Читать книгу In Graywolf's Hands - Marie Ferrarella, Marie Ferrarella - Страница 9

The scent of vanilla slowly enveloped her, began to soothe her.

Ever so slowly, Lydia eased herself into the suds-filled water. Leaning back, she frowned at her left shoulder. The cellophane crinkled, straining at the tape she’d used to keep the wrap in place.

Graywolf had warned her about getting her stitches wet just before she left him and, though she’d pretended to dismiss his words, she wasn’t about to do anything that might impede her immediate and complete recovery. There was no question in her mind that she’d go stir crazy inside of a week if the Bureau forced her to go on some sort of disability leave. She had no actual hobbies to fill up her time, no books piling up on her desk, waiting to be read, just a few articles on state-of-the-art surveillance. Nothing she couldn’t get through in a few hours.

Her work was her life and it took up all of her time. Yes, there was the occasional program she watched on television outside of the news and, once in a while, she took in a movie, usually with her mother or grandfather. There was even the theater every year or so. But for the most part, she ate and slept her job and she truly liked it that way. Liked the challenge of fitting the pieces of a puzzle together to create a whole, no matter how long it took.

It hadn’t taken all that long this time, she thought, watching bubbles already begin to dissipate. The tip they’d gotten from Elliot’s source had been right on the money.

Looking back, she thought, things seemed to have happened in lightning succession. An informer in the New World supremacy group they had been keeping tabs on had tipped off the Bureau that a bombing at a populated area was in the works. Initially, that had been it: a populated area. No specifics. That could have meant a museum, an amusement park, anyplace. For a week, with the clock ticking, they’d all sweated it out, having nothing to go on.

And then they’d gotten lucky. Very lucky, she thought, swishing the water lazily with her hand, letting the heat relax her. If that informant hadn’t had a run-in with Conroy and been nursing a grudge against him, they would have never been able to piece things together. Even so, they’d gotten to the mall only seconds before the explosion had rocked the western end, the site that had just been newly renovated and expanded and had been filled with Native American art and artifacts.

As Elliot had driven through the city streets, trying to get there in time, she’d been on her phone, frantically calling the local police and alerting mall security to evacuate as many people as possible.

It been an exercise in futility. They’d reached the mall ahead of the police. She’d scanned the parking lot, taking in the amount of cars there, appalled at the number, even though by weekend standards, it was low.

The explosion had hit just as they’d parked. The force had sent one teenager flying into the air. He was dead by the time she’d reached him. It was then that she and Elliot had spotted Conroy running around the rear of what was left of that part of the structure.

She barely remembered yelling out a warning. All she could focus on was Conroy turning and aiming his gun in Elliot’s direction. The rest had happened in blurry slow motion.

And try as she might, she still didn’t remember being hit.

There were others involved; she knew that they were going to be caught. It was a silent promise she made to the teenager who wouldn’t be going home tonight. Or ever.

Lydia sank down farther into her tub, the one luxury she had allowed herself when she moved in, replacing the fourteen-inch high bathtub with one that could easily submerge a hippo if necessary. Some people took quick, hot showers to wash away the tension of the day; she took baths when she had the time. Long, steamy, soul-restoring baths.

The phone rang, intruding.

Glancing at the portable receiver she’d brought in with her, Lydia debated just letting her machine pick up the call. But the shrill ringing had destroyed the tranquillity that had begun seeping into her soul.

Besides, it might be about Conroy.

Stretching, she reached over the side of the tub for the receiver and pressed the talk button. “Wakefield.”

“Don’t you ever say hello anymore?” The voice on the other end had a soft twang to it.

She smiled, sinking back against the tub again, envisioning the soft, rosy face, the gentle, kind eyes that were too often set beneath worried brows. “Hi, Mom. What’s up?”

“Nothing, darling. I was just lonely for the sound of your voice.”

Lydia knew evasion when she heard it. For now she played along. “Well, here it is, in its full glory.”

“You sound tired.”

Her mother was slowly working up to whatever had prompted her to call, Lydia thought. That was the difference between them. She pounced, her mother waltzed. Slowly. “It’s been a long day.”

There was just the slightest bit of hesitation. “Anything you can tell me about?”

Her mother knew better than that. “Just lots of paperwork, that’s all,” Lydia told her. Idly, she moved her toe around, stirring the water. Bubbles began fading faster. The scent of vanilla clung.

She heard her mother laugh shortly. “You lie as badly as your father did.”

Lydia glanced at her shoulder to make sure it was still above the waterline. Keeping it up wasn’t easy even if she was leaning against the soap holder.

“You don’t want to know details, Mom.” It was supposed to be an unspoken agreement between them. Her mother didn’t ask and she didn’t have to lie. Her mother was slipping. “All you need to know is that I’m okay. I’m soaking in a tub right now.”

“Alone?”

Half asleep she still would have been able to hear the hopeful note in her mother’s voice. “Yes, unless you count Dean Martin on the radio.”

Her mother made no effort to silence the sigh that escaped. “Sorry, I was just hoping…”

She knew what her mother was hoping. It was an old refrain. “Mom, don’t take this the wrong way, but not tonight, all right?”

“Something happened, didn’t it? I heard about the bombing.”

Here it comes, Lydia thought. The real reason for the call.

“Was that you—”

“Doing the bombing?” Lydia cut in cheerfully. “No.” She decided to toss her mother a bone. Even the Bureau wasn’t entirely heartless. “Doing the picking up of pieces? Yes. We’ve got a suspect in custody—that’s all I can tell you.”

There was disappointment and frustration in her mother’s voice. “I can get more from the evening news, Lydia.”

When she was small, her mother had been her first confidante. They would talk all the time. But she wasn’t small anymore. On an intellectual level, she knew her mother understood why she couldn’t say anything. It was the heart that gave them both trouble.

For a second her thoughts sidelined to the surgeon who had pushed her out of the operating room. Who had insisted on stitching her up. She forced her mind back to the conversation.

“They’re at liberty to talk, Mom, I’m not. They don’t have a possible case to jeopardize.”

She heard her mother sigh. Louise Wakefield Evans had been both the daughter and the wife of a policeman. She, better than anyone, knew about procedures that had to be followed.

Still, she said, “I hate being shut out this way, Lydia.”

Lydia shifted in the tub, then quickly sat up. She’d nearly gotten the bandage wet.

“I’m not shutting you out, Mom. I’m shutting evidence in.” The water was turning cool. “Mom, I’m turning pruney, I’d better go.”

Her mother knew when to take her cue. “All right. Good night, Lydia. I love you.”

“Love you, too, Mom.”

Before her mother could change her mind, Lydia pressed the talk button, breaking the connection and ushering in silence. She dropped the receiver onto the mat.

Lydia felt bad that she couldn’t share what had happened to her today with her mother, but she knew it would only have served to agitate and worry Louise. In the long run, she’d rather her mother had semipeace of mind by remaining in the dark than live with daily terrors—even if she could give her details, which she couldn’t.

Her mouth curved slightly as a question her mother had asked echoed in her brain.

Was she alone?

That would place her mother among the eternal optimists. Louise still nursed the hope that Lydia would be swept off her feet, marry and chuck this whole FBI special agent business.

Lucky for her, Louise hadn’t seen that surgeon tonight. There was no doubt in Lydia’s mind that her mother would have been all over Graywolf, plying him with questions, inviting him over for Sunday dinner. Louise Wakefield Evans was desperate for grandchildren and Lydia was the only one who could provide her with them. She’d had a brother, born first, but he had died before his first birthday, a victim of infant crib death syndrome. With no other siblings available, Lydia was the only one left to fulfill her mother’s hopes.

“Sorry, Mom,” Lydia murmured as she leaned forward to open up the faucet again.

The next moment, hot water flowed into the tub again, merging with the cooling liquid that was already there.

First chance she had, she was going to talk to Arthur about getting her mother a puppy. She knew her stepfather was sympathetic to her. A new puppy should occupy her mother, at least temporarily.

Closing her eyes, Lydia let her head fall back against the inflated pillow lodged against the back of the tub. An image of the surgeon materialized behind her lids.

Startled, she pried her eyes open.

What was she doing, thinking about him? She was supposed to be trying to make her mind a blank.

Maybe it was the medicine, making her woozy.

Lydia blew out a breath, ruffling her bangs. She decided that soaking in the tub might not be the smartest thing to do if she were truly sleepy. Death by Suds was not the way she wanted to go.

Lydia reached for a towel.

The rhythmic staccato of high heels meeting the freshly washed hospital floor had Lukas looking up from the chart he was writing on. Half a beat before he did, he knew it was her. He’d picked up on the cadence last night. Fast, no nonsense, no hesitancy. A woman with a mission.

Closing the chart, he replaced it on the nurse’s desk, still watching the woman approach. He wondered vaguely if Ms. Special Agent was focused like that all the time or if it was the job that brought it out. Did she know how to kick back after hours? Did she even have “after hours”?

Lukas had a sneaking suspicion she didn’t.

That made two of them.

Even after he’d gone home last night to catch a few hours of well-deserved sleep, he’d wound up calling the hospital to check on Jacob Lindstrom, the patient he’d operated on before Ms. Special Agent had thundered into his life.

Lukas’s eyes swept over her as she walked toward him. The woman was wearing another suit, a powder blue one; but this time she had on a skirt instead of pants. The skirt brushed against her thighs as she walked and gave him the opportunity to note that her legs were as near perfect as any he’d ever seen. Long, sleek, and just curved enough to trigger a man’s fantasies.

It made him wonder why Harrison hadn’t hit on her last night. Special agent or not, she looked to be right up his best friend’s alley.

But then, maybe Harrison had hit on her and she’d set him straight. That would have been a first. Lukas made a mental note to catch up with Harrison to ask for details when he got the chance. If there had been a conquest last night, something told him he would have known it. One way or another.

“You’re here bright and early,” he commented as she came up to him.

He didn’t look as tired, she observed. His sharp, blue eyes seemed to be taking in everything about her. She’d always thought that Native Americans had brown eyes. “So are you.”

Her mouth looked pouty when she said the word “you.” Something stirred within him, but he dismissed it. He’d been around Harrison too long. Maybe the other man’s ways had rubbed off on him. “I have patients to see.”

Lydia inclined her head, as if going him one better. “I have a prisoner to interrogate.”

And here, Lukas thought, was where they came to loggerheads. It hadn’t taken long. Less than a minute, by his estimate.

“Not until he’s up to it.”

“If he’s conscious, he’s up to it, Dr….” Lydia paused and, though she knew his name, made a show of looking at the badge that hung from a dark blue cord around his neck. Since the back of the badge faced her, she turned it around. “Graywolf.” Releasing the badge, she raised her eyes to his face. “This wasn’t some spur-of-the moment, impulsive act by a deranged man acting out some sick fantasy. This was a carefully planned act of terrorism. This man is part of a group that call themselves the New World Supremacists. I assure you, he wasn’t alone at the mall last night. I want to make sure his friends don’t go scurrying off to their garages to concoct some more pipe bombs to kill more innocent people. The only way I’m going to do that is to get names.”

He understood all that, but he was coming at this from another angle. He had to put the welfare of his patient first. “Ms. Wakefield—”

“That’s Special Agent Wakefield,” she corrected him. Taking out her wallet, she opened it for him. “It says so right here on my ID.”

Holding her wallet for a moment, Lukas looked at the photograph. She looked better in person. The photograph made her look too hard, too unforgiving. There was something in her eyes that told him that might not be the entire picture.

He dropped his hand to his side. “I always wondered about that. Is ‘special’ a title, like lieutenant colonel?” he deadpanned. “Are there any regular, nonspecial agents at the agency?”

“We’re all special,” she informed him, finding that she was gritting her teeth.

“In our own way,” he allowed magnanimously. “Even people accused of crimes.”

Not in her book. “Just why are you yanking my chain, Doctor?”

Because it was there, he realized. But he gave her a more reasonable answer.

“Maybe it’s because you insist on getting in my way. The man you shot almost died on the table last night. Twice. I’d like to make sure he doesn’t. Having you go at him like a representative of the Spanish Inquisition isn’t going to help his recovery. I think it might be better if you hold off asking any questions.”

Not hardly. And she didn’t particularly like being told what to do. “I don’t give a damn about his recovery, Doctor. I just want him to live long enough to give me the names of his buddies.” She watched him shiver and then turn up the collar of his lab coat. It wasn’t particularly cold. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to protect myself from frostbite.” He slid his collar back into place. “You always come off this cold-blooded?”

She could almost literally feel her patience breaking in two.

“I happen to be a very warm person,” Lydia snapped, then realized how ridiculous that sounded coming in the form of a growl. A smile slowly emerged to replace her frown. “Ask anyone.”

It was amazing. He wouldn’t have thought that a simple smile could transform someone’s face so much. But it did. The woman in front of him seemed light-years removed from the one he’d just been talking to. This one looked younger, softer. Way softer.

“Maybe I will.”

He was being nice. So why did she feel so uneasy all of a sudden? And why was he still looking at her as if he was dissecting her a layer at a time? “What are you staring at?”

“Your smile.”

Instinctively she began to press her lips together to blot out her smile, then stopped. The smile was replaced by a glare. “What’s wrong with my smile?”

He spread his hands. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Makes you look like a completely different person, in my opinion.”

As if she gave a damn about his opinion. “I’ll remember that the next time I need a disguise.” It was getting late and she had to get down to business. “Have you moved my prisoner since last night?”

She had remained long enough for Conroy to be transferred from recovery to a single-unit room, where she’d made certain that a policeman from the Bedford police force was stationed.

Lukas was about to remind her that the man was his patient before he was her prisoner, but he let the matter drop. He’d learned early on that butting his head against a stone wall never brought victory.

“I wouldn’t dare. I left him just where I found him this morning.”

She could do without the sarcasm. “How is he?”

It was Conroy’s chart he’d been writing on when he heard her approach. “Still weak.”

That was a relative term in her opinion. “I don’t want him to dance, I just want him to talk.”

“That might be difficult. He’s on a great deal of pain medication—speaking of which,” he segued smoothly, “how’s your shoulder?”

Graywolf’s question only reminded her of how much the shoulder ached. “If I was a bird, I’d have to postpone flying south for the winter, but under the circumstances, I guess it’s all right.”

Lukas nodded. “I need to see you back in a week to take the stitches out.” She was favoring her left side. Would it have killed her to follow his instructions? “I see you’re not wearing a sling.”

She’d actually toyed with the idea this morning, arranging and adjusting several colorful scars around her arm and shoulder. They’d only made her feel like an invalid. “I don’t want to attract attention.”

Too late, Lukas thought. Three orderlies had passed by since she’d stopped to talk to him and all three had been in danger of severely spraining their necks as they turned to look at her. “Then maybe you should wear a paper bag over your head.”

“What?”

Was she fishing for a compliment, or was she wound up so tightly about her job that she didn’t see her own reflection in the morning? “I’m just saying that a woman who looks like you do always attracts attention.”

Her eyes narrowed in surprise. “Are you coming on to me, Doctor?” She’d dabbled in profiling. Graywolf didn’t seem the type.

“Me?” He raised both hands, fingers pointed to the ceiling. “I wouldn’t have the nerve to come on to someone like you. I’m just making an observation, that’s all.” He looked at his watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got the rest of my rounds to make.”

He was turning away from her when she called after him. “You mean you’re not going to hover over me while I try to question the prisoner?”

Lukas stopped to look at her one last time. “Would it do any good?”

A smile crept back to her lips as Lydia shook her head. “No.”

“Then I won’t.” He crossed back to her, fishing into his coat pocket. He took out a card and pressed it into her hand. “There’s my number if you need me.”

She glanced down at the card. Three numbers were neatly printed above one another. “Pager, cell phone and office number.” Lydia raised her eyes from the card. “What about your home number?”

“Unlisted. On a need-to-know basis,” he added just before he left.

Looking after him, Lydia thoughtfully folded the card between her thumb and forefinger and tucked it into her jacket pocket.

“Damn but I never thought I’d live to see the day.”

Roused from her thoughts, Lydia spun around to face Elliot. “See what day?”

He was grinning. Wait until Janice hears about this! “The day you were flirting.”

“Flirting?” Lydia echoed incredulously. “Are you out of your mind? I was not flirting.”

“No?” Elliot crossed his arms at his chest, waiting to be convinced. “Then what do you call it?”

“Talking.”

“I see.”

There were times when her partner got on her nerves—royally. “Don’t give me that smug smile.”

He made no attempt to eliminate it. “I wasn’t aware that it was smug.”

“Well it is,” she told him. Because one of the nurses had stopped what she was doing and was obviously eavesdropping, Lydia pulled her partner aside, out of earshot. “What is this, a conspiracy? My mother calls to find out if I’m alone in the bathtub and then you come along and tell me you think I’m flirting.”

Elliot made a mental note to later ask her what had prompted her mother’s question. For now, he shrugged innocently. “Can’t help it. In spring a person’s mind often turns to thoughts of love, remember?”

What did that have to do with anything? “It’s autumn. Remember?”

Unruffled, Elliot laughed. “I’m late, it’s been a busy year.”

Okay, she’d been a good sport long enough. This had to stop. “Elliot, I’m packing a gun.”

The look he gave her was completely unimpressed. “I’m shaking.”

This was getting them nowhere. And the day stretched out in front of her, long and unaccommodating. “Let’s go, we have a prisoner to interrogate.”

“Lead the way.” Her partner’s expression had turned appropriately serious, but there was a twinkle in his eye she had trouble ignoring.