by Debra Webb
Darkness closed in on him.
“What is the nature of your emergency?”
The voice dragged him back. “Elmwood Cemetery,” he muttered. “Send paramedics and FBI. Agent down …” The world was spinning hard. He had to close his eyes.
His face flattened into the wet grass and he pictured Grace.
As long as she was safe, he had done this right.
He’d been looking for an excuse to die for about three years now. His eyes slowly closed. Looked like he’d finally found it.
Just when he’d discovered a reason to live.
Grace.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
2:30 A.M.
U-Store-It, Downtown Birmingham
A camera?
Vivian tried to reach it but she couldn’t.
Fincher was watching.
Bastard.
She glared at the camera, considered flipping him off but that wouldn’t do any good.
It was hard to tell how long she had been in here.
The piece of shit in the unit next to her started talking again. He’d been going on and on for what felt like hours.
“Vivian,” he called. “Talk to me, please.”
She shuddered. She could only assume that Fincher had plans for her that involved … him.
Closing her eyes, she blocked the sound of his voice. Images from seven years ago whirled in her head. She tried her best to block them. Stay strong. Focused. She had to find a way out of here.
A pop or break outside jerked her attention forward.
What the hell was that?
She moved to the door. The sound had come from that direction. That the bastard next door had gone silent told her he had heard it too. No footsteps outside. No voices. Nothing.
Reaching down, she pulled at her door, just to see if anything had changed. Wouldn’t budge.
Dammit.
A metal-against-metal grind brushed her senses. Her heart launched into her throat.
A door was opening.
Close by.
Very close.
Her gaze settled on the wall between her and him.
His door.
She put one foot behind the other and started backing up.
Footsteps.
At her door.
Fear exploded in her veins.
Metal rattled against metal.
The lock?
Her lock.
The grinding sound told her brain her door was moving upward before the visual image registered.
Her.
Door.
Opened.
The letters written in black across his forehead stole her attention for one second.
Nameless.
Terror ignited in her veins.
“That’s why he picked you,” he said in that soft whisper she remembered too well. “The lips. Such beautiful lips.”
He charged her.
She sidestepped at the absolute last second.
His shoulder slammed into hers, setting him off balance.
She rammed the heel of her hand into his chin at the exact instant that she launched her knee into his balls.
Too late.
His fingers gripped her throat.
They hit the floor. He howled in agony from her blows, his fingers tightening with the pulse of his pain cutting off her airway.
She kicked. Punched at his throat. Stabbed at his eyes.
She would not be a compliant victim again.
He pinned her on her back. Straddled her waist.
She banged at his trunk. Snatched at his balls. Bucked her hips.
“Oooh … that feels good,” he said.
She couldn’t breathe but she didn’t stop clawing for a vulnerable spot.
“First,” he taunted, “I want a bite of those lips.”
He leaned down, swiped his vile tongue around his lips. Then bared his teeth and leaned closer still.
She snapped her head up, banged forehead to forehead with all her might. Spots formed before her eyes. Her head pounded.
“Bitch!” One hand loosened from her neck as he reached for his forehead.
She gasped for air. Reared her hand back and jammed her fingers into his throat.
He gurgled.
Vivian struggled to throw him off but he was too heavy.
“Have it your way then,” he screamed. “I’ll kill you first!”
His demented eyes locked with hers. “I’ve waited a long time, Number Thirteen.”
His hands clamped around her throat.
An explosion filled the room.
He froze … fingers loosened as he stared down at his chest.
Blood leaked from a round hole there … the crimson color soaking into his pale blue shirt.
He slumped forward.
Vivian shoved him off her and scrambled away.
People were suddenly all around her. Cops. Para medics. Pierce. Pratt. Schaffer and her yellow boots.
Pierce helped Vivian to her feet.
She looked around, then at Pierce. “Where’s McBride?”
He didn’t have to answer.
She knew from the resignation in his eyes.
Fincher had gotten to McBride.
And he’d used her as bait.
10:30 A.M.
UAB Hospital
McBride’s eyes opened slowly. He licked his dry lips. Hadn’t felt like this since that first week-long post-FBI drinking binge.
He tried to raise his arm to wipe his mouth. Pain shot up his forearm.
“Don’t move.”
He turned slightly to the right. “Grace?”
“You almost got yourself killed going off on your own like that,” she fussed. “Too many stitches to count in your wrist and major surgery to remove the bullet and your appendix since the slug lodged there.” She exhaled a weary breath. “But you’re alive.”
He inventoried various aches and pains and the damned hellacious fog in his head. “You sure?”
“You scared me.” Her big dark eyes glittered. “I could kick your ass for that, McBride.”
“I’ll hold you to it,” he said with the best lecherous grin he could produce under the circumstances. His grin slipped into a frown. “What about … Nameless?”
“He’s dead.” She gave him a knowing look. “All of him this time. He and the other one were accomplice killers. They’d been friends since grade school.”
McBride’s confusion deepened. “How’d you get all that?”
“This guy had their real names tattooed on his chest right above his heart. We’re hoping that information might help solve any other murders they might have committed by giving us a starting point.”
McBride wished his throat wasn’t so dry. “I’m glad that’s over for you.” He searched her face. “He didn’t hurt you?”
She shook her head. “I beat the hell out of him before Pierce shot him.”
Pierce. Oh yeah. The anesthesia had almost succeeded in helping McBride to forget about him, but he was damned proud of Grace handling herself so well.
Grace sighed, fiddled with the edge of the sheet. “I’m not sure what to do now. Pierce offered me a position at Quantico.”
Yeah, McBride would just bet he had. “I hope you told him no.” He hadn’t exactly meant for the statement to come out so forcefully. He was damned surprised he had the strength.
“I did. My parents like it that I’m here. I’m beginning to fit in with the others.” She shrugged. “I guess I should stay. There’s room for advancement here too.”
“Good.” He tried to moisten his lips again. It wasn’t working too well.
“Here.” She reached for the cup and straw on the table next to his bed. “You can have water now.” She touched the straw to his lips and he drew in a much-needed drink.
“What about you?” She set the cup aside. “You heading back to the Keys as soon as they release you?”
He wondered if that was hope in her eyes. She wouldn’t hold his gaze long enough for
him to see. Sure sounded like it in her voice.
“Depends.”
Her gaze slid back to his. “On what?”
“On you,” he confessed.
“Does that mean if I ask you to say,” she ventured noncommittally, “that you will?”
“I’m certain I could be convinced.”
She kissed his lips, smiled timidly, and murmured, “Will you stay?”
“You’d be getting a shitload of baggage,” he reminded her.
“I have baggage too,” she reminded him.
“I do like my sex kinky,” he added.
“I think I can handle that,” she tossed back.
“I guess the answer is yes, then. I’ll stay.”
“Just so you know,” she began, “there’s an offer on the table from the director for full, permanent reinstatement, if you’re interested.”
“The offer’s flattering, Grace, but I’m not so sure I want that.”
“Whatever you do, it doesn’t matter.” She gently swept the hair back from his brow. “As long as you’re with me, the rest will fall into place.”
She was right.
Her. Him. Together. The rest was just bullshit anyway.
“Have you ever had sex in a hospital bed, Grace?”
She laughed, then kissed him and whispered, “When you’re well enough, we’ll have sex anywhere you want. Within reason,” she qualified.
McBride grunted. “Finally, a reason to wake up every morning.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The Federal Bureau of Investigation has one mission, only one: to protect. We often don’t appreciate all that the FBI does to that end. Our only insight is what we see and hear in the media. Far too often we take for granted the sacrifice that the men and women in law enforcement and the military make. I wanted to take this opportunity to thank those men and women for protecting what we hold dear. Every single American is indebted to every single one of you for carrying out your mission every single day despite the personal cost.
There are people in my life who allow me the privilege of doing what I love: writing my stories. I would like to thank my family and friends for their endless support. I simply could not do this without all of you. In particular I need to thank Vicki Hinze for her amazing and twisted mind. Mike Cooper for being the coolest friend and attorney on the planet. Candice Thies for being a wonderful friend and a superwoman CPA. CJ Lyons and Kim Howe for their encouragement and friendship. I love all you guys!
Special thanks to all the folks at St. Martin’s Press, particularly Jennifer Weis, Matthew Shear, and Hilary Teeman, for their support and encouragement. Jennifer, Hilary, and my super fantastic agent, Stephanie Rostan, help me make these stories the best they can be. Thank you. This is what I love and I feel honored to work with all of you.
Also by Debra Webb
TRACELESS
Available from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
Praise for TRACELESS
“Skillfully managing a big cast, Webb keeps the suspense teasingly taut, dropping clues and red herrings one after another on her way to a chilling conclusion.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Traceless is a riveting entanglement of intrigue, secrets, and passions that had me racing to its breathless end. I loved this book!”
—Karen Rose,
New York Times bestselling author of Count to Ten
“Traceless is a well-crafted and engrossing thriller. Debra Webb has crafted a fine, twisting thriller to be savored and enjoyed.”
—Heather Graham,
New York Times bestselling author of The Island
Keep reading for a sneak peek at Debra Webb’s next novel
FACELESS
Coming in August 2008 from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
CHAPTER ONE
Numbers 32:23—Be sure that your sins will find you out …
Sunday, September 5th, 9:40 p.m.
Mountain Brook, Alabama
She clicked off the flashlight, then froze.
Didn’t dare move.
Didn’t even breathe.
She listened intently beyond the frantic pounding in her chest and the roar of blood in her ears. She’d heard something. Anticipation fired through her veins.
The rustling of leaves. An animal? Maybe. These woods were full of wildlife.
Ten … twenty seconds passed with the breeze whispering through the trees. Her heart rate slowed. Nothing. Not another distinguishable noise beyond the night sounds. The consuming darkness continued pressing in on her; engulfing her, and the unsavory business to which she had no choice but to attend.
She had to do this and get out of here.
Now!
Slowly, the panic drained away. Urgency took its place. She was still alone. Hadn’t been caught. Thank God. But she had to hurry!
Reaching for the courage that had momentarily deserted her, she drew in a ragged breath and forced herself to return to the task. With a flex of her thumb, she slid the flashlight’s switch back into the “on” position and put it on the ground to illuminate her efforts. The narrow beam sliced across her arms as she continued digging, clawing at the soft earth with the shovel. Deeper. A shiver rushed over her skin. She had to hurry. Getting caught would not be good.
Not good at all.
Her respiration grew labored as that reality shrouded her as surely as the darkness had. Dig! Harder. Deeper. Faster. Get done and get the hell out of there!
She had to hide this mess … all of it. This part, the most important part, had to be here, where no one would think to look. Not now, after all these years. On the off chance someone did, the evidence would only do what it had done all along … point in the wrong direction.
Good enough. She stopped, lowered the shovel to the ground and sat back on her haunches to scrutinize the hole she’d carved out. Yes. This was sufficient.
Twisting her torso, careful not to make the slightest noise, she reached into the bag she’d carried from her borrowed car parked a half mile away. The plastic bag felt heavy, though the contents weighed hardly anything at all.
Two gold bands. Symbols of love and commitment, the precious circles stained with blood after being tugged from cold, lifeless fingers.
Goosebumps spilled across her skin as that scenario played out in her head. She banished the images, dropped the rings into the Beanee Weenee can, then crushed the opened end as tightly together as her strength would allow before placing it in the small grave she’d burrowed. If anyone happened to dig around in this spot they would merely ignore what they presumed to be trash. Campers and hikers buried their trash all the time.
Satisfied, she carefully returned the excavated soil into its rightful resting place. She smoothed and patted the surface, then spread fallen leaves across it.
There.
No one would ever suspect that barely a foot beneath that seemingly undisturbed spot lay the final pieces of a puzzle that to this day, fifteen years later, had not been solved. She shivered.
Grabbing the shovel and flashlight, she pushed to her feet. The past wasn’t important right now. What mattered was the present. And the future. Protection, survival, those were the key elements.
She had learned from experience that survival was the only thing that really counted.
She intended to survive.
Cautiously retracing her steps through the trees and dense underbrush, she reached the side road where she’d left her car. After scanning cautiously for any sign of approaching headlights, she moved more quickly.
She was almost home free.
Just one last detail to take care of and this bothersome night would be behind her.
The tools grasped firmly under one arm, she dug the keys from the pocket of her jeans and opened the trunk. The accessory light flickered once then steadied, filling the trunk with a dim, eerie glow. She tossed the shovel and flashlight inside and should have closed the lid then. That would have been the smart thing to do. But she didn’t.
In
stead, she stared at the one remaining obstacle in this monumental mess that required her immediate attention.
The body.
She had to figure out what to do with the body.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
NAMELESS
Copyright © 2008 by Debra Webb.
Excerpt from Faceless copyright © 2008 by Debra Webb.
Cover photo of woman © Herman Estevez.
Cover photo of city © Digital Vision/Getty Images.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
St. Martin’s Paperbacks are published by St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.
eISBN 9781429931762
First eBook Edition : April 2011
St. Martin’s Paperbacks edition / February 2008
Table of Contents
Title Page
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
