Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2

by J. T. Ellison

  He came back to himself, realized he was standing in the open, the moonlight glistening on the dew-wet grass. The fog was heavier now; the wisps and tendrils flowed around his feet as he started to move. The woman was in her car, back to him, talking on the phone. He needed to make sure she didn’t see him slinking up behind her. He crouched low, below her line of sight in the rearview mirror. He inched forward, closer, closer. She finished her call, dropped the phone in her lap, laid her head back against the headrest.

  Now.

  He burst around the driver’s side of the car. The door was locked—he’d figured it would be. Using the butt of the gun, he shattered the glass, grabbed the woman by her hair, dragged her out the window. She was small, light, fine-boned. The long hair was a perfect handle, he was able to maneuver her entire body out and onto the ground. He perched over her, pinning her down, legs on either side of her. She struggled and bucked, tried to scream, but he punched her with his free hand.

  She was pretty. Her skin was very pale, he could see the flush of color the imprint of his knuckles made across her cheek. Encouraged, he punched her a few more times, and she stopped screaming. Blood rushed from her nose, and her lip was split. He reached down on impulse and licked her face, savoring the salty essence of her heart.

  He realized he had a throbbing erection. Well, why not? This slut was out here spying on him, she deserved everything she got. He held the gun to her temple, and she stopped fighting. Carefully, he reached back and slid her dress up, over her thighs. His questing fingers found her panties. There was a rending tear and they were off. She started to struggle again, so he hit her with the butt of the gun, slicing open a slit in the soft skin of her forehead. Her head snapped back into the dirt with a dull thud.

  He undid his jeans—it was hard to handle the buttons over his erection with one hand, but he managed. He shifted back and down, pushed his body between her legs, using his knee to force hers apart, and thrust, hard, landing home with one shove. She screamed, high in her throat, legs flailing against him, and he jabbed her head with the gun again to shut her up. She was fighting him now, each stroke shifting him back and forth so he didn’t have to do any work at all. He leaned over her, took both arms and trapped them against the ground over her head with his left hand while he finished, a blinding white orgasm making him forget who and where he was.

  The breath came hard in his throat, his eyes came back into focus. The woman was keening, crying, trying to wriggle away from him. He was heavy enough that she couldn’t shift him without work, but she finally managed, pushing him off her, slipping into a ball a few feet away.

  It was taking him a minute to catch his breath. He didn’t know who she’d called—he needed to leave. Should he kill her? He’d never raped anyone before; he hadn’t used a condom, there would be evidence. It wouldn’t matter in the long run, he’d seen the hourglass in Fane’s room, the small grains of sand slipping inexorably toward their finish, had known it to be a sign. No, he’d leave her here. But he was going to make damn sure she’d never tell anyone.

  He fumbled his fly closed and stood, brushing the leaves and grass off the knees of his jeans. She saw him moving, got to all fours and started trying to crawl away. He walked to her—she wasn’t going quickly, more like a snail than a crab—and kicked her in the ribs. She landed on her side, the breath going out of her in an audible whoosh.

  “Tell anyone, and I’ll kill you. Do you understand me, bitch?”

  The woman was saying something he couldn’t understand. It sounded like an incantation of sorts. He listened closer. She was whispering, hands on her stomach.

  “Isis, Astarte, Diana, Hecate, Demeter, Kali, Inana.”

  The Goddess chant? What the fuck? Who was this person?

  He asked her name, she just shook her head, continued the incantation.

  Raven felt dread begin to build in his stomach. Fear. He’d never felt such fear. He needed to get away. He needed to get away now. He stumbled backward, falling onto his ass, scraping his hands and elbows. The gun dropped a foot from him; he turned over onto all fours, grabbed it and ran. The Rat was parked on the other side of the road, back in the brush, off the path so no one from the road would see it. He hurried to the vehicle, fumbling the keys and the gun. He had a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling.

  Rattything acquiesced when he put the key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life. He pulled away from the grove, bumping over the shoulder and onto the road.

  He turned right, up McCrory Lane, toward the highway. He had one more place that he knew he could go. One place that had been a refuge, long in the past. He pointed the car east and drove into the night, the echoes of the Goddess chant in his ears. He didn’t see the flashing blue lights congregating behind him. He didn’t see anything at all.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  There were three patrol cars at the Shell station when Taylor pulled in. And no sign of Ariadne. McKenzie had been redialing her number on his cell, but there was no answer.

  Taylor ran inside and described Ariadne to the man behind the counter, who hadn’t seen her. Nor had he seen anyone who looked like the drawing she pulled out. So no Ariadne and no Schuyler Merritt. Shit.

  She went back outside, signaled to the officers. “Mount up. Let’s drive up McCrory, see if we find her car.”

  They all piled in their cars and took off, Taylor in the lead. The flashing blue-and-white lights made the road light up like Christmas, and it only took a few minutes until they saw a Subaru Forester parked at the side of the road, just at the rise of the hill. It showed no signs of life, no lights, no engine.

  “Her car’s there,” McKenzie said unnecessarily. Taylor pulled in behind it, the three patrols taking up defensive positions in front and on her flank, effectively blocking the road.

  Taylor was out the door in an instant, Glock drawn in a two-handed grip, pointing toward the ground. She eased up to the vehicle. The driver’s side window was broken, there was glass everywhere, inside and outside the car. A jagged edge shone dark in the feeble moonlight; Taylor could smell blood.

  “What’s that?” McKenzie whispered in her ear. She stopped and stood tall, listening. Crying, coming from twenty feet away.

  “Ariadne?” she yelled, walking toward the noise. She saw a lump on the ground, yelled, “She’s here. Shit. 10-47, 10-67, code 3!” She holstered her gun, knelt down and rolled Ariadne onto her back. She cried out in protest.

  “Relax, honey, it’s okay. We’ve got help coming. Where is the boy?”

  It didn’t take a genius to see what had happened. Ariadne was grimy with dirt and leaves, her skirt twisted, flashing pale thighs smeared with blood. She cried out again as Taylor moved her hands over her in the dark. Broken ribs, probably, maybe a broken jaw. A bloody cut on her forehead.

  “When you called, you said he heard you. Was it Schuyler Merritt, Ariadne? Did he rape you?”

  A ghost of a nod. She was trying to speak, the words coming out low and jumbled. Taylor leaned her head down, close to Ariadne’s mouth.

  “Don’t know his…name. Pulled me. From the car. Ra…ra…raped me. Drove off, after.”

  The broken sentences exhausted her, and she let her head drift back down to the ground. Taylor felt for her pulse, reassured when she found it strong and steady. The damage wasn’t life threatening.

  “Okay, you’re okay now. I’ve got you.”

  McKenzie was squatting a few feet away. He took Ariadne’s hand and whispered, “I’m sorry. We should have listened sooner.”

  Taylor shot him a look, but didn’t stop him. Getting herself and the department sued for letting a witness become a victim was the least of her worries right now.

  She heard the comforting sound of sirens. Rescue was on its way.

  She held Ariadne’s hand tighter. Where was that little bastard going now? They had his woman, his friends in custody. His mother and father were dead, with cops crawling all over the two houses he might retreat to. Where else w
ould he go?

  “Ariadne. Do you know where he was going?”

  “No,” she whispered. Taylor hated this, she hated the fucking hell out of this. Hearing that lively voice so dispirited made her want to hit something.

  Rescue pulled up, got briefed and pulled Taylor from Ariadne’s side to treat her. The EMTs were females, Taylor was happy to see. Sometimes rape victims balked at being treated by men—the 10-67 had alerted them, but it was still good luck. They had her fastened to a gurney and slipping off into the ambulance quickly.

  “Where are you taking her?”

  “Baptist,” was the brief reply.

  Taylor walked with them to the doors, watched while Ariadne was loaded in. The harsh lights reflected the bruise on her jaw and the dislocation of the mandible. Taylor knew that had to hurt, and broken ribs, the sharp ends stabbing into lungs and skin, weren’t a picnic, either. Ariadne was being awfully brave, not crying, those luminous blue eyes fixed on Taylor. She shifted under the azure gaze, read the words Ariadne put in her mind and turned away, shoving her hands in her pockets to keep them warm.

  “Not your fault,” Ariadne said, as clearly as if she’d spoken aloud. “Not your fault.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Quantico

  November 2

  Baldwin did his damnedest to keep his voice steady. “Geroux and Sparrow died on scene. Butler passed away at the hospital during surgery. Gretchen lived, obviously.”

  “You took a leave of absence after the firefight, correct?”

  “Yes, sir, I did. I felt…responsible. For their deaths. If I’d thought of the tunnel earlier, none of this would have happened.”

  “And the evidence linking Harold Arlen to the case?”

  Baldwin tried very hard not to squirm. Now they were at the meat of the case. What he said at this very moment would determine his future, the future of his team, his life with Taylor. Everything. He swallowed hard.

  “Sir, I believe that the blood evidence retrieved from Harold Arlen’s dresser was planted by Charlotte Douglas.”

  There were murmurs from the panel. Reever squeezed his leg under the table.

  “And yet her notes are very specific. She was with you the night before the shooting. You made love. You told her that you had a solution to the problem. That you had taken a small vial of blood from the Fairfax County lab, put it on a sock and left it in Harold Arlen’s house. Do you deny these allegations?”

  “Yes, sir, I most certainly do. I am truly at fault here. My actions got three good agents killed, and for that, I will never forgive myself. But as I stated earlier, Charlotte Douglas brought the idea to me. It was my mistake not to turn her in at that time.” He took a breath. “Sir, I never in a million years thought she’d actually go through with it.”

  “But we have no proof either way. If you had come forward at the time of the shooting, let it be known that the evidence found was somehow in question, perhaps the next girl wouldn’t have died. And the woman who you say is responsible is dead, unable to defend herself.”

  Ah, here we go. The truth of the matter was they had all messed up. There was more to the case than anyone had thought, and Baldwin had been blind. He took a deep breath.

  “Sir, I had no way of knowing that Kilmeade was Harold Arlen’s partner. I suspected there was something between the two men, a twisted relationship, when Kilmeade allowed Arlen to befriend his daughter. But the odds of two men, two pedophiles, working together? It seemed preposterous at the time. On the surface it looked like Kilmeade was snatching the girls for his friend. But he continued after Arlen was dead. He was obviously the dominant in the situation, and we missed it. That tunnel between their houses was the key. They were shuttling the girls in and out, right into Great Falls Park. If we’d found it earlier… It’s beyond the pale, sir. None of us saw it. There were multiple investigators on the case. Unfortunately, I was distracted by the case due to Charlotte’s actions, and my own. Couple that with the terrible shock of losing three of my teammates, and I wasn’t thinking as clearly as I could have been. It’s not an excuse, but it is the truth.”

  “No, you certainly weren’t. Because if you’d been thinking clearly, you would have alerted this body to Charlotte Douglas’s illegal actions, and she would have been prosecuted. You would have been prosecuted right alongside her for allowing her to violate the honor and code of the Bureau. I don’t know what’s worse, Dr. Baldwin. Your lies to cover up Charlotte Douglas’s actions, or your lies to cover your own ass.”

  Reever cleared his throat. “There’s no need for that, sir. Dr. Baldwin has been utterly honest and forthright here. He’s answered all of your questions as openly and thoroughly as possible. And if I may point out, it’s nearly midnight. Perhaps we should break for the day.”

  “We won’t be breaking just yet. We’re all in agreement here. Dr. Baldwin’s actions were evidence of gross misconduct. There will be serious repercussions. We need to meet privately to discuss what exactly the punishment will be. You may wait outside while we deliberate.”

  *

  He and Reever had been sitting in somewhat companionable silence for nearly an hour when Baldwin’s cell rang. He jumped, startled. It was Garrett. This couldn’t be good. He shrugged his shoulders at Reever and answered.

  “They’re still in there?”

  “Yes. Have you heard anything? What did they decide?” Baldwin asked.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “They’ve been at it an hour. Really, how much more do they want from me? I gave them the truth, just like they asked.”

  “The whole truth?”

  “As much as they needed.”

  “Well, then. It’s going to be okay. You’ve already been punished enough for this. There’s nothing they can do to you that would be worse than the hell you put yourself through.”

  That was the truth. Baldwin hadn’t handled his life very well in the months following Charlotte’s revelations, the death of Harold Arlen. And the demise of his team. Instead of facing the music, he’d split town. Taken a leave of absence, run home to Tennessee and spent the next six months practically comatose on his couch. Alcohol had been his friend then, a means to escape the daily torture of the guilt. It had taken a great deal of reassurance from Garrett, then meeting Taylor to drag him out of his depression.

  The door to the hearing chamber opened. Reever stood and grabbed his arm.

  “Garrett, they’re ready for me.”

  “Okay. Hang in there.”

  He stowed his phone, squared his shoulders and entered the chamber.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Nashville

  11:40 p.m.

  Taylor was only a mile from home, but the succor of the hearth fire wouldn’t be hers for a few hours yet. McKenzie yawned in the seat next to her, long and loud.

  “Where are we headed?” he asked.

  “I thought we could try Subversion, see if he went there. Do you have any other ideas about where he might go?”

  “Does he know Juri Edvin’s in the hospital?”

  “I don’t know.” She called Marcus. He answered on the first ring. She filled him in on the situation with Ariadne and Schuyler Merritt, then asked him to go over to Vanderbilt. Juri Edvin needed guarding, at the very least. If Schuyler decided to drop in on his friend, they’d be ready for him. He told her the BOLO was out on Schuyler Merritt’s car, a silver 2000 Hyundai Elantra. Good, all units were aware to be on the lookout for him, at least.

  She was flying down Interstate 40. The only real traffic at this hour was long-haul eighteen-wheelers and a few drunks wheeling their way home from the bars. Cars and trucks alike scattered out of her path, leaving her the far left lane open. She drove fast, the speedometer topping ninety. Running away from Ariadne.

  “Damn it, what was that woman thinking, going out there by herself?”

  McKenzie shook his head. “She thought she could handle him.”

  “Yeah, right. The kid’s already in the
bag for seven murders, plus his parents, and God knows who else. Sure, she could handle him, a lone woman, in the dark, with no backup. I wish to God people wouldn’t be so stupid.”

  “She thought he was one of her kind. She’s very powerful. I’m sure she thought he would bow to her authority. It was misguided, yes. But surely you can see, she was trying to help.”

  “And nearly got herself killed in the process. She was raped, McKenzie. You know how that affects a woman. She’ll never sleep easy again.”

  “She won’t, or you won’t?” He said it kindly, but her nerves flared.

  “This isn’t my fault,” she said. They were passing the Hustler store on Church Street. Taylor went up to Broadway and turned left. She wanted to hit Lower Broad, the strip, look through the faces on the streets, see if she could spot her fledgling vampire among the masses.

  “Of course it’s not. That doesn’t mean you aren’t blaming yourself. You couldn’t have stopped this.”

  “I could have figured out who Schuyler Merritt was sooner. If I’d listened to Ariadne in the first place…” Her voice drifted off. Instinctively, she knew that wasn’t the case. My God, they were only forty-eight hours in and hot on the trail of the final suspect in the case. It was damn fine police work, a group effort, and she knew that. But she still felt like a failure. She was going to carry the image of blood on Ariadne’s thighs with her forever.

  They drove around for two hours, stopping into Subversion, which only existed once a month, not nightly, as she’d imagined. No one in the building was a part of that particular venue tonight—a dead end. At 2:00 a.m., she turned around at Second and Lindsley, took one last pass up the street, scanning faces and cars. When they hit Hooters, she turned to McKenzie.

  “I give up. He isn’t here.”

  “Let’s call it a night. We need sleep. Every overnight patrol is on alert, looking for him.”

  “Do you mind stopping at the hospital before I drop you off?”

  “Of course not.”