by M. Leighton
I can’t let him go, though. He could spread the word about Simone, about the false front of her business, the part where she draws men in with promises of a woman for them to do with what they will. There may be someone out there who has managed to figure out who she is, and if that’s the case, exposing her real operation could get her killed. That leaves me with only one other option, which I’d rather not do, but don’t see that I have much choice.
I’m going to have to bring the guy in, keep him in protective custody until this thing is straightened out.
I creep down the stairs and into the shadows at the far edge of the complex. I shoot Gregory a message with a brief explanation of what I’m onto and that I’ll be bringing someone in. I also ask that he send a couple of agents over to await and pick up her next client, the person or persons who paid for the means to kill a human being. We can charge them all and keep them in a secure facility until I can get the rest of this sorted out. I give him strict instructions not to make it evident that the feds—or any law enforcement for that matter—are onto this location. I want Simone and her clientele to feel as safe as ever.
Until I know Simone is safe and I’ve figured how to get her out of this without ruining her life.
When Simone leaves, I give enough time that she’s bound to be a couple of blocks away before I go to break into the motel room where her hostage is. The door is unlocked and the room doesn’t look to have been disturbed at all. The tacky spread on the king bed is unmussed, the beverage glasses are untouched. The key is even lying on the table, as though the resident has checked out. At first glance it appears that no one has even been here.
Until I check the bathroom.
There I find a man bound and unconscious in the bathtub. The material on his right thigh has been torn, revealing a pad of gauze there, soaked through with blood. I reach back to grab a piece of toilet paper and lift up on the edge of the bandage. There’s an X carved into his groin. Not deep enough to hit an artery, but deep enough to bleed a good bit.
I can’t understand why Simone would do this, why she’d risk the blood he’ll leave behind, why she’d risk the trace evidence that the blade she used might’ve left behind. This is sloppy. And, in crime, for a person who is meticulous and controlled in every other way, sloppy equals emotional.
But why is Simone emotional over this man? Who is he? What did he do?
Another dimension to this whole cabal is unfolding. As familiar as I am with the minds and machinations of criminals, I’m having trouble grasping what this is all about. Maybe his identity will give me some insight. Until then…
I reach for the unconscious guy’s arm to haul him up. He wakes slowly, groggily, attempting to speak, but only slurring incoherently. I’d wondered how the next part of Simone’s plan would work, how the would-be killer(s) would be able to get him out without carrying him. When he pushes himself out of the tub and stumbles toward me, I have my answer.
He can actually move on his own. Not well, of course, but just enough that he looks drunk off his ass, something I doubt is uncommon at a place like this. Another thing Simone took into consideration.
I help him down the stairs and to my car, where he passes out in the seat almost the instant I get him into the back. That’s fine with me. It’ll make it easier to watch and wait for the agents to arrive.
I get a text to my secure cell when they arrive. They’re across the street, parked in another motel lot with eyes on the second floor of this one. They’re ready to head in when there’s activity at the door.
I watch cars come and go. I watch legit patrons of the motel go about their business. They all have a certain look about them. Unconcern. Like they’ve done nothing wrong. A novice murderer won’t have that look.
That’s why I recognize the perp the moment I see him get out of his car.
He’s driving a late ’70s sedan. Dirty tan in color, unremarkable in every way. But the guy, he keeps looking around—as he shuts his car door, after he takes a couple of steps, then after he takes a couple more. He looks around before he mounts the stairs, and his head is always slightly bowed, like he doesn’t want anyone to get a good look at him.
He’s of a medium height and thin. Wormy looking. He has the look of a guy who probably crunches numbers in real life. Maybe an accountant whose life just got too damn boring, so he took the advice of a friend who was joking about the shit you can find on the dark web and he decided to look into it.
And he found Simone.
Or maybe Simone found him.
Could’ve happened either way.
His clothes are ill-fitting, the ones, I assume, that Simone provided in her burner set-up. His own personal clothes are probably tucked safely inside a bag where they won’t collect any evidence from any of the places he will go or any of the people he will come into contact with. The only thing that’s probably his are his glasses.
When he reaches the room I just left, he glances left and right again then discreetly slips on a latex glove. He lets himself in through the unlocked door. Within seconds, I see the two-agent team, a man and a woman, crossing the lot, holding hands and laughing as though they’re a couple. They mount the stairs casually, but quickly, and make their way to the right room.
She fiddles with his hair as he picks the lock and then they nearly fall through the door. Good, it all looks very good. Even if the guy inside were to see them come in, he’d likely think it a mistake.
Only I know what’s going on up there.
They’re apprehending him, laying out his options, telling him that if he cooperates and doesn’t blow this for anybody, he could get leniency. And if the guy’s got any brains at all, he’ll jump on that because he’s in deep, deep shit.
The male agent leaves with the perp first, his arm thrown over the man’s shoulders like they’re old buddies. He’s laughing and talking. The would-be killer’s face is ashen with a sheen of sweat that I can see glistening from here.
They disappear behind me and I wait for the female to clear the room before I start my engine and head to the field office with my own little bag of dicks in tow.
26
Noah
I ’m beat. It’s almost noon and I’m just now getting home. I wouldn’t even bother with a shower if I didn’t feel so slimy. All of this…it’s leaving a bad taste in my mouth, a film on my skin it seems. In the months since I left Maryland, I haven’t forgotten what fieldwork is like. I just never expected to be doing it around someone I love. That lends a whole new shitty feeling to doing my job.
I run the water as hot as I can stand it and brace myself against the shower walls, letting the stream pound over my neck and shoulders. I’m not just tired; I’m exhausted. This thing with Simone…I never expected this. Never expected what I found last night at the office.
I was able to piece together some integral parts of the puzzle once I had the identity of the guy in the bathtub. His rap sheet, his particular brand of deviancy, of sickness told the story. Now, I almost wish I didn’t know. I wish I didn’t know any of this.
But I do.
And what I found after that? Holy Mary mother of God, it’s big. And it’s coming soon if I don’t do anything to stop it.
I’ve thought of little else since I found out. I’ve run scenario after scenario through my head looking for a way out. At the end of every one, I come to the realization that the choice isn’t mine. That might be what’s driving me craziest.
I turn, closing my eyes against the stinging water, letting it burn over my face. In just a few days, this is all going to come crashing down. That’s the only thing I’m sure of. Maybe I’ll know what the hell to do by then, because right now, I don’t.
* * *
It’s Sunday. Just a regular old Sunday. The sun is bright on this early fall day, people are bustling about, children are playing, the world is turning and everything looks like another day in the life.
But upon closer inspection, in my life, in Poppy’s life, everyth
ing is about to change.
Late last night, Simone made the plans. She doesn’t realize yet that she’s made the plans, but she has. It goes down tonight. On a Sunday. Nothing will be the same come Monday morning.
I face timed with Poppy earlier, asking if we could spend the day together, in bed. Her smile was so perfect, so happy, it made me physically nauseous. Because I know.
I. Know.
I know what’s coming.
I waste no time in getting to her. When she opens the door, I waste no time in pulling her into my arms, in kissing her senseless, in peeling her yoga pants off and licking every smooth inch of her thighs.
Over and over, I dive into her body, worshipping it, reveling in it. Making her mine and becoming more hers. I commit every sound, every scent, every sight to memory. Things will change. We won’t ever be back here again.
We make love, we bask. We eat, we shower. We make love and we bask again. And then night falls, and with it, the bell begins to toll, silently, knowingly, within me.
“I love you more than anything,” I whisper to Poppy as she cuddles against my chest, snuggling in for warmth like she does right before she dozes off.
“As I love you,” she murmurs sleepily.
I hold her tighter. Love her better, even if she doesn’t know it. Because come tomorrow…
I calm my breathing, a task that’s harder tonight than ever before. I feel the switch, I wait through the confirmation, then I count the minutes as Simone sneaks out of bed to ready herself.
Here we go.
As I’ve done before, I dress while she showers and then crawl back into bed. I wait until she’s got a lead on me before I head for my car. I follow her crazy-brilliant path until she’s picked up her man and led him to what would be his death on any other night.
But not tonight.
And this man is different.
My palms sweat as I grab the door handle and get out to follow. They’ve just disappeared behind the door to room number 211. She’s probably just now giving him the concoction she carries in that big purse of hers.
I mount the stairs. I press my ear to the door. I hear the soft, sultry mumble of her Simone voice, but I’m unable to make out what she’s saying. She’s probably talking dirty, maybe showing a little skin, anything to put him off until the drugs take effect. She knows what to look for, she knows the signs that he’s going under. She’ll no doubt offer a shower, lure him into the bathroom, maybe delay him a little more if he’s still too alert. Then, when the time is right, she’ll get him beside the tub, give him a push and let him stumble back into it. She might laugh charmingly, smile that sexy smile of hers, and drop to her knees beside the tub, like she’s going to give him head. Only then she’ll pull out her knife and cut his pants.
I couldn’t figure out why she was doing it until I saw something familiar on this guy’s profile. Just one small tell, but it was enough for me—strangulation of a minor. Then the pieces started to fall into place.
And now here he is. She’s got him.
When I no longer hear voices, when I’m fairly certain they’re in the bathroom, I pick the lock and let myself in. The bedroom is empty, but the bathroom light is on.
I hear Simone’s laugh, so velvety, and I hear the slurred words of her companion. I ease my way in absolute stealth toward the door. At the edge, I lean around just enough that I can see the man’s head just over the left half of Simone’s body where she’s kneeling in front of him.
That face…I’d recognize it anywhere. He’s changed several things about his appearance, but not enough to hide from me.
Or from Simone.
I hear the tear of material as she rips the opening wider. I hear her gasp when she finds what she’s been looking for—a particular kind of scar high on the inside of his right thigh.
She knows him.
As do I.
Then I hear nothing. I see nothing. Simone has gone utterly still.
Only then do I hear her soft sobbing.
I round the corner, my heart pounding in my throat, and I touch Simone on the shoulder. She jerks around, her glassy eyes wide and confused.
“Don’t do this,” I plead tenderly, my voice like doom in the tiny room.
My chest is so tight with rage and with agony, it’s hard for me to breathe. Ruthlessly, I push those emotions aside. I need a clear head for this.
“I have to,” she whimpers.
She begins to tremble.
“No, you don’t.”
“You don’t understand. You don’t know what he did, what he did to her.”
Her hands and shoulders shake almost violently, almost like she’s in the beginning stages of a seizure. Only she’s not. She’s conscious and focused.
That’s part of the problem. She knows exactly who this is, what he did, and what she wants to do to him for it.
“Tell me. Tell me what he did.”
She stammers, her eyes searching mine in increasing confusion. “He…he…he took her. And he…he… He has to die. He can’t live.”
“I know, baby. I know, but it can’t be you.”
“It has to be me.”
“No, it doesn’t. I promise, it doesn’t.”
Her lips thin and her eyes flash in sudden anger. “How the hell do you know? What are you even doing here? Get the hell out of here, Noah!”
Simone grips her knife with both hands and raises it above her head, ready to swing down and plunge it into the man’s stomach. It won’t kill him, but that’s what will happen after she gets what she wants.
I leap forward and grab her arms, twisting her so that she’s facing me.
“No! Please. Please don’t do this to us. Please, baby.”
“Why? You don’t know. You don’t know!”
“I do. I promise, I do.”
“How? How could you?”
My mouth is so dry. My pulse is so erratic. It’s time. It’s now or never. This could go one of two ways. Neither is really good, but one is far worse.
“Because I know you. I’ve known you for half my life. I’ve loved you for half my life.” I see her brow crease. I see the return of confusion. “You’re my wife. My Carly. And this is the man you saw kill our daughter.”
She looks at me, her expression blank for the count of three, and then she closes her eyes and screams at the top of her lungs. She shakes her head violently, dropping her knife and pulling at her hair. She claws at her temples, at her throat, leaving a thin trail of blood on one side.
I grab her wrists, restraining her, but she starts to thrash. “No! Noooooooo!” She lashes out with hands and claws, she kicks out with her feet when she falls to one side.
“Carly, listen to me. Listen to me. This won’t fix it. This won’t bring her back. It will only ruin your life. Our life. And he’s not worth it. Don’t let him take that, too. Don’t let him steal anything else from you. From us. ”
My voice quivers, memories, emotions, realities crashing back into my mind in cruel wave after cruel wave. I’ve focused for so long on finding Carly, and then on helping her find her way back to herself, back to me, that I’ve pushed the truths about our life and our relationship to the farthest part of my mind.
But now it’s all coming back…
27
Noah
T wo years ago
“So this is the brilliant Carly Williamson,” Executive Assistant Director Simms says as he leans across me to shake my wife’s hand. I’m sure I’m wearing the shit-eatin’ grin of a man whose spouse is as intelligent as she is beautiful. And Carly is. And on top of that, she’s an incredible mother. She’s the whole package. The whole damn package.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” she replies, nodding her head politely. She’s perfect in every situation. I still don’t know how the hell I landed her. I’m just glad I did.
“I hear you’re cutting quite the path through the Cyber Division.”
Her smile is controlled, but I can see the pride in it. Proba
bly because I know her better than anyone. Better than myself, I sometimes think.
“Thank you, sir. It’s been my dream since college.”
“That was what, two, three years ago?” he asks with a wink.
He’s old enough to be her father, or close to it, but Carly, always gracious, grins and blushes prettily.
“You’re too kind, but no, it’s been a few more than that.”
“Well, I’m glad you made your way here to the FBI. The world’s changing. With guys like Carter Finch, as savvy as he is psychotic, we need more people like you and Noah here. Fighting the good fight.” He claps me on the shoulder. “Your husband is one of the best profilers I’ve ever seen in the Criminal Investigations unit. Damn proud to have you both.”
“Thank you, sir,” we both say.
He nods, “Enjoy your evening.”
After he’s made his way halfway across the room, I turn to Carly. “Not too shabby, huh?”
She grins, leaning into me. “Not too shabby at all. I see world domination in your future, Agent Williamson.”
“I don’t know about that, but I can definitely see some wife domination in my very near future. You game?”
She raises one tawny brow and smoothes her blonde hair, her cheeks turning a pretty pink. I know that look.
For a split second, I wonder how much trouble I’d be in if I got caught banging my wife in the coat room at an official function.
“I think I can help with that,” she answers, her voice low and gravelly. I love this voice. It’s her sexy voice, her I’m-turned-on voice. God, it gets me every time.
“How soon can we leave?”
She lays a hand on my arm. “Cool your jets, cowboy. We need to at least stay for his speech. But after that…” Carly comes up onto her tiptoes and whispers in my ear, “I’ll race you to the car.”
I’m practically drooling by the time the last word falls from her lips.
The minutes tick by like hours and I can’t seem to take my eyes off my wife, not even for the speech that I’m hear to listen to. It’s about how the Bureau is making such great strides in bringing down criminal masterminds because of the cooperation between branches, and the value that the Cyber Division brings to what we do. Blah, blah, blah.