Hiding in the Shadows tbscus-2

by Кей Хупер

  When the TV reporter began breathlessly to relate the gruesome facts of the discovery of Dinah's body, Bishop muted the set and looked at Faith.

  "Here we go," he said.

  "What do you expect to happen?"

  "A feeding frenzy. Every reporter in town will be trying to solve the murder, to say nothing of way too many private investigators and amateur sleuths. "

  "Couldn't that be good? I mean, with so many trying ..."

  "It'll just muddy the water. And Richardson wasn't kidding when he warned Kane he could be charged with reckless endangerment if somebody gets hurt or killed trying to earn that reward."

  "He isn't thinking clearly."

  "No. And he'll regret it later. But for now..."

  "The damage is done?"

  "I'm afraid so. Worst of all, Dinah's killers could be spooked into taking actions they might not otherwise have taken."

  "They won't go after Kane?"

  "Probably not. There's a very bright spotlight on him right now."

  Bishop looked at her steadily. "But they could very well go after you. With Dinah gone, you're the key, Faith."

  "A key with no memory."

  "If I were them" he said, "with a city full of people trying to figurer out who I am, and a million-dollar bounty on my head, I wouldn't take any chances by presuming the validity of amnesia."

  "No," Faith said reluctantly. "Neither would I."

  It was called the witching hour, Faith knew. Three A.M., when all the world seemed quiet and still, and nothing was lonelier to listen to than the beating of your own heart.

  Except maybe "Moonlight Sonata".

  He was playing it so quietly it wouldn't have awakened her if she had been asleep. But she hadn't been. She'd lain there in his bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, and soon after midnight he had begun playing. The soft sound got into her head somehow, throbbed inside her like the echo of feelings, the wordless rendering of instincts. It made her heart ache.

  She thought he was grieving with the music, allowing the notes to express the pain and longing he couldn't yet release in any other way.

  He had returned to the apartment so controlled and withdrawn there had been no way to reach him, to touch him, even if Faith had dared try. She hadn't dared.

  To her he was formal, indifferent. She might have been a total stranger, a guest he suffered in his home and his life out of courtesy and nothing else. More than once, she had the impression he didn't even see her when he looked at her.

  And now it was the witching hour, and Faith lay in the bed in which he had coolly insisted she continue to sleep, listening to him play the piano with such grinding emotion she wanted to cry.

  She turned over and pulled the pillow around her ears, trying to shut out the aching sound, but even the muffled notes had the power to hurt her. She didn't want to hear them, didn't want to listen to his pain and grief.

  She wondered if Dinah had known how lucky she was. Had she reveled in Kane's love, or had it been a burden to her because she had known they would have no future together? The scenes Faith had witnessed between them, those dreams and flashes of knowledge, had been playful and sexy and filled with intimacy, but had they been filled with love? She didn't know.

  Couldn't know.

  And couldn't ask, not now ...

  The beach was wonderfully peaceful and soothing, as it always was. It fed her soul. The waves were like music, or what Dinah imagined music must sound like to people who enjoyed it, rhythmic, like a pulse, and altogether pleasant.

  The sand was warm beneath her bare feet, damp at first, then wet as the waves lapped around her. She walked and walked.

  There was a man up ahead, a familiar figure, and she smiled when she saw him. If she walked a bit faster, she could catch up to him.

  But no matter how fast she walked, he remained the same distance ahead of her. She began to run. Her heart pounded and her breath came raggedly, and still he was distant and out of her reach.

  Beyond her ability to touch.

  She finally stopped running and paused to catch her breath, and when she did she was puzzled to find that the beach was gone. She could still hear the waves, the rhythmic pulsing that was so soothing, but now she was at the construction site where Kane's building was going up. Only it wasn't quite right somehow.

  She walked around the steel skeleton to the back, and frowned because on this side it was a solid office building, windows gleaming in the sunlight. That was very odd, she thought. Only half a building. Why would Kane build half a building?

  "He must have a reason," she said aloud.

  The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she was in her apartment, and she walked through it curiously, looking at familiar things, touching them.

  But everything was curiously insubstantial, and she was puzzled again.

  "You're dead," Faith told her.

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  "You are."

  Dinah shook her head and continued through the apartment, searching now, her expression determined. "I'll find it, and then everything will be all right again," she said.

  "But you're dead," Faith insisted, miserable. "It's too late, because you're dead."

  "When I find it, I won't be dead anymore," Dinah explained reasonably.

  "How do you know that?"

  "I just know, that's all. Why are you here?"

  "I tried to reach you," Faith explained, following her. "I tried and tried. But it was so dark, and all I could hear was the water."

  "You're reaching me now."

  "Yes, but I think it's because you're dead."

  "How you do harp on that," Dinah said, shaking her head.

  "Well, I'm sorry, but it's the truth. What is it you're looking for, anyway?"

  "The Macguffin, I think somebody called it."

  "That's what we're looking for."

  "Yes, I know. But you're looking in the wrong place."

  "Then tell me where to look."

  Dinah made a sound of exasperation. "If I did, it wouldn't be a treasure hunt, now would it?"

  "I guess not. But..."

  They were in the bedroom, and Dinah turned to her suddenly. "Faith, you have to wake up."

  "But I want to talk to you."

  "Listen to me. You have to wake up."

  "But.."

  "Faith, someone's trying to get in your window."

  CHAPTER 10

  Faith opened her eyes and was instantly wide awake.

  The music from the living room had ceased, and the apartment was filled with a predawn quiet that was peculiarly heavy.

  Almost still. Almost, but not quite, silent.

  Something was scratching at one of the bedroom windows.

  Someone.

  Feeling her heart thudding against her ribs, Faith turned her head slowly on the pillow and stared across the room. She could make out the dark square of the window against the pale walls, but the drapes made it impossible for her to see anything else.

  We're on the fifth floor, and there's no balcony. A sudden, distinct click from the window made her stop worrying about how someone could be out there.

  Obviously, someone was. And it was unlikely to be a friendly visit. Moving as quietly as possible, Faith pushed back the covers and slid from the bed. She worked her way cautiously across the room, her eyes fixed on the window, terrified she'd see the drapes move and a blackgloved hand reach in. She eased open the door and slipped through, leaving it ajar. Only then did she watch where she was going as she hurried to the living room.

  The room was dark except for the low fire burning in the gas fireplace, but Kane was still awake. He sat in a chair, stumped, his unseeing gaze fixed on the flames, and Faith had to say his name twice before he stirred and looked at her.

  "What is it?" he asked, terribly polite. He didn't seem at all surprised to see her standing there shivering in a sheer green nightgown.

  "Kane..."

  "You should go back to bed. It's late."
<
br />   She glanced over her shoulder toward the bedroom, wondering only then why she hadn't knocked on Bishop's door and awakened the agent, who probably had a gun. And who was not locked away in some private hell of grief, unreachable and untouchable. Keeping her voice low, she said, "Someone's trying to get in my window."

  Strange how calm she sounded,when her every sense seemed to be quivering in alarm.

  "You were dreaming," he said.

  I certainly was.

  But Faith wasn't about to tell him about that.

  "Kane, someone is trying to get in. I swear to you, I didn't dream this. I didn't imagine it. Some one is outside the window trying to get in. I could hear him."

  Kane rose and moved unhurriedly toward the hallway. He had, either deliberately or unconsciously, chosen the route that would take him past her at the greatest possible distance, but Faith told herself that didn't matter. Not now. Not until she could think about it.

  "Be careful," she urged.

  He paused and looked back at her with lifeless eyes. "There's no one out there, Faith. There are two security guards posted front and back of the building. And we're on the fifth floor."

  Steadily, she said, "Someone is out there. Please be careful."

  This time she made no attempt to lower her voice, even raised it. She hoped she woke Bishop, hoped the intruder had his head inside the window and heard her. She was far less concerned with catching whoever it was than in making sure Kane didn't walk uncaringly into a bullet.

  He shook his head and took a step into the hallway. The force of the explosion knocked him back into the living room; he landed almost at her feet.

  "The only real point in the bomb's favor is that the blast was contained pretty much in the bedroom."

  Detective Nolan, in charge of the bomb squad, continued to describe the explosion.

  "Not much fire to speak of and actually very little structural damage. In fact, even though it blew the hall door almost into the living-room. It didn't even breach the closet door. Your bed's only a memory though, I'm afraid."

  Richardson, who had arrived with Nolan, didn't wait for Kane to respond.

  "So it was a focused blast?" He was bright-eyed despite the early hour, and only the colorful hem of pajama hot-toms visible under his pants indicated he'd been pulled from his own bed by Kane's phone call.

  For some reason, Faith was surprised the detective wore pajamas.

  "Oh, very focused," Nolan answered. "I'd say the guy knew he would catch his target in bed, and aimed to get just that."

  "Why?" Richardson demanded. "Wouldn't it have been more certain if he'd tried to gut the entire room?"

  "Maybe, but if Mr. Macgregor and Miss Parker are right about how little time passed between the time he gained entry and the explosion..."

  "It couldn't have been more than a minute or two," Faith insisted. "I don't think he'd gotten the window open when I slipped out of the room, or just barely."

  Nolan nodded. "Then I'd say he had two problems in planning. First, to deliver the device quietly and carefully enough so his target didn't awaken before it could go off, and second to get his ass back up the rope to the roof before it blew."

  "He definitely came down from the roof?" Bishop asked.

  Richardson said, "One of my people found a rope mark on the edge of the roof, and it looks like the rope was fastened to a pipe up there. In fact, we found a smear of blood on a rusty bolt, so I'd say the guy cut or scraped himself because he was in such a hurry to get the rope unfastened. The roof access door was open, so we're pretty sure he got out through that service stairwell. Probably the same way he got up to the roof."

  Bishop nodded.

  Nolan resumed his report. "From what we found, the explosive looks like a fairly simple sort with a plain burning fuse, a short one. I'd guess he made a little bomb rather than a big one so he'd still be able to get to the roof if it blew prematurely, as homemade bombs frequently do. Anything more powerful and he ran the risk it would have taken him out as well."

  "Amateur night," Bishop muttered.

  Nolan nodded again, this time enthusiastically.

  "I'd say. No timer, nothing fancy. A bit of dynamite in some kind of metal container to concentrate the blast is my guess. I have to say, the M.O. doesn't match up with any of our known arsonists or weekend bombers, and since he kept it simple I'm betting we won't be able to trace him through what's left of the bomb. Maybe we'll get lucky and pick up a fingerprint..."

  "He wore gloves," Faith murmured.

  Richardson turned to her. "I thought you never saw him."

  "I didn't. Not really, I mean." She avoided Nolan's interested stare and shrugged at Richardson. "You know."

  A look of enlightenment dawned. "Ali. Another of your dreams?"

  "Something like that. I think he wore gloves. Black gloves. That he was dressed all in black."

  "They mostly are," Nolan said practically. "At I night, I mean. Helps them disappear."

  Richardson asked, "When will you know for sure if this bastard is in our files?"

  "Probably by afternoon. Nothing much going on right now, so I can give this priority."

  "Thanks." As soon as Nolan left, Richardson looked at Kane. "Dandy idea, your reward," he said sourly.

  Kane returned the stare but said nothing. He had said very little since the police and fire department had arrived, and hardly more before that. Picking himself up from the floor, asking Faith if she was all right, making sure Bishop was okay, calling the police — he had done it all as if by rote and without visible emotion.

  Faith said, "That couldn't be the cause, surely? I mean so quickly? Besides, how could the bomber have known I was in that particular bedroom?"

  "Maybe he didn't," Richardson suggested. "Maybe the intent was to remove Kane — and the threat of that reward. I doubt his estate would have paid it."

  That hadn't occurred to Faith. She looked at Kane, sitting so still and silent, his face pale, and she swallowed hard. She felt very cold suddenly. The blanket he had found for her before the police came was around her shoulders, and she drew it a bit tighter.

  Bishop said, "Either way, I'd like to know where those expensive security guards were."

  "Out cold. Neither one remembers a damned thing before all the lights went out. And the regular building night security guard was at his station off the lobby watching an infomercial with his feet up, so there's no luck there."

  Kane said, "So this guy was good enough to take out two experienced security guards without raising an alarm, good enough to rappel down from the roof and climb back up again, and good enough to gain access through a bedroom window wire with a security system without setting it off. But rather than use a gun or something high-tech, he just tossed a pipe bomb in through the window?"

  Faith was surprised. She hadn't been sure Kane had been aware of what was going on around him, much less what had been said.

  "That makes no more sense than the rest," Richardson said. "And the problem as I see it is knowing where to focus our attention. Was Dinah on to something big and all this is the result? Did she and Faith step in something nasty while they were poking into corners? Did Faith bring trouble with her when she came to Atlanta? Which is it?"

  "Maybe all three," Kane replied.

  "Shit." It wasn't said in disbelief, but weariness and frustration.

  Richardson shook his head. "I need more than four hours of sleep to think about this. In the meantime, Kane, are you planning to stay here? I know there was hardly any damage outside that one bedroom, but..."

  "This is probably the safest place we could be now," Kane answered calmly. "Especially once I hire a few more guards — this time with dogs — to surround the building very visibly. And a new security company to close up all the god damned holes in the electronic security net. If we have to live In a fortress until we get to the bottom of this and find Dinah's killers, so be it."

  Faith looked at him but said nothing.

  Richardson
was clearly not pleased, but he didn't argue. "I can step up patrols in the area. The mayor frowns on bombs and so does the chief. But I want all of you to be careful. Damned careful. If the bomber was after Kane to stop that reward, he's obviously panicked and moving fast enough to be careless. And if he was after Faith, failure to get her may just make him more desperate."

  "We'll be careful," Kane said.

  Nobody in the room believed he meant it.

  "Shit," Richardson said again, unhappily this time.

  Bishop's cell phone rang, and he retreated to his bedroom to answer it.

  "I won't seal the room," Richardson said, "but I'm asking you to stay out of there as much as possible until the damage is repaired. The fire department covered the hole in the wall with heavy-duty plastic to keep out the worst of the weather, and we believe the floor is safe enough, but don't waste any time getting a crew in there, Kane."

  "No. I won't."

  Richardson looked at him restlessly, seemed about to say something else, then swore. "Hell. I'm going. Call me if anything — and I mean anything else happens. Understand?"

  Kane nodded.

  When the detective had gone, Kane said formally, "We'll have to see what's salvageable in the way of clothing for both of us. The closet is mostly intact, and I think the chest of drawers as well. Some things may have to be cleaned, but since there was virtually no fire, we probably won't have to worry about everything smelling of smoke."

  Faith wasn't looking forward to going back into the blackened shell anyways.

  "I'll go through everything and see what has to be sent to the cleaners, what's usable."

  "Thank you."

  She wondered how long she'd be able to bear his politeness.

  Bishop came back into the room, drawing their attention easily. He was scowling, an expression made more savage by the scar on his face and so unusual for him it was almost shocking.

  "What's up?" Kane asked.

  "It looks like I am," his friend replied tersely. "Back up to Quantico."