* * *
“WOULD YOU LIKE a drink? Water, coffee?” Kiera asked as she closed the back door to her condo.
“Coffee, please.”
“Follow me,” she said with a no-nonsense tone of voice, as she led the way to the kitchen.
The unit was compact with only one bedroom, a living area and the kitchen. Despite the small space, everything seemed neat and organized. There was a homey feel to the way she’d decorated, and the smell of coffee seemed to permeate everything.
“Have a seat,” she said. “I’ll just be a minute. I obviously need to put this away.” She raised her gun hand mere inches, enough to make it clear that it was the gun she was putting away.
And with that she turned and disappeared into the bedroom. He heard a drawer open and close, and then she returned empty handed and went to the cupboard, pulling out two cups and lifting the coffee carafe and pouring them each a cup.
He felt out of place, too big for the space and very much as though he were intruding. He accepted the coffee cup from her and noticed that her hand shook. He wished there was something he could do to take the fear away from her but knew he had nothing to offer but his presence. Her fears existed in the past and in the unknown of her future.
They sat across from each other and for a minute neither of them said anything. She’d been through hell and he didn’t know what he should address first. He ran through a list of things that he knew he needed to ask, to tell her. Where to begin eluded him. When he looked at her he saw the way she rubbed her thumb against the tablecloth and when she looked up, he noticed the whiteness of her lips, and that’s when he knew just how much stress she was under.
Another minute went by and the silence was heavier, more awkward.
“I’m glad I have my aunt’s gun,” she said in a soft voice that broke the silence.
“If you find yourself in a situation in the future where you need to pull a weapon to defend yourself, just remember—you have to be ready to use it.” He paused. “You weren’t today, were you? I don’t count a wild shot, completely off mark, as prepared.”
“I don’t know, maybe.”
“Maybe is as good as no, and in another situation, hesitation would have been fatal—for you.”
“Then I can’t hesitate.”
“Exactly,” he said. “On the upside, I’m here to make sure that you never need that gun. If it’s not me, it will be another marshal making sure you’re safe. Although, we’ll need some help from you.”
“What do you need?”
“The truth and—” he paused “—your trust. That means that if there’s anything you haven’t said, anything you’re holding off saying, you need to tell me.”
“I’ve already told the FBI everything I know,” she said. “And they don’t believe all of it.”
“Everything?” he asked. He hoped that she’d give him something that could be used in the case. She’d seen one face only and she’d identified him, for now that was what they had to work with.
“He wasn’t working alone,” she said. “I heard...”
Her voice dropped as his heart sank.
She couldn’t repeat this, not in court. It would make her testimony questionable if she spouted those beliefs like facts with no physical evidence to back them up. They needed an ID on a killer, nothing else. Certainly not a belief that had no support, no evidence, no backing of any kind and seemed more fantasy than reality.
“Kiera, we can’t assume...”
“Not without evidence,” she said with a nod of her head. “I realize that. But there’s something else. I don’t think it’s connected, but it’s frightening.”
“What’s going on, Kiera?” he asked hoping that maybe going along with her might be a better way to eventually get her off this particular track.
“I’m getting anonymous calls,” she said. “In the early hours. Yesterday was the first morning I was home since the attack and that’s when they started. There was another this morning. They were both the same. The phone rings at five minutes to five o’clock in the morning and then again at five minutes after five.”
That much he hadn’t heard. Had it been reported? He doubted it, for it was a fairly glaring oversight and James was nothing but thorough. Another thought hit him. He pulled out his phone as he stood up. His knee caught on the table. Coffee slopped from his cup. It just missed the embroidered tablecloth.
“I’m sorry,” he said. But he could only think of what she’d said. Five minutes after five o’clock in the morning was the time the 911 call had come in. The facts from the time she was found and how it had rolled out as the authorities took charge were engraved in his mind. The time of her rescue wasn’t public knowledge. He couldn’t imagine the time being anything more than a coincidence though. He wasn’t sure if even she knew the exact time of her escape. He wasn’t sure if anyone had told her. She might only know it was early in the morning, unless she had asked. Either way, he didn’t like the sound of any of this. The bus driver who had first found her knew the time, as did the police and the first responders. Would one of them have leaked the information? Except for the bus driver, that would be a breach of confidentiality and mean immediate firing. He made a mental note to mention the possibility that there was a leak to James. The thought, even the possibility, that someone had taken that information and used it to harass her was, to say the least, disconcerting.
She was back with a dishrag in her hand.
“Let me,” he said. He took the cloth from her and wiped up the coffee just as it had come close to creeping onto the edges of the tablecloth.
“Got it,” he said handing the cloth back. The tablecloth was unique, and he guessed that it was handmade. He’d seen his mother and his aunts embroider many such pieces. This one was a beautiful, vibrant garden scene.
“You embroider?”
“No,” she said with a smile. “I found it at a craft sale.” She leaned over to take the dishrag and wiped a drop he’d missed.
A minute later she sat down. It seemed that she moved slowly every time she was forced to sit anywhere near him.
“Have you reported the calls?” he asked despite the obvious tension.
“Yes,” she said. “Sort of. I spoke to the police officer who was here yesterday but no, unless he put a report forward, which I doubt, they weren’t officially reported. I left that to him.” She got up as if she was unable to sit, as if his proximity made her nervous.
“Kiera? Are you alright?”
“Would you like more coffee?” she asked with her back to him.
“No thanks. Look, I’m sorry that this is happening. I’m sorry—”
She turned around and there was a pallor to her face. “It’s alright. It’s me. This is just all so difficult.”
He’d taken the wrong approach. He’d been in her face since the beginning, but he wasn’t used to dealing with a woman traumatized in quite the way she had been.
“Look, I’ll have another cup of coffee, if you’ll have one too.”
A look of relief crossed her face. And a few minutes later they were talking easily about the craft sales in the area and he was silently thanking the women in his life, in his family, for his knowledge of such things. Ten minutes later she was looking, if not relaxed, at least not so tense that she’d leap at the slightest sound.
“Kiera, I hate to ask this, but you said the anonymous calls you received the last two nights or more specifically, early morning, weren’t reported. Why not?”
She shrugged and was quiet for a minute. He gave her time to get her thoughts together and wondered what she was afraid of revealing and why.
“Like I said, I told the police officer the other night, after the first occurrence. He told me there was nothing to be frightened of, that a prank call was just the luck of the draw.”
“He brushed them off?” Tr
avis asked as he fought outrage and tried not to let that emotion show in his voice. “You didn’t tell him the time and that there were two of them?”
“I told him all of it,” she said. “He didn’t believe any of it was part of what happened. I don’t believe that. Someone needs to know.”
Damn it, Travis thought. There’d been no mention of this, no report. Heads would roll. He pushed the anger back and instead focused his attention on her.
“Tell me about the phone calls,” he encouraged in a gentler tone.
She looked at him with relief.
“And don’t hesitate to tell me anything from here on out.”
She nodded and something in the set of her chin seemed less tense.
“The call occurred again this morning. Two calls, two early morning calls in a row. It begins with a ring and a hang up. Then, ten minutes later, five minutes after five o’clock, they call again. The second call is always heavy breathing for about a minute before they disconnect.”
He was quiet, considering what she had said.
“Here.” She tossed her phone to him. “The calls are there. They’re listed as unknown but the time, duration...”
He looked at the phone’s history that confirmed what she’d already said, although he’d never doubted her—at least on that fact.
“We may get along yet,” she said with a cough. She covered her mouth and turned away. “Excuse me,” she said. “How long did you say I was stuck with you and—” she coughed again and then turned, gave a slight smile, as politeness disappeared “—and, as my aunt would have said, your ilk.”
“Right until the bitter end, sweetheart,” he said, glad to, again, see the hint of attitude. It gave him hope that she’d be able to overcome the trauma she’d endured. She was a strong woman. That was what the therapist had put in his report, and he’d been right. Not many could endure what she had.
“You have no idea what that might mean.”
“You’ll be safe, I promise,” he said although he knew that wasn’t what she’d been alluding to but rather the unknown that lay between now and the trial.
“Will I?” she asked.
He looked into her eyes and saw heartbreak and fear. Both were emotions that tore at his heart in a way no woman had affected him in a long time. But she’d been through more than he could imagine. And other than preventing further threats, he couldn’t change what had happened. He couldn’t stop the fear, for that arose from a horrifying experience that he could not change. He could only hope that his protection made her feel safe despite prank calls in the middle of the night. He could only try his best to help her face the nightmare she’d endured.
“The calls, they’re just opportunistic pranks, aren’t they?” She asked the question with hope in her voice. She turned away, her shoulders slouched.
“Kiera,” he began. “I’m sorry you weren’t taken seriously.” He thought of the police officer who’d blown the first calls off. He’d be having a few words with him. “They might be pranks.” He wanted to say that they also might not. But all of this was guesswork and needed investigation, monitoring. “I’ll handle this.”
She turned around to face him. “I can’t stop thinking about the phone calls and why they chose me, now of all times. My name wasn’t made public. It’s a stretch to think that there’d be a connection at all. But the time the last one comes in is about the same time in the morning when I was rescued—give or take. I don’t know the exact time—I never asked.”
He knew the exact time. He also knew that she was right.
It seemed too coincidental. It seemed too everything. Had someone leaked information and this was their idea of a prank? He hoped not. He hoped it was an unfortunate coincidence. If they continued, he’d have her phone rerouted and the calls handled. She needed time to heal and get on with her life. The calls were obviously frightening her, threatening her peace of mind. And, because of that, they had to end.
He stood up. His gut told him that something else was going on, that this case wasn’t as straightforward as everyone thought. There might not be a second serial killer, but something was off, something had been missed.
“I’ll be doing some back and forth from the office to here. But I’ll be available by phone and I’ll be in and out throughout the day. There’ll never be a moment when you can’t reach me or one of my team.” Seeing how frightened she looked, he made a snap decision. He would be here for her until daylight tomorrow. “Tonight, if you get any more of these calls, I’ll be in my vehicle, in your driveway. Get me.”
“I will,” she said softly. “That’s guaranteed.”
But it wasn’t her next words so much as the finality with which she said them that, despite what he believed, made his blood chill.
“Whoever wanted me dead. Whoever I escaped from. One of them is still out there.”
Chapter Four
Kiera struggled to catch her breath. Her heart pounded so wildly that her chest ached. Her life depended on escape and yet she couldn’t move. She was tied, gagged and stuffed into a space so small that when she rolled over she touched a wall on either side. Her legs were numb from lack of circulation. She was trapped and there was nothing but darkness. She didn’t know how long she’d been here or how long before it was over. Over—Her heart raced, for that could mean she lived but it could also mean she died. She took a breath. She fought to still her pounding heart. Fought to keep her mind off all the horrible possibilities. She had to keep sane.
* * *
KIERA WOKE WITH a gasp. She was sitting up. The sheets were tangled around her. The pillow was on the floor and the quilt had slid off the bed. She gulped air as if she were drowning. Despite her pounding heart she reached for the phone. She knew what happened next, for it had happened before.
But the phone sat cold and silent in her palm. The phone calls had, in such a short time, become an unwanted ritual. She looked at her phone. It wasn’t time. It was too early for the calls that she had begun to both expect and dread.
She shivered not from cold but from dread. She prayed for this to go away, for the nightmare to end. But no amount of wishing made it go away.
Chills ran down her spine. She grabbed the edge of the quilt and pulled it up and around herself. Despite being well into spring, it was chilly tonight. It was like the weather was a harbinger of more bad luck, as if shadows had poked dark fingers into a life that had once been full of hope and love. It was a life she’d built from the broken fragments of the family she’d lost. It was a life that was hard-won and one she loved. She fingered the edge of the quilt as if that would calm her. But the anticipation of what was to come and what had happened in the too-recent past lay heavily on her.
The bedside lamp sent a warm glow over the quilt. She took deep breaths as she’d learned to do in beginner’s level meditation. She’d begun the course weeks ago, when her life had been normal.
Normal.
She tried to concentrate on the quilt and on the vibrant colors that she’d admired when she’d first seen it at a local craft sale. She ran her thumb back and forth across the finely stitched embroidery. She’d spent hours furnishing and decorating her condo. She’d made it hers with bright pictures and homey touches, like the quilt and the handmade tablecloth that covered her kitchen table. She’d loved her place—it was the first home she’d ever owned, and it was totally hers. But now, she felt as if she sat in the middle of a stranger’s things. Nothing gave her solace. Instead, she felt edgy and out of sorts. Almost five minutes to five o’clock in the morning. The phone would ring very soon and as much as she feared that, she feared who it might be more.
Everything she knew about this caller was unprovable. Yesterday she’d taken a chance by telling Travis. Despite saying he would be there for her, she knew that he doubted her claim that the phone calls were tied to the killer she’d escaped. She didn’t blame him for doubtin
g. The authorities believed that the killer was behind bars. She’d have been surprised if his reaction had been any different. In a similar situation, she knew she’d do the same. For there was no evidence, no proof of anything, never mind that he had an accomplice.
The phone rang. She didn’t dare breathe. Instead, she looked at it as if it were an evil stepsister. She wanted to toss it across the room but that would end none of this. It rang again. And, she knew with a sick feeling, that this was far from over.
She gritted her teeth. Whoever this was, whatever it was, it wasn’t going to bring her down. She shivered and hit Answer.
“Hello?”
Silence.
“Answer me, damn it.”
The call ended.
She wanted to pitch the phone across the room. Instead, she set it down. But she knew that in ten minutes, if it followed the pattern of the last few nights, the phone would ring again. She tried to calm herself by remembering what Travis had said and remembering the fact that he was still here, just feet away. She’d invited him inside but he’d refused.
She stood looking out her living room window. Her front yard was shrouded in darkness. She wondered if there was someone out there, waiting in the dark. An entity more terrifying even than what she had escaped—out there and still looking for her. She pushed the thought away and looked to her left. There, she could see the shadow of Travis’s SUV. Somehow, knowing he was there made her feel safe but didn’t remove her dread as she waited for what would come next.
She wished that she could believe the authorities, believe that she was safe. She wished that she could believe that no more women would die. But she wasn’t so sure. What she was sure of was that not that long ago she’d had a job she loved, people she cared about and a life. Then everything had changed. She knew it didn’t mean that was over. Although she wanted so badly to go back to that, to a normal life, to a place where the nightmare hadn’t happened. But she knew that nothing would change what had happened, time would only blunt the brutal memory. Eventually she’d go back to work, to her regular life and to the people she considered friends and family. When she did, she knew it would be different, and eventually she knew that would be okay.
Wanted By The Marshal (American Armor Book 1) Page 4
