Authors: Virna Depaul
CHAPTER TWO
Eight weeks later…
A
THERAPIST
ONCE
TOLD
Liam “Mac” McKenzie to distract himself when images of death plagued him. For a homicide detective and recovering alcoholic, that had been about as helpful as her advice to schedule a regular date night with his wife, which was why he was now divorced. Interestingly, the end of his marriage hadn’t tempted him to drink any more than it had made him consider giving up his job, something his wife had demanded. He supposed both were telling—about how little Nancy had known him and how little his marriage had truly mattered.
In the end, there would be no distracting death. It was in his blood, just as being a cop was in his blood—he couldn’t have one without the other. Whether it was due to talent or sheer stubbornness, Mac had an uncanny knack for tracking down killers who almost got away with their crimes.
The same had been true for his father. And his father’s father. In fact, almost every male McKenzie in the past five generations had been cops. Divorced ones. Yeah, on one hand it sucked, but it seemed a small price to pay for bringing justice to victims who couldn’t seek it out themselves.
He’d spent a decade in homicide investigation at the city level before joining the California Department of Justice’s elite Special Investigations Group, aka the SIG Unit. Now, he basically did the same job, just with a different title, broader authority, better pay and more flexible hours.
“Hey, McKenzie. How’s it going?”
Mac glanced up, grinning when he saw Greg Hilbourn, a buddy of his from the San Francisco Police Department’s Homicide Division. Standing, Mac extended his hand. “Working, which is what you should be doing. What brings you to DOJ?”
Hilbourn shook his hand and took a moment to look around Mac’s office. “You’ve really moved up, Mac. Your own office. Your own team of hotshots. What’s next? Upper management?”
Mac snorted. “You’re kidding, right? The brass would laugh their asses off if they ever saw my name on the interview list. Besides, someone’s gotta make them look good on the streets.”
“They’d laugh because they wouldn’t believe it. They know you’d be bored out of your mind if you had to sit behind that desk too long.”
“There is that. I’ve gotta check in with my commander in a few, but have a seat.” Mac waved to the small sofa in front of his desk. When Hilbourn complied, Mac asked, “So what brings you by?”
“I was wondering if you have any openings on your team.”
Leaning back in his chair, Mac lightly pressed the fingers of one hand against those of the other to form a steeple. “Everything okay at SFPD? Kilpatrick still busting your ass?”
“Never fails. You know I can handle it but—” A shadow came over Hilbourn’s face. “Lately, even the streets are starting to feel confining. I need some breathing room. Your team works all over the state and with different agencies. It’s exactly what I need right now.”
Mac frowned. Though SIG was headquartered in San Francisco, it was rare for his special agents to be in the office more than a few days a week. The inherent variety and constant travel kept things interesting. But last he knew, Hilbourn loved working for the SFPD and wouldn’t want to travel far from his wife and children. Something had changed, and since Hilbourn was still with SFPD, that meant—
“Something going on with you and Sandy?” he asked.
Sure enough, Hilbourn’s mouth twisted. “She moved out. Took the kids with her. Said she’s fed up with all the long nights and moody silences.”
“I’m sorry, man. I really am,” Mac said. And he was. If any cop could’ve made his marriage work, Mac would have put odds on Hilbourn.
Hilbourn shrugged. “You and Nancy still…?”
Mac shook his head. “The divorce has been final for a while.” If Hilbourn’s wounds weren’t so fresh, Mac might have said splitting with Sandy was for the best. It had been that way for Mac but not for completely selfish reasons. Nancy was a good woman. She’d find someone else, someone who’d be able to put her first. Chances were, Sandy would, too.
“Do you miss her?” Hilbourn asked, unable to hide his grief.
Mac hesitated before answering, but it was a hesitation born out of guilt rather than indecision. His instinctive response seemed unfair to the woman he’d once loved enough to marry, but he answered truthfully anyway. “I miss someone being there when I get home sometimes, but I don’t miss her.”
“So you think it’s worth what we do?” Hilbourn asked. “Being alone? Sacrificing what comes to others so naturally?”
Mac shifted in his seat. It wasn’t as if he and Hilbourn were best buds who’d swapped personal war stories over the years. But he knew the guy was hurting, so he tried to give him an encouraging answer. “I don’t know.”
He knew the job, inside and out. He knew what it took to satisfy it. And he knew he was capable of giving it. No false expectations or disappointments. Just follow the clues. Close the case. Move on to the next. Made life less complicated, but was that worth the isolation? “Maybe it’s just a matter of finding someone strong enough to handle what we do. A woman who can take care of herself.” Since Mac had never met such a woman, he really didn’t believe what he was saying; from the expression on Hilbourn’s face, he knew it.
“Right.” Hilbourn cleared his throat. “So about that opening?”
Wincing, Mac said, “I’m sorry. We’re filled up right now, but I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”
The other man closed his eyes briefly before standing. “Yeah, I figured. Thanks, Mac. You working anything fun right now?”
Mac picked up a stack of files and stood, as well. He clapped Hilbourn on the shoulder as he walked beside him. “Never a dull moment.”
Taking the stairs to the commander’s office, which was several floors up, Mac considered the truth of those words. The cases his team handled were some of the most complicated, which made the job interesting and challenging. But Hilbourn’s question about what they were giving up gave him pause. He couldn’t do the job forever—none of them could. What would happen once he was handed his retirement papers? Would he still think the absence of complications had been worth it?
Mac gave a mental shrug. Worth it or not, he’d have solved a lot of cases. Helped a lot of people.
Just as he was going to help the Monroe family. First, however, he had to notify Commander Stevens that the missing persons investigation was now a homicide case.
A few minutes later, he was in the commander’s office. “We’ve got a positive ID on those skeletal remains,” he said, handing Stevens the medical examiner’s report. “And the news isn’t what her father was hoping for.”
Stevens grunted as he flipped through the report. “He wanted to rule out his daughter as the vic, and instead he got scientific proof she was buried like a piece of trash two hours away from where they lived. Sixteen years old. At least now he knows. A lot of parents don’t get that closure.”
Last month, when two fishermen had found a skeleton near the edge of a river in Redding, the chances of finding out the victim’s identity, at least without significant time and cost to the state, had been slim. That had been before the governor’s former college roommate had asked him to rush the tests.
Too bad Monroe’s relationship with the governor wasn’t going to get him his daughter back.
“Anything else?” Stevens asked.
“Trace DNA on a patch of orange fabric found with the vic. There was the victim’s blood, but there were also a couple of hair fibers. We got a hit on an Arizona parolee named Alex Hanes who absconded from parole almost a year ago.”
“Did you call the FBI about getting a UFAP warrant?”
“Sure did,” Mac confirmed. Now any non-Arizona cop, including any member of SIG, could arrest Hanes for unlawful flight. “I’m not counting on an arrest happening anytime soon, though.”
“So what
are
you counting on?”
“I’ve talked to Monroe and the rest of Lindsay’s family. We’ve got her computer in forensics, and I’m going through the items we collected from her room. Her journal reveals she met a ‘new friend’ shortly before she ran away, one she referred to only as ‘M.’”
“Nothing on her computer so far?”
“It’s going to take a few days.” Maybe even more, Mac thought. As a state agency, the Department of Justice had well-trained staff and state-of-the-art forensics equipment, but it experienced just as much backlog as the county departments. No matter how hard they worked, the good guys always scrambled to keep up with the bad ones.
“So what was Hanes in for?”
“Everything from drug use and sales to rape and attempted murder. He’s spent fifteen of the last sixteen years in prison.” It wasn’t the worst rap sheet Mac had seen during his career, but it gave them ample reason to view Hanes as their number one suspect.
“Anything with underage girls?” Stevens asked absently as he continued to read the medical examiner’s report.
Mac swiped one hand over his face, trying to remember when talking about pedophilia and murder would have last fazed him. Five years ago? Ten? “No minors on his sheet,” he said. “He raped a twenty-four-year-old. Doesn’t mean he’s not good for Lindsay Monroe.”
Stevens looked up and grunted. “At least it’s a start. You’ve racked up an impressive success rate over the past six months, Mac. Let’s hope your winning streak holds true on this one.”
Mac knew Stevens’s words weren’t meant as a challenge, but Mac still viewed them as one. Every case he took on was a challenge. And Mac never lost a challenge.
Not without one helluva fight.
“Don’t worry, sir. I’ve got a great team, and I won’t hesitate to ask for help from any of them if I need it. We’ll find Hanes. And if he’s not Lindsay Monroe’s killer, we’ll find the person who is.”
CHAPTER THREE
N
ATALIE
PUNCHED
IN
THE
KEYPAD
CODE
to her home’s front entrance, pushed the door slightly open, and turned to Joanna. She forced herself to smile again. “Thanks for the ride. I’ll see you in two weeks.”
“Take care, Natalie.”
She stepped inside, shut the door, then leaned back against it, sighing with relief. Although she always took a cab to her appointment, Joanna often gave her a ride home after therapy. Today, however, she’d suggested they stop at a nearby restaurant for dinner. It was the last thing Natalie had wanted to do, but had she said so? Of course not. Instead, she’d pasted a smile on her face, endured the small talk and pretended to enjoy the “treat” out.
Now, as she absorbed the comfort of being inside her own home, the tightness in her chest loosened. The air felt as it should. She knew exactly where she was and how everything was supposed to look. Everything was in its place. There were no surprises lurking around every corner. Most of all, she could move freely, without having to wonder how she appeared to others or what they were thinking about her.
Freedom to be exactly who she was rather than what her disability made her.
She took in several deep breaths, wondering what Joanna would suggest next in her attempt to encourage Natalie’s return to civilized society. For a long time, Joanna and Bonnie, Natalie’s adaptive coach, had agreed that Natalie should stay home and take ample time to adjust, but lately Joanna—
She frowned.
Something, she wasn’t sure what, smelled…different. She turned her head to the left, toward the hallway that led to the kitchen and office, but all she heard was the faint hum of the refrigerator. All she saw were the hazy gray blobs that amounted to what was left of her vision now.
After that day at the farmers’ market when her vision had shorted out completely, she’d assumed it was permanent. But afterward, hints of light had started to break through her lids again. Her blindness had seemed to reverse itself, but only to the degree that she could see shadows and sometimes even shapes. It was barely anything, nothing like the blurry but still precious colorized vision she’d had days before. She wasn’t sure if it was a small reprieve to be thankful for or a cruel trick meant to prolong her suffering.
Turning, she took several steps to the right, then paused. She’d meant to make more iced tea before leaving for her therapy appointment. She retraced her steps to the front door, then proceeded past it toward the kitchen.
That’s when she heard it. A faint dragging sound from down the hall. Coming from the direction of her office. What the—
She moved forward to investigate. Was past the kitchen and halfway to the office when a flicker of movement disturbed the shadows in front of her. An instant later, she heard the breathing.
Someone was inside the house with her.
There was fear, yes. Plenty of it. But to her surprise, what she felt most of all was anger.
“Who’s there?” she called.
“Don’t be afraid,” a low, husky male voice replied. Shadows flickered again as he stepped closer.
She took several steps back, but he followed, his shadow getting bigger. More ominous. Another burst of fear penetrated her anger, but she raised her chin, keeping her gaze steadily in his direction. “Get out,” she whispered.
He didn’t move.
“Get out!” She screamed it this time. “Get—”
“Shut up,” he hissed.
She turned and lunged in the direction of her front door. She heard his heavy footsteps careening after her.
“Damn it, stop. Where do you think you’re going?”
Pain exploded in her temple, knocking her off her feet. She landed on her stomach, hit her face against the hardwood floor, and felt warmth trickling out of her nose. She shook her head, trying to clear it.
“I’m sorry, but I have to protect God’s kingdom. I have to know for sure.”
Jerkily, she picked herself up, swayed to her feet and tried once again to get to the door. “Bastard, get out of my—”
He hit her again, then again.
Sucking in a breath, she fought the pain in her skull. When he wrapped his hands around her throat, fear—no longer a trickle, but a tidal wave—washed away everything else.
He dragged her up and shoved her against the wall until her toes barely touched the ground. Mercilessly, he squeezed the breath out of her. She fought anyway, kicking out at him, but she was unable to put any real strength behind it. Her fingers clawed at his, but she couldn’t get enough air.
She felt his breath on her face, hot and desperate. He kept talking to her, kept saying he was sorry even as his fingers tightened.
The eyes, she told herself. The eyes are the most vulnerable part of the body.
With an image of the Three Stooges flashing in her mind, she reached out with her pointer and middle fingers separated and stiffened, and aimed for his face. Somehow she managed to hit her mark. He howled.
He released her and she swayed, disoriented by the sudden relief of pressure. He was in front of her, blocking the front door, so she scrambled in the opposite direction, toward her bedroom. Anywhere that she could get away from him.
He grabbed her arm and she screamed. He hit her once. Twice. She staggered back and slammed into the wall. Heard glass break. Kicked out at him and connected. She heard him grunt and fall hard. Managed to keep moving.
She made it into her bedroom, slammed the door shut and locked it. Then, before she could even reach the phone, she shouted, “The police are coming. I’m calling 911.”
She shouted the warning again and again while she managed to dial 911. The operator came on, asking what the emergency was. She croaked out, “Help me. Someone—someone’s in my house.”
The woman’s voice came again, prodding her for more information, and she tried to answer. But her voice faltered, and she could barely keep her grip on the receiver.
The pain in her head and throat was fading.
Pure blackness was closing in.
She heard another voice in the distance.
Heard thumps against her bedroom door.
Renewed terror battled for dominance in her waning consciousness.
And then, once more, she surrendered to the dark.