by Debra Webb
“You okay?”
She wiped her eyes and nose and lifted her tear-filled gaze to his. “I…was back at the hospital. On the gurney. Only this time I couldn’t wake up because…I was dead.”
He pulled her into his arms and held her tightly in spite of the alarms going off in his head. This was too personal, too close. But he had to comfort her. “It was just a dream. The photos Detective Lyons showed you probably prompted the nightmare. You’re fine.”
She drew away. Shook her head. “I’m not fine. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know anything.” She wrenched her arms free of his touch. “Nothing’s ever going to be fine again.”
The emotional turmoil and desperation were to be expected after a day like today. “The way you feel right now is completely understandable. You have to trust me on that.” He mustered up a smile. “Remember, I used to be a psychologist.”
Even that didn’t stop the quivering of her lips. He shouldn’t stare at her full mouth for more than a second, but he did. She had beautiful lips.
“Yeah, yeah. All this crap is understandable.” She sniffed. “So can I call you Doc?” That she managed a little smile through the tears still shining in her eyes weakened his defenses.
“Sure. Why not? I’ve been called worse.”
This time she laughed out loud. The sound was a little shaky, but a whole lot sweet. It was the first time he’d heard her laugh. He liked the way it sounded. Liked the way her whole face lit up.
“I can’t believe you don’t have hot cocoa, Doc.” She pushed the hair back from her face. “It’s practically winter. Everybody stocks cocoa when it gets cold. Don’t you know that?”
“I take it you’re a chocolate fan as well.” That she was recognizing more and more of her likes and dislikes was hopeful.
“It would seem so.” She took a deep, uneven breath. “I guess more tea would be okay.”
“Come on.” He stood, offered his hand. “We’ll see what we can dig up.”
She placed her palm in his and his heart reacted. The response stunned Patrick. He hadn’t felt that particular squeezing sensation of excitement in…years. He shouldn’t now, but he couldn’t let go. She needed his touch.
When they discovered a box of instant hot cocoa mix he didn’t remember buying, his client was exceedingly pleased. A little boiling water and they were in business.
“This is heaven,” she insisted as she held the cup of hot cocoa and breathed in its sweet smell.
“Enjoy.” He pulled a chair from the kitchen table and waited for her to sit.
“Thank you.” She eased into the chair, careful not to spill her cocoa.
He dropped into the chair next to her, his attention abruptly wandering to her state of dress. She was wearing his T-shirt. No jeans covered her toned legs.
Quite shortsighted of him not to consider that would happen when he’d offered the T-shirt. His body tightened irrationally. It hadn’t been that long since he’d been this close to a half-naked woman. The whole protector thing was obviously playing havoc with his logic.
He cleared his mind and focused back on business. “Tell me about your dream.” Often dreams were gateways to one’s innermost thoughts and fears. Maybe he could glean additional insight from her.
“I was back in the hospital. I couldn’t move or speak or even open my eyes.” She shuddered. “It was horrible.”
“Think carefully.” He cradled his cup of cocoa, let the heat erase the feel of her skin from his palm. “The smallest detail could be significant.”
She sat very still for long enough to make him rethink his question. If her condition were unstable, she had displayed no symptoms so far. He needed to prod her, but not push too hard. It was a delicate balance. One he hadn’t practiced in almost three years.
“There was someone speaking to me.” Lines of concentration marked her brow as she chewed on her bottom lip. “A man, I think.”
Patrick shifted in his chair, uncomfortable with where his thoughts detoured when she did that. She was a client. A client with a major issue. He had to keep his thoughts in line. Strange, he hadn’t experienced this problem before in his career at the Colby Agency. But he understood it for what it was. The need to protect. To win. He’d failed his wife and himself. Some part of him subconsciously wanted to ensure he didn’t fail this time. This woman.
“Can you recall anything he said?”
“Something about termination.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure.”
“That’s okay. Whatever you can recall is all that matters.” Despite his reassurance, he felt perched on the edge of discovery. He wanted her to remember more.
“Wait.” She sat up straighter. “There was a woman.”
Anticipation fired in his veins. “Did she speak?”
Sande shook her head slowly. “I don’t…No. Wait. She did. She argued with the man. I couldn’t make out her words, but she didn’t agree with his decision.”
Had Sande been a part of an experiment scheduled for termination? The concept was a bit sci-fi, but not totally outside the realm of feasibility. There were unscrupulous scientists out there who would try most anything given the funding and opportunity.
Patrick’s cell phone vibrated. “Keep going over the details.” He withdrew the phone from his pocket. “I should take this call.”
He frowned. Almost 1:00 a.m. He checked the screen. Not Windy. Unknown caller. “O’Brien.”
“Mr. O’Brien, this is Alma Spears. I know it’s the middle of the night but I need to talk to you.”
Patrick’s senses moved to a new level of alert. “How can I help you?” He didn’t call her by name so as not to distract Sande.
“I’m sorry to phone so late, but something strange happened here tonight and I thought you might want to know.”
More of that fierce tension rippled through his body. “I’m listening.”
“I think Sande is in real danger. One of those men called and insisted I tell him where she was. I kept telling him I didn’t know, but I don’t think he believed me.”
“When was this?” Patrick was out of his chair before the order to stand had formed in his brain.
“About half an hour ago.” She fell silent for several seconds. “I don’t know how to say this, but I feel like he might have been threatening me.”
“Is there someone you could stay with tonight?” Patrick immediately considered calling Detective Lyons to request protection for the woman.
“No, there’s no place to go. I’m on my own.” She sighed. “Maybe I’m overreacting. It was just such an uncomfortable conversation.”
“I’m coming over.” The decision was made and spoken in the same instant. His gaze settled on Sande. He would have no choice but to take her along. No way was he allowing her out of his sight. Stay put, and don’t let anyone in. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
Ms. Spears assured him she would do as he instructed, and he ended the call. “Get dressed.” He put his cup in the sink and headed for his room to dress as well, without waiting for Sande’s response.
“What’s going on? Was that Windy?” Her voice followed him down the hall.
“No.” He paused long enough to look back at her. “That was Alma Spears. She needs to talk to me. We’re going over there. We need to hurry.”
It wasn’t until that moment that he considered he’d been talking to Sande all this time while wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants. She wasn’t the only one who’d been sitting around that table half-dressed. He should have pulled on a T-shirt. Where was his sense of professionalism? Missing in action, obviously.
By the time he’d dressed and grabbed his coat from the closet, Sande was ready as well.
“Can you tell me what she said?”
“On the way.”
He didn’t want to waste any time. En route, he put in a call to Windy. He wasn’t about to jump into a situation, putting his client at risk, without backup. For all he knew, someone could have forced Ms. Spears
to make that call. On second thought, he called Detective Lyons, too. Might as well go in prepared.
As they rolled down the dark, quiet street where Ms. Spears lived, Sande abruptly grasped the armrest. “I can’t go back there.”
Patrick braked. Windy wasn’t here yet. He should hold off on pulling into the driveway until either she or Lyons was on hand.
“What’s wrong?” He shifted his full attention to the woman seated next to him. Her agitation was palpable. The tension vibrating in her small frame set him on edge.
“This is where they picked me up.” She turned her face to his. “They were supposed to terminate me. But they didn’t. They made a mistake or something.”
Patrick put the vehicle in Park and surveyed the street. Deserted. No vehicles other than the ones under carports. “Did you experience this in the dream?”
She moved her head from side to side in a slow, hypnotic manner. “I just know.” She pointed to the house where Nancy Childers had been murdered. “I was there. They came for me. I tried to run, but they caught me.”
Patrick scrubbed a hand over his chin. New warnings were going off in his head. He should drive away. Wait down the block for Lyons or Windy.
The question was settled when Windy’s car pulled up next to his. “You want to go to the door now or wait for Lyons?” she asked as soon as they’d lowered their windows. But then the detective roared up the street, parked nose to nose with Patrick.
Patrick glanced at his partner. “Impeccable timing.”
She rolled her eyes, obviously not caring for the cop’s condescending attitude any more than he did.
Before opening his door, Patrick said to Sande, “Stay close to me.”
She nodded.
“What the devil is going on?” Lyons demanded as he approached the sidewalk where Patrick waited.
“Exactly what I told you on the phone.” He gestured to Alma Spears’s home. “She called. I responded.”
The detective didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue. “Well, let’s check it out.”
As instructed, Sande stuck close to Patrick’s side as the four of them crossed the street to the house. Patrick rapped on the door. “Ms. Spears, it’s Patrick O’Brien.”
No response.
Lyons tipped his head. “See if it’s locked.”
Patrick didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his fingers around the knob and gave it a twist. The door opened. Beside him, Sande shivered.
Nancy Childers’s door had been ajar when her body was discovered. Did this mean…
“Step aside,” Lyons ordered as he withdrew his service weapon.
Patrick was glad to do so. He kept Sande close behind him and followed the detective inside. Windy brought up the rear.
“Ms. Spears!” Lyons called out. “This is Detective Lyons. If you’re hiding, you can come out. You’re safe now.”
Silence echoed in the house. The living room and adjoining dining room were as deserted as the street outside.
“I’ll take the kitchen,” Windy said, not waiting for the detective’s authorization.
“I’ve got the upstairs,” Patrick announced.
“Garage,” Lyons barked, not about to be outdone.
“Stay behind me,” Patrick murmured to Sande as they approached the narrow staircase.
She nodded and moved in close behind him once more.
Slowly, listening intently for the slightest sound, Patrick climbed the stairs. On the second-story landing, he flipped a switch to flood the corridor with light. Four doors. The first was a bedroom. Next a bathroom. Still no sign of the resident.
“Wait.” Sande grasped his arm. “I don’t think I can do this.”
Patrick nodded. “Let me take you back down to stay with Windy.”
For several deafeningly quiet seconds Sande stood frozen, uncertain what to do. Then she shook her head. “No. I’m going with you.”
“You’re sure?” Although he doubted that any intruder would hang around after they’d entered the house, he couldn’t be certain.
She nodded, crept closer to him.
“Okay.”
The next door was to another bedroom that obviously served as a sewing room.
As Patrick moved toward the final door, adrenaline rushed through him. Every instinct warned that trouble waited behind it.
He reached out, grasped the knob, then opened the door. Darkness greeted them, as it had in the other rooms. He flipped the switch and light flooded the space.
The initial image his brain assimilated was Alma Spears lying peacefully on her bed. Her arms were at her sides, her eyes closed. On first glance she appeared to be sleeping. But after a moment or two her chest wasn’t rising and falling with the intake and release of air.
She wasn’t breathing.
He rushed to the bed, felt her carotid artery. No pulse. But her skin was still warm.
“Have Lyons call 9-1-1.”
Sande rushed from the room. Patrick assumed the necessary position for performing CPR.
By the time Sande returned, he knew he was getting nowhere fast. Windy elbowed him aside. “Let me take over.”
Patrick didn’t resist.
He watched as his partner delivered the life-giving puffs of breath, then repeated the chest compressions.
Wouldn’t matter.
Alma Spears was dead.
Lyons rushed into the room. “Paramedics are on their way.” He moved in next to Windy, tried to help.
“It was supposed to be me,” Sande murmured.
Patrick turned to her, and her gaze met his. “I didn’t need a nightmare to tell me.” Her attention settled on the bed once more. “I’m supposed to be dead.”
Patrick’s arm was around her shoulders before his brain could warn that the maneuver might not be such a good idea. “I told you I wouldn’t let anything happen to you and I won’t. You have to trust me.”
Her eyes searched his. “There are two things I know for sure. That I do trust you.” Her gaze flicked back to the unmoving body of the older woman. “And that I’m supposed to be dead.”
When Patrick would have protested, she put her hands over her ears, then held them palms out to silence him.
“You don’t understand. I am supposed to be dead. I know that with every fiber of my being.” Sande took a step back, physically distancing herself from Patrick. “And until I’m dead, anyone who gets in the way will die.”
Chapter Eight
Alma Spears had been suffocated with her own pillow. A definite deviation from the M.O. of the other murders related to Detective Lyons’s case.
It was five o’clock Saturday morning before Patrick was able to bring Sande back to his house. Lyons had insisted that they hang around until the neighbors were interviewed and the coroner had taken the body away.
The detective was convinced that Ms. Spears was not involved in the identity theft operation, but was perhaps suspected of knowing too much just because she was a nosy neighbor. Patrick had reached the same conclusion, though he wasn’t ruling out anything just yet. He had learned the hard way that even the most innocuous situation could in reality be devastation in disguise.
Patrick peeked into the guest room to ensure Sande was finally asleep. He could use more coffee. Sleep was out of the question for him. During their initial interview Lyons had given him ten minutes to review first-hand the file so far amassed on the case. His captain wouldn’t be happy if he discovered that one of his detectives had provided too much information to an outsider regarding an ongoing investigation. To give an overview was one thing, but to allow Patrick to flip through the reports was entirely another. But Lyons had taken the risk. His motive was easily discernible. Lyons wanted to solve the case. Whatever it took.
There were details in the case file that didn’t compute for Patrick. Lyons himself confessed to being baffled by the strange directions the sparse evidence and reports accumulated indicated. Which was probably the only reason Lyons had allowed Patrick access
to the file.
Ten victims, excluding Alma Spears. Three cities, D.C., Chicago and New York. Ten murders, all with the same M.O., again excluding Alma. Each victim used a stolen identity; the Sande Williams and Nancy Childers identity appeared to have been stolen twice.
If that’s Sande Williams…then who am I?
That was the question of the hour. Sande had asked for help from the Colby Agency nearly forty-eight hours ago, and they were no closer to discovering her past or the reason she’d awakened at the morgue than they had been then.
Not a single hit had come back on her prints. No one had reported her missing. Other than the driver’s license and social security number, there was absolutely nothing that connected her to this planet.
But no one came into the world fully grown. Prior to forty-eight hours ago this woman existed somewhere, somehow. Finding out how and where might be impossible, however, if significant portions of her memory did not return. The drug screen results would be back later today or early tomorrow. Patrick was hoping those results would provide an answer. If drugs were involved, reconstructing Sande’s past successfully would depend entirely on the cellular damage left behind.
If drugs weren’t involved, then he would have to assume that her reasons for not remembering were related to psychological trauma. Exposing her to places where she had reportedly been before may or may not have prodded the few memories that had surfaced thus far. The dream, as well, could be relevant, but just as easily not. The brain still held many mysteries, not the least of which was memory. In recent years much had been learned about how activities and thoughts were stored in one’s cells. And yet there was so very, very much more to learn.
That Sande had the same name as a murder victim suspected of having stolen identities could be coincidence, but not likely. Still, if the victims were related, there had to be a connection.
His client as well as Nancy Childers had supposedly worked at Peyton and Wyatt, a corporate accounting firm that provided consulting analysis as well as accounting support for large corporations. Where had the other victims been employed? Could that be the connection?