Abandoned
( Smoky Barrett - 4 )
Cody Mcfadyen
"He doesn't kill for thrills, for sex, or even for power.It's far more twisted than that.... "
Cody McFadyen, acclaimed author of The Darker Side, The Face of Death," " and Shadow Man," "delivers this shocking new thriller that brings to light a psychopath unlike any we've ever seen--a killer who thrives in absolute darkness and doesn't derive pleasure from the kill. And only one woman has the ability to see him coming...even if it's already too late to stop her own murder.
For FBI Special Agent Smoky Barrett, the wedding of one of their own was cause for celebration. Until a woman staggered down the aisle, incoherent, emaciated, head shaved, and wearing only a white nightgown. No one knows who she is or where she's come from--or why she's chosen to appear in a church filled with law enforcement agents. Then a fingerprint check determines that the woman has been missing for nearly eight years--that once she was someone's wife, someone's mother...and a cop. Imprisoning her in a dark cell, depriving her of any contact with the outside world, her enigmatic captor was a man she didn't know and who seldom spoke, who punished her only when she failed to follow his most basic instructions designed to keep her alive. Cold, businesslike, seemingly indifferent to his victims, he's a predator with an M.O. as terrifyingly inscrutable as any Smoky has ever encountered. As she fits together the pieces of what remains of his victim's fractured life, a chilling picture emerges of a killer every bit as calculating, masterful, and professional as Smoky and the team she leads--a professional psychopath who doesn't take murder personally and never makes a mistake. There's a reason he let one of his victims go free. And by the time Smoky pierces the darkness of his twisted mind, it may cost her more than she can bear to lose to escape. For a trap snapped closed the moment she took this case too much to heart.
ALSO BY CODY MCFADYEN
Shadow Man
The Face of Death
The Darker Side
This book is for David, my father.
The one who raised me and taught me to
be a man. Without him, I’d never have
found my way back to shore.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thanks go to my agent, Liza Dawson, as always. She’s my constant cheerleader and therapist combined. To my able editors, Danielle Perez and Nick Sayers, as well as all of those I’ve yet to meet who are doing such a great job with my books in various parts of the world. To Chandler Crawford—I want her frequent-flier miles, but I don’t want her job. To the readers now and the writers past.
A shout-out to a particular author, Mr. John Connolly. I was nearing the last third of this book and feeling less than inspired. I’d lost my way, or at least I thought I had, and any writer can tell you that your mental outlook is a lot more than half the battle. I was flying to San Francisco, and I happened to start reading one of his novels, The Unquiet, on the plane. I continued reading it while I was there on my business, over room service and bleak morning coffee. By the time I finished it, I had been jump-started, and I proceeded to write like a madman in that San Francisco hotel. It never stopped.
We’re constantly inspired and influenced by our peers, but sometimes it deserves a special note. John’s a writer’s writer, and this book owes him a debt.
CHAPTER ONE
PRESENT DAY
Everyone is alone. That is what I have learned, in time.
Don’t get me wrong. I love a man. And when I wake up in the night, and he is there next to me, and I can touch him and maybe wake him and smell him and fuck him, feel him in me as he sweats and his hands wander over me like a badland, I appreciate it. I share the private knowledge that few share (not none, but few) of what his flesh feels like against my flesh. The velvet steel of it. I know our unique sounds, our sharing and wanting and crying out, me and only me, and I feel a certain selfish pride about it all. I am, in those moments, a possessor of secret knowledge. A holder of hidden things.
But in the end, nothing changes the truth: He doesn’t know, in that dark, what I am thinking in my heart of hearts, and I don’t know the same of him. This is the truth. We are all separate islands.
I am okay with that now. There was a time when I fought against the idea, as I guess everyone does. We want to know everything about our partner, share every last detail. We want to read minds and have our mind read. We want to erase all distance between us, become one person.
But we’re not one person. However close we get, some distance will always remain. Love, I’ve come to realize, lies not only in sharing each other but in being at peace with those parts that will never be shared.
I turn on my side, my cheek against my hand, and look at my man. He’s beautiful, I think. Not beautiful in a feminine way, but beautiful in the “man” of him. In his quiet ruggedness. He is sleeping deeply, and he sleeps with his mouth closed. I’m afraid to stare at him for too long. He might feel my gaze and wake up. He’s alert that way, because he, like me, knows that death is a real thing. An ever-possible moment. You learn to sleep lightly when you do what we’ve done, see what we’ve seen.
I turn onto my back and look out the open balcony door to the night sky beyond. We’d left the door open so we could hear the ocean. The temperature here allows it. We’re in Hawaii, on a five-day vacation, my first in more than a decade.
We’re staying on the Big Island, the land of fire and ice. When we drove away from Hilo Airport, Tommy and I looked at each other, wondering if maybe we’d made a terrible mistake in our choice of islands. All that had been visible, as far as the eye could see, was black volcanic rock. It was as if we’d landed on the surface of a hostile moon.
We’d gotten more hopeful as we approached our resort. Off in the distance we could see Mauna Kea, almost 14,000 feet high and snowcapped. It felt odd to look out the car window and see evidence of snow in Hawaii, but there it was. Trees and sparse grass had begun to clamber out of all that rock, striving for life and giving insight into the changes destined in the geologic future. Someday, the grass would overcome the rock and make it soil and things would change again. Tommy and I and our ancestors would be long gone, but it would happen. Life is always striving. That’s what life does.
The reception area of the resort had taken our breath away. It looked out over the endless ocean and the perfect beaches, and a temperate breeze had kissed our cheeks as if to welcome us here. “Aloha,” the young man at the reception desk said, white teeth against tan skin, seeming to agree with the breeze.
We’ve been here for four days now, doing much of nothing. Hawaii took us in gently, ignoring the blood on our hands, telling us with its beauty to rest for a while. Our hotel room is on the third floor, and our balcony is no more than fifty yards from the ocean. We spend our days lying on the beach and making love and our nights walking on the beach and making love and marveling at the overwhelming panoply of stars in the ancient sky. We watch the sunsets until the moon calls the night sky to the sea.
It’s a temporary peace. We’ll go back to Los Angeles soon, where I head the local branch of the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime—or NCAVC. The NCAVC is based in Quantico, Virginia, but someone in every FBI office in every city is assigned as the NCAVC coordinator. In many places, that job is a second hat, worn only occasionally. In Los Angeles, it has been a full-time endeavor, and I’ve been in charge for more than twelve years now, running a four-person team including me.
We’re called in for the worst there is. Men and women who murder men and women and (far too often) children. Serial rapists. The people we hunt rarely do what they do in the heat of the moment. Their actions are not a momentary anomaly but a solution to a need. They do what they do for the joy of it, because emptying out others fills t
hem up like nothing else there is.
I spend my life peering into the darkness these people radiate. It’s a cold blackness, filled with mewls and skittering things, high-pitched screeching laughter, unmentionable moans. I have killed bad men and been hunted by them too. It is my choice and my life, and I wake up to it, I come home from it, I sleep with my man and wake up to it again.
So it’s rare that I lift my head and really see the stars. We all live and die under them, but I tend to be most concerned with the dying part. I’ve had dreams of victims, on their backs, hitching final breaths as they gaze up at those ruthless, forever points of light.
Here in Hawaii, I’ve taken time to see the stars. I’ve turned my face to the sky every night and let the stars remind me that something beautiful has already burned far longer than any of man’s ugliness ever will.
I close my eyes for a moment and listen. The ocean beats against the shore outside like an unending exhalation of someone greater than us. If I was certain where I stood on God, I’d think of that sound as His heartbeat. But God and I are on shaky ground, and though we’re closer now than we were years before, we rarely speak.
Something is out there, though. Something undeniable and endless rides those waves into the sand, again and again, in rhythm with the world’s metronome. There is a vastness to the ocean in this place, a purity of sound and color and sweetness too unbearably wonderful to be an accident. I’m not sure it cares about us, whatever it is, but perhaps it keeps the world turning while we make our own choices, and perhaps that’s the best we can ask for.
I open my eyes again and move away from Tommy, slow and quiet as I can. I want to go out onto the balcony, but I don’t want to wake him. The sheets silk across my skin and then I’m free of them. My feet find the carpet floor. The moon lights up the room, so locating the bathrobe (which I plan to steal when we leave) is no problem. I shrug it on but don’t belt it, glance one final time at Tommy, and step out onto the balcony.
The moon, always a disinterested witness, shines over everything tonight, covering the world with its soft silvers and gently glowing ambers. It hangs above the ocean like a ragged pearl, and I study it with muted wonder. It’s just a ball of rock that throws off a cold light, but it has such power when the sky dims. I reach up and pretend that I am brushing my fingers through its illuminations. I almost feel them for a moment. Murky rivers of velvet light.
Because of what I do, the moon has lit my way almost as often as the sun, but it lights a path for the monsters as well. They love the moon, the way it fails to really banish the darkness. I love it too, but it’s as much of an adversary as a friend.
The temperature outside is perfect, and I let my eyes roam across the sky. In Los Angeles, stars are small scatterings of brightness on an ocean of blackness. Here, the brightness gives the blackness a run for its money. I’m able to pick out Orion’s belt just above me, and I track across the sky to find the Big Dipper and, from there, the North Star.
“Polaris,” I whisper, and smile, remembering my father.
Dad was one of those men who get enthusiastic about too many things to ever become really expert in any of them. He played guitar, passably. He wrote short stories that I loved but that were never published. And he loved the night sky and the stories of the stars.
The North Star, I remember him telling me one night, pointing it out. It’s called Polaris or sometimes the Lodestar. Not the brightest star, like many people think. Sirius is the brightest. But Polaris is one of the most important.
I was nine at the time and hadn’t really cared about the stars, but I’d loved my dad, so I had listened and made sure my eyes were wide with wonder. I’m glad I did that now. It made him happy. He was dead before I was twenty-one, and I cherish every memory.
“What you thinking?” the voice murmurs from behind me, thick with sleep.
“My dad. He was into astronomy.”
Tommy comes up and encircles me with his arms. He’s naked and warm. The back of my head finds a place against his chest. I’m only four-ten, so he towers over me in a way that I like.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks me.
“Not couldn’t,” I murmur. “Not the right word. Just comfortable being awake.”
It’s as if I can hear him smile, and this tells me, like so many other things, how we’re getting closer. We’re picking up each other’s cues, reading the signs beneath the surface. Tommy and I have been together for almost three years now, and it’s been careful and wonderful. In many ways, this unexpected love has saved me.
A little more than three-and-a-half years ago, a man I was hunting, a serial killer by the name of Joseph Sands, broke into my home. He tortured my husband, Matt, in front of me, and then he killed him. He raped and disfigured me, and he also caused the death of Alexa, my ten-year-old daughter.
I spent six months after that wrapped in an agony I can’t truly remember now. I can see it intellectually, but I think we have a protective mechanism that prevents us from actual sense memory of that kind of pain. What I remember is that I wished myself dead and came close to making it happen.
Tommy and I had come together in the aftermath. He was ex-Secret Service, and he owed me a favor. I called in the favor during a case I was on, and somehow we ended up in bed together. It was the last thing I expected. Not just because I was still mourning Matt, not just because Tommy was a drop-dead handsome Latin man, but because of what had been done to me.
Joseph Sands had cut my face with a big old knife, and he’d cut it with a mix of concentration, rage, and glee. He left permanent evidence of himself on me, a branding of blood and steel.
The scar is continuous. It begins in the middle of my forehead, right at the hairline. It goes straight down, hovering above the space between my eyebrows, and then it shoots off to the left at an almost perfect ninety-degree angle. I have no left eyebrow. Sands carved it off as he meandered across my face. The scar travels along my temple and then turns in a lazy loop-de-loop down my cheek. It rips over toward my nose, crossing the bridge of it just barely, then changes its mind, cutting diagonally across my left nostril and zooming in one final, triumphant line past my jaw, down my neck, ending at my collarbone.
I remember, when he’d finished cutting, how he paused. I was screaming, and he looked down at me, his face inches above my own. He nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s good. Got it right the first time.”
I had never considered myself beautiful but was always comfortable in my own skin. After that night, I feared the mirror, like the Phantom of the Opera. If I didn’t kill myself, then at the very least I envisioned a life spent locked away from the eyes of the world.
So when Tommy kissed me—and then later, when he took me to my bed and kissed my scars—well … it was not the kisses but the unselfconscious heat of his need that undid me. He was a man, a handsome man, and he wanted me. Not because I’d been hurt, not to comfort me, but because he’d fantasized about having me and now he could.
Time has passed, and those first moments have turned into something much bigger. We live together. We love each other and have said so. Bonnie, my adopted daughter, loves him, and he loves her back. Best of all, it’s guiltless, blessed by the ghosts of my past.
“Jesus, this is beautiful,” Tommy whispers. “Isn’t it beautiful, Smoky?”
“Unreal.”
“Pretty good idea on my part. Brilliant, maybe.”
I grin. “Watch the ego, buddy. It was a good call, but don’t expect it to bail you out in the future.”
His hands creep around me, finding their way under the bathrobe. “Guess I’ll just have to count on the sex for that.”
“That … could work,” I purr, closing my eyes.
He kisses my neck, and it makes me shiver in the warm air. “So?” he asks.
I turn in to him and angle my head up as an answer. His lips find mine as the moon watches. We kiss, and I feel myself stirring inside as he stirs against me.
“I want it here
,” I mumble, my hands in his hair.
He comes up for air, one eyebrow raised.
“Here here? As in on the balcony?”
I point to the long, reclining lounge chair. “There, actually.”
I see him scanning the grass below, and I grab his head and pull him down to me again.
“Stop thinking so much. It’s three in the morning. Just us and the moon.”
It doesn’t take much selling. I end up on top, with the moon and the North Star behind me. The ocean talks in its low rumble, and Tommy gazes up at me with a look less of hunger than of passion. Toward the end, I lean down and whisper the three words that used to be so hard to tell any man besides Matt. I see his answer in his eyes, and we fall asleep together on the balcony, draped in the bathrobe.
I wake up in bed, languid and refreshed. I have a dim memory of Tommy carrying me inside sometime in the latening of the night. It’s early now; the sun is rising. For whatever reason, we’ve been waking up before 6:00 A.M. every morning since we arrived in Hawaii. I’m not complaining. Our balcony faces west, so we get to see the sunsets more directly; thus, they are more spectacular. But watching the first light from the sun hitting the water is nothing to sneeze at.
I throw on the trusty bathrobe and walk out onto the balcony. Tommy’s already brewed a pot of coffee and has it sitting on the balcony table. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and nothing else, and I stir a little at the sight of him. Tommy is all man, about six feet one, with the trademark Latin dark hair and dark eyes. His gaze is somehow both open and guarded, the result of being an honest man who’s killed people. His face is somewhere between rugged and pretty, with a small scar at his left temple.
“You look delicious,” I tell him.
“Thanks. Coffee?”
Abandoned sb-4 Page 1
