Seconds to Live (Scarlet Falls) Page 8

  He’d learned his lesson tonight. Missy had been more compliant, but then she’d broken quickly. Perhaps Dena would be harder to crack. Excitement hummed in his blood. Would she be The One? So far, his efforts had provided nothing but disappointment. But he’d known from the first time he’d seen Dena that she was strong.

  He chased her with the spray until she hit the corner and curled into a fetal position. Goose bumps erupted over her skin as the freezing water beat down on her.

  “You should have thought of the consequences before you escaped, but you never think of the consequences of your actions, do you?”

  She would learn all about repercussions now.

  Pale pink colored the water as some dried blood washed from her nose. She closed her eyes as he rinsed blood and dirt from her face. He returned the showerhead to its hook and wheeled a janitor’s mop and rolling bucket onto the tile. Soapy water churned as he loaded the mop. He brought it around and began to wash her.

  “This is going to take all day,” he chastised.

  But there was no help for it. He would have none of that filth under his roof, and with the resilience she’d shown, she might be here for a while.

  “I can’t believe you made me chase you through the storm. What if I hadn’t found you?” But he supposed that had been her intention, hadn’t it?

  Seemingly resigned to her fate, she lay still, shivering.

  She deserved no pity. She was the one who refused to comply with his polite requests. He hoped she hadn’t run out of fight. She’d need to be tough for what he had planned.

  “Why is ‘If you don’t cooperate, I’ll hurt you’ so hard to understand?” His voice rose with his temper.

  Some people never fucking learned.

  He moved down her body, suds gathering around her on the tiles.

  “Turn over.”

  She didn’t move.

  “I said turn over.”

  When she didn’t respond, he set down his cleaning implements, grabbed her feet, and flipped her body. She flopped and twitched as she resumed her fetal position on the opposite side.

  The bottoms of her feet were stained dark greenish brown. He applied more pressure to the mop. The grass and mud stains refused to yield. He traded the mop for a scrubbing brush. She whimpered as he leaned into the strokes. Anger leant strength to his arm, and the stains slowly faded, revealing small cuts she must have sustained during her flight though the woods.

  She deserved every wound.

  He turned his attention to her hands, making sure to clean thoroughly under her nails. She’d managed to scratch his back when he’d put her in a fireman carry. He’d have to clip her nails tomorrow just to be sure none of his DNA remained.

  A final rinse sent the suds scurrying down the drain. Satisfied that she was clean, he turned off the water and moved her to a tarp. Leaving her to air-dry, he dumped his bucket and used the mop to scour the tiles until no trace of her presence remained. Then he sprayed the shower down with bleach and rinsed it again.

  Finished, he turned to her. She was curled on her side. Her body was still, but her gaze followed him. He breathed deeply, welcoming calm into his lungs and exhaling his anger. Such a wasteful emotion. Its energy was better spent on action.

  “I really wish you’d behaved,” he sighed.

  She inched away from him as best she could, but her bound arms at the base of her spine limited her mobility, just as he’d planned. He reached for her. Her chest heaved, and her eyes widened.

  He yawned. It was almost dawn. He hadn’t gotten any sleep last night, and today would be a busy day as well. He and Dena had work to do.

  Her body shifted from shivering to trembling. Fear paled her skin to the color of bleached grout. She sobbed.

  An ounce of pity trickled through him. Yes, she was worse than worthless, but was that really her fault? Perhaps her weakness had been determined from her birth. Was it her gender that encouraged sin? No, he refused to believe that Eve’s original disobedience predestined all women to sin. But then what made one person strong and another weak?

  That was the million-dollar question, wasn’t it?

  “As I promised in the very beginning, if you don’t cooperate, I will hurt you. And if you’ve only learned one thing from last night’s experience, it’s that I never break my promises. I am a man of my word.”

  She turned away.

  He grabbed her jaw and forced her to face him. “There will be no more running away. You and I have work to do. It’s going to be a busy day.”

  How long would it take to find her weaknesses and exploit them? He cleaned the wheelbarrow and then carted her to the cell Missy had vacated. Hopefully Dena would be a guest for much longer. Excitement energized him as he formulated a plan. What would they do first? He’d let her rest a while before he began her first challenge. It was only fair that she go into the test fresh. He had to give her every opportunity to prove she was worthy. That she was The One he sought.

  That she didn’t need to die.

  Chapter Twelve

  Mac’s hand gripped the knife as his bedroom door opened fully and a man stepped into the dim light. Grant. Mac’s lungs expelled the breath he’d been holding.

  “Shit, Grant. Don’t surprise me like that.” He dropped his knife back into his nightstand drawer. “I was ready to spear you.”

  His brother filled the doorway. Grant might have left the military for civilian life, but good food and the manual labor in his new contracting business had added muscle to his frame. He crossed his arms over his chest and glared down at Mac.

  “How about answering your cell? I called six times.” Grant’s gaze dropped to the bandage on Mac’s side. “And what the hell happened to you?” His voice rose.

  Mac rubbed his face. “We need to talk.”

  “You bet we do.” Grant walked closer, his blue eyes full of frustration.

  Mac held up a hand in surrender. “I got in late, and it’s not even dawn. I need a shower and some coffee before I’m up for any damned sharing session.”

  Stopping, Grant gave him a serious nod. “All right. But you’d better hurry. Hannah’s in the kitchen, and she’s pissed.”

  “Shit.” Mac’s sister was much scarier than his brother.

  Grant’s gaze swept over his torso. Concern tightened his mouth. “Do you need help?”

  “Plastic wrap.”

  “Got it.” Grant was back in a minute.

  Having his brother wrap him in plastic took all the fun out of the process, but Grant did a thorough job before retreating to the kitchen.

  Mac stepped into the shower. The blast of cold water cleared his head and soothed the new bruises that mottled his chest and ribs, courtesy of the accident the night before.

  As he dried off, he geared up to face his siblings. Then he stepped into a pair of jeans and reached for a T-shirt. The local anesthetic was still going strong, but his stitches pulled under the bandage. His entire torso had stiffened during the night. He took care putting his arms into the sleeves and headed for the kitchen. The smell of coffee perked him up even more.

  Grant leaned against the kitchen counter. But it was the sight of Hannah sitting at the table, her hands folded neatly in front of her, that drew Mac up short. The former corporate attorney pinned him with her boardroom face.

  Feigning indifference, Mac said in a flippant voice. “What is this, an intervention?”

  Hannah leaned forward. Her sense of humor wasn’t up yet. “Do you need an intervention?”

  Walked right into that one.

  “I didn’t even know I had coffee.” Mac poured a huge mug and sipped, welcoming the burn as he swallowed. Last night he’d decided to tell his family everything, but in the harsh kitchen light, the truth didn’t seem so appealing. They were going to be angry.

  “Look, Mac,” Grant started. “We care about you. Your behavior has been growing more erratic over the past few years.” His voice grew rough. “None of us have recovered from Lee’s death
, and last night was hard. Really hard.” He breathed. “But we’re not going to let you walk away this time.”

  “No one will understand what you’re going through better than us.” Hannah gestured between the three of them.

  “We’re here for you,” said Grant.

  “Whether you like it or not.” Hannah paused. “We don’t want you to get so overwhelmed that you—”

  “It’s been more than a decade. Eventually, you both have to trust me.” Irritation flared in Mac.

  But had he ever given them reason to have faith? He’d kept his entire life a secret. Trust went both ways.

  Hannah raised a single brow. “I was going to say hop on the next flight to South America.”

  “Oh.” Mac went back to his coffee. “Sorry. I guess I’m defensive.”

  “We all need to try harder.” Grant raised his hands. “We haven’t communicated well in a long time, but I remember when we operated like a junior commando team. We could practically read each other’s thoughts.”

  “That was a long time ago, Grant.” But deep inside, Mac longed for the connection he’d once had with his siblings.

  “Where’s your Jeep?” Hannah asked.

  Mac scalded his throat with another gulp. “I crashed it into a tree last night.”

  Hannah straightened. “Do you need my help?”

  “No.” Mac shook his head. “It’s not like that. I wasn’t under the influence of anything. I swear.”

  Hannah’s response was uncharacteristically gentle. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”

  He glanced from his sister to his brother. Exhaustion lined both their faces. Less than twelve hours ago, they’d watched their father die, and they’d likely spent the rest of the night frantic about Mac. The last year had been hell on all of them. While the Colonel’s death was difficult, none of them had fully recovered from Lee’s murder. It was their brother’s murder they were all still processing.

  Guilt and grief rocked Mac. Hannah and Grant had suffered enough. No more adding to their pain. He owed them the truth.

  “I work for the DEA.” Mac gave them the same speech he’d given Stella the night before.

  “How long?” Hannah asked.

  “The last three years,” Mac admitted.

  “I don’t know whether to be relieved or pissed off,” Grant said.

  “I’m both.” Hannah leaned back in her chair and tapped a finger on her chin. “Why all the lies?”

  “Undercover assignments are dangerous. More lives than mine depend on complete secrecy.” Mac sighed.

  “I’m insulted you didn’t trust us,” she said.

  Mac nodded. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not that simple.” Grant dropped into a chair. Both hands scrubbed down his face. “I went on plenty of missions I couldn’t share with either of you.” His blue eyes pierced Mac like twin bayonets. “Why are you telling us now?”

  “My last assignment went FUBAR.” He summed up the incident in Brazil. “I’m going to be home, lying low, for a while.”

  “You’re not going back?” Grant’s tone was more statement than question.

  Mac kept to his pledge to be honest. “I haven’t decided what I’m going to do.”

  His brother folded his arms over his chest, clearly unhappy with his answer.

  Mac added, “Part of the reason I kept my job a secret was that I didn’t want you to try and talk me out of it. I screwed up my life. I screwed up everyone’s lives. I finally have a chance to make up for all my mistakes.”

  “You don’t have to make up for anything,” Grant said.

  But Mac felt like he did.

  Hannah’s eyes went misty. “But you’re all right?”

  “Yes. To be totally clichéd, it’s just a flesh wound,” Mac said.

  “So what happened last night?” Hannah asked.

  With a deep breath, Mac told them everything, from leaving the nursing home to his conversation with Stella.

  “Strange . . .” Grant said. “And I’m not a big fan of weird events, not after everything that’s happened over the last year.”

  “I’m going to find her.” Mac set down his empty cup. “I need to find her.”

  He couldn’t have another woman he couldn’t save haunting his sleep.

  “Does Brody know about this?” Hannah’s mouth pursed.

  “I imagine Stella will tell him this morning.” Mac spun his empty coffee mug on the table.

  “Is there anything we can do?” Grant asked.

  Mac stretched. “Let me borrow your cell phone. I need to call the auto shop.”

  “OK.” Grant held his phone toward him. “On one condition.”

  Wary, Mac froze. “What?”

  “You have dinner at my house tonight. We can talk about all of this. Plus, we have funeral and estate issues to discuss. Ellie has been worried sick, and the kids miss you.” Grant had proposed to Ellie on Christmas Day. They’d bought and renovated a home. They were raising Carson and Faith and building a family together. They were happy. Was that envy crawling around in Mac’s chest? Since when did hearth and home have any appeal to him?

  “Deal.” For once in his life, Mac wanted to be part of his family. Now he had to figure out how to make that happen. He’d been alone so long, anything else took thought and effort.

  Hannah reached across the table and opened her hand. Mac took it. Grant placed a hand on each of their shoulders. The three of them were connected now in a way they hadn’t been since they’d faced all those survival challenges their father had set up for them. They were bound by their shared experiences.

  But once there had been four of them.

  Grief welled in Mac’s chest. Raw and sharp, it nearly choked him. Grant’s hand squeezed his shoulder. Mac swallowed hard. Lee had been gone for fifteen months, but the wound his murder left was still wide open, and the Colonel’s death had been a handful of salt.

  Mac needed to deal with his pain before the scar it left was permanent.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Stella jerked awake. Her heart hammered. Her breaths bellowed in and out of her lungs as if she’d just run the academy obstacle course.

  Trembling, she pushed her sweaty hair off her forehead. The nightmare had been vivid enough she could smell gunpowder, feel the stock of her AR-15 against her shoulder, and hear Lance groaning as she fired at the armed and fleeing suspect. But winging him hadn’t been enough. He’d gotten away. He’d gone on to kill two cops. Hannah and Brody had nearly died.

  Swallowing the sickness rising in her throat, she got out of bed and stumbled to the shower. Not even the scalding water could completely wash away the nightmare. Dawn had not made an appearance yet when Stella tiptoed into the dark kitchen. The remnants of her nightmare lingered. Gunshots, blood, the sharp scent of gunpowder. A quick burst of panic kicked her adrenals into overdrive. Breathing deeply, she leaned on the counter, her fingers gripping the edge until she got her pulse under control. She hadn’t had a flashback in a long time. She’d thought she was over them.

  But would she ever truly get over what had happened? Failure was tough to accept.

  She turned on the overhead light and lifted the coffeepot, grateful that it was already full. Pouring herself a mugful, she drank half its contents standing over the sink. The caffeine hit her system and eased her lack-of-sleep headache. Three restless nights were beginning to take their toll.

  The front door opened and her grandfather entered, fully dressed and carrying a camera rigged with a telephoto lens.

  “You were working so late, I didn’t expect you to be up this early.” He kissed her cheek. Worried eyes scanned her face. It was impossible to hide anything from the retired NYPD homicide detective.

  “I need to get to the station.” Stella had reviewed her case notes until she’d fallen asleep over the files.

  “If you’re not going to sleep, you need to eat. Let me make you some breakfast.” Setting down his camera, Grandpa ignited a burn
er and set a frying pan on the stove. On cue, nails pattered on the tile as her sister’s French bulldog trotted into the room and sat at Grandpa’s feet, his oversize head cocked in expectation.

  “What were you doing outside with the camera at this hour?” Stella leaned a hip on the counter. “Obviously you weren’t walking the dog.”

  Snoozer wasn’t an early riser, unless there was food.

  Grandpa added butter to the pan and retrieved a carton of eggs from the fridge. “Someone has been letting their dog crap on our lawn during the night. I’m going to find out who it is.”

  Stella covered her grin by sipping from her mug.

  “What? I still know how to conduct an investigation.” He pointed to the camera. “People should take responsibility. I’m tired of cleaning the kids’ shoes.”

  “It’s probably a loose dog.”

  “Then people should keep their dogs on leashes.” Grandpa cracked eggs into the pan one-handed. “I will find out who it is.”

  “I don’t doubt you for a second.” Stella knew her grandfather would hunt their errant pooper like a bloodhound.

  “You’d think three-acre lots would give people enough room for their animals on their own property.” He slid four slices of bread into the toaster. “You were late last night and now up early this morning. Tough case?”

  “Several. Do you remember Missy Green?”

  “Didn’t you hang around with her in high school?” He took two plates from the cabinet and poured Stella a glass of orange juice.

  “Yes. She turned up dead on Monday.”

  Grandpa paused, the carton in one veiny hand. “I’m sorry to hear that. She was a good kid.”

  “She was tortured and killed. Then her body was dumped.” How many people could share that kind of information with a grandparent?

  “It must be hard to work on a case when you knew the victim.” Grandpa loaded the toast and eggs onto two plates and carried them to the table. Snoozer followed, his bulgy eyes sticking with the plates.

  Only at the Dane house was homicide a topic of breakfast conversation.

  “I was lucky.” He tucked his napkin into the front of his shirt. “I worked in a big city department. I rarely ran into a homicide that wasn’t a stranger. Maybe I’d have to investigate the death of an informant or someone I’d arrested previously, but never a friend. If your former relationship with Missy prevents you from doing your job, there’s no shame in stepping away from the case.”