realized he was clearly full of shit.
Donovan was ready to call off the dogs when Eleri had obviously given up on anything that made sense and was wandering the kitchen. Just as he opened his mouth, she opened the fridge and jerked back.
"Beer."
Donovan felt his eyebrows go up, but stayed silent as he watched her reach into the fridge and wave her hand through the empty space as she stared into it.
"Beer?"
"Red Stripe. The brand. He reaches into the fridge for it." She looked both shocked and pleased. But she closed the fridge, then opened it again and reached in. "When it's not here, he restocks from the pantry." She turned slightly to the right, her eyes not seeing. Or seeing something other than what was physically in front of her.
So Donovan checked. Opening the closet door, he found stale cereal, a few dusty boxes of pasta next to equally dusty jars of sauce. . . and two six packs of Red Stripe bottles.
"El." He pointed.
She looked at him, her pale green eyes wide with wonder and accomplishment. Then her wide mouth broke into nearly hysterical laughter.
Oh, fuck, he'd cracked her. He talked her through a mild success and she cracked at even that. She had spent three months in a mental institution, and he'd often figured it was more of a therapy/spa combo than a real treatment center, but maybe she really was nucking futs.
"Donovan." Her eyes were clear and focused at least. "You did it. You talked me into a psychometric moment! And I successfully identified our subject's brand of beer."
Ah. "Well, it's not the key to the case, but it's something."
"Really?” she frowned at him. "You could have opened the pantry half an hour ago and figured that out."
"But I didn't, did I?"
She laughed again. "Exactly my point. You didn't do it because it’s of no value."
Donovan disagreed. It would take time and practice to hone a skill like hers. Not only had she not been working on it, she'd been actively avoiding it. "Let's go to the doctor's office. Maybe there's more there. Then dinner. My treat."
"It's an expense account." She deadpanned. She was also the senior agent and he waited for her to pull rank on him. But maybe the small success was a boost to her. "How long at the doctor's office?"
"An hour."
"Fifteen minutes." She countered.
"That's not worth the drive! Thirty."
Somehow they settled on thirty, not including however long mid-afternoon traffic took. If it wasn't for the constant sun, Donovan wouldn't even know what time it was, his schedule was so messed up. At the office, he tried again handing her things from the doctor's room. But nothing worked.
"Fail. Fail. Fail," she said with a smile. "I think a good, juicy burger is in order."
Donovan had been entertaining himself while she touched things. He was looking for a plastic piece like they'd found at Ratz’s. There were a few parts in evidence with what was left of Dr. Gardiner, but Donovan was holding out hopes for more. "Give me a minute."
He heard her sigh, heard her footsteps as she walked out to the waiting room, "Fine. But just one."
It was five minutes later when he walked out empty handed and found Eleri sitting in a chair, staring into space. Eleri sat preternaturally still, her eyes wide, then turned quickly to him. "She calls herself 'Aziza'."
9
Eleri felt all of it. It enveloped her. "Aziza isn't her real name. But it's what she's used since she got to the states."
The words fell out of her as she tried so hard to convey to Donovan what she was seeing, hearing, feeling. "She came here for this."
"To kill the therapist?" Donovan was looking at her oddly. Still standing in the doorway to the doctor's patient room where he'd stopped dead upon seeing her in the chair. The light behind him caught his hair, the wrinkles in his shirt, put him in silhouette. "But you said it was an officer that killed Ratz. Male, right?"
"Yes." But Eleri only offered one word, trying to stay with the vision. She feared if she changed her focus, even a little, it would slip away. "She began seeing the doctor a little while after she arrived, became a regular patient. She told him enough truth to get by."
"Why was she coming here?"
Her head tilted to the side, but her gaze remained unfocused. Eleri could feel the overlay of what she was picking up. "She knew the doctor was treating soldiers. She followed one of them here to Los Angeles."
"How long has she been here?"
"Six months." The answers came to her, as though they were woven into the fabric that covered the chair, and she could absorb the information. "She killed the doctor. She waited here, knew his patients were canceled. She'd canceled them herself? Or . . . her sister did.
"The doctor opened the door and saw her. He was surprised. She wasn't who he was expecting. But she pointed out that his regular appointment hadn’t arrived yet and she begged for just a few minutes. Dr. Gardiner agreed, because she seemed distressed. So he let her into the room and it went just as she planned it. She stabbed him."
"Stabbed him? Is that what happened to Ratz?"
This time Eleri really looked at Donovan, the vision peeling back as the current world came into sharp relief. "I think so. That's how they're getting the bombs inside."
Wade had eventually called her and offered a brief explanation about the explosion patterns. The tissue spatter, the direction of the explosions all led to the same conclusion. No one had come to it before, but that was because the outcome was ridiculous. Who blew up from the inside?
No one. Not even spontaneous combustion did this.
It was brilliant, really. It had taken Vasquez to even figure out there were already two cases. And it had taken Eleri's own gift to start to get at the mechanics of the bomb.
She still sat in the chair, not sure what was left to take from it, but waiting for more information to come. She focused on Donovan now.
"Why did they kill the doctor?" he asked.
"Why do you trust this information so much?" she countered. No one had before. When she'd brought hunches into her profiling team, things she'd seen very clearly, no one believed a word of it. They told her that her subconscious had put things together logically. To which Eleri had always countered, so what? Didn't they all rely on their subconscious? They were trained to hand write their notes because it tied various portions of the brain together. They were trained to scan with unfocused eyes for anything that popped. How was that different than her coming up with something while asleep? Had she jumped up during a group brainstorm and said "I had a thought last night . . ." They all would have listened. But her thoughts were a little too specific. So she followed them up herself when no one else would.
A former field agent at the time, Eleri had no problem unholstering a weapon and gathering real evidence. The Behavioral Analysis Unit had not liked that. She'd pushed further underground with her methods. Though she'd won cases, she’d lost herself. She did a short stint in a mental institution, then was plucked from it before she could finish getting herself together. The NightShade division needed her, Agent Westerfield said. Donovan was joining, he needed a senior partner. There was a missing child only her special skills could help find. In the end, Westerfield had been something else himself. The jury was still out on him.
But it seemed Donovan had no problem trusting her instincts. And he even had a good answer for it. "The data says that you've never been wrong."
"You've hardly been around me long enough to have ‘data.’" She didn't realize her head had turned, hadn't before understood the shame she felt about her past. Eleri only saw the carpet and felt the heat of defeat in her core. "I've been wrong."
The NightShade Forensic Files: Fracture Five (Book 2) Page 7