by Dee Davis
“Surely they’ll be able to salvage something?”
“Nothing that’s going to give us any kind of lead on where he’s going or what he has planned next,” Sam said.
“Seems to me like he wanted us to find his house, even see his workshop.” Nigel had moved over to a chair, tipping it back against the wall.
“And then he wanted to erase the memory,” Sam said, taking a seat next to Nigel, anger mixing with trepidation at the thought of what could have happened.
“No,” Madison said, swiveling around to face them. “I don’t think he wanted to kill you. Or at least he wasn’t trying to do it overtly. I mean, if he’d wanted to kill you, the guy is perfectly capable of rigging up something that would have exploded on contact. But he didn’t.”
“You mean you think he wanted to give us an out?” Sam asked.
“I think he wanted to give you one.” Madison scrunched up her nose, obviously trying to sort through her thoughts. “Look, if we accept the theory that this guy is obsessed with you—and after what you told me about the Tai Chi in his workshop, I’d say that seems like a pretty safe bet—then it follows that he wanted you to figure out who he is. Maybe even find him. That seems to have been the goal of the original bombs. Starting with the Prager and working backward, you should have been able to find out who he was. Only the senators got in the way and it took a little more effort to get your attention.”
“But once he had it, you got there pretty damn quick,” Nigel interjected with a smile.
“Not as fast as I should have.” Sam shook her head, wincing with the motion. “But there’s not a lot I can do about that now.”
“Hindsight and all that,” Madison said, her smile rueful. “I know you blame yourself for all of this, but you know that it’s not true.”
“Unfortunately my heart isn’t listening. And even if I could absolve myself of the other deaths, today was clearly my fault. I know better than to go charging into a room like that. When I was at Redstone, I sailed through room 402.”
“402?” Nigel asked.
“It’s a booby-trapped room the FBI uses for hazardous device training. Actually it’s a complex of rooms, and they’re loaded with every conceivable kind of trap. Trip wires, exploding doors, pressure plates…” She trailed off, wishing she could call back time and do it all again.
“You were distracted by the photographs,” Nigel said, his tone matter-of-fact. “Manipulated, actually. Riker would have to have known you’d react that way, and so he used the fact to his advantage.”
There was truth in that, but it still rankled. “Well, no matter how or why I did it, I single-handedly managed to destroy any chance we had at figuring out what his agenda is. Not to mention evidence that could have convicted him, if we ever find him.”
“So we’ll find something else.” Madison as usual was pragmatic. “The point I was trying to make, though, is that I think finding out about his obsession is part of the plan. He wants you to know how he feels. He’s been planting clues from the beginning.”
“So you think he’s playing me?” Sam asked, frustration welling.
“To some extent, yes, I do.” Madison shrugged. “He knew you’d find the workshop. And he knew that you’d be upset enough by it to be careless. Remember, Sam, this guy has been studying you for years. He knows your work, your temperament, probably even your idiosyncrasies.”
“But he couldn’t have known for certain that I’d have stepped on the pressure plate. Or even that I’d find the workshop.”
“No. But he made a calculated guess. And adding your friends to the mix—” she shrugged, her expression telling “—Riker was probably anticipating that they also would respond to the photographs in anger.”
“So if I didn’t trigger it, Payton would have.”
“Or Nigel or Gabe,” Madison said, a shadow crossing her features. “For all we know there were more devices hidden, more booby-traps. If you hadn’t triggered that one, you’d have hit another. The point is that he wanted to show you who he is, but at the same time he couldn’t allow any evidence to survive, so he set the equation to accomplish both objectives at once.”
“And potentially kill us in the process.” Sam blew out a breath, pushing out of the chair to resume her pacing.
“He’s killed before, so he certainly wouldn’t see that as a barrier. But I think his gamble was that you’d be smart enough to get yourself out of the trap if he gave you a little time.”
“The timer.” Sam worked to keep her voice calm, her anger simmering just beneath the surface.
“Right. As I said before, we know he’s got the ability to blow you all up if he chooses to do so. But he didn’t—”
“You’re making this guy sound like an uber-villain,” Nigel said, his brows drawn together in a frown.
“He doesn’t have superpowers, if that’s what you’re getting at.” Madison smiled, then sobered. “But he is smart. Way beyond average. Which means he’s calculating every move. Even when things go wrong, he’s managed to get back on track, to get you back where he wants you.”
“So how do I beat him?” Sam asked, frustration cresting
“I don’t know for sure. But I do think he’s got a finale planned.” Madison sat back in her chair, her hands resting on her belly. “I’ve been reading about the Tai, and although my survey has really only been superficial, I was taken with the idea of opposite forces working against each other in an integrated way. You know, the old idea that without evil there can be no good. So maybe Riker’s seeing you as part of himself. One half of a whole. He builds the very thing that you try to destroy. But neither of you can exist without the other.”
“So he’s creating these bombs so that I’ll have something to do?” Sam snapped, tension coiling tight inside her.
“I think that’s oversimplifying it,” Madison said. “It’s more about his viewing your lives as a circle. He honestly believes that you can’t exist without him, and that he can’t exist without you. What I don’t know is whether his goal is to bring the circle to completion or closure.”
“You’re saying you don’t know whether he wants me to live or die.”
“Not just you. Him, too. Remember, in his mind, you’re intrinsically linked.”
“But this is all just speculation,” Nigel said. “We don’t know for certain that any of it is true.”
“No, we don’t,” Madison sighed, her tone indicating that she’d fought tougher skeptics than Nigel. “But it’s not like I’m shooting in the dark. The man has practically drawn me a picture, and combining that with years of experience, I’d say the profile is fairly accurate.”
“I wasn’t trying to question your abilities.” Nigel shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “I just don’t like the picture you’re painting.”
“Believe me, neither do I.” Madison’s gaze was almost apologetic.
“Well, if you’re right and all this is leading up to some kind of finale,” Sam said, “then we’ve got to go on the offensive.”
“But we can’t do that without more information on Riker. It’s a Catch-22.” Nigel dropped the chair legs onto the floor and pushed away from the table. “We’re stuck here chasing our tails while the bastard moves around like a bloody ghost.”
“So maybe I can help give him a little substance,” Harrison said, striding into the room. “He’s not the easiest man to run to ground. I’ll admit that. But I’ve managed a thing or two. Anyone want to see what I’ve got?”
THE CAMERA CLOSED for a tight shot of Cullen Pulaski at the podium, his face reflecting the bland neutrality that characterized most politicos. But J.T. didn’t care about Pulaski. He’d learned a long time ago that men like him made promises that would never be kept. Offered banal words of encouragement that meant absolutely nothing.
Walter Atherton had been such a man. J.T. suppressed a smile, and focused his energy on the picture, muting it so that the endless stream of rhetoric wouldn’t distract.
He searched the faces of the people flanking the podium, looking for Samantha. He was already fairly certain she wasn’t there. He’d seen her at his house. Watched from the safe distance of the overgrowth as she’d walked through his sanctuary—following the trail he’d left her—and then stepped neatly into the trap he’d laid.
But just as he’d expected, she’d risen to the occasion, her experience and instincts coming together to save her from destruction. He’d stayed to watch as she shook off the effects of her ordeal, her strength of character filling him with pride. She’d passed his test with flying colors. Not that he’d ever doubted her.
He’d hated destroying his home. Especially Nolan Ryan’s uniform. It had been a prized possession for many years. His first conquest. But the Tao taught that a man must keep his needs simple. And that meant sacrificing everything in his search for completion.
His thoughts turned again to Samantha.
He’d wanted to stay, to see her begin to unravel his latest puzzle, but the longer he remained the more he risked exposure, and like Samantha, he was shrewd enough to know when it was time to retreat.
He’d bought the trailer three months ago, paying cash, and parked it on an isolated parcel of land that hadn’t seen human habitation for fifty years or more. It would provide a safe haven for operations, his beloved tools all safely housed here until he could complete his mission. The fact that it was less than half a mile from Samantha’s safe house was an added bonus, a quirk of fate that only underscored what had been destined from the beginning—a cosmic connection that he could neither deny nor sever.
They were one and the same, he and Samantha. And though the plan had been altered, the goal had never changed. All he had to do was remove one last obstacle. To save Samantha from her own misguided libido. He’d been angry at first, but then he’d realized that it wasn’t entirely her fault—temptation could be a very seductive thing. She just needed him to help her find her way, and that’s exactly what he intended to do.
J.T. turned his attention back to the television. Pulaski was still talking. Answering questions as if he honestly had answers. J.T. swallowed a laugh.
Payton Reynolds stood with Gabriel Roarke just to Pulaski’s right. Muscled minions—nothing more. They were like powerful puppets, jumping whenever men like Pulaski crooked their fingers. J.T. had encountered the type often. In grade school they were bullies; in high school, jocks who took pleasure in tormenting others; in college they had been frat boys; and in the army, platoon leaders. Whatever their title, the role was always the same. Follow orders, fit the mold. Deviation meant rejection.
Oh yes, J.T. knew the type well. And despised it.
He shook his head, forcing himself to focus. Retribution was almost at hand, his plan carefully set into place. But as with everything in life, timing was crucial. Like jumping rope, you had to feel the rhythm—waiting, waiting—until the moment was right, and then you moved.
He knew that Samantha was at Cullen’s headquarters. The receptionist there had verified the fact without even asking for his name. Stupid bitch.
He’d thought the real trick would be finding Payton. The man was an expert at disappearing, after all, but he needn’t have worried, since Payton had just presented himself front and center on the television, a lackey’s lackey, waiting for his master’s orders. It was almost as if fate had ordered him there just for J.T.
The bobble-headed Nolan Ryan nodded in agreement, and J.T. sighed. Some things he simply could not part with. He glanced back at the TV, excitement swelling inside him. All the pieces were in place, the players exactly where he wanted them to be.
It was time for action.
He reached for the photograph of Samantha he kept by his bed, letting his gaze linger on the smooth curves of her face. She smiled up at him, her eyes full of promise, and he closed his eyes, imagining that she was waiting for him.
Soon, Samantha. Soon…
CHAPTER THIRTY
“THERE’S NOT AS MUCH about him as I’d have liked, but there’s enough to establish that the guy’s a perpetual loser.” Harrison opened the file he’d brought, spreading papers across the table. “James Riker is officially James Thomas Riker. Known as J.T. to his friends. Which, if I had to call, I’d say numbered in the single digits.”
“Fits my profile of him,” Madison said, her tone matter-of-fact.
“J.T.?” Sam asked, the skin on her arms crawling.
“Yeah, seems like it started out as a nickname. I’ve got references to it from Abilene and even the Blue Goose, but employment records refer to him as James Riker, and then apparently when he moved back to Texas from Virginia, he changed everything, including his driver’s license, to J.T. Took a while to verify the connection between the names. But I’ve got it now. J.T. Riker and James Riker are definitely one and the same.”
“You recognize the name?” Madison asked, her gaze appraising.
“I think so.” Sam nodded. “There was a guy in Abilene. His name was J.T. I never knew his last name. So I didn’t think to make the connection to James Riker. Did you get the driver’s license?”
“Yeah.” Harrison opened a file folder. “But I can do you one better. Abilene sent his personnel photo.” He pulled out a fax and a photocopy and handed it to Sam.
She stared down into the face of her nemesis. Even though the picture had been taken years ago, Sam remembered the man. Not so much for anything he’d done. It was rather the fact that he hadn’t done anything at all. Simply been there. A shadow in her life. A presence she should have noticed, but somehow had dismissed as unimportant.
The second photo was a balding version of the first. Riker hadn’t aged well. Whatever promise the man had shown in Abilene, it was gone now.
“I recognize him,” Sam said, looking again at the first photo. “He was always underfoot. I put it down to misguided enthusiasm. He wanted to work crime scenes, but hadn’t been able to make the team.”
“Were the two of you friends?” Madison asked.
“No. I wouldn’t even call us acquaintances really. He just hung around the lab, and so I talked to him from time to time.”
“How about from the Blue Goose? You remember him there?” Nigel asked.
Sam shook her head. “No. I think if I’d known that, then I’d have attached more significance in Abilene. Or maybe not.” She sighed. “It’s amazing how people can manage to slip under the radar.”
“Sometimes it’s not that hard,” Madison said. “Unfortunately, it’s a by-product of our society that people who are neither beautiful nor charismatic, or even hideously deformed, get lost in the shuffle. Average can be the key to invisibility.”
“Obviously a benefit if you’re planning to become a bomber.” Harrison sat down at the table.
“Or the reason you do it in the first place,” Madison responded. “What do we know about Riker’s past?”
Harrison consulted his notes. “He was born in Detroit, the son of an assembly line worker and a beautician. He had five siblings. And despite the double income, money was apparently tight. They headed south when the American auto industry hit the skids, and landed in Houston. Riker was five. I’ve got school records here, and they match a lot of what you said, Madison. The guy was bright—his grades in elementary and the beginning of middle school topped the charts, but then they start to drop, and according to this—” he pulled out a report “—he started isolating himself from the other students. Never a problem in any kind of Columbine way, but I’m betting he had the same kind of thoughts. There are eight incident reports in his ninth grade year alone. Mainly bathroom shenanigans.”
“He was bothering other kids?” Sam asked.
“No.” Madison shook her head. “He was the target, right?”
“Yup.” Harrison nodded. “This guy evidently took the idea of dweeb to new levels.”
“And the seeds for his need to fit into the macho world were sewn. Any evidence of military service?”
Again Harris
on nodded. “Enlisted right out of high school. Army. But he washed out in less than a month.”
“How about college?” Madison’s eyes narrowed in thought.
“He got in to A&M. Long before you were there, Sam. And declared himself an engineering major. But he didn’t last there either. Three semesters.” Harrison consulted his notes. “He had good grades, but evidently couldn’t cut it.”
“Same pattern.” Madison nodded. “This guy wants to fit in. Maybe to be like his father, I don’t know. But he’s definitely got a macho complex going. It’s there in the choices he makes. The army, wanting to do police work. Even his preoccupation with bombs. It’s a pretty testosterone-driven field.” She shot an apologetic glance at Sam. “And it takes a certain amount of brains as well.”
“So why didn’t he succeed?” Sam asked. “I did.”
“Any number of reasons, really. But I’m betting it had to do with his inability to be part of a team. The guy’s social skills are probably stunted at best. He’s lived on the outside looking in for such a long time that fitting in has become an impossibility. At least at the level it takes for something like ordnance work.”
“So he turned to bombing?” Harrison asked.
“Probably the other way around. I suspect he made bombs first, and then in his effort to belong, he thought he could fit in by using his expertise for good. But when that was thwarted, he sank back into his hole.”
“And fixated on Sam,” Nigel offered.
“Actually, I think the fixation is on her success. She is what he wanted to be, and so in creating his fantasy, he’s cast himself as her opposite. Which based on his fascination with Eastern philosophy would make him a part of that success.”
“Especially in a situation where she shines due to something he’s done?” Nigel asked, his brows drawn together in thought.