by Lisa Regan
I dropped to the other side on automatic pilot. Mentally, I was back where we’d left Sheila Johnson, using the shotgun to turn the bone of her face into grit. Connor heaved himself over the wall. When he dropped down beside me, his leg gave out. He fell with a muttered curse.
“Claire,” he said.
I looked at him. His face was lined with pain. He held out a hand and I grasped it, helping him to his feet. Connor’s limp was more pronounced as we hurried toward the rental cars.
“You’ll have to drive,” Connor said. “Leave mine here. I’ll deal with it later.”
I drove back to the hotel. The entire drive Connor kept looking behind us as if he expected a squadron of police cars to descend upon us in pursuit, but we made it to the hotel without incident.
Once inside the room, Connor locked the door. When he turned to look at me, the anger on his face jarred me back to the present moment. My fantasy of battering Sheila flicked off in my mind like a television channel being changed.
Suddenly, I felt my body again and in spite of having just come out of the Houston heat, my skin was cold and clammy.
“What the hell are you doing?” Connor demanded. “What are you thinking, Claire?” He advanced toward me. “Are you out of your goddamn mind? You could have been killed, and now Sheila Johnson will probably file assault charges against you. Claire, what the hell were you thinking? Your family is worried sick.”
The closer he came, the smaller the room seemed. I was suddenly aware of the fact that I was alone in a locked room with a man. A low thrum—the vibration of terror—worked its way up from my toes to my scalp, constricting my throat as it passed. Abruptly, Connor froze. The angry tension in his face slackened. He glanced at the locked door.
“Claire,” he said, voice noticeably softer. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
I stared at him, my throat working but nothing coming out. Connor sank onto the edge of the bed and rubbed his scalp with both hands. He looked at me again.
“I would never hurt you.”
I knew that was true. We’d been alone together several times. Connor had never been anything but warm and protective toward me. Most of the time, I wanted to burrow into the safety of his arms and let him hold me. The memory of our first night together remained vivid in my mind—a tactile memory complete with the heady scent of his skin. All the things that Reynard had done to me hung between Connor and me like dead weight—a pendulum that could not be budged.
Connor sighed. His voice was full of resignation. “I would never hurt you,” he repeated. “I’m trying to help you, but you’re not making it easy. What do you think is going to happen when you find Johnson?”
I stared at him. “I’m going to kill him,” I said. The words were as much a surprise to me as they were to Connor, but in that moment I realized it was true. I wanted to stop him, and killing him seemed the surest way of doing that.
“Claire.”
“I can do it. If I have to kill him to get to Emily, then I will,” I said firmly, although I had no idea how I would accomplish this. I would worry about the logistics later.
Connor’s eyes were sad. He pursed his lips. Then he said, “Claire, you’re not a killer. You don’t know—”
I thought of Miranda Simon, whom Johnson had strangled before my eyes. I cut Connor off in midsentence. “Have you ever watched someone die?”
The question stung. He looked as if I had slapped his face. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “The day I met you.”
I had forgotten. I looked away from him.
“I shot that guy close range, dead center in the chest,” Connor added. “Aim for center mass—that’s what they tell you in training. People think because you have a badge, you’re some kind of expert marksman. They think because you’re the police, you should be able to control yourself better than any common criminal. It’s all bullshit. They teach you to aim for center mass because the only time you have to fire a weapon in the line of duty is when all hell is breaking loose and your adrenaline is pumping so hard you can hardly fucking think or see, let alone make a split-second decision like you have all day to contemplate it.
“When shit goes down, you aim for center mass because even if you’re a crack shot, you’re liable to miss nine out of ten times. I watched that guy bleed out right there on the floor while the paramedics worked on him.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Yeah. Me too.”
“I mean I’m sorry I brought it up. I forgot. I’m not sorry you killed that man.”
I reached into my pants pocket and pulled out the crumpled piece of paper with Carolyn Johnson’s handwriting on it. It said, “Langdon Hotel, Julian, California.” I thrust it at Connor.
“I know where he is. I’m going to find him and bring Emily home. Will you help me?”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
The box held $3,000. Connor and I counted it before we left the hotel while I recounted my strange meeting with Carolyn. I left out her last instructions for me to pick up a package from her upon my arrival at the Langdon Hotel.
I was going with or without Connor’s help, which he quickly surmised, his brilliant-blue eyes darkening as his resolve gave way. We compromised on our way to the Houston airport. The two of us would go to Julian alone. I would have one day to track down Reynard before Connor called in the local and state police, as well as the FBI.
Connor reasoned that we had a better chance of tracking Johnson alone since the two of us would invite little attention. Based on Johnson’s previous success eluding capture, Connor was certain that Johnson already had escape routes and contingency plans in place to resort to at the first sign that authorities were onto him.
The only other condition of Connor’s assistance was that if we did locate Reynard, I was not to pursue him myself. At that point, Connor maintained, we had to call in the cavalry. I knew Connor was not entirely at ease with the plan, in spite of the compromise. He was a police officer, and even though he’d seen and heard horrific things on the job, he could never know or understand what it was like to be hurt and violated the way I had been.
Connor’s idea of justice was different from my own. He had killed a rapist, and he still lost sleep over it. Connor’s regret over killing that rapist came from the same place inside him that now forced him to help me against his better judgment. He knew the only way he would stop me from going after Reynard and finding Emily would be to use physical force or arrest me. Connor had meant it when he said he’d never hurt me. He didn’t have a choice. I’d backed him into a corner.
We caught the first flight to San Diego. In spite of Connor’s protests, I used Carolyn’s money to pay for the tickets. It seemed fitting that the money used to find and kill my abductor came from the family who had knowingly turned him loose on society, sealing my fate before I was even born. I could never use the money for anything else.
We arrived in San Diego at seven in the evening. We rented a car and drove to the Langdon Hotel. Julian was a small town nestled among the Cuyamaca Mountains. It was about an hour northeast of San Diego and a highly trafficked tourist area. Reynard would blend in easily there. By the time we arrived, it was dark. Connor insisted on getting rooms for the night, even though I wanted to start looking for Reynard immediately.
Our rooms were next to each other. Connor escorted me inside my room. He checked the locks on the doors, pulled the curtains closed, and plopped down on the edge of the bed. He used the phone to call my mother. He offered me the phone, but I couldn’t take it. I was afraid if I talked to her, I would lose some of my resolve. It was enough that she knew I was okay and that Connor was with me.
As Connor filled her in, I went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. My clothes were wrinkled and smelled slightly stale. I hadn’t bathed since I’d left Sacramento. My skin was filmy and moist, my teeth grimy. My curls sagged with oily buildup. All of it registered as a fleeting annoyance. Emily planted herself stubbornly front and center in my mind.
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br /> I put the clothes back on after my shower. When I emerged from the bathroom, I found Connor asleep on the bed. He sat upright, his head resting against the headboard. One of his legs dangled off the edge of the bed, as if he’d been in the act of standing when he dozed off. The other extended the length of the bed. He had tucked a pillow under his knee to elevate it. I stared at him for a long time.
He looked so peaceful. Carefully, so as not to jar him awake, I climbed onto the other side of the bed. I lay on my side and watched his face. The rhythmic sound of his breath easing in and out of his body soothed me.
After an hour, he woke. He scrunched up his face as though he’d eaten something sour. It made him look like a little boy, and I laughed in spite of the situation. Sleepily, he looked in my direction. It took a few seconds for him to remember where he was and why. His eyes widened abruptly.
“Shit,” he said. He leaned forward to get up. “I’m sorry, Claire.” He fished in his pocket and came up with a set of hotel keys, which he handed to me. “Those are yours. I’ll go next door.” His voice was still husky with sleep and his movements slow.
I put a hand on his forearm. “No,” I said. “Stay.”
He paused and studied me, the sleep gradually receding from his eyes. “I’ll be right next door,” he said.
“No. I want you to stay.”
This surprised him. His eyebrows rose. “Are you sure?”
I nodded and pulled him toward me. We lay side by side, staring up at the ceiling. I snaked my hand down between our bodies and laced my fingers through his.
“Tomorrow we’ll canvass,” Connor said. “I’ve got a photo of Johnson. We’ll go door-to-door if we have to—starting with businesses. I already gave the hotel manager a copy of the photo. He said he would ask around to see if anyone recognizes Johnson.”
I squeezed his hand in acknowledgment. Tension ebbed between our bodies. I closed my eyes and felt my body drawing heat from his, instinctually wanting to move closer. After several minutes Connor said, “Claire, it’s really no problem for me to sleep in the other room.”
I sighed. “This is silly. We already spent a night together.”
“That was different,” Connor pointed out. “You were playing a role, trying to manipulate me.”
I jerked my head toward him, but he wasn’t looking at me. “Is that what you think? That I was only trying to manipulate you?”
“Does it matter?”
“It matters to me.”
“I don’t know, Claire.” He sounded tired, more tired than I’d ever heard him.
Tears sprang to my eyes. He had to know that I felt something for him—whatever that was—whether it was a simple crush or more definitive feelings. But I couldn’t protest because as we lay there, I was manipulating him into helping me find Reynard so that I could confront him myself and kill him if it came to that.
“Connor, I …”
He didn’t respond. His eyes were closed, but I could tell by his uneven breathing that he was not asleep.
I swallowed and tried again. I couldn’t get the words out so I asked him for the thing I had wanted since I had seen him again in the ER—the thing I had also been afraid of since my return. “Connor? Could you just hold me—the way you did that night?”
He didn’t speak. He looked over at me for a long moment. Then he rolled over and pulled me into him, circling my body with his arms and settling his warmth all around me. Within minutes, he was fast asleep.
I skimmed the edges of sleep, exhaustion tugging at every muscle in my body but not pulling me into sleep. In fits and starts, the endless possibilities of what Reynard might have done or might presently be doing to Emily flitted through my mind. Each one was worse than the last. Occasionally, I shivered, and each time Connor squeezed me more tightly against his body, pressing the ugly images outside the tortured confines of my mind.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
I was still awake when the man knocked on the door to our room. Connor snored lightly, his body limp and heavy against mine. I disentangled myself and answered the knock, stepping quietly into the hallway.
He was a local auto mechanic who had happened to eat breakfast in the same diner as the hotel’s night manager that morning. He’d heard all about us and the man we were looking for. He thought he had towed a car for the man—for Reynard Johnson. There was a girl with Johnson, the man said, and they were staying in a cabin in the nearby mountains. The man’s sister-in-law owned the cabins in that area and rented them out year-round—weather permitting.
I took directions from him before sneaking back into the room and delicately removing the keys to the rental car from Connor’s jacket pocket. He didn’t wake up. At the front desk, I gave them my name and told them I was expecting a package. The hotel manager presented me with a small box, not much bigger than the first one Carolyn had given me in Texas.
Clutching the box against my front, I hurried to the car. Inside the package, a shiny new Glock winked at me, its firm, sleek form inviting me to use it. I hadn’t thought about how I would kill Reynard. I relied on the kindness of a universe that had punished me long enough to provide the manner of his death when the time was right. And it had used Carolyn to do so.
I looked around the parking lot to make sure no one watched me before I picked it up, checked its sight, and loaded it with the ammunition that accompanied it. Its cool steel was a balm to my ragged nerves. I was grateful Connor had given me gun lessons, although I knew he would not approve of my present intentions.
I put it back in its case, marveling at how Carolyn had arranged for a brand-new Glock to be purchased, packaged, and delivered to a location she specified in a matter of hours from several states away.
All that power did not prevent her soul from shrinking to a small, lifeless kernel.
Which of us had truly survived Reynard?
I started the car and hesitated. There was an acute ache inside me as I thought of Connor sleeping peacefully in the hotel room, trusting that I would keep my end of our bargain. I was suddenly glad I’d asked him to hold me last night. After today, I might never see him again, and even if I did, there was little chance he’d speak to me once I’d betrayed his trust. The prospect of losing Connor in my newfound life hurt far worse than I could have imagined. I had to put it away for now. There was time for pain and regret later, when I had privacy and quiet to listen to the wretched keening of my soul. For now, my focus was on finding Reynard.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
It took Connor a half hour to track down the local mechanic who had knocked on his and Claire’s hotel room that morning. After speaking with several hotel employees who had seen the mechanic leave before Claire, Connor eventually learned that the day manager had given the man Claire’s room number after speaking with the night manager by phone, who had had breakfast with the mechanic at a local diner. A waitress at the diner directed Connor to the mechanic’s shop. Every person Connor spoke to in his pursuit of Claire shrank from him. He hadn’t bothered to shower or shave. He knew he looked and probably smelled frightful. When he woke that morning to find Claire gone, her scent lingering on his clothes, he had felt as frightened as everyone he talked to appeared.
In spite of his fear and exhaustion, Connor’s mind still reeled with the memory of holding Claire in his arms the night before. It seemed like a dream, particularly the part where she asked him to hold her. He felt as though he had waited an eternity for the smallest signal from her that she was becoming more comfortable with him. He wanted to touch her all the time. The effort of resisting his impulses had worn him out.
He hadn’t had time to think about any of that in the last three months, and now he had even less time to examine his feelings for Claire or her response to him. Again, Reynard Johnson stood between them. The instant the mechanic told him what he had told Claire, Connor knew what she was going to do.
His gut clenched. Connor’s body gave way a little as the realization, accompanied by an image of C
laire in prison for first-degree murder, hit him. The mechanic must have sensed Connor’s anxiety. He offered Connor his tow truck, and Connor accepted.
Connor checked the magazine in his Glock before he started the truck. The mechanic stood just outside the driver’s-side door, staring in bewilderment. Connor looked the man in the eye.
“There’s one more thing,” Connor said.
The mechanic nodded dumbly.
“I need twenty minutes. Wait twenty minutes. Then call your police chief and tell him what’s going on. Tell him to call the FBI.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
The cabin was small, set back on an incline from the narrow mountain road. A gravel driveway led to its front. The cabin itself was partially obstructed by foliage. The afternoon sunlight dappled the trees and weaved random designs on the facade of the cabin. I approached it on a diagonal line, threading my way through the trees and brush, remembering the stealth I acquired from all those nights I had snuck away from the trailer when Reynard wasn’t home. I circled to the rear of the cabin, drawing the Glock once I was close enough to touch its exterior. There was a momentary tremor in my hands. I had driven past the driveway and parked the rental car a half mile up the road. I used the short walk to calm my rapid breathing and shut out the booming pulse of my heartbeat, which exploded in my ears.
Moving slowly, I rounded the side of the cabin. The windows were covered with curtains. I paused and listened, straining to hear the smallest sound. I heard nothing but the birds calling back and forth to each other above me. A truck was parked haphazardly in front of the cabin. It was old and dilapidated with California plates, much like the one I had crashed into a police cruiser in front of Connor’s home three months earlier.
The windows in the front were open, but dark screens made it impossible for me to peek in without pressing my face against them. Silently, I climbed the steps. Again, I listened but heard no sounds from within the cabin. No television, no movement, rustles, or ambient noise. Sweat beaded along my upper lip. I took one hand from the Glock and delicately turned the doorknob. It was unlocked. I pushed it open and stepped into the darkness, my index finger serene against the trigger.
