Winter's Mourn

by Mary Stone

  She struggled, trying to get to the beloved woman, but she couldn’t move.

  Her head hurt too.

  She coughed again, hard, coming fully awake.

  She wasn’t in Gramma Beth’s kitchen. She was in an old-fashioned parlor. From the claw-foot, horsehair couch, to the long moth-eaten curtains covering the dusty windows, everything was on fire. Flames were even licking up the side of a spinet piano in the corner of the room. The plaster was blackening, old wood trim was smoldering, ancient varnish crackling and peeling.

  It wasn’t a conflagration yet, but there were so many points of origin, it would be soon.

  Winter rolled to one side. Her hands were numb, the circulation weak from being tied uncomfortably tight behind her back. Next to her was Aiden, lying on his side, as still as death. His eyes were closed, his complexion bone white. She tugged and pulled at the ropes around her wrists, but they wouldn’t budge.

  “Aiden!” She shimmied up close to him and thunked at his head with hers. “Wake up.”

  She didn’t want to hit him anywhere else. She wasn’t sure where he’d been shot.

  She pushed at him again and yelled his name, louder this time. His eyes flew open, icy blue and clouded with pain.

  Winter let out a shaky breath. “Shit, Parrish, I thought you were dead.” She could have wept in relief at seeing him still alive.

  “Just mostly dead,” he rasped out, his lips twisting wryly. “There’s a difference.”

  “Can you untie me? Your hands are bound in front.”

  “No. I’m having some trouble moving the fingers of my right hand. But I’ve got a knife in my boot.”

  She rolled again, grateful that at least her feet were free, and backed up against him. He drew in a sharp breath when she reached his thigh, and her fingers brushed against him. They came away slippery.

  “I’m sorry. The other hit?”

  “At least she didn’t get an artery,” he pointed out, the words coming out between coughs. “Or I’d be all the way dead.”

  She found the knife and managed to undo the snap on the nylon strap just above his ankle.

  “Careful,” he said. “It’s sharp.”

  “Are you going to be able to manage the blade with one hand?”

  “Don’t have much choice.” His voice sounded weaker. “I’ll try to leave you a few fingers.”

  He managed to leave her all ten.

  The flames eating away at the curtains had reached the ceiling by the time she shook her hands loose, her fingers prickling as the blood rushed back into them. They tingled painfully as she set him free.

  “Come on, SSA Parrish,” she ordered. “Open your eyes. We need to get out of here.”

  As she spoke, the old piano collapsed to one side with a discordant clang of keys. A few feet away from where they were tied up lay their service weapons. She grabbed hers and slid it into its holster. She checked the safety and put Aiden’s in the back of her pants.

  “Go ahead,” he replied, not opening his eyes. “I’m right behind you.”

  Growling, she grabbed him under the arms and dragged him toward the archway that led into a main hallway, staying low and hoping that the parlor was the only room that had been set on fire. Scott Kennedy was apparently a closet pyromaniac, lucky for them.

  Using bullets to kill them would have been much more efficient.

  The hallway was cooler and a little less smoky, and it was easy to find the exit with the shotgun-style layout of the house. She was wheezing by the time she got to the front door, from breathing in smoke and dragging two hundred pounds of passed out male, but she was glad he was unconscious. There were drag marks from where his wounds had bled that led back down the hallway.

  She wiped her hands on her sweatshirt and looked out the window at the side of the front door. She could see the back end of a Mercedes SUV parked to the side of the house. Moving to another window, she saw Scott Kennedy standing beside it, looking polished and handsome in a trim suit. He was arguing with Rebekah, gesturing for her to get in. She’d crossed her arms, looking mulish.

  She crouched down next to Aiden. “Parrish. Parrish, I need you with me. Come on.”

  He shook his head, groggy. In pain.

  She pushed back her fear for him and smacked his cheek lightly. “Open your eyes, Aiden.”

  With a heavy indrawn breath, he did.

  “Here,” she told him, putting his SIG Sauer in his hand. “You have to stay alert. I’ve got to go out there, and you need to get yourself out of this house as soon as it’s safe. Crawl your ass out if you have to. This place is on fire, remember.”

  He nodded his comprehension, his mouth pinched at the corners with pain.

  Winter opened the door, drawing her own gun. The hinges, thankfully, didn’t squeal as the heavy door swung inward.

  She slipped out onto the porch and crept against the front before moving behind one of the heavy columns that lined it. From there, she could see both targets more clearly.

  Rebekah’s voice was shrill. “You told me that Kayla went home. You didn’t tell me you killed her.”

  “Why would I kill her?” Scott asked, his hands lifted almost reasonably. “She was ready to move on. You know she didn’t plan to take a newborn baby with her. She wanted to go to Hollywood.”

  Rebekah faltered. She clearly wanted to believe him. “The FBI agent said they found her buried up on the ridge. They know about Jenna.”

  “Sweetheart, come on.” Scott’s voice was patient, but with an edge that Winter could hear clearly. “Let’s talk about this in the car. Speaking of Jenna,” he added, throwing the little girl’s name out like a carrot, “we’ll find her, and then we can move on. Start someplace new.”

  “Not until you tell me what happened to Kayla,” Rebekah shot back stubbornly. “This time was going to be different. You promised me.”

  Scott sighed, looking his age for just a moment. As he inhaled his next breath, he reached into his coat and pulled out a handgun and leveled it at her, his smooth, youthful façade slipping back into place. “I can always finish this project solo, you know. I already have bidders lined up. It has to be finished, with or without you.”

  Rebekah took an automatic step back, the absolute shock on her face almost comical. “What are you doing?”

  “You’re just as bad as Wesley was.” Kennedy shook his head mournfully, and his voice was nearly kind. “Easily manipulated. Going along with everything in pursuit of some lofty goal and pretending the dark side that came with it doesn’t exist.” He paused thoughtfully. “Except that your father never shot an FBI agent. The love of a mother, am I right?”

  “Drop the gun, Scott.” Winter stepped out from behind the post, deliberately making herself a target to divert his attention away from Rebekah. She wanted them both alive. This story was going to be convoluted enough to figure out as it was.

  When he swung the pistol around, his face hard, she could see the soldier he’d been under the pampered veneer he’d created. Still, she dropped her aim, going for nonlethal force and fired, hitting him in the right leg, below the knee. He wouldn’t be driving out of this.

  On a roar of anger and pain, his shot went high and took out a chunk of plaster from the column about three feet above her head. She thought she heard Aiden curse behind her. At least he was still conscious. She moved fast, staying low and using the scattered pecan trees in the yard for cover as Kennedy dragged himself behind the car, through the gravel, screaming constant, almost incoherent profanity.

  He was still a threat. Likely a bigger one now.

  She monitored Rebekah out of her peripheral vision. The woman looked torn, watching Kennedy bleed and writhe in the gravel, swearing viciously. She hesitated in the center of the driveway before self-preservation won out and she backed away.

  Winter focused on Kennedy, keeping one eye on Rebekah. She could run. They’d find her.

  She almost had Kennedy in sight. She could see one of his shoes, a brown wingtip.
He’d gone quiet. She darted for another tree, and two shots rang out in quick succession. She stumbled, a hot welter of pain exploded in her arm, just above the elbow.

  Holding her hand tightly over the wound, she crouched behind the thick trunk of an oak.

  Distantly, she heard the sharp crack of wood, followed by a crash and a scream. It came from the back of the house. She stood as something collapsed, and she hoped Aiden had been able to do as she’d asked him to. Smoke hung heavy in the air now.

  Winter focused on evening out her breathing. In and out, through her mouth, like she was warding off a panic attack. The throbbing pain in her arm receded a bit as her heartbeat slowed.

  A woman’s piercing shriek broke the pregnant stillness. Rebekah. Had Kennedy gotten to her? She struggled to her feet, still shielded by the tree, but she didn’t see the other woman. Then, warm metal touched the back of her neck, almost caressingly, near the base of her skull.

  “Gotcha,” Scott whispered before another shot boomed out.

  She staggered forward, a heavy weight dragging her down. For several terrifying seconds, she couldn’t breathe.

  Abruptly, the weight was lifted away, and she rolled over. Noah’s wide grin made his warm green eyes crinkle at the corners. “How’s that for timing?” he asked as he kicked Scott’s gun away and handcuffed the dead man, just in case.

  “Good…” The world was growing darker, and it was almost impossible to keep her eyes open. “Time…”

  She wasn’t sure how long she’d been out when she opened her eyes again. Noah was still there, and he looked relieved that she was awake. “Hey there,” he said.

  She tried to smile. “Hey.”

  He helped her up as sirens sounded in the distance, pretending not to notice her tears. In return, she pretended not to notice how badly his hands were shaking.

  “Where’s Aiden?” she asked hoarsely. “Jenna? Sam?”

  “Everyone’s fine,” he assured her, taking her good arm with a grimace and leading her away before she could look down. “Sam ran into me. She took Jenna. She also called for backup, and they’re trickling in now. Apparently, they had a hard time triangulating a location since that service road was showing as the middle of a forest, and Sam couldn’t give them an address. Plus, she was panicked. A little incoherent.”

  “I can imagine.” Winter was feeling a little panicked and incoherent herself. “Where’s Aiden?” she asked again.

  “They had to wait for local officers to clear the scene. They’re getting him loaded into an ambulance now. Which is where you’re going, so don’t freak out on me. You’ll see him in a second.”

  Two of the paramedics that were loading Aiden onto a stretcher looked up at her. One frowned abruptly. “We’ve got another victim.”

  “I’m fine,” she snapped back. “I just need stitches. Let me see him.”

  Aiden had no color. He was also unconscious again.

  They’d already started him on oxygen and had slit his pants open to the thigh. A hole oozed blood sluggishly as one of the paramedics wrapped a bandage tightly around it. Another removed a blood-soaked pad of gauze from his shoulder and replaced it with a fresh one.

  “What happened?” Noah’s voice was grim.

  This was her fault.

  Winter reached out a hand to touch Aiden’s still face, but she looked like she’d bathed in blood. It was crusting and cracking on the back of her hand. She dropped it back to her side. “He took a couple of hits for me.” Her voice sounded broken.

  A second ambulance crunched up the gravel drive. “We need to go now,” one of the paramedics said. “Step back, please, so we can get him loaded in.”

  “I’m going.”

  The man started to argue with her but seeing the vicious light in her eyes and the FBI badge she shoved in his face, he thought better of it. “Fine, but we’re triaging, so wherever all that blood of yours is coming from, it’s going to have to wait. You’re upright and talking. This guy needs our attention more.”

  Winter turned on Noah, daring him to argue, but he just nodded. “I’ll finish sorting things out here.”

  She hardly felt the pain in her arm, but with every bounce and jiggle of the stretcher, she flinched for Aiden. He was so silent and still. Only once she was in the back of the ambulance, staying out of the way as the paramedic worked, did she start to feel the burning ache in her own injury.

  “What kind of blood type are you?” the paramedic asked almost casually, not looking up.

  “O positive.”

  “Good,” he muttered. “I know you’ve already leaked a little, but we might have to borrow some more. Bad wreck out on the highway and the local bank is running low.”

  Winter didn’t hesitate.

  “Absolutely,” she murmured. “It’s my fault he’s there.”

  32

  “That’ll teach you to stay in the BAU where you belong.”

  She was shot a scathing look. “I told the nurse I didn’t want visitors.”

  “I flashed my badge and a smile, and he let me in. Security around here sucks.”

  Winter carried two little pots of Gerbera daisies and set one on Aiden’s bedside table. He didn’t seem like the Gerbera daisy type—he didn’t seem like the flower type at all—but she liked them. They were bright and cheery and red, so that’s what he got.

  Aiden looked irritable and very unlike his normal self. His light brown hair was mussed, a lock of it brushing his brow instead of being smoothly combed back. There was a day’s worth of dark stubble on his normally smooth cheeks. He was propped against the white hospital sheets, shirtless, the blankets draped across his waist. She tried not to look, but there was a lot of lean and rippled muscle on display, and averting her eyes was surprisingly difficult.

  A white bandage wound around his shoulder, and he awkwardly tried to pull the sheet up higher with his other hand.

  “Don’t be modest,” Winter teased. “You’ll just hurt yourself.” Sitting the second flower pot on the floor, she helped him tug the sheet up with her good arm. She was careful not to bump his leg as she leaned over the bed. She could make out the outline of another thick bandage on his thigh.

  “You know, it’s kind of nice seeing you helpless, on your back. Probably pretty hard to do your bossing and interfering from there.”

  Aiden’s frosty eyes glinted in temper. And warning.

  She held up a hand. “Be nice to me,” she ordered. “You’ve got some of my blood swimming around in there.”

  “Is there anything I can do for you, Agent Black?” he bit out. “I’m hoping for some morphine soon, and I’m fairly sure the nurse won’t let me have any until you leave.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, genuinely contrite. “I’m being a bitch. That’s not why I came here.”

  He smiled a little. “Could have fooled me. You were doing such a good job of it.”

  “I’m here to apologize.” She sank down into the chair beside his bed while he watched her. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, shifting uncomfortably under his scrutiny when he didn’t respond.

  “For going off on your own again? For blowing cover and running straight into the line of fire?”

  She flinched. “That was a mistake.”

  “Damned right it was,” he burst out. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

  Open up a little, she told herself. He deserves that much.

  “You know I operate differently than normal people. I rely on instinct and feelings.” She swallowed hard, the truth clogging her throat. “And visions. I mistook the tension out there for something that wasn’t real. That almost got you killed. Almost got me killed.”

  Understanding dawned on his face. He opened his mouth to reply, but she held up a hand.

  He nodded for her to continue.

  “I shouldn’t be out in the field.” The admission was like a knife slicing up her throat. “You were right. I need to be behind a desk, where I can’t get anyone hurt. I should be in the BAU or out o
f the FBI altogether.”

  “Will you please quit your self-flagellation and shut your damned mouth for two seconds?”

  At his tone, she bristled. Aiden at his most arrogant was one irritating son of a bitch. Wounded or not. Sitting back in her chair, she crossed her good arm over her chest, cradling the aching arm, and nodded for him to go on.

  “Before you get all noble and tell me I was right and quit your job, scrapping your…quest, I’d like to apologize to you.”

  She let out a short, surprised laugh. “Right. For what?”

  “I almost got you killed,” he admitted, scratching at the stubble that roughened up his normally tailored appearance. “I was half out of it and feeling like a dead weight laying there, waiting to be rescued while you swapped gunfire and handled the situation on your own. I saw Rebekah trying to get away, and instead of letting someone else get her, someone capable, I dragged myself up and tackled her over the railing of the porch. She screamed when I fell on her. When you stood up to look, Kennedy got the drop on you. If Dalton hadn’t taken him out with that sniper shot of his, you’d be dead right now.”

  She looked at him for a long moment. He seemed sincere, but his lips twitched. Just slightly, but she noticed. “That’s a stretch. Not very believable.”

  “It’s the truth.” Aiden shrugged and winced. “But I’ll deny to my dying breath that I did anything as idiotic as fling my bleeding carcass off a porch to catch a suspect.” He arched a brow. “And if you tell anyone else, no one will believe you. You’re a hotheaded rook. I have dignity and credibility.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but what the hell could she say?

  “Anyway,” Aiden went on. “You’re not turning in your resignation. You’re staying where you are until I can legitimately talk you into coming over into the BAU. I’m going back to my desk when I heal up. And we’ll never discuss this afternoon again.”

  Her mouth was still opening and closing, so she snapped it shut, still unsure of what to say. The silence stretched between them, the atmosphere growing heavy.