Into the Black Nowhere

by Meg Gardiner

  She shut the door and crossed her arms. “What the hell happened after I phoned you in Texas? I gave you Aaron’s name but Kyle’s the one locked up in Crying Call?”

  Caitlin sat at a table and pulled out a chair for Lia. “Have a seat.”

  Lia dropped onto the chair. “You’re positive it’s Kyle Detrick. It’s not Aaron.”

  “One hundred percent. It couldn’t be Aaron.”

  She told her what had happened to Gage in Afghanistan. Lia put a hand over her mouth.

  “But Kyle . . .”

  “I arrested him,” Caitlin said, “in the act of attempting to kidnap a woman.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  Caitlin filled in the details. Lia listened, lips parted, shaking her head.

  “You didn’t tell Aaron the name I use now. Tell me you didn’t. Or Kyle.”

  “No. Detrick doesn’t know you’ve been in contact with the FBI,” Caitlin said. “Can I ask why you never called the police about the stalking? The real reason, I mean. I don’t care what you did. I just want to fill in the blanks.”

  Lia hung on for a few seconds, shoulders hunched. Then seemed to decide: Screw it.

  “I lived with some older students. We ran a dispensary from our apartment.”

  Caitlin nodded slowly. “Weed? Adderall?”

  “And Xanax.”

  Recreational pharmacy—yep, that would keep somebody from asking the cops to come around. “Why did you change your name?”

  “After the fire, and the breakup, I quit Rampart and left Houston. My whole college experience was a mess. I wanted a fresh start. And I wanted to get the hell away from Aaron.”

  Caitlin nodded encouragingly.

  “I stopped going by Dahlia. Or Dahli. That kind of became a sick nickname. I didn’t want to hear it ever again,” she said. “Fox—that’s a name I took years later, when I got married.”

  Caitlin glanced at her ring finger.

  “We lasted eighteen months. But I hung on to the name.” She shrugged.

  Caitlin nudged her further. “Something else is upsetting you.”

  Lia’s foot began to jitter. She shut her eyes and shook her head tightly. From the hallway, voices approached. Lia jumped up and locked the door. The knob rattled.

  She said: “Cleaning crew. Come back later.”

  Caitlin stood and walked over to her. “What is it?”

  Lia shook her head.

  “If you’re frightened, let me help you,” Caitlin said.

  Lia returned to the table and flopped back in the chair. Caitlin sat down beside her, took her hand, and squeezed.

  Lia nodded. “It’s just—everything’s getting turned inside out.”

  Caitlin held tight to her hand. “Please, just tell me.”

  “Off the record. None of this can go in your report,” she said. “Fine. I cheated on Aaron with Kyle.”

  Caitlin kept her expression compassionate. Thinking: Well, that’s a big nasty surprise for Lia at this point.

  “I’m rethinking everything. That night.” Lia’s black eyes stared at Caitlin. “I don’t think Aaron caused the fire. I think he passed out. I think Kyle set it.”

  “Why?”

  It was a puzzle piece that slotted squarely into the profile of a psychopathic sexual sadist, and it felt intuitively right to Caitlin, but she needed to hear Lia’s explanation.

  “Kyle’s the one who woke me up and got me out of the apartment.” Her expression was one of curdled horror. “I think he was trying to kill Aaron and ‘rescue’ me.”

  Hero and destroyer.

  Caitlin held on to Lia’s hand. Lia cast her gaze at the floor.

  “He did it to win me back,” she said.

  “The fire happened after you slept with Detrick?”

  Lia tipped her head back. “Stupid. Sleeping with him was stupid.”

  “After the apartment burned, you broke up with Aaron but didn’t accept Kyle’s advances again.”

  Lia looked at her. “Exactly.”

  A clearer image of the college disaster took form in Caitlin’s mind. Lia had cheated on Aaron Gage with his handsome, clean-cut roommate, Kyle Detrick. But she’d broken that off.

  So Detrick set a blaze and led Lia to safety. Aaron Gage had been lucky to rouse himself and get out, instead of dying in the fire. Aaron would have been collateral damage, not the target, but he would have been just as dead. But being rescued by Sir Kyle hadn’t rekindled Lia’s desire for Detrick. Instead, he suffered her fresh rejection.

  Lia scratched at her arms. “I think Kyle might be the one who harassed me afterward.”

  “I think that’s a legitimate deduction.”

  “He killed my cat.” She stood up. “Then he went off and started killing women.”

  “Yes.”

  “Jesus hell.”

  Somebody knocked on the door. “You all right in there?”

  “One minute. One more minute.” Lia almost shouted it.

  Caitlin stood. “This could be important. Did Kyle ever talk about suicide?”

  Lia’s chest rose and fell. “You mean the game?”

  “What game?”

  “He liked me to lie still and pretend I’d tried to kill myself. Play like I’d OD’d, or shot myself, or slit my wrists.” Lia’s face was pale. “Then he’d come in and find me. He’d bang me back to life.”

  “That was what he enjoyed?” Caitlin said.

  “He didn’t seem to enjoy the sex at all. It always seemed to frustrate him.”

  The knocking came on the door again. Lia looked at it anxiously. “That’s all. I can’t talk anymore.”

  Caitlin handed Lia her card. “If you change your mind—about even the smallest thing, or just want to talk—please call me.”

  Lia nodded, lips pursed, avoiding her eyes. She unlocked the break room door and escorted Caitlin out.

  On the sidewalk outside, Caitlin put on her Ray-Bans. Patience. Emmerich’s voice—her father’s voice—echoed that interrogation wasn’t a one-step process. You had to give it time.

  And Detrick was locked up.

  For now.

  38

  Arrivals at Dulles was jammed, hot, and noisy. The low ceiling and constant flow of people created a writhing scene. Caitlin stood beside a pillar, peacoat buttoned to the neck, lips dry, nerves singing. At her side, Shadow sat, big ears pricked, head swiveling at the marvel of so many unfamiliar bodies, so much commotion, such crazy new smells. The dog rose to her feet, skinny black legs and white paws itching to break into a run. Caitlin tightened the leash.

  “Sit, girl.”

  Shadow lowered her tail back to the tile floor but looked like a sprinter ready to bolt from the blocks. Caitlin felt the same. On the overhead screens, the flight from San Francisco showed AT GATE.

  She’d been back four days, barely caught up at work, and had already booked her return flight to Arizona for Detrick’s preliminary hearing. But this weekend, the next two days, were her own.

  And Sean’s.

  She nearly leaped as she saw him come through the doors toward her. Her smile was so wide it ached. Shadow caught her excitement and abandoned any pretense of obedience. She stood, head tilted to Caitlin, then saw him too. Her tail wagged like a flailing whip.

  He had that slow stride, and a duffel tossed over his shoulder. Hair freshly cut, brown eyes scanning the crowd as if for threats, until he saw her, and all his defenses, his reticence, gave way to the smile that could wreck her in nothing flat. She meant to play it coy, to deliberately act like she always hung out by baggage carousels on blustery winter days, but instead she was laughing, and her arms were so tight around his neck that she hardly realized he’d lifted her off the floor and was still kissing her. Even as families and baggage handlers and aircrews flowed around them, and Shadow yipped
and jumped and whimpered at their knees.

  She broke from the kiss and leaned back to look at him. “About goddamned time.”

  “How many other guys did you jump before I got here?”

  “None. Well, maybe that Air France captain. And the Redskins defensive line, when they came through.” She kissed him again. “I missed you.”

  “You too. Like nothing else.”

  He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and they walked out into the frigid, windy day. His straight-out expression of emotion, without jokery, was something new. Sean had always been extroverted and expressed himself more easily—verbally and physically—than she did. But since nearly dying, he’d given up most efforts to artificially clothe himself in cool. At least around her. On the job, from what she gathered, he was still the chill and steady federal agent he’d been before.

  But this—almost instant relaxation, readiness, openness—was something she loved.

  “Good flight?”

  “Better now.” He squeezed her shoulder. Shadow barked.

  Sean took the leash from Caitlin and they headed to the parking garage, talking animatedly. Caitlin ran him through the details of the Detrick case. He’d watched the news and heard the short-form version, but by the time they reached her Highlander, she was speed-talking about the arrest.

  “He was convinced he’d outmaneuvered us. He was careful—but had an untrained civilian’s level of countersurveillance. He had no idea we were tracking his rental’s GPS the entire way. That allowed the Flagstaff agent to circumvent him and get to that local tavern before he got out of the car,” she said. “Agent Sayers. Young, sharp, willing. She’s going places.”

  “Emmerich trusted you.”

  “He did. It paid off.”

  The look she gave him said: Thank God. She could express her relief with him. She knew following Detrick to Arizona had been a risk. If she’d been wrong, her time and their whole case could have been taken for a fatal detour.

  Sean eyed her over the top of the Highlander as they climbed in. “You got him.”

  She paused and put her hands on the roof. “I fucking did.”

  He smiled. Shadow jumped in the back and they pulled out.

  The drive to her apartment outside Quantico took them down I-95. They turned on the heat and the music and Sean whistled to Shadow, who scrambled over the seats and squirreled onto his lap. The dog licked his face and curled into a ball, happy.

  “Drop your stuff off, dinner in Georgetown, tour of the wreckage of democracy, and a night of debauchery,” Caitlin said. “Sound good?”

  “Shadow stays home, though.”

  She laughed. Shadow yipped and batted her tail against Sean’s leg. He held his hand out. Caitlin took it. He watched the brown winter grass and grasping bare branches of the trees go by along the interstate.

  “Thank you for coming,” she said. “I need this.”

  He squeezed her hand. “You’re not the only one.”

  Heat filled her chest. It was relief and gratitude and sheer longing. And, despite Sean’s presence—his own heat and laughter and the promise of what was to come—a pang, the underlying melancholy, rose to prick her. He was here but would soon be gone again.

  “Work heavy right now?” she said.

  “Challenging. This bombing in Monterey. It wasn’t foreign-based terrorism, from what ATF can determine. Nobody’s claimed responsibility. No demands have been issued, no manifesto published, no attempts made at extortion.”

  She judged the tone of his voice. “You think he’ll hit again?”

  “The bomb was packed with screws and razor blades. He wanted to maximize the carnage,” Sean said. “And he . . . or she, or they . . . took care not to leave fingerprints on any of the components.”

  “The bomber knew that fingerprints can survive an explosion?” That implied the offender was both sophisticated and meticulous.

  “Device had a simple trigger, used externally threaded steel pipe, common supplies. But the guy wanted to put a personal stamp on the blast,” he said. “The bomb was wrapped with barbed wire.”

  She eyed him. “Barbed wire.”

  “A signature.”

  Cold intensity filled Sean’s voice. Caitlin tried to judge where his deepest worries lay.

  She said, “Do you think . . .”

  Sean’s phone rang. He dug it from his jeans pocket. A stony look overtook his face.

  “Boss,” he answered.

  She drove, tires droning, listening, half excited and half anxious.

  “When?” Sean went still. “SFPD—okay. Yeah. Soon as I can.”

  He ended the call. Stared out the windshield, then turned to her, troubled. Caitlin’s stomach sank.

  “Another bombing?” she said.

  “Financial District. Two hours ago.”

  Downtown San Francisco. Lunchtime.

  “Casualties?” she said.

  “One confirmed dead. Seven injured.”

  “Shit.”

  On Sean’s lap, Shadow raised her head, eyes full of the concern only a dog can express.

  “Bomb was placed in the lobby at a biotech firm. Blew out the plate-glass windows, shredded people on the street. Killed a security guard.” He looked at his phone. “Peretta is sending me everything they have. Videoconference in forty-five minutes.”

  Caitlin’s jaw tightened, but she kept her hands steady on the wheel. “What do you need?”

  “Access to a SCIF.”

  SCIF: Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility. In the terminology of security, defense, and intelligence, it was a secure room that guarded against electronic surveillance and data leakage. She was startled. Requiring a SCIF indicated that this had been bumped up to a case with national security implications.

  “There’s one at Quantico,” she said.

  “Do we have time to drop Shadow off?”

  “She can come with.”

  Sean peered out the windshield, a thousand-yard stare. The afternoon sun was a streak behind his head, putting him in stark silhouette. He was already half gone.

  Two hours later, as Caitlin sat at her desk, with Shadow curled up asleep beneath it—breaking a slew of regulations, but she didn’t care, because it was Saturday—Sean emerged from the SCIF and found her in BAU-4’s section of the floor. She was tired and had caught up on only half her e-mails and file reports and reading. The sun had dropped to the edge of the western horizon, raging orange between the scarecrow branches of the trees.

  Sean strode up, purposeful. When he approached, she knew it was bad news.

  “Tonight?” she said.

  He nodded. “I’m sorry. They need me to work the crime scene and the evidence.”

  Two feds? We’ll work it out.

  Her smile wouldn’t come.

  Then the look in his eyes overwhelmed the disappointment she felt at losing their weekend. Whatever was going on with this bomber, it was bad.

  She whistled to Shadow. “I’ll drive you back to Dulles.”

  They headed out the door. A few minutes later she was pulling onto the interstate.

  “Do we have time to stop by your apartment?” Sean said.

  Her gaze was longing and hurting and crazy. He gave the look back.

  At an exit for a state park, she swerved off the highway. She pulled deep into the woods, a thin scrim of dust blowing behind the Highlander. She drove onto the grass and into a stand of trees. Jerked to a stop.

  She killed the engine. Her hand lingered on the ignition. “It’s cold out there.”

  “It’s what we’ve got.”

  They jumped out. Shut the doors.

  Around the far side of a thick chestnut, they grabbed each other. Unbuttoned each other’s coats, fumbled with zippers. Sean’s bare skin, when she found it, was smooth and hot and se
nt a shiver from her fingers up her arms and down her spine. His hands slid beneath her sweater and down the back of her jeans. She pressed her mouth to his. Her breath came rapidly. Sean gazed at her, eyes wide-open—he never made love with his eyes closed—and leaned back against the trunk of the tree and hoisted her up. She wrapped her arms around his neck and her breath blew frosty in the tingling air and she gasped, madly, clawing him, needing it, needing it all.

  39

  Caitlin pulled into Crying Call a day ahead of Kyle Detrick’s preliminary hearing and saw four TV crews parked in front of the Gothic brick courthouse. One from Phoenix, one from Flagstaff, and two from national cable networks. She cruised around the town square, getting a feel for the scene. A reporter stood on the courthouse steps, talking to the camera, gesturing with her notes for emphasis. Heavily bundled people walked along the square. The diner across from the courthouse was packed. Piles of dirty snow lined the gutters.

  She parked behind the police station. The air was clear and brisk, the sun canted between peaks of the pine-covered mountain range to the east. A series of storms was forecast to roll across the western US in the next week, but this was a bluebird day. She buttoned her peacoat for the short walk to the station door.

  Inside, the bright winter sun reflected off the scuffed linoleum. Phones rang and computer keys clicked, but the place was quiet. A uniformed female officer at the front desk looked up.

  “What’s happening?” Caitlin said.

  “Same old. Boredom, anxiety, crime. Our celebrity has been behaving himself.”

  The officer’s nametag read VILLAREAL. She nodded toward the back of the brick building, where Crying Call’s six jail cells occupied an isolated block of the building. No windows, no way to get a message out unless the jailers arranged it.

  “It’s been a show,” Villareal said.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You’d think he was a movie star. You remember that good-looking criminal a few years ago, his mug shot with luscious lips and piercing pale eyes—it went viral, people called him the ‘handsome felon.’”