The silence that fell between them wasn’t particularly soothing, and John didn’t have to be psychic to feel that. There was too much left unsaid, and yet he knew they were at a turning point, a crossroads come upon so suddenly that neither one of them had been prepared for it.
“Maggie—”
“We really don’t have to talk about it,” she said. “About any of it. Too much has happened for either of us to be sure of anything right now.”
This time, he didn’t hesitate. “I’m sure of what I feel. I’m just not sure of what you feel. I mean—” He shook his head as she looked at him, wryly aware that he was as awkward as a teenager facing, for the first time, the girl who was so desperately important to him that every word spoken took on terrifying significance. “Maggie, you feel so much of other people’s emotions, other people’s pain. I can’t help wondering if you even have the energy left to . . . feel for yourself.”
She was obviously surprised, a little puzzled, even uneasy. But she didn’t duck the question. “Sometimes it’s easier to be alone.”
“Because there’s been too much of other people’s feelings? Because when you’re alone, you can find peace?”
“Is that so wrong?”
John hesitated, then reached over and brushed back a strand of her hair, allowing his hand to linger against her face. “God knows I can’t blame you for making that choice. But it’s an unbalanced existence. You said it yourself, Maggie—life is about balance. How can you go on giving and giving of yourself, your energy and compassion—and empathy—without at least sometimes taking something for yourself?”
“Because it isn’t that simple.” Her eyes were steady, the curve of her mouth a little vulnerable.
“I’d ask you to give as well as take.”
She half nodded, agreement but also an obvious pleasure in the touch of his hand against her skin as she moved. “People do. It’s only fair. I just . . . don’t know how much I can give right now.”
“And if I said whatever you can give will be enough?”
“I don’t think I’d believe you.” She drew a breath. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. This wouldn’t even be happening if you hadn’t been shaken up by today.”
“The hell it wouldn’t.” John didn’t give her a chance to argue, just pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
Maggie had told herself almost from the day she had met John that if this happened she’d be able to stop it. Really easy—just say no. Tell him she didn’t want this, didn’t want him. Tell him she wasn’t the slightest bit interested in acquiring a lover, thank you very much. Even if it wasn’t love, even if it was only desire. Passion was very clearly and very certainly something she didn’t need in her life.
She had been very sure of that.
She had been very wrong.
To her astonishment, it was about warmth as much as it was passion, about the simple, necessary human lifeline that was the touch of flesh on flesh. Her body, racked so often and so long with the pain of others,
craved the healing warmth of him, the pleasure he created just by touching her. And her weary spirit longed for the closeness, the intimacy he offered.
There was no pain in this, no fear, no darkness. There was nothing but elation and the certain knowledge that some things really were meant to happen.
Without knowing if she had moved or he had moved her, she found herself on his lap, her knees on either side of his hips. She felt his hair, silky between her fingers, felt his mouth hungry and insistent on hers. She felt his hands slip under her sweater and touch her skin, felt them slide upward slowly until they could close over her breasts, and heard a little sound escape her, so eager it almost embarrassed her. Almost.
John drew back just far enough to look at her, his eyes darkened to emerald and so intense she couldn’t look away. “Just give what you can, Maggie,” he said roughly. “I swear I won’t hurt you.”
She touched his face with both hands, almost as if she were blind and needed her sensitive fingertips in order to see. She touched his mouth, and then her lips followed, teasing his, taking his. “I never thought you would.”
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 8
As promised, the rain grew even heavier after midnight and the wind began to whine and moan like something lost and lonely.
Maggie didn’t mind. Her lamplit bedroom was warm and tranquil—at least for the moment—and she was discovering how good it felt to lie close to someone else in an intimate and peaceful bed. It felt very good. She wanted to hold on to this, to make the moment last, and knowing it couldn’t made it all the more achingly sweet.
John shifted position slightly and rose on an elbow to look down at her. “You’re very quiet.”
She smiled. “Listening to the rain. Wishing the night could last a little longer than it will.”
“There’s that fatalism again,” he said, intentionally light.
“Sorry. Character fault, I’m afraid. But . . . the morning will come, John.”
“And then the next morning, and the one after that. Mornings don’t mean endings, Maggie.”
“Sometimes they do.”
“Not this time.” He shifted again, pulling her closer so that his forearms were beneath her shoulders and his fingers could tangle in her long, thick hair. “I don’t intend to lose you.”
Maggie responded as she had to when he kissed her, her arms going up around his neck and her mouth every bit as urgent as his. It was rather terrifying, she thought dimly, that he could have this effect on her when she had known him barely a week. Then again, sometimes a week was a lifetime, and sometimes knowledge had nothing to do with time.
There was nothing of the normal awkwardness of new lovers between them. No fumbling or uncertainty. He knew without asking what would please her, just as she knew what would please him. Yet even as Maggie knew that to glide her fingertips up his spine would elicit a shudder of need, there were also the still unfamiliar sensations of this particular body against hers, unexpectedly hard and powerful.
She knew he was a silent, intense lover, yet there was also the discovery that her voice murmuring his name had the power to affect him like an actual physical caress. And just when she was certain he couldn’t possibly make her feel more than she already had, he did.
“It’s obvious to me,” she murmured a long time later, “that you didn’t spend all your time building a business empire.”
John chuckled and drew her a bit closer to his side. “A man has to have hobbies.”
“Ah. And, naturally, you applied yourself to those hobbies with all the energy and dedication at your command.”
“Naturally.”
“Well, none of it was wasted.”
“Thank you. You’re not so bad yourself.” He hesitated only a moment. “Maggie?”
“Don’t say it, okay?” She kept her voice quiet.
He was silent, then murmured, “Because you already know.”
“Because I don’t need to hear it. Not now. Later . . . when it’s all over. Tell me then, all right?”
John didn’t answer aloud, just wrapped both his arms around her and held her, wide awake as he listened to the wind moan outside.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I should call John and Maggie,” Andy said.
“No, let them sleep.” Quentin glanced up at the big clock on the wall, then shifted restlessly on the uncomfortable couch in the hospital’s waiting room. “It’s nearly three. Besides, there’s nothing they could do.”
Andy watched him. “She’ll be all right. You heard the doctor. Stable enough for surgery, and he didn’t anticipate any complications.”
“So why’s it taking so long?” Quentin looked at the clock once again, frowning. His face was drawn, the anxiety in his eyes obvious.
“He said it could be hours, Quentin, you know that.”
“Yeah. Yeah.”
Jennifer came into the waiting room and immediately asked, “Any news?”
“Not yet,” Andy told h
er. “Still in surgery. What about Robson?”
She sat down beside him on the couch across from the one Quentin occupied. “Under restraints and sedation. He won’t be any help anytime soon, at least not verbally. But when we ran his prints, we did find out that about four years ago he was employed by one of the electronics companies in the city, a big one. They run three shifts, but I had to get the personnel manager out of bed so he could give me a list of employees working for the company at the same time. We’re comparing it to the list Kendra had put together of every person even remotely connected to the victims or the investigation.”
“So maybe this ghost he was so afraid of will turn up.”
“Maybe.” She shrugged, her gaze moving to Quentin. “He did specifically say the ghost had gotten him fired and mentioned being a programmer. And I do believe he saw somebody go into that building, somebody who was carrying something in a sack that was moving. So maybe it’ll turn out to be a worthwhile lead after all.”
Quentin stirred slightly and said, “It was a worthwhile lead. Stop blaming yourself.”
“I should have at least checked to make sure he wasn’t armed,” she responded, her voice tight. “We knew he was paranoid, jumpy as hell, and the way he was clutching that duffel I should have at least taken it away from him.”
“You couldn’t have known.”
Jennifer looked as if she wanted to continue protesting but just shook her head silently.
Quentin repeated, “You couldn’t have known. No one can be on guard all the time against the unexpected. And there were two of you there, don’t forget that. From what you told us, it was pure chance Kendra was the one who got hit.”
“He’s right,” Andy told Jennifer.
She grimaced. “That doesn’t make it easier.”
“Yeah, I know.” Andy looked back at Quentin. “Shouldn’t you report in, call your boss? We tried to keep it quiet, but you know as well as I do that by morning the media will know an FBI agent was shot while questioning a witness.”
“I’ll call it in when we know something. Where the hell’s that doctor?”
“He said he’d talk to us as soon as the surgery was finished,” Andy answered patiently.
“Yeah. Right.”
A silence fell that none of them was willing to break, and the clock quietly ticked away the minutes. It was just after three-thirty when the doctor finally came into the waiting room, tired but satisfied.
“We’re not out of the woods yet, but everything looks good,” he told them. “We were able to extract the bullet and repair the damage. She’ll have to take it easy for a while, but there should be no complications. And we have an excellent trauma therapist on staff to help her through the emotional aftereffects of having been shot.”
“Can I see her?” Quentin asked.
“Not until she comes out of recovery, and that’ll be hours yet.” He looked at all of them, adding, “My advice would be for you to get some sleep and come back later in the morning. Believe me, there’s nothing you can do here, and we’ll call if there’s any change.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” When they were alone again, Andy said reluctantly, “We should all be back at the office. The search for that Caddie is narrowing, and the lead Jenn and Kendra were following could pay off at any time.”
“I know.” Quentin shifted his shoulders as if to ease tension that refused to leave him despite the good news. “And with every hour that passes, we’re less and less likely to find Tara Jameson before he kills her. You two go on back to the station. I want to have another word with the doctor before I call Quantico and report in.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, go ahead. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
After they left him, it took Quentin less than five minutes to find the surgical recovery area and Kendra. Between the lateness of the hour and his inborn ability to slip into places unnoticed, he was able to reach her bedside without being challenged.
She was either still sedated or sleeping deeply, and he didn’t try to wake her. He just stood looking down at her for a long time, without moving, his face bleak.
“Sir? You shouldn’t be in here.” The nurse’s voice was low but authoritative.
Quentin looked at her, saw her take a half step backward, and made a conscious effort to tone down the savagery he was afraid she had seen and smile reassuringly. “Yes, I know. It’s all right. I’m leaving now.”
Hesitant, the nurse said, “She’ll be fine, sir.”
“Yes. Thank you, Nurse.” He sent a final look at Kendra, then left the room without another word.
He went directly to his rental car in the parking lot near the emergency room and started the engine but didn’t move the car. It was a long time before he reached for his cell phone and punched in Bishop’s familiar number.
Jennifer poured herself another cup of coffee, afraid to stop and try to figure out how much she’d consumed in the past couple of days. It was barely six A.M. on this cold, dreary Thursday in November, and she had enough caffeine in her system to stay awake until Christmas.
Not that she expected to sleep between now and then anyway.
Scott came into the room, looking as tired as the others but considerably more dusty. “If I never see another file again,” he announced, “it’ll be too soon.”
Jennifer felt a stab of guilt. “I should have been helping you, Scott. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He grinned. “I’ll get even later.”
“The question is,” Andy said, “did you find anything helpful?”
Triumphant, he said, “I found out what happened in 1894. Well, sort of.”
Sitting at the conference table at Kendra’s laptop, Quentin looked at him in respect. “How in hell did you do that? The computer databases haven’t coughed up a damned thing.”
“Punch in Boston,” Scott advised.
“Kendra’s the expert with this beast,” Quentin said as he scowled at the laptop. “But I’ll try.”
Andy said, “What’d you find out, Scott? And how?”
He grimaced. “How is simple enough. That box of miscellaneous files I’ve been going through. I found the police report of the seventh victim from 1934.” He opened the folder he was carrying and produced a photograph of a young woman with dark, curly hair and striking dark eyes.
It didn’t take more than an exchange of glances to confirm that she was completely unfamiliar to all of them.
Andy sighed. “Why did I hope at least one of us might recognize the face of the next possible victim so we could do something about it before he grabs her?”
“Wishful thinking,” Jennifer said. “It was always a real long shot, Andy, you know that.”
“Yeah.” He watched Scott pin the photo on the bulletin board in its proper place in the line of 1934 victims, then said, “But she was killed here, right, in Seattle? So how did you find anything about Boston and 1894?”
“One of the investigating officers in 1934 put a note in the file, apparently out of frustration more than anything else. Said he’d tried everything he could think of to find the bastard killing Seattle’s young women, even thoroughly checking out all the family members of the victims despite their lack of motive— because his father, who had also been a cop, had told him about some murders that took place in Boston forty years before, murders that sounded eerily similar to the ones here, at least as far as what was done to the victims.”
Quentin frowned at him. “So why did the cop focus on family members?”
“Because in the Boston murders, it was apparently the brother of at least one of the victims who committed the crimes.” Scott shrugged. “He was vague on the details, just said these killings were different in some ways but he was desperate, willing to try anything, so he checked out family members.”
“And?”
“Well, nothing more in that file. I still have more to look through, and we don’t know anything about the eighth victim. Maybe there’ll be mo
re info in that folder—assuming I can find it.”
Quentin looked at the humming laptop. “It’ll take this thing a while to check the historical databases again, even with a specific city and date.”
“I’m going to keep looking for the file on the eighth victim,” Scott said. “Maybe there’ll be more info that might help us.”
“Get a shower and breakfast first,” Andy told him. “And maybe sleep a couple hours, at least.”
“I will if you will,” Scott said dryly, and left the conference room before Andy could respond.
With a sigh, Jennifer said, “We’re all going on caffeine, adrenaline, and nerves. Much longer, and none of us will be worth a damn.” She got up. “I’m going to go see if we have anything useful yet on that company Robson worked for.”
Andy’s phone rang as she left, and he answered it with a hopeful expression that very quickly turned to grimness as he listened. Finally, he said, “Okay, yeah, tell ’em we’re on our way.” He cradled the receiver and muttered a curse under his breath.
Quentin lifted a questioning brow. “They found Tara Jameson?”
“No.” Andy hesitated, then said, “But they found somebody else, Quentin. At least, it sounds like . . .”
After a moment, flatly, Quentin said, “Joey.”
“Yeah. I’m afraid so.”
Quentin didn’t say anything during the trip with Andy out to the waterfront location, and after a glance at his face Andy didn’t try to open a conversation. He thought fleetingly that the seemingly easygoing, humorous man beside him would be a very, very dangerous enemy, and he was glad they were on the same side. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought that.
So he said nothing until he parked the car near a cluster of other police cars not too far from where I-90 crossed over Lake Washington from Mercer Island. It was a fairly congested area, so it wasn’t surprising that the body had been discovered so early by an unlucky jogger.
Andy said, “Given the tides, there’s no telling where he was dumped into the water. The southern end of Lake Washington, probably, but that covers a lot of territory.”