The Blind

by Shelley Coriell

  “What the hell is going on?” Evie repeated.

  “You and I are going to talk about that when I land.”

  “No. Now. I want to know now.” Silence. “Parker, you there?”

  “Jack called me this morning.”

  “Jack? My Jack?”

  “Yes, your Jack.”

  “Why would he call you?”

  “To tell me about the problems with your right eye.”

  “No, Parker. That would be my right ear.”

  “No, Evie, your eye, the one that was damaged in the Houston bombing.”

  “What are you talking about? The eye doctor cleared me two weeks after the explosion. Said I was good as new.”

  “He also advised you to be mindful of any blurriness or obstructed vision for the next few months.”

  Despite a fire raging in her chest and wicking her throat, she kept her words cool. “I have had absolutely no issues with blurriness or obstructed vision. My eyesight is perfectly fine. So would you please call Ricci and tell him I’m back on the case?”

  More garbled words.

  “Parker?”

  “Jack said you were hiding it from everyone, including Hayden and Ricci.”

  “You believed him?”

  “I believe this man knows a hell of a lot about you.” Parker’s voice, normally smooth and modulated, grew choppy. “Probably even more than me at this point. He told me about every single scar on your body.”

  She squeezed the bridge of her nose. “So some guy knows what my Saturday panties look like. You’re going to believe him over me?”

  “I get the distinct impression he’s more than just a guy.”

  Evie swore in both English and Spanish. “He told you I told him that I loved him, didn’t he?”

  “He told me you wanted marriage and kids. Kids? Evie, something is clearly going on with you. You are not yourself.”

  Because she’d changed. She jammed her hands into the sides of her hair. But Jack hadn’t. He was still the calm, collected businessman, still in control. The puzzle pieces fell in place. “He bluffed. He fucking bluffed.”

  Silence. “I’m sorry, Evie. I didn’t hear you. I’m on my way, and you and I are going to talk.”

  The line went dead. Now was the time to talk, but not to Parker Lord.

  * * *

  7:57 a.m.

  Evie took one of the Elliott Tower elevators to the top floor, staring at the Picasso and seriously wanting to further rearrange the face, sticking the woman’s nose on her chin. She slammed a palm on the elevator door, trying to release a smidgen of the pressure building in her chest. Didn’t help. Steam rose. All she saw was red.

  Claire was a blur of beige as Evie stormed into Jack’s office. He sat behind his desk, his royal throne. His computer was dark. He was waiting for her. A prince giving her a fucking audience.

  “Parker Lord,” she belted out as she slapped her hands on the great glass desk. “He’s your associate.”

  Jack didn’t deny it because he couldn’t. Nor did he blink. That gaze, the one that had become as comfortable as her favorite pair of faded jeans, pierced her.

  “Parker is the individual you met in the course of doing business.” Slap. “The one who got you the crime scene photos.” Slap. “The one you called this morning and told to take me out of the investigation.” Slap, slap, slap!

  “Yes.” That single word was a gunshot to her chest.

  Her boots backpedaled until the backs of her knees slammed into a thick, glass coffee table. She pressed hard into the glass, focusing on that pain, not the pain crushing her chest as Jack walked toward her.

  “I met Parker ten years ago.” Jack lowered himself onto the edge of a black leather chair, his knees just inches from her. “He had some investment money, and a mutual friend introduced us.”

  More space. She needed more space between her and this guy. She slipped away, moving to the other end of the table. “You’re Parker’s finance guy?” She shook her head but not too hard. She didn’t want the tears gathering in her eyes to fall. “I always wondered how he could afford the great glass house on a cliff, the yacht, the private jet. And all this time I thought the director just gave him an extra-large expense account because he’s the greatest fucking FBI agent in the history of the agency.”

  Jack interlaced his fingers. “Parker and I have made a good deal of money together.”

  “Good deal?” She wrapped her arms around her chest. So cold. The room was so cold. How could that be when she wanted to blow? “You know about deals, don’t you? You know when to hold, when to fold, and when to bluff.” Her fingers dug into the dusty, wrinkled sleeves of her jacket. “You told Parker I had vision problems, and you wrapped it in my declaration of love.” Her vision blurred. She jammed her dirty sleeve against the damn tears. “You used my words, my love, against me.”

  “I used it to save you.”

  “From what?”

  “Yourself.”

  “That’s bullshit!”

  “That’s the truth.” Jack stood. He wasn’t shaking or crying, and his damn suit was clean. Damn him! “You were offering yourself in exchange for a woman who will be blown up today.”

  “We weren’t going to go through with it! Dammit, how many times do you need to hear that?”

  “I don’t need to hear anything, Evie, because I know you. You’re all in. You don’t do things halfway and never will. If the chance presented itself, if there was no way to save that woman and child, you’d throw yourself out there. You’d strap on the bomb.” He shook his head as if in awe. “Because you’re that dedicated to your work. You’re that good.”

  She couldn’t argue because on a gut level, the level that wasn’t connected to words she should say and backed by years of training, she knew he was right.

  Save the baby!

  “And the irony of it all, Evie, is you don’t realize how good you really are. You’re as blind as Sugar Run and Smokey Joe. You’ve spent your entire life trying to prove yourself. To that testosterone-filled family of yours, to the Albuquerque PD, to the army, and now to Parker Lord and the president of the United States.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You don’t know me.”

  “I know you shot the baby.”

  Evie’s body rocked, as if slammed by an iceberg.

  “Why do you look so surprised?” Jack asked. “I’m a businessman. Before I go into any deal, I do my due diligence. I wanted the best on this case, and I dug deep, and when I did, I found you. I also found out about your time in the Albuquerque Police Academy, and yes, I learned you shot the baby during firearms testing, and because of it, you walked away.”

  “It didn’t break me.”

  “No, failing that test lit a fire under you and made you what you are. The best.” He looked at the ceiling and shook his head. “The absolutely asinine thing is you don’t seem to buy into it. You spend every hour of every day trying to prove that you belong in a world where you are clearly at the top of the heap. Your obsession to prove yourself is going to get you killed.” He thumped a finger on the thick slice of glass. “I’m putting an end to this here and now.”

  “You controlling, manipulating son of a…”

  “And loving, Evie.” He jumped up and grabbed her shoulders. “Don’t you dare forget that, because that’s where this all comes from.”

  Steam and smoke swirled through her head. Two men she trusted, two men she loved—Jack and Parker—betrayed her. Big, important men playing with her little, pathetic life.

  She swept her arms up and out, breaking Jack’s grip. Her right hand landed on something smooth and glossy. A vase, most likely old and worth twice her annual salary. Her fingers curled around the glass. It would be so easy to throw the vase across the room, to create chaos and destruction with the beauty Jack collected.

  Her hand shook. Sweat slicked her palm. Blood throbbed in her fingertips.

  But that would make her no better than the sick man cal
ling himself Carter Vandemere. He was a bomber. A serial killer with holes in his cup. A destroyer of beauty.

  She set the vase on the table and left Jack Elliott’s cold, beautiful kingdom.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Friday, November 6

  8:01 a.m.

  Shut. It. Up!”

  Sabrina held the infant to her naked breast, but Angela turned her head and screamed louder. “I…I’m trying,” Sabrina said on a choked cry.

  “Try. Harder.” The man’s hand fisted at his side. His hand was skinny, all bone and angry knuckles.

  “She’s…she’s hurting. Her ear, it’s hurting.”

  The man who’d imprisoned her in a storage room in one of the big, tall buildings downtown—for hours, days, she didn’t know—shook, his bones rattling as if he were coming undone. Exploding. Like the bomb. She could see it on the table behind him. She knew who this was and what he was going to do.

  “She needs her medicine,” Sabrina said. “It’s in my bag. Please get my bag. I’ll do anything you want. Just help me help my baby.”

  His hand twitched as did his arm and leg. Like something was sparking inside him, something he couldn’t control.

  Angela cried out, and Sabrina rocked. “The bottle of pink liquid. In my bag. Please. It’ll make her feel better. She’ll be quiet.”

  The man reached for her diaper bag, the one with happy, hopping rabbits, his bony fingers tossing out Angela’s diapers and pacifiers and little socks. At last he pulled out the bottle of antibiotic. Oh, no! Was this kind supposed to be refrigerated? She couldn’t remember. But it didn’t matter. It was something. She was doing something for her baby. She held out her hand, and the skeleton man settled it on her palm. “I need the syringe.”

  His body twitching, he dug again and pulled out a small plastic tube. Angela screamed, the sound making the man shake harder. Sabrina calmed herself, calmed her hands, and stuck the syringe into the medicine bottle, pulling out the exact amount as indicated on the label. She could do this. She could make her baby well.

  She held the syringe to Angela’s mouth and squeezed. Her baby girl grimaced and spit.

  “Shut. It. Up.”

  Sabrina swiped her finger along Angela’s chin, shoving in the medicine. “Take it, sweetie, please, please take it.”

  Angela spit and screamed louder.

  Calm. Be calm. She’d been reading parenting magazines and online baby websites. She was trying to be a good mom. Trying. She set Angela on her legs and squirted in another drop of medicine. Angela opened her mouth to scream, but Sabrina blew on her face. Her baby swallowed. Another squirt. Another blow. Yes! It was working.

  He started to shut the door, and she stuck out her foot. She had to get it together. For her baby. “She needs a diaper.” Her baby had been in the same diaper—for hours, days, she didn’t know—and it was soiled and dripping wet.

  He dipped back into the bag with happy, hopping rabbits.

  “And a blanket,” she said, her voice growing louder. “Angela is cold, and she needs a blanket.”

  * * *

  8:37 a.m.

  Evie made it down twenty-two flights of stairs before she succumbed to the inevitable. She couldn’t outrun the tears.

  Her cowboy boots skidding to a stop, she pressed her back against the stairwell wall and slid to the ground. Jack had bluffed. He’d lied about her having vision problems, and Parker had believed him, at least long enough to hop on his private jet and demand an in-person audience.

  Tears—the kind her oldest nephew called big, fat, sissy tears—slid down her cheeks. She could no more stop the tears than stop the air rushing through her lungs. Two men she respected, and loved, had betrayed her.

  She rested her head against the wall and tried to get her mind wrapped around Jack’s words. You have spent your entire life trying to prove yourself.

  That was true. She’d spent her childhood keeping up with, and at times, barreling ahead of, her three older brothers. Same thing in the army and in her training at Quantico. And even on Parker’s team, she refused to be the little sister happy to tag along behind the boys.

  As for Albuquerque? She jammed her hands into her hair, digging her fingers into her scalp and trying to push back the memories but failing.

  Right out of college, she’d applied to the Albuquerque Police Academy, on fire and ready to save the world, like dozens of men and women in her family. Unfortunately, she’d been unable to save the baby. One baby. One second. One moment that changed her life.

  During her final round of firearms testing at the academy, she’d been placed in a number of simulations where she had to decide when, where, and how to use her service revolver. During the first four simulations, she nailed it, scoring an academy class–high of ninety-nine percent. One more simulation, one more test, and she’d be golden.

  Her recruit class had been warned about this particular simulation, the one called Save the Baby, where a bad guy abducts a baby and police are charged with tracking him down and rescuing the child. The problem was the bad guy was using the baby, a bald doll with flat eyes, as a shield.

  Recruits had to use their senses, their training, their gut, and patience. Most times, the recruits didn’t fire for fear of shooting the child, and the bad guy got away. On the rare occasion, a sharpshooter recruit managed to pick off the bad guy and save the baby. And in the history of the Albuquerque PD, nine recruits fired and shot the baby. Every single one of their names was written on that baby’s arm, including hers.

  Evangelina Jimenez. A last name with a storied history with Albuquerque PD. The one black mark.

  For almost a decade that doll’s face haunted her. She dreamed about those flat eyes and for years saw them in the faces of people she served while on Parker’s team.

  Her heart slowed. She pictured Sabrina Delgado and little Angela. She pictured the child in the Houston bombing. They had real eyes, eyes full of life and light. Jack was wrong. This had nothing to do with Albuquerque. Just like the bomb disrupt in Houston, this was about saving a real child. She pictured her nephews, Freddy’s nieces, and children that someday she would like to have, because—oh, Lord, her mother was going to fall to her knees in praise and thanksgiving—she wanted more than ticking bombs. She wanted children, and if she could ever stand to be in the same room again with him, she wanted Jack’s children.

  Jack. The man who’d betrayed her to Parker Lord. Her boss. Her mentor. Her savior. But he was also the man who didn’t trust her to do the right thing. And dammit, it was time to do the right thing. She took out her phone and texted two words to Parker Lord. I quit.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Friday, November 6

  10:14 a.m.

  Here you go, Evie.” Freddy handed Evie a stack of business cards. “Do you think twenty will be enough?”

  “One will be enough.” Evie tucked a single card into her back pocket.

  “I’ve been thinking about a tag line. You know how I got that catchy phrase, Freddy Ortiz, photographer of the starz? I’m thinking you need one, too. How do you like Bomb-busters or Bomb Babe?” The right side of his mouth inched up.

  “Freddy.”

  “Yeah, Lady Feeb?”

  She reached over and landed a kiss on his cheek. “Thanks.”

  “I knew you had the hots for me.” Freddy waggled his eyebrows.

  Evie couldn’t laugh. She didn’t have it in her. Not today. “Are you ready?”

  Freddy’s face sobered. “Let me get my phone charger.”

  Today was the first Friday of November, and sometime today Carter Vandemere would call Freddy Ortiz’s tip line and leave the time and location of the switch, which really wasn’t going to be a switch, but first Evie needed to get the ruse back on track.

  Freddy squeezed himself into Evie’s Beetle, and they drove to LAPD, where she found Captain Ricci and a handful of task force members in the case conference room. Evie handed Ricci the business card.

  “What’s th
is?” Ricci asked.

  “If you’re as smart and creative as I think you are, it’ll be my ticket back to a live performance featuring the artwork of Carter Vandemere.”

  Ricci set the card on the table and laced his fingers. “Parker give you the green light?”

  Evie forced down the lump in her throat. “Parker is no longer in the picture. I quit the team. I’m an indie bomb consultant, and I’m offering you my services. We can work out payment later.”

  Ricci closed his eyes and rested his chin on his steepled fingers.

  Long ago, about the time she was sixteen, Evie had accepted and made peace with a higher being. Please, God, please.

  Ricci nodded. “Let’s get ready for an art show.”

  * * *

  10:44 a.m.

  Claire slammed an inch-thick report of the Matsumoto deal on Jack’s desk.

  “What?” Jack asked.

  She slammed another folder. This one Seattle. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “But you’re thinking it.”

  Claire balled her hands on her hips. “Exactly what am I thinking?”

  Jack shifted his gaze to Brady, who sat across from his desk, a line dissecting his forehead. Both of his colleagues had been glowering and stomping around his office all morning. “The same thing Brady is.”

  And it all had to do with Evie. Jack pushed back the reports and hopped up from his desk. This morning with a single phone call, he’d convinced Parker Lord to put the wasn’t-going-to-happen switch on hold. Jack straightened his cuffs. It had been for Evie’s own good.

  Claire took her hands from her hips and reached across his desk. She picked up a pen and scribbled on the top of the Matsumoto report. I quit. She spun and headed out of his office.

  “Wait!” Jack said. “What the hell is this?”

  “My resignation.”

  “For trying to save the life of the woman I love?” There. He’d put all his cards on the table.

  “No.” Claire’s normally placid face lit with fire. “For stripping a strong, competent woman of the confidence and power that is rightly hers.” Claire jammed back the sleeves of her suit and aimed a pointed finger at him. “You may be a brilliant businessman, Jack Elliott, but you’re a real dumbass when it comes to women.”