by Karen Rose
“He’d lost a lot of blood,” Daisy said quietly, still remembering it on her hands and clothes. A kind nurse had offered her a set of scrubs when she’d arrived. Washing Gideon’s blood from her hands had triggered the first crying jag. Seeing his blood mixing with the water and swirling down the drain had been like . . . losing a part of him.
Which was ridiculous. He was going to be fine.
Whether he’d be able to work in law enforcement again was another question. It was a through-and-through, she told herself for the millionth time. Hopefully there would be no damage to his nerves. It had taken her nearly two hours after the shooting to get him here, and it would have been three times as long if the Yreka facility hadn’t called for the helicopter to take them to UC Davis.
And the whole way he’d lain there, holding her hand so tightly under the warming blanket that she’d thought he’d broken her fingers for the second time that day.
One day. It was hard to believe it had only been one day since she’d found Trish. Even less since she’d lain in Gideon’s arms and felt such peace after he’d taken her to the moon and back. It seemed like a year.
“Miss Dawson?”
Daisy turned in her seat to see Gideon’s boss coming through the door and popped to her feet. “Agent Molina. Have you heard anything?”
“Not yet,” she said, not unkindly. “I understand you have Agent Reynolds’s phone and laptop.”
Daisy’s hand darted into her pocket, closing around his phone as if it were a part of him. Brutus let out a little whine and she realized she was squeezing her too hard as well. She loosened her hold on Brutus but kept her hand clamped around the phone.
No, I don’t have either of them, she wanted to say. But she knew that wouldn’t be okay. “Why do you want them?” she asked instead.
“They have his work e-mail on them. There are classified items there.” Molina held out her hand. “May I have it, please?”
Like I have a choice. Daisy handed over Gideon’s laptop case, which she’d taken from the car while they’d waited for the helicopter.
Molina’s brow lifted. “And his phone?”
Daisy brought it out of her pocket, then hesitated, a thought striking her so hard it hurt. “Can I make one call first? You can watch and listen if you like. Then I’ll be able to give it to you.”
“Let’s go into my consultation room.”
Her consultation room. It was really one of the small rooms the doctors used to talk with the patients’ families. Daisy wanted to roll her eyes but refrained. The woman exuded power, after all. She could squash me like a bug.
But Molina didn’t, merely holding the door open so that Daisy could pass through.
“Make your call, Miss Dawson.”
Daisy fumbled with the code, remembering how bloody her fingers had been when she’d tapped it in on the side of the road. She pushed the memory aside, focusing on the names in his contacts list, scrolling to the M’s.
Mercy Callahan. Daisy wondered where Gideon’s sister had taken her last name from. For that matter, she wondered where Gideon had taken Reynolds from. “Terrill” had been the name he’d used while in the cult community.
She tapped Mercy’s name, unsure of what to expect.
She doesn’t hate me, Gideon had said. Which was not a glowing endorsement. It was entirely possible that Mercy would tell her to go to hell.
“Hello, Gideon.” The words were uttered with ill-disguised impatience.
“Hi,” Daisy said. “Don’t hang up, please.”
“Who is this?” Mercy asked sharply.
“My name is Daisy Dawson. I’m a friend of your brother’s. He’s hurt. In surgery. I thought you’d want to know.”
There was a moment of abject silence. Then, “Is he going to live?”
“Yes,” Daisy said firmly. “If you want to come, he’s at UC Davis. I know he called you about the locket. The shooting was related to that.”
“Oh God,” Mercy whispered, then cleared her throat. “Thank you for telling me. Tell him . . . that I hope he doesn’t die.”
Gideon’s sister ended the call, leaving Daisy to frown at the phone screen. That she hopes he doesn’t die? What the hell kind of message was that, anyway?
“She’s not coming, is she?” Molina asked. “Gideon’s sister, I mean.”
Daisy shook her head. “Didn’t sound like it.” Quickly she entered Mercy’s phone number into her own contacts list, just in case, then turned off the screen and handed Gideon’s phone to his boss. If she didn’t have the code, Daisy wasn’t going to give it to her.
“Thank you,” Molina said with a wry smile. “I don’t plan to use his phone, but I can appreciate your loyalty. And your marksmanship.”
“You’re the only person who hasn’t said, ‘You shot the gun out of his hand?’ So thank you for that.”
“I checked you out. Checked your family out, as a matter of fact. You and your sister have done some impressive shooting. And you have a high-ranking special agent in Baltimore who personally vouches for all of you.”
That made Daisy smile. Special Agent Joseph Carter had become a friend to both Daisy’s father and Taylor’s bio-dad. “Agent Carter’s a nice man. It was kind of him to speak well of me.” It was then she remembered what time it was. Her father’s flight from Baltimore would be getting in soon. Karl was supposed to go get him.
She slipped Brutus into her bag and stuck her hand out to Molina. “I need to go. My dad’s flying in tonight.” She breathed through the tightening in her chest when she remembered why he was coming. “He’s coming to help me with the burial arrangements for my friend.”
Molina shook her hand. “I’m very sorry for your loss,” she said and it sounded . . . genuine, but then she was back to business.
“Thank you. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Daisy hesitated at the door. “The missing child. Is there any word?”
Molina shook her head again. “Not yet. We’ve got multiple agencies searching. When I have something to share, I’ll let you know.”
Daisy backed out of Molina’s little makeshift office, only to see a familiar male frame hovering just outside the door to the waiting room. Tall, his broad shoulders a little stooped, he wore his favorite tweed jacket with patches on the sleeves. Frederick Dawson.
“Dad?” Her father turned and Daisy flew into his arms. “You’re here.” And for the second time since arriving at the hospital, she burst into tears.
Her father’s arms came around her, holding her so tightly that she almost couldn’t breathe. “Daisy, baby. Are you hurt, too?”
“No, not me.” Still she couldn’t stop crying. “Just Gideon.”
“Honey, I’m sorry. Is he going to be okay?”
“Yes,” she said, still firmly, although as the minutes passed she was feeling less sure.
“Good.” He pulled back to study her face, his expression darkening when he saw her throat. “Who did that to you?”
Daisy had forgotten she no longer wore a turtleneck. “The same man who shot Gideon this afternoon. I shot him in the hand. Got him to drop his gun, but he got away.”
Her father nodded grimly. “But he’s shot a Fed now. The Bureau will be on him like white on rice.”
“I think they would have been on him before he shot Gideon. They think he’s killed a lot of women, Dad.” She swallowed hard. “He killed Trish.”
“Your friend. Baby, I’m sorry.”
“Me too. She was a good person. It still hasn’t sunk in yet, you know?”
“I know,” he murmured.
She dashed away the tears on her face. Because he did know. She had a fuzzy recollection of her father’s sorrow after her mother had died. He’d been inconsolable for a few weeks. Until one day he’d gotten out of bed and made them breakfast, just how their mother had done. He’d loved them and
protected them as best he’d known how.
She wondered what kind of father he’d have been had he never been in the military. If he’d never been captured. If he’d never been a POW.
But she couldn’t say that. Not to him. She didn’t want to hurt him. So she said, “You’re early.”
“I was able to get an earlier flight, but the connection was iffy. I figured I’d get here when I got here.”
“How did you know to get to the hospital?” she asked.
“I went to Karl and Irina’s first. Straight from the airport. But only Zoya and Damien were home.”
“Zoya wanted to come to the hospital, but she’s got a big chemistry test tomorrow. Damien is staying with her until all this has blown over.”
Frederick smiled, but sadly. “Damien used to be a skinny kid, but he isn’t any longer. Now he’s this big, burly cop. I pity any criminals who try to cross him. And Zoya? She’s grown so much. She was barely in kindergarten when we left. I missed . . . so much.” He gave his head a little shake. “Anyway, Zoya told me that there was a shooting, that you were here, that you were ‘fine,’ but that Gideon was not. I barely heard anything after ‘shooting.’ It seems I always find you girls after you’ve proven your skills.”
“Well, I’m fine.” She hesitated. “But I’ve been thinking.”
His brows furrowed warily. Almost fearfully. “About?”
He was afraid. Her fearless, take-charge father was afraid. Of me?
No. But of my opinion of him. She pushed the topic of his PTSD behaviors aside for the present and smiled up at him. “That I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve missed you so much.”
His relief was tangible. “I’ll always come when you need me.”
She slipped her arm through his. “I know. Let’s go see Karl and Irina. They’ve missed you, too.”
He hesitated. “I . . . I’ve got a hotel room. I’ll just go check in and come back.”
She looked up at him again, softening her words with a smile. “We still have some differences to work out, you and me. But there’s one thing about you that I’ve always admired and that’s your integrity. And courage.”
His face flushed with embarrassment. “That’s two things.”
Shaking her head, she patted his arm. “If you made a mistake, you admitted it and asked for forgiveness. Even to us kids.”
He closed his eyes and sighed. “I hurt him. Karl. He was my best friend and I just walked away. I didn’t trust him.”
She took his hand, lifted it to her cheek. “Dad, does Karl know about what happened to you in Central America? That you were captured? And everything else?”
He nodded, his face flushing again, but this time with shame. “He was the one that got me out,” he whispered.
Daisy’s chest constricted. Thank you, Karl. Thank you, a thousand times. “So, on one hand, you should have known you could trust him. That you didn’t wasn’t a good thing. On the other hand . . .” She trailed off, ducking low so that she could meet his downcast gaze. “He, of all people, should understand why you made the decisions that you made. You felt cornered and scared.”
Her father swallowed hard. “You got really smart,” he said hoarsely.
“Yeah, well.” She squeezed his hands. “Go in there, Dad. Tell Karl you’re sorry. He’ll forgive you. I know it.”
Frederick drew a deep breath. “I know it, too.”
“Frederick?” a man asked.
Together they turned—and froze. Because Karl stood in the doorway to the waiting room, watching them, his face uncharacteristically unreadable.
Frederick reached out a tentative hand. “Karl,” he whispered. “It’s good . . .” He cleared his throat. “Good to see you.”
Then Karl closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around Frederick and holding him tight. “Frederick. Welcome back.”
Her father exhaled and Karl met her eyes over Frederick’s shoulder. “Give us a few minutes, Daisy. Rafe has good news from Gideon’s doctor.”
Daisy gave her father’s back a light pat but had to keep herself from running into the waiting room. Rafe and Sasha stood when she hurried in.
“Gideon’s come through the surgery,” Rafe said. “He’s in recovery.”
Daisy’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Oh, thank goodness. And his hand? Will he regain use of it?”
“The doctor didn’t say,” Sasha answered, linking her arm through Daisy’s. “But we’ll be able to see him in a few minutes. Everything’s okay.”
Daisy leaned her head on Sasha’s shoulder. “Thank you.”
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 5:45 P.M.
Zandra flinched. She’d felt the little shake rattle through the room. The front door. He was home.
No. Please no. The sound of her own whimper had her eyes stinging.
She clenched her jaw. No, she mentally repeated much more firmly. Gathering her strength, she straightened her spine.
Bellamy, Anna. Pennsylvania. Fiddler, Janice. Washington. Orlov, Nadia. Illinois. Stevenson, Rayanna. Texas.
A key rattled in the lock. DeVeen, Rosamond. Minnesota. Borge, Delfina. California. Oliver, Makayla. New York. Danton, Eileen. Oregon.
Zandra closed her eyes. Martell, Kaley. California. Hart, Trisha. California.
She braced herself for the first strike, but it never came. Instead, she heard a slight beeping sound. Cracking her eyes open just enough to see, she watched him open a safe.
And withdraw a gun. And a silencer.
No, no, no. Not yet.
At least it’ll be quick. Please, God, let it be quick.
But he didn’t shoot her. He merely checked the magazine and nodded once before dropping the gun into his coat pocket.
She didn’t notice the scarf wound around his hand until he began to take it off.
Bloody. It was covered in dried blood.
Oh. Wow. His hand. It looked . . . like he’d been mauled by an animal.
That had to hurt.
Which made her feel triumphantly, ridiculously happy.
He tossed the bloody scarf in a trash bag, then rummaged in a drawer, coming up with gauze pads and medical tape. Just like he’d used on her.
Because he hadn’t wanted her to bleed too much. He wanted her to stay alive. Wanted her conscious.
Say you’re sorry, he’d chanted. Say you’re sorry.
Fuck you, she snarled in her mind.
He continued to rummage in the drawer, bringing out a pack of sewing needles. Big ones. And more of the suture thread he’d used to close her own wounds. The wounds he’d carved into her body.
She watched as he attempted to bandage his left hand with his clearly less dexterous right. He ended up using too much tape to secure one of the gauze pads, leaving his thumb looking like a mess.
He then wrapped tape around his fingertips and the pad of his thumb. He’s covering his fingerprints. He finished by sliding his uninjured right hand into a black glove, using his teeth to pull it on. A final search of the drawer yielded a hat with a wig already attached. He put the hat on and adjusted the hair of the wig in a small mirror, then slid on a pair of wire-framed glasses, lenses tinted a light brown.
He looks like someone else. That was how he’d never been caught. Not yet, anyway.
“Nice of you to join me,” he said quietly.
Too late, she realized she’d opened her eyes fully.
He was smirking at her. “Don’t worry, Zandra. I haven’t forgotten about you. I’ll be back later and we’ll have some more fun.”
Then he gathered the suture materials and left the small room. She could hear the turn of his key in the lock. A minute later, the slight rattle shook her again.
He was gone.
But he would be back.
Bellamy, Anna. Pennsy
lvania. Fiddler, Janice. Washington.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 19, 6:25 P.M.
He pulled into the parking lot of one of the hospitals in the farthest east of Sacramento’s suburbs, idling his minivan next to the employee exit. He’d traded the truck for a minivan in a grocery store lot just south of Chico, about an hour and a half north. He’d sat in the grocery store’s parking lot waiting for an employee to leave their minivan and enter the store to start their shift, hoping that would buy him at least a few hours before anyone realized the vehicle was gone.
But no one had been available in the parking lot to take care of a baby, so he’d moved the car seat into the minivan and kept driving down the back roads, avoiding the interstate, and no one had given him a second glance.
Just another dad driving the family minivan.
Now, he was ready for the last phase of his getaway plan, having armed and disguised himself again after his quick visit home. His wound was still gaping and bleeding. He needed stitches but didn’t trust the dexterity of his right hand.
He waited, watching for someone in scrubs to leave the employee exit. Many would have changed into street clothes in the hospital’s locker room, but he was hoping at least one medical professional would still be wearing identifying scrubs. He didn’t want to grab an administrator by mistake.
He’d prefer a doctor, or even a physician’s assistant, but he’d take a nurse in a pinch. He wasn’t picky. He just needed to have his hand stitched up.
Excellent. He spied the woman coming out of the hospital, her head down as she walked his way. She was searching her handbag. Maybe for her keys. It didn’t matter. As long as she wasn’t searching for a gun, he didn’t care.
Leaving the motor running, he got out of the minivan and slid the side door open, revealing the kid, still sleeping. It was pretty awesome, actually, how good this kid was on the road. He leaned over the car seat and muttered, “Sorry, kid,” before easing the pacifier out of her mouth.
Her lips bent into a sleeping pout, but she didn’t wake up.
He was beginning to think there was something wrong with her, actually. Kids weren’t supposed to sleep so much. She hadn’t even woken long enough to cry for food.
