She nodded.
"Where did you go?"
"For a walk," she replied curtly. Her husband had been like that when she was first out of the hospital, wanting to know every single thing she did. It made her marriage feel more like a cage than the hospital bed had. She thought of Michael now, sensing an emptiness that was different from the one she had felt since her attack. Michael's smile, his touch. She pushed them away, unprepared to confront all that was gone.
Billy stared. "A walk?"
She understood his surprise. She hadn't been out on her own since he'd known her.
"Why?"
She shrugged. "For air. Why did you call?"
Billy dropped his question about her walk, but she knew he would bring it up again later. "Kevin called me this morning."
Casey rolled her eyes. "The palm reader?"
"He has psychic powers, Casey."
"Is that why you're here? Because of Kevin?"
He nodded. "Listen, he—"
"Billy, please," she interjected. "I'm fine. I just went for a walk. Tell Kevin his signals are crossed or something. Now, since you're here, would you mind making a call about the electricity? I want to take a shower."
Billy propped his hands on his hips. "Are we going to discuss this?"
"The power outage?" She turned and started toward the bedroom, feeling the stiffness in her bad knee from the walk. Exercising was supposed to be good for her. Well, it didn't feel good.
"Not the electricity, Casey. Kevin says you're in danger."
Casey waved him off. "He's about a year late."
"It's not a joke. You should listen to him. I've invited him here. He has an appointment this morning, but he agreed to come by afterward. He knew you'd be skeptical."
"Wow, he really is psychic."
He glared at her. "It was generous of him to offer to come over. He lives all the way in the Haight."
"Yeah, great," Casey mumbled, though she was curious to meet this Kevin person. Billy was clearly smitten, and Casey was protective of Billy, especially when it came to Kevin and his "powers." It always seemed to her that Billy was naive about people's manipulations, too trusting.
"He's a wonderful person and very gifted. I want you to promise to listen to what he has to say."
Casey didn't answer. But she'd listen all right.
"Did you hear me?"
"I promise," she muttered back, turning toward where she thought the bedroom door was. It was so dark in the house. Damn power outage. There had to be a few candles around someplace. Clumsily, she opened and closed drawers. Before the attack, she had loved candles. The biggest treat in the world was George Winston, a roomful of candles, and a hot bubble bath.
Michael had proposed in the bathtub. They were barely twenty-five at the time, just kids. She had just graduated as a mechanical engineer from Cornell and was getting her master's in Criminology from the University of New Haven, and Michael was in law school at Yale. It hadn't even been fifteen years ago, but it felt like fifty.
As she gathered candles from around the house, she could hear Billy talking to the PG&E people.
"They're going to send someone," he said as he hung up.
She turned back, holding all the candles she could find. "How long will that take?"
"Who knows."
Billy followed her into the bathroom and helped her set up candles. With every candle lit, there was just enough light to see around the room. It reminded her of Michael.
Casey frowned, wishing she could push thoughts of him aside. But, today, he seemed to be everywhere. Michael and Casey had spent their honeymoon in San Francisco, and since then they'd both dreamt of a sabbatical here. Michael even went so far as to take the California bar six months after the Virginia one. After Casey's accident, Michael had convinced her that the San Francisco-Bay Area would be the perfect place to heal. Instead, the move had managed to put a two-thousand-mile distance between Michael and Amy, and Casey.
"It would help if there were some sunshine in this place. I thought this was supposed to be the sunshine state."
"Weather's been weird ever since that El Nino thing. That's probably what happened to the power, too." He looked around. "You don't have many candles."
"I haven't done a lot of entertaining."
Billy pursed his lips. "We'll have to get some more." He disappeared, returning with a giant flashlight. He propped it up and turned it on, shining the light to the ceiling. Spreading his arms victoriously, he said, "I'll leave you to your shower."
"You'll be here if the PG&E guy arrives?"
He nodded. "I'll stay."
"Thanks."
Casey stepped into the steaming water, letting the heat run over her sore muscles. It had been nearly a year since she'd walked even as short a distance as the mile to the bottom of the hill.
Since the attack, she'd had no exercise at all, save what it took to go from the bathroom to the bedroom to the kitchen and back, or to walk down the aisles in the grocery store. She was weak and easily winded.
But this morning's walk rekindled a feeling from beneath the dust and ashes of her past. She felt good—alive and invigorated. The fresh air, the wind, the thin mist had reminded her of what she used to love—the outdoors, the exhilaration of exercise, the excitement of her heart pumping blood to her lungs and muscles. She used to run marathons. Now she could barely walk a single mile.
Pulling her hands to her face, she opened and closed her fists, feeling the muscles fight against their own weakness. Her left was much better. He had been careful to damage the right one first. Had he intended to kill her? She thought so. But he had taken so much time breaking every bone in her right hand, it seemed a waste if his intent was death.
The pain had been his main motivation, she knew. But during the attack, even the pain had faded eventually. She had found a small compartment in her own mind, and she had hidden in there, closing everything else out. Even though the torture continued, she had felt it as though from a distance.
She was sure he had sensed her withdrawal and had started in on her knee, perhaps thinking he could reawaken her pain receptors with an untouched portion of her nerves. He had been unsuccessful there, too, at least in arousing a response, though he had managed to sever the cruciate tendons from her patella.
After six days in surgery and more than thirty hours under the knife, she had only a fraction of her original dexterity. Destruction was always so much easier than repair. Leonardo hadn't been her first experience with the ease of destruction. As a profiler, Casey's home life had been an easy target.
Despite the warnings to keep her personal life separate from her cases, Casey had been unable to forget the violence when she came home. It became as routine as coffee and toast each morning. Her sympathy and patience for the aches and pains of an aging parent and a clumsy child had waned. Didn't they know people were being tortured and chopped into pieces while they were complaining about arthritis and skinned knees?
She shook her head at her own thoughts. When had it started? Certainly by the time her mother was dying. And even before that, when Amy sliced open her finger. While Amy stood in the kitchen bleeding and screaming, Casey had found herself analyzing the pattern of the blood spatter as Amy swung her hand in terror. It hadn't been a dangerous wound. But from the look in her child's eyes when Casey made light of the bleeding, it had been fatal in other ways. Now months had passed since Casey had seen her only child.
Struggling with the awkwardness of her fingers, Casey shaved her legs and massaged shampoo into her hair. Then she stood beneath the hot water until her skin wrinkled and the room around her completely filled with steam. She closed her eyes and completed her daily hand exercises. Noting the slightest improvements, she worked harder than usual.
As she reached to turn the water off, a breeze swept across her, arousing goose bumps on her skin. The flames on the candles danced. "Billy?" she called, unable to see the door from inside the shower stall.
No on
e answered. Casey turned the water off and stood in silence, listening for signs that she was not alone. In her early years with the Bureau, she'd perfected the ability to stand completely still. Water ran over her eyes now as rain had at other times. Like then, she blinked but did not move. The candles formed patterns of light and dark across her walls, creating a fantasy of movement. She was imagining things. The only sound she heard was the drip, drip of the water off her skin.
Wrapping herself in her towel, she stepped out of the shower and surveyed the room. In her robe, she ran the towel through her wet hair and opened the door to the bedroom. "Billy?"
He appeared at the door.
"Any word from PG&E?"
"The guy was already here. He took a quick look around and then went to check something outside."
She dropped the towel on the bed where Billy quickly grabbed it and hung it up. Tightening the belt on her thick, terry-cloth robe, she put her feet in her slippers and moved into the living room. The morning's walk had changed her. For the first time in almost a year, she wanted to read the newspaper. But she wasn't sure how Billy would react. She didn't want someone gauging her every expression as she read. And she wasn't sure she was prepared to explain herself just yet.
"You want me to brush your hair?"
She looked up at Billy and nodded.
"Is your brush in the bathroom?"
"I think so."
Closing her eyes, Casey pulled a blanket up around her waist and sank back against the cushions. Several minutes passed and she sensed Billy's presence in the room before he spoke. She turned back and saw a strange expression on his face.
Billy held up a triangular patch of hot pink satin. "I found this in the bathroom."
Starting, Casey moved off the couch. Images flashed through her mind like snippets from a horror film—the prostitute's mutilated body, her cutoff breasts. The bloodstained panties, a triangular piece cut from the front. This was the missing piece, the piece Leonardo had taken for a macabre souvenir. She stood and stumbled on her bad knee, catching herself on the table and falling backward. Frantic, she surveyed the room. He was here.
She looked back at Billy, her legs quaking beneath her in terror. Billy still held up the fabric, his eyes widening as though he sensed what was happening. She stared at the pink satin, the words focusing as her vision blurred. "Gray needs your help, Mac. Come out and play," the black letters read against the pink fabric.
Casey tightened the muscles in her legs and grabbed the back of the couch. She thought momentarily of calling the Bureau, but decided against it. "Call the police." She paused and shook her head. "No, not the police. Call Inspector Gray."
"What is it?"
Pointing to the phone, she glared at him. "Don't ask questions. Do it."
Billy dropped the cloth and picked up the phone.
Casey crouched by the table and reached beneath it. Her fingers found the familiar small wooden box, and she dragged it into view. Opening the lid, she pulled out the subsonic RWS pistol and checked to make sure it was loaded. She hadn't held the gun since the attack.
Her hands were weak and shaky. The gun required only two pounds of pressure, she reminded herself. Surely she could manage that. She was out of practice and knew with her worthless hands, she would be a bad shot. Even without her injuries, she couldn't imagine hitting a target after so long without practice. She only hoped her aim would be at least close enough to scare him off.
If he was armed, she'd be dead before she could pull the trigger. "Think positive," she whispered to herself.
Opening the front door, Casey saw the workman's van was still parked in front. Was Leonardo actually working for PG&E? It didn't seem likely. He could be traced that way. Then how had he gotten a company van? She sensed she was about to find out.
"Don't go out there. Are you crazy?" Billy screamed in the background.
Halting, Casey didn't look back. Agents were taught never to yell at one another. One false look and an agent could easily be blind-sided by a bullet coming from another direction. All her concentration had to stay on her surroundings.
The gun positioned in front of her, Casey moved across the yard, feeling the gravel through her thin slippers. Slowly and out of practice, she surveyed her surroundings before approaching the van. Her heart trampled inside her chest, the rush she had once thrived on now terrifying her.
With a deep breath, she moved on. When she reached the van, she lay her hand on the handle. Was he inside, waiting to shoot her? Her gut said no. He had been in her bathroom as she showered. He'd had plenty of opportunity to kill her then. And he hadn't. She shoved the dread from her mind and concentrated on the van.
Stepping out of the path of whatever might spring from inside, she tightened her fingers and tried to pull the door open. Her fingers cramped, and she couldn't get a grip on the handle. Frustration caught in her throat.
On the back side of the van, she found the door partially unlatched. She pulled the latch up, and the door fell open. Casey groaned as a man's weight toppled her, throwing both of them backward.
The gun fell out of her hand, her grip too clumsy and weak to hold on. She landed hard on her back, knocking her head on the pavement. She flailed to escape. Fighting with the dead-weight, she rolled out from under the body, and pushed herself away.
Standing, her legs collapsed and she fell again, crawling away on her lumpy fists. She wiped her hand against her face and felt the warm stickiness of blood. Startled, she realized it was his blood, not hers. She looked back at the victim. A single bullet shot to the head. A low caliber, judging from the small exit wound. Leonardo had stripped the electrician of his uniform before the kill. Blood soaked his undershirt and shorts.
Casey backed around, peering at the surrounding houses and cars. Where was Leonardo? He had found her. He had been in her house. She was certain he was watching her now.
Chapter 11
Michael McKinley straightened his tie and took a last glance in the mirror. Today, looking sharp was as important as being sharp. Closing arguments in the biggest case of his career. The jury was primed to vote that his client's technology had been stolen. Already the dealings suggested the settlement would be the largest in the history of his firm—in the order of two hundred and twelve million.
And they would take fifteen percent—thirty-nine million dollars, twenty percent of it his. He wished he were more excited about the money. It was enough to retire on. Still, he found himself longing for something more. Even if he won, there wouldn't be time to get away for more than a few days with Amy. He had to be in Silicon Valley for another case in less than two weeks.
He pulled on the dark suit coat and picked the brief off the bedside table, frowning as he headed downstairs. Silicon Valley was damn close to Casey. Anger welled against his desire. He wanted to see her. She'd become a distant wife and mother, then nearly gotten herself killed, pushed them away, and he still wanted to see her. He needed therapy as badly as she did. He wondered if she'd gotten any. Probably not, knowing Casey. If he still knew her, that is.
Mary handed him a cup of coffee as he entered the kitchen. Her gray hair in one long braid down her back suddenly reminded him of the way Casey had braided Amy's hair when she was little. He glanced at Amy, with her shoulder-length hair styled straight on her shoulders.
Amy sat at the table, drowning a stack of dollar pancakes in syrup.
"You going to have any pancakes with that syrup?" he asked, sitting beside Amy.
Amy laughed and rolled her eyes. "Dad. Syrup's good for you."
"Really?"
She looked at him earnestly. "Gives you energy."
"Who told you that?"
"Mom."
"Mom knows best," he said, then quieted at the reference to Casey. His eyes met Mary's, but she looked away then said, "Would you like some pancakes? I've made enough for both of you."
"Just toast would be great."
Mary nodded and set to the task. "I'm going to go to
the store and pick up your shirts today."
He nodded and pulled money from his wallet.
"I'll bring the change."
He knew she would. Mary had come to him after running the household of an older partner in his firm until the children were grown enough not to need her. Now, at least someone in his life was dependable.
Mary set jam and butter on the table and then brought his toast. "Mr. McKinley, there's something I'd like to ask."
Michael looked up at her.
"You're not leaving, are you, Mary?" Amy voiced his own fears.
Mary smiled and shook her head. "Goodness, no. Not until you're fully grown, child."
Michael exhaled. "What is it, Mary?"
"My sister called last night. My mom's a little sick, and I'd like to go to Durham for a few days to visit her."
"Of course. When are you going?"
"I was hoping to leave in a week and stay for perhaps five or six days."
"A week?" Michael frowned. "But I'll be in California. Who will take care of—"
"California?" Amy squealed. "Are you going to see Mom?"
Michael snapped his mouth closed, realizing what a mistake he'd made.
Mary turned quickly to avoid the scene.
Amy dropped her fork and turned to him, her purple-stockinged legs dangling off the chair. "Dad? Are you going to see Mom? I want to come."
He started buttering his toast. "You can't come this time, honey. I'm going for work. What would you do while I was working?"
"Stay with Mom."
He pursed his lips. "You can't stay with Mom." He took a bite of his toast, but he'd lost his appetite.
"Dad, I want to go. I want to see Mom. Take me with you. Please."
He didn't meet her gaze, though he could feel those soft green eyes begging. "You can't miss school."
"Yes, I can. I'm way ahead, Dad. Mrs. Turner won't mind. And I'll make up all my work."
Frustrated, Michael dropped his toast and stood up. "Amy, no. That's enough."
Amy jumped up, knocking her chair to the floor. "I hate you. You don't want me to see Mom because you're jealous. I'm going to run away and go to California. You can't keep me here."
Savage Art (A Chilling Suspense Novel) Page 8