by Nora Roberts
“Yeah.”
“You didn’t say where you were going, specifically.”
“No, because everyone and anyone can read a blog. I’ll talk about it after, if it seems interesting. But most of what I write about is dog related. I’m not careless, Agent Tawney.”
“No, you’re not. Still, I’d like the information—where you’ll be, the exact dates, how you’ll get there.”
“Okay.”
When his phone signaled, he held up a finger. “Why don’t you give them to Agent Mantz,” he suggested, and walked out onto the porch to take the call.
“We’re driving up to Snoqualmie Falls next Tuesday,” Fiona told her. “Tranquillity Spa and Resort. We’re coming back Friday.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah, it will be. It’s our version of a long weekend, as actual weekends are busiest for all of us. I’m going with Sylvia and a friend. Mai Funaki, our vet.”
Mantz noted down the information, then glanced over as Tawney stepped back in.
“We need to go.”
Fiona got to her feet even as Mantz did. “They found another.”
“No. A twenty-one-year-old woman’s been reported missing. She left her off-campus housing at about six this morning, on foot, on her way to the university’s fitness center. She never got there.”
“Where?” Fiona demanded. “Where was she taken?”
“Medford, Oregon.”
“Just a little closer,” she murmured. “I hope she’s strong. I hope she finds a way.”
“I’m going to stay in touch, Fiona.” Tawney pulled out a card. “You can reach me anytime. My home number’s on the back for you.”
“Thanks.”
She walked out with them, stood with her arms folded over her chest against her thudding heart and the dogs sitting at her feet as they drove away. “Good luck,” she murmured.
Then she went inside to get her gun.
FIFTEEN
Simon carved the scrolled detail into the header for the custom china cabinet while The Fray blasted out of the radio. Meg Greene, a woman who knew exactly what she wanted—except when she changed her mind—had asked to adjust the design four times before he hit the mark for her.
To ensure she didn’t adjust it again, he’d put aside other work to focus on the cabinet. It was a big, beautiful bastard, Simon thought, and would be the showpiece of Meg’s dining room. Another few days, and he’d be done with it, and between the staining and varnishing, he could get serious about the sink base. Maybe work in a few pieces for Syl and have them done when she got back from the spa deal.
If he delivered the stock while she was gone, she couldn’t drag him into talking with her customers. That added motivation.
Starting the day earlier meant he got a jump on things, which almost offset quitting at specific times each day instead of going until he’d had enough.
Stopping, even though he might be on a solid roll, went against the grain, but knowing Fiona would be alone if he didn’t would only screw with his concentration anyway.
But the arrangement had benefits—and not just the sex.
He liked hearing her talk, and listening to the stories she told him about her day. He didn’t know why she relaxed him, but she did. Most of the time.
Then there was the dog. He still chased his tail like a maniac, and stole footwear—and the occasional tool if he could get to it. But he was so damn happy, and a hell of a lot smarter than Simon had given him credit for. He’d gotten used to having the dog curled up under the workbench snoozing or running around outside. And the sucker could field a ball like Derek Jeter.
Simon stood back, studied the work.
Somehow he’d gotten himself a dog and a woman, neither of which he’d particularly wanted. And now he couldn’t imagine his days, or his nights, without them.
He’d gotten more done than he’d expected, and glanced at the clock he’d hung on the wall. Funny, it felt like more than a couple hours since he’d started back up after the grab-a-sandwich, throw-the-ball break he’d taken.
Frowning, he pulled out his phone, read the time on the display and swore.
“Damn it. Why didn’t you remind me to change the batteries in that thing?” he demanded as Jaws trotted through the open shop door.
Jaws only wagged his tail and dropped the stick he’d brought in.
“I don’t have time for that. Let’s move.”
He tried to time his trip to Fiona’s so he arrived long enough after her final class to avoid the inevitable stragglers. Otherwise, she’d start introducing him to people, and there had to be conversations. But he aimed for timing it so she wasn’t alone more than fifteen or twenty minutes.
It was, for him, a delicate balance.
Now, he was nearly two hours behind.
Why hadn’t she called? Wouldn’t any normal woman call to say, Hey, you’re late, what’s going on? Not that they had a formal sort of arrangement. He said see you later every day, left, then he came back.
Nice and easy, no big deal.
“Women are supposed to call,” he told Jaws as they got in the truck. “And nag and bug you. It’s the way of the world. But not her. There’s never any Are you going to be here for dinner? or Can you pick up some milk? or Are you ever going to take out that trash?”
He shook his head. “Maybe she’s lulling me into complacency, stringing me along until I’m . . . more hooked than I already am. Except she’s not, which is one of the reasons I’m hooked, and I’m already taking out the trash because it’s just what you do.”
The dog wasn’t listening, Simon noted, because he had his head out the window. So he might as well save his breath.
No reason to feel guilty because he was a couple hours later than usual, he told himself. He had his work; she had hers. Besides, he thought as he turned into her drive, if she’d called, he wouldn’t be later than usual.
Maybe she hadn’t been able to call. His stomach knotted. If something had happened to her . . .
He heard the gunshots as he drove across the bridge where dogwoods bloomed snowy white.
He floored it, then fishtailed to a stop even as Fiona’s dogs charged around the side of the house. Gunshots ripped through the fear that buzzed in his head as he leaped out of the truck. He left the door swinging open as he ran toward them. When they stopped abruptly, he heard his own heart roaring in his ears.
He pulled in the breath to shout her name, and saw her.
Not lying on the ground bleeding, but standing, coolly, competently shoving another clip into the gun she held.
“Jesus Christ.” The anger flew through him, stampeding out the fear. Even as she started to turn, he grabbed her arm, spun her around. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Careful. It’s loaded.” She lowered the gun, pointing it toward the ground.
“I know it’s loaded. I heard you blasting away like Annie fucking Oakley. You scared the hell out of me.”
“Let go. Earplugs,” she said. “I can barely hear you.” When he released her arm, she pulled them out. “I told you I had a gun, and I told you I’d be practicing. There’s no point getting pissed off that I am.”
“I’m pissed off about the five years you shaved off my life. I had plans for them.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t think to send out a notification I’d be getting in some target practice.” Her movements as testy as her tone, she shoved the gun into the holster on her belt, then stalked over to set up a variety of cans and plastic water bottles she’d obviously killed before his arrival.
“We can argue about that, seeing as you knew I’d be coming by and might have a strong reaction to gunfire.”
“I don’t know anything. You just show up.”
“If you have a problem with that you should’ve said so.”
“I don’t.” She pushed her hands through her hair. “I don’t,” she repeated. “Go ahead and take the dogs inside if you want. I won’t be much longer.”
“W
hat crawled up your ass? I know your face, so don’t tell me about not getting pissed when you’re already there.”
“It’s got nothing to do with you. You should take Jaws inside. My dogs are used to the sound of gunshots. He’s not.”
“Then we’ll see how he deals.”
“Fine.”
She took out the gun, shifted into the stance he’d seen cops use on TV and in movies. As she fired away, Jaws moved closer to his side, leaning against him, but cocked his head and watched—as Simon did—the cans and bottles fly.
“Nice shooting, Tex.”
She didn’t smile, but walked over to set up fresh targets. Behind her a few big-leaf maples, boughs heavy with clusters of blossoms, shimmered in the sunlight.
It made, to his mind, an odd contrast of violence and peace.
“Do you want to shoot?”
“What for?”
“Have you ever shot a gun?”
“Why would I?”
“There are a lot of reasons. Hunting, sport, curiosity, defense.”
“I don’t hunt. My idea of sport is more in line with baseball or boxing. I’ve never been especially curious, and I’d rather use my fists. Let me see it.”
She put the safety on, unloaded it, then offered it to him.
“Not as heavy as I figured.”
“It’s a Beretta. It’s a fairly light and very lethal semiautomatic. It’ll fire fifteen rounds.”
“Okay, show me.”
She loaded it, unloaded it again, showed him the safety. “It’s double-action, so it’ll fire whether the hammer’s cocked or not. The recoil’s pretty minor, but it’s got a little kick. You want to stand with your feet about shoulder-distance apart. Distribute your weight. Both arms out, elbows locked, with your left hand cupped under your gun hand for stability. You lean your upper body toward the target.”
It was an instructor’s voice, he realized, but not her instructor’s voice. That was bright and charming and enthusiastic. This instructor was flat and cool.
“And you remember all that when bullets fly?”
“Maybe not, and maybe one-handed or a different stance would suit the situation better, but this is the best, I think, for target shooting. And like with anything, practice enough and it becomes instinctual. Tuck your head down to line up the sight with the target. Try the two-liter bottle.”
He fired. Missed.
“A little more square, and with your feet pointed at the target. Aim a little lower on the bottle.”
This time he caught a piece of it.
“Okay, I wounded the empty Diet Pepsi. Do I get praise and reward?”
She did smile, a little this time, but there wasn’t any light in it. “You learn fast, and I have beer. Try it a couple more times.”
He thought he got the hang of it, and confirmed the hang of it didn’t particularly appeal to him.
“It’s loud.” He put the safety on, unloaded it as she’d shown him. “And now you have a bunch of dead recyclables in your yard. I don’t think shooting cans and bottles comes close to shooting flesh and blood. Could you actually aim this at a person and pull the trigger?”
“Yes. I was stun-gunned, drugged, tied up, gagged, locked in the trunk of a car by a man who wanted to kill me just for the pleasure it gave him.” Those calm blue eyes fired like her pistol. “If I’d had a gun, I’d have used it then. If anyone tries to do that to me again, I’d use it now, without a second’s hesitation.”
A part of him regretted she’d given him exactly the answer he’d needed to hear. He handed the Beretta back to her. “Let’s hope you never have to find out if you’re right.”
Fiona holstered the gun, then picked up a bag and began to gather up the spent cartridges. “I’d rather not have to prove it. But I feel better.”
“That’s something then.”
“I’m sorry I scared you. I didn’t think about you driving up and hearing gunshots.” She leaned down, gave Jaws a body scrub. “You handled that, didn’t you? Big noises don’t scare you. Search and Rescue dogs need to tolerate loud noises without spooking. I’ll get you that beer after I pick up the targets.”
Odd, he thought, he’d learned her moods. Odd, and a little uncomfortable. “Got any wine?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll get the bodies. You can pour out some wine, and maybe use your sexy voice to score us a delivery. I feel like spaghetti.”
“I don’t have a sexy voice.”
“Sure you do.” He took the bag, walked across her makeshift range.
By the time he’d finished, she was sitting on the back deck, two glasses of red on the little table.
“It’ll be about forty-five minutes. They’re backed up some.”
“I can wait.” He sat, picked up his wine. “I guess you could use a couple decent chairs back here, too.”
“I’m sorry. I need a minute.” She wrapped her arms around the nearest dog, pressed her face into fur and wept.
Simon rose, went inside and brought out a short trail of paper towels.
“I was okay when I was doing something.” She kept her arms around Peck. “I shouldn’t have stopped.”
“Tell me where you put the gun and I’ll get it so you can shoot more soup cans.”
She shook her head and, on a long breath, lifted it. “No, I think I’m done. God, I hate that. Thanks,” she murmured when he pressed the paper towels into her hand.
“That makes two of us. So what set you off?”
“The FBI was here. Special Agent Don Tawney—he’s the one from the Perry investigation. He really helped me through all of that, so it was easier going through all this again with him. He has a new partner. She’s striking—sort of like the TV version of FBI. She doesn’t like dogs.” She bent down to kiss Peck between the ears. “Doesn’t know what she’s missing. Anyway.”
She picked up the wine, sipped slowly. “It stirs up the ghosts, but I was ready for that. They traced the scarf, the one he sent me. It’s a match for the ones used on the three victims. The same make, dye lot. He bought a dozen of them from the same store, near the prison. Near where Perry is. So that squashes even the faint hope that somebody sent it to me as a sick joke.”
Fury burned a low fire in his gut. “What are they doing about it?”
“Following up, looking into, pursuing avenues. What they always do. They’re monitoring Perry, his contacts, his correspondence, on the theory that he and this one know each other. They’ll probably contact you because I told them you were staying here at night.”
She folded her legs up, drawing in. “It occurs to me that I’m a lot of work to be involved with right now. It’s not usually true—I don’t think. I’m not high maintenance because I know how to maintain myself, and I prefer it. But right now . . . So if you want to call a time-out, I get it.”
“No you don’t.”
“I do.” She turned her head to meet his eyes straight on, and now, he thought, there was the faintest light in them. “I’d think you were a cold, selfish bastard coward, but I’d get it.”
“I’m a cold, selfish bastard, but I’m not a coward.”
“You’re none of those things. Well, maybe a little bit of a bastard, but it’s part of your charm. Simon, another woman’s missing. She fits the pattern, the type.”
“Where?”
“South-central Oregon, just north of the California border. I know what she’s going through now, how afraid she is, how confused, how there’s this part of her that won’t—can’t—believe it’s happening to her. And I know that if she doesn’t find a way, if there isn’t some intersection with fate, they’ll find her body in a matter of days, in a shallow grave with a red scarf around her neck and a number on her hand.”
She needed to see something else, he thought. Control meant channeling the emotion into logic. “Why did Perry pick athletic coeds?”
“What?”
“You’ve thought about it, the FBI, the shrinks, they’d have a lot to say on it.”
“Yes. His mother was the type. She was an athlete, a runner. Apparently, she just missed being chosen for the Olympics when she was in college. She got pregnant, and instead of pursuing her interests or career, she ended up a very bitter, dissatisfied mother of two, married to a forcefully religious man. She left them, the husband, the kids—just took off one day.”
“Went missing.”
“You could say—except she’s alive and well. The FBI tracked her down once they’d identified Perry. She lives—or lived—outside of Chicago. Teaches PE in a private girls’ school.”
“Why the red scarf?”
“Perry gave her one for Christmas when he was seven. She left them a couple months later.”
“So, he was killing his mother.”
“He was killing the girl his mother was before she got pregnant, before she married the man who—according to his mother and those who knew them—abused her. He was killing the girl she talked about all the time, the happy college student who’d had her whole life in front of her before she made that mistake, before she was saddled with a child. That’s what the shrinks said.”
“What do you say?”
“I say all that’s just a bullshit excuse to cause pain and fear. Just like whoever’s killing now uses Perry as a bullshit excuse.”
“You stand there because of what he did to you. Motivation matters.”
She set down her glass. “You really think—”
“If you shut it down a minute, I’ll tell you what I think. Motivation matters,” he said again, “because why you do something connects to how you do it, who you do it to, or for. And maybe what you see at the end of it—if you’re looking that far.”
“I don’t care why he killed all those women, and Greg, why he tried to kill me. I don’t care.”
“You should. You know what motivates them.” He gestured to the dog. “Play, praise, reward—and pleasing the ones who dole all that out. Knowing it, connecting to it, and them, makes you good at what you do.”
“I don’t see what—”
“Not done. He was good at what he did. It was doing something he wasn’t as good at—When he deviated from his skill area, he got caught.”
“He murdered Greg and Kong in cold blood.” She shoved out of the chair. “You call that a deviation?”