by Debra Webb
Praise for Debra Webb’s
EVERYWHERE SHE TURNS
“Everywhere She Turns is romantic suspense at its best.”
—Erica Spindler, New York Times
bestselling author of Breakneck
TRACELESS
A Cosmopolitan “Red Hot Read” of the Month
“Skillfully managing a big cast, Webb keeps the suspense teasingly taut, dropping clues and red herrings one after another on her way to a chilling conclusion.” —Publishers Weekly
“A steamy, provocative novel with deep, deadly secrets guaranteed to be worthy of your time.” —Fresh Fiction
“Traceless is a riveting entanglement of intrigue, secrets, and passions that had me racing to its breathless end. I loved this book!” — Karen Rose, author of Die for Me
“Traceless is a well-crafted and engrossing thriller. Debra Webb has crafted a fine, twisting thriller to be savored and enjoyed.”
— Heather Graham, New York Times
bestselling author of The Dead Room
“The talented Webb has built a wide fan base that should be thrilled with her vengeful and chilling new tale.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“Betrayal, secrets, lies and passion lead to murder in a small town . . . Traceless is a breathtaking romantic suspense that grabs the reader from the beginning and doesn’t let up. Riveting.”
—New York Times bestselling author Allison Brennan
MORE . . .
NAMELESS
“A complex plot and an eerily compelling villain make this fast-paced chiller outstanding reading. Take a deep breath and enjoy!” ; —Romantic Times BOOKreviews (4.5 stars)
FACELESS
“Webb’s tale reeks of corruption and deadly manipulation—an impressive brew!” ; —Romantic Times BOOKreviews
“Faceless teased and taunted me until I stayed up all night reading, only to be stunned by the astounding ending. This is a blockbuster thriller screaming to be told in the movie theater, and I’d be the first person in line for a ticket. A perfect 10 you’re sure to enjoy!” ; —Romance Reviews Today
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles by
DEBR A WEBB
Find Me
Faceless
Nameless
Traceless
EVERYWHERE
SHE TURNS
Debra Webb
NOTE: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
EVERYWHERE SHE TURNS
Copyright © 2009 by Debra Webb.
Excerpt from Anywhere She Runs copyright © 2009 by Debra Webb.
Cover photographs:
Woman © Shirley Green
Background © Niall McDiarmid/Millennium Images
All rights reserved.
For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
ISBN: 0-312-53296-2
EAN: 978-0-312-53296-3
Printed in the United States of America
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / July 2009
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This book was a joy to write, mainly because of three characters in particular, CJ Patterson, Suzanne Parker, and Candice Dobbins.
The character CJ Patterson was inspired by CJ Lyons, a dear friend of mine. The real CJ is not only a medical doctor but a fabulous author of medical thrillers. Be sure to look for her latest release—you will be wowed! Thank you, CJ, for loads and loads of awesome inspiration! And many hours of moral support!
Suzanne Parker and Candice Dobbins—you know who you are. These two characters leapt onto the pages of this story just as two wonderful friends did the same in my life. You give my world that extra spark. Endless fountains of encouragement and tireless cheerleaders. You are the best!
Ladies, this one is for you!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Huntsville, Alabama, is my home. I love living here—loved visiting as a child when I lived on a farm outside Scottsboro. In my opinion, Huntsville is one of the best places to live in the entire South! When I considered making Huntsville the setting of this story, it was an easy decision to go for it. However, in any work of suspense there must be bad guys and sometimes those bad guys must be in positions of power—particularly law enforcement. So please know that all such characters in this story are absolutely fictional. The Huntsville Police Department and Madison County Sheriff’s Department serve this community in an outstanding manner. The men and women wearing those uniforms have my utmost respect as do those in political positions and those who are a part of our medical community.
The mill village represented in this story was inspired by the very neighborhood where I live, but bear in mind that I have taken some creative liberties. My family and I are new to the village, but we feel at home already. This village was erected shortly after two of Huntsville’s first textile mills were built in 1898. The homes in the village housed the mill workers and their families. A school, medical clinic, general store, and community center were also built for this village. Unfortunately the mill was torn down in the 1980s, and things didn’t go so well for the village after that. Many of the lovely old homes fell into disrepair. The medical clinic and school closed. Crime rose dramatically in the area, and things were just plain bad. But a few years ago, families started to purchase the homes and move into the village with the intent of revitalization. My family and I are proud to be a part of that renewal. We are slowly but surely restoring a one-hundred-and-ten-year-old home and doing our part for the community. The work is hard but immensely satisfying. While on the subject of restoration, I must mention that I have discovered a new community jewel—the Habitat Store! And priceless new friends and neighbors, Lisa and Greg Day.
As always, I must acknowledge my truly awesome partner in crime, my husband. He is my rock, my heart . . . my world. He is the reason my dreams continue to come true.
So, read on and enjoy! And don’t forget to visit my website, www.debrawebb.com
CHAPTER ONE
Huntsville, Alabama
Saturday, July 31, 3:30 AM
Women.
Bitches. Most every fucking one of them.
The world was about to be rid of one more stupid bitch.
All he had to do was catch her.
Mirth burst from his chest as she darted from the alley, plunging into the dark cover of the woods in a last-ditch effort to save herself.
Did she really think she could escape him that easily?
Stupid, stupid bitch.
Not in this life.
In this life, he was the killer. And she . . . well, she was the victim.
The only decision that remained was the manner of death.
Slice open her silky white throat?
No. Too clichéd.
The memorable mark of a truly magnificent killer was at its core quite simple: originality.
He allowed her a few precious seconds. Just enough to provide a fleeting glimmer of hope. Then he charged into the dark, dense woods, using the trampled underbrush she’d left in her wake as his path.
She should just face the one undeniable fact close enough for her to feel its hot brush on the nape of her fragile neck.
She was dead.
Within the hour her heart would slow to a complete stop. Hea
t would begin to seep from her flesh, and the final image captured on her retinas would fade to black.
His face would be that last image.
At that trauma-filled moment, when her brain released the massive dump of endorphins that gifted the dying with an eerie calm as their entire pathetic lives flashed like a bad movie trailer through their impotent minds, she would recognize her one fatal mistake.
She shouldn’t have gotten in the way.
Bravado, curiosity . . . whatever it was that had made her dare to step out of her place, it had been just another bad choice in a long line of bad choices littering an insignificant existence mere minutes from being over.
Even now, as he grew nearer and nearer, so shockingly near he could hear the humid air raging in and out of her desperate lungs . . . could feel the sheer terror throttling through her veins . . . she still couldn’t help herself.
She had to glance back. To see the truth that had been right in front of her for the duration of her short life.
He smiled.
This was going to be most satisfying.
CHAPTER TWO
Johns Hopkins Hospital
Baltimore, Maryland
10:30 PM
Dr. CJ Patterson fished in her purse for her keys as she neared her ancient Civic. In twenty-three minutes she would be home; five minutes after that she would be out of these scrubs and soaking in a tub full of hot, steamy water with an open bottle of chilled Saracco uncorked and parked within reach.
Forty-two patients in fourteen hours.
A twelve-car pileup on Interstate 695 had kept the ER buzzing for the final three hours of her too-long shift. Half a dozen cops were still attempting to interview the victims capable of answering questions.
“Just another Saturday night in Charm City.” She reached for the door, but something she saw out of the corner of her eye snagged her attention. “Oh, damn.”
Flat tire.
The second one this week. CJ heaved a disgusted breath. She had to get new tires.
Another reality hit on the heels of that one. She slapped her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Double damn.”
Who’d had time to get the other flat tire repaired? Certainly not a third-year resident who worked ten or more hours most days and who spent the rest of her time studying for boards.
Damn. Damn. Damn. Plowing her fingers through her hair, she pulled her ponytail free, glanced around the gloomy parking garage, and considered her options. Getting someone here to repair one or both tires would take hours on a Saturday night.
“Forget it.” She did an about-face and headed for the nearest exit. There was always a cab or two waiting within hailing distance of the ER entrance on East Monument Street. She’d get a ride home and deal with this in the morning when she’d had some sleep. Tomorrow was her first day off in two weeks. Too bad it was Sunday, because she had a million things to take care of and the business world of nine-to-fivers had no appreciation for her frenzied schedule.
She pushed through the north exit of the staff parking garage into the muggy night air. Someday, when she had money, she might actually have a decent ride. One with good tires. And reliable air-conditioning.
Such was the life of a medical resident—every aspect of one’s personal life was about the future.
Sweat had dampened her skin by the time she reached East Monument. At the ER’s street entrance she stopped and stepped back from the curb before an arriving ambulance mowed her down. Lights and sirens, not good. Hard as she tried not to linger, her efforts were futile. Two of her colleagues rushed out to connect with the emerging paramedics and the patient strapped to the gurney.
CJ forced her attention back to the taxi a block or so beyond the ER’s drop-off point. The arriving patient was in good hands. CJ’s shift was over.
She had to learn that even the most committed physician needed boundaries. She couldn’t save the world alone. Especially without sleep.
At the passenger side of the taxi, CJ opened the rear door and gave her home address to the driver. She collapsed into the seat, tossed her purse aside, and snapped her safety belt into place. Blessed relief hissed past her lips.
Finally.
“Tough night?” The driver lowered the volume of the jazz radiating from the taxi’s speakers as he rolled out onto the deserted street.
“Long, long night,” CJ explained. But that was the reality of choosing a career in emergency medicine. The ER was not the place for those who preferred banking hours and neatly scheduled appointments. Strange. Maybe the reason she loved the adrenaline-charged life of an ER physician was related to her drama-filled childhood. Wasn’t all that one did connected to the environment of the formative years?
Obviously she’d been lunching with the psych residents way too much.
The driver had his own theories about tonight’s chaos. He offered a lengthy discourse of how the full moon always made the crazies come out. CJ didn’t bother telling him just how right he was.
The full moon—
Tires squealed. Metal crashed. CJ’s head jerked, then banged the window as the taxi absorbed the momentum of an oncoming car crossing the intersection against the light.
For an endless, paralyzing moment there was no movement, no sound, other than the murmur of the jazz still whispering from the speakers.
“Son of a bitch!” The driver whacked his fist against the dash.
CJ shook off the shock, released the safety belt and rubbed at the dull ache in her right temple. The other car had broadsided the taxi. Both vehicles now sat in the middle of the intersection, steam rising from the hood of the offending vehicle.
Swearing profusely, the driver scrambled across the seat and out the passenger-side door.
CJ shoved that hot bath out of her mind for the moment and flung her door open. She caught up with the furious taxi driver as he confronted the driver of the other car.
“You didn’t see the light? What are you? Blind?”
CJ looked from the dazed driver climbing from behind the steering wheel to the passenger emerging from the backseat. “You two okay?” Both occupants were male. Caucasian. Young, twenty, twenty-one.
“We gotta get to the hospital,” the passenger shouted at no one in particular. He turned all the way around, staggering drunkenly, as if he needed to get his bearings.
An instant mental inventory of causes for his imbalance, from illegal substances to head injuries, quickened CJ’s pulse. “Call nine-one-one,” she instructed the taxi driver, who was still cursing and stomping his feet.
“Is either of you having difficulty breathing? In pain? Light-headed? Nauseous?” Moving toward the passenger, CJ visually assessed the car’s driver, who looked a little dazed and confused, as if he wasn’t sure if this was real or just a bad dream. No apparent injuries. “Any head or neck pain?”
The passenger wore a black Bob Marley T-shirt. Now that she was closer, CJ could see that the T-shirt and his hands were as bloody as hell. Her pulse quickened. His inability to regain his equilibrium persisted.
“Is he calling the cops?”
CJ ignored the driver’s question. “Where’d the blood come from?” she asked the Bob Marley fan, who appeared focused on her blue scrubs. No visible signs of injury. Eyes were glassy. His long dark hair was stringy but not wet or sticky. Where the hell had the blood come from?
“My brother.” He grabbed her arm, tugged her around the open passenger door. “He needs help.”
There was another passenger?
CJ pushed the guy aside and maneuvered her way into the backseat.
Damn.
Blood. Lots of blood.
Third passenger was a kid, not more than nine or ten. His pajama top was saturated in crimson. She tugged the top up and out of the way to get a look at his torso. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t moan.
Penetrating chest wound.
Shit.
She needed more light. Bracing her hand on the seat, she leaned closer. Something wet ooz
ed up between her fingers. Blood. Shit. Shit. Shit. The seat . . . She checked the knees of her scrubs, the damned floorboard—blood was everywhere.
Instinct kicked in and training overrode emotion.
Patient had no other visible injuries.
Not breathing.
Oh, hell.
No pulse.
Adrenaline detonated in CJ’s veins, sharpening her senses. “Help me get him out of here!”
The older brother stuck his upper body into the car. “What?”
“You and your friend,” CJ commanded, “help me get him out of the car and on the ground. Hurry!”
The two men scrambled into unsteady action. CJ cradled the boy’s head and neck as the brother and his friend lifted him out of the backseat.
“Put him down over there.” She jerked her head toward the front of the taxi. The headlights would help her see what she was doing. Streetlights weren’t enough.
“You! Taxi guy!” CJ shouted at the man still on his cell phone. He stopped explaining their circumstances and stared at her in question. “Tell them I need an ALS unit. We have full trauma arrest.” She turned back to the boy. The battle was very nearly over. “Tell them to hurry!”
“You can help him, right?” The older brother dropped to his knees on the pavement next to her.
“We have to control the bleeding.” CJ needed this guy focused on his little brother, not distracting her.
