Lone Wolf

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Lone Wolf Page 23

by Sara Driscoll


  “It was nice of you to stop by.”

  “Was happy to. She’s a scrappy little kid who’s had a hard time, but she’ll make it. I didn’t want to overstay my welcome and it was getting a little crowded in there, so I didn’t stay long. I’ll try to stop by again sometime. Well, I won’t hold you up. But . . .” He shifted his weight from foot to foot for a second or two. “If you’re free, I’d love to see you sometime. Assuming I’m not overstepping or anything.”

  “That sounds lovely. Maybe dinner instead of coffee with an abrupt exit this time?”

  He laughed. “Somehow I think that’s always a risk with you. Which I get because when I’m on shift, that’s always a risk with me.”

  “I knew you’d understand.” She dug in her pocket and pulled out a business card. “Call me.”

  He gave her a salute, raising two fingers to his temple, the card tucked between them. “Will do. Enjoy your visit.” He gave Hawk a pat, and then continued down the hallway, whistling a jaunty tune.

  Meg stood and watched until he rounded the corner and disappeared from view. “Come on, Hawk, let’s go see our patient.”

  Jill’s room was near the end of the hallway. “Here we are. Room four-oh-five.” Meg knocked on the closed door.

  A woman’s voice called, “Come in.”

  Meg pushed open the door and allowed Hawk to precede her into the room. It was a typical hospital room—a single bed anchored the center of the space with a rolling table, a visitor’s chair occupied by a middle-aged woman, a small bedside table covered with an explosion of flowers and cards, and a single window framed by curtains in pastel stripes to match the bed’s privacy curtain, which was currently pushed back to the wall. A small girl was in the bed, and a man sat on the edge of it, his back to Meg. The girl was dwarfed by the enormous fuzzy brown bear that lay beside her on the bed. A gift from Webb? Or the man on the bed?

  The girl gasped when she saw Hawk, causing the man to twist toward the door. Meg nearly stopped dead in surprise as Clay McCord turned to face her, but kept moving and allowed the door to close behind her.

  What is he doing here? The only possible reason rose to mind and her temper spiked from zero to sixty, as much for herself as for him. Had she fallen for his act, giving up information so he could take advantage? Ignoring McCord’s presence, she approached the woman in the chair, holding out her hand. “Mrs. Cahill, I’m Meg Jennings. We spoke on the phone.”

  “So nice to meet you.” Her gaze dropped down to Hawk, concern clouding her expression. “Your dog. He’s been hurt?”

  “Just a little mishap on Friday when we caught the bomber, but it’s nothing serious. It’s a lot of bandage, so it looks worse than it is, but it’s really just a tough spot to keep covered. Give him a week or two and he’ll be good as new.” She took a step closer to the bed. “Jill, do you remember me? Hawk and I found you at the Whitten Building.”

  Jill angled her pale face up toward Meg, but there was no recognition in her eyes.

  Meg gave her a graceful out. “It’s okay if you don’t recognize me. I was kind of in the background. Do you remember Hawk? He climbed into the rubble with you and stayed with you until the firefighters could get to you.”

  Jill didn’t say anything, but nodded enthusiastically, her eyes fixed on Hawk.

  “Would you like to visit with Hawk?” Meg turned to Mrs. Cahill. “Would that be all right? He’s very clean, just had a bath this morning, and he’s very gentle. He won’t hurt her.”

  “Hurt her? He saved her life. Of course that would be all right.” Mrs. Cahill glanced from the dog to the bed to the dog again. “Can he get up on the bed with that leg? Jill’s doing much better but isn’t supposed to get out of bed without the nurses. She’d love to spend some time with him, but won’t that hurt him?”

  “I’ll help him get up.”

  The woman beamed at Hawk and then stood to approach him. “Can I touch him?”

  “It’s absolutely fine to touch him. He’s very friendly.” Meg looked down at Hawk. “Hawk, say hi.”

  Hawk promptly looked toward Mrs. Cahill, sat down, and raised a forepaw to her.

  She laughed and graciously shook it. “Such lovely manners.”

  Meg slid a long look toward McCord, who was still turned to face her. “If you don’t mind?”

  McCord looked slightly taken aback at her stiff formality, but stood and moved out of the way, allowing Meg to pat the side the bed. “Hawk, up!”

  Meg only had to give minimal help as he leapt lightly onto the edge of the bed and lay down beside Jill, his shoulder at her hip. She threw her arms around him and buried her face in the fur of his neck, the gigantic teddy bear instantly forgotten in the presence of a warm, friendly dog. “I remember you. You saved me.”

  Mrs. Cahill went to the bed to stand with her daughter, running one hand down Hawk’s back, smiling as his tail thumped against the bedding.

  Meg turned to McCord and jerked her head toward the far end of the room to stand right beside the door, but where she could still keep an eye on Hawk. He wouldn’t hurt Jill on purpose but sometimes his enthusiasm got away from him.

  “What are you doing here?” she hissed, keeping her voice low so it wouldn’t carry. “If you think you can exploit me to find a good story to write—”

  “Give me a little credit, will you?” His tone became defensive. “Yes, I admit I didn’t know about her until you told me her story, but after everything wrapped up, I was done looking at the bad and wanted to concentrate on the good. So I thought I’d come and introduce myself to Jill. Nice catch on Friday, by the way. You and Hawk are an amazing team.” His gaze settled on the cut at her temple, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What happened to you?”

  “I got too close to the rock aimed at my head. Stop trying to change the subject.” Meg sidled closer to McCord so she could drop her voice even further. “You did come here to write a story.”

  “Okay, I’ll admit—”

  “I knew it!” Her eyes narrowed to slits as she drilled an index finger into his chest. “You newspaper reporters are all alike. Heartless bastards just living to chase a headline. Even to the extent of exploiting children. I thought you were different. Guess I was wrong.” She turned away, disappointment rising in her chest like a wave. After working with him during this case, she thought he was better than that. That while most reporters couldn’t be trusted, he was the exception. Finding out she was wrong was a blow that stung more than she anticipated. Stupid, Meg. When will you learn?

  “Wait.” He shot out a hand and grabbed her arm, hard. When she winced, he loosened his grip, but didn’t let go, slowly tugging her back toward him. “You’re not being fair. I’m not exploiting a child, for God’s sake. Yes, I’m an investigative journalist. Yes, my bread and butter depends on finding stories, the bigger, the better. But at this point in the game, I get to pick my topics. And if I want to write a human interest piece about the spirit the bomber couldn’t break to counter to all the horrific bomber articles I’ve written, then that’s my choice. Especially when that spirit belongs to a very brave ten-year-old little girl and I have parental permission. Her mother loves the idea. Not because of the notoriety, but because her daughter nearly died and this is the best way she can think of to thumb her nose at a man who would kill without thought or a scrap of remorse. It’s a way for them to get some of their own spirit back.”

  He released her arm and then rubbed at her biceps, soothing the pressure point. “I suggested the article use just a false first name to keep her anonymous. The idea is to tell her story, describe her struggles, highlight her successes, and showcase her hope. Have you talked to Jill? She’s a remarkable child. She feels sorry for Mannew, that he would have so much hate inside him to strike out like that. And this experience has changed her. She wanted to be a veterinarian before, but now she wants to go into social work. To be able to work with people like Mannew and make a difference in their lives before they get to that point. Isn’t this a
story to share with the nation? With those who were affected by Mannew, hurt by him? To show he may have knocked us back a step, but he can’t even beat a ten-year-old girl. That’s the story I want to tell.” He stepped back, resignation etched deep into the lines around his eyes. “And if that makes me a heartless bastard, then so be it.”

  He started to turn away, but this time she caught his arm to echo his action. “Wait.” She searched his face, looking for some indication he was lying, pulling a reporter’s trick and trying to put one over on her. But his gaze was clear and direct and she could discern no deception. “You really mean that, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” His eyes were guarded, cautious, waiting for her to strike again.

  She swallowed hard, deciding if she’d be an idiot to stick her neck out for him. With him. Take a leap for once. “Then I’m sorry I jumped to the wrong conclusion. At the PD and at the Bureau, we’re taught reporters are . . .”

  “The enemy?”

  “Yeah, pretty much. That you guys will go to any length for a story and will blow a case wide open in the middle of the investigation for your own glory, possibly giving the perp the heads-up and allowing him to get away, sometimes literally with murder. Or theft. Or terrorism.”

  “That’s not the way I operate.”

  “And I’ve known that all case long. Some of my colleagues wondered if you might have been the bomber, sending yourself coded messages to put yourself in the spotlight. I’ve been the one telling them I thought you were on the level. And then I saw you here and totally overreacted. I’m sorry. Can I blame it on too much stress and not enough sleep lately?”

  He had the grace to chuckle and let her and her short, exhausted temper off the hook. “Sounds perfectly reasonable to me.”

  They turned back to the girl on the bed, laughing with her mother as she accepted a long, slow lick from Hawk.

  “I’d still love to do a story on you and Hawk,” McCord said, sotto voce.

  She sent him a slitted side glance. “Now you’re pushing.”

  “Can’t blame a guy for trying. And continuing to try, especially at times when you’re feeling like you owe me one.” He crossed his arms over his chest, and while his eyes never looked away from the girl and the dog, one eyebrow cocked in challenge. “You just wait; I’ll wear you down yet.”

  “Good luck with that. You got my picture in the paper, that’s more than enough for me.”

  “We’ll see. You sure he’s okay?”

  “He will be.” She dropped her voice so there was no chance mother or daughter could hear her. “Mannew only grazed him. Even though I had a gun, he clearly thought Hawk was the bigger threat, the one that needed to be taken out first. He came close, but not close enough.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Amen to that. And in the end, Hawk took him down.” She sent him a sly, sidelong glance. “I’ll tell you the full story later if you promise it never makes it to print.”

  He stared back, but something in her expression must have told him she’d drawn her line in the sand. “Fine,” he muttered, and turned back to the bed.

  Hawk licked Jill’s cheek again, and she let out a high-pitched giggle, the sound lightening the hearts of the adults in the room.

  “Ya done good, kid.” McCord gave Meg a gentle nudge in the rib with his elbow. “As I said, you and that dog are a heck of a team.”

  “He does all the hard work.”

  “Nah. You want people to think that, but I know better. It’s teamwork through and through, and the sum is much greater than the individual parts.”

  “Still gunning for that story, aren’t you?”

  “Right there? Nope. Just telling it like I see it.”

  They turned back to the bed and the picture of peace and hope before them. There would be more violence to come, more stories to cover, and more lives to save.

  But for now, everything was right with their world. This was what they loved best and worked for.

  This was their reward.

  Don't missing the next book in Sara Driscoll's

  FBI K-9 series

  Before It's Too Late

  Keep reading for a special sneak peek . . .

  Chapter One

  Opening Volley: The first shots fired in a war.

  Monday, May 22, 10:04 PM

  Arlington National Cemetery

  Arlington, Virginia

  Meg Jennings stood at the edge of the open grave, her body cold as she stared down at death. Not the kind of death expected in such a place, but the body of a woman lying in a soldier’s grave. A soldier meant to rest in peace, solitary in his grave, surrounded by countless row upon row of his fellow soldiers.

  Solitary no more.

  She never should have been there. And even if she was supposed to be there, they were supposed to find her. To save her.

  They’d failed.

  The artificially lit scene at her feet told a tale of terror in horrifying detail: from the woman’s fingertips, nails cruelly ripped off, the ends of her fingers worn to stumps and studded with splinters of wood, bloodied flesh torn away to reveal the ghostly glint of bone; to the crimson droplets splattered over face and clothes; to the ragged gouges in the lining of the coffin, right through to the wooden lid.

  They’d come too late. She’d died while they wasted precious time.

  A soft whine drew her gaze down to the black Labrador at her side, restlessly shifting his weight at the end of a short leash. Hawk, still in his dirt-caked navy and yellow FBI vest, looked up at her with sad eyes. He’d come to find life, but all they’d found was death. For a search-and-rescue dog, nothing was more devastating.

  She crouched down beside him, slinging an arm around him to tip her head against his. “I know, bud, I know. You tried so hard and did everything right. We let you down too. I’m sorry.” Her gaze slid across to the open slice of earth to fall over tumbled black hair and deathly-white skin. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Footsteps sounded behind her. “I talked to Craig. He’s bringing Lauren and Scott back in. And agents and Evidence Response are on their way.”

  She turned to find Brian Foster standing behind her, his German shepherd, Lacey, at his side. His green eyes seemed even more luminous than usual, lit by the staged lighting and highlighted by the paleness of his skin beneath his untidy dark hair. He held out his hand, as filthy as hers, and met her eyes. They’d worked side-by-side as part of the FBI’s Human Scent Evidence team for so long, tracking suspects and rescuing the lost, that words weren’t needed. They could read each other like open books, and Meg knew instinctively Brian was suffering as much as she.

  She slid her hand into his, fingers clamping tight, and let him pull her to her feet. But once upright, he didn’t release her hand. Shoulder-to-shoulder, they stood with their dogs, trying vainly to fathom the unfathomable.

  Meg finally broke the silence with the question that had haunted her for hours. “Why me?”

  Brian didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I don’t know.” He rubbed his free hand over his forehead, unmindful of the dark smudge his fingers left behind.

  “Brian, look at her.”

  His gaze flicked sideways at her, then down into the grave, but he remained silent.

  “Am I crazy? Am I the only one seeing it?” she pushed.

  Brian’s sigh was full of discouragement. “No, you’re not the only one.” Suddenly he turned on her, the anger from a night gone badly wrong glinting in his eyes and in the punch of his words. “You need me to say it? That he not only sent you a message to find her, but she looks like you as well? That he’s sending you in search of your own death?”

  Meg expected his words to compound the darkness crowding her, but instead, to her surprise, the gloom lightened fractionally. She wasn’t crazy. She gripped his hand tighter. “I knew you’d be with me on this.”

  Solidarity met her grip strength for strength. “Always.” Anger washed away under the weight of the same guilt and exhaustion s
he felt, his voice was calmer now. “This scares me. Assuming it’s a guy, because they almost always are, what the hell is he trying to prove?”

  “I don’t know. But we have to find out before he takes someone else.”

  “You think he intends to take more?”

  “I can’t prove it, but I have a bad feeling. He goes to all this trouble, leads us on this kind of wild goose chase and plans on only killing once? My gut isn’t buying it.”

  “I trust your gut; it’s never steered us wrong before. So what do we do now? We weren’t sitting around with our feet up. Where did we go wrong?”

  Meg stared at the woman in the grave, turning the events of the past few hours over and over in her mind.

  * * *

  The hound dog mix was found wandering alone outside an Arlington dog park at dusk. Sporting a camouflage service dog vest, she dragged her leash behind her as she ran down the sidewalk, her head sweeping from side to side, as if searching for her owner. One of the neighbors, a dog owner herself, had spotted the dog and lured her closer with a treat before catching her leash. She found the note peeking out from the small plastic bone containing waste bags.

  To: Meg Jennings, Forensic Canine Unit, FBI: IMHFL HVVGJ RVYUL HHCGW FSGGX RAUUL LRAVS QWBQY VICPE OIRCR GVCCX KIWNS FOCUX LGEKR JSHJI UPCHI

  When the Good Samaritan didn’t get an answer at either of the phone numbers listed on the dog’s collar, she called the FBI to report both the dog and the note. Special agents showed up within thirty minutes to take both into evidence.

  The dog was taken to a local emergency vet to have her microchip read, and the note went back to the Hoover building and into the hands of the Racketeering Records Analysis Unit—the RRAU—cryptanalysts. The vet had supplied the name of the missing owner—Sandy Holmes—and the special agents discovered the rest. Ms. Holmes, a veteran of the Second Iraq War, suffered from occasionally debilitating bouts of PTSD, and never went anywhere without her dog. No one had heard from her since that morning, and as her dog was found wandering the streets without her, they could only surmise that Ms. Holmes was missing and possibly abducted. An hour later, the cryptanalysts confirmed her disappearance as they revealed the real message behind the string of eighty capital letters: “Find her before she dies. Come to Washington’s House in Alexandria. The clock is ticking on her life.”

 

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