by Debra Webb
Now she would never have the chance.
“This is a beautiful place.”
Sande’s voice startled Patrick from the painful thoughts. He straightened, forced his mind back to the present and his job. “Very beautiful.” And filled with tormenting memories for Victoria. Even now she never came. All this beauty and she couldn’t bear to be here.
“You made coffee.”
Patrick shook off the haunting thoughts. “Yes.” Sande didn’t drink coffee. “Sorry. Would you like tea?” He had to get his mind wrapped around the case again.
“I’m fine for now.” She hugged her arms around herself as she stared out over the water. “Mostly I’m tired. And sad for being the reason Windy’s dead.”
He shook his head. “Don’t. That won’t help.”
The shaky breath she released told him that nothing he said would relieve her of the guilt she felt for this. Just like him.
He shouldn’t put off this other thing any longer. “I wanted to discuss a technique with you.” He poured a cup of coffee. “If you’re not too tired.”
Hope chased away the weariness in her expression. “Will it help me remember?”
“Possibly.” He walked to the table and took a seat. She did the same. “I can’t guarantee anything, but at this point, I believe it’s worth a try.”
He’d been thinking about this for a while now. Many therapists swore by hypnotherapy, but Patrick wasn’t one of them. So many unscrupulous practitioners in his field used it as a cure-all, knowing full well it rarely worked to any real degree.
But it couldn’t hurt.
“Tell me,” she urged.
“It’s called regression therapy.” He avoided the more common term.
A frown furrowed her smooth brow. “I’m not sure what that involves.”
“It’s fairly simple and straightforward.” He savored his coffee. “I use hypnosis to take you back to a time you remember, then we slowly move forward until we reach the present.”
She pondered his suggestion for nearly a minute before she responded. Patrick had assumed she would be willing to try most anything. Maybe he’d been wrong.
“Okay.” She looked directly into his eyes. “When can we start?”
Relief warred with prudence. He wanted to be glad she’d agreed, but a part of him would prefer not to take this route. He thought of Windy and his hesitation vanished. He would do whatever necessary to nail his associate and friend’s killer.
In answer to Sande’s question, he said, “I’d like you to treat yourself to a long, hot bath, get as relaxed as possible and then we’ll start.”
“There’s no time like the present.” She stood and backed toward the hall. “It’s not like it’s going to be a hardship. A long, hot bath sounds really good.” She disappeared in the direction of the stairs.
Patrick hoped she would feel that way later. Regression therapy could be emotionally agonizing for those patients for whom it really worked. There were some who didn’t respond to hypnosis. An unguarded response was key to achieving the best results.
The Colby Agency research department had found nothing on Sande Williams. The police had nothing. Evidently the Bureau had nothing. Anyone who might have known something had ended up dead.
Patrick was out of options. If this didn’t work, he wasn’t sure there was anything else he could do to help the lady. And then finding the person responsible for Windy’s murder might just be impossible.
SANDE SELECTED the bedroom with the largest tub. There was even a big, fluffy white robe on the back of the door. She filled the bath with steaming water and sprinkled in some of the essence of rose oil she’d found in the linen closest.
She dropped the robe onto the floor next to a couple of matching towels, and twisted and clipped her hair out of the way. Taking her time, she gingerly stepped into the water. The sensation of warmth swallowing her body felt amazing. Her bottom settled against the porcelain and she leaned back with a satisfied sigh.
Slowly but surely she banished the ugly images of murder from her mind. Those awful pictures of Windy lying facedown on the floor, of O’Brien trying desperately to help her, were the hardest to exile. That this woman had died because of her made Sande sick to her stomach. Who else had to perish before this was over?
Maybe if she herself had died the way she was supposed to have, Windy and Alma and Nancy, not to mention Detective Lyons, would still be alive.
Emotion welled in Sande’s eyes. What had happened in her life to create this domino effect? Who was she? What kind of people did she associate with? Obviously, the sort who could kill without blinking an eye.
Why would she have associates like that? What kind of evil person had she been?
Sande told herself to relax, but it didn’t work. She needed answers. Why couldn’t she remember? The lab hadn’t been able to pinpoint any drugs in her system. She had no physical injuries. If her memory had fled due to some emotional trauma, then that should stop.
She had to be stronger. There was no excuse for her continued hiding. And that’s what this was, wasn’t it?
She was a coward.
“Not anymore.” Sande pushed herself out of the hot water and grabbed a towel. She scrubbed her body dry and then dragged on the robe. Enough time had been wasted.
She didn’t need to relax. She needed to get this done.
Determined, Sande stormed off in search of O’Brien. She was ready to get this over with. Whatever he could dig from her brain, using whatever methods, she wanted to try it.
Now.
She found him in the kitchen where she’d left him, cup of coffee still in his hand. Judging by the fullness of the carafe, he hadn’t gotten to his second cup.
“I’m ready.”
His attention snapped to her. Surprised flared in his eyes. “That was pretty fast. The goal was to relax.”
She pulled out the chair she had abandoned earlier. “I’m as relaxed as I’m going to get. Let’s get started.”
Now she was mad at him, too. Her feelings were irrational, she knew. But she just couldn’t help it. Her life was irrational right now.
“All right.” O’Brien got up from the table. “Let’s find a spot more conducive to relaxing.”
“Whatever.”
Sande followed him to the living room. He started the gas logs in the fireplace. Then he settled into a massive wingback chair that flanked one side, gesturing to the matching seat opposite. Sande dropped into it and pulled her legs up so that she could hug her knees to her chest. She liked sitting that way. With the fluffy robe cloaking her, she had to admit she felt warm and somewhat relaxed in spite of her anger.
Patrick blinked away the appealing image of her sitting there swallowed in that white robe, with her blond hair spilling loose from its confines. He had to focus.
Slowly, methodically, he talked her to that place where her mind drifted deep, deep into the past.
Her gaze softened, grew distant.
“Very good, Sande.”
She sighed, sank deeper into the fluffy folds of white swaddling her.
“Tell me about your birthday, Sande.”
She tugged on her bottom lip with those straight white teeth. Patrick’s body tensed. He pushed away the sensations.
“I…was ten,” she murmured.
“Ten. That’s a pleasant age.”
“It’s snowing.”
So, she was born in the winter. “Where was it snowing, Sande?” He kept his voice low, gentle.
“Minneapolis.”
Excellent.
“You grew up in Minneapolis.”
“Yes.”
Her skin was almost as pale as the robe. Smooth. Her lips looked as rich as plums against her skin. And young, she looked so young.
Focus, he ordered himself.
“Did the kids in school laugh at your glasses?”
A frown tugged at those full lips. “I didn’t wear glasses.” She inclined her head. “They laughed at my braces.”
“When did you get braces, Sande?”
“I was fourteen.”
“Fourteen. A time of change.” He chose his words carefully, steering away from those that might generate unpleasant memories, yet selecting ones that would prompt reaction.
“I bought my first bra.”
He smiled despite his determination to maintain a professional facade. “There are many firsts when you’re a teenager.”
“I let Josh Baker kiss me after the pep rally.”
Another smile pulled at his lips. “You were a cheerleader?”
She moved her head from side to side. “No. I was in the band. I played the flute.”
“The flute is a nice instrument.”
“I hated it. My mother made me play.”
“Did she make you get a job after you graduated?”
The soft expression transitioned into a pained look. “No. She died.”
An ache pierced Patrick’s chest. “I’m very sorry, Sande.”
Her expression changed again. “Why do you keep calling me Sande?”
Tension rippled through his limbs. “Isn’t that your name? Sande Williams?”
Confusion or something of that order pinched her face. “No. That’s not my name.”
Take a detour. “Isn’t that the name you used in college?”
She shook her head. “Of course not. Why would I use that name? It’s not mine.”
“Maybe you’ve forgotten,” he suggested with a bit more firmness.
“No. I didn’t forget. Angela Tapley. That’s my name.”
Anticipation prompted an adrenaline surge. “I see. Well, Angela, what did you do after college?”
A full minute passed and she said nothing. The remote expression that had claimed her face and eyes told him she was looking back…searching of her own volition through the memories imprinted on her cells.
A new kind of tension mounted when the silent seconds continued to tick by.
“I was ranked first in my class,” she finally announced. “No one was better. Not even Ted Baxley. He thought he was the best, but he wasn’t. I was.”
“You were valedictorian?”
“Not college. My training cycle.”
Patrick sat forward. “I see. You joined the military.”
“No.” Frustration had seeped into her tone. “At the Farm.”
Comprehension set off a whole new blast of adrenaline. “You joined the Bureau after college.”
“Special Agent Angela Tapley.”
Patrick was the one silent now. Her answer had stunned him.
Don’t get distracted. Finish this.
“Your last operation went south,” he commented, careful to keep his inflection neutral.
His client shot to her feet. “He’s dead. I killed him.”
Patrick searched her face, her eyes, wondered at the confusion and anguish there. She was still in the past. “You killed who?”
“Wheeler,” she murmured. “But he just won’t stay dead.”
Patrick slowly pushed himself to his feet and approached her. No sudden moves. “Why did you need to kill him?”
“Because he’s responsible.”
The tension in her posture told him she was ready to cut and run. Not good. “How was he responsible?”
“He’s a traitor.”
She was shaking now.
“I’m going to count very slowly from ten to one,” Patrick told her. “When I get to one you’re going to feel relaxed again. Then you’ll wake up and have tea.”
She gazed at him as if she didn’t understand.
“Ten…nine…eight…”
The shaking didn’t abate.
“Are you listening to me, Sande?”
“Don’t call me that!” She backed up a step.
“Seven…almost time to relax and wake up.”
She stared at him, her eyes unseeing.
“Six…five…four…you’ll remember what we talked about, but you won’t be afraid.”
She stumbled back a step, crumpled into the chair she’d abandoned minutes ago.
“Three…two…one.” Patrick crouched next to her. “You okay?”
She turned to look directly into his eyes. “I’m not sure.” Her voice sound calm if not steady. Her gaze was still somewhat distant.
“Do you remember your name?”
More of those tension-filled seconds stretched out.
“My name is Angela Tapley.”
The shaking started again.
“You’re tired. Why don’t you let me take you to your bedroom?”
She didn’t resist. Patrick helped her up the stairs and into the room where she’d discarded her clothes. He drew the covers back and waited for her to crawl into the bed. As he tucked her in, his mind was already racing with what he needed to do next.
“O’Brien.”
He hesitated at her bedside. “Yes?”
“How can I remember my name and not know what happened to me?”
He’d hoped, after she rested, to learn more about what she’d done since joining the Bureau, but that apparently wasn’t going to happen right away.
“It’ll come. Try to rest now. You’re tired. I’ll take care of everything.”
Even as he made the promise his gut twisted into writhing knots of agony.
The way he’d taken care of his wife.
The way he’d taken care of Windy.
Maybe Victoria had been on the right track when she’d suggested that Ian or Simon should take over this case.
Frustration and anger joined the self-disgust.
When his client had drifted off to sleep, he left the room. He had calls to make. A plan to develop.
His cell phone was vibrating on the kitchen table. He grabbed it on the way to the coffeemaker. More caffeine was essential.
“O’Brien.”
“O’Brien, this is Simon.”
Simon Ruhl. He and Ian Michaels were Victoria’s seconds in command. Patrick’s instincts went on point. “I have news,” he informed his superior. “Our client’s real name is Angela Tapley.”
“She’s FBI,” Simon added. Simon was former FBI himself.
“I just learned that through regression therapy,” Patrick explained. “What’s your source?”
“Lucas’s contact uncovered a black bag operation. All hell is about to break loose at the Bureau. You’ll need to be on your toes, O’Brien. This is going to get nasty.”
“I’m prepared.” He’d packed his weapon. Patrick had never carried a gun before, but he’d been trained by the Colby Agency and issued a 9 mm for extreme situations. Few of the investigators at the agency ever carried their weapon, much less used it.
“Ian is on his way there now. Once your backup is in place I’ll give you another call and fill you in on the rest of what we learned. Right now we all need to focus on getting this situation locked down for the coming ride.”
“I’ll be standing by.”
Patrick put the phone away and ran his hand through his hair. He had to push all the remorse and guilt about Windy out of his mind until this was done. He would deal with it then. For now, his top priority had to be protecting the client.
His throat went dry when he thought of those lush lips and the glimpses of thigh he’d gotten whenever she moved or walked in that robe. He’d had to work hard at not letting his attention deviate from the task.
He reminded himself that he was confusing the need to protect with other emotions. It happened. He knew better than to succumb.
But he was merely human.
He downed his coffee, refilled his cup and decided to check the house and security system, even though he knew the latter was state-of-the-art and that all was well. It would keep him occupied until Ian arrived.
Otherwise he’d be focusing on those thoughts that would only take him places he did not need to go.
“Don’t move.”
Patrick froze.
“Put your hands up and turn around slo
wly.”
What the hell?
“I said, put your hands up and turn around slowly.”
He raised his hands in classic surrender and swiveled slowly.
His gaze settled on Sande’s—Angela’s—face. Her eyes were wild with fear or something of that order. She was still wearing that fluffy white robe, but the gun in her hand took away any fragile look. “What’re you doing with the weapon?” he asked quietly. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
She tightened her grip on the 9 mm she’d obviously taken from his bag. Her hands shook. “Shut up! And don’t make any sudden moves.”
“Sande.”
“Don’t call me that!” Her lips trembled despite the hard line she’d pressed them into. “Don’t ever call me that again.”
“Listen to me,” he urged gently. “I’m trying to help you. You know you can trust me.”
She laughed. “Yeah, right. The last guy I trusted tried to have me killed.” She lifted her chin in defiance of those trembling lips. “I don’t think I’ll be making that mistake again.”
“You have to let me help you.” Patrick hesitated to call her Angela. He wasn’t sure what kind of emotion that would evoke.
“I have to think,” she practically shouted. “I…” She moistened her lips and dragged in a ragged breath. “I have to think.”
“Put the weapon away and we’ll work this out.”
She stared straight down the barrel at him. “Not a chance. You do exactly what I tell you or you’re dead. Got it?”
Patrick nodded. “Got it.”
If Ian picked now to arrive…someone would likely end up dead.
Chapter Fourteen
Sande…Angela.
Her name was Angela.
She had to remember that.
The operation had gone south.
Where the hell was she?
She stared at the man in front of her. Peyton…no, Patrick. Patrick O’Brien. She’d been with him for a few days now.
Nancy was dead.
Alma, too.
She shuddered. Felt cold. Sick. She needed to throw up. Why was everyone dead? Something had gone wrong.
Had to be him.
She leveled her aim on the man in front of her. This had to be his fault.
Flashes of memory slammed into her brain. Him keeping her close behind him. Him putting his hand on hers. Him trying to help Alma…and the others.
