Beverly Barton 3 Book Bundle

by Beverly Barton

  God, how he hated the uncertainty.

  And he hated being so emotionally charged. For years, he had prided himself on being aloof and unemotional. But then Special Agent Baxter had entered his life five years ago and everything had changed. During the four years that he had been involved in BQK cases, he’d thrived on their verbal sparring matches. No one else got under his skin the way she had.

  Now he wondered if all those years of animosity between them had been nothing more than a long prelude to the night they’d made love. Was it any wonder, after five years of fore-play, they had ignited instantly and set each other on fire?

  During the past three weeks, he had relived every moment of that night. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word.

  Let Nic be alive. On their drive from the airport to the hospital, Griff’s mind repeated the silent plea again and again.

  They arrived at Baton Rouge General with a police escort, requested by SAC Doug Trotter, who was now on his way to Louisiana. Before they left Griffin’s Rest, Sanders had contacted Nicole’s immediate superior and filled him in on the information they had received from the ICU nurse. Rick Carson had flown in with them and Griff suspected that Sanders had requested Rick accompany them so that he could run interference and deal with anything that Griff might ordinarily handle.

  Hospital security met them at the entrance and ushered them straight to the elevator and upstairs to the intensive care unit. A sheriff’s deputy, who had been assigned to stand guard, met them in the waiting area.

  “I’m Griffin Powell.” He looked the young deputy square in the eyes.

  “Yes, sir. I’m Deputy McNeal.”

  “I’m here to see the Jane Doe in ICU.”

  “Yes, sir. The sheriff has given you clearance to go in and see the lady during visiting hours.”

  “I’m not waiting for visiting hours. I want to see her now.”

  “I—er—they’re awfully strict about this, Mr. Powell. Visiting hours aren’t for another hour and—”

  “Either you get the head nurse or whoever’s in charge out here now or I’m going in, permission or not.”

  The deputy’s brow wrinkled. “Uh, yes, sir. You wait here.”

  “Griffin.” Sanders touched his arm.

  Griff breathed in deeply, then released the breath slowly. “I’m okay.”

  A plump, middle-aged woman with rosy cheeks and curly brown hair approached Griff. “Mr. Powell?”

  “Yes, I’m Griffin Powell.”

  “I’m Geena Kilpatrick. I’m the one who called your office. If you’ll come with me, I’ll take to you see our Jane Doe. We’ve kept her sedated all afternoon, but she’s coming to and getting agitated again. Maybe when she sees you, she’ll settle down.”

  “Have you asked her what her name is?”

  “No,” Geena said. “Not again. When we gave her the pad and pen, we thought she would write her name, but she wrote your name instead. At first we couldn’t make it out and wasn’t sure if it was a name. She left out letters and … Well, when we didn’t understand what she’d written, she became very upset and tried to get out of bed. We’ve kept her sedated ever since.”

  The nurse led him into the ICU and directly to Jane Doe’s cubicle. She stepped back and waited for Griff to enter. Before going in, he closed his eyes. Let it be Nic.

  He walked in, then halted midway to the bed. His gaze traveled over the woman lying there. She moaned as she stirred restlessly. He focused on her face. Pale. Bruised. Eyes closed.

  Overwhelming emotion gripped him, constricting his lungs, tightening his throat. Then he released the tension in one huffing breath.

  Nic! She was alive.

  Thank you, God.

  “Is she someone you know, Mr. Powell?” Geena asked.

  So overcome with emotion that he couldn’t speak, Griff nodded, then moved slowly toward the bed. When he looked down at Nic, it took every ounce of his willpower not to grab her and pull her into his arms. Instead, he dropped to his knees at her bedside, lifted her badly scratched and bruised arm, and brought her hand to his cheek.

  “Nic, honey. Nicki, it’s Griff.”

  “Mmm …” she whimpered but didn’t open her eyes.

  The nurse came up behind Griff. “I’ll leave you alone with her, Mr. Powell. But first, could you please tell me her name? I need it for our records and I’ve been instructed to inform the deputy.”

  Griff nodded, never taking his eyes off Nic. “Her name is Nicole Baxter. Special Agent Nicole Baxter.”

  “She’s an FBI agent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you. I’ll leave you now. Stay as long as you’d like. If, when she wakes fully, she’s upset, we’ll have no choice but to sedate her again.”

  “I understand.” Griff glanced over his shoulder and up at Geena. “What can you tell me about her condition?”

  “She’s listed as critical. Other than that, I can’t say more. You’ll have to speak to her doctor. He’ll be making rounds in the ICU later.”

  “All right. Later.”

  Griff stayed there on his knees, Nic’s hand in his, and talked to her. She kept mumbling, kept shifting about as if she were uncomfortable. A couple of times, her eyelashes fluttered.

  “You’re going to be all right,” he told her repeatedly. “I’m here, Nic. It’s Griff. Whatever you need, whatever you want …”

  He didn’t know how long he remained on his knees, but eventually Geena Kilpatrick came back, checked on Nic, and brought in a chair for him.

  “Has she opened her eyes?” the nurse asked.

  “Not yet.”

  She patted Griff on the shoulder. “She will. Be patient.”

  Griff sat in the chair and held Nic’s hand. He talked to her for a while longer, then just sat there and waited.

  Suddenly, she squeezed his hand so gently that he barely felt it. He looked at her and said her name softly. Her eyelids opened and closed a couple of times, then she opened her eyes completely and stared at him.

  She mumbled, unable to speak because of the tube in her throat. Her eyes filled with tears.

  Griff squeezed her hand tenderly. “Hey there. It’s about time you opened those beautiful brown eyes and looked at me.”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  She tugged on his hand.

  He stood, leaned over the bed, and gently wrapped his arms around her. She lifted her hands and weakly grasped the lapels of his jacket. He never wanted to let her go, but he knew she needed to lie still and rest, so he pulled loose, clutched her shoulders, and eased her back into a comfortable position in the bed. She reached for him. He grabbed her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it.

  She pulled her hand free, then moved her right index finger over her left palm in a scribbling motion.

  “You want a pen and paper again?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Are you sure you feel up to it?”

  She nodded again and looked at him pleadingly.

  He smiled at her. “Whatever you want.”

  She sighed and squeezed his hand again.

  He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead before he left to find the nurse.

  “She wants a pen and paper,” Griff told Geena Kilpatrick.

  “I’ll get them for you right away.”

  “Thanks. And would you ask the deputy to tell the two men who came with me that I’m staying until y’all kick me out and for them to get a hotel room and I’ll call them if I need them?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Griff held the notepad for her as she tried to write. Every letter she scribbled took great effort. Woozy, her limbs as weak as wet dishrags and her thoughts slightly jumbled, she struggled to stay focused.

  She showed Griff what she’d written.

  P L A T A I O N H O U S E

  He studied the two words closely. “Plantation house?”

  She nodded, then ripped off that sheet of paper and began writing. Once again, she t
urned the pad so Griff could see what she’d written.

  L O T S L A N D W O D S

  “Lots of land. Woods.”

  She nodded.

  “He took you to an old plantation house here in Louisiana. The house was surrounded by woods.”

  Nic sighed heavily, then tore off that sheet and wrote again.

  When she held out the notepad, Griff took it from her, and studied the four words she had written:

  L O O K W H E R I F O N D

  And then he said, “You want us to look for him close to where you were found.”

  “Mm …mm …” She nodded again and reached for the notepad.

  “That’s enough for now,” he told her. “Rest for a while and later you can tell me more.”

  She shook her head and waved her hand at him.

  “Stubborn as ever, I see.” He grabbed her hand, kissed the center of her palm, and said, “Doug Trotter is on his way here. He’s got the local field office working on this, as well as the sheriff’s department. And Rick Carson came in with Sanders and me. They’ll speak to the couple who called 911 when they found you and get all the information about where you were.”

  She closed her fingers around his hand and shut her eyes.

  There was so much she needed to tell Griff, so much information she could give him to help them track down the monster who had held her prisoner for nearly three weeks. But she was tired. So very tired.

  Doug Trotter met with Griff at the hospital that evening and they came away from their brief meeting with the knowledge that they shared common goals: Nic’s full recovery, and the apprehension and punishment of the madman who had captured her.

  “We’re tracking down the couple who found Nic,” Trotter had said. “I expect to hear something tonight. And we’ve already spoken to the 911 operator and the paramedics who brought Nic in. We’ve got all our manpower at work on this one.”

  “I’d offer Powell’s resources if I thought you’d use them.”

  “Yeah, but you know I can’t accept. Not officially. Anyhow, we know where Nic was found, so, if all goes well, it shouldn’t take long to figure out just where she was being held.”

  “When you find out—”

  “Someone will give you a call.”

  Griff understood that Trotter couldn’t officially notify Griff, couldn’t share info with him. But Nic’s boss knew the best way to keep Griff under control was by cooperating with him.

  The ICU staff had bent the rules to allow Griff a great deal of time with Nic, so he hadn’t protested when he’d been asked to leave and return in the morning. He took a taxi to the hotel, where Sanders had a hot meal waiting for him. After a late dinner, he showered, shaved, and changed clothes.

  “I’m going back to the hospital,” Griff said.

  “You will not be allowed to see her tonight.”

  “I know, but I need to be there, nearby.” Just in case.

  “You should wait for her brother to arrive,” Sanders suggested. “Rick has gone to the airport to meet him.”

  “Tell Charles David that he’ll be able to see Nic first thing in the morning, at nine o’clock. But if wants to stay in the waiting room with me tonight, have Rick drive him to the hospital.”

  Sanders followed Griff to the door. “I must ask you for a promise.”

  Griff tensed, then paused and glanced at his friend.

  “Promise me that if the FBI finds this man, you will not take the law into your own hands.”

  Sanders knew him too well. He knew just what Griff was capable of, just how barbarically he could react in certain situations.

  “I promise that if the FBI apprehends this man and he is adequately punished by the law, I will do nothing else.”

  Sanders nodded.

  He understood the conditions of Griff’s promise and accepted them. He knew, better than most, that there were circumstances under which a man had to do what was necessary, whether his actions were legal or not.

  Rosswalt Everhart arranged for a chartered plane to fly him to Mexico where he checked into a private clinic, using fake ID and paying for everything in cash. As soon as he had recovered from surgery, he would move on. But in the meantime, he would use this recuperative period to find and rent a tiny, isolated island somewhere, hopefully not far away. He had always liked the Caribbean.

  He had left the hospital in Louisiana the day after his surgery. He’d had no choice. If he had remained in the United States, the odds were that the FBI would have found him. By now, they probably knew his name, his connection to his cousin Ruddy, and were no doubt searching Belle Fleur, both the house and surrounding acres. The thought of strangers tramping through his home, rummaging through his personal belongings, and desecrating the hallowed Everhart grounds enraged Ross. And it was all that bitch Nicole Baxter’s fault. She had almost killed him, but only because he had underestimated her. Next time, he would not make that mistake.

  Naked, his young, muscular body scarred with insect bites, ugly scratches, and stinging cuts from underbrush, Griffin Powell ran through the jungle. His left forearm dripped blood from where he’d snagged it on a jagged rock when he’d fallen into a deep ravine. Dried blood caked his lacerated feet. The sun beat down on his scorched flesh, burning his already-blistered skin. Adrenaline surged through him. Every survival instinct he possessed urged him on. Keep running. No matter how much he ached, no matter how weary and sleep-deprived he was, he had to keep going. His life depended on it.

  A shot rang out, echoing through the dense maze of thick greenery and towering trees. York was closing in on him.

  Griff’s heartbeat accelerated.

  Forcing himself to run faster, he tried to think, tried to figure out where he was and in which direction he should go. Escape was impossible. But temporary asylum was not. He had outwitted York before and he could do it again. That’s why he was still alive after weeks of being hunted like a wild animal.

  He would not die.

  He would not let York destroy him.

  He would live. No matter what he had to do.

  And someday, he would kill his tormentor.

  “Griffin? Mr. Powell? Are you all right?” A man’s voice called to Griff, from somewhere outside the foggy memories that haunted his dreams.

  Griff awoke with a start and stared into pale brown eyes identical to Nic’s. Struggling to emerge from his nightmare, Griff ran his hands over his face and rubbed his eyes.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” he asked Nic’s brother.

  “That was my question for you,” Charles David said. “You were mumbling in your sleep and becoming really agitated.”

  Griff took a deep breath. “I’m okay.” He glanced at the wall clock there in the ICU waiting room. “It’s nearly six. I must have slept for a couple of hours.”

  “I think we both drifted off sometime after three,” Charles David said. “I woke when I heard you grumbling.”

  “Sorry.”

  “No problem.” He looked around the waiting room, empty except for the two of them. “I could use a cup of coffee. How about you?”

  “I believe the cafeteria opens at seven,” Griff said. “We can go for breakfast and get back in plenty of time to see Nic during the first visitation at nine.”

  Charles David stood and stretched, then looked down at Griff. “I believe in nonviolence. I’m opposed to hunting for sport. I’m opposed to the war this country is embroiled in. I don’t even believe in the death penalty. So, tell me, why is it that I feel as if I could strangle the man who hurt Nic? I honestly think I could kill him with my bare hands.”

  “A lot of our beliefs change when things get personal,” Griff said. “A man can say he’d never kill another human being, but when his life or the life of someone he loves is on the line, how would he react? What would he do? Self-preservation and procreation are the two strongest instincts that we humans possess. And right up there with those two is the instinct to protect what’s ours.”

  “Nic’s
a lot tougher than I am. She always was.” Tears glazed Charles David’s eyes. “While she was missing, I kept telling myself that if anyone could survive—” He gulped down tears. “He tortured her, didn’t he?”

  Griff stood and clamped his hand down on Charles David’s shoulder. “He’s a monster who derives pleasure from other people’s pain—mental, emotional, and physical.”

  “How will she ever recover from this? How can she forget what he did to her?”

  “We don’t know what he did,” Griff said. “But just like you said, Nic is tough. She’s strong and she’ll recover, in time.” He didn’t add, “But she’ll never forget.”

  Griff had never forgotten those years on Amara. For the most part, he managed to keep those memories buried deep inside him, but since this new series of murders had begun, those old memories had been resurfacing. Awake, he could battle the demons and keep them at bay. But asleep, those demons took control of his subconscious.

  Griff squeezed Charles David’s shoulder. “Let’s see if we can find a coffee machine before breakfast.”

  “Yeah, let’s do that.”

  Just as they reached the elevator, it opened and SA Josh Freidman emerged.

  “Morning,” Josh said. “You two heading off somewhere?”

  “Coffee,” Griff replied. “What about you? What are you doing here?”

  Josh glanced at Charles David. “Are you Nic’s brother?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “I’m Special Agent Josh Friedman. I work with your sister. My boss, Doug Trotter, wanted me to fill you in on what’s happened.” Josh gave Griff a sidelong glance, then re-focused on Charles David. “Why don’t we go for coffee and I’ll fill you in.”

  The three men entered the elevator.

  Griff said, “Start talking.”

  “A man named Rosswalt Everhart owns a thousand-acre plantation and an old antebellum house about six miles from where Foy and Jewel Calame found Nic,” Josh said. “It seems that, in the area where he lives, he’s known as an eccentric recluse.”