Читать книгу Killer Amnesia - Sherri Shackelford - Страница 15

Liam stuffed his phone into his pocket and glared at the slumbering security guard. No wonder his calls had gone unanswered. A paper cup with the last dredges of coffee rested on the floor beside the chair leg. The caffeine wasn’t working.

He nudged the guard’s toe with his foot. “Wake up, sunshine.”

Tim slumped to one side. Liam’s pulse spiked, and he lunged. He lowered the bulky guard to the patterned tile floor. Pressing two fingers to the base of Tim’s throat, he noted a strong, steady pulse thumping beneath his fingertips.

The guard mumbled something, his eyes fluttering.

Liam glanced at the coffee cup. Had the guard been drugged? He showed all the classic signs of an overdose. Thankfully, the man’s pulse was normal and his breathing steady.

Confident Tim was in no imminent danger, Liam straightened and shouldered his way into the patient’s room. “Emma?”

The space was empty. The bed was neatly made. Forcing his emotions aside, he ran through the possible scenarios. There were no signs of a struggle. Though the hospital wasn’t exactly teeming with activity, it also wasn’t so deserted that someone could drug and kidnap Emma without being noticed. She must have been forced out with a threat. But how long ago?

A sound brought him around so quickly his shoes squeaked.

“What’s wrong with Tim?” A redheaded nurse in navy scrubs decorated with pink, frolicking kittens appeared. “What happened?”

She knelt before the prone man and began taking his vitals.

“I think he’s been drugged,” Liam said. “And don’t touch that cup.”

She gave a clipped nod. “I’ll inform the doctor.”

“Have you seen Emma? The patient in this room?”

“Went for coffee.” The nurse jerked a thumb over her shoulder without taking her attention from the prone security guard. “Down the hall. Last door on the left.”

A thump sounded. Liam glanced at the cordoned-off section of the hospital wing. Too early for construction workers.

Someone screamed, the sound cutting off abruptly.

A familiar rush of adrenaline surged through his blood. Retrieving his service weapon, he extended his arm. He crossed the distance and maneuvered through the plastic sheeting toward the sound.

“Emma!”

The corridor was plunged in darkness, and he reached for his flashlight before recalling he hadn’t yet replaced the one he’d lost two days ago.

“Emma!” he called again.

His shin cracked against a stack of construction supplies. Righting himself, he fumbled for the wall, using his left hand to guide him through the pitch-black corridor.

His fingers bumped against a switch. The sudden shock of light temporarily blinded him.

A flash of orange sailed through the air, and a molded plastic chair bounced painfully off his forearm before clattering to the floor.

She came at him like a wildcat.

“Emma!” He stumbled backward, deflecting her blows, but not before she clocked him in the jaw. Stinging pain fired through his cheek. “It’s me, Liam.”

Recognition seemed to wash over Emma, and she sagged.

He quickly stowed his weapon with one hand and caught her against his chest with the other. “It’s all right, it’s over. You’re safe.”

“A man. There was a man.” She turned her face into his shirt, muffling her voice. “He tried to suffocate me. He said...he said, we aren’t finished yet.”

Liam’s training urged him to follow the perpetrator, but his arms tightened around Emma. Catching himself, he pulled away. There were only two ways to exit the building from this location, and Liam had come from one of them.

“It’s going to be all right.” He threaded his fingers through her dark silken hair and urged her to meet his gaze. “Wait here.”

The tips of her eyelashes sparkled with unshed tears, and his heartbeat tripped. Eyes like that were the reason cops quit hanging out with the guys after work and went straight home instead. They were the reason the pictures on their phones changed from deer camps to hospital nurseries. Eyes like that were dangerous.

“I’ll be fine.” She touched the bandage at her temple, her fingers trembling. “Catch him.”

His senses vibrating on high alert, Liam sprinted the distance and kicked open the exit door to an empty parking lot on the far side of the building.

Sheeting rain hindered visibility. Forcing his fisted hands to relax, he scanned the perimeter. No cars. No people. Nothing.

Traffic rumbled past on the highway to his left. A vehicle needed thirty seconds to melt into oblivion. At least three minutes had passed since he’d first heard the commotion.

Above his head, a shiny new security camera perched beneath the eaves. A wide grin spread across his face. Nothing like modern technology to make the job a little easier.

He rang the station for backup before returning inside.

The break room was empty, and he had a brief moment of panic before discovering Emma hovering outside her hospital room. Organized chaos reigned as orderlies along with Dr. Javadi wrestled Tim onto a gurney. The redheaded nurse, her hands encased in blue surgical gloves, handed Liam a plastic bag containing the empty paper cup.

“I didn’t let anyone touch this,” she said with a mournful glance at the prone security guard. “Like you asked.”

He’d seen the nurse and the guard speaking earlier and sensed their relationship was more than casual.

Liam accepted the bag. “The break room is off-limits until further notice. It’ll be taped.”

“I’ll let the staff know.”

Dr. Javadi glanced up. “He should be all right. He’s got a strong pulse and his airway is clear. Judging by the symptoms, I’m guessing he ingested an overdose of a prescription sleeping pill. I’ll know more when the tox screens come back.”

Liam had seen more than his fair share of overdoses. He didn’t envy the guard the stomach pumping he was about to receive. “Keep me informed of his condition.”

As the group rushed off, Liam touched Emma’s elbow. “We should have someone check you out too.”

“It’s all right. I’m fine. Tim needs the help more.” She pressed a fist to her mouth. “I thought he dozed off. I just left him there. I walked right past him.”

“That’s nothing. I nudged him with my foot and called him sunshine.”

Her full lips formed a perfect O before she mumbled, “Yikes.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” Not exactly his finest hour. At least Tim was young and healthy. Liam had no doubt he’d make a full recovery. “We can both apologize in person.”

Her face was pale and devoid of makeup, making her appear younger than her age. She wore jeans with a wispy navy cardigan crossed double over her stomach, her white-knuckled fingers clutching the edges together.

He gently maneuvered her to a chair beside the bed. “Sit. Can I get you a drink of water?”

He’d give her a few minutes to collect herself—but not too long. He needed her observations of the attack while the memories were fresh. Keeping his rage at bay was secondary. He’d been filled with a nearly uncontrollable fury since discovering her empty room. Someone had done this on his watch. On his turf.

“I’m thirsty,” she said. “But is it safe to drink anything?”

“Brought this from home.” He retrieved a bottle of water from his pocket and twisted the cap. “About as safe as it gets.”

She gratefully accepted the offering and wrapped her hands around the plastic.

“Are you certain you’re not hurt?” he asked gently. “Adrenaline often masks injuries.”

The first thing he’d felt after being shot was relief instead of pain. Relief that he was still alive. He’d known the bullet was coming the minute Swerve confronted him. Jenny’s shouted accusations of his betrayal, and his subsequent denial that he was a cop, had only delayed the inevitable.

Swerve had been too distraught over killing Jenny to realize his intended target had survived. Sirens had followed. Maybe Swerve had called the ambulance in the hopes of saving Jenny, or maybe someone else had. Liam supposed it didn’t mattered.

Emma swiped the back of her hand over her eyes. “He didn’t hurt me. He caught me by surprise, that was all.”

A violent shudder traveled the length of her body, and a wave of helpless frustration crashed over him. Maintaining a healthy distance with crime victims was part of the job. The only way to stay sane. Bad things happened to good people all the time. Jenny’s death had shaken him, but he’d done what he’d always done—he’d boxed his emotions and tucked them away. He’d left the ultimate judgment to God. Emma’s situation was dredging up feelings he thought he’d buried.

She needed a protector, and he’d already failed her once. Any distraction risked dangerous consequences for them both.

Her face averted, Emma tucked her dark hair behind one ear, exposing the purple bruising on her temple from the car accident.

A wave of dizziness hit him hard, sweeping him into the past again. Swerve had backhanded Jenny the day before the shooting, and Liam had defended her. The response was instinctive. And fatal. His actions had triggered Swerve’s suspicions, bringing into focus other incidents that might have escaped scrutiny while highlighting Liam’s lengthy absence from the neighborhood after grade school. That was the risk of undercover work. There was never a way to escape inside a role completely. He’d tried to protect Jenny, and he’d gotten her killed instead.

With an effort born from years of practice, he shoved his personal feelings down. He knew better than anyone what happened when professional duties mixed with high emotions.

Nothing good.

He dragged a chair around to face Emma and sat. Leaning forward, he propped his elbows on his knees and intertwined his fingers. “I need to know exactly what happened. Tell me everything you remember. Every detail, no matter how small or insignificant it might seem.”

She rested her hand over his, as though clinging to a lifeline. Despite his rigorous self-talk, he couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

“Try and relax,” he said. “Close your eyes if you need to. Tell me everything you remember.

Her throat worked. She appeared lost in the memory of what had just happened, and he doubted she even realized she was touching him.

She took another deep, shuddering breath. “I’m ready.”

Gazing into the distance, she related the story with clinical precision to detail. She was a writer, he’d done his homework over the weekend, and her skills showed in her meticulous observations.

He’d spent the previous day researching her background. She was an investigative journalist who’d written a couple of novels. A sense of familiarity had nagged him, but he’d yet to discover why. Maybe she seemed familiar because she wrote about famous serial killers. According to her website, one of her books had been optioned for a movie.

The bottle of water in her hand crackled in her tight grip. “When I heard your footsteps, I thought he’d come back.”

Liam jutted his sore chin. “You’ve got a mean right hook.”

As though noticing her hand clutching his for the first time, she snatched her arm away. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t let him catch me by surprise again. I don’t know what happened.”

“You were acting on instinct.” He absently rubbed his thumb over the lingering warmth of her touch. “That’s good. That’s what’s supposed to happen. You’re tough. Sounds like you’ve had some self-defense training. Your body remembered what to do even though your mind may have forgotten the details.”

She splayed her fingers and flexed them a few times. Her nails were neatly manicured ovals painted a dusky shade of pink.

She smiled tremulously. “I don’t feel very tough.”

“I’ve got the bruises to prove it,” he joked, drawing delicate color to her pale cheeks.

Her gaze dropped, and she gasped. “You’re hurt! You’re bleeding.”

He stretched out his leg. The second blow to his shin had opened the previous wound. The bleeding wasn’t bad, just enough to soak through the material. The damage had already dried and darkened.

“It’s nothing,” he said.

She leaned forward, her hands outstretched. “I should take a look.”

“No,” he all but shouted, wincing as his voice echoed off the high ceilings. Exposing his leg felt too intimate. Too personal. He tucked his foot beneath the chair. “It’s fine. Let’s get back to what happened.”

Despite the odds, she hadn’t given up. She’d been ready to fight with someone who was considerably bigger and stronger, and he admired her bravery.

Emma stood and moved a distance away, her arms wrapped protectively around her body. As much as he regretted the continued interrogation, the time immediately following the incident was vital. They both needed a little distance, and telling her story was the best way to achieve some perspective.

“Anything else you remember?” he asked.

“Like I said, I didn’t get a good look at him. He was taller than me, but not by a lot. Maybe five foot eight or five-nine. Not an athlete. I jabbed him in the stomach.” She absently rubbed her elbow. “I didn’t hit a six-pack. I don’t even know if I can identify his speech because he only whispered. That’s all I can say.”

A rumble of footsteps sounded in the corridor along with familiar voices. Bishop had arrived with the sheriff, easing the tension in Liam’s shoulders.

Sheriff Bill Garner was the one saving grace that came from working in Redbird. With a solid history in law enforcement, the sheriff’s experience showed. He’d already served twenty years in the Fort Worth Police Department when he ran for county sheriff. That was ten years ago. Now he was ten years away from pulling two pensions along with his social security.

Garner wasn’t coasting toward his retirement, either. He worked hard, and he made sure Bishop and Liam did the same. All in all, he made life in Redbird infinitely more palatable. If he had a penchant for assigning nicknames that were more mocking than endearing, and if he occasionally had a sharp edge in his voice, most folks gave him a pass.

The sheriff spotted Emma and moved into the room.

His gaze intense, he clasped one of her hands between both of his and leaned forward. “So you’re the little lady that’s been causing all the trouble.”

“This is Emma Lyons,” Liam said. “Emma, this is Sheriff Garner.”

“You don’t remember me, do you?” the sheriff asked, a bemused expression on his face.

Her brows knitted, and she shook her head.

“Probably for the best.” The sheriff chuckled. “Gave you a speeding ticket about a week ago.”

“Oh, uh, I don’t remember,” she mumbled.

The sheriff was showing his age with graying hair and a salt-and-pepper goatee along with a barely noticeable paunch, but no one could fault his endurance or mental prowess.

“I wish I was here about something as simple as a traffic citation, Ms. Lyons,” the sheriff said. “Do you mind if I steal my deputy for a moment? We’re gonna let the doc check you out.”

“I don’t need a doctor,” she said, her pose challenging. “I need to find out who wants me dead. I don’t know if it’s a boyfriend or some random crazy guy. Do you have any idea how that feels?”

Liam arched a brow. He’d yet to see this side of Emma—and he liked the juxtaposition. She was vulnerable, but she was no pushover. The sheriff needed to be challenged once in a while. They all did.

Garner sighed, his hands worrying the change in his pocket. “I’m real sorry, Ms. Lyons. We’re doing everything we can.”

Bishop knocked on the door frame to catch their attention, his expression grim. “We’ve got a problem. The security cameras in the parts of the hospital under renovation aren’t wired yet. We’ve got no footage.”

Liam’s stomach curdled. “I was counting on that footage.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” the sheriff said. “This close to the highway, he was long gone by the time you gave chase. We’ll check the cameras on the other buildings in the area. Maybe they caught something. Looks like we’ve got someone familiar with breaking the law. Ms. Lyons is safe. That’s what’s important. You did good.”

The sheriff’s vote of confidence fell flat for Liam. He’d been marking time on the job. With only nuisance calls and drunk drivers to fill his days, his skills had slipped. Not anymore. The sheriff dealt with the same mundane problems, and he stayed sharp. The fault rested with Liam. He’d been a good cop in Dallas.

Redbird, for all its eccentricities, deserved a good cop, as well.

Emma toyed with her bangs, brushing them from her forehead. “What exactly does that mean? Why do you think the person who ran me off the road is familiar with breaking the law?”

“This isn’t someone acting in a fit of rage,” the sheriff explained. “This is someone who plans carefully. Methodically. Despite what you read in books, that’s not something we see too often. Most crimes are impulsive, which means people make mistakes. We’ve got our work cut out for us.”

Despite what you read in books... True crime.

The nagging voice in the back of Liam’s mind surfaced with a howl. He’d previously discounted the connection as too far-fetched. In the absence of any other information, he had to reconsider the possibility.

He reached for his phone. “I know where to start looking.”

“Now that’s a loaded statement,” the sheriff declared. “Care to elaborate?”

Liam scrolled through the glowing screen on his phone and flashed the picture that had sparked his initial suspicions. “She writes about serial killers. Someone with methodical patience wants to kill her. Doesn’t take a lot to connect the dots.”

Pressing her fingers against the tick-tick-tick banging in her head, Emma stared at the photo on the deputy’s phone. “Are you certain I write about serial killers?”

She desperately wanted to remember, but even the idea left her queasy. None of this made any sense. What sort of person immersed herself in the mind of a killer?

Sheriff Garner squinted at the tiny screen. “I don’t have my glasses. You’ll have to explain what I’m seeing.”

The sheriff’s nose was prominent below deep-set eyes and he had a charming Texas twang. Deep creases formed parentheses around a mouth that seemed to naturally relax into an easy grin. Though he gave the appearance of being laid-back, Emma doubted many people crossed him. She sensed he ruled with an iron fist in a velvet glove.

Deputy Bishop guffawed. “It’s a book cover. What does a book cover have to do with anything?”

Emma shivered and rubbed her upper arms. When the surly deputy had delivered her personal belongings, his attitude had been borderline rude. There was an expectant look on his face—a challenge in his questions. The encounter had left her with a feeling of unease she hadn’t been able to shake. He didn’t look well, either. There were dark circles beneath his eyes, and his skin was sallow.

“You’re a true-crime writer. An investigative journalist with an impressive list of books to your name,” Liam said.

He scrolled through the pictures and revealed a glossy publicity photo of her smiling face.

Gazing in wonder at the screen, she managed a bemused, “That’s me?”

She recognized herself from the face she saw in the mirror, though she didn’t recall posing for the picture.

“Your last book was a number one bestseller,” Liam said. “And, according to your website, optioned into a movie.”

“At least I’m a successful writer,” she said. “That’s something, I guess.”

“Last year, you bought a house in Redbird,” he continued. “You moved here from Dallas. I thought I recognized you that first night, but I wasn’t sure. I finally remembered. You wrote a series of articles for the Dallas Morning News about the Killing Fields. I must have recognized you from your picture in the paper.”

The Killing Fields. She should probably know what he was talking about, but the name meant nothing to her.

Annoyance tightened her lips. She was heartily sick of playing catch up with her own life. “What are the Killing Fields?”

“A stretch of Interstate 45 between Galveston and Houston,” Liam patiently explained. “It’s known as the Highway to...well, let’s just say it’s the preferred dumping ground for serial killers.”

A break in the clouds drew her gaze toward the window. Streaks of morning sunlight glittered over the rain-dampened trees. There was so much beauty in the world, why had she chosen to immerse herself in darkness?

“That sounds gruesome.” She shuddered. “Why was I writing about the Killing Fields?”

“Twelve of the thirty bodies discovered on that stretch of highway in the past fifty or so years have been attributed to two different killers.” Liam glanced up from his phone. “But eighteen of those victims remain open cases. All women.”

The knots in her stomach pulled tighter. “Eighteen? That’s...that’s insane.” She searched the faces of the three men for a mirror of her shock, but no one else seemed particularly outraged by the number. “Doesn’t that seem like a lot?”

“We do what we can,” the sheriff said with a hard, forced smile. “But one out of every three murders remain unsolved.”

“History tells us that serial killers don’t stop until they’re caught,” Liam added. “If our suspicions are correct, then he’s still out there.”

Nausea welled in the back of her throat. He’s still out there.

There was a chance that someone who’d killed before without mercy wanted her dead, and he’d nearly succeeded.

Twice.