There was but one consolation in this whole mess. Wyatt truly believed he'd identified their unsub, the person who had been trying to finish what Roger Underwood had started.
His stepsister, Claire Vincent.
Wyatt had a lot of questions for the woman, and he'd ask them sooner or later, whether as an official FBI agent or not. He would not rest, would not stop, until he'd found out if she was guilty, and ensured she never got near Lily again.
Thank God the woman had no way of knowing about the beach house. She should be going about her business today, having no idea Wyatt had figured out she might very well be the one who had killed those four men.
It was crazy, far-fetched even, that a woman, a respected attorney, could have done such things. But Wyatt knew from experience that female serial killers existed, and could be just as deadly as male ones.
He had seen Judith's eyes, had seen the hint of recklessness in them, and was certain it had come from her years of marriage to a psychopath such as Roger Underwood. Claire had been wholly within his sphere of influence for decades; she had been his teenage lover, had worshipped the ground he'd walked on. What wouldn't she do?
He knew no details. He didn't need them. That sixth sense told him she was someone he needed to talk to. And he'd do it just as soon as he got Lily to safety, even if that safety was in custody in the Hoover Building.
"Come on, Lily, call me!"
He glanced at his personal cell phone, not the one he used for work, which lay open on the passenger seat. He already knew she didn't have her cell phone with her; it was still at his place in Washington. He'd dialed the beach house several times since landing, getting no answer, but didn't read anything into that. The evening was a windy one, with dark clouds gathering to the east. Phone service on the beach was notoriously unreliable.
It was also possible she wasn't even there yet at all. He had no idea which flight she'd been on out of D.C. Maybe she hadn't beaten him by much. He'd heard about her escape from Brandon more than an hour after it had occurred, but it hadn't taken too long to get to the Richmond airport, and then to get on a flight to Maine. She might not be more than minutes ahead of him.
But it was also possible she had already arrived at the house and walked into an FBI ambush. He had been out of touch with Washington for several hours and had absolutely no way of knowing.
He still couldn't wrap his mind around what had happened this morning. Brandon hadn't known a lot, just the brief details he was able to get from Jackie before they took her away for questioning. Then Brandon and the others had been taken in, too. Anspaugh's doing, no doubt.
"Anspaugh, you son of a bitch," he growled, filled with such rage, he knew he'd do something violent the next time he saw the man. Because he had no doubt Anspaugh had done something to make Lily panic like she had. From what Brandon had told him, she had been cooperating even when Anspaugh had insisted he accompany her while she changed.
When the phone rang, he started, felt his heart race. Grabbing it, he saw a familiar name. Not the call he was waiting for, but a person he trusted. "Hello?"
"It's Christian."
Christian Mendez, one of the new members of the team. One of the only two members not currently being questioned by a raging Deputy Director Crandall, or so Wyatt suspected.
"What is it?"
Christian was a pro, an excellent agent who'd worked with the DEA in south Florida trying to put a crimp in the drug trade. He was a man of few words, and he never wasted them.
"They just let me go. Anna, too. The others are all still being questioned, and every one of you is on suspension."
"As expected."
Christian didn't ask questions, didn't want to know why he and Anna had been excluded. He didn't even call Wyatt a stupid son of a bitch for being so reckless and leading his team with him into total destruction. He simply said, "What can I do to help?"
"There's nothing. Fm on my way to find Lily, and I'm going to bring her in."
"You know where she is?"
"I think so."
Christian didn't ask, as if knowing Wyatt would never tell him. Wyatt trusted the man, but that didn't mean he would let his guard down completely. Not when it came to Lily's safety.
"All right. Call me before you bring her. I'll make sure there are plenty of witnesses this time, though I don't think there's going to be any trouble."
"Why?"
"I know the truth. We all know. Once it got so serious, one of Anspaugh's own men admitted that he'd gone upstairs to see what was taking so long, and heard Anspaugh attack her."
Wyatt’s hand gripped the steering wheel so hard, the leather pattern imprinted itself on his skin. "He's a dead man."
"I didn't hear you say that," Christian said coolly.” The point is, everybody's on this thing-it goes well above Crandall. Nothing is going to happen to Lily-she'll be treated with kid gloves-as long as she turns herself in. And once we clear her of these murder charges, this should all go away."
Maybe for Lily, the only innocent party in all this. Not for Wyatt or his team, however. He wasn't foolish enough to imagine they'd all escape unscathed.
That, however, was the decision they'd made. He only wished the rest of them wouldn't have to face the consequences. He didn't care about himself-as long as Lily was all right, he would pay any price the bureau asked him to. As much as he liked his job, and knew he did it well, it wasn't as though he actually needed to work.
But the others deserved so much better than to be punished for hard work and loyalty.
Hopeful, given what Christian had told him, he took a chance and said, "Look, let them know I'm going to bring her in, all right? They don't need to come at her guns blazing, even if they do figure out where she is. I'll have her back in Washington by tomorrow."
"I'll do what I can," Christian said, not making any promises he couldn't keep. Damn, Wyatt liked the man. It was too bad he'd just ruined his own career before they really had a chance to do much work together.
"Actually," Wyatt said, knowing that if there had ever been a time to call in the favors he had accumulated over the years, or reach out to one or two friends of his late father's, it was now, "I'm going to give you a phone number. Dial it, tell the person who answers you're calling on my behalf, and ask him to see what he can do to help the others. I don't want Dean, Jackie, Kyle, Alec, or Brandon getting crucified over this."
He rattled off the number, waiting while Christian repeated it back.
"Do I want to know who's going to be answering?"
"No," Wyatt replied. "That would probably make you too nervous."
"Huh," Christian said, reminding him that the man seemed to have no nerves at all.
"All right, not nervous. Let's just say it's for discretionary reasons."
"Got it."
Disconnecting, he resumed the drive, riding the gas pedal hard, despite the gathering storm clouds and the cold drops of rain that began to stab the windshield. The drive took half as long as usual. Soon enough he reached the private driveway, half-hidden from the road, and swung onto it. His heart was in his throat as he drove around one curve, then another, peering through the rainy darkness, trying to see if the Jeep was parked at the base of the steps.
"Thank God," he mumbled when he saw it there. Alone.
Pulling up beside it, he hopped out, felt the dwindling warmth of the engine, and knew she hadn't beaten him here by too long.
"She's fine," he reminded himself as he headed for the steps, his head down against the spitting rain. By habit, he glanced toward the motion sensor, certain it had alerted her to his presence. She was probably watching him right now on the surveillance cameras. Reactivating them would have been the very first thing she did when she arrived.
The red warning light was not gleaming in the near darkness. Neither was the green one that said he was free to proceed up the steep stairs.
The system had not been activated.
Tense, Wyatt glanced at the security camer
a on the garage. No sensor light there, either.
"Lily," he whispered.
The car engine hadn't been that warm. She hadn't arrived here such a short time ago that she hadn't had time to set the system. And no way would she have walked into that house and not seen to her own protection immediately.
Gripped by worry now, Wyatt began to jog, then to run up the steps, taking them two or three at a time, slipping a little on the wet wood surface. Reaching the top of the cliff, he darted to the porch, but hesitated before entering the house. He tested the knob. Unlocked.
This is not good. Wyatt reached down and removed his.40 Glock from its holster, then pushed the door open. It slid noiselessly, allowing him to creep into the darkened house. A few feet in front of him, he saw Lily's purse, lying on the floor, its contents strewn around. Along with everything else, it told a terrifying story.
He almost strode forward, but Wyatt suddenly remembered those crime scenes, all those lures that had to have drawn the victims inside those hotel rooms.
Instinct made him spin just as the person who'd been behind the front door lunged forward. He saw a blade, heard it whistle as it rent the air. An ax. Sharp metal bit into his shoulder, but he got off one shot, seeing a face as his attacker was thrown back.
Claire Vincent.
Blood dripped down his arm, pain eating him alive as his muscles and tendons gaped open. Thinking only of making sure the psychopath didn't get past him to the woman he loved, he ignored it, stepping closer to the lawyer who lay on the floor.
Claire wasn't dead; she was still wriggling, conscious. The bullet had hit her in the middle, above her right hip, and she bled profusely. Wyatt lifted the weapon again, not to finish her off, of course, despite how satisfying it might have been. He merely needed to cover her until he found out how badly she was hurt. "Don't move," he said, "or I'll send you where you belong, into a grave right beside your fucking brother's."
The woman stared up at him, insanity and rage warring in her eyes. Then she looked just past him, as if seeing the ghost of her twisted lover, and managed a weak smile laden with evil.
She whispered, "You first."
Her tone gave him a second's warning and he tried to get out of the way. But his responses were slowed by blood loss, his reactions a split second off due to the pain. He moved too late.
By the time he realized she hadn't been alone, pain, bright and intense, exploded in his head and he was lost.
Chapter 18
Lily heard the shot. Not violently explosive, not like in the movies, but unmistakable to someone who'd been alert for that sound, or any other threatening one, every night she'd been in this house.
She didn't panic. Didn't even reach for the shower handle to turn the water off. Instead, she stepped out in silence, grabbed her shirt, and pulled it on over her wet, naked body. Underwear, too. The jeans and shoes she'd taken off in the bedroom, on the other side of the closed bathroom door, not that she'd have wasted time with them, anyway.
She inched closer to the door, listening. Who would fire a gun? Not the FBI, not the police-whom would they be shooting at? They'd be bursting in here, ordering her to get down, arresting her.
Anspaugh? He might be enraged enough, but he wouldn't have the brains to track her down so quickly.
The killer, then. She'd been followed here. Either that or he'd figured out where she'd been hiding and he'd come here to wait for her return, as if knowing she'd be drawn back to this one safe place at some point. He must have disabled the alarm system while she'd been taking her leisurely shower, not even realizing how close danger had come.
But who were you shooting at?
A horrible possibility came to mind. Wyatt. Though her first instinct was to race into the bedroom, to get the gun from her dresser drawer, she did nothing, pulling all her thoughts into one tight, blazing point in her brain.
A sound somewhere, in the house. A voice. A thump.
She edged toward the window. It was small, high. But doable.
Standing on the toilet lid, she eased the sash up, pulled the screen in, and wriggled through the opening, one foot, then the other, shimmying out on her belly. Rain assaulted her, sharp and cold, flecked with hints of ice. One story above the patio, with no way to break her fall, she slowly slid down, dangling there, trying to keep her grip on the wet frame. Then, praying she'd forgotten to pick up the exercise mat after her last workout with Sarge, she let go.
The surface on which she landed was soft, wet, squishy. The mat. So at least one thing had gone her way today.
Lily immediately crouched down on her belly, peering through the sliding door into the kitchen. The darkness within surpassed even the nighttime sky, and she had to wait for her eyes to adjust.
She saw movement beyond the kitchen, in the cavernous living area. A man was bent over a shape on the floor. A few feet away lay another dark form, crumpled and lifeless. The man turned his head slightly, so she caught a glimpse of his profile.
Jesse Boyd.
She almost vomited, being this close to the man she'd once wanted to rip apart with her bare hands. You son of a bitch, you monster, I'll kill you. The words screamed in her head, but didn't pass her lips in even a whisper, for she knew the very faintest sound could betray her.
And she greatly feared she knew what those shapes on the floor meant. People, unconscious, injured. Dead? Her heart constricted, the air thick in her throat, threatening to choke her.
Her attention was drawn from the monster. The person Jesse had been checking on began to sit up, the child murderer lending a hand. They both rose to their feet; then Jesse moved a little to the right, enough for Lily to get a better look. She saw silver glasses, a pinched face.
The lawyer. Claire Vincent.
She wasn't entirely surprised. Ever since this morning when Jackie had pointed out Claire's name on the background report, identified as Roger Underwood's stepsister, she'd been curious to learn more. Now, seeing her here, Lily began to put things together. Was it possible the attorney was the lily murderer, and Boyd now her accomplice?
Wanting to hear their plans, she risked making a sound. She slid her fingers into the crevice of the door, tugging it open one inch, no farther, glad she'd left it unlocked when she'd gotten home a half hour ago.
"Get upstairs," the woman inside was saying. "The shower's still running. With the thunder, she probably didn't even realize she heard a gunshot." She pointed toward the floor with one hand, the other clutching her right side, which was coated with blood. She'd been hurt.
God, did Lily wish she could see more. Like who that other dark shape crumpled on the floor could be. Whose gun Jesse was bending over to retrieve.
Please, please, not him. But she already knew it was. Wyatt had come looking for her and walked right into an ambush.
"Shoot her the minute you walk in the bathroom. Don't say anything-just shoot right through the shower curtain or the door. Take her down."
"I don't know how," Boyd said, his voice whiny, weak. "I never shot a gun in my life."
"You stupid fool!" Claire snarled, her face twisted with rage, her eyes sparking with an insane light. "Go shoot her or I'll do it-then I'll come back down here and kill you myself."
That would be convenient, but she couldn't hope the woman would kill her accomplice before he found out Lily was not upstairs in the shower.
"It wasn't Fletcher who killed Will Miller, was it?"
Lily had no idea who Will Miller was.
"It was you. You set this all up, wanted me to kill her for you. Do your dirty work, right?"
"Your genius is staggering," the woman said. "Now get up there and finish the job before I bleed to death. You do want her dead, don't you?"
Boyd nodded. "Yeah. But I don't like being used."
The woman swayed, but her condescension was clear. "I apologize; do forgive me for my bad manners. Now go."
Jesse went, trudging slowly, step by step, as if dreading his deadly errand. The man held the
gun out to his side, as if he was afraid it would go off by itself and kill him.
If only Lily were that lucky.
In a moment, Claire Vincent was wounded and alone, but she was also psychotic. Like a trapped animal, she might be even more dangerous right now. If Lily hadn't been damn sure that was Wyatt lying unconscious-not dead, please, God, not dead-on the floor, she would have slipped over the railing, down to the beach, and escaped the two killers. But she couldn't, not without Wyatt.
She eased the door farther, never taking her eyes off Claire. The woman had sagged against the wall, bent over, blood dripping freely from between her splayed fingers.
Four steps to get past the kitchen table. Two more to reach the knife block on the counter. Second one from the right was the biggest, but the one on the far left was sharper, utterly wicked. Twelve steps across the smooth wood floor to the base of the open staircase. For seven of those, she would be blind to anyone descending, but entirely visible to the wounded woman at their base. Those last five would be the most critical. Either of the two murderers could see her and warn the other.
Lily crept in, cautious. She counted her footsteps. Reaching in the darkness for the knife block, she unerringly withdrew the one she wanted.
She turned and walked again. Ten steps. Eight. Six. All the time eyeing the stairs for Jesse's return, then past them to focus on Claire Vincent.
Risking one quick, confirming glance at the body on the floor, she recognized Wyatt. Her heart raced when she saw the wound on his shoulder, the blood on the back of his head. But she also saw his chest moving as he breathed. Not dead. Yet she couldn't help him until she eliminated both threats.
She'd reached the danger zone. No way to see if Boyd was coming down, no way to hide from Claire's gaze. Steeling her will and gripping the knife, she flew forward, aided by the element of surprise, and had the knife under the lawyer's throat before the other woman could even gasp.
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