by Karen Rose
He relaxed. She’d promised. Hurry, Doc. Please.
Cincinnati, Ohio,
Thursday 13 August, 12.15 A.M.
The ringing of a phone woke Mallory out of a sound sleep, but she was okay with that because she’d been having bad dreams of men with sausage-sized fingers chasing her around the grocery store. Peering at the clock on her nightstand, she shuddered, her skin all clammy with sweat. It was only midnight. Plenty of time to go back to sleep and dream some more. Yay, me.
But wait. The phone had rung and it had been answered. After midnight. Blinking hard, she comprehended the significance of this, because he subscribed strictly to the ‘nine to nine’ adage. No calls before nine in the morning or after nine at night. Any other calls were not answered, the numbers blocked for supreme rudeness. Except for his two sisters, of course. Their calls he answered, but he still got angry with them for calling after nine.
Nell, his older sister, tended to be more respectful, calling him only in the worst of emergencies. Gemma, on the other hand, routinely called whenever she wanted, no matter how early or late. He always answered, though, because she might be calling about Macy.
Because he’d given Macy to Gemma to legally adopt, to raise as her own child. But Mallory he’d kept. Kept and used and abused until she had no hope of rescue.
Gemma usually called him for help when Macy was sick, which had been a lot in the very beginning, but not so much nowadays. It had always been in his best interests to keep Mallory’s baby sister healthy and safe, because it was only his threat to take custody of Macy and turn her into the next Sunshine Suzie that kept Mallory in line.
At first Mallory had thought that Gemma would be an ally, that his little sister would want to save Macy. She thought Gemma would listen when she told her what he’d done to her. What lay in store for Macy. What lay in store for Gemma herself, because for him to get custody of Macy now, something terrible would have to happen to Gemma.
Like she’d have to die. He’d kill his own sister. He’d bragged to Mallory about how he’d do it – which would be the same way he’d killed Mallory and Macy’s mother.
But Gemma hadn’t believed Mallory back then. Instead she had tattled, telling him exactly what Mallory had told her.
Things had not gone well after that for Mallory. He had brutally taught her the price of honesty. And that had been the moment she’d lost all hope of ever being free again.
But this call came far later than Gemma usually called, and it had been answered, so it was most likely business. Mallory carefully climbed out of the princessy poster bed he’d bought for her when she’d first come to live with him and picked her way across the hardwood floor, taking care to avoid the boards she knew creaked.
She pressed her ear to her door. He was downstairs, so she could only hear a murmur. If she opened her bedroom door and he heard her . . . Well, she hadn’t been beaten in a while, so at least he wouldn’t be thrashing into fresh cuts. But calls after midnight were never good, and Mallory decided the risk of discovery was outweighed by the foreknowledge of what he’d throw her way next, because allowing him to catch her by surprise always ended badly.
She grabbed an empty plastic bottle from her dresser, thinking she could pretend she was filling it with water from the bathroom sink if she was heard creeping about.
She slid the door open until the gap was just wide enough for her to slip through, and tiptoed past Roxy’s bedroom. The door was closed, but it didn’t matter either way. Roxy wasn’t going to tell a soul that Mallory was up. Roxy could barely draw breath anymore. She needed a hospital, but he wouldn’t allow it. His wife would die at home.
But not because he cared. Just because he was afraid someone would find out the truth. Poor Roxy. She’d been trapped in this life, same as Mallory.
But Mallory couldn’t spare the distraction of compassion. If he heard her . . . well, she’d beat Roxy to the afterlife. And some days Mallory yearned for that. If it weren’t for Macy, she would have sent herself into the afterlife a long time ago. Because that was the only way she was getting out of here.
She tiptoed past the guest bedrooms. All were empty at present, but they’d been tidied and prepared for the next round of . . . victims. The very word made her queasy, but that made it no less true. The rooms were decorated out of every kid’s dreams, but would become the core of their nightmares. And that would happen soon unless Mallory thought of a plan to stop him.
‘When?’ he was asking sharply. ‘When did he wake up?’
From her vantage point at the top of the stairs she could see him for only a few seconds at a time as he paced the living room.
‘Did you take care of him?’ he demanded. ‘I don’t give a shit if J. Edgar Hoover himself came back from the dead and is sitting there guarding him. Get rid of him before he has that tube pulled out. However you need to.’ He growled low in his throat and Mallory backed up a step, her hand over her mouth to keep herself from squeaking in alarm. But he hadn’t seen her and continued to pace. ‘Do I care if you’re off duty? Get back in there and fix this or you’ll have a breathing tube down your throat.’
Carefully she backed away, slipping into her bedroom while he was still yelling downstairs at whoever had been so foolish as to disobey his direct order. At least he’s not setting up any dates for me. Or video shoots. Which wouldn’t have been for her, so that was something at least. One benefit of growing too old. If he’d been setting up a video shoot, her timetable to save the four kids she’d seen on Saturday would have had to be moved up considerably.
Forcing her into action that would end up with her dead. She really did not like that plan.
Mallory got into bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking about what she’d heard. Specifically how she could utilize the information, because this could be the break she’d been praying for.
Whoever was about to get ‘taken care’ of was probably in a hospital, because tubes were going to be pulled out. She’d watched enough TV to know that. But what had grabbed her attention was his mention of J. Edgar Hoover. She’d watched enough TV to know that name too.
Hoover used to be the boss of the FBI. Her heartbeat took off on a little burst of speed. Did that mean that the FBI was involved? Were they watching him? Had he sounded so angry because he was scared? He never sounded scared. Well, not often. It had been almost a year since she’d heard fear in his voice. She’d prayed then, too, but nothing had happened and life had gone on.
But if the FBI was involved . . . The implications left her downright dizzy. That meant someone suspected him. And that someone will believe me this time. That alone was enough to make her want to cry, but she’d learned long ago not to cry at night. Or any other time.
Oh Mallory. The whisper in her head was his, and she hated it. No one will ever believe you.
That’s not true. Whoever suspected him would. I just have to find him. Or her.
Oh Mallory, Mallory, Mallory. You mean the ‘someone’ who’s guarding ‘someone’ else in a hospital ‘somewhere’? You mean all those names you don’t know and whose locations you don’t know – and don’t have the first idea of where to even start looking?
Mallory clenched her jaw. Yes. That’s exactly what I mean. That ‘someone’ was exactly who she had to find. She would figure out where to look. She would.
She couldn’t use his computer, because he monitored everything. He’d put a block on nearly every website. She could use a recipe website when it was her night to cook. Any site related to news or current events, though . . . all were blocked.
But she’d find a way. Because if someone believed her it meant that someone would stop him. Somebody other than me. Which meant that she might not have to die trying.
Cincinnati, Ohio,
Thursday 13 August, 6.30 A.M.
‘Good God, woman. What happened to you?’
> Decker woke abruptly, eyes flying open to see a man in the doorway. Blinking hard, he wondered if he was awake or still asleep, or maybe even back on the morphine drip and having hallucinations, because the man looked . . . strange. Bright white hair stood in sharp little peaks all over his head, but he wasn’t old. He looked like he was Decker’s age.
Which was thirty-four. He stopped to do a quick mental check, pleased when his mind was clear, the information readily accessible. Yeah, that was right. He’d just had a birthday a few weeks ago. Alone. Because he’d been undercover then, and Gene Decker’s birthday was in April.
He steered his mind back to the weird man in the doorway. The guy’s goatee was also white, as were the eyebrows arched high over the wraparound sunglasses he wore. Inside. They were inside, right? Decker’s eyes darted upward. Ceiling, check. Yeah, they were inside. So what the hell? The guy’s fists were on his hips, his mouth grim.
Decker blinked a few more times. The guy was still there.
A throaty chuckle came from the chair on the other side of his bed, accompanied by quiet clacking. Kate. Good. She’s still here too.
‘Yeah, Griff, he’s real. You’re awake again. You’ve met him before, actually, the night you got shot. This is Special Agent Deacon Novak. He made sure you didn’t bleed out before the medics showed up. Deacon, stop scowling at me and show Griffin your manners.’
Deacon. Decker had heard the name. He searched his mind, pleased once again that his brain made a quick, painless connection. Kate had talked about him before, when the other lady was with her. When he’d still been trapped in the dark.
He frowned. But Kate had also said, I’m sorry, Jack. Who the hell was Jack?
He put Jack on the growing list of the things he’d ask Kate as soon as they took out the damn tube. Why hadn’t they? She’d promised they would. He started to tense, then made himself relax. She’d tell him why, but for the moment he was lucid enough to know he couldn’t pull it out himself. That would be bad.
Agent Novak came to stand at the side of his bed and Decker squinted up at him. Yeah, he remembered him. Kind of. Except that he had a weird memory of . . . eyes. But that couldn’t have been real. That had to have been the morphine. Morphine hallucinations were the worst.
Novak nodded at him now. ‘Agent Davenport. I’m glad to see you’re coming around.’
Slowly Decker lifted his hand, shocked at how hard it was to do so. A week? It felt like he’d been asleep for a month. He tapped the corner of his eye and Novak’s mouth quirked up in a smirk, but he complied and took off the sunglasses.
Shit. Decker flinched back against his pillow, earning him another chuckle from Kate. Those eyes were freaky. Like cat eyes, but bi-colored. Blue and brown. Both of them.
He remembered the eyes staring down at him as a voice demanded that he not die. He seriously thought they’d been part of the morphine hallucinations. Hell.
‘Luckily, Agent Novak uses his witchy eyes for good and not evil. Mostly.’
Novak sneered at her. ‘This coming from the woman that looks like something the cat dragged in. Or maybe even threw up. What the fuck, Kate? Dani said you weren’t taking care of yourself, but I didn’t think it was this bad. For God’s sake, get the hell back to your hotel and go to sleep.’
Don’t you yell at her! Decker had to curb the urge to rip out his breathing tube and shove it down Novak’s throat. Novak couldn’t even see Decker’s killer glare because he was staring across the bed at Kate, wearing a killer glare of his own.
The clacking started back up and Decker cautiously turned his head to see what it was. Ah. Knitting. She was sitting in the chair knitting something that was green and brown and . . . Camo, he realized. It was patterned just like his combat uniform back in the army. He added a question about that to his list, then lifted his gaze to her face.
She did look tired. But her face was still the only one he wanted to see.
‘Are you finished yelling?’ Kate asked Deacon mildly. ‘Because if you’re not, I suggest you finish your tirade in your indoor voice. It’s not like we’re, y’know, in ICU or anything.’
Deacon’s cheeks grew red. ‘Dammit, Kate,’ he whispered loudly. ‘You’re going to make yourself sick. Get your things. I’ll take you to your hotel myself, right now.’
‘No.’
‘No?’ he echoed in disbelief. ‘Then come home with me.’
Decker had stiffened in protest, but he calmed at Kate’s next words.
‘I’m sure your fiancée would have something to say about that.’
‘Yeah, well, Faith said to tell you that you’re welcome to stay as long as you want. We have a spare room and she wants to get to know you. Come on, Kate,’ he wheedled.
‘I’ll go back to my hotel when they take his tube out. I promised him I’d stay.’
Decker felt a satisfaction that crossed well over the border into territorial, then frowned. She’d also promised that they’d come up with a system to communicate, but they hadn’t done that. Because I fell back asleep, he realized. Dammit. He hadn’t told her any of the things he needed to.
That his name was Decker, not Griff.
Oh shit. The kids. He tapped the rail weakly, but Kate heard him over her clacking, which stopped. In seconds she was leaning over the rail, her fingertips brushing his forehead again.
Yes. That. Don’t stop that. She gave him an amused smile. Don’t stop that either. He liked to see her smile.
‘I’m sorry. I had to be mad at Deacon for a minute. I guess you want to know why you still have the tube in. You were too tired last night to pass the breathing-on-your-own test. You fell asleep halfway through.’ She gave him a long-suffering look. ‘Probably because you wore yourself out by trying to yank out the tube yourself.’
He narrowed his eyes at her and she laughed softly. ‘You’ll get your chance at a witty comeback later today. The doc said he’d be back mid-morning and he’d try again. Until then, you ready to try blinking your way to communication? Once for yes and—’
He blinked hard once, interrupting her, and she laughed again. ‘Okay. I guess that’s a yes. Deacon, did you make those charts I asked for?’
‘Yep.’ Novak slid a backpack off his shoulder and searched inside it.
‘In case you’re confused about who works where,’ she said, ‘Agent Novak and I used to work together when we were assigned in Baltimore. Now we’re both here in Cincinnati, but he’s attached to a CPD joint task force. I work the Bureau’s task force on human trafficking. I’m here to follow up on the traffickers you spent the last three years with. My new partner is Agent Troy, and I know he’ll want to talk to you too. We need associates, suppliers, customers. I’ve been listening to your recordings hoping to follow the money trail. Novak is here because he was on the team that identified your traffickers and brought them in. He needs answers to a few questions so that he can close out his report. I imagine he’s also here because he saved your life, so he’s invested. Oh, and he came to yell at me.’
‘Damn straight on that last one,’ Novak muttered as he unrolled a piece of paper the size of a small poster to reveal an alphabet chart with an image of a QWERTY keyboard below it.
‘We can do this a couple ways,’ she said. ‘You can write with a pen, but that will tire you out and you might have to sleep before you tell us everything you want to say. Tomorrow or even later today – once they take that tube out – you’ll feel strong enough to write.’
She spoke as if she had experience with this. Another question added to his list.
‘Or,’ she said, ‘we can scribe for you. You can point to the letters and we’ll record. When your arm gets too tired, Deacon will point to the letters, you blink, and I’ll record. However we do this, it’s gonna be slow, so be patient with us, okay?’
Decker blinked once.
‘Good,’ Kate said. ‘I have a few yes/no questions before we begin. First, is your name Griffin Davenport? It seemed to bother you last night when I called you that.’
He blinked once, then moved his shoulders experimentally in a shrug. Which hurt. But not as badly as he’d expected.
‘Yes, but?’ Kate said, and he blinked again. She held up her pencil and he shook his head, relieved when the room didn’t spin as it had the night before. He raised his right hand, wiggled his fingers, then brought them together in an O. ‘You can’t use your right hand? Oh, you’re a leftie? Which is of course the hand that they’ve turned into a pincushion,’ she added wryly. ‘Okay, then. Keyboard?’
He blinked, and Novak held the paper so that he could reach it. DECKER. He pointed to each letter and watched her frown.
‘Gene Decker was your undercover name,’ she said. ‘Decker’s your real name, too?’
NCK.
‘It’s a nickname,’ Deacon guessed, and Decker blinked hard. ‘Must have made being undercover a little easier if you were using a familiar name.’
He blinked once, then looked up at Kate, brows cocked.
She smiled at him. ‘Decker, then. Do you remember the night you were shot?’
He did, in blindingly clear detail. God. He’d expected to hate the people he’d been sent to expose. They were drug runners after all, transporting and distributing cocaine, heroin, and OxyContin up the I-75 corridor from Miami to Detroit. But it was way worse than that. They’d branched out, selling people in addition to drugs. People. Children.
He hadn’t just hated them. He’d wanted to eviscerate each and every one of them, then hang them by their innards. But he’d had to play nice. Had to mitigate what evil he could without blowing his cover. Had to act like he fucking admired them.
‘Hey,’ Kate murmured. ‘Your heart just took off like a rocket. Maybe we need to wait until later for this.’
