Part 35 (2/2)
It was almost three in the morning by the time the last patrol car left Hillside Avenue in peace once again. Inside the house at 1733, Mara Douglas lay awake beside her sleeping daughter, praying that the nightmare was just about over.
Downstairs, Anne Marie McCall lay awake on the sofa in her sister's living room and wept for yet another dead agent, wept for his wife, who had yet to be told that she was now a widow, and remembered what it had felt like to get the call that the man she'd loved-the man who held her heart and her dreams-was gone.
Downtown, in the morgue, Aidan s.h.i.+elds sat beside the body of his friend, and waited for Rob's younger brother to arrive. The scene was achingly familiar to him, and he wondered if he would ever get used to the feeling of helplessness, of wasted life, useless loss. In the quiet antiseptic room, Aidan wondered if Mara was all right. It had d.a.m.n near killed him to not rush into her house and take out that son of a b.i.t.c.h ex-husband of hers. But Annie had been right: If he and Mara were ever to build a life together, Aidan could not have been the one to have taken down Julianne's father.
In the room next door, on another slab, lay the other body they'd brought in that night. The M.E. had arrived and had already taken fingerprints. The prints and the gun they'd found in his hand had been turned over to the Lyndon police, who would run the prints through NCIC. They'd fire the gun, then test the bullets against those on file. Aidan couldn't help but wonder what they'd find.
In Helene West's living room, Miranda Cahill all but collapsed on the sofa, and rubbed the heels of her hands against her eyes, hoping to rub away the fatigue.
”How's your back?” Will asked from the doorway.
”Hurts.”
”Want me to rub it?”
”Uh-huh. Just don't rub anything else, okay?” She turned over and fell facedown on the cus.h.i.+ons. ”I'm too tired to fight you off.”
”That would be good news, if I wasn't too tired to take advantage of you.” He sat on the edge of the sofa and began to knead her shoulders.
”Ouch. Not so hard.”
”Better?” He eased up.
”Ummmm. Much better.”
He continued to ma.s.sage her back.
”So what do you think about taking that little side trip to the inn tomorrow?” he asked.
”I think yes. We're due for some R and R.” She tried to nod, but her head barely moved. ”Fleming Inn, si. si. Mrs. West's sofa, no.” Mrs. West's sofa, no.”
He laughed, moving his hands farther down her back.
”You've got great hands, Fletcher. I ever tell you that?”
Her words were slurred with fatigue.
”Yes, actually, you have told me that. On several occasions, as a matter of fact. Want me to remind you of specifics?”
”No need. I remember.” She fought the sleep that threatened to claim her.
”Maybe in the morning, I should call Mrs. Duffy and reserve her best suite.”
”Good idea. Reserve it for a couple of days, can you?”
”Whatever the lady wants.” He smiled in the dark, listening as her breath grew more and more shallow. He knew she was ready to drop off, overwhelmed by the lack of sleep over the past two days and the adrenaline rush of the evening's events. He was tired enough to sleep standing up.
”We'll have to stop at a store first,” she told him groggily, just when he thought she'd fallen asleep. ”There's a nice mall on the way out of town; I should be able to find what I want at one of the stores in there.”
”What do you want?” He took a pillow from the end of the sofa and tossed it on the floor. He lay down, his head on the pillow, his arms folded under his head.
”Some pretty little silk scarves. Four should do nicely, I think.” She yawned and turned over.
”What do you need scarves for?” he asked.
”Well, you said you couldn't find your handcuffs. . . .” She paused for effect, encircling one of her wrists with the fingers of the other hand, then whispered, ”But I've always preferred scarves anyway. I seem to remember you do, too. . . .”
”Jesus, Cahill,” he groaned, ”you're killing me.”
”Maybe so, but at least you'll die with a smile on your face. . . .”
He could feel her smile through the dark, and he laughed, then sat up and grabbed her around the waist, pulling her onto the floor next to him.
”Pillow,” she muttered.
He reached for the one she'd been using and slid it under her head, then pulled her closer.
”Is the floor too hard for your back?” he asked.
”It's okay.” She snuggled into him.
For a moment, he just enjoyed the sensation of having her this close again.
”Stay,” she whispered. ”Stay this time.”
”This time and every time,” he told her.
She was reaching her arms up to draw him close when his phone began to ring.
”Don't answer it,” she protested. ”Any time the phone rings at two o'clock in the morning, it's not going to be good news.”
”It's three,” he said as he rolled onto one side to retrieve his phone from his pocket and checked the incoming call. ”It's John.”
”Even worse,” she groaned.
”Hey, John,” Will said. ”Yeah, you heard right . . . yeah, here's what happened. . . .”
Will proceeded to walk John through the night's events. When he finished the call a long twelve minutes later, he turned off the phone and tossed it onto the sofa.
”We have to be in the office tomorrow for a meeting around four to wrap this Douglas thing up, then we'll be briefed on the Prescott case. John wants us to fly out to Wyoming day after tomorrow and help track down the girls who have gone missing from the compound over the past few years. Looks like there have been dozens of them, John thinks maybe even hundreds. Genna's going to be lead on this; we're going to be working with her.”
He lay beside Miranda, stroking her hair lightly with his fingers. ”Looks like those pretty silk scarves are going to have to wait, babe. But maybe we can leave for Wyoming ahead of the others so that we can have a little time to ourselves. Won't be the Fleming Inn, but I'm sure we'll find someplace nice. What do you think? Miranda?”
He glanced down and realized that she was sound asleep.
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