"No way, no how.” That dome-shaped torture chamber was too tiny to begin with.
Laughing, he moved to the next isle. As she watched, he continued to explore the store, remarkably knowledgeable about hiking and camping equipment. Why that fact caught her off-guard, she wasn't sure. The SAC, Jack Griffin, had indicated that he wanted Powell on this assignment in part because of his survival skills. She guessed he'd be more at home with sticks and leaves and berries than top of the line merchandise. Although, the contents of his backpack should have clued her in. It was filled with top-of-the-line equipment.
Her gaze dipped to his butt and the other top-of-the-line equipment he packed with him all the time. It was quite some package.
She blushed, hot and flustered, at the direction of her thoughts.
Plain and simple, the man addled her brain. Something about his rugged handsomeness called to the wild party girl she left behind years ago. Making him dangerous. She had to block him out on every level except a purely professional one.
It sounded simple in theory. Until she glanced up and watched his shorts-clad butt walk away—and what a magnificently shaped butt. If she could whistle, she would.
Professional. It didn't matter if he stirred up her hormones. She'd stay in control. It didn't matter if her fingers twitched to stroke his strong jaw and five o'clock shadow at ten o'clock in the morning. She'd stay in control. She'd remain the consummate professional.
Consummate. As in marriage vows. As in rolling around in that little tent until they were both a sweaty, screaming mess.
"Hey, Katrina. Come take a look at this."
She thanked every higher power she knew for the distraction.
Powell stood at the entrance to a large room filled with mounted deer heads. What was it with men and the urge to show off their kill? Talk about a throwback to caveman days.
"Come on, let's take a look around."
"Er, I think I'll pass. My idea of fun isn't staring at parts of dead animals."
"You're no fun."
And I intend to stay that way.
"I'm going to go upstairs and grab a cup of coffee. Come get me when you've reached testosterone overload."
"No such thing, doll.” He gave her an exaggerated wink before he wandered off.
His scent lingered in the air, fresh and clean, soap with a hint of musk, prompting her to double time it up the stairs. Steaming hot coffee in hand, she gathered her wits and shored up her armor. The thrill of the chase seeped through her, firing her with the need to get busy. Soon, they'd be meeting with their contact and heading out. This was what she lived for—putting the scum behind bars.
Fifteen minutes before they were supposed to meet at the police barracks, Powell plopped down beside her with a cup of soda. How did such a large man move with such grace? “I'm ready to check out and head across the street whenever you are."
Katrina appreciated punctuality. Pushing to her feet, she tossed the empty cup into the trashcan and headed downstairs, casting a quick glance over her shoulder to make sure Powell followed. After locating the cash registers and paying for their purchases, he led the way to his truck. As they waited for the light to turn green, she noticed him patting the dashboard, his lips moving even though she couldn't hear him speaking.
"Umm, what are you doing?"
"I'm just telling my truck that she'll be well taken care of until I see her again.” Somehow or other, he managed to utter those words with a straight face.
"You're talking to your truck?"
"Of course. Why wouldn't I?"
"Maybe because it's an inanimate object?"
"Now you're just being mean."
She was going out in the woods in search of a raving lunatic with a certifiable loon as a partner. Great. “I think that's the police barracks right in front of us."
He whipped into a parking space at the back of the small lot. “Look, I know you probably think I'm crazy. Well, I'm not. I may be superstitious, but I'm not crazy. I believe in taking good care of my vehicles. I treated my helicopter with respect as well. My life and the life of any passengers depended on my skill and my respect of my bird. I learned early on in life that a little sweet talk goes a long way."
How could she argue with that logic? “I apologize for judging you.” Besides, if she wanted him taking care of her, she needed to show him some respect. “Can we go inside now?"
"Thank you."
Darn and double darn that human part of him that tried to worm its way under her professionalism.
With a quick hop, Powell exited the cab and waited for her in front of the truck. His polite, almost chivalrous behavior contrasted with the rumors she'd heard when he'd first joined the Philly office—that he was a womanizer, a player. She'd expected him to act like one. Katrina didn't like not being able to peg people. She felt comfortable when she assigned roles to people and was able to interact with them in that capacity.
Braedon Powell defied convention.
Holding the door for Katrina allowed Braedon a precious extra second or two to compose himself and prepare before they entered the state police barracks. The moment of truth was at hand. The time had come to prove to himself and the powers-that-be that he had what it took to be an FBI Special Agent. Sure, he'd pulled strings when he'd “voluntarily separated” from the Air Force. He'd worked with several FBI types on a number of extremely low profile dark ops missions. When he found himself on the job market, he hadn't hesitated to call them up and cash in his chips. Now he had to show all of them that their trust in him hadn't been misplaced.
He knew the gossip swirling around the office.
Some of the rumors were patently untrue. He'd been injured in a top-secret mission and couldn't fly. He'd had a nervous breakdown and couldn't fly. He'd gotten some general's daughter pregnant and refused to marry her so the general had him booted out.
The gossips had gotten the closest to the truth with the last rumor. Except that it hadn't been a general's daughter, it was a colonel's. And he hadn't gotten her pregnant and refused to marry her, they'd just had a very satisfying roll in the hay and he'd declined to marry her. Hell, if he married every woman he slept with, he'd be quite the polygamist. Still, the colonel hadn't appreciated it when his baby girl cried on his shoulder about the big bad pilot who'd seduced her into believing he'd make an honest woman out of her.
The colonel in question had ripped Braedon another asshole, demanding he do right by his daughter, Greta. Braedon had been called many things over the years, but he was always the gentleman his mother taught him to be. No way in hell would he tell the colonel that his daughter played the aggressor in the relationship, chasing him until she wore him down. Shit, he was only human and she was a sexy woman.
Regardless of the circumstances, he refused to be herded into a marriage with a woman he didn't love. His heart was too entrenched to be reached by any woman or to feel love ever again.
A father scorned is even worse than a woman scorned. A lesson he learned the hard way. The colonel had seen to it that Braedon's promotion did not come through and he was pushed out of the Air Force. “Up or out” had always been the nature of the game and since he wasn't going up, out was the only choice. The military euphemistically called this a reduction in force, RIF'd. He called it BOHICA—bend over, here it comes again.
Trusting in his “motto"—when life gives you lemons, add some vodka and make hard lemonade—he'd landed on his feet at the FBI. Where he now stood, about to tuck his first case under his belt and working with one of the best agents in the Philadelphia office.
And one of the hottest.
"After you.” Tugging the door open, he gestured for Katrina to precede him.
Big mistake.
Instead of allowing him to collect his thoughts, the vision of her perfect ass scattered his wits right when he needed them most. Son of a bitch.
"Special Agents Boyd and Powell,” Katrina introduced them to the trooper who greeted them, her hand extended to grip
his with a firm shake.
Firm. Grip. Do not go there, buddy.
"Trooper Symansky is waiting for you. This way."
Braedon kept his eyes on the swinging ponytail and off of the swaying hips. Much safer.
"Hey, Sym!” The yell screeched down Braedon's spine. “The feds are here for you.” Pointing toward an empty office, he headed back to his post.
He settled in a utilitarian gray armless chair, leaving a slightly comfier swivel chair for Katrina. Crossing her right leg over her left, she swung her foot back and forth in a gesture that could be construed as nervous. What did she have to be nervous about?
"Agent Boyd?” Symansky entered the room, her face grim, and shook hands with Katrina as she stood to greet her. “I'm Trooper Sandy Symansky."
"And this is my partner, Special Agent Powell."
She pumped his hand with an I-may-be-a-woman grip but-I'm-as-strong-as-any-man. He understood the plight of women in a testosterone driven world of male-one-upness and gave as good as he got. Symansky took a seat behind the gunmetal gray desk, pulling a brown expanding file in front of her.
When he'd read over the reports signed by “S. Symansky,” he'd assumed the “S” stood for Steve or Scott, not Sandy. Stupid assumption in this day and age, when some of the most competent and intelligent officers he'd worked with during his Air Force career were women.
"This is all of the information we have on the crimes. I'm assuming you've already seen it?” She patted the overstuffed file in front of her.
"We were thoroughly briefed on Monday and Tuesday. So unless something new came in between last night and this morning, we're up to date."
"Do you have any questions for me? Or are you ready to head out?"
"Did you see any of the crime scenes?"
He was content to let Katrina carry the conversational ball. It gave him the chance to observe the stunning police officer. She possessed a body designed to give a man an instant hard-on—tall, hourglass figure, a natural blonde, with green eyes, and full lips. Exactly the type of woman who would have gotten a second and third glance from him not so long ago. Except now he compared her to the woman at his side and she came up lacking.
What the hell was that all about?
"I caught the first one when the call came in. It happened about two miles south of where I'll be dropping you off."
"And?"
"You've seen the pictures."
"But I'd like to hear your opinion."
"Honestly, it was one of the most gruesome scenes I've ever investigated."
Braedon's attention returned to the conversation. The State Police had conducted the initial two crime scene investigations on their own. Braedon remembered reading that in the reports.
"It looked like the perp went fucking berserk. There's no other way to describe it."
Symansky's eyes shuttered closed, as if blocking out the memory. Braedon related. He'd seen some things that still woke him up in a cold sweat at night. As far as occupational hazards went, it sucked, big time.
"I honestly thought,” Symansky continued, “that it was a crime of passion until it happened again up near Lehigh Gap. I thought the girl's ex went psycho on them. Now I don't know what to think, except that we need to stop this sick motherfucker. Now. Which is why we called in you guys."
He couldn't agree more. Eight young lives had already been lost. Eight too many. “If you don't have any other questions, Boyd,” she said and shook her head, “then let's get on the road and try to keep him from claiming any more vics."
Chapter 3
Braedon watched, mesmerized, as Katrina flipped through the crime scene photos, shuffling them into an order known only to her. She stood in the middle of the first location, turning as she organized the pictures. She almost looked like an entranced medium in the middle of a séance, her focus was so intense.
After Symansky dropped them off outside of the small “town” of Port Clinton—more like a couple of dozen houses and businesses lining both sides of the road—they'd donned their backpacks and headed straight for the sight of the first murders. The campsite had been situated off the main trail, in a small clearing. The grass had been tramped flat in the ensuing investigation, remaining smashed to the ground six weeks later. So much for the “leave no trace” philosophy of using the trail.
"We're looking for a perp who is familiar with this section of the AT.” Katrina finally spoke.
"What makes you think that?"
"Take a good look around.” Her tone wasn't condescending, but rather encouraging.
Braedon tried to see whatever it was that Katrina was seeing. She had a wealth of experience to share with him if he made the most of being partnered with her. He wanted to be the best that he could be. Christ, he sounded like a fucking Army commercial. “This site wasn't visible from the trail itself. When the murders occurred in mid-July, with the foliage in full bloom, the secluded area had been difficult to locate from the trail. According to the statements taken at the time, only an unusual odor had alerted fellow hikers to the carnage."
"Exactly."
"So this wasn't someone who just stumbled along the path and into the campsite."
"Precisely."
"So our perp could be someone who lives in one of the towns along the way and hikes frequently."
"That's a logical assumption.” Katrina smiled at him, her eyes warm with pleasure. They were a rich coffee brown. “Just remember not to close your mind to other possibilities as we learn more.” She handed him the photos and began to circle out from the center of the campsite, the fire ring, increasing the radius of the circle as she went.
With the aid of the graphic pictures, Braedon was able to vividly imagine the scene. No small wonder Symansky said it was one of the worst things she'd ever seen. The tent floor would have prevented the blood from soaking into the ground, allowing the perp to track it everywhere, yet no footprints, bloody or otherwise, had been discovered outside of the tent. According to the autopsy, the woman had been killed first, in her sleep, her boyfriend waking up as one of the first stab wounds to his lungs was inflicted.
"Are you finding anything?” He turned his attention to his partner.
"No, but I didn't really expect to. The State crime scene guys are usually very thorough. More than anything, I'm just trying to get a feel for things, to see everything from all possible angles."
All they really knew about the perp for now was basic information. From the angle of the attacks, he was left-handed. Since the vics were lying down, they'd been unable to ascertain a height. Since they didn't have any footprints, they were unable to determine weight or build. Statistics said he was probably Caucasian.
That was it. Not a hell of a lot to go on. So they were looking for a left-handed Caucasian male. Fuck. That description described a quarter of the male hikers on the trail. Including himself.
The guy was damn good at not giving them anything. But then again, this was only the first crime scene. With any luck, he got sloppier as his rampage continued.
"Well, I guess we should get hiking so we can conduct our own investigations of the other sites and talk to our fellow hikers. Maybe something will give us a better insight.” Katrina hefted her backpack into place, waiting for him to get started.
They had almost ten miles to hike before they'd reach the next crime scene, which was the site of the third set of murders. It was already after noon, which meant they had about seven hours of daylight in which to hike. The needed to allow adequate time to set up camp before dark, since they'd be setting up a security perimeter around the tent.
While he easily hiked fifteen miles a day, he doubted they'd be able to cover more than seven or eight before they had to stop. Katrina certainly appeared to be a seasoned hiker. Lord knew she looked fit enough. But until he had a chance to ascertain that fact for himself, he didn't plan to push her. Swinging his pack into place, he pulled up beside Katrina and started walking.
"I like the way you think,
Katrina.” He also liked the way her breasts swayed as she maneuvered her way over the rocky terrain. But he wasn't stupid enough to say that out loud. He appreciated the way she was including him in the process. He was smart enough to tell her that, in a roundabout way so he didn't come off sounding like a suck-up. “I'm glad to be working with you on this assignment. I think I'll be able to learn a great deal from you.” Given the way she'd wanted to be partnered with anybody but him, he'd feared she'd shut him out.
The smile she shot him sent a very unprofessional jolt to his cock. “Why'd you decide to join the FBI instead of going for twenty with Air Force? You were more than halfway there."
So, she wanted to talk, did she? Typical female.
"I'm sure you've heard the rumors."
"I'm sure they're mostly big fat lies."
He should have known that someone who spent most of her time trying to get inside the minds of criminals would want to crawl inside his.
"The mindset of the military brass is ‘up or out.’ Since I didn't make major, I was told not to let the door hit my ass as I went through."
There. The truth, but not the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
"Isn't that unusual for someone in your situation?"
Damn, it was easier to pick his way over the uneven terrain than it was to dodge this woman. “And what did you hear about my situation?” He'd rather dodge surface-to-air missiles than go up against this woman.
"I was told you graduated from the Air Force Academy and that you were one of the first to go through some sort of new training. So you're a real go-getter type of guy who the military sunk a lot of money into. Not the type they'd want to lose, to my way of thinking."
"Yes, ma'am, I did all that and more. Zoo Class of ‘93 and one of the first Combat Rescue Officers.” He allowed the pride he felt to ring through in his voice. He'd worked damn hard to get into the Academy and even harder to graduate. Then there was the sheer hell of getting through almost a year of training to become a CRO. Training that made PJ school look like Boy Scout camp.
Trail of Desire [Class of '93 Trilogy Book 2] Page 4