Lannie popped open the glove box first and began to dig through, searching for who knew what? Would Catherine be stupid enough to put evidence of her crime in her car? Nothing. She slammed the compartment shut and went for the center console. A few papers, nothing screaming killer. She bit her lip and scanned the front. A business card stuck up from where it had wedged in the passenger side seat. She plucked it out. Her heart thumped in her chest and her mouth went dry. She’d given Catherine the card during her interview last week. Not any kind of evidence. Except....
She scalp tingled again. On the back—someone had written her room number at the Day’s Inn.
And license plate number, make, and model of her car. She slapped her hand over her mouth. Shit. Shit. Shit. Catherine was the bomber. There could be no other explanation. She looked over the seat at the bag. Explosives? Remote devices? She reached for it, and the driver’s side opened, and a gun cocked.
“Find what you were looking for?”
Oh, hell—and more.
***
Tanner knocked on the office. Nobody answered. He tried a second time and turned the knob. “Lannie?” He pushed the door open and stuck his head in. The lights were off and a pad with names sat on the desk, but the room sat empty.
Damn. He’d told her to stay in here. Where the hell had she gotten off to? He shut the door and headed to her room. She wouldn’t go far without a vehicle. Lannie had to be around somewhere, and everything pointed toward the obvious. Probable she’d gone upstairs to change.
But if the bomber knew where she’d stayed, she could be in danger. A small component of the detonator they’d recovered showed the sophisticated thinking of the bomber. They weren’t dealing with an idiot, rather a smart, methodical predator. After looking at her handiwork, he knew two things. One, the bomber was getting warmed up. And two, she wouldn’t stop with a warning. She wanted the competition dead. Catherine had suggested he look closer at Ms. Sawyer, who, though he didn’t want to believe she could do such a thing, had a lot of motive.
When he arrived at the room, the door was ajar. The contents of Lannie’s purse had spilled onto the floor. A quick inventory of her wallet proved all her money and credit cards remained.
“Lannie?” He opened the bathroom and found nothing but darkness when he pushed the flashlight button on her cell to illuminate the space. He strolled out and to the closet, opened it, and looked inside. The bag she’d tossed in there the night before had vanished. Could she have set this all up? For a story—as Catherine had suggested. His ex’s theory would explain her parking at the back of the lot, on the other side of the building.
A tickle in his brain told him to look for something more and to trust his instincts, and they said Lannie was in trouble. Somewhere out there, a killer lurked, and she’d found her. The power and cell phone towers were down as part of emergency protocol. Without using one of the radios of the emergency crews or officers in the parking lot below, calling her would be impossible.
He still had her business card with her cell phone number in his wallet, from the first time she’d tried to get an interview, but he also had her phone in his pocket. So, when the towers went up, having the information would do little good.
But the real question rose to the surface—did she give her business cards to everyone she interviewed?
Shit.
Things began to fall into place. The woman who called him yesterday morning had sounded familiar and the cops had access to his cell phone number, or information as to where he might be contacted in an emergency. Or an FBI agent. One of them he knew, could build a bomb as well as she could disable it—and might have an issue with him staying the night with Lannie. She’d been at the scene and could destroy and, more importantly, plant evidence which might make Lannie look guilty.
And she’d been right in front of him all day.
Double shit!
He ran to the window and looked out, scanning the parking lot. Catherine’s BMW had vanished from where he’d seen the vehicle parked a few minutes before. His truck sat two rows down, and a piece of paper pinned under a windshield wiper flapped in the breeze. A message from Catherine? He shouldn’t have let Lannie out of his sight. He’d figured the bomber wouldn’t dare to abduct anyone from the office—not with all the law enforcement around, but he’d been wrong.
He’d known Catherine long enough to know she didn’t do anything half-assed and she never walked away from an unfinished job. If she had Lannie, she meant to kill her.
Looking on the positive side of a bad situation, Catherine wouldn’t have gone to so much effort if she’d meant to kill her immediately. She would have blown the motel. She knew how to bring a building or two, down. But she hadn’t wanted him dead—and her intent hadn’t been to kill Lannie—not at first. Which meant she’d have to take her somewhere else—somewhere with meaning to Lannie, a place which also had meaning to him.
Where she could inflict maximum punishment.
Sunny Glen Nursing and Retirement Home. Fuck! He grabbed his keys and ran for his truck as fast as he could go. The facility sat outside the blackout area—perfect for someone who wanted to detonate using cellular service.
She hadn’t gone on the attack with the intent to terrorize the public. Catherine did set off the bomb because, somewhere in her twisted mind, she believed she could get him back. He’d switched out his cell phone number five times in the last six months. He’d last used a department provided, encoded phone, and the stalker still managed to get her hands on the number. Until he’d seen Lannie’s list, he couldn’t figure out how. One name had stood out, the one they both had in common.
After the attack, when Lannie told him a woman called her, warned her to stay away, the information got him to thinking about the last year and the number of bombs he’d disarmed. There had been a significant jump in occurrences. Something about the incidents felt familiar, like he’d seen the work before, but couldn’t quite place where. And then the bouncing Betty should have given her away. Who else would have access to a display piece like that—other than the top expert in the field?
She’d set him up—to disarm bombs around the city—make him into some kind of hero. But why? Perhaps she felt if he’d saved enough people—he’d no longer be broken and they could pick up where they left off. He’d no clue.
Tanner did know, however, what waited for him would be ripped from a chapter of his past, but what chapter would be a mystery until he faced whatever scenario Catherine recreated. Each and every time he’d been called out in the last year, the incident had been similar to a situation he’d dealt with before, while deployed. Everything made sense now.
Maybe he’d been blind. Stupid. The evidence had sat right before him, screaming look at me, and he hadn’t even given it a second thought.
He’d talked to Catherine when they were together. She had a clearance and understood better than any therapist could. Yeah, he’d shared some gruesome things. His ex knew his missions, what he’d seen, how he’d felt. All the details down to the IEDs he’d disarmed.
She knew everything and she had made him relive his ugly past.
He reached his truck and snagged the note off the windshield.
Tanner,
Come to Sunny Glen, but make sure you come alone. If I so much as see someone who looks like law enforcement, other than you, I’ll blow this nursing home and all the old women you visit every fucking month. The slut will be the first to go. I’ve hooked everything to a daisy chain, since I know how much you love them, and prepared her with a little something extra special, in anticipation of your visit. Enjoy unwrapping my gift.
XOXOXO,
Catherine
Shit. She’d make good on her threat, he’d no doubt. Tanner tossed the message on the seat next to him. But he’d been wrong about one thing. She wouldn’t leave a note if she didn’t want him dead. Whatever he was about to walk into, he couldn’t rely on her past feelings for him to keep her from detonating.
And he’d play her game—by her rules. He glanced at the officers and emergency crews investigating the explosion, wishing he could call the threat in, but Catherine monitored the channels and would execute a lot of innocent people.
He pulled out as quickly as he could without drawing attention. The drive to the home took him half an hour, and another ten minutes to circle the parking lot and pull up next to Catherine’s BMW, the safest vehicle in the lot. She cared more for foreign car than anything else—always parked her Beemer at the back of lots, away from other vehicles and shopping carts which might bump or scratch its perfect paint job. Where she’d parked it told him a lot. She expected the explosion to come from the other side of the building and placed her baby out of harm’s way.
Tanner hopped out and retrieved his tool bag from behind his seat. He never went anywhere without his equipment, knowing he could be called in even on downtime. Lucky him—he also had some predictability. She knew he’d have them on him, ensuring this would be a solo act.
He pulled out a hammer and smashed her driver’s side window, setting of her screeching alarm. Certain she watched, he reached into the vehicle, popped the hood, and yanked out the ignition coil. She wouldn’t go anywhere without it. Tanner made a point of visibly dropping the part into his bag and slammed the hood down as hard as he could. Sure, he’d pissed her off, but he knew she’d wait for him to spring the trap. She got off on the blast too much not to. One time, she’d told him, she’d had an orgasm watching a building drop during a scheduled demo.
At the doors, he encountered his first obstacle. Catherine had rigged the entrance with explosives. Simple. More to buy time than to stop him.
An ill feeling wriggled up his spine, standing the hair on his nape on end. He turned and looked over the parking lot, certain she watched nearby. The trap had been set from the outside, so whatever she had inside, waiting for him, she’d preplanned and hadn’t had enough time to wire a trap inside and out. He smiled, betting she hadn’t planned on him disabling her vehicle.
When Catherine used to demolish old hotels and casinos, she’d spend weeks in advance preparing her job. She worked with precision, every detail always exact. Her life had depended upon it. But the anal-retentive nature he’d so admired now served to make her a more efficient killer. And a damn scary one.
He had one thing on her. He’d thought at first she’d use remote to detonate, but she couldn’t take a chance he’d call in to have cell service shut down on his way here. She never let a situation get beyond her grasp. No wires led out that he could see, so he’d bet she’d used a timer, or something to trigger the blast, like a trip line.
“I know you’re out here!” She’d be having a shit fit he’d damaged her car and unable to blow the building from where she hid because of her control-freak nature. He scanned the area, searching for any movement. She did nothing to give herself away, but there were two places she could be, both with a front row view of the action.
He eyed the stand of trees five hundred yards back and off to the left. There. The other—to the right, where a tight group of condos sat, accentuated with enough heavy landscaping to more than provide cover from searching eyes.
He couldn’t be certain she wouldn’t detonate when he entered the premises, as he had nothing but a hunch and experience living with her and her OCD to back up his theory she hadn’t rigged the bomb for remote, but he’d have to take that chance since he couldn’t shut cell phone service down in the area. She hadn’t blown the nursing home to the heavens when he’d broken into her car and disabled the engine, which was a good sign or she could be waiting for him to enter, so she could kill everyone in the building along with him.
Which?
He’d bet on the former, considering he’d just wounded her baby, and she’d have killed him the moment he’d reached the front doors. He clipped a couple of wires and rendered safe the first trap. Sucking in a deep breath, he pushed the entrance open and stepped inside.
Silence. He started down the hall to the nurse’s station. Peggy sat at the counter, her hands resting on the keyboard, but she didn’t move.
“You okay?”
“No,” she said. “If I take my hands off, she said the explosives would detonate.”
He eyed her. “How long you been sitting here?”
“Twelve hours. It’s a holiday. I was getting ready to switch out shifts, when she came in. She set a bomb on the counter and told me if I didn’t do exactly what she said, she’d kill me. The day nurse is locked in the supply closet.”
He nodded. “We’ll take care of you first.”
She nodded and sniffed, looking up. Her eyes were red and mascara had run down her cheeks, making her look a little like Ozzie Osbourne. Tanner scooted around the counter and slid underneath. One line ran down the hall, the other to the keyboard. He disconnected the keyboard. “I want you to go outside, get in your car, and drive a safe distance away from the building. After you do, I want you to call 911 and tell them we have several bombs on the premises and emergency protocol needs to be followed. If they see Agent Dawson, they are to arrest her. I’m hoping I’ll have everything disarmed by then. Go.”
He climbed to his feet and eyed the line running down the hall. She did make things interesting, but a little too easy.
“But the residents....”
He lifted his hand, cutting her off. “I’ll make sure they’re safe. Go.” She nodded and jogged for the exit as he started down the corridor, following where the wire led him next.
***
Lannie yanked on the cuffs, blew on the feather tickling her nose in an attempt to move the fluffy irritation, and sneezed. Of all the situations she’d managed to get herself into. Not only had the bitch cinched an explosive corset onto her, one of those under the bust jobs, she’d dressed her in the burlesque costume, pasties, and panties, before handcuffing her wrists and ankles to a bed. The fans were placed, half open, across her body as though she played peek-a-boo.
Okay, so Catherine wanted to blow her up, but did she have to put her in another woman’s seventy-year-old underwear. Catty. Worse yet, she’d told her whatever choice Tanner made, and he’d have to make one, the result would be the same. Catherine would walk away unscathed while everyone in the building would die in the explosion.
She’d disclosed she’d set him up with jobs for months, testing his skill—his strengths and weaknesses, making him into the hero she knew him to be, believing if he could see how good he really was, somehow it would bring them back together.
But now Tanner knew she’d been behind everything, she’d have to eliminate all witnesses, including the man she loved. Of course, an investigation would point the authorities at Tanner. The evidence Catherine uncovered would show he’d become obsessed with fame, even dated a gossip journalist to get his name out there and fabricated the bombings in New York to make him look like a hero.
Originally she’d planned to frame Lannie alone, since bad blood existed between her and Tanner, but when she’d seen her with him, dancing, hanging all over him, Catherine changed her plans, had gone home and made something special for her.
This time Tanner wouldn’t make it out alive and, of course, she’d uncover the evidence she’d already planted in Lannie’s apartment—since she’d planned to have her go down the entire time. She would prove to be the perfect scapegoat. Too bad their deaths had to be a murder/suicide, instead of Tanner discovering the reporter who’d been obsessed with him had been behind the increase in incidents within the city.
Tanner opened the door and stared at her.
“What? Do I have a big zit on my nose or something?” She’d joked to try to ease the tension, but her humor fell flat.
“Huh.”
“Huh? Why don’t I like the sound of that?” She tugged on the cuffs. “A little help here.”
“Be right back.” He backed out. What seemed like hours later, he came back, a can of aerosol hairspray in his hand.
“Now is not the time to
fix your hair.”
He sprayed a mist into the room, creating a cloud, and little red beams of light appeared like a web. “Clever.” His gaze swept the room, right to left. “Be right back.”
“I have a bomb strapped....”
But he’d already gone. Seconds later, the power went out, and left Lannie in the dark. Tanner stepped inside, sprayed the foul-smelling hairspray again with a different result. No lines. “She’s testing me.” He walked around the room and snipped the wires to the little boxes projecting the beams. The power came back up as he snipped the last one. “Backup generator.”
“What?”
“If I’d broken one of those laser lines, the bomb would have detonated. She’s brilliant, loves to show off her technical skills. I doubt the first trap was a solo trick.” He eyed her. “Time to pluck your feathers and see what she’s left for me.” Tanner walked over to the bed and lifted the fans. “Very nice.”
“The bomb?”
“No, the costume.”
Lannie groaned. “Can you stop leering and get the bomb off me?”
“Not sure which will blow first. I think the pasties can come off safely. They don’t look attached to any timers—as they’re so small....”
“The pasties are not explosive.”
“How do you know?”
“Look, trust me when I say the pasties and panties will not blow.”
“They can cause something to blow.” He lifted a brow. “Why are you one hundred percent certain?”
Her cheeks heated and she broke his gaze, unable to look him in the eyes. “Because they were in the black bag I threw in the closet.” Did she have to explain?
“The arts and crafts bag?”
Shockwave (Calendar Men: Mr. May) Page 7
