Текст книги "What Lies Behind"

Автор книги: J. T. Ellison

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Chapter 55

FLETCHER LEFT TO talk to Cattafi’s family, and Sam drifted for a bit until Xander told her he was going to grab some food, and left her to sleep it off. Sam was comfortably numb from the drugs, but dreamed for what seemed like hours, of dark caves and monsters with huge, gnashing teeth that pinned her down and shoved sharp sticks in her side.

She awakened to full daylight. She squinted at the sun coming in from the blinds, then realized a familiar face was sitting in the chair previously occupied by Xander. It took her a minute to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. The chair’s occupant was tall, blonde, with one gray eye darker than the other.

“Taylor!” she shouted, jerking her best friend’s attention from the novel in her lap.

Taylor Jackson jumped up from her chair and started to throw her arms around Sam, but stopped when Sam hissed in a breath.

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. I hit your bullet wound.”

“Words I never thought to hear coming out of your mouth. Getting shot is your job.”

Taylor grinned, and Sam felt immediately better. “No kidding. Hurts, doesn’t it?”

Sam nodded. “Like hell.”

Taylor contented herself with sitting on the side of the bed, holding Sam’s good hand tight in hers, a huge grin on her lovely face.

“I came as soon as I heard. Baldwin called me when he landed. He showed up to your house, found two dead men in the kitchen and was just in time to hear the radio call that you’d been hit.” The smile faded, and she touched Sam’s cheek. “You scared me, Sammy. Don’t do that again.”

Sam laughed, shakily. “Scared myself, too. I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too, sugar.” Sam could see Taylor was wrestling with her emotions. Never one to cry over spilled milk, her best friend, but she wasn’t good when it came to her people getting hurt.

But there was something else there, too, and Sam knew Taylor well enough to know when she was holding something back.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

The gray eyes crinkled in amusement. “Never could put one past you, could I?”

Sam shook her head. “No, you can’t. Spill.”

Taylor took a small breath. “Okay. It’s about the Hometown Killer.”

It took Sam’s muzzy head a moment to place the name. “Right. The serial killer who isn’t a serial killer, except Baldwin and I think he is. Baldwin told me there was DNA at the crime scene in Denver. That’s great news, right?”

“Absolutely. There’s only one problem. Remember the man Lieutenant Fletcher was investigating, the one who drove the gray Honda near the Cattafi crime scene?”

Sam felt her stomach start to sink, a pit forming that made her breath come faster. “Yes. It all happened really quickly, but if I remember correctly, one of Fletcher’s guys found the real owner dead, and we thought he was a part of the plot to contaminate the water system. When we went into the aquifer, they were doing a sketch of him to release to the public, find out who he was.”

“That’s right. Metro’s crime scene collected foreign DNA from Toliver Pryce’s house. There was a match in CODIS to the DNA at the crime scene in Denver.”

Sam felt the alarm begin to build in her system. “Wait. What are you saying? The Hometown Killer was a part of this?”

Taylor shook her head, her blond hair shurring past her shoulders and getting in her face. She tucked a strand behind her ear. “He wasn’t involved in the terror plot.”

“Then why...” She broke off. It was a stupid question. Why else would a serial killer be circling her block? “He knows who I am,” she said flatly.

Taylor nodded. “We’re afraid he might, honey. Don’t worry, though. Nothing is going to happen to you. We’re going to find this son of a bitch and put him behind bars where he can’t hurt anyone ever again.”

Taylor brushed a hand across Sam’s cheek, and she realized her best friend had just lied to her.

Chapter 56

BEFORE SHE WAS discharged from the hospital, Sam went to visit Thomas Cattafi.

He was on the third floor, in a private room, still hooked into the ventilator, but improving daily. She’d visited before, slowly wheeling herself down to the elevator and onto his ward, but he’d been asleep, and she hadn’t the heart to wake him.

But today, his mother was in the room with him, and spied Sam out in the hall. She was small and blonde and compact, and incredibly cheerful. She came out and shook Sam’s hand. “We’ve seen you on the news, Dr. Owens. Thank you for finding the horrible woman who did this to our Tommy.”

Maureen Heedles had been paraded all over the local and national news, and it was up for debate who was actually going to prosecute, the US government or the British. Sam bet they’d both get a turn—the woman wouldn’t see freedom again. The same for Riley Dixon, though his story was more difficult to discern. He was in federal custody at an undisclosed location, and Sam had a feeling he’d be disappeared from his world completely soon enough.

“I didn’t do much, ma’am, but thank you. Is Tommy up for a visitor? I’d like to talk to him.”

Mrs. Cattafi nodded. “He’s been writing down everything he can to help the police. Did you know, he’s discovered a real vaccine for this terrible virus he and Dr. Bromley were working on, one that will work on other hemorrhagic fevers? I always thought he’d cure cancer, and here he goes and saves a continent.”

Sam smiled at the woman. “He’s a brilliant boy. I’m just so glad we were able to save him.”

And I wish to hell we could have saved Amanda.

Cattafi’s face lit up when he saw her. So he recognized her from the news, too. She didn’t know what they’d been saying. She was avoiding the television like the plague, instead catching up with Taylor and Xander and getting reports from Fletcher, who, along with Lonnie Hart, had been put back on active duty with no stain on their records.

Fletcher had filled her in on Cattafi’s research. In trying to find a cure for the engineered superbug, he and Bromley had found the key to a comprehensive broad-spectrum vaccine that could inoculate people against the disease. Cattafi had found that decaying stem cells, from people already deceased, mixed with the blood of those who’d survived, could be manipulated to kill the mutated superbug. He was able to use this to engineer a therapeutic, killing the bug from within.

It was groundbreaking work. It was too early to know if they could use the therapeutic vaccine to create a prophylactic to vaccinate against all hemorrhagic fevers, but their vaccine could halt the spread of the superbug if it were released into the world, removing the dire threat from the terrorist organization known as the Pyramid.

Sam wouldn’t be surprised to see the kid nominated for a Nobel Prize, alongside his deceased mentor.

Cattafi was pale, but wrote, Hi, on his whiteboard.

“Hi to you, too, Tommy. I just wanted to thank you for pulling through. You’re going to save a lot of lives, kiddo.”

He smiled sadly, wrote, Couldn’t have done it without Bromley. He was a genius.

“He was. His death is a great loss, as is Amanda’s. You did all you could, I know that. She’d want you to move on, to follow this dream you’ve created.”

He nodded, tears in his eyes.

“I talked to the dean, Tommy. He is happy to reinstate you immediately. As soon as you’re up and around, would you like to come back to school?”

He grinned and wrote, Yes! She smiled, smoothed down his hair. “Good. I want to be there the day you take your oath. Remember to invite me, okay?”

Always, Dr. Owens.

He was tiring, so she gave him a smile, squeezed his hand. “You’re a rock star, kiddo. Get better.”

Back in her room, she eased herself onto the bed and stretched, happy to feel the stitches pulling. They were knitting, her wounds were healing; she’d be out of here shortly. And then she’d have to deal with the Hometown Killer, and finding a new home, and getting back to her classes and a million other things.

But for now, she rested. She was safe here, with Xander and Fletcher and Taylor and Baldwin. Nothing would touch her.

* * *

They discharged Sam on Tuesday, exactly a week after the craziness began, when Amanda Souleyret was killed and Cattafi stabbed. It had been a bloody day with too many lives lost, and Sam prayed nothing like that would ever find her again.

She and Xander drove Taylor and Baldwin to the airport. They were heading back to Nashville, and Baldwin was going to throw all his resources into the Hometown Killer. Not only did they now have DNA, they had a visual on the man, and a description provided by a very smart, very observant cop. Baldwin was certain they would nail the bastard quickly, but Sam wasn’t so sure. Someone who’d managed to kill for years unnoticed wasn’t going to just walk into their arms.

But she didn’t tell Baldwin that. She knew he wanted her to feel reassured. And she did, in a way. Because she knew now what she was capable of. That she could stand in the face of death and danger, and fire a gun into the darkness to save herself.

It was a new kind of strength, one she hadn’t wanted, but was grateful for.

The short drive home from the airport was a revelation– autumn had seized D.C. overnight, it seemed. The trees were a riot of colors, their street charming and quaint, leaves accumulating on the sidewalks. The scent of fires and the sharp crisp air made her long for the mountains.

The house had been professionally cleaned. She still didn’t want to stay there. She wasn’t ready. She was only renting the place, and she’d already decided to break the lease and move on. For the meantime, Xander had arranged for a quick trip for them, to go see his parents in Colorado. She could heal and enjoy the crisp fall air and turning leaves.

Her boss, Hilary, had put her on a medical leave with indeterminate dates. She encouraged her to take as much time as she needed to recover. Sam secretly thought Hilary was so enjoying being out of the administrative world and being a part of the teaching world once again that she’d like Sam to stay away longer.

Sam wasn’t in the house for five minutes before the phone began to ring. She wasn’t surprised. Between the cops, the media and their own people trying to check in, everyone wanted a piece of her. So she answered each call without bothering to look at the caller ID. This time, a familiar female voice greeted her.

“Dr. Owens? It’s Robin Souleyret.”

“How are you, Robin?”

“I’m fine. Did you see the press conference State did?”

She had—Ashleigh Cavort, facing the camera, an American flag over her right shoulder, the State Department’s to her left. Face pale and voice tumbling. She knew she was about to get slaughtered by the press, and Sam had felt bad for her. She wasn’t the one who’d done wrong here, and she was going to have to fall on her sword in public. State was desperately trying to track the members of the group called Pyramid, but they’d rabbited, just as everyone feared. Hopefully, Heedles and Dixon would be forced to share something, and the forensic examinations of the money trail would lead them to the right people. The threat still existed. Would always exist, from this group or another.

“I turned it off. I didn’t want to see the fallout.”

Robin laughed. “Smart of you. I live for the fallout.”

“So I gathered.”

“James Denon came on after. He congratulated you personally.”

“That’s lovely. He sent flowers, too. What can I do for you, Robin?”

“I wanted to thank you. You were the only one who believed in me, and it’s because of that I’m not in prison right now. You helped save Gina, you helped save us all. I wanted to let you know if you ever need me for anything, I’m a call away.”

“That’s kind.”

“I’m serious. Shit gets strange in the world today. You never know when you might need a helping hand. Don’t ever hesitate.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Didn’t you hear? I’ve been reinstated. I’m going back in the field. I’m going to find these bastards if it kills me.”

“Dare I say congratulations?” Sam asked.

Robin laughed. “You’re a brave chick, Dr. Owens. It’s been nice knowing you. Thanks for the assist.” And then she was gone, and Sam hung up the phone with a goofy smile on her face, not quite certain why.

Chapter 57

Georgetown

POOR, DELICATE LITTLE wren.

Shot in the side, face splashed on the news, on leave from her job.

They were onto him now. He needed to be very careful. He’d made the long drive just to watch her come home. Wondered what she felt knowing the ghosts of the men who’d died in her house were still watching.

He wished she spent more time on the computer; he would be able to see into her head, see her thoughts. But she was one of the old-school ones. She didn’t like to text, didn’t have social media accounts, rarely used her email. She was self-reliant and strong and didn’t need the approval of others to function.

It made her more intoxicating than the rest.

Her phone was the only way in. He knew she used it; old-fashioned girl that she was, she actually called her friends when she wanted to speak with them. One had come to visit, and she was intriguing in her own right—tall and rangy and blonde as a sunbeam. She carried a gun like she’d been born with it, and he wondered what she smelled like.

Focus, cher. You have work to do.

He’d have to spoof the phone, which meant breaking into the house. The man wasn’t the problem, it was the dog. The glossy, healthy German shepherd clearly worshipped the woman and wouldn’t hesitate for a moment to sink his teeth into the first threat that came along.

He’d have to wait for the man to take the dog on a run, and her to take a shower.

It would happen, if he were patient.

Just be patient.

Oh, I will.

Said the spider to the fly.

Epilogue

Two weeks later

Washington, D.C.

SAM WALKED INTO the small living room and collapsed gently onto the dusty couch. The flight back from Colorado had been delayed, and it was past midnight. She was tired and ready for bed. She wanted to sleep for a week. Preferably with Xander by her side.

Thor clambered onto the couch with her, put his head on her knee. He was tired, too.

Xander followed her into the living room, dropped their bags on the floor. Fletcher had rented the apartment for them while they were in Colorado. They were staying here until they found a new place.

“Come on, sleepyhead. Let’s go to bed,” Xander said.

She smiled at him, patted the seat next to her. “Come here.”

He grinned and joined her, plopping down with a groan. “Oh, that does feel good, doesn’t it?”

She swung her legs up into his lap. “It does. It’s good to be back. I didn’t think I’d miss D.C., but I did.”

“Well, we have the whole weekend in front of us. With nothing planned, either. We can wander the streets, take in the sights. Or spend the weekend in bed, if you prefer.”

It was her turn to grin. “I think that sounds like a fine idea. I don’t think I can keep my eyes open for another minute. But I have no intention of sleeping, just in case you were wondering.”

She batted her lashes, and he laughed. She leaned up and touched his cheek, and his lips found hers, hungry and warm. She let the tide of relief flood through her, thought back to the moment three weeks earlier when she’d seen him on television, in cuffs and being hauled off to parts unknown. She’d had a wild dose of terror course through her then, a sudden fear that she’d never see him again. Thank God, she whispered mentally, adjusting her body to fit his better, deepening the kiss. Thank God he’s all right, and here.

He released her too soon, stood her up, wrapped his arms around her. She melted into him, feeling his strength, enjoying the sense of protection being in his arms always afforded her.

Then he stiffened and pulled away. She felt bereft; the loss of him was so intense as to be painful. Opened her eyes to see concern etched on his face.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

He bent down to the coffee table. It was an ugly faux wood, but she didn’t care. They wouldn’t be here long.

“What is this?”

He didn’t touch it, just pointed. Sam saw what she’d missed before—a small red rose lying on top of a folded piece of paper, her name written in spiky black letters on the paper.

Worry flooded her. “I don’t know.”

“Son of a bitch.” Xander used a knuckle to knock the rose away and open the paper. He read the words, then let the note close.

“Come away,” he said, his voice hard as glass. “Right now. We’re leaving.”

“What does it say, Xander?” She heard the fear in her voice, the quavering tone. Be strong, damn you. Don’t be afraid.

But she was. She was so afraid.

Xander steered her into the kitchen, picked up the phone. She heard him vaguely, through a fog, the pounding of her heart too loud to allow rational thought.

“Baldwin. It’s Xander. He was here. He was in the apartment Fletcher rented for us. We’re fine, but the bastard was here. He left a note.”

Xander gave her a concerned look, listening to Baldwin. She took a deep breath and started back toward the living room.

“Sam, wait. Don’t—”

But she was already there. She grabbed the note and opened it, vaguely recognized the handwriting from somewhere. Reminded herself to breathe, that she was safe. For now.

It was from him. There was no mistaking the message. Or its intent.

Come find me, Samantha. I’m waiting.

* * * * *

Keep reading for an excerpt from WHEN SHADOWS FALL by J.T. Ellison.

Acknowledgments

I owe a debt of gratitude to so many people for their kind help, expertise, good humor and support during the writing of this book:

Acclaimed virologist Eric Mossel, Ph.D., who was instrumental in helping me develop the story, lent authenticity to a variety of situations, and helped me find the right path between fiction and reality. He’s a mean copy editor, to boot.

Lee Mossel, for hooking me up with his son, and laughs on the golf course.

Sherrie Saint, who did a load of legwork tracking down just the right way to kill a bunch of people.

David Achord, for clarifying the finer legal points for Xander’s little situation.

Randy Ellison, for all the on-point articles, talking points and napkin sessions over margaritas. And calming the hysterics...

Catherine Coulter, for helping me see the original story wasn’t personal enough.

Anton Pogany, for even more medical expertise.

Karen Evans, for all the things.

Laura Benedict, for countless phone calls and machinations and treats in the mail.

As always, all mistakes, exaggerations or pure literary license are mine, and mine alone.

Several wonderful people bid on character names for charity (the Brenda Novak Diabetes Auction) and on my Facebook fan page. Robin Souleyret, Thomas Cattafi and Maureen Heedles, you are all fabulous. So are you, fellow Langley-ite Emma Cattafi, for getting this for your BIL. It was my honor to capture your names for this work. Thank you!

Thanks to the usual suspects, without whom I’d never get anything accomplished: my lovely agent, Scott Miller; my wonderful editor, Nicole Brebner (thank you twice); everyone at Trident Media Group and MIRA Books who work tirelessly behind the scenes to get these books into readers’ hands; my hoodoo guru Paige Crutcher; my soul sister Ariel Lawhon; my sister from another mister Jennifer Brooks; my wine and chat for five (uh—fifty) Erica Spindler; the indomitable Alex Kava; Deb Carlin, for so much; my dear productivity buddy Jeff Abbott; the ever-fabulous and funny Andy Levy; the one and only Joan Huston, grammar goddess extraordinaire; Blake Leyers, for edits and manis and pedis and lunches and being a fellow tall chick! The Wild Women—River Jordan, Susan Gregg Gilmore, Kerry Madden, Lisa Patton—for a weekend to remember forever; Sheldon, my UPS guy, and Chris, my postman, who are bloody patient with all the packages; Anna Benjamin, for the best care package evah!; my incredible friends on Facebook and Twitter, who laugh at my jokes even when they aren’t funny; the indie booksellers and librarians who’ve been working so hard to get me into readers’ hands—couldn’t do it without you!; and Writerspace.com—Cissy, Susan, Celeste and Dee—ladies, you’re the bees knees!

Special thanks as always to my awesome parents, for whom there are never enough adjectives, and my bros.

No book is ever truly finished without thanking (yes, again!) my Randy. Je t’aime, je t’adore, et je vous aime aussi. Thanks for Paris, bunny.

Finally, this book is dedicated to the memory of a dear friend who passed away this year. John Seigenthaler was an extraordinary man who gave so much to this world, to the Nashville literary community and, of course, to me personally. He is dreadfully missed.