by Rita Herron
And what about Olivia—if she kept tossing out accusations, would she put herself in danger?
“OLIVIA, I’M GOING TO drive you home.”
Olivia shook her head. “I’d like to stay here a while longer.”
Craig’s sharp gaze cataloged the chalk lines outlining the space where her father’s body had fallen. The other cops were leaving, the house dusted and tattooed with the crime scene unit’s handiwork. The spectators and reporters had given up and gone home, too. “Even if I could let you do that—and I can’t,” Craig said, “—it’s not a good idea.” He took her elbow as if to guide her to the door. “You’re wiped out and need some rest.”
Emotionally drained would be the more correct assessment. Dead inside even closer.
But she’d be damned if she’d admit any weakness to the federal agent who’d made her life hell the last few weeks. Even if he did have the sexiest gray eyes she’d ever seen. And even if for a brief moment, his ironclad control had slipped and concern tinged his voice.
“I…I can’t leave,” she whispered, betraying herself as her gaze caught sight of the wedding photo of her father and mother on the end table by the couch. The realization that she was all alone in the world slammed into her with such force that the breath locked in her lungs.
“Is there someone I can call?” he asked quietly. “A family member? Friend? Boyfriend?”
“No…no one.” She swallowed back tears at how pathetic it all was. Just like her father, she’d drowned herself in work at the expense of forming close friendships. And she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a date.
Emotions suddenly choked her, and she turned away, embarrassed and determined to regain control. “You don’t have to take care of me, Agent Horn.”
“Yes, I do.”
His gruff words hung in the air, thick with concern. Whatever his intention—to spy on her or offer her a semblance of comfort—guilt also riddled his voice.
She didn’t want his guilt or pity.
“I have my car,” she said, swinging back around. “I drove myself here. I can drive myself home.”
“Miss Independent, huh? You never need anyone, right?”
“That’s right.”
His gaze locked with hers, the day’s events traipsing through her mind like a bad headline. Tomorrow, her father’s suicide would be spl across the papers. She’d need to make plans for the funeral. Think about a burial plot. A memorial service. A casket.
That is, when the medical examiner finally released the body.
It was all too much.
Feeling weak-kneed, she scrounged in her purse for her keys, but Horn placed his hand over hers. “I’m taking you home, Olivia. No arguments. If you want to come back tomorrow, I’ll bring you to get your car. But you’re not driving right now.”
For once in her life, she was too exhausted to argue, so she nodded and followed him to his nondescript sedan. The interior was clean, cool, unwelcoming—just like the man.
She gave him directions to the apartment she rented, one half of an older house that had been converted into duplexes. The night sounds and lights of Savannah passed by in a blur. Blues music floated from Emmet Park where locals often gathered to jam, the rumble of traffic and Saturday-night partygoers and tourists flooding River Street, reminding her that, although she was grieving, life went on.
Down the street, two lovers walked hand in hand, enjoying the moonlight. Another couple laughed as they strolled with their baby.
She fumbled with her keys and climbed out, ignoring Horn when he followed her onto the stoop. Her hand trembled as she inserted the key and opened the door, a well of darkness greeting her from the inside, the happy couples a reminder of a life she might never have.
Craig Horn’s gruff voice broke the quiet. “Olivia, are you going to be all right?”
The heat from the apartment felt like a sweltering oven, the bleak emptiness threatening to swallow her whole.
No, she’d never be okay again.
But she nodded anyway. Just as she started to step inside, Craig caught her arm. She glanced at his fingers where they were pressed into her bare skin, the brief contact sending a tingling up her body that stirred another kind of heat.
God, she was hurting tonight. And she was so alone.
His arms would be so strong around her. If just for the night.
For a brief moment, they simply stood there, the anguish and horror of her father’s suicide a link between them, the guilt and nature of their jobs a barrier that stood in the way.
“I’m sorry,” he finally said in a strained voice.
She swallowed, unable to reply or to force herself inside just yet. He traced his finger down her arm, over the top of her hand. Her breath caught at the tenderness. She nearly opened her fingers and laced them with his to pull him into the darkness with her, to ask him to take away the pain.
Instead, she remained still, her emotions waging a silent battle. She couldn’t get hurt if she didn’t get involved. And she couldn’t ask for help or comfort…
He suddenly released her as if he’d felt the connection and didn’t like it, either. With a grim expression, he reached inside his pocket and withdrew a business card. The Iceman had returned.
“This is my work number, and here’s my home number and cell. Call me anything.” His gaze locked with hers again, his voice husky. “I mean it, Olivia. Any time, day or night.”
She accepted the card, their fingers touching briefly, tempting her again. His masculine scent wafted toward her, teasing, erotic, eliciting images of hands and bodies touching.
But she summoned her courage and walked inside without bothering to reply. After all, they both knew that she wouldn’t call.
Olivia Thornbird couldn’t lean on anyone.
Especially Craig Horn, the man who’d gotten her father killed.
Chapter Three
The anguish in Olivia’s eyes haunted Craig while he drove to the cabin he’d rented on Skidaway Island. He’d wanted to go inside, to hold her, to kiss her, to soothe her pain.
But he couldn’t take advantage of her grief.
Then he’d be an even worse kind of bastard than he already was.
After all, he was responsible for her father’s death.
Frustrated at his weakness for the sexy woman, he opened the windows, welcoming the heat. When Devlin had first asked him to relocate to Savannah a few weeks before to investigate Nighthawk Island, he’d been grateful for the reprieve of the coast and warm sunshine. After years of living in Washington D.C., dealing with politics and the accompanying red tape, along with city traffic, noise and crime, he’d thought the job would be a picnic.
Though the scenery had changed and the pace of the southern town was much slower than the capital city, gaining access to Nighthawk Island’s secretive projects was just as difficult as infiltrating street gangs or corrupt politicians’ offices.
Exhausted, he yanked off his tie, tossed it onto the faded sofa in the den, flipped on the lamp which sprayed the room in a watery dim light, then opened the French doors. The sounds of the ocean crashing against the shore burst into the room, the high tide rising to wash away the remnants of sand castles built earlier.
The first day when he’d arrived he’d noticed the happy families vacationing, the babies in sunbonnets, the toddlers digging in the sand with big plastic shovels, the mothers chasing them to the edge of the water, the fathers tossing their kids into the waves and catching them as they squealed in delight. He’d tried to remember if his own family had ever vacationed like that, spending lazy days strolling on the beach gathering seashells and romping.
His memories consisted of formal dinner parties, being scolded if he tracked dirt on the marble foyer, eating with the housekeeper while his parents campaigned across the state, then later across the country.
And then his sister’s death… It had torn the family even further apart. Especially the family’s refusal to talk about it. It was almost
as if his sister had never existed, as if she’d been wiped out like words on a chalk-board that had been erased. At family dinners and holidays no one even bothered to mention her name. Not that there were many family holidays or dinners…
An image of Thornbird’s face, bloody and pale with death, floated back, and he grimaced.
Although he hadn’t spoken to his dad in months, the urge to call him sent Craig to the phone, but he hesitated, his fingers lingering over the handset. His father’s parting words echoed in his mind. “You fool! You let a woman trick you into getting information on me. She nearly ruined my career.”
Just as it was his fault that Olivia’s father had died tonight.
He dropped his hand from the receiver. His father had never forgiven him.
Olivia wouldn’t, either.
Another reason some agents called him the Iceman. The end always justified the means. He’d use anyone he had to in order to get a job done. And if someone died in the process, hell, it was just a loss they had to take.
OLIVIA POURED HERSELF a glass of merlot, slipped on a nightshirt and opened the window in her bedroom, welcoming the sultry heat from the summer air while she desperately tried to banish memories of her father’s lifeless body from her mind.
The phone rang, shrill in the night, and she answered it, hoping it would be Agent Horn with some answers. Or maybe she just wanted to hear his husky voice.
God, she was desperate….
Her boss’s deep baritone boomed instead. “Olivia, it’s Carter. So sorry to hear about your father.”
She cleared her throat. “Thanks, it…was a shock.”
“What happened?”
She hesitated, wondered whether to share her suspicions yet. “I don’t know. He was depressed lately, was agitated, but he hadn’t confided any specifics.”
“Do you think his death is related to the other suicides?”
“I don’t know. I spoke to Agent Horn, but he was closemouthed.”
“He’s a cold one, all right.”
Yes. Except he hadn’t been tonight.
“You’re not giving up, though?”
“No.” She saw her father’s face in her mind. Remembered her resolve about her mother. “Definitely not.”
“Good, I know there’s a story there. I suspect it has to do with Nighthawk Island, too. If you can get it, your career will be made.”
For a fleeting second, she didn’t care about her career. “Lowell, I don’t intend to sensationalize my father’s death for a byline.”
“That’s not what I meant. But everyone is trying to get the truth about the shady research at Nighthawk Island, and you might just be the one to uncover it.”
Right.
She hung up, troubled by the conversation. If Nighthawk Island was keeping secrets about her father’s work and one of those projects was creating public danger, she had an obligation to inform the innocent citizens. She couldn’t sit back and let the truth be buried as it had been when her mother died years ago.
In fact, her father had mentioned her mother at least a half dozen times lately. He’d even claimed that someone might be listening over the phone when they’d last talked.
What if someone had been listening? Someone who hadn’t wanted him to finish researching the virus?
She swirled the red liquid in her glass, willing the rich flavor to dull the pain that coursed through her soul. All these years, she’d hoped for answers. Prayed that one day she and her father would be close again. That he’d wake up and see the daughter he’d forgotten existed. And maybe, in some way, she’d thought by making a name for herself in the paper, by getting bigger headlines, uncovering important stories, putting herself on the line, that he’d take notice.
That dream had died today, as well.
Tears spilled over her cheeks, the black abyss of her sorrow too much to bear, and she finally crawled beneath the covers of her bed, doubled over and released the pent-up emotions she’d been bottling so long. Heartrending sobs escaped her.
She would never be any closer to her father than she had been the day her mother had died. Would never fully understand the reason he’d virtually abandoned her for test tubes and research files.
But she would know the answers to the reason he’d died.
Special Agent Craig Horn’s face drifted into her mind. Sharp chiseled features. A strong jawbone. Black hair that framed a face that had seen hard times. Eyes as gray as a granite sky or the fog that enveloped the island after a storm.
His voice, his expression, his manner—it had always seemed so cold. Distant.
The Iceman. She’d heard the rumors about the other agents thinking he was nothing but a tomb, devoid of emotion.
And she’d understood why.
Yet today, his hand had been gentle when he’d brushed hers. So gentle she’d ached for more. For him to stroke her face, caress her body, touch his lips to hers. Give her comfort in the heat of this sorrowful night.
She hated herself for wanting him.
Another sob erupted from deep inside her throat, and she gave in to it. She was alone. No one would hear. No one would know how weak she really was.
But tomorrow, she’d pull herself together. She’d comb every inch of CIRP, pester Craig Horn and Ian Hall to death, even sneak onto Nighthawk Island if she had to. But she’d find out the truth.
And no one, not the Savannah police or the FBI or Craig Horn, the Iceman, would make her change her mind.
REGARDLESS OF THE LATE HOUR, when Agent Devlin showed up at Craig’s door, they spread the files on the Savannah Suicides on the wooden desk and studied the information collected so far.
Devlin read aloud, “The first victim: Damon Byrd. Twenty-seven. A local banker. Sing. Lived alone. Had a girlfriend named Tia. She claimed they broke up three weeks before the man died.”
Craig tapped his pen on the desk, then picked up where Devlin had left off. “Tia said her boyfriend had been exhibiting erratic behavior the last few weeks, had been temperamental, had become physically violent. Co-workers corroborated her story. Normally an easygoing, quiet man who got along with everyone, no one had any clue as to what had caused the change in the man’s behavior. Two days before he died, his boss had ordered him to see a psychiatrist. He’d also given him two weeks leave to deal with his issues. If he didn’t, he’d be fired.”
“Break up with girlfriend. Job problems,” Devlin summarized. “That might lead to suicide. But what caused the behavior change?”
Craig frowned. “Money problems, maybe?” He searched the reports and found financial statements, quickly skimming aloud the man’s net worth, debt and recent credit card statements, but found no significant financial problems.
“Interesting,” Devlin said. “If anything, Damon Byrd was a prime example of solid investments with a sizable savings account and a decent stock portfolio, although his cumulative worth wasn’t significant enough to warrant murder.”
“And all signs point to suicide,” Craig said. “According to the medical examiner’s report, Byrd shot himself in the head at close range with a .38 which had been registered in his name. He’d purchased it a few weeks before.” Craig skimmed further. “Do you think it’s possible the victims belonged to some kind of cult?”
“One that made a suicide pact?” Devlin asked.
Craig nodded.
“I’ll put someone on that angle,” Devlin said, “although there’s no references to either one of them joining any kind of religious or activist type group.”
“Maybe those lab results will help pinpoint the nature of this virus,” Craig said. “Thornbird was probably waiting on those reports as well.”
“There has to be some connection we’re missing.” Devlin scratched his chin. “Victim two. Emmett Grayson, forty years old. Married. Two kids in high school. Worked as a garage mechanic.”
Craig twisted his mouth in thought. “So far, no similarities.”
“Except that his wife, neighbors and co-workers all
said his behavior had changed. He seemed angry all the time, had even threatened to hit his son, had slammed his fist through a window at the garage when a disgruntled client accused him of overcharging for services.”
“The erratic behavior change,” Craig said. “It has to be a result of the virus. Maybe it’s spreading through some kind of chemical spill that was absorbed in the water or land,” Craig said.
“Water samples have come back clean.” Devlin shuffled the papers. “Still waiting on the results of the soil samples.”
“There’s another possibility we have to consider,” Devlin said. “The victims might have been targets.”
“Ypurposely infected them?” Craig scrubbed a hand over his day’s growth of beard stubble. “What’s the motive?”
“I’m not sure. Thornbird could have been killed to stop the research. As far as a connection, the two vics in Europe were also scientists, but the first two victims here weren’t, so I don’t see a connection between them.” Devlin gathered his notes. “I’m leaving for Germany in the morning to conference with the agents there. You’re in charge here.”
Craig accessed the Internet when Devlin left, then checked for stories with Olivia’s byline. She’d penned a piece about the original director of CIRP who’d died after conducting unethical experiments and trying to sell research to a foreign government. And she’d covered the end of the Savannah serial killings and the attack on Claire Kos.
But so had the other papers, and her piece hadn’t revealed details not also covered in the other papers.
Outside, the tide had begun to break, the resounding echo of the waves fading to a soft lull. Mosquitoes buzzed at the window, a muggy breeze bringing the odor of fish and salt water. His mind shifted back to the families on the beach earlier, and he walked back to the open French doors. The soft halo of the moon bathed the sand, and a lone couple strolled hand in hand along the edge of the water, their soft laughter tinkling in the night.
Olivia Thornbird’s face flashed into his mind. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to forget that he was a trained agent, a man who was supposed to live without feelings, a man who’d spent time overseas in secret military missions that he’d never discuss with anyone. A man who refused to get involved with a woman because emotions interfered with his job.
