by CJ Lyons
Worse, so did she. Being taken care of was a foreign experience to Caitlyn. Paul wrapping his arms around her, sharing his strength, putting her first—it was sweet and sexy and so very addictive. Another thing that scared her. Ever since she was nine and lost her dad, Caitlyn had lived her life and guarded her heart with one rule: Trust no one.
Paul had snuck past that barbed-wire rule and now she was at a loss how to handle things. Part of her wanted to embrace the life he offered: a normal, stable, caring, trusting relationship.
The child in her screamed to run, run, run before she exposed herself too much.
She’d loved every moment of their six months together. Paul had reminded her that there was more to life than just her work. After almost dying, she’d needed that, needed a little of what everyone else seemed to have: someone to come home to, a connection with the world outside the FBI.
Despite the fact that Paul had given her more than any other man she’d ever been with, she knew she didn’t have the feelings for him that she should have. It worried her. What was wrong with her that a normal relationship with a terrific guy terrified her more than facing an armed felon? Paul had saved her life six months ago when he diagnosed her brain aneurysm. If she couldn’t bring herself to trust him, would she ever be able to trust anyone?
Caitlyn hesitated before pulling into the underground garage at his building. She could call, make an excuse about the training going late, drive back to Manassas and the peaceful solitude of her apartment. He’d never know she was lying—she was pretty good at it. Her chest tightened. Mouth went dry. She didn’t want to lie. Not to Paul.
But she was afraid of what she might be facing when she went inside. Afraid of what she’d do when he forced her to make the choice. She didn’t want to lose him, wasn’t ready to return to her solitary ways.
Not a ring, please not a ring, she thought as she left the Impreza and waited for the elevator. Her cell rang and she grabbed it like a drowning woman lunging for a lifeline.
“Tierney.”
“Excuse me, Supervisory Special Agent, this is the operator at the Washington Field Office. I have an urgent call for you from the prison chaplain at Butner Federal Correctional Institution. Will you accept the call?”
The elevator came and she entered, hit the button for Paul’s floor. Who the hell did she have behind bars at Butner? Maybe one of the convictions from her time in Boston had turned and they moved him to the facility in North Carolina? After all, Bernie Madoff and Jonathan Pollard were doing time there, as well as a smattering of mobsters turned witnesses for the prosecution.
As always, her curiosity got the better of her. Not to mention an excuse to delay seeing Paul—the thought felt strange, as if she were betraying Paul, but it also gave her a weird sense of relief. Why did relationships have to be so damn confusing? Give her a felon to take down any day of the week. “Sure, put him through.”
“Caitlyn Tierney?” The man’s voice was unfamiliar. “I’m Pastor Vince Whitford, one of the chaplains at Butner.”
She left the elevator and stopped outside Paul’s door. No sense knocking if this was something that was going to take her back to work. “Yes. Why are you calling, Pastor?”
He cleared his throat, obviously uncomfortable. “I’ve been counseling a prisoner here at Butner Medium who tried to kill himself a few days ago. Eli Hale.”
Hale, she’d never arrested anyone—oh, hell. She did know that name. Hadn’t heard it in twenty-six years. The image of a man, taller and broader than her father, as black as Sean Tierney was pale, his voice low and husky and shaking with laughter as he chased after his daughter and Caitlyn, playing the scary monster to their damsels in distress, a game that always ended with Caitlyn and Vonnie gathered under Eli’s massive arms, giggling as he twirled them around until they were dizzy with delight.
“Eli Hale?” It was her turn to clear her throat as childhood memories flooded through her. Vonnie, her best friend in the whole world—until they’d been yanked apart after Caitlyn’s dad was forced to arrest his own best friend, Eli Hale. For murder. “Is he okay?”
“He is now. The doctors are releasing him from the medical unit tomorrow, but I convinced him to agree to meet with you. I think you’re the only person who can help him.”
Anger and confusion twisted through her, tossing her childhood memories aside. Except the one that never left her: the image of her father lying dead, killed with his own gun, by his own hand. Unable to stand the guilt of seeing his best friend convicted of murder.
She swallowed bile. “I think you have the wrong person. There’s no reason on earth why I’d want to talk to Eli Hale. Or him to me.”
“Please, Agent Tierney. Don’t hang up. A girl’s life is at stake.”
Caitlyn’s fingers closed around the cell phone, almost but not quite touching the end-call icon. She wanted to hang up, to end this painful trip down memory lane. But … “What girl?”
“Eli’s youngest, Lena.”
CHAPTER TWO
Lena. She’d barely begun to walk the last Caitlyn had seen her almost twenty-six years ago. Vonnie adored her baby sister, loved playing and taking care of her. She and Caitlyn had dressed Baby Lena up in swaddling clothing her first Christmas, and took turns playing the Virgin Mary and the angel bringing glad tidings, to the thunderous applause of their beaming parents, their performances rewarded with large helpings of Mrs. Hale’s pecan pie.
Caitlyn was an only child, so knowing little Lena was like having a baby sister of her own without having to sacrifice any of her parents’ attention. Not that Caitlyn’s mom had time for another child. Jessalyn Tierney had worked two jobs: three days a week keeping the accounts for her brother’s development company and another three as a receptionist at a Realtor’s office in Bryson City while studying for her license. She wanted their family to have a better life than living in a drafty old farmhouse in a drafty old nowhere village in the western Carolina mountains.
That was Jessalyn—even now, decades later, she was constantly striving for something better for herself; constantly disappointed in the life Caitlyn, her only child, had chosen. One more disappointment in a long line of disappointments. Sometimes Caitlyn got the feeling that her mom didn’t always think the sacrifices she’d made for her daughter had been worth it.
Not that she and her mother could ever actually talk about it.
Caitlyn’s dad had worked six days a week as well. Four twelve-hour shifts for the sheriff—which usually turned into fourteen- or sixteen-hour shifts—and then two days helping Mr. Hale build houses. Sometimes Vonnie and Caitlyn would tag along to job sites, fetch and carry and even hammer a few nails under their dads’ watchful gazes. When the work was done for the day, their dads would take them fishing down on the Oconaluftee, or they’d climb up the mountain and visit the trout farm or just go sit on the Hales’ porch, the men in rockers talking sports while drinking beer, the girls dangling their feet over the edge, Mrs. Hale serving them pie or cookies or red velvet cake before curling up on her husband’s lap.
Caitlyn’s mom never did that. Said it’d wrinkle her dress or slacks or blouse. She didn’t bake, either. No time. Instead all she did was work and save money so they could move to a nicer house. Which had made no sense to Caitlyn. Why’d they need more money? They had plenty, it seemed to her. And she loved her house, old and creaky, just the way it was.
Made no sense to Dad, either, and he was the one who’d left his family in Pennsylvania to come live in Mom’s North Carolina hometown after he fell in love with her. Before he met Jessalyn McSwain, he’d planned to stay in the marines, go to college, then work for the FBI. Had it all mapped out. But, he always smiled, teeth flashing as he finished the story, love had other plans for him.
“Lena,” Caitlyn murmured into the phone, her voice muffled by memory. Little Baby Lena. Except not a baby anymore. “What’s happened?”
“She’s gone missing.”
The FBI agent in her closed the do
or on childhood sentimentality. “You don’t need me. File a missing persons report. Why aren’t you talking to her mother and sister? They can coordinate efforts better than I can. It’s not federal jurisdiction.”
He cleared his throat again. Stalling for time. “I’m sorry. Her mother and sister are both dead. Killed almost four years ago now, hit by a drunk driver.”
She sagged against the wall opposite Paul’s door, focusing on the polished brass apartment number reflecting the light from the tasteful art deco wall sconces lining the corridor. A small part of her wished she was inside, his arms wrapped around her, protecting her from the sudden slap of grief. She hadn’t seen Vonnie or her mom in twenty-six years, there was no reason why anyone would have told her about their deaths, but those cold facts couldn’t stop the tears.
She blinked them away before they could make it farther than her eyes. “Lena would be, what, twenty-seven?”
“Not until next month.” Right, a Valentine’s baby. Caitlyn remembered the blizzard that almost trapped Mrs. Hale at home when she started into labor. She and Vonnie had boiled water and collected towels until Caitlyn’s dad made it through the snow in his sheriff’s department SUV and got her to the hospital just in time. Whitford continued, “She’s graduating law school this summer—”
“Lena’s going to be a lawyer?”
“Thought it was the best way to exonerate her father. She never doubted his innocence—neither did her older sister or their mother. Despite his refusing to deny his guilt. But while they seemed resigned to his fate, Lena was, well, stubborn. She was determined to see her father set free.”
A twinge of anger cut through Caitlyn. Eli Hale was guilty. Everyone knew it. How could he let his daughter waste her life like that?
“Was? Past tense?” Had Lena discovered more evidence against her father? “Maybe she couldn’t take the truth of her father’s guilt and ran away.”
“When her father told her to stop working on his case they had a bit of a falling-out. She was supposed to visit, call, but never did. But I’m sure she didn’t run away. And, honestly, I’m not certain Eli deserves to be in prison for the rest of his life.” The last came out with a touch of defiance.
“Hale confessed. There is no federal parole. Life is life.” The words escaped from her flat, stripped of the emotions that churned through her gut. Emotions she’d spent the last quarter of a century denying. Her father was dead because of what Eli Hale had done, because Hale had betrayed their friendship. Hale himself didn’t deny it. Hale had confessed in open court to killing a man and using his relationship with a sheriff’s deputy to try to cover it up, further sullying her father’s reputation. “He deserves to be behind bars.”
She was about to hang up—again—when Whitford made that irritating throat-clearing noise. “After he tried to kill himself, while he was still woozy from the drugs, Eli said something. Something he denies saying now, but I heard it plain as day.” His words were rushed as if he realized this was his last chance. “He said, ‘Sean was right. Death is the only silence they’ll accept.’ Sean, that’s your father?”
“My father’s dead.” Vertigo pressed her back to the wall, fighting the urge to slump to the floor and surrender to the flood of memories and emotions. Dad didn’t know she was there that day. She’d skipped school because he had a rare day off and Mom was at work and it was a gorgeous spring afternoon, too beautiful to waste inside a smelly old school, and the trout were just waiting for them to grab their rods and head down the mountain to the river. That was the only comfort she had. That he didn’t know, hadn’t planned for her to be the one to find him.
The door to Paul’s apartment opened. The lights were on behind him, silhouetting him. A tall black man, like Eli Hale. For a moment it seemed as if the past had collided with her present. He stepped forward, shattering the illusion: Paul was thinner than Eli, had a lean, runner’s body. His brown eyes creased in concern; one hand clenched a kitchen towel, the other reached out to her. “I thought I heard voices. Everything all right?”
She nodded, changed hands gripping the phone as if that would help her suddenly sweaty palms, held it even closer to her ear so Paul couldn’t hear, her body twisted away from him. She needed to end this conversation. Lay old ghosts to rest once and for all.
“I know your father kil—is dead. I understand how painful this must be for you,” Whitford said. “Yet every time I see Eli he talks about your dad, won’t let him go, as if he’s doing penance.”
“Good,” she snapped. “This has nothing to do with me. If he’s really worried about his daughter, hang up and call the cops.”
“He won’t let me. Said if the police got involved, they’d kill her.”
Paranoid ramblings of a man who’d spent most of his adult life incarcerated.
Paul stood watching, his concern morphing into irritation when she didn’t join him inside the apartment. She wasn’t sure why, but she needed to keep this part of her life away from him. Avoid contaminating what she had now with what she’d lost so long ago.
“Who’s ‘they’?” She immediately wished she hadn’t asked. Her curiosity couldn’t resist.
“He wouldn’t say. But the way he talked—” He paused. “I’ve been a prison chaplain for thirteen years, Agent Tierney. I don’t spook easily, and I know a scam when I hear one. What I felt from Eli was pure fear. Lena’s life is in danger if we don’t do something to help her. The warden has approved a meeting between you and Eli for tomorrow, eleven o’clock. Please come. Just talk to him. I think you’re her only hope. Eli’s only hope.”
The last words convinced her of his delusion. Whatever was going on with Lena—and plenty of twenty-somethings took off without telling their fathers where they were going, even when their fathers weren’t locked up in a federal penitentiary—the minister’s agenda was more personal: salvation for a self-confessed killer.
Next thing, he’d be asking her to forgive Hale.
Paul crossed the hall, took her free hand, and she let him lead her the six steps into his apartment. His hand felt so solid, so real compared with the memories buzzing through her mind. Soft jazz rumbled from the stereo; the table was set, wine poured, candles lit, a warm man waiting.
“It’s out of my control. I can’t help you.” She did what she should have done ten minutes ago. She hung up the phone and focused on the man before her, giving him a bright smile. “Sorry about that, Paul. Work.”
“Something important?”
She hauled in a breath, used it to fortify her smile. “No. An old case that’s not my jurisdiction. Nothing to do with me.”
He bought the lie, took her bag from her, and gathered her into his arms for a proper greeting. Caitlyn held him tighter than she’d intended, but she couldn’t help herself. She inhaled his scent: sandalwood and cooking spices blended in a rich, tantalizing medley. This was so good, the best thing that had ever happened to her.
The thought made her wonder about Lena. The irony that Eli Hale’s daughter had spent her life trying to prove a self-confessed murderer innocent. While Caitlyn had spent her life putting killers like Eli Hale behind bars trying to win the approval of her own dead father. Both facing impossible tasks. Both leading impossible lives.
Maybe Caitlyn’s mom was right: She’d never find happiness until she was willing to put the past behind her. Maybe that’s why Paul scared her so much. He offered her a future she wasn’t sure she deserved.
CHAPTER THREE
The room was all walls, no windows. Maybe a pantry or walk-in closet with the shelves and hanger rods removed. The floor was carpet old enough and cheap enough that the edges curled up. It smelled of sweaty feet and rancid bacon grease. Overhead, beyond her reach, a bare incandescent lightbulb, its filament whining like mosquitoes on a warm summer’s night, a string dangling down to control it. She only turned it on when the darkness became too overwhelming, didn’t dare risk it burning out, leaving her with nothing.
No electrical outlets
to turn into a Bat-Signal with chewing gum and a bobby pin. If she had chewing gum or a bobby pin. No baseboards to yank off and use as a weapon. Beneath the carpet was plywood, nailed down with headless nails from a nail gun, so she couldn’t even pry one out. Not that she didn’t try when she got bored enough.
There was no furniture unless you counted the small chemical toilet in the far corner. Only enough room for her to lie down if she positioned the sleeping bag diagonally across the floor. But they’d left a case of water and some Ensure, saltines, and peanut butter—enough for a week if she was careful—and the room, wherever it was, whatever it was before it became her prison, was warm enough as long as she kept her coat on.
She hadn’t seen their faces. Not really. That gave her hope.
She had no idea how long she’d been here. Other than searching her while she was unconscious and removing anything that could be used as a weapon, including her watch, which she missed dearly as time passed in fits and starts, they hadn’t touched her.
They’d taken her shoes. For some reason she couldn’t stop thinking about that. They weren’t expensive, just Walmart knockoff dress boots she’d worn under her slacks—wanted to look professional when she spoke to Dr. Bearmeat at the archives office. Without them, only cheap white socks on her feet clashing with her navy slacks, it made this all too real. Terrifying.
Until one of them, the skinny one—all she’d noticed was his eyes, strange, blue with flecks of silver—he’d snuck back alone and returned her chain with its tiny gold cross. Seemed to realize how important it was to her. She squeezed her hand around it now, small comfort in the darkness.
They hadn’t even asked her anything—a relief since there was very little she could tell them. She had a lot of ideas, ideas grown into full-blown conspiracy theories after they took her, but no proof, nothing to bargain with.
