by Cat Connor
A hard shove caused the black shape to fall with a resounding thud. Pain surged up my arm. Air rushed from the person in an undignified squawk.
I flicked the red light on and illuminated the face of the intruder. Holding the flashlight in my mouth I wrestled my phone out of my pocket, pain no longer registering. The flashlight on the phone shone a brilliant white light on the person’s face. I spat my small flashlight onto the floor and shoved my Glock into my waistband.
Rosanne.
What the hell? Made sense though; someone used Dad’s code. Who else could get it?
She shielded her eyes from the light.
I reached out and helped her up, turned off the flashlight on my phone. Then holstered my weapon and said, “Stay put.”
Returning to the laundry, I flipped the switch flooding the house with light again.
Back in front of Rosanne, I demanded an answer. “Explain!”
“I came by to see you …”
My head shook. “Try again.” I watched her pulling together her thoughts. “Did you put an envelope on the counter?”
“I came by to see you.” She paused. “I picked up an envelope addressed to you in the mailbox.”
“My mail is usually in the mailbox courtesy of the mail carriers who, you know, put it there.”
“Thought I’d bring it in for you.”
“Uh huh. And you got through the gate and into the house how?” I knew how but wanted confirmation.
“I used a code.”
Good that she didn’t lie. “You don’t have a code. So what you mean is … you stole a code.”
A sheepish look crossed her face.
I continued. “It’s breaking and entering.”
“More creative entering than breaking and entering,” Rosanne replied.
“No one likes a wiseass.” I felt the solid wall against my back. “And you creatively entered why?”
“Because I need to know what you know about your current case. That media briefing wasn’t the whole story.”
“You couldn’t have asked me?” I motioned for her to follow me to the living room. “Take a seat. Cutting the power triggered my silent alarm.” I checked my watch. “We’ll have company soon.”
Men in tactical gear carrying automatic weapons. No need for anyone to get shot unnecessarily.
Her eyes flicked from my banged-up hand to my face. “What’d you do to your hand? Looks painful.”
“Broke it on the last person who pissed me off,” I replied, letting the chill in my voice speak louder than my words.
I gave Dad a call. “Can you come over, please?” Yeah. Nah, not keeping his lady friend’s antics to myself.
“You okay, kid?”
“Yes. But you need to be here.” I hung up.
“Who was that?” Rosanne asked. She appeared to have lost some of her composure.
“My dad.”
Her face fell, mouth drooped and head shook. “Why?”
“Really?” Maybe the brain tumor prevented her putting two and two together. Because it wasn’t rocket science. “You stole his code and used it to access my home. You could’ve gotten shot.” Not even an exaggeration. “You used my father to get close to me and you were spying.” I looked at her for a beat. “Any of those things seem bad?”
Who am I kidding ‒ she’s a journalist?
I was wrong about her. I’d thought she was an okay person. The only journalist I’d maybe liked. She even helped me out once. Once a journalist always a journalist. It’s all about the story.
“That’s not how it happened,” she replied.
Headlights streamed through a gap in the curtains.
“Hold that thought and do not move!”
I hurried to the front door and flashed the exterior light three times before opening the door.
Three armed men stood bathed in my security lighting.
“Ellie?” said the tallest man, standing in the middle.
“Sean. I had a situation, it’s contained. My father will be arriving in a few minutes. Have someone escort him to the living room.”
“Sure.” He turned to the man on his right. “Stand the team down. Escort Simon Conway in when he arrives.”
“Sir. Yes, sir.”
“Sean, with me,” I said and lead the way into the house. Sean shut the door behind him then fell into step with me.
Rosanne was shaken not stirred.
“Is this the breach?” Sean asked. Dressed in black, carrying an assault rifle, wearing body armor and several obvious weapons, Sean’s six-foot-seven-inch frame imposed upon the room.
“Yes. Rosanne here stole Dad’s code and let herself in.”
“That wasn’t very smart.” He addressed Rosanne, “Do you have a death wish?”
“I’m seeing that my decision wasn’t very clever.” She mustered fragments of intelligence and rammed them back inside her skull. “There are extenuating circumstances.”
“Save it for the judge,” Sean said and turned his head toward the door a little.
I heard the voice too. We looked at each other.
“Simon is on deck,” Sean said.
“I can hear,” I replied. “He’s going to be all kinds of upset.”
Sean nodded.
“Give me the word and I’ll remove Rosanne and have Delta pick her up from my custody. When you’re ready. No rush.”
I nodded. “Thanks.” My eyes focused on the doorway.
Waiting for my father.
Twenty-Nine
Need You Now
Dad’s stern expression, knitted brows, and sharp tone announced he was unimpressed with Rosanne’s behavior. Second biggest understatement of the week, right there.
It took a bit to settle him down. Understandably. Sean removed Rosanne. I called Kurt. When he arrived, Dad went home.
Kurt and I stood in the kitchen. Neither of us spoke for a beat.
“Hand okay?” Kurt did not take his eyes off the envelope on the counter.
“No. Hurts like a bitch,” I replied, willing the envelope to give up its contents.
Kurt opened the freezer and took out an ice-pack. He handed it to me.
“Put that on your hand.”
I did. The cold hurt, I couldn’t tell if it was worse with the ice or without.
The envelope just lay there upon my counter daring one of us to open it. Could be that the envelope was the innocent victim of my inherent mistrust of people. That the lack of a postmark meant someone I knew dropped it off in person rather than mailing it, an invitation to an event and not at all sinister. Also, pigs fly and unicorns poop rainbows and no one has ever tried to kill me or broken into my home before.
My laughter took me by surprise.
“Share?” he said.
“It’s an envelope … let’s just open the freaking thing.” I tilted my head toward him. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
“I don’t know … perhaps fiery death, viral death, zombie apocalypse? Or all of the above.” He grinned at me and lifted the ice-pack to check my hand. “It’s you, Conway, you attract some peculiar people and most of them want to shorten your life.”
“It’s a gift.”
“Sure is.”
Kurt picked up the envelope and felt it. He stood for a second with the envelope resting across the palm of one hand. Judging the weight.
“And?”
“Feels okay. But then C4 feels okay when it’s rolled real thin.”
“Cheerful thought.”
I passed him a flashlight from under the sink. He switched it on and held it under the envelope.
“Paper? What do you think?”
“Looks like it. Nothing weird looking in there. Tip it.”
Kurt tipped the envelope. Nothing loose moved. No powder rushed to the lowest corner. Probably not anthrax or heroin or cocaine. Love that I thought anthrax before schedule I and II drugs. Could be paper laced with the Ebola virus. For all I knew, that could be a thing now. I felt as though we
should be wearing Level A Hazmat suits – the ones with self-contained breathing apparatus.
Kurt walked around the counter and opened a drawer. He removed a steak knife and slipped it under the seal of the envelope.
“Now’s a good time to pray, Conway,” he said with a grin as he slit the paper open and carefully extracted a folded piece of paper.
I could see his eyes over the sheet of paper as he read. It didn’t look good. “What is it?”
“Fan mail.”
“What now?”
He looked over the paper at me. “Confusing little words are they, Conway? “
“I thought you said fan mail?”
“I did, do you prefer love letter?”
“I’m not going to like this, am I?”
His head shook a little.
My heart sank. Another lunatic surfacing was the very last thing I needed. Kurt handed me the letter. I scanned it not really wanting to read it at all. By the time I got to the end of the page, I knew why I hadn’t wanted to read it, but too late to stop my brain processing the words.
“He …” I looked at the name at the bottom of the page, checking that it was a male. Hank. Probably a male. “Hank seems like a nice fellow.”
Warning bells boomed in my head. The contents and the name on the letter meant something but it wasn’t cementing into anything I could narrow in on.
Kurt laughed. “Probably a real sweetheart. You really should stop sending subliminal messages to four-hundred-pound gorillas, Conway.”
“I should. Can’t promise though. As this fellow says, I speak to him on a visceral level. Not sure how to turn that off.”
“Animal magnetism, Conway?”
“Yeah, shut up!” I thrust the paper back at him. “You can deal with Hank. I do believe his return address is a federal prison.”
“And how did your new pal Hank get this missive of love and adoration delivered to you?”
I didn’t want to think about how an inmate got my address or how he got a letter to me out of the prison. His name wriggled about in my head then jumped in and out of old case files until a neon flashing warning sign lit the dark in my brain.
Holy fuck, Batman. I could be in trouble.
“Kurt …”
Hank liked puzzles. He liked to make puzzles out of people. It was a Delta case. When we arrested him, he told me he’d like to make a puzzle out of me. Every image associated with Hank and his fascination with jigsaw puzzles and scroll saws flooded back. Everything blurred and swayed as the horror took over. He liked to use a reciprocating saw first up then move to a scroll saw for the more intricate patterns. Two of his victims were sliced up using a band saw in welder’s workshop. I’d never seen a mess like it and hoped I never would again.
“Yes,” he said looking up from the letter. “Whoa, sit down.”
Drab confetti danced in front of my eyes and encroaching blackness threatened. I felt his hand close around my arm but couldn’t see it.
My next thought came in sharp pointy shards, it pierced the dark, creating rips big enough for me to see through. Mitch.
“El, you awake?”
Mitch.
A groan escaped as thoughts of Hank returned. I tried to push the thoughts away. He made a big mess and it was hard to scrub that from my conscious mind.
“Groaning isn’t indicative of wakeful speech, El. You need to say words.”
“Mitch … thought you were going to be late?”
“Babe, I am late. Kurt called me but I was almost home.” His fingers brushed my bangs away from my eyes. “You in there?”
“Yep.”
An inventory happened without my bidding. My mind ran through its checks.
Yep. I’m okay. No harm done.
I looked around. I lay on the sofa in the living room. My last memory was being in the kitchen and Kurt grabbing my arm.
God. I passed out. That wouldn’t go down well.
“You need sleep,” Mitch said. His tone suggested arguing was futile.
Legs wearing dark blue suit pants appeared in front of me. I followed them up to a dark blue jacket, white shirt, and striped blue-on-blue tie. Kurt.
“Sleep. I’ll pick you up in the morning.”
What no questions? Color me stunned.
“Thanks for not letting me hit my head,” I said.
“You’re welcome. See you in the morning.” He frowned at me for a second. “I’ve ordered armed security for here and Mitch’s home effective immediately and until I say otherwise. While you were out, I did a search on Hank.” He didn’t need to carry on; I knew only too well what he found.
The sofa cushions moved as Mitch stood. I heard him and Kurt talking on the way to the front door, then the door opened and closed. Mitch’s footsteps paused at the living room door.
I sat up slowly. Everything felt okay. Nothing spun out of control, no murky gray or darkness lurking.
“All right?” he said, walking toward me.
“Yes. I’m going to go get something to eat.”
The black bear rumbling in my stomach reminded me how very hungry I was.
“Tell me what you want and I’ll get it for you.”
And there was the problem. Starving, but no clue what I wanted to eat.
“I’m not sure, I’ll go see what there is.”
“Can you manage?”
Can I manage?
For a second there I didn’t understand. Pain flooded back as I ran my hand through my hair, in an attempt to sweep my bangs out of my eyes. Sharp tugs as hair caught on the tape didn’t help.
“I got this.”
“I don’t doubt that, just thought I could help.”
I smiled. “No, you read the paper and relax. I’ll be back.”
Mitch liked to sit for a bit and read the paper to unwind. His was a long day and I figured I’d let him do his thing in peace. Also, fewer bothersome questions if I was in a different room.
Thirty
Shattered
“Hey, I’m going up to bed,” I said from the living room door.
Mitch looked up from the newspaper, then glanced at his watch.
“Good idea.” He folded the paper and placed it on the floor by his chair. “If you can’t sleep we could watch a movie?”
“Or you could while I fall asleep,” I replied. Although, with Hank skulking in my mind at the boundary between reasonable thought and insanity, sleep might not be such an easy thing to come by.
Mitch smiled and stood up. I held out my hand, he reached it in three strides. “You’re cold,” he said. His free hand touched my face. “Really cold.”
“Yeah.”
I couldn’t get warm. Cold both inside and out.
Hand in hand we climbed the stairs. Our room was dark. I wanted dark and cozy. Mitch knew, he just knew; instead of turning on the main lights he flicked on a lamp on my dresser and another on the nightstand.
Mitch stepped in front of me and looked into my eyes.
“What’s up?”
“I’m tired.”
“It’s like something extinguished your flame. This isn’t just tired.” His blue eyes searched mine. “El? What happened?”
I shook my head. I’m not sharing the Hank stuff and I didn’t want to get into Rosanne being in the house.
“My body aches. I’m tired and I can’t get warm,” I replied. It was truthful, just not the whole truth.
“Hot shower and bed,” Mitch said.
“That sounds good.” It did and I was grateful the questions had ceased. I sat down on the bed. It would be so easy to fall back and sleep but I’d bet good money on nightmares not being far away. Mitch was talking. I heard the shower running.
Talking. Time to pay attention.
“El?”
“Yep?”
“Shower?”
I stood and walked into the bathroom.
“Jump in. I’ll find you some pajamas.”
“Pajamas? Top drawer of my dresser.”
“
Pajamas until you warm up,” Mitch replied with a smile.
I peeled off my jeans and dropped them in the laundry hamper. The rest of my clothes followed as quickly as the constant thrum of pain in my hand would allow.
A thought surfaced: the laundry hampers at the crime scenes were empty. Where were their worn clothes or pajamas or whatever? I needed to hang on to that thought until I could do something with it. The hot water stung my cold skin, gradually warming me.
“Okay?” Mitch asked.
“You coming in?”
He laughed. “Yep.”
The shower door opened and closed. Warmth radiated from Mitch’s body. I turned to face him. Mitch plunged his hands into my hair, pulled my face to his and kissed me until I forgot everything except that very moment.
His arms wrapped around me as I melted into him. Mitch said, “Don’t shut me out.”
Dry and in warm pajamas I snuggled in bed next to Mitch. My head rested on his chest as he flipped channels looking for a movie to watch.
He settled on The Time Traveler’s Wife. His left arm wrapped around me, fingers gently caressing my upper arm. The movie played. My eyes closed.
Time travel was one helluva superpower. I wanted to go back to the minutes before the first woman was killed and stop it. Bits of the movie filtered into my thoughts then became part of my internal viewing.
What if the cameras were still active when we arrived at the crime scenes? What if the Unsubs were listening to us?
I opened my eyes. “Mitch, you’re a techy kinda guy …”
“Uh huh.”
“Do you think the cameras and audio surveillance gear at the crime scenes enabled the Unsubs to—”
His arm tightened around my shoulders. “You think they were watching you?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s possible. If they had cameras at every scene, they could’ve been used for surveillance prior to the murders and then disabled via software afterward. Rinse and repeat.”
“Could’ve, might’ve, perhaps, maybe.” Not what I wanted to hear.
“This is your case. From what you know so far, what do you think?”
“I hoped they abandoned the spy gear and moved to the next place.”
