She had an uneasy notion that something would be different if she had heard those words.
Trying to think about that made her head pound even more violently and the sick dizziness increase, however, so she quickly gave it up and began to make her way very cautiously back to the lounge.
Jeez, the place really was deserted, she realized, hearing only an occasional ringing phone and muted voices from the bull pen at the front of the building.
Samantha hesitated in the doorway of the lounge for a moment, trying once again to grasp the source of her uneasiness, then gave it up and went to lie down on the couch.
The property Wyatt had sold Andrew Gilbert was remote, but it was nowhere near as troublesome to reach as the places they had been investigating the last couple of weeks. In fact, a decent dirt road led from the highway practically to the front door of the small, old farmhouse.
Not that the cops took that route all the way. Instead, they stopped all their vehicles more than a mile and a half from the house and approached on foot, spreading out to cautiously surround the house and barn.
It was a chilly day, and smoke rising from the house’s chimney indicated someone was home.
Wyatt, crouched near Lucas as they sheltered behind a granite outcropping and peered down at the house and barn about fifty yards away, said quietly, “That old house has no heat except for the fireplace, not unless he had something more modern installed.”
Lucas nodded, but said, “I want to stay put for a few minutes and watch. Glen”—he looked over his shoulder to see the young deputy nearby—“can you work your way around and find out if that barn has a back entrance? And see if it looks like an ATV’s been moving in and out recently?”
“You’ve got it.”
“Is your boss’s warning bothering you?” Wyatt asked.
All the radios had been silenced, but they had thankfully discovered that their cells worked at least intermittently up here, and Lucas had taken the call from Bishop about half an hour before.
“I take any warning seriously,” Lucas replied, not adding that what bothered him most was Bishop’s brief confession that at least two other agents had been working in the background for the past couple of weeks. Not that Lucas objected to their presence—though he wasn’t the first SCU agent to wish his boss wasn’t quite so secretive about some things.
What made him uneasy was the nagging certainty that other things also had been going on all around him without his awareness. Maybe too many things.
He had never been able to develop the enhanced senses that other SCU members called their “spider sense,” because, according to Bishop, his concentration shut out rather than focused on external stimuli. And for the first time, Lucas began to seriously question whether Samantha was right in pushing him to tap into his own emotions in order to use his abilities more effectively.
To reach outside himself, let his guards down—no matter how vulnerable and out-of-control it made him feel.
“Look,” Wyatt breathed suddenly.
Down below, a man emerged from the old house and started across the half acre or so to the barn. Halfway there, he stopped and pulled a ringing cell phone off its clip on his belt.
Lucas frowned and murmured, “Why do I get the feeling this is not good?”
Binoculars pressed to his eyes, Wyatt said, “He looks pleased. Now he’s . . . upset, looks like.”
Even without binoculars, Lucas could see Andrew Gilbert looking around warily, and he hoped silently that all the deputies were well hidden and quiet.
“Somebody’s warning him,” Lucas realized.
“Who?” Wyatt demanded.
“I don’t know.”
“You said he was working alone.”
Lucas barely hesitated. “I still think so. He wouldn’t trust a partner. Not him.”
Gilbert hurried toward the barn, still talking into his phone, then returned it to his belt as he opened the walk-in door and disappeared into the building.
Lucas glanced at his watch and quickly told Wyatt, “Pass the word to the other group leaders that we’ll move in two minutes, at three twenty-two exactly. In the pattern discussed.”
Wyatt grabbed his cell phone.
Glen appeared then to quickly report to Lucas, “There is a rear entrance to the barn, and it’s well hidden from neighbors. Takes an old cattle trail up into the mountains. And it’s been used a lot recently. I passed Jaylene on the way, and her group is moving to increase coverage on that side of the barn. She said to tell you he won’t get past them.”
“Good enough,” Lucas said. “Especially with two of the sharpshooters with her. Glen, you’re with us. We’re going in the front—and we’re not declaring ourselves until we’re inside.”
“Hope there’s some cover in there,” Wyatt muttered, but not as if the question bothered him too much.
Remembering Samantha’s vision, Lucas hoped that what she had seen was as literal as her visions usually were. He checked his watch, then signaled the others and began moving swiftly but silently down the slope toward the barn.
As he neared the building, Lucas could hear faint sounds from inside and guessed that Gilbert was gassing up his vehicle in order to leave, probably from small gas cans that could have been inconspicuously brought up here. And luckily for those surrounding the barn, a Hummer did not have a small tank.
When they reached the door, Lucas gently turned the old piece of wood being used as a bar and then, without hesitating, pushed the door open and charged inside, his weapon held at the ready.
There was, luckily, cover in the form of numerous hay bales stacked just inside of and to one side of the door, presumably ready to be moved to block the view of anyone looking curiously into the building. Lucas, Wyatt, and Glen tumbled behind the hay bales and took up firing positions, with Lucas shouting, “Freeze, Gilbert! FBI!”
Standing in the open door of his Hummer and turned facing the rear of the vehicle and the cops, Gilbert did freeze. For just an instant. But then a snarl twisted his lips, and he reached toward his vehicle.
None of the cops hesitated.
Three shots rang out, even as his hand jerked up, the pistol falling from it. He was slammed back against the vehicle’s door, his pale shirt and jacket shining wetly with spreading stains of blood.
Lucas came out from behind the hay bales and moved toward him, weapon still ready, and he was only a few feet away when Gilbert coughed, blood sputtering from his mouth, then slid down the open door until he was sitting on the ground.
As Lucas stood over him, Gilbert looked him straight in the eye, and with a strange, fixed grin and last, bloody gasp, muttered, “Checkmate.”
Wyatt, joining Lucas in time to hear that, grunted, “At least the bastard knew you beat him.”
“Did he?” Instead of triumph or even satisfaction, Lucas merely felt a vague uneasiness. He bent down to get Gilbert’s gun and holstered his own, adding, “We need to search here and at the house. All we really have tying him to the kidnappings and murders is circumstantial evidence, and precious little of that.”
“We both know he’s our guy.”
“Yeah. But there has to be evidence tying him to the crimes, and we need to find it.”
“How about this?” Glen asked from the rear of the Hummer.
He had opened the hatch to check the cargo area and now stared inside the ATV.
The two other men joined him, and Lucas was barely aware of other cops coming into the barn as he gazed into the cargo area.
Lying on its back in the area that was just large enough to hold it was an obviously hand-built, high-backed wooden chair. It looked fairly ordinary, except for two odd brackets on either side of the high back, almost at the top.
There was a string-tied bundle of canvas wedged beneath the back; when Lucas pulled it out and untied it, two razor-sharp knives were revealed.
After a long moment, Lucas used a corner of the canvas to hold the knife, fitting it neatly into one of the chai
r’s brackets. Pointing inward.
“The victims who were exsanguinated,” he murmured. “He tied them in this chair with some restraint to keep their heads from moving forward and positioned the knives to just touch the jugular veins. Sooner or later, the victims’ strength would give out, and their heads would fall to one side or the other. Cutting their own throats.”
Grimly, Wyatt said, “I’d call this evidence. The goddamned thing still has bloodstains on it.”
Lucas turned away, feeling unexpectedly sickened. “I guess this is what happens to a man who has his wife and child stolen from him.”
“No,” Wyatt said flatly, “it’s what happens to a man who was twisted to begin with. Grief doesn’t create monsters, Luke, we both know that. Not grief alone, not just that.”
He did know, but it didn’t make it any easier.
Jaylene hurried up just then, frowning. “Luke, Quentin just called. He’s at the sheriff’s department. He went there to keep an eye on Sam, the way he and Galen have apparently been doing for some time. But they were distracted by something weird going on at the carnival, and by the time Quentin could get to the sheriff’s department . . . Luke, Sam’s missing.”
Lucas stared at her, everything inside him going cold. “Somebody warned Gilbert,” he murmured. “Somebody told him we were coming. Somebody else. Oh, Christ. That’s what he meant. I didn’t make the last move. He did.”
Trying to fight her way out of sleep, Samantha had a fuzzy memory she wasn’t sure she trusted. Between the pounding headache, dizziness, and nausea, she had just wanted to lie on the couch in the lounge with her eyes closed for as long as possible. She supposed she had fallen asleep, except for this vague, unsettling memory of not being able to breathe because something was covering her nose and mouth.
Now she felt even more queasy, her head was still pounding, and it was amazingly difficult to pry her eyelids open. It took several tries, and all the while she was wondering irritably what was causing that hissing sound.
At first, she didn’t understand what she saw.
Wood?
Wood, over her, no more than eight or ten inches above her face. Now, why on earth—
Then a cold realization crawled into her mind, and she heard her breath catch.
She reached up slowly and pushed against the wood.
Nothing.
It didn’t give so much as a fraction of an inch.
Samantha pushed harder, desperation lending her strength, and still the solid wood failed to budge.
She lifted her head as far as she was able and looked down toward her feet. A battery light was placed there, providing just enough illumination for her to see.
To see the canister of oxygen lying beside her and hissing softly as it slowly leaked its contents.
To see the dimensions of the box in which she lay.
To understand that this was her coffin.
Even as cold terror washed over her and panic fought for a foothold in her mind, Samantha remembered her vision, remembered seeing Gilbert say something at the last, something she hadn’t been able to hear.
She thought she knew, now, what he had said.
“Checkmate.”
Even as the cops took him down, Andrew Gilbert had been sure he had won the game. Because the final move had been his. Somehow, he had done this.
He had buried her alive.
Asphyxiation.
Lucas couldn’t stop thinking about it. It had been Gilbert’s other preferred method of remote murder. And Samantha had said herself that the easiest way to asphyxiate someone over a period of time would be to bury them alive.
Oh, Christ, Sam . . .
Jaylene and Wyatt were supervising the rapid search of the house and barn, both hoping that something they discovered would point them in the direction of Samantha.
Back at the sheriff’s department, Quentin and Galen were attempting to do the same thing, asking questions and trying to find some shred of information, assisted by the deputies who had returned there.
Lucas stood outside the barn, vaguely aware of people rushing all about him with driven efficiency. He stared toward the other end of the valley, blindly, the coldness in the pit of his stomach spreading outward until even his fingers felt frozen.
“Luke.”
He didn’t want to look at Jaylene’s face, didn’t want to hear what he knew his partner was going to tell him.
“Luke—”
Wyatt joined them, his face grim. “One of my junior deputies is missing. Caitlin is saying she saw him heading back toward the lounge where Sam was resting, and says she never saw him after that. He took a cruiser out, but he’s not answering his radio.”
“He wouldn’t have had a partner,” Lucas murmured. “He wouldn’t have trusted a partner. I’m sure of that.”
“Yeah, well, here’s the thing,” Wyatt said, even more grim. “On a hunch, one of your people just ran the prints we had on file for this deputy, who was calling himself Brady Miller and had absolutely no criminal record under that name. Only that isn’t his name. Turns out his name is Brady Gilbert. He’s Andrew Gilbert’s son.”
“Why were his prints on file?” Jaylene asked.
“Petty theft, out in L.A.,” Wyatt told her. “Couple years ago. He was barely old enough to avoid the juvenile system and got a slap on the wrist due to Daddy’s money. After that, not a peep from him. Until now. I’m guessing Daddy’s money also paid for his nice new name and pristine background.”
Jaylene looked at her partner. “He would have trusted his son, wouldn’t he, Luke? To do what he couldn’t?”
“Maybe,” Lucas said, feeling even colder. Some part of him had hoped against hope that Sam had merely left the sheriff’s department, maybe to return to her motel or the carnival. Had hoped that it had simply not been possible for Gilbert to get his hands on her. And it hadn’t.
But . . . he enjoyed killing by remote control.
He would have viewed his son as an extension of himself, particularly if he felt secure in his domination. So that tracked, that made sense.
And with the sheriff’s department nearly deserted, how difficult would it have been for a junior deputy to incapacitate an already fragile Samantha, perhaps with chloroform, carry her down to the garage, and drive away with her?
The box had already been prepared and ready for what Gilbert and his son had waited for—the chance to grab Sam. All Gilbert’s son had to do was put her in it, cover it over with dirt, and leave.
Leave her alone there. Buried alive.
“I’ve got an APB out on Brady,” Wyatt was saying. “And your boss made it federal as well, on the grounds that he was undoubtedly involved in the kidnappings.”
Lucas heard himself ask, “Gilbert’s death—is that out yet?”
Wyatt swore and said, “It went over the police radio that we got him. I’m sorry as hell, Luke, but . . . if Brady was still in his cruiser, then he knows.”
“And has no reason to stick around,” Lucas said. “They would have been prepared to run. Another car, maybe an SUV or ATV, probably already packed. He’d ditch the cruiser immediately and follow his father’s plans. He’s gone.”
Jaylene took her partner’s arm and turned him bodily to face her, an action so unexpected that Lucas found himself staring at her, seeing her.
“Which means you have to find Sam,” she said flatly.
“Jay, you know I can’t just—”
“We’re not going to find anything here, Luke. You know that. Quentin and Galen won’t find anything helpful back at the sheriff’s department. And we’re running out of time, Sam’s running out of time.”
“Goddammit, don’t you think I want to find her?”
“I don’t know, do you?”
He stared at her, literally feeling whatever color he had left draining from his face.
Jaylene pressed on, her voice insistent. “I don’t know what it’ll cost you, I really don’t. I don’t know what this block inside you is
. But I know Sam was right in thinking you’ll never be able to use your abilities as they were intended to be used until you get past it. And if this won’t do it, if saving the life of the woman you love isn’t enough . . . then you’ll spend the rest of your life as a half-functioning psychic who can only tap into your abilities when you’re too tired to think. Is that what you really want, Luke? To be half alive? To lose Sam? Is avoiding your own pain really worth that price?”
No.
“No,” he said slowly. “It isn’t.”
“Then open up and reach for Sam,” Jaylene said, releasing his arm. “Find her, Luke. Before it’s too late for both of you.”
Lucas wasn’t even sure how to do this with deliberation, not with anger or out of exhaustion but to clearly and consciously tap into his abilities. He had never been able to do that.
But . . .
All he knew was that he needed Samantha and that he was not going to lose someone else he loved. He had to find her, had to help her. . . .
And a wave of icy black terror swept over him with such force that it dropped him, literally, to his knees.
Samantha couldn’t even pretend that she wasn’t terrified. She didn’t think she’d ever been so frightened in her life. Even though . . .
Memories of her stepfather and that tiny closet wouldn’t leave her alone, tortured her. She heard herself whimpering out loud, like that brutalized, terrified child had whimpered when, finally, late in the night, he had gone away and she could allow her terror to find its voice.
When he was angriest he had left her in there, for hours and hours, sometimes for days, loudly forbidding her mother from so much as talking to her. The house would get quiet, still. Dark. And she felt so utterly alone.
She had dreaded that “punishment” worse than anything else he had inflicted on her. Because she had been convinced that one day he would simply not open the door.
And she would die in there, terrified, hurting, and so alone there weren’t even words for the vast emptiness of the feeling.
Now Samantha fought the panic, or tried to, but those memories, those old feelings of helpless terror, kept swamping her. She heard herself sobbing, felt her hands begin to ache as she pounded on the rough wood above her.