She wouldn’t like it. She wouldn’t like him.
Losing her was the hardest thing he’d ever had to face. That phone call, and then arriving at the apartment to find cops everywhere, searching through their belongings, acting like it was just another crime scene . . . That was bad enough. It was an experience he would never forget. Walking in there, seeing the lack of struggle, the little bit of blood on the arm of the couch. He hadn’t killed her in bed as he did most of his victims, didn’t pose her the way he had the others. He strangled her on the couch with his bare hands, caused her to bite her tongue. Then he left her that way, her face covered with one of Durango’s shirts. He didn’t see her that way, not in the apartment. But he saw the pictures, and that was bad enough.
He hated that her last moments were face-to-face with a cold-blooded killer.
“I love you!”
He turned in the doorway of the bedroom and looked back at her, the laughter that was dancing on her face, and thought this was the way life was meant to be. A beautiful woman, a successful career, a good life. He went back to her and drew her up against him, his hands slipping down over her bare back. She was tugging her sweat pants up over her hips, but her sports bra still lay on the end of the bed.
“You keep talking to me that way, and I might never get to work.”
“Would that be such a bad thing? Don’t bad guys take a day off?”
“Never. But maybe they could wait a few minutes.”
She giggled, reaching up on her tip toes to kiss him. “I love you, Durango Masters. And I can’t wait to be your wife.”
“I shouldn’t have made you wait this long.”
“Don’t you know, good things are always better when you throw in a little anticipation.”
“Yes, but there’s anticipation, and then there’s anticipation.” He slid his hand under the back of her pants, his palm cupping her tiny ass. “I have to go. Be careful out there, traffic’s bad this time of morning.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
He groaned. “Now you’re just being cruel.”
She laughed, but he swallowed it in a kiss. “I love you,” he whispered softly against her lips before untangling himself and leaving, ten minutes later than usual. But no one seemed to notice.
Durango closed his eyes and swallowed the last of the burning liquid that was in his little cup. He reached for the bottle but knocked it over. Cursing softly under his breath, he picked it up, catching it before too much of it spilled onto the table.
“Where’d you get that?”
He poured more, ignoring her question. Did it matter that he hit up a liquor store when he went out to get her fruit salad and whatever else it was that she’d insisted on eating? She had her vices. He had his.
She climbed off the bed and came to him, slipping the cup out of his hand as he held it to his lips, setting it aside as she climbed onto his lap. He looked up at her, a part of him expecting blond hair and blue eyes, laughter in her eyes. Instead, he saw dark eyes in shadow and a tense jaw, a woman with disapproval written all over her beautiful features.
“You don’t need that stuff,” she said, leaning close to him, her hair falling like a curtain around them. “You just need something to help you stay focused.”
“And what would that be?”
Rather than answer, she slipped a condom between her fingers, holding it up where he could see it. A hint of a smile touched her lips as she studied his face. He shook his head, lifting her and setting her on her feet as he jumped to his own, snatching up the cup of whiskey before moving around her to put a little distance between him and her naked body.
“Durango . . .”
Sarah was in his head, the memory of her so real that he could almost taste her lips. At the same time, those pictures of her, blown up so that the jury could be sure to see every last detail, down to the teeny drop of blood on her chin, filled his head so vividly that he needed the burn of the alcohol to tone it down just a little.
“Why?” he asked, not really of Gracie or even himself. Maybe he was just asking the universe, the force that created fate. Or maybe he was asking Sarah herself. “Why didn’t he kill her in the bedroom? Why didn’t he strip her clothing, leave her posed like all the others? Why was she different?”
“What?”
He shook his head, realizing as the words came out of his mouth that they were questions that had been festering like a forgotten splinter just under the surface of his skin. He’d never given them a voice, never had the opportunity or the desire to focus on them. But they were questions that needed to be answered.
“Was he in a hurry? Was he afraid I’d come back? If he was watching us, he should have known I wouldn’t. And who called in her death? How did the cops find her so quickly?”
“He called it in, Durango.”
He turned, his eyes a little wild as they focused on Gracie. “What?”
“It was a male voice on the 911 recording. It came in at 8:43, therefore it almost had to be him. I saw him go into the building at 8:10, right after you left. He barely spent half an hour in your apartment.”
“Why? Why didn’t he just leave her there for me to find? Why take the risk of calling it in?”
Gracie shook her head, covering her breasts with her hands as she settled on the edge of the bed, her back to him. “I always assumed he wanted her body found before you discovered Dirk Francis was dead. Or maybe he wanted you to have a reason to be the one to find Francis.”
“How would he know I’d go over there?”
“He’d been watching you. He knew you.”
Durango shook his head. “I don’t buy that.”
“He has to know you, Durango. All the murders . . . It has to be someone close enough to you to predict your movements.”
“But why her? Why like that? It was almost as if he knew her as if he felt ashamed of what he’d done to her.”
She lowered her head, that cascade of light brown hair bobbing around her face. “I think he did. And that makes sense, too. Someone who watched you grow up, someone who was close enough to follow you to Dallas and then Chicago. Someone who knew you well enough to predict exactly how you’d react in that situation . . .”
“You already have an idea who it might be.”
Gracie didn’t answer.
Durango crossed to the little table and picked up the bottle of whiskey, discarding the cup and moving to just taking swigs from the bottle itself. Gracie stood and made a grab for the bottle, but he turned, taking a long swallow before holding it above his head, well out of her reach.
“Why are you doing this?” she demanded. “I thought you’d finally realized that drinking wasn’t going to get you anywhere.”
“I’m not stupid enough to think it will. But it feels fucking good.”
“It screws you up, Durango, makes you do stupid things. Like sleeping with the cop whose job it was to prove you killed your partner!”
“You think it was the booze that did that?” He asked, raising his eyebrows. “Then you know absolutely nothing about the attraction between men and women.”
“And you have no idea what I’ve put in jeopardy just to be here, to help you.”
“That was your choice.”
“It was. And I have other choices, too. I could take you in right now and wash my hands of this whole damn thing!”
He looked her up and down, her nudity on full display. Damn, she was fucking beautiful! But the idea of her putting him in cuffs at the moment was more amusing—and erotic—than it was frightening.
“Go for it, sweetheart,” he said, dropping onto the side of the bed and taking one final gulp from the bottle before tossing the empty thing across the room.
“Do you even care anymore, Durango? Do you care that two of the best operatives in your employ are at this moment putting their own reputations on the line, their future careers, to try to help you? Do you care that I could lose my job? Do you even care that you could go down in the history books as
one of the most prolific serial killers in American history?”
“At least someone will remember me for something.”
That rendered her speechless. She stood there for a long time, just staring at him. He ignored her, falling back on the mattress so that he could stare up at the stained ceiling rather than her. When she finally moved, it wasn’t to settle into a chair and calmly figure out what their next step should be. Instead, she began snatching clothes up off the floor, shoving things into her duffle before heading off to the bathroom to gather her toiletries.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m getting out of here. If you don’t give a shit, why should I?”
For a second, he was relieved. He wanted her to go. Why should she be caught up in this mess he’d somehow brought down on his own head? But then the idea of watching her walk away began to tear at something deep inside of him, something he’d thought was long dead, a part of him that had no right to ask anything of anyone. A part of him that couldn’t let his only chance at salvation walk out that door.
“Gracie.” He grabbed her upper arms, held her still as she tried to move around him to drop her toothpaste and deodorant in her duffle. “Don’t go.”
“Why not? If you’re not going to fight for this—”
“What do you think I’m doing? Why do you think I’m here?”
“I don’t know, to be perfectly honest. I thought it was to find this killer, but now I think you’re only here to torture me for caring.”
He squeezed her arms a little too hard, so many things going on inside of him that he couldn’t begin to describe it all. How does a man put into words everything that had happened to him, everything that had made him wary of everyone, even people he should be able to trust? He didn’t just lose Sarah that day. He’d lost his coworkers, his friends, people he thought would never believe him capable of the things they were accusing him of. They all turned their backs on him, every single one of them. And when he was acquitted? When things should have been able to return to normal? They still turned their backs on him, whispering behind his back, telling themselves that they hadn’t been wrong, he was guilty, the law had just failed them as it did in those rare incidences when the evidence was just not strong enough.
He had nothing when he fled Chicago. No money, no friends. All he had was his brother, a man who’d be loyal till his last breath, and a father, the man he would forever blame for the death of his mother.
And then he slowly began to rebuild his life, allowing only a select few close to him and the killer took that away from him, too. Kyle was his best friend, the one person on this earth he could turn to no matter what was happening, and the killer took her away. Once again, he had nothing.
But then Gracie looked up at him, tears glistening in her eyes, and he realized he had her. Despite the lies, despite the knowledge she’d failed to share with him, he had her.
She was all he had.
“Don’t go.”
He let go of her arms and took her face between his hands, his thumbs brushing over her chin. He studied her eyes before he slowly lowered his head and brushed his lips over hers. She didn’t respond at first, her breaths coming quickly, heated with anger. But as he persisted, she melted into him, her lips softening, parting slightly to allow him in. And then she dropped her toothpaste and deodorant in favor of sliding her hands up his bare back.
He lifted her and carried her back to the bed, bracing himself on his hands as he bent low to kiss her again, his knee urging her legs apart before he lowered his hips against hers. She raised her head to follow him when he tried to pull back, her kiss urgent as she explored his mouth. He pulled away, needing to taste her throat, her breasts, aching to hear that sound that came from deep in her throat when the pleasure was just that intense.
He worked his way slowly down her body, returning to that place that always drew him in, that button between her legs that had the power to drive her out of her mind. It did a lot for him, too. He loved the taste of her, loved the feel of her need burning through her like a charge of electricity through a power line.
She opened to him, welcoming him like a long-lost friend. And he took full advantage of that. Within minutes she was writhing on the bed, her hips pushing him toward the spots she needed him to touch and pulling away from the spots that were just too sensitive for her to hold on to her sanity. But he could see her quickly going out of her mind, could feel her pleasure pulling her up to the top of that roller coaster. The moment he was sure she was at the point of no return, he pulled away, a groan of deep frustration bursting from her lips.
As quick as he could, he grabbed a condom and put it into place, finishing what he’d begun. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him as deep inside of her as he could physically get. He tried to kiss her, but she was long gone. And he was close. It shouldn’t have happened that fast, but there was something about this woman that made him feel like every time was the first time. He held her hips, pulled her into him, and moved until she lost control, another cry bursting into the room as she stiffened, holding her body impossibly tight against his. He held her, waiting for the moment to pass. And when she was limp in his arms, he began to move again, groaning in response to the little whimper that was all she could do.
Her hands slowly came up over his back, sliding over his skin as she pulled him closer. And her lips brushed his throat, the feel of them dry against his skin. He gathered her against him and rolled, tugging her on top of him as he lay back against the pillows. She came to life, her mouth moving over his throat, his chest, before she sat up, her hands pressed against his chest as she began to move against him, forcing him into all those places deep inside of her that made her eyes shine with the feel of it all.
He reached up and buried his hand in her hair, tugging her back down against him, meeting her halfway for a hard kiss. She sighed against his mouth, her own hand moving over his jaw, feeling the movement of his muscles as he worked his mouth against hers. But then she untangled herself from him and sat up again, her hands moving from his chest to his thighs, her body bent backward as her head turned toward the ceiling. He watched her, watched the way her movements vibrated through the length of her, watched as her impossibly erotic body did things to him that he could never have gotten from some girl in a crowded bar.
He could only take so much of that vision. He sat up and wrapped his body around hers, urging her to move harder against the length of him. He was working quickly toward an orgasm, his balls already tightening, when he realized she was on the verge for the second time. He’d never cum with a lover. It wasn’t as easy as people might believe. But this time . . .
Christ! It was mind blowing!
They fell against the mattress together, her body tossed on top of his like a ragdoll. He wanted to hold her, wanted to offer a touch of comfort, but he was wiped. He closed his eyes as his breathing slowly settled, and it was like he’d just taken the world’s most powerful sleeping pill. He was out like a light, and he slept the most peaceful sleep he’d experienced since before he was a homicide detective, since before he started seeing the imagines of murdered girls every time he closed his eyes. He never would have believed it possible, but it was. And Gracie had done it for him.
He wasn’t sure what was better: the sex or the sleep.
Chapter 9
Amarillo, Texas
Roadside Motel
Durango’s sleep was dreamless for the most part. But when he woke late the next morning, he realized there had been one dream. He could only recall little pieces of it, images. But he knew it had been a dream. Yet, he also thought it was filled with pieces of memory, too.
Billy had been there. Bruises on his throat, tears in his eyes. He was ten, and he was talking about his mother, about the things she used to do to him.
Jackson was there, too, telling him to try out for the football team. Durango had been a huge football fan, and he’d played some in high school, but he’d resisted it fo
r a long time, determined not to do something he knew Jackson wanted him to do.
And a girl in a purple dress was there, too, a young girl he knew he should remember, but couldn’t.
Weird dreams.
“You okay?” Gracie asked when he opened his eyes. She was lying beside him, her head propped up on her hand as though she’d been watching him. “You were mumbling something, but I couldn’t understand it.”
“Just a stupid dream.”
He sat up and ran his hands through his hair, wondering why he would be dreaming about Jackson now. The man rarely crossed his mind since the moment he left his house. Not even after he provided his alibi the night Detective Hyde was murdered.
He got up and stumbled to the bathroom, relieving his bladder with a heavy sigh. He glanced out the tiny window above the shower and caught sight of a man corralling a couple of kids into a broken-down station wagon. The poor guy looked like he’d been on the road far too long. But when one of the little girls fell and landed hard on her knee, he was gentle with her, gathering her in his arms and kissing the boo-boo with a gentleness that Durango had always admired in other people.
Jackson never would have done that. Hell, Jackson never bothered to corral his own children, preferring to rely on other people to do it.
When he stepped back out of the bathroom, Gracie had pulled on his t-shirt and was thumbing through a large, overburdened file folder.
“What’s that?”
She tilted her head slightly, her eyes moving up to his with caution. “I know you’re angry at me because of all the lies and omissions. So I thought, maybe it’s time we get it all out in the open.”
He tugged on a pair of boxer briefs, catching that this was a serious thing, not a moment for nudity. Then he pulled a chair up to the side of the bed and sat, ready for her to explain.
“I told you, I’ve been following this case since I was in Quantico. That’s nearly eight years of notes and evidence. And this . . . It’s not all of it. A lot of the evidence is tucked away at police stations around the country or in FBI databases, but this is everything I was able to gather on my own.”
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