A Deeper Darkness Part 30

"Jesus, Fletch. What is this, the inquisition?"

She felt sorry for the outburst immediately. He was just trying to make friends. Like a little puppy who doesn't know his boundaries and kept licking at her legs.

"I shouldn't have brought it up. My mistake." His voice had cooled. Now he was mad at her. She huffed and stared out the window. They were getting close, she saw the exit for Frostburg. They needed to work together, so she swallowed her pride and put the gel away.

"Yes, I have OCD. Yes, my family died in the floods. But neither of those things have any bearing on me being here now. They aren't affecting my judgment. So don't worry about it. Okay?"

"It's been two years. Maybe-"

"Come on, Fletch. Am I interrogating you about your ex-wife? This is private. It's my business. So please, just stop."

"I'm not interrogating you, Sam. I'm trying to get to know you. Let me amend that. I'd like to get to know you. If you'd let me."

s.h.i.+t. Here it was. She knew this was coming. She thought she'd sent enough signals that she didn't want to go there. Obviously she was out of practice. But she needed to end this right now, before he actually got interested. And keep him from booting her out on the side of the road.

"Fletch, it's not you. I'm not in any shape to be known. Okay? Please, let's just dangle me out as bait for Whitfield, capture him and then I'm heading home. I've overstayed my welcome, I believe. I have responsibilities back in Nashville."

She didn't realize until she said it that she meant every word. She had no business still being in D.C. She'd come to do a job: a secondary autopsy on a homicide victim. That job was well-past done, and where was she now? In a car with a smitten homicide detective on her way to try and help capture a possible murderer. This was ridiculous. She was not a detective. What in the world did she think she was doing?

The wall of Donovan's office swam into her mind, the picture of the five men, the band of brothers, atop the words that bound them together. They weren't forced to be strong, to exhibit their rare brand of courage. They did it because it was right, and just, and good. They volunteered to be the courage for the rest of us. They volunteered to fight so we wouldn't have to.

They weren't feeling sorry for themselves. They took an oath, and they lived by a creed. Never shall I fail my comrades... . Readily will I display the intestinal fort.i.tude required to fight on to the Ranger objective and complete the mission though I be the lone survivor.

Right now, Xander Whitfield was the lone survivor.

And so was Sam.

Shame overcame her. Donovan deserved better. He deserved someone who believed in him, who'd fight for him to the death. That's why Eleanor had called her. She knew, better than Sam did, the depth of emotion that ran between them. Even apart, even in death, there was a connection. A link. Eleanor knew that Sam would find a way.

Mentally, she squared her shoulders. No, she wasn't going home just yet. She wouldn't run away from him this time. She would find the strength to see this through. She owed Donovan that much.

Chapter Forty-Five.

Susan Donovan Susan's head hurt. She reacted to the pain, raising her hands to cradle her skull, but her arms wouldn't move.

She opened her eyes. Her sight was woozy, going in and out of focus. Where was she? What was happening?

Memories floated back to her. Eddie's casket, draped in the flag. Sitting alone at the house. Karen Fisher calling-Jesus, Karen. She'd pulled a gun, and Susan had smashed her in the head with the wine bottle.

The pages from Donovan's journal. Oh, G.o.d, were they still in her back pocket?

There was no way to find out, her arms were tied tightly behind her back. She was seated on a chair, hard steel pressed into her skin.

The girls. Oh, my G.o.d.

She started to yell and realized her mouth was taped shut. Panic set in. She started to cry, breathing hard, straining against the tape. Her nose got stuffy immediately. She couldn't breathe. She was going to die. She was going to die tied to a chair not knowing who or where or even why because she was crying so hard she couldn't breathe.

"Stop fighting, Susan."

A voice floated near her ear. A voice she recognized. But from where?

She heard a lighter, smelled a newly lit cigarette. Who did she know that smoked?

"Where are the journal pages, Susan?"

She shook her head. Think, Susan. Who smokes? Her brain was all foggy, like she'd been drugged.

"I know you know where they are. I need them, Susan. I need to make sure Donovan didn't screw up."

She shook her head again and closed her eyes. The pages. Everyone was after the pages.

The voice and the cigarettes, all of it clicked, and she sent a silent prayer that her person remained unsearched.

"Scream and I'll kill you." A rough hand ripped the tape off her mouth. "Now answer me."

"I don't know," she murmured, her voice thick and slow. "Someone broke into the house. Stole them from his journal." Her voice drifted away.

That worked. She heard a curse, smelled something acrid and her eyes shut again, the fear she felt leaving her drifting behind.

Part III.

And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life,

your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;

And you would accept the seasons of your heart,

even as you have always accepted the seasons that pa.s.s over your fields.

And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.

-Kahlil Gibran.

Chapter Forty-Six.

Savage River State Park.

Dr. Samantha Owens.

The scenery was breathtaking. Rhododendrons lined the wooded walkways, lush and full. The banked walls on either side of the path were glowing with the apex of multiple spring flowers and gra.s.ses. A riot of color overwhelmed the senses: yellows and purples and blues and greens, all vivid and clear. Something about color in the mountains was different. Sam could hear the water from the river flowing nearby, smelled the cool green sap from the evergreens. It was paradise. Paradise with the backdrop of a very serious h.e.l.l.

They'd arrived at the coordinates Whitfield had slipped Sam at midmorning. They made it to the spot easily; the path was rated green for unskilled hikers. Fletcher kept looking around, as if he expected Whitfield to jump from the trees and yell, "Surprise!" Sam knew it wasn't going to be like that. He was too smart to give himself up without expecting something in return.

Was the man guilty, or trying to help? She was of two minds. Either he was a master manipulator and they were walking into a trap, or he was truly trying to help them solve the murders. Sinner, or saint? It would be interesting to figure out which.

Sam didn't really know what to expect. Would the man meet them there? Was he waiting for them? Would there be some sort of scavenger hunt to find him? Surely the spill of armed men, two with dogs straining against their leads, would be intimidating. Right?

But Whitfield was a soldier. As skilled as this group may be, he'd faced much worse than a D.C. tactical team. And they were all on his turf now.

Fletcher directed the team to disperse throughout the woods. Sam tried to fathom how he could set up an ambush for a man who was trained to see them, and was expecting them. But Fletch seemed to have an idea of what he was doing, so Sam stowed her concerns and followed him into the forest.

Ten minutes later they veered off the path. The foliage was thick, and the men disappeared into the brush, melting away as if they'd been set for camouflage all along. It was just her and Fletcher, standing side by side in front of a seemingly deserted forest ranger station.

The hunted come to the hunter.

In the solitude, as the quiet shrillness of insects and whispering breezes and the running river became overwhelmingly loud, Sam grew nervous. They were sitting ducks. Whitfield could pick them off one by one. This had been a very bad idea.

She could feel Fletcher's unease, as well. There was no way he thought Whitfield was really the killer, or else he'd never have let the show go down this way. He must think Whitfield had the answers. Or he was trying to protect a man who didn't think he needed protection. Fletcher didn't strike her as a careless man, but maybe he was. Maybe he didn't know any better. It wasn't like he could defend them one-handed.

Breaking the interminable silence, Fletcher's cell phone rang, making them both jump. Sheepishly, he fished it out of his jacket pocket and answered.

He listened, not saying anything, until he finally muttered, "Yeah. Keep me informed," and hung up.

Something was wrong. Sam could see it in his face. Hart? Susan?

"What? What is it?"

"I don't want you to freak out. But Susan Donovan is missing. They found her car at the house, parked in the garage. There was broken gla.s.s and blood on her kitchen floor. The blood's being tested right now."

s.h.i.+t. s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t.

Sam turned, started marching away, into the woods, back the way they'd come.

"Where are you going?" Fletcher asked.

"Where do you think? We have to go back. We have to help look for her."

"Sam, stop. We're three hours away. We already have a mission. Roosevelt's working with the Fairfax County guys and her mother-in-law. They'll find her. I promise, they'll find her."

She kept moving, ducking under branches. She had to get back. She had to help find Susan. She couldn't help but feel that this was her fault, that she'd done something to curse this family. Brought her own sorrow and misfortune to bear upon them, perhaps.

Fletcher ran after her. "Come on, Sam. We need to stick to the plan."

She didn't listen, just kept cras.h.i.+ng away through the brush. She didn't care if Fletcher heard her cry. How could he blame her? This was all turning south. Every decision she made was the wrong one.

She heard him running behind her, but he was off-balance, fighting one-handed with the branches and undergrowth that she was able to thread through more easily.

"Sam. Please. Stop!"

She halted at last. He was right. She was being foolish, yet again.

Fletcher walked up to her and pulled her into his arms. She broke away immediately, panic flooding her system. G.o.d, she hated to be touched when she was upset.

"Don't," she said, started walking again, fast.

"Sam. Sam! I'm sorry. But you have to stop. We're off the path. You're going the wrong direction. If you want to head back to the car, that's fine, but we need to go the other way. And we're not safe out here alone."

She quit walking. This time, he didn't try to touch her, just turned and gestured back the way they'd come. She folded her arms across her chest and strode past him. He followed in silence.

They went for a minute until Sam heard a branch snap to her left. She stopped dead in her tracks, crouched, coiled, her heart pounding.

"Fletch. Fletch, did you hear that?" she whispered.

Before he could answer, the trees just to her right rustled, then parted. She wanted to run, to scream, but she was frozen.

A dark-haired man stepped out of the forest, silent, deadly. A knife was strapped to his thigh. He had the strap of an a.s.sault rifle slung across his chest, the weapon trained on both Sam and Fletcher. He gave them a sad smile.

"Detective Fletcher is absolutely right, Dr. Owens. You're not safe out here alone."

Chapter Forty-Seven.

Savage River