Читать книгу Wanted By The Marshal - Ryshia Kennie - Страница 13

The covers were twisted, some on the bed, some off. The room was still in darkness as Kiera fought with a sheet and finally reached over and flipped on the bedside light. She’d thought she’d heard a sound, something out of the ordinary. Seconds passed. She clutched the sheet as the fridge fan clicked on. The soft whirring seemed loud in the night silence.

“It’s the fridge,” she muttered as if saying those words would reassure her, as if they would change everything.

It was her second night back in her own home, in her own bed. It had been over a week since the attack. When she’d been discharged from the hospital, she’d been more than ready to pick up her life where it had left off. Except, that wasn’t the way it was. The condo she called home no longer felt like one. The funky, crafty style she’d created by shopping flea markets and craft sales, the style that had felt so completely her and so homey, felt foreign. She’d been on edge since she’d come home. And a police officer had been assigned to patrol her area. He made a regular pass of her property, checking in often and would continue, the officer had assured her, until a US marshal took over. While she wasn’t under twenty-four-hour surveillance, she was promised a patrol car in her neighborhood and a regular check-in.

She grabbed the book she was reading and her blanket. After heading to the kitchen to start the coffee maker, she curled up on the couch while it brewed. But the cozy mystery lay unopened on her lap despite the fact that it was one that she’d anxiously been waiting to read. She sat quietly, trying to think of anything but the trauma she’d endured.

She looked over at the half-grown cat she’d so recently taken in. Her name was Lucy. Both the name and her reason for being here were fate more than choice. She’d taken the cat so one of the residents at the home where she worked wouldn’t lose contact with her pet and would still be able to see her. Now the adolescent cat was curled up on her raspberry-and-blue flowered armchair. Lucy had claimed that chair from the minute she’d been brought home. Kiera stood up and went to sit on the edge of the chair and ran her fingers through Lucy’s soft fur. The cat batted at her hand and curled up tighter, presenting her with her back.

“You win,” she said with a smile and went back to the couch. But, despite the cat’s rejection, it felt good to have her here, to have another living being sharing her space. In fact, she’d picked the cat up from her friend’s house the minute she’d been discharged from the hospital. But she knew that she needed more than Lucy to move past the trauma. She needed to dive back into the work she loved. Returning to her routine would get rid of the fear and uncertainty that had rooted in the midst of her life like a field of thistles. Even now, she missed her colleagues’ banter and the everyday comings and goings of the care home. The thought of that brought a touch of normalcy to the sense of unreality she’d had since she’d been kidnapped.

She stood up, paced and then sat down again. She knew that the experts disagreed with that theory. They thought that counseling sessions and rest were the answer. She didn’t need counselors or psychiatrists or any other health professional to talk her into wellness. What she needed, besides her life back, was to know that both her kidnappers were behind bars. That would make her feel so much better than any therapist ever could. But the authorities thought they had her attacker. No one believed that there were two involved in the attack for there was no physical evidence. Instead, the FBI had assigned a team of marshals to protect her. They weren’t here yet, and secretly she felt that they were putting them in place more to ensure that she didn’t skip town than to protect her. It was a feeling based on the way they’d phrased things as they laid their protection plan out to her. Whatever they thought about that—they were wrong.

It was five minutes to five o’clock.

The phone rang.

“It’s a prank,” she muttered. “Someone with a sick sense of humor.” That’s what the police officer had said when she’d told him that she’d gotten two calls early yesterday morning. One a hang up and the second heavy breathing. He hadn’t taken the calls seriously at all. In fact, he’d called the incidents unfortunate and bad timing, following so closely on the heels of all she’d been through.

Yet, in her heart she didn’t believe any of that. Her gut knew it would happen again and her hand shook as she answered.

“Hello,” she said and fought to keep the tremor from her voice. “What do you want?”

She was talking to dead air. They’d hung up just as they’d done yesterday at exactly this time.

If they followed yesterday morning’s pattern, they’d call again. In exactly ten minutes.

She hit End and wished that she could hurl the phone across the room.

She got up, dropping the blanket and the book on the couch as she went into her bedroom and over to the nightstand. She hesitated a second before opening the drawer. She looked at the gun lying there as if that would somehow make her feel better. The gun had rested in the bottom of her aunt’s purse for forty years, or so the woman who had raised her had claimed. She’d kept the gun after she had died, as a memento, nothing more. She didn’t like guns. And, for the longest time, aside from getting a permit to carry a concealed weapon, she’d kept it in a locked storage box. Despite the promise of police surveillance, being checked in on didn’t feel like it was enough. In her fear, she’d taken the gun out of the locked storage box the day after she left the hospital. Her life had turned on its head. Her aunt had been right, one should always be prepared. If she’d had the gun with her that fateful night, maybe she would never have been taken.

“Auntie Nan, you may have known what you were talking about,” she said. Her voice was soft, reflective. She looked upward as if somehow, somewhere, her aunt would be listening.

“Damn it.” She hated this, hated the fact that her life was in shreds and now she was the victim of some idiot. A prank caller on top of everything else was too much. For she knew her freedom would soon be curtailed by personal protection. A man prowling her property night and day was not something she wanted, and not, according to the FBI, anything she could avoid.

A US marshal was security she didn’t need. They’d soon be here anyway. What she wanted hadn’t seemed to matter in over a week. First the kidnapping and now in its aftermath, the surveillance, protection they liked to call it. Despite their insistence of vigilance, the irony was their reasons for it. They didn’t believe her claims that there was another killer. Instead, they feared that she would run. There was no danger in either option. She wouldn’t run and there was another killer. But Cheyenne wasn’t a place where a serial killer could continue his sick activities and not get caught. It wasn’t a place where he could blend in. It was a small city and that made it difficult to hide. Whoever the second killer was, he’d follow a pattern already established over the last year and head to a larger center where there was more opportunity. She was as sure of that as she was that the second killer existed. She tried to tell herself she was safe, that the fact that only one killer was behind bars, didn’t matter. She tried to tell herself that the killer that authorities insisted didn’t exist, was no threat to her but they would be a threat to another woman in some other town or city in this country. But despite thinking that, she wasn’t so sure that she was safe or, that it was over. She wasn’t a forensic expert or a psychiatrist, but she knew a little about serial killers. She’d met one face-to-face and she’d been in the presence of the other.

The other. She shuddered for it was the thought of that—of the one on the loose that terrified her most.

The one they hadn’t caught, the one they didn’t believe in, that one had been the leader. At least, that’s what she sensed. She also sensed that nothing would stop them. They’d go on, find a new partner, maybe work alone. But the end result would be that someone else would die. She shuddered. Someone had to stop the killing and to do that someone had to believe her.

At five minutes after five o’clock in the morning, the phone rang again. There was no point hesitating. That wouldn’t make any of this go away. She answered.

The deep breathing started. As it had before, it went on for a minute. This time she said nothing after the first hello, not for thirty seconds. Then she demanded that this end. She demanded an identity. She got neither of her demands. The phone call ended exactly thirty seconds after that.

She tossed the phone to the other end of the couch as if distance would make a statement, end the harassment. Prank calls were what she had thought yesterday. But now she sensed something else was at play, as a sense of déjà vu almost choked her.

* * *

THE SUN HAD only begun to rise when Travis turned the corner onto the quiet residential street. The assignment was low-key. That’s what he’d thought going in. He’d also learned a long time ago that situations like this could turn on a dime. And a second read of the file gave him a feeling that something was off. It was because of that, because he trusted his instincts, that he was here this early. His shift didn’t start for another three hours. Something told him that he needed to be more proactive than normal.

He wanted to get a clear handle on things. He wanted an uninterrupted look at what he was dealing with. That included not only the witness but her environment as it was now—undisturbed. Less than a minute later, he pulled up to the three-story off-white condo building in the middle of the block. The ground-floor unit was the one that the witness, Kiera Connell, resided in. She’d purchased it a year ago. He knew that because he’d already run a check on the property. It was built five years ago, and she was the second owner. They were trivial facts but even in a low-threat case like this, it was his habit to research such things. Even though there was a driveway, he parked the SUV in the parking lot a group of similar buildings shared. It was too early in the morning to knock on her door and introduce himself. The entire building, including her condo, was still in darkness. He could see the darker shadows of flowers in the flower bed. Everything seemed to be in place—neat and organized.

He wondered what the inside of her place was like and he wondered what the occupant was like. He didn’t know what she’d been like before the incident. But he could only guess that now she would be in need of support and counseling for many months, or even years, to come. She’d survived a vicious attack by a serial killer who had left a trail of women dead. The women had all been raped and then murdered, all except the first two. They’d been murdered without any evidence of sexual assault. That wasn’t odd but rather an indicator that the perpetrator had evolved. An attack like that could leave the victim broken and unable to return to their former life. He hoped that wasn’t the case. But the law of averages wasn’t in her favor. It was too bad. According to the file, she’d been a determined young woman. She had carved a career for herself despite adversity. But a file never told the whole story, nor did the authorities who led the investigation. To keep her safe, he needed to know who she was as a person. That was for later; for now he’d scout out the area. The advantage of this early hour was that he could do so without any distractions. He was lead on the team of marshals who would protect Kiera Connell. The danger to the witness was minimal. Despite the low risk of danger, he was working the case like he did any other.

On this assignment, he’d had shorter notice than most. It was up to him and his team to keep her safe and make sure she kept it together until the trial was over. The feds had pinned their case not only on the evidence they’d collected but on the testimony of the only witness.

He’d learned as much as he could about the woman who was his latest assignment. It fascinated him that she was the only victim who had escaped. That a twenty-five-year-old nurse, with little life experience, had been the one to do it—that, to him, was mind-blowing. Although, he couldn’t imagine how messed up she must be from the experience at the madman’s hands. He felt for her. But he still would rather bow out of this assignment. For, he saw little challenge. The perp was behind bars and he and his team were effectively babysitters to a witness who was too important for authorities to take any chances on. She was the key to ending a killing spree that had lasted far too long. For they suspected it had gone on long before they’d become aware of it. All that aside, bowing out was, unfortunately, not an option.

He looked at his watch. It was twenty to six. He’d been up since four after only five hours of sleep. It wasn’t a big sleep loss, only an hour less than he usually got. He shrugged the thought away. It wasn’t a factor. The amount of time that had passed since he’d arrived was. He’d learned a long time ago that time could slip away if not tracked and organized. Time was critical for it could mean life or death. That was why he always kept a tight schedule and a close eye on the time.

A window at the front of her property was open a crack. It was the swing-out kind that, if one was into such things, could open from the outside. He frowned at that. No matter that the killer was behind bars—open windows low to the ground were begging for a crime to happen. He stood at the corner of the condo. The sun was rising. Streaks of sunlight were making it easy to see without the aid of a flashlight. He took a step forward meaning to scout the entire perimeter of the unit.

“Freeze! Take one more step and I’ll shoot.”

The woman’s voice came out of nowhere. He’d been broadsided. Damn it, he thought. He’d been caught with his pants figuratively down. He turned and saw out of the corner of his eye the barrel of a handgun. He didn’t dare turn right around, even though he wanted to. But he didn’t plan to die today, or any day in the immediate future.

“Drop your weapon!”

There was no way in hell that was happening. His mind ticked through the options. He could take her down, but he had to get closer. He hoped her attention was on his weapon as he dropped it to his side, still holding it in his left hand. At the same time, he took a step backward, toward her.

“Do it!” she snapped. “And don’t take another step.”

“I’m a US—”

“I don’t care who you are,” she interrupted. “Put your hands where I can see them and drop your gun.”

He slid his gun into his holster and lifted both hands in the air. He had his badge in one hand, having pulled it out from the side of his holster as he’d holstered the gun. “I’m going to toss my badge—”

“No!” she interrupted. “You’ll throw nothing.”

Damn it, he thought again. He was furious with himself. She’d snuck up on him. But she hadn’t come out of nowhere. He should have sensed that he wasn’t alone. He should have known. Hell, he thought. He should have expected it, been prepared for it. It was the basic tenet of any scout pack—Be Prepared—never mind a US marshal. He’d missed the signs that she was near. And because of that, he was at the wrong end of a gun. Was he getting old? His friends had teased him about that only a week earlier over a couple of beers. They’d been celebrating his thirtieth birthday. He discounted that thought. He worked hard to be at the top of his game. Still, that didn’t change the fact that he’d screwed up—big time.

“Who are you?” he asked. If nothing else, he deserved to know who was threatening him. More important, he needed to put himself back where he belonged, in charge of this situation.

She fired a shot that kicked up dirt two feet to his right.

“What the hell!” he roared and almost spun around, stopping himself with sheer willpower.

“Another word and you’re a dead man,” she retorted.

A thought came to him that was as outrageous as it was possible. After all, it was her condo that he was standing outside. The more he thought it, the more the idea gained plausibility. Was it possible that this was the witness he’d come to protect?

“I’m here to—”

“Do you not understand English? Shut up,” she said.

The words were angry and spoken with no hesitation, no hysteria and no tears. That wasn’t what he expected if she was the witness. But if it wasn’t her, who was she?

“Turn around,” she ordered. “And do it slowly.”

There was something about her voice. A silken edge that in another time and another place might have been erotic. He couldn’t help the thought. It was a voice that could do things to a man in the darkness of the night.

He found it interesting that her voice vibrated a bit as if she was nervous or traumatized. Had she never held a gun before? It was a possibility. And a possibility where he’d been lucky that she hadn’t hit him.

He pivoted on a heel. He wanted to give her the impression of how little he cared about her demands, or the fact that she had the advantage. She needed to know that he didn’t fear her.

But when he faced her, he could only stare. For the woman holding a gun on him with a grim but determined expression was the face on the witness’s file. He was facing the very woman he was to protect, and the file picture had done her no justice. In the picture she’d been pretty; in real life she was so much more than that. The rising sun highlighted her dark hair, giving it a glossy sheen that framed her beautiful face. She was petite, no more than a few inches over five feet. She was slim and yet voluptuous in a way that made him fight to keep his eyes up and on her face. It was an attraction that he hadn’t felt in a very long time, if ever. She mesmerized him with a look.

He was pinned by green eyes. They were eyes that would have held him forever if it weren’t for the gun that she had yet to lower. The moment shifted everything he knew about this case. A simple, uncomplicated assignment had just become difficult. Difficult in ways he’d never imagined.