by CJ Lyons
She stifled a yawn. The coffee pot was empty but Hal's almost full cup sat mere inches away. He wouldn't mind. She'd make him a fresh cup once a new pot was brewed. She grabbed his mug with one hand, sipping it as she quickly started a new pot. Despite the clumps of powdered sugar that clung to the inside of the mug, the coffee was still as strong and bitter as ever. Maybe even more so than hers, although it had been the dregs of the last batch.
Once coffee was burbling through the machine and enticing her with its aroma, she wandered into the living room. More like storage room. Stacks of boxes were arranged haphazardly on every free inch of floor space, creating a precarious maze between the TV and recliner and doorway. They were marked with dates and the occasional hieroglyphic notation as to their contents and stood higher than her waist.
She finished Hal's coffee, set the cup on the small TV tray beside the recliner, and shuffled the dusty boxes, searching for anything that might contain the records of Hal's initial contact with the FBI. Her eyes began to water and a sneezing fit bent her double as her cell phone rang.
"Tierney," she answered with a sniff, trying to suppress another fit of sneezing.
"Hi Caitlyn, it's Clemens." The lab tech's voice was bright and cheery. Caitlyn peered at the cuckoo clock on the wall through bleary eyes. Didn't the man know it was one-forty in the morning?
"What've you got for me, Clemens?"
"The guys tracked a number on that dump you wanted."
"Great. Who's it belong to?"
"Actually, Logan made two calls within five minutes of your leaving his office."
"Fine." Caitlyn hoisted a box and tilted it to peer at the one below. "Who to?"
"We used public databases, so we didn't like break the law or anything, so it might be admissible if you need it—"
"Clemens," Caitlyn snapped, her patience frayed. "Forget the legal bullshit. Who did Logan call?"
"Oh. Okay. The first call lasted two minutes and forty-one seconds and went to a Grigory Korsakov."
Caitlyn dropped the box, releasing a fresh wave of dust and triggering a new bout of sneezing. "Man, he worked fast. Korsakov just got released from prison today and already he has his own cell phone?"
"The contract is in his name, but the purchase party was a law firm in Los Angeles," Clemens supplied helpfully. "Do you need their contact info?"
"No, no thank you. Who was the second call to?" Caitlyn brushed the dust from her shirt and slacks. Her skin was itchy, crawling like little dust critters had burrowed under it and her mouth was parched after her sneezing spells. Clemens said something, but his voice sounded sparkly and far away.
"Caitlyn, did you get that?" The tech's voice finally broke through to her.
She almost dropped the phone, she was so entranced by the dust motes dancing through the air, shimmering gold and silver and red, distracting her.
"Caitlyn?"
"Yeah, sorry. Bad connection." She scratched at her arm, transfixed by the bright colors of the dust specks surrounding her. Everything was so vibrant, vivid. Her head throbbed, but it wasn't a migraine—at least not like any migraine she'd ever had before. "What did you say?"
"I said the second call was to an attorney. Alan Easton. He's there in Hopewell."
"That's nice." Easton. She'd heard that name before, hadn't she? She spotted a box in the far corner of the room that had the date she was looking for on it. "Thanks, Clemens. Have a nice night."
She hung up and dropped her phone onto the nearest stack of boxes. Then she climbed over one wall of document boxes to reach the one she was interested in. She had to balance on another stack and lean over, her legs leaving the ground.
"I'm flying," she sang out to no one in particular just as she lost her balance and slipped forward.
A pair of strong hands grabbed her by the waist. "Where I come from, we call that falling," Hal said, pulling her back onto her feet. "What'cha doing down there, anyway?"
She leaned against another stack, almost toppling it, and he pivoted her around, plopping her into the recliner. He stood over her, his features hidden by the kitchen lights behind him, casting him into a tall, gangly shadow. The thin man. She covered her mouth, forcing back a laugh.
"Are you all right? Your face is all flushed," he said, bending down and smoothing his palm over her forehead. His hand was rough, calloused against her skin, sending tingles of electricity through her. "You do feel warm."
His voice came from far down a tunnel of bright light. She squinted up at him. What was he worried about?
"Never felt better," she told him, pushing herself back onto her feet. It was the truth. Energy surged through her veins. Caitlyn Tierney, superwoman.
A memory of her fall two years ago, the feeling of free fall, flying, tumbling through space made her gut lurch. Maybe not so super—at least not the flying part. She closed her eyes, but that only made the feeling of vertigo feel worse, like Alice falling down the rabbit hole.
Alice in Wonderland. Aw hell, that explained it. She rubbed her temples, remembering what one of the neurologists at Hopkins had told her about migraines. Specifically a variant that caused sensory distortion, known as the Alice in Wonderland syndrome. He'd called it "LSD without the hangover."
"Shit," she muttered, reaching for the coffee cup beside her, her throat parched.
Hal took the empty cup from her. "What's wrong?"
"I finished your coffee."
"You sure did." He shook his head at her, his eyes squinting with amusement.
"You really should use real sugar instead of that powdered stuff. It gets all clumpy."
He dipped his finger into the cup, emerging with a coating of coffee-stained sugar, "I like it."
She watched, mesmerized as if in slow motion he raised his finger to his mouth, his lips parting, his tongue flicking out to lick it clean. A shock wave of desire surged through her as her own lips opened, mirroring him. His eyes met hers and he smiled as he scooped his finger into his cup once more and offered it to her. Greedily, she licked the powder clean, surprised it tasted bitter like coffee, not sweet at all.
He smelled of wintergreen—he'd brushed his teeth and used mouthwash while in the bathroom. In a trance, she reached out her hand and stroked his smooth cheek. Shaved too. No wonder he was gone for so long.
"This for me?" she asked, sliding her fingers along his jaw line.
"Yes ma'am." He angled his face so that his cheek rested in the palm of her hand.
The touch of his flesh against hers was overwhelming. She wrapped her arms around his neck and drew his face down to meet hers. She could feel his heartbeat, the stir of his breath on her skin, his hands as they stroked her back, rustling the silk of her blouse. Every sensation was amplified, more vivid and arousing than anything she'd ever experienced before.
Damn, if this was a new kind of migraine, or even a sign that the scar tissue had broken down, that her brain was even now beginning to leak precious blood, well, all she could say was it wasn't a terrible way to go.
Hal dropped the empty cup onto the recliner, his hands now pressed flat against her back as his mouth devoured her. A small animal noise caught in her throat. She rubbed her body against the chiseled length of his, her hips arching against his pelvis. Ripples of pleasure turned into tidal waves as he began to unbutton her blouse.
"Just tear it," she cried out in a hoarse whisper, reaching her hands behind her to tangle with his in the fight to release her body from the silk. Her clothes, her skin, everything felt too tight, she wanted to burst free.
His teeth clenched together in a grimace as he tore the buttons loose and tugged the blouse away from her. Her bra soon followed and finally, she had her wish, his flesh pressed against hers, his rough palms stimulating and exciting her even further. He lowered his mouth, trailing whispers down her neck to her breasts.
When he finally captured her, taking her into his mouth, Caitlyn cried out and arched back, her fingers digging into his arms, the only things holding her up
right.
CHAPTER 32
Sarah stared at the semi-automatic in Sam's hand and lost it. A shrill laugh escaped her, accompanied by tears of frustration and amazement.
"Give me that before you hurt someone." She grabbed the gun. "I couldn't even take you hunting with me and the Colonel. As soon as I sighted on a deer you'd start making enough noise to wake the dead."
He stared at her, lips tightening. He wasn't laughing. He reached a hand out, palm up, for the pistol. "A man can change in two years."
She refused to relinquish the gun, instead sliding it into the pocket of her fleece jacket. It looked like a Glock, the same kind Hal and his men used. Glocks had no safeties, making them treacherous weapons for amateurs like Sam.
"Not that much, Sam. No one can change that much. You're no killer." She slid her fingers across his jaw, felt it clench beneath her touch. He grabbed her hand, pulled it away.
"I may be a total fuck-up," he said, the words emerging in a strangled whisper as his grip tightened around her fingers, "but I'm not going to screw up again. I'll do whatever it takes to protect you and Josh. To make sure you are safe."
"Good, then we're on the same page. Leave, get Josh. Use your new identities to go some place where no one will ever find you. I'll find a way to join you later." It took every ounce of her will power to force the words past her lips.
Josh…God, how could she sacrifice the chance to see him again? She had no choice. Sam had been Josh's whole world for two years. Josh may not even remember her. She couldn't put her son through the trauma of losing Sam. Even if it meant ripping her heart apart in the process.
"We'll meet," she bit her lip, trying to quiet the quivering in her voice, "we'll meet in Costa Rica."
She turned away from him, wrenching her hand from his grasp. She shoved both hands in her pockets before he could see how desperately she was shaking. Her hand brushed against the semi-automatic. "That will work. Costa Rica on the fourth of July. In front of the American consulate."
She wasn't even sure if there was an American consulate in Costa Rica but it sounded good. She curled her fingers around the pistol's grip, caressing its solid, lethal trigger.
Sam circled around her, shaking his head, coming to a stop within an arm's length. "No way. It won't work. Not now that Alan and Korsakov know I'm alive. Give me the gun. You go get Josh, and I'll take care of everything."
"Like you did two years ago?"
He went rigid, a wounded look twisting his features. But Sarah didn't apologize for her spiteful words. They were the truth.
"I guess I deserved that," he said in a quiet tone that barely traveled the distance between them. "Sarah, you have to believe I did the best I could—"
"That's exactly what worries me, Sam." He flinched at her words. Sarah stepped closer, unable to control her anger. "Seems to me you've been screwing up your entire life. You'll never understand how you hurt me, what losing you and Josh did to me."
He looked down at the ground as if searching for answers in the tendrils of fog swirling around their feet. "I know what you went through. I read your journal."
Sarah stared at him, stunned. "You bastard. How—"
"Today, when I went into your house to leave you the message. Alan had it, was reading it aloud, mocking you. I couldn't stand it, so after he left, I took it with me. Read it while I was waiting for you."
She opened and closed her mouth twice before she could force any words past the knot in her throat. "You had no right, those were my private thoughts."
"I should have found a way to come back sooner." His voice broke. A single tear slipped down his cheek. "I'm so sorry. I never knew, about your trying to kill yourself, I mean I imagined, but you were always so strong, the one taking care of everyone else, I never dreamed..."
She raised a hand to silence him, then turned her back, hugging herself. The sharp outline of the gun dug into her belly. Anger, sorrow, fury, bitterness, fear—a cauldron of emotions whipped through her in a frenzy.
He stepped up to her, wrapping her in his arms. Part of her wanted to lunge away from his embrace, pummel him, make him feel a fraction of the pain she'd suffered these past two years.
Another part of her responded instinctively to his touch, wanted to curl up into his arms and never leave again.
She couldn't have it both ways. She needed to focus on the present danger, not past wounds.
"How do you know Korsakov knows you're alive? If Alan wants this money for himself, he wouldn't risk it by telling Korsakov, would he?"
He raised his fists to knuckle his temples. Sarah felt a fluttering behind her eyes. How many times had she seen him do that when a lyric frustrated him? Strange emotions stampeded through her, overwhelming her.
Sam looked up at her, his eyes wide and filled with confusion that mirrored her own. His lower lip quivered, just like Josh's did when he was trying to be brave. "I don't know. I can't take the chance. It's me they're looking for. You go get Josh."
She paced the clearing once more, searching for answers in the shadows that flickered in the moonlight and mist. It would be so easy to do as he asked, to run, be with Josh—and so very hard. She would never see her family again, would never be sure she and Josh were totally safe—always looking over her shoulder, no one to trust...
That was no life. And Sam—she had no doubt he intended to sacrifice himself for her and Josh, but who knew if that would be enough? Who knew if he'd actually be able to do what needed to be done to save them? She'd trusted him once. Could she risk trusting him again?
"No." The single syllable echoed through the darkness like a bullet. "No. There must be another way."
"There isn't. Just give me back my gun and go before it's too late."
The sharp crack of a twig snapping ripped through the night. Sarah whirled around. "Someone's coming. Get out of here," she whispered to Sam.
He grabbed her by her waist and pulled her close, kissing her deeply. The footsteps were growing closer, drowning out all the other night sounds. But even they faded as Sarah's body responded to Sam's touch. The kiss was brutally quick, but it reawakened feelings she thought long dead and buried.
"Go. Keep Josh safe. I love you." He darted from the shadows and into the clearing where the beam of a flashlight immediately impaled him.
Her chest was so tight she couldn't breathe, couldn't talk. All she could do was to hang onto his gaze like a lifeline.
Another flashlight swept through the trees and stopped, aimed at Sam's heart.
"Stop right there or I'll shoot," a man's voice shouted.
CHAPTER 33
November 24, 2005
Thanksgiving. Without you and Josh here it's hard to find anything to be thankful for. I mean, yes, I'm thankful they caught Damian Wright—but why couldn't it have been here, before he got to you and Josh? Yes, I'm thankful for the Colonel and Hal and Alan—even the Colonel's wife—everyone who's helped out these past few months while I've been a wreck.
But I'd trade all of their good intentions and casseroles and Hallmark sympathies for one more minute with the two of you.
Lately I've been haunted by that day. I almost came home early, you know. Would have if you hadn't talked me out of storming out of that nonsensical conference, hadn't convinced me that my job was worth wasting a few more hours of my time.
You and Josh were worth everything I had, everything I have. If I had come home, maybe this never would have happened.
You've heard all the cliches: sudden violence, senseless violence, random violence. People think the key word is violence. It's not.
What changes your life forever are the other three words, words you can never understand until you experience that shock, that slap in the face, belly-flopping, heart stabbing, impact that blindsides you until you can't hear or see or feel anything. Sudden, senseless, random.
One minute you're relaxing with friends over dinner in a hotel restaurant, nursing a glass of Merlot—because you know how wine makes me—
laughing about the ridiculous imperatives that have just come from the State Board of Education's office. Then a handsome, clean-faced young man wearing a State Trooper's uniform approaches and asks for Mrs. Sarah Durandt.
He looks too young to be a real police officer, despite the gun at his belt and the pinched expression on his face. He has none of that world-weary look of competence that Hal Waverly has—of course, ever since Lily died, Hal isn't always able to muster that expression either.
My friends titter, laugh about him hauling me away for drinking on the job. Cindy even suggests that someone sent me a male stripper as a gag although my birthday is a month away.
He remains solemnly silent during our ribbing, then asks me for ID. Now everyone looks away, squirms a bit. Maybe this is for real. I hand him my driver's license. "What's this about? Did someone hit my car or something?"
As he scrutinizes my photo, I feel my stomach do a slow roil, like being swamped in a class V rapid. You know time is moving normally, but everything seems to happen in slow, anguishing motion. You see the danger coming but you're powerless to stop it.
In my mind, a distant warning bell peals, making my teeth clench, could it be the Colonel? Maybe the house caught on fire and burned down—I told Sam the toaster was sparking. A thousand and one calamities race through my thoughts and none of them involve you and Josh—not because nothing could ever happen to you but because my brain had already begun to shut down, had decided that nothing would ever happen to you—that just was not possible in the universe I lived in.
The trooper invited me outside to talk with him. I stood up, had to grab the table from the wine rushing through me, making me woozy. I followed him, swaying, unbalanced, still refusing to believe that anything wrong could actually be happening.
But it was. It had.
And I was too far away to do a damned thing about it.
He drove me back through blinding rain. He explained what had happened, but I don't remember what he said. A few words caught in the frenzied chaos that my brain had devolved into: child predator, missing, photos, blood, too much blood, no body found yet. No bodies.
