The White Iris
The Harvester Series, Book Three
Susanne Matthews
Avon, Massachusetts
Copyright © 2016 by M.H. Susanne L. Matthews.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.
www.crimsonromance.com
ISBN 10: 1-4405-9124-5
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9124-2
eISBN 10: 1-4405-9125-3
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9125-9
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © iStockphoto.com/Vilor; cygnusx/124RF and pinkynoise.
For the late Keith Grant and his wife, Colleen: Good memories live forever.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
More from This Author
Also Available
Chapter One
Stretching her neck and rolling her shoulders, Dr. E.J. Swift, Julie to friends and family, eased her stiff muscles. As a virologist, she studied pathogens that invaded the body, altering cells, sometimes for only a few days but at others for a lifetime. Curing a viral disease was good; eliminating and preventing it, even better.
Leaning back in her office chair, she released the clip that held up her long, auburn hair and ran her hands through the messy, tumbling curls, rubbing the sore spot at the back of her head.
I should get it all cut off. It spends more time yanked up and tied than down.
Reaching for the mouse, she scrolled to the top of the document she’d just finished, and sighed. This brief had taken forever to complete—not that it was complicated, but she felt unsettled today, the way she had when she’d suffered a case of the heebie-jeebies prior to those vicious Colorado snowstorms of her youth.
As if there’s a storm anywhere near here.
The last thing she should be doing this gorgeous late July afternoon was sitting in an office, writing an information brief on the effectiveness of last year’s flu vaccine, but her cousin Ellie was up to her elbows in virulent mosquitoes, and the prospect of an afternoon at the pool alone, waiting for Ellie to finish for the day, didn’t appeal. Julie had gone up there on Wednesday night, and the newest creep in 3B had hit on her endlessly. That apartment belonged to some export company, and the tenants changed regularly—all of them the same basic version of jerk. When she’d finally told him she wasn’t interested, the muscle-bound asshole had made a nasty comment before moving on to the new woman in 4C.
And she’s welcome to him.
It wasn’t that Bozo-Bob wasn’t attractive. Julie simply wasn’t interested. He reminded her too much of Trevor, her ex-fiancé who’d trampled her heart to bits.
Face it, girl. Everyone reminds you of Trevor.
In the two years since their breakup, they hadn’t spoken, not even after she’d returned the sapphire engagement ring he’d given her and asked him to contact her so they could discuss what had gone wrong between them. He’d signed for the package, but he hadn’t called.
Trevor knew she needed to compartmentalize—talk things to death, as he put it—but that was just the way she was. If a new recipe for lasagna required a three-paragraph analysis and review, why wouldn’t a failed relationship? You needed to know what went wrong to avoid making the same mistake. Every good researcher knew that.
Hell, she couldn’t even bring herself to cut her damn hair without making a pros and cons list, shifting points from one side to the other, and evaluating everything in the light of her hypothesis. Everything was about process. If you did things in the proper order, you succeeded—if you didn’t, you failed.
Try as she might, she couldn’t close that chapter of her life, which was ridiculous because Trevor certainly had.
She wasn’t ready to move on—not from Ellie, not from this job in Atlanta, nor unfortunately from Trevor. Their relationship was unfinished, like her wedding gown, still hanging in her closet, the seams only basted, the hem undone. Why had she hung on to it?
God almighty. She hadn’t asked him to betray his country; all she’d wanted was the truth. She’d needed him, more than she’d ever needed anyone, and he’d let her down.
What the hell’s wrong with me today?
Her chest felt tight. Had she used her inhaler? Taken her asthma drugs? On good days, she often forgot about them until she got stressed and her breathing acted up. Sometimes the humidity triggered it; at other times it was just the humps and bumps along the road of everyday life.
“You’re too high-strung,” Nana used to say. “You need to calm down and relax. You can’t control everything, child, no matter how hard you want to. You can’t play God.”
Reaching for the spare inhaler in her bottom drawer, she took two puffs and tried to relax. Annoyed with herself, she tossed the inhaler back on her desk. Why was she wasting time thinking about Trevor? Ellie was right—with or without answers, she needed to move on.
She glared at the calendar. “This is your fault,” she grumbled aloud. Trevor had proposed to her three years ago today. “I’ll bet he isn’t wallowing over it. Hell, he probably doesn’t even remember what day it is.”
The phone on her desk rang, startling her out of her pity party, and she reached for it.
“Dr. Swift.”
“Julie, it’s me. Are you okay? You sound a little down in the mouth.”
“I’m fine. This just took longer than I thought.”
“Well, if you weren’t so picky about everything…”
“I’m not picky, I’m thorough. Does this call mean you’re ready to go?” she asked Ellie, her tone sharper than it should be.
Damn, why do I continue to let him upset me?
“I wish. No, I’ve got about forty minutes left on the experiment, but so far it looks good. Those little suckers are dropping like flies.”
“Why’d you call, then? You aren’t going to back out, are you?”
“Hell, no. The prospect of pitching a tent in a clearing and watching that meteor shower is something I’m looking forward to. Brad just called. He wants me to go to his office and meet some FBI agent from Boston, but I can’t leave right now.”
“Meet him about what?”
“I haven’t a clue, but it must be important.”
“I didn’t know the director was in today.”
/> “Neither did I,” Ellie answered, and something about her tone told Julie she was lying. Maybe she and Brad had argued.
Ellie and Brad Johnson, the director of the CDC, had been seeing one another for weeks, and her cousin was absolutely gaga. It was nice to see her engrossed in something other than disease-causing bugs; Ellie deserved to be happy.
Not devastated, like I’ve been.
“Sure,” she answered, hoping to get Brad alone and find out what the problem was. “Tell him I’ll be there in about ten minutes, and I’ll give the guy the fifty-cent tour.”
“Already did,” Ellie said and chuckled. “I knew you’d help out. Besides, you’re so much better at it than I am. By the way, Brad will drive. He’s coming with us.” Her cousin ended the call.
Great. It’s a small tent. Where the hell am I supposed to sleep?
Julie shook her head. “You owe me, big-time,” she said to the empty phone line before hanging up. She sneered at the T-shirt and crop pants she’d worn, expecting to go straight from the CDC to their friend’s cabin. This day was just getting better and better.
Shutting down the computer, she got up, twisted her hair back into a chignon, and fastened it with her clip. Pulling open her bottom drawer, she removed the makeup bag there and took out the compact and lip gloss. As soon as she’d done what she could to make herself look fresher, she grabbed her lab coat and put it on to hide the overly casual outfit. Satisfied this was as good as she’d get, she headed up the two flights of stairs to the director’s office. She might not be ready for the cover of Vogue, but she could probably manage Science World.
Knocking on the door, she opened it. “Sorry I’m late…”
Her throat closed, preventing her from saying anything else, her pride coming to the rescue and keeping her from falling flat on her face. No. This wasn’t happening, not to her, not today. The man standing next to Brad was Trevor Clark. This was a storm alright, one worse than any Colorado blizzard might be.
I’m going to kill Ellie.
“Julie,” Brad said, coming forward, buying her a few precious moments to get herself under control. “Thanks for helping out like this. Dr. E.J. Swift, meet Special Agent Trevor Clark.”
“We’ve met,” Trevor said, his voice husky, but he didn’t look surprised. His shadowed, deep blue eyes bored into hers as if he was searching for something.
She gritted her teeth, wishing the floor would open up and swallow her. Her thumb rubbed the base of her ring finger as if the band she hadn’t worn in two years was there again, only this time it pained her. Whatever Trevor was looking for, she’d be damned if he’d find it. She pulled herself together, refusing to allow even a muscle twitch to show seeing him again upset her.
The man responsible for so many tears and sleepless nights stood there, stone-like, his face not betraying a thing. He’d always been good at hiding his feelings, and now it seemed he’d perfected the ability. The only sign that he might not be as relaxed as he pretended to be was his clenched jaw.
He’s uncomfortable—the son of a bitch should be in abject pain and agony.
As always, Trevor was impeccably dressed in a pale gray suit with a coordinating shirt and a blue, gray, and silver silk tie. His light brown hair, as thick as ever, was cut short, and he wasn’t wearing his glasses. He looked tired, but when he was working a case he rarely got more than a few hours’ sleep each night. He was clean-shaven, and the faint scent of the woodsy aftershave he always wore tickled her nose.
“Julie, it’s been a while. You look well,” he said, coming forward, his extended hand meeting the one she’d unconsciously held out when she’d walked into the office.
Forcing a smile, she shook his hand, ignoring the familiar jolt of electricity and letting go as quickly as she could, stuffing both of her suddenly trembling hands into her lab coat pockets.
“Trevor, nice to see you again.” She swallowed her anger and donned the professional mask she wore whenever she had to deal with unpleasant people and situations. There was no point in letting him know her cousin hadn’t given her a heads-up. “Ellie mentioned you were here from Boston. I thought you were based in Quantico.”
“I am, but I’m still working special crimes for the Behavioral Analysis Unit. My current case involves a serial killer in the Boston area, which is why I’m here.”
Nothing but a case would’ve brought you to Atlanta today of all days.
Brad, not picking up on her pain and discomfort, smiled at her.
“Agent Clark thinks the CDC may have some insight for his case, but he had to get special permission from the top of the food chain to brief us on this, and what he tells us doesn’t leave this office.”
“Does that include Ellie?” she asked.
“I’m afraid it does,” Trevor said. “I know it sounds as if I’m overreacting, but the fewer people who know about this at the moment, the better.”
“Understood.” Despite everything, his situation intrigued her quest for knowledge.
“Excellent,” Brad answered. “I knew I could count on your discretion. Now, why don’t you sit down, and Trevor can fill us both in on the details.”
She sat in the leather chair while Brad resumed his seat behind his desk. Instead of sitting, Trevor paced the office.
“About eighteen months ago,” he began, “the BAU was brought in on the Harvester case. They’d found the bodies of two kidnapped women, dressed like angels, and left in public places. When another one was discovered on federal land, the FBI formed a task force with me in charge. The worst of it was, all of those women had recently given birth and the children were missing. The papers dubbed the killer the Harvester, since he was harvesting babies.”
“I read about that, but I thought you’d rescued those women,” Brad said.
“It’s not that simple,” Trevor answered and rubbed the back of his neck. “It took us months to make any progress, and when we did, it usually led to another dead end. There was another murder, one we thought unconnected because it didn’t fit the pattern, but Rob Halliday, the Boston PD detective working with me, figured out the Harvester’s MO and discovered the dead woman’s daughter was the Harvester’s latest kidnap victim. When Faye Lewis, Rob’s former fiancée, was assaulted, we caught a break.”
Trevor looked over at her, and for a moment, she saw regret in his eyes.
Good. Maybe he does realize what he threw away.
Trevor continued, his face a blank slate once more. “Long story short, Faye was in hiding. Her rapist found her. When Rob returned to Boston, he was ready to move heaven and earth to rescue her, and our mole made a strategic error. He didn’t have the latest information, and he hung himself without it. He fed us data we realized was false. Had we acted on it, we’d all be dead, and the remaining women and children would’ve disappeared.”
At the word “dead” Julie gasped, images of Trevor lying lifeless on the ground making her stomach clench. While she didn’t love him anymore, she didn’t want anything to happen to him. She struggled to maintain her outward calm, not sure she had. The story he’d told so far was unsettling, so hopefully he’d put her reaction down to that.
“As you mentioned, two weeks ago, we turned the tables on the mole and rescued the women and children. Faye and the other hostages have provided us with invaluable information. Unfortunately, this situation is worse than we’d anticipated. I thought with Colchester out of the picture, we were done, but I was wrong. While we caught and killed that kidnapper-rapist, we haven’t caught the man in charge and his other henchmen—including the man he had on the inside. The problem is, there’s a cult involved, a homegrown terrorist organization as dangerous, if not more so, than any of the foreign ones you can think of.”
No wonder he looks tired. How can he sleep with that hanging over his head?
“When we raided the farm in New Hampshire where the women were being kept, we discovered that the Harvester—a misogynistic, racist son of a bitch who calls himself the Prophet—
believes he’s on some sort of mission from God. He keeps women of child-bearing age in stables, treating them like brood mares, to satisfy the needs of his Chosen, the men who’ll eventually lead the cult.”
“That’s disgusting,” Brad interrupted before she could. “I may not read the Bible, but I don’t remember God ever treating women that way. Hell, even the Koran doesn’t go that far. Treating women like horses and killing them after they’ve given birth is barbaric. I can’t imagine any woman going along with something like that. Creating his own master race sounds like something Hitler might’ve done.”
“You’re closer to the truth than you think, but sadly, not only do the women go along with it, young girls aspire to be chosen as mares one day. Don’t get me wrong here. While Colchester was one sick bastard, he’s nothing compared to the Prophet, the one who actually poisoned the women and controls more than 200 cult members. They are waiting to do his bidding, ready to retrieve what he sees as his property. The problem is, we don’t have a clue where those cult members are hiding.”
Julie recognized his frustration in his clenched jaw and the way he ran his hand through his hair, messing it up the way it looked first thing in the morning. She fisted her hands in her pockets, tamping down the urge to fix it.
“That property would be the women and children you rescued?” Brad asked.
“Yes, five children and four women. One of them is due to deliver any day. We also have about twenty of his followers in jail.”
“I don’t see how any of this applies to us,” Julie said. She’d rather be fighting off Bozo-Bob than listening to Trevor talk about his case. His words upset her. Funny how he could discuss this so openly and yet hadn’t been able to tell her the truth two years ago. Although she felt sorry for those women, she wanted to escape and lick her own wounds.
“Maybe this part will clarify it for you. When we rescued the women, we learned that the Prophet has something planned—something of biblical proportions. Think Noah and the flood, only instead of water, he plans to use fire. He’s going to unleash what he refers to as the Great Burning to rid Eden of the vermin infesting it.”
The White Iris Page 1