The FBI Profiler Series 6-Book Bundle

by Lisa Gardner

  “Tess, Tess, come on, come on!”

  Her head fell to her chest.

  He slapped her hard and was rewarded by a sharp intake of breath. She was alive. He’d screwed up, but somehow she was alive. He rocked her against his chest. He cursed his own stupidity. He got down to business.

  They had to leave. Now.

  “Jim,” Tess whispered hoarsely. Her eyes were glazed.

  “He left. But he might come back. Can you walk?”

  “I tried to shoot him. I raised my gun, but—”

  “Shh, pull yourself together. Come on, Tess.”

  He raised the coffee table, slid the other half of the handcuffs free, and dragged Tess to her feet. She leaned against him heavily, still gasping for air.

  “Okay. You breathe. I’ll run. Here we go.”

  He pulled her out the front door, and the night slapped them like a vengeful woman, cold and stinging against their cheeks.

  Run, it seemed to hiss in their ears.

  J.T. didn’t argue.

  “He’s dead.”

  Marion glanced up from the fire, her cheeks unusually rosy from the mesmerizing flames. She sat on the edge of a white leather stool. Italian leather, very good. She’d picked it out herself and the couch and recliner that went with it. They fit the living room well, a minimalist motif of white leather and frameless glass. She’d always liked this room in her upscale Virginia town house.

  After the warm earth tones and vivid greens and reds of Arizona, however, she suddenly found the white overwhelming. And she resented that fiercely.

  “Did you hear me?” Roger stood stiffly in the doorway, as if he couldn’t decide whether it was safe to enter or not. She looked at him coolly, not giving him the slightest expression that might aid his decision.

  She knocked back the last of the brandy she’d been sipping. “I heard you.”

  “I thought you were going to be by his side.”

  “Obviously I didn’t make it.”

  “Are you all right, Marion? You don’t seem …” His voice trailed off. His face held genuine concern. She hated that.

  “Go back to your cocktail waitress, Roger. I don’t need you here.”

  For a change, he didn’t listen to her. Instead, he stepped into the room.

  She arched one fine brow. “Why, Roger, did you grow a spine while I was away?”

  His face spasmed, revealing the direct hit. “I know this has been rough for you, Marion,” he tried valiantly.

  “Spare me.”

  “I know you must hurt a lot right now. I can’t be your husband anymore. I’m sorry. But I thought … I thought I might still be your friend.”

  “Why would I need a friend?”

  “I know you loved him,” Roger whispered hoarsely. “I loved him too, Marion. He was my friend, my mentor … I already miss him. I can’t imagine how much you must hurt.” The emotion welled up in his face. Before he controlled himself, she saw the glint of honest tears in his eyes.

  She stared at him blankly. She should be crying too. She should feel sadness, grief. But she felt nothing, just ice, flowing through her veins and freezing like a solid mass in her stomach. Ever since two nights ago, ice was the only emotion she could find.

  Because sometimes when it cracked, she glimpsed things she didn’t want to know.

  Roger stepped forward. He looked handsome and distinguished in his suit, the crystal chandelier reflecting off his fine light brown hair and elegant patrician features. He’d been born with a silver spoon in his mouth and was the epitome of grace, refinement, and class.

  The first time she’d seen Roger, she’d been dressed in a flowing white gown and slowly descending the grand curving staircase of her parents’ house to make the dramatic entrance for her eighteenth birthday party. Roger had been standing by the colonel’s side in full military dress uniform, looking at her mesmerized while the chandelier glinted off the medals on his chest. Her gaze was supposed to sweep the whole room like a duchess granting royal privilege. Instead, she’d simply stared at Roger. She’d thought he was a prince coming to carry her away.

  If he put his arms around her now, could he make the images go away? Could he save her from the ice that was consuming her?

  I am lost inside myself and no one can hear my cry.

  “Marion—”

  “Go home, Roger. I don’t want you here.”

  “You shouldn’t be alone—”

  “Go home, goddammit! Go home or I will call your sweet little cocktail waitress and tell her just how strong and brave you really are! Get out of my home. Get out of my living room. Play the grieving protégé on your own time!”

  He looked stricken. She took a step forward and he shrank back. His face became shuttered, his eyes accusing, and he didn’t have to move his lips for her to know what he was thinking.

  Cold Marion, unfeeling Marion, frigid Marion.

  And for her part she remembered life after the storybook wedding. She recalled the time she’d been in the bathroom, washing her face, and he’d slammed open the door, stepped into the bathroom, and in front of her startled gaze lowered his zipper and pissed in the toilet. He’d stared at her mutinously. “After five years of marriage, we ought to be at least comfortable enough to take a leak in front of each other, Marion. I want that kind of closeness!” She’d just stared at him, unable to keep the horror and disgust from her face. He’d never done it again.

  “All right,” he now said stiffly, retreating to the door. “I’ll leave, if that’s what you want.”

  “How many times do I have to say it?”

  He opened the door, then paused long enough to shake his head. “You’ve always been remote, Marion,” he said quietly. “But I don’t remember you as being so cruel.”

  “I’m just getting wiser.”

  “Don’t get too wise, Marion. You don’t have that many friends left—just Emma, whom you despise, and J.T., whom you hate.”

  “Emma is insane and J.T. is a drunk. I don’t give a flying fig for either of them.”

  “J.T. is a drunk?”

  “Absolutely,” she said coolly. Goody Two-shoes Roger always had been fascinated by her brother and even more fascinated by J.T.’s obvious disdain.

  “Is that why he didn’t come back?”

  “I’m sure of it. You’ll have to come to terms with it, Roger. My brother is no longer some dashing rebel. He’s just an alcoholic. And wherever he is right now, I’m sure the tequila is golden.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  The motel room was brown, shit brown. Brown floor, brown beds, brown curtains. Not even a traveling salesman would like the room. Tess thought it was fitting.

  J.T. was fetching ice. She stood alone in the middle of the room with her arms wrapped around her middle. She could hear a faint ringing in her ears. When she inhaled, her throat felt scratchy and raw.

  She’d called Lieutenant Houlihan and told him what had happened. The APB had been updated with the information on Jim’s recent sighting, and local search efforts intensified. The lieutenant wanted her to come in. She didn’t see what that would accomplish. They would put her in a house. She’d sit and wait as she’d waited two and a half years ago. The mouse pinned by the cat, living day in and day out waiting for him to finally pounce. She just couldn’t do it anymore.

  You were going to be so tough. Instead, you walked right into Jim’s trap.

  She found a thick wool sweater in her bag and pulled it out. Her hands were trembling so badly, it took her a few tries to get it on. She could still hear her teeth chattering with the unrelenting chill.

  Where is Samantha? Is she asking for you right now? Is she curled up, wondering why you haven’t come to save her?

  Why didn’t you save your daughter?

  The night was too dark. The room was too empty. The truth came crashing down on her and there was no way to escape it: She had failed her daughter.

  J.T. walked into the room. The slamming of the door sounded loud in the silence.
“You okay?”

  “No.” She sounded raw.

  “Have a glass of water.” He stuck the plastic cup into her hand without waiting for her argreement. “Drink it up. Pull yourself together. We need a new plan.”

  She looked at him at last as he sat down by a warped brown table. He’d bought cigarettes while fetching the ice and now he lit one up. He used only one hand. The other remained tucked against his ribs.

  “You’re hurt.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Your arm.”

  “You know how to set a bone fracture?”

  “Not really. My father always took my mother and me to the emergency room so we could tell naïve interns that we’d fallen down the stairs.”

  “Well, we’re not going to any emergency room. I’m fine.”

  She looked away. The acrid smell of cigarette smoke stung her eyes. She could feel the hot, salty knot of tears in her chest, but she couldn’t cry.

  Samantha. Difford. How much are you going to let Jim take from you?

  “I shot him,” J.T. said at last.

  Her eyes widened.

  “Jim and I had a little get-together in the back bedroom. He brought his bat, I brought my gun. Next time I’m leaving the 9mm at home and bringing an AK-47.”

  “Is he seriously wounded?”

  “No.” J.T. sounded furious. “Probably just a flesh wound. He sure as hell didn’t slow down much.”

  “I don’t understand why he was there,” she murmured. “Why did he come back and where was Sam?”

  “He came for you, Tess. He planned it like a two-for-one sale—get his daughter, kill his ex-wife.”

  “Where did he come from?” she whispered. “One moment I was all alone, and the next …”

  J.T.’s jaw tightened. “I screwed up,” he said tersely. “Didn’t secure the perimeter, didn’t scope out the full house before leaving you behind. I didn’t really expect … Well, I screwed up. It’s that simple.”

  “You didn’t know.”

  “I should’ve.”

  “What do we do now?”

  “Sleep. Eat. Regroup in the morning.”

  The room drifted into strained silence again. She snapped on the TV to fight it. The first image she saw was Sam’s.

  “Samantha Williams was kidnapped late last night from a police safe house in Springfield. Two officers were killed by her father, convicted serial killer Jim Beckett, who is considered armed and dangerous. Samantha is four years old, wears a pink winter coat, has long blond hair and blue eyes. Anyone with information on Samantha can call the hotline listed below.

  “Once again, Jim Beckett is considered armed and dangerous and should not be approached. He frequently disguises himself as a police officer or security guard. Police are currently combing the area with the aid of the FBI and the National Guard. Beckett escaped three weeks ago from the maximum security block of Walpole after killing two corrections officers.…”

  Tess couldn’t stop staring at the screen. It showed one of Samantha’s preschool pictures. She was looking over her shoulder with a toothy smile, her blue eyes bright, her blond pigtails curly. Tess fell to her knees.

  “Let it out,” J.T. said quietly behind her. “Let it all out.”

  She couldn’t. She couldn’t cry. She couldn’t yell.

  What are you going to do, Theresa? Fight me? We both know you’re too weak for that.

  “Pull it together, Tess,” J.T. said more sharply. “Take a deep breath. Focus on the carpet if it helps.”

  You’re weak, stupid. You couldn’t even stand up to your father. What did you do when he hit your mother? Watch? And what did you do while he hit you? Wait?

  “Tess! Dammit, don’t do this!” J.T. grabbed her shoulders and shook her hard.

  For a moment she lolled like a rag doll. She couldn’t find her strength. She had no mass, no muscles, no bones. She had no spirit.

  “Tess?” J.T. whispered roughly. “Sweetheart, please …”

  The dam broke. She began to sob, her throat burning, her shoulders heaving. So many tears. J.T. sat down beside her on the ugly rug. He wrapped his good arm around her shoulders and cradled her against his chest. She cried against his T-shirt, big, messy tears that soaked through to his skin and made her feel worse. He stroked her hair.

  “Shh. Shh. I’ll help you. We’re going to find Sam, sweetheart. I promise you, we’ll find Sam.”

  She cried harder. He rocked her against him.

  “It’s okay, honey, it’s okay. I know. I know.” He kept murmuring against her hair. She pressed her shivering body against him.

  Hold me, hold me, hold me. Don’t ever let me go.

  “I know,” he whispered. “I know.”

  “We should ice your arm.” It was an hour later. She’d sobbed, J.T. had smoked. Now they both sat on the edge of the too-soft bed, looking worse for wear. “Can … can I look at it?”

  He shrugged and pursed his lips around the thin white cigarette. The pungent smoke stung her eyes.

  “Can you stop smoking?”

  He arched one dark brow.

  “In return for my health services,” she negotiated.

  “I thought you didn’t know much about first aid.”

  “I know better than to smoke, so I’m obviously more qualified than you.”

  He didn’t give in right away, but after a few moments he ground out the cigarette. “Self-righteous Tess,” he murmured.

  She ignored his comment and sank to the brown carpeting before him. His knees parted, allowing her closer. His thighs brushed her shoulders. She placed her fingers on his arm and heard his harsh breath.

  She had told him the truth earlier. She had no idea what she was doing. In her mother’s house she’d learned to put makeup over scrapes and bruises, not Bactine. She’d learned to mend broken bones with carefully scripted lies to health care professionals. She’d learned how to pretend most of the beatings didn’t hurt.

  Now she examined J.T.’s injured limb helplessly. His left forearm appeared furious—beet red, swollen, and hot to the touch. She risked a glance up, her fingers still resting delicately on his skin. His face had gone pale. Sweat beaded his upper lip. She could tell he was biting the inside of his cheeks to keep from making a sound.

  “I think you need a real doctor,” she said quietly.

  “Do what you can, Tess. Or I’ll fix it the old-fashioned way.”

  “Amputation?”

  “Bourbon.”

  “Oh.” She poured ice into a towel and placed it to bring the swelling down. He could wiggle his fingers a little, but not a lot. Did that mean it wasn’t broken, just badly sprained, or did that mean something worse? She had no idea.

  Finally she gave him a couple of aspirin from her purse.

  “Two? My arm’s been pulverized by a baseball bat and you hand me two aspirin?”

  “You’re right.” She doled out six. He swallowed them as a single handful.

  She sat on the edge of the king-size bed, her knees not far from him. They had been through a lot, but neither of them knew how to put it into words. She’d slept with him, but she didn’t know how to ask him to hold her. She’d cried on his shoulder, but she didn’t know how to offer him comfort.

  “Are you going to stare at me all night?”

  “Maybe.”

  “You’re giving me the jitters.”

  “Why did we come to a hotel? Why didn’t we go straight to the police?”

  J.T. was silent for a moment. “Because they’re the police.”

  “You don’t trust them?”

  “No, I guess I don’t. Big Bad Jim seems to know how to run circles around them. We’re better off on our own.”

  “Your arm is busted, I almost died. Care to say that again?”

  “And we both lived to tell the tale. So far that puts our records way ahead of the police.”

  “J.T., he has my daughter.”

  “We’ll find him.”

  “How?” She could hear the
hysteria in her voice. “Place an ad in the yellow pages? Read tea leaves?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?” She was screaming at him now. She didn’t mean to scream.

  “Tess, I’m not fucking Superman! I don’t have all the answers. I’m making it up as fast as I can.” J.T. slammed out another cigarette and promptly snapped it in two. “Shit,” he said, and reached for another. “What time is it?”

  “Three A.M.! He has had my daughter for over twenty-four hours. Twenty-four hours and we have nothing!”

  “We know he’s in the area. We forced him to take a risk returning to the crime scene. Sooner or later he’ll screw up.”

  “Oh, that’s a fine strategy. The police have been using it for the last three years with such success as well.”

  “Fine, Tess.” Now his voice was cold. “What do you suggest?”

  “I … I …” She didn’t know. She just wanted Jim dead. And she wanted to hold Samantha in her arms again.

  She closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and raked her hand through her hair. Suddenly she was too tired to think. The pain ran too deep, sapped all the strength from her until she was simply a hollow husk. Her daughter was out there alone. She was sitting in a cheap roadside motel, not knowing what to do. Her head hurt unbearably and J.T. was right, he was not Superman. She was foolish and silly to expect so much from him.

  You have to learn to stand on your own. You have to be strong. You have to pull it together and get your daughter back.

  She stood and held out her hand. “Come to bed.”

  J.T. snarled, “Well, sweetheart, I do try hard to be accommodating, but even my talents are limited by the loss of an arm.”

  “I didn’t ask you to fuck me,” she said bluntly. “I know you’re not angry enough to do that.”

  His black eyes widened, then narrowed dangerously. “If I screw you out of anger, what makes you so hot for me?”

  “Lust. Pure lust. Isn’t that what you want to hear?”

  He didn’t reply. And he didn’t accept her out-stretched hand. She shook her head, disgusted with them both. Why couldn’t he understand that for a woman like her, there was no such thing as simple lust. Even when she wished there was.