Part 19 (1/2)

Eyes burning from the smoke, Taige turned away. Cul en fell into step beside her. They wound their way through the ma.s.s of rescue personnel and law enforcement. A few people tried to intercept them, but Taige flashed her ID from the Bureau, and they grudgingly stepped out of her way, usually with a muttered warning, ”Stay out of the way.”

After the fifth time, Taige swore. ”d.a.m.n, it ain't like I'm up here trying to throw a party.”

And that earned her an irritated, territorial look. Get the h.e.l.l out, was the general consensus. These people didn't want her here, but Taige honestly didn't give a d.a.m.n. She wasn't too thrilled to be there, either. And then it got worse. Somebody recognized her.

Although she'd tried to avoid it, somebody had connected her to Jillian's rescue. Old pictures of her had been dug up and plastered across several major papers, and she'd had to dodge a couple of reporters back home. Word spread as fast as the fire was spreading, and she felt the change in the air, going from disgruntled territorial macho c.r.a.p as the firefighters and cops thought the FBI was intruding, to curiosity, mixed with a little bit of outright hostile disbelief.

No thoughts were clear, but that wasn't unusual for her. Awful of her, but at that moment, she was glad the fire raged on, because it kept most of the people too d.a.m.n busy to come up and pester her. It also kept them from staring at her. For the most part.

She could see or feel several different gazes on her, measuring, evaluating.

It added to her already strained state of mind, and trying to block it out was getting harder and harder. Her control was always weaker when she was tired, and she had pa.s.sed the point of tired a long way back.

Halfway to the car, the exhaustion snuck up on her, and she tripped, stumbled. Cullen caught her right arm and steadied her. Another hand closed around her left arm, and a concerned voice said, ”Ma'am, are you okay?”

All conscious thought fled. She lifted her gaze and stared at the stranger without seeing his face. The gray dropped down on her like a lead weight, and she could feel it pressing on her, crus.h.i.+ng her. Only Cullen's hand on her right arm and the stranger's on her left kept her from hitting the ground.

She saw faces.

Dozens of faces flashed before her eyes. Grief-stricken parents, lost children, infuriated, frustrated law enforcement officials. Their thoughts formed a collective voice, and it echoed inside her mind in a refrain: Why?

There was another question, just as loud, and it was one that Taige had asked more than once. Who? Until that moment, the answer had been unknown. But now there was a flicker of knowledge.

Elusive, it danced away before she could fully understand it. Reflexively, she reached up, grabbed hold of the stranger standing in front of her. The connection-it had come from him. Tenuous at best, and if she faltered for just a second, it would slip away again.

Instinct almost had her forcing her way inside the man's thoughts, and she just barely managed to restrain herself, seeking instead to deepen that surface connection.

This isn't happening.

But it was. There was no denying it. From the corner of her eye, she could see the man who'd unknowingly brought this on. He was a paramedic, about her age, about her height, and when he'd been a kid, he'd lost his older sister. The girl had been in that stage where adolescence gave way to adulthood. They'd looked a lot alike.

The kil er had seen the brother, seen him-and remembered the sister. Remembered killing her. The killer had relived those memories with a pa.s.sion so intense it had left an imprint, like pressing his hand into fresh cement. And the cement, in this case, was the medic.

Son of a b.i.t.c.h. He'd wiped all traces of himself clean, then he'd run into this man who bore such a strong resemblance to one of his victims. This man didn't even realize he'd met his sister's kil er, however briefly. And the killer probably didn't realize he'd left such a strong imprint, either.

The little memory flashes, the psychic imprints worked to fall into place within her mind. All the answers danced just below the surface, moving closer and closer, s.h.i.+fting, realigning, until the answer was there.

All but glaring at her. Taige moaned and sagged to her knees, jerking away from the two men trying to keep her upright. Tears burned in her eyes, and she buried her face in her hands. Warm hands came up and cupped her shoulders. Without looking, she knew who it was: Cullen. He knelt behind her, sliding his arms around her waist and pulling her back against him as her mind fought to accept the knowledge before her.

Cullen's warmth, his strength, surrounded her as she knelt on the ground and fought not to be sick. Fought not to cry. If she started, she wouldn't stop for a good long while.

There'd be time for tears later. But not now.

Now she had to go. Had to find him and see if she'd really seen what she thought she'd seen.

Reaching up, she covered one of Cul en's hands with hers. ”We need to go.”

One hand smoothed across her shoulder to cup over her neck. ”What's going on, Taige? Where are we going?”

”Back home. He's there.”

TAIGE wouldn't speak to him.

It was d.a.m.ned eerie having her sitting in the car with him right then, because she seemed more dead than alive. Her skin had a grayish cast, her mouth had a tight, pinched look to it, and she gazed out the winds.h.i.+eld with an unblinking stare. Cul en doubted she saw anything, not the scenery whipping by and not the cars they pa.s.sed as they sped south down the I-65.

For the first hour, he'd tried to talking to her, but she hadn't answered anything he'd asked. She wouldn't speak at all. He shot the clock on the dashboard a glance. The d.a.m.n thing hadn't ever moved so slow. He was driving nearly ninety miles an hour. On occasion, a snarl in the traffic had him pul ing out on the shoulder to drive, and he only hoped that if they got pulled over, Taige's Bureau ID would get them out of trouble.

a.s.suming she could focus enough.

The miles seemed to drag by, even though he was driving so fast the scenery sped by at a blur. Finally, he saw the exit he needed for Highway 59, and he took it at sixty-five miles an hour. The two-lane highway wasn't as busy in the middle of a Monday morning, but the cars were still moving too d.a.m.n slow to satisfy him.

The silence got to him, and he glanced at Taige again. ”Where are we going?”

Finally a response. ”Just keep driving.”

”Driving where, exactly?”

She didn't answer. The thick fringe of her lashes lowered, s.h.i.+elding her eyes. She looked-d.a.m.n, Cullen didn't even have the words to describe how she looked. Shattered.

Devastated. Shocked.

He wanted to hold her, wished he could pull the car off the road and say screw it. The need to do just that was strong.

Yet there was an equally strong need that kept him driving. A part of him that was hot with antic.i.p.ation and the need to get where they were going, find who they were looking for, so Cullen could kill him. Slow. Nice and slow. Cullen hadn't ever pegged himself as a bloodthirsty type. He'd never admit it, but when he was in the delivery room the day Jillian was born, he'd gotten d.a.m.n queasy when he saw the blood. His legs had gone all watery, and for a minute, he had been scared he was going to humiliate himself and pa.s.s out on the delivery room floor.

His dad loved to go hunting, but Cullen had gone with him exactly one time-one time, and he'd known that hunting was not his thing. The smell of blood, the sight of it, the feel of it. h.e.l.l, no.

But right now? He craved it. He didn't just want to find this man and kill him. He wanted to hurt him.

The b.a.s.t.a.r.d didn't know it, but he was already dead.

As they drew closer to Gulf Sh.o.r.es, the traffic from the tourists thickened until they were moving along at a snail's pace. At least it felt that way to Cullen. Blood roared in his ears so loud, he barely heard Taige's voice when she said, ”Turn here.” The narrow highway was just north of town, and it wasn't at all familiar to Cullen.

”Where are we going?” he asked as they started to head east.

”The church.”

Cullen didn't want to ask which church. He had a feeling that he already knew the answer to that, just by that expression in her eyes: dazed disbelief and desolation. ”What church? Why?” he asked shortly. She didn't answer. Just barely, he kept from growling at her. He took the turn onto that gravel road so sharply, the truck skidded, and the tires threw dust into the air. There was a sign set in a flower bed, surrounded by chaotic bursts of flowers.

Disciples of the Lamb, it read.

Under that, wors.h.i.+p times. And under that . . . a name.

Leon Carson, Minister.

For just the briefest second, time seemed to stop. Cul en slammed on the brakes and read the name again, certain he'd misread it.

”Son of a b.i.t.c.h!” he roared. Shoving his foot down on the gas, he sped down the winding little drive, pulling in front of the church and stomping on the brake. Tires squealed.

”He's not here,” Taige murmured. Cul en released his seat belt and paused, looking back at her. She moved slowly, as though each movement hurt.