Читать книгу Mysterious Circumstances - Rita Herron - Страница 9

Fifteen years later

Olivia would find out the truth about the Savannah Suicides—even if it killed her. The local police and FBI couldn’t just bury the story, hide the details from the public and get away with it.

Not like they had when her mother had died.

Bitterness threatened to rob her calm, but she stifled it. The only way to keep the world safe was to inform the people of potential dangers.

She swung her leather shoulder bag over her arm and marched toward the building that housed her father’s office at CIRP, Coastal Island Research Park. She’d sensed he was keeping something from her the last few weeks. He’d been acting oddly secretive, distracted, had even sounded paranoid.

He’d even made some strange remarks about her mother’s death and a cover-up, which he’d never spoken of before. And she thought he was working with the feds on the suicide cases.

She’d noticed an odd rash on two of the victims’ bodies at the crime scene and had spotted that federal agent, Craig Horn, leaving her father’s office at least twice. She’d finally put two and two together. But when she’d contacted Agent Horn, he’d refused her calls. She’d tried to deal with the infuriating man before.

But Horn was cold. Calculating. An agent single-minded in his mission. A man with no feelings.

Her cell phone jolted out the programmed melody, and she answered it as she climbed into her Toyota. “Olivia Thornbird.”

“Miss Thornbird, this is Special Agent Craig Horn of the FBI.”

Olivia’s eyebrows shot up. So, the sexy, enigmatic agent had finally decided to make her an ally. “I’m glad you called, Agent Horn. Are you ready to talk to me?”

A hesitant pause fraught with tension followed. “Miss Thornbird, I think you’d better get over to your father’s house. He’s barricaded himself inside.”

“What?” Olivia’s heart raced.

“I hate to tell you this,” Agent Horn said in a decidedly low voice, “but you should hurry. He has a gun, and he’s threatening to kill himself.”

CRAIG DISCONNECTED the call, his hands sweating as he skimmed the overgrown yard surrounding Thornbird’s small brick ranch. The sagging boards on the front porch attested to the house’s age, the chipped paint, shutters hanging askew and dead plants evidence of lack of upkeep. Thornbird had first impressed him as a genius, scatterbrained scientist who related more to test tubes and vials than humans. He supposed it followed that he’d neglect his home for work, but this lack of long-term care indicated depression.

After meeting with Thornbird a few times, he guessed he and his daughter weren’t close. The realization that Olivia’s family had been just as screwed up as his own had spiked his curiosity about the woman and her drive. He actually admired her ambition.

If she wasn’t a damn reporter, he might even like her.

And he sure as hell had to admit she was a looker.

But he’d never trust her.

The hushed murmurs of police officers communicating via radio jolted him back to reality. Several local police were situated at various strategic points around Thornbird’s property, each armed and ready to bring this ordeal to a peaceful resolution. Others had cordoned off the property to contain neighbors, curious spectators and reporters.

Unfortunately, so far, Thornbird wasn’t responding to their negotiation tactics. But at least he hadn’t opened fire again like he had at Horn when he’d first arrived.

Craig raised the bullhorn one more time in an effort to defuse the increasingly catastrophic situation inside. “Dr. Thornbird, it’s Craig Horn again. Please, sir, put down the gun, and let’s talk.”

“Go away, you communists! Leave me alone!” Thornbird shouted. “You’re all just pagans wanting to steal the life from me and all the innocent people in this town.”

“No, Dr. Thornbird. We’ve been working together, remember?”

The window suddenly shattered and the lights flickered off. Two cops raised their guns as if to fire, but Craig motioned for them to hold off.

“What’s the story?” New arrivals to the scene, local cops Detective Adam Black and his partner, Clayton Fox, strode up and hunkered down beside him.

Craig filled them in. “Thornbird, the research scientist who’s been studying the rash on our suicide vics, is holed up inside, threatening to kill himself.”

“He find out anything about the rash?” Black asked.

“He thinks it’s symptomatic of a virus, but he hadn’t yet isolated the strain or determined its cause.” Horn frowned as a breeze stirred the nearly dead leaves of the fern hanging from the front porch awning. “The last two weeks, he’s been working day and night. I thought he might be on to something.”

Fox raised a brow. “And?”

“A few days ago he started refusing my calls,” Craig answered. “When I finally got through, he sounded disoriented. Paranoid.”

Black’s gaze met his. “All symptoms the other victims exhibited before they ended their lives.”

Horn nodded, agitation constricting his stomach. Had Thornbird contracted the unnamed disease he’d been investigating?

Guilt nagged at him. He’d gotten the man involved. If Thornbird committed suicide, his death would rest on Craig’s shoulders.

Suddenly the squeal of tires on asphalt jarred the tense silence, the air vibrating with the smell of burned rubber and panic as the car screeched to a stop. Olivia Thornbird jumped out and ran toward him. The sassy, confident air she normally wore had disintegrated since his call, the frantic unease of a terrified daughter flaring in her overly bright eyes instead.

The wind whipped her long blond hair around her face, and she scraped it back with a shaky hand, then reached for the bullhorn. “What did you do to him?”

He ignored her barb, plastered on a steely, cool face. “I’ve been trying to talk to him.”

She glared at him. “He’s been working for you, hasn’t he?”

Craig swallowed hard, debating a lie. “He’s been doing some research, yes.”

“I knew it!” She grabbed the speaker and faced the house. “I have to talk to him.”

Craig covered her hand with his. “I’ve made every attempt to convince him to come out, but he’s incoherent.”

Her gaze locked with his, then her bottom lip quivered slightly as his warning registered. Finally, she swung back toward the window, her bravado tacked in place. “Dad.” Her voice warbled through the speaker. “It’s me, Livvy.”

Craig caught the anxious looks on the other cops’ faces. They’d been down this same road too many times the past few weeks and lost. Hope wasn’t exactly lighting the skies that this time would be any different.

“Dad, please come out, I’m worried about you.”

“I can’t.”

“Dad, please, the police won’t hurt you, I promise.”

“I can’t leave the house.” His voice screeched. “It’s the only place that’s safe.”

Olivia inhaled a deep breath. “Then let me come in and talk to you. Whatever’s going on, we’ll figure it out.”

The curtains at the front window rustled open, and Craig spotted the old man peer through the broken glass. His wiry graying hair was standing on end, as if he’d run his hands through it a thousand times; his eyes appeared glassy, and his expression disoriented. “Ruth, is that you?”

“No, Dad.” Anguish made her voice brittle. “It’s me, Livvy. Mom’s not here anymore, remember?”

“Livvy?”

“Yes. I’m coming in now. We’ll talk, work out whatever is bothering you.” She stepped forward tentatively.

“Livvy, no, stop! It’s too dangerous! They’re everywhere.”

She took another cautious step. “Who’s everywhere, Dad?”

“The spies,” he cried. “They’re on the lawn, in the house, on the roof. They’ll get you.”

“Dad, nothing’s going to get me. I’m coming in.”

“You don’t understand.” He waved his arm frantically in front of the window. “The government wants it kept quiet. I can’t protect you anymore.”

Olivia dashed forward, shoving away from Craig when he grabbed her arm. “Dad, it’s okay. I’m right here, I’m coming in….”

Thornbird suddenly disappeared behind the wooden frame of the house, and Craig’s instincts kicked in. “Olivia, stop!”

A gunshot pierced the air.

Olivia screamed and vaulted forward, but Craig caught her. He didn’t have to go inside to know Thornbird was dead.

And it was all his fault.

“NOOOO!” OLIVIA’S LEGS buckled as the guttural protest tore from her throat. Grief and shock welled inside her, overflowing. People shouted, officers mumbled and chaos erupted around her. Doubling over, she crumpled to the ground, but Agent Horn caught her as the police rushed into her father’s house. Sobs racked her body, the tears spilling over, the anguish so deep she couldn’t contain it.

Her father, the only family she had left, had just shot himself.

She clutched the agent’s shirt, dazed and confused and too weak to stand. Horn stroked her hair and back, rocking her in his arms as he coaxed her to the front porch where she collapsed onto the stoop.

“Damn you, Horn,” she exploded, jerking at his shirt, “this is all your fault. If you’d called me sooner, maybe I could have saved my dad. Why did you get him involved in this case?”

He clenched her wrists to stop her assault, but she lurched up and tore away from him, determined to see her father. Maybe he was still alive…

He grabbed her, yanked her back. “No, Olivia!”

“I have to see him. He might still make it!” Shoving him with all her might, she pushed past the police through the front door and into the foyer where she’d greeted her father so many times. The familiar details of the house registered—the same yellowed walls, the oak rolltop desk, the potted plant she’d given him for Christmas, now dead.

Then she spotted him lying on the faded beige carpeting. Face up, his jacket was open, his mouth gaping, his eyes glazed over in death. Blood splattered the floor, the walls, the charcoal gray suit he always wore, even his hands. A shotgun lay beside him, blood dotting the barrel.

The room spun. The stench of death and foul body odors assaulted her. The reality that this wasn’t a story she was working on, but her own flesh and blood, hit her.

Mindless of what she was doing or saying, she dropped to her knees and cradled his hand in hers. “Daddy, please don’t die,” she whispered. “Please. I need you.”

But the limp hand that met hers told her it was too late. Her father was already dead.

A FEW MOMENTS LATER, guilt churned at Craig as he dragged Olivia from her father. The EMT had already checked for a pulse while the police secured the scene and the CSI team rushed in.

He’d known Thornbird was behaving oddly, but hell, the man was strange, eccentric, had wanted to work on the case so much that he’d literally thrown himself into the job 24/7. Thornbird had never mentioned suicide though.

Or had Craig missed the signs?

Olivia’s sobs finally quieted, but the glazed shock and pain in her eyes cut him to the bone.

“I’m sorry, Olivia.” He rubbed her back to calm her, then gestured toward the kitchen which was visible from the small den but far enough to get her away from the body. “Come on, let’s sit down.”

She swayed as he guided her to a kitchen chair. Braced for another assault, Craig reached inside the battered cabinet, found a glass and filled it with tap water, then pressed it into her hand. “Drink this.”

She obeyed, her acquiescence a definite sign of her devastation. Craig zeroed in on the details of the house. It smelled old and musty, as if it hadn’t been cleaned in ages. Haphazard piles of notes, medical magazines and journals cluttered every conceivable space. The furniture in the house looked Early American, all in golds and avocados, an obvious indication that Thornbird didn’t value material wealth. He guessed the furniture had been early marriage. Other odors permeated the stale air—cigarette smoke, perspiration and rotting food. Fruit flies swarmed around two blackened bananas, and a dead fly floated in a glass of milk that had soured.

In the den, he spotted a yellowed photograph of Thornbird and a woman he assumed to be his wife. The woman had burnished copper hair instead of Olivia’s gold, and it was straight, not wavy, but those killer blue eyes came from the same gene pool. The first picture was of their wedding. The next, the couple held an infant, obviously Olivia, in their arms, as they stood beside a faded green Chevrolet. Thornbird looked happy, content, so much younger that Craig barely recognized him.

The Thornbird he knew had empty eyes, and he’d never smiled. A strangled sound caught in Olivia’s throat as she set the glass on the table, then she looked up at him with tears pooling in her baby-blue eyes.

“You got him involved in this,” she said in a choked voice. “He got sick because he was investigating that rash for you, didn’t he?”

He swallowed, aching for her, yet unwilling to show it. “I can’t talk about the case.”

She grabbed his shirt and shook him. “This is my father we’re talking about, Agent Horn, not some anonymous stranger. He was working for you, and that job killed him.”

Craig couldn’t reply without compromising his case, but he couldn’t argue with her, either.

Most people thought he was a coldhearted bastard. The Iceman, his co-workers called him.

Olivia thought the same, too. But he had to be the Iceman in order to do his job.

Just like he’d have to live with the guilt and the anguish in her eyes the rest of his life.