Aberration

by Lisa Regan

  I felt a pang.

  “There,” he said. He looked at me and smiled his rugged, charming smile. It was softer than usual, a little shy.

  “You hardly ever smile,” he said.

  I didn’t respond. Instead, I curled up onto the couch. I slipped a hand beneath the sweatshirt and touched my little bump. My baby.

  Isaac picked up my skirt and stockings, then my slip. “Don’t,” I said. “The suit is dry clean only. It’s probably ruined.”

  He stared at the crumpled skirt. “No,” he said. “I’m sure we can salvage it.”

  I laughed unexpectedly. “McCaffrey, forget it. I have ten of those. It’s not a big deal. What I could really use is some sleep.”

  I stretched out on the couch and closed my eyes. Moments later, Isaac slipped a pillow under my head. I nestled into it and sighed. It smelled like him.

  I felt the weight of his body settle near my feet. After a few minutes, I opened my eyes. He was watching me.

  “Stop looking at me,” I mumbled.

  “Bishop?”

  “Hmmm?”

  Silence. A rustling in his throat. Then, “Nothing.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  WYATT

  November 22nd

  Rain poured down on Wyatt, matting his hair to his face. Fat drops of it rolled down the bridge of his nose and hung from the tip before falling. He was soaked through. His jeans felt heavy and stiff. They chafed against his frozen skin. His body shivered. When he pulled himself up in chin-up fashion to peer into Isaac McCaffrey’s living room, his hands trembled. He felt nothing. Nothing but the cold, prowling rage bubbling up from his gut, mingled with the hot flush of betrayal. He held himself aloft, his feet dangling a foot from the ground as he tried to catch a glimpse of Kassidy.

  McCaffrey’s mini-blinds were closed, but still Wyatt could see slivers of the room through the tiny squares where the string was threaded through each slat. He bobbed his head up and down, back and forth trying to find her in one of the squares. His breath caught as he spied her long brown hair cascading over the arm of McCaffrey’s couch. She was clearly laying down. From the angle of the square he peered through, he couldn’t tell if she was naked or not, but there was a pile of clothes on the floor a few feet away. It couldn’t be.

  He let his body fall back to the wet ground, clenching and unclenching his fists to encourage circulation in his hands. Then he tried again. This time he caught a snatch of McCaffrey’s bare chest. He let go of the window sill and sank to his knees. The rain drumming down all around him, coupled with the wind slamming against trees and houses, drowned out the sounds of cars passing by. No one would see him at the side of McCaffrey’s house dressed in black in the dark, especially with the storm raging.

  Wyatt emptied the contents of his stomach into the grass. “Whore,” he managed.

  He’d been afraid of this. He had a flash of her confessing her love to Jory Ralston outside of the Portland hotel. It was happening again. He couldn’t stop his imagination from torturing him. A thousand images of Kassidy naked with Isaac McCaffrey in the throes of sexual pleasure flashed through his mind. Each one was dirtier and more graphic than the last. He slapped his palm against the side of his head.

  “Stop,” he said.

  He should have killed McCaffrey. He would have except that Kassidy was there. She had been there with him. Her presence had thrown Wyatt off—ruined his plan. He would have had to hurt her—otherwise risk her arresting or shooting him. Wyatt hadn’t counted on Kassidy being with him. He thought that she would go home, and McCaffrey would go looking for Jacob Bentley alone. He definitely hadn’t counted on the entire incident leading to McCaffrey defiling the woman he loved.

  Wyatt slapped the sodden ground. “Whore,” he said again.

  His body ached with tension. He needed something to calm him down. He had Xanax, but it was at home. He thumped the side of his head again. “Stupid.” He should be carrying it with him. The only way to keep from blacking out was to stay calm.

  A brief flash of lightning lit up McCaffrey’s yard. Thunder peeled from the sky. It wasn’t in Wyatt’s head this time. Still, he waited for another jagged streak of lightning to cut through the sky and breathed a sigh of relief. Two weeks after Evette Gerst’s murder—which Wyatt had no memory of—he’d discovered the placebo pills Dustin DeMeo had mixed in with the Klonopin he’d given him. The Klonopin wasn’t working because Wyatt wasn’t getting enough of it. Dusty had been fucking with him. Dusty’s words echoed in Wyatt’s ears: “But don’t you want to see what happens? Where it all leads? What your true self is capable of? Come on, lose the drugs and let things unfold as God intended them.”

  Wyatt couldn’t depend on Dustin for an adequate supply of the drugs he needed. Taking revenge on Dusty had to wait until Wyatt’s plan was back on track. In the meantime, he’d gotten Xanax from a local drug dealer he sometimes used. He needed something. He had to keep from “cracking up,” as Gerst had put it. He just couldn’t risk losing more time. And now they knew his true identity.

  Another roll of thunder issued from the sky, this time without lightning. Wyatt counted to twenty but no lightning came. He stood up and took a piss on the side of McCaffrey’s house.

  Then he was sitting on the edge of a queen-sized bed, staring sightlessly at a television which showed mid-morning news. He was warm and dry. His clothes were different. Wyatt looked around. He knew at once that he was in a hotel room. It only took a moment of rifling through the desk drawer to determine his location—he wasn’t far from his home. He flipped on CNN and found the date and time within ten minutes.

  Just under fifteen hours had passed since he’d pissed on the side of McCaffrey’s house. Wyatt winced at the memory of what he’d seen through the miniscule peepholes in the mini-blinds. He felt bile rise in his throat and quickly knelt over the trash can next to the desk. He dry heaved. After a moment, it subsided. The long gash on his forearm took his mind off Kassidy and McCaffrey. It was four inches long. He’d dressed it with butterfly Steri-Strips and a large gauze pad. Blood seeped through the gauze. He didn’t know what had caused it—or who—but his breathing increased rapidly as he entertained the horrifying possibility that he’d done something to Kassidy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  KASSIDY

  November 23rd

  I woke to a flutter in my abdomen and warm breath across the taut skin over it. I opened my eyes, trying to remember where I was and how I’d gotten there.

  Then it came back to me. The diner. Blake Foster attacking Isaac in the rain. Isaac’s house. Isaac’s couch.

  Now I looked at the top of Isaac’s head as he pressed his cheek against my stomach. With one hand, he cupped the swell of skin. He lay next to me, the comforter tangled in our legs. He’d pushed the sweatshirt up under my breasts. His other hand caressed my stomach as he moved his face from one area of my abdomen to another.

  He was pressing his ear against it, I realized.

  “You know I could have you arrested for this,” I said. “Molesting a federal agent.”

  His head shot up. He smiled sheepishly, his brown hair in wild disarray. The effect was comical, and I laughed a little.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I’m really sorry. I couldn’t help it. I—he was moving in there.” Isaac brushed a palm over my distended stomach. Again, I felt a flutter. It was inside.

  I bolted up onto my elbows and stilled as the flutter came again. “Oh my God,” I said, breathless as the baby tumbled around inside me. I put a hand to the right lower quadrant of my stomach, and I was rewarded with a tiny thump. I gasped. Isaac watched my face.

  Impulsively, I grabbed his palm and pressed it over the place the baby had just moved. Two thumps. Isaac laughed.

  I looked at him in wonder. “That’s the first time she’s done that,” I said. �
��I’ve been waiting and waiting. They say you can feel it as early as four months, but I haven’t felt it till just now.”

  He grinned. “It’s pretty amazing.”

  I held his hand to my stomach. He shifted upward, sidling his large frame against mine. He was on the inside of the couch, sandwiched between me and the back of the sofa. He had to lay on his side so he didn’t push me off. He propped his head on his other hand and gazed down at me. He was still in his boxer shorts. His broad chest was warm against my side. Stubble covered his face.

  “That got you smiling,” he said.

  In spite of myself, I smiled again. He leaned down into me like he was going to kiss me. I felt my head tip slightly upward toward his. My lips parted. But he didn’t kiss me. His hand slid loose from mine and off my stomach, down to my side, resting just beneath my armpit. His thumb moved across the outside curve of my breast. I felt a sudden hardness against the outside of my thigh. I wanted to turn into him, into his warmth. One of his feet found mine. He used his instep to caress the bottom of my foot.

  I waited for the kiss, realizing with difficulty I wanted it. I wanted to know if it would be as tender as the rest of his handling of my body. It never came. Instead he made a low sound in his throat, something between a sigh and a growl.

  “Am I going to get you in trouble?” he asked.

  I swallowed. “What do you mean?”

  He nodded toward my stomach. “With the little guy’s father?”

  “Little girl,” I corrected.

  “You know it’s a girl?”

  “Well no, but I think of her as a girl. Better than thinking of the baby as an ‘it.’”

  “Well, am I going to get you in trouble with her father?” Isaac asked.

  “He’s dead,” I said.

  Isaac pulled back, his eyes struck with shock. “Good God, Bishop.”

  I looked away. “We weren’t—we didn’t—weren’t really together.”

  “Oh,” he said.

  He wiggled out from beside me and perched on the edge of the sofa, putting space between us. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  He wouldn’t look at me. A muscle worked in his jaw. A long silent moment passed.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  He shook his head, avoiding my gaze. “Nothing. I just—nothing.”

  “Tell me,” I demanded, feeling more than a little uncomfortable. I covered my belly with the sweatshirt.

  “This case,” he said, still unable to articulate what he was thinking. Finally, he looked at me. “You’re exposed. You need more protection than the Bureau is giving you. You should be far away from here, in hiding or something. Right now you’re just out there like a sitting duck.”

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  He laughed, the loudness of it making me jump. “No, you’re not,” he said.

  “I can take care of myself,” I insisted, scooting into a sitting position.

  Again he shook his head. “No, you can’t,” he said. “You’re vulnerable.”

  I stood, nearly tripping over the comforter. “I’m no more vulnerable now than I was five years ago when a rapist broke into my house and tortured me for almost an entire day. I’m sure if you asked him, he’d agree that I can take care of myself.”

  He stood, towering over me. “You’re carrying a baby. This is a different situation.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “No shit. I just woke up with your head on my belly and your hand practically down my pants. I don’t need that kind of help.”

  He shook his head. “Oh, no. No, you don’t.” He pointed to the opposite end of the couch. “I was sitting right there last night. I got up to go to bed, and you asked me to stay. You asked me.”

  My bravado weakened. “What?”

  “Convenient that you forgot that little detail, isn’t it?”

  “But I didn’t—” I protested.

  “Yeah, you did.”

  I held his unwavering gaze for a long, awkward moment before stomping into the foyer. After retrieving my purse and I held out a hand, “Give me the keys to your car,” I demanded.

  He folded his arms across his chest and stared me down.

  “Dammit, McCaffrey. Give me the keys. Now.”

  He addressed me as if I hadn’t spoken. “Bishop, I’m not insulting you. You think I don’t know how many slugs they pulled out of Sala’s dead body? I believe you can handle yourself, but I’m concerned for your safety. Whether you admit it or not, you need someone to have your back right now. You can let me do that.”

  Immediately, I thought of Jory—how hard it had been for me to let him in, and how the moment I had, he’d been stolen from me. I spun on my heel and headed for the front door. As I opened it, Isaac appeared behind me and pushed it closed with one hand. I felt his breath on the nape of my neck. His voice was gentle. “Just let me make you breakfast, and I’ll take you home.”

  I sat silently while he cooked, watching as he quickly and expertly whipped up a feast. The smells of bacon and eggs, pancakes and toast filled the air. My mouth watered. My stomach groaned loudly, drawing a sideways glance from Isaac.

  A few minutes later, he slid a heaping plate of food in front of me. Then silverware and orange juice. I stared at it, wishing I wasn’t so damn hungry. Isaac fixed his own plate. I looked at his profile, his easy hands, his butt.

  “I can handle this,” I said, my voice not sounding nearly as strong as it had in my head. “I’ve been through a lot. Losing my sister. Sala. Losing the man I loved.”

  He sat down across from me. “I didn’t say you couldn’t handle things, Bishop. It’s just that this guy—the father—he can’t have been dead more than a few months, right?”

  “Right,” I murmured.

  “Yeah. That’s not very long, and you say you loved him. Now you’re having this baby by yourself. You’re alone. There is a serial killer out there stalking you as we speak. That’s a damn lot of stress. I think you need more protection than you have right now, not to mention a support system. That’s all I’m saying.”

  He shoveled food into his mouth, eating uncharacteristically fast. I thought about what he had said—that I had asked him to stay with me on the couch. I had been so tired, I couldn’t even remember doing it. It was as if someone else had inhabited my body during a moment of weakness and asked Isaac to sleep next to me on the couch. I didn’t remember asking him to stay, but I remembered him insinuating himself next to me on the inside of the couch. I remembered feeling safe and almost immediately falling asleep as I inhaled his scent.

  It made me think of Blake Foster. After he had killed his parents, he claimed he had no memory of doing it. He’d blacked out, he said. I wondered if he was blacking out again, losing control at the crime scenes. Maybe that was why it looked like we were dealing with two different killers—one organized and controlled, the other disorganized and out of control.

  I shared my theory with Isaac who sighed. “This guy just gets scarier and scarier, which is why I will be escorting you home.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  KASSIDY

  November 23rd

  After breakfast, I changed back into my clothes, which were stiff and wrinkled. I fished my Glock and holster back out of my purse and affixed it to the waistband of my skirt. We didn’t speak on the drive back to Woodbridge. The storm had left downed trees and electrical wires in its wake. Sunlight peeked around corners and sliced between houses, creeping along the streets to illuminate the destruction. The world seemed strangely quiet in the absence of the deluge. Twice Isaac had to take detours.

  I called TK and filled him in on what had happened the evening before.

  “Come stay with us,” he said. “You’ll be safer. Bring the dogs.”

  I smiled, grateful for the offer. “You
know I can’t,” I said. “I appreciate it, but I can’t put Diane and the girls at risk like that. I was actually thinking of going with you to Sunderlin.”

  TK sighed. I could picture his forehead creasing, his fingers tapping against his leg. “That is not a bad idea,” he said. “Let me just fill Crossen in, and I’ll let you know when I’m leaving.”

  I put my phone in my purse as Isaac turned down my street. A familiar ball of fur scurried out in front of the car. For the second time in as many days, Isaac braked abruptly. My body was thrown forward slightly. I used both hands to brace myself against the dash.

  “Isn’t that your dog?” Isaac asked as I watched Pugsley hop the curb on the other side of the street and urinate at the base of a tree.

  I stepped out of the car and called to him. He rushed at me, his little body wiggling vigorously as he scampered toward me. I scooped him up and got back into the car. “What are you doing out?” I cooed, scratching between his ears. “He’s the mischievous one. I can’t figure out how he’s doing it, but he gets out constantly.”

  “How about the other two?” Isaac responded as he pulled into my driveway. He motioned toward my porch, the crease above the bridge of his nose reappearing. Smalls and Rocky lay obediently by my front door. They stood when they saw the car. Smalls’ tail wagged, but Rocky remained on guard, her velvet ears making perfect steeples as she eyed the vehicle.

  “Something’s wrong,” I said. My stomach went into free fall. I stepped out of the car.

  Rocky and Smalls bounded over. I set Pugsley on the ground and pet the other dogs absently, my eyes locked on the front door. Isaac drew his weapon. “You stay here,” he said as he moved to the porch. He crept up to the front door and listened. Softly, he turned the knob and pushed the door open. “Unlocked,” he said.