Chapter 30
Meredith glared at Luke across the
breakfast table. Despite having kept her up until the wee hours of
the morning, he had knocked on her bedroom door at precisely
seven-thirty and informed her that room service had just delivered
their breakfast.
“I ordered the full English fry-up,” he
had told her. “Eggs, bacon, sausages. Plenty of protein, along with
baked beans, mushrooms, and fried bread. I expect you out here and
ready to eat in ten minutes.”
Knowing that if she didn’t join him for
breakfast within a reasonable time, he would come in and get her,
she had grabbed a quick shower, washed her hair, and slipped into a
pair of ratty sweat pants and a soft cotton T-shirt. Leaving the
towel wrapped around her damp hair, she had arrived at the table
less than ten minutes after he had summoned her.
“Eat hearty,” he said. “We have a lot
to do. Maybe after a good night’s sleep, you’ll be working on all
cylinders this morning.”
He had been referring to the fact that
last night when he had placed what Luke had told her had been a set
of cuff links owned by Anthony Linden in her hands, she had drawn a
blank. It was if no one had ever handled the cuff links, other than
Luke. After more than an hour of useless efforts to use the links
as a conduit to previous wearers, Luke had told her to go to
bed.
Now, as he sipped on his breakfast tea,
she watched him until he set down his cup and looked at her.
“What?” he asked.
“I’ve eaten all that I can. I’m fueled
and ready to perform, hopefully on all cylinders,” she told him.
“But if all you have for me to use is those cuff links, then forget
it. For some reason, all I picked up when I handled them were some
vague faces of various people. One I believe actually made the gold
links and another was the jewelry store salesman. And you. I saw
you tossing the cuffs back and forth in your hands.”
Luke’s lips twitched as if he were
about to smile. He didn’t. “The cuff links never belonged to
Anthony Linden. I purchased them new yesterday.”
She stared at him in disbelief. “Why
would you—? Damn you! You were testing me. Was that your idea or
were you instructed to—?”
“Testing you with the cuff links was
entirely my own idea.”
“Why?”
“Because although I’ve seen you in
action a few times, I find it difficult to believe in what you and
Dr. Meng and her other protégés do.”
Without giving any thought to what she
was doing, Meredith shoved back her chair, stood, picked up a piece
of the soft fried bread on her plate and flung it at Luke. It hit
him mid-chest, the grease staining his navy blue polo
shirt.
“What the hell,” he
grumbled.
“Don’t you ever do something like that
to me again.” She planted her hands on her hips.
“Go get dressed,” he told her. “I’ll
change my shirt and then I’ll bring you something that actually
belonged to Anthony Linden.”
“Are we going out somewhere today?” she
asked.
“Probably not.”
“Then I’m dressed for the day,” she
informed him. “I’ll go dry my hair and be right back.”
Luke shrugged. “Suit
yourself.”
After slamming her bedroom door,
Meredith debated whether or not to change clothes. She had brought
along a pair of jeans, dress slacks, and several nice blouses. But
fifteen minutes later, with her hair dry and pulled back in a loose
ponytail, she stormed back into the living room wearing the same
sweat pants and T-shirt.
The table had been cleared, with only a
fresh pot of tea now in the middle of a tray that held two clean
cups. Luke sat on the sofa in his khaki slacks and a navy and red
striped button-down shirt, the short sleeves revealing his muscular
arms.
“Sit down here beside me,” he ordered
her.
She sat, obeying without question,
although reluctantly and with great reservation. He glanced at the
round coffee table in front of the sofa. There beside a clear glass
vase filled with white lilies lay a rectangularshaped
box.
“Open it,” Luke said.
She did. Inside, she found a
handgun.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“It’s a SIG Sauer—”
“No, I don’t care what make and model
the weapon is,” she told him. “I hate firearms of any kind. If this
is another one of your tests—”
“It’s not a test. That pistol is
supposed to have belonged to Anthony Linden and has never been
owned or used by anyone else.”
When she simply stared at the gun for
several minutes, Luke apparently grew aggravated with her. He
removed the pistol from the box and held it out to her. “It isn’t
loaded.”
“I should hope not.” She opened her
palm and held out her hand.
The very instant he placed the gun in
her hand and the cold metal touched her skin, she cried
out.
“What’s wrong?”
She heard Luke’s question, but despite
the fact that he was sitting right beside her, he sounded as if he
were in another room. As people’s faces flashed through her mind
like images from a television screen, moving at top speed, she
sensed that all those people were dead. Three men, two women, and a
child. When she closed her eyes, she saw only black emptiness and
felt an odd rush of adrenaline soar through her body. And then the
rapid fire of a pistol echoed inside her head.
“Oh God,” she whimpered. “He killed
them. All of them.”
“You’re getting something about Linden.
What is it?”
“He’s killed so many people with this
gun. I saw them, six of them. One was just a boy.”
“We already know he’s a killer, that
he’s a professional hit man. I need for you to move on from that
and try to tell me something we don’t know. Try to focus on finding
the son of a bitch, not taking a gruesome walk down memory
lane.”
“Don’t . . . please . . .” Leave me alone. You don’t understand. I have very little
control over what I see and what I feel.
She wrapped her fingers over the butt
of the gun and clutched it tightly.
“He has a good job and he likes it. He
likes it a lot,” Meredith said. “The money he earns affords him a
lifestyle he enjoys. He tells himself that he kills for the money,
but . . . he kills for the pleasure, too.”
Although she felt Luke’s hands on her
shoulders, felt the non-too-gentle shake he gave her, only her body
was in the room with him. She tried harder to concentrate on the
man who had owned the gun, on his present location. Where was he
right now?
The face that appeared to her kept
changing. Dark hair, light hair, red hair, bald. Blue eyes, brown
eyes, hazel eyes. Mustache, beard, clean shaven, sideburns.
Glasses. No glasses. The image of his features wasn’t clear. It
kept changing too quickly for her to describe him.
“He wears disguises.”
“Meredith, concentrate completely on
where he is right now, this very minute,” Luke told her as he ran
his hands down her arms and then released her. “Any other
information is useless to us.”
Concentrate.
Concentrate.
I’m trying. I’m
trying.
Suddenly she felt weightless. She
floated above the earth as if she had wings. Clouds surrounded her,
white and fluffy. She loved the sensation of flying and had had
visions, for as long as she could remember, of leaving her body and
soaring into the heavens.
And then all of her feelings of joy
disappeared and a dark, foreboding fear claimed her. The hum of an
engine grew louder and louder, and louder still, until it drowned
out every other sound, every thought, every feeling.
She gasped for air, trying to escape
from the onslaught of the roaring engine, and fought her way back
to rejoin her mind with her body. Her head ached. Her stomach
lurched with nausea.
As she slowly opened her eyes, the gun
she had been clutching dropped from her weak hand and hit the
floor. “He’s on an airplane.”
“Right now?” Luke asked. “Is he on an
airplane right now?”
She stared at Luke. “Either now or very
recently. He’s coming toward me.”
“What do you mean by
that?”
“He’s coming toward me,” she repeated
half a second before she collapsed in a heap at Luke’s
feet.
When Maleah and Derek had arrived at
Griffin’s Rest late yesterday, they had found a high level of
anxiety that spread from the very top and filtered its way down
through every employee. If they thought security had been tight
when they left there the last time, they found out as they drove
through the security gates just how much tighter it could be.
Barbara Jean had met them at the front door, and Maleah had noticed
Brendan Richter hovering in the background.
“My God, you’d think we were being
invaded,” Maleah had said as she entered the foyer. “Is all of this
because of Saxon Chappelle’s niece?”
“Partly,” Barbara Jean had replied as
she’d glanced from Maleah to Derek. “Sanders is waiting for you in
the office. He needs to speak to you now.” She had looked up at
Maleah. “Nicole wants to talk to you. She’s upstairs in her sitting
room.”
After that, Maleah hadn’t seen Derek
again last night. How long he spent in the auxiliary Powell office
headquarters there at Griffin’s Rest, she didn’t know. Nor did she
have any idea where he’d slept or if he had slept. She had spent
more than two hours with Nic, after being allowed entrance into
Nic’s bedroom suite by her private guard dog, Shaughnessy Hood. One
look at her best friend and she had realized just how bad things
were with her and Griff. Nic had looked like death warmed
over.
“If you think I look bad, you should
see Griff,” Nic had said. “He was in rough shape before Poppy
Chappelle was killed, but now . . . Oh, Maleah, I’m worried sick
about him. I haven’t seen him all day. He hasn’t ventured out of
his den and my guess is that by now he’s drunk himself into a
stupor and passed out.”
Unlike the other Powell agents who were
assigned a bedroom in the house when they rotated shifts at
Griffin’s Rest, Maleah had her own room, a perk of being Nic’s best
friend. Since she spent almost as much time here as she did in her
Knoxville apartment, she kept several changes of clothes in the
closet and an assortment of toiletries in her private
bathroom.
When she had finally gotten in bed well
past midnight, she had tossed and turned for nearly an hour before
dozing off to sleep. And she had awakened at a little after six,
feeling a bit groggy and sleep-deprived. Her first thought had been
about Derek. She had wondered if he was awake and if he was, had he
already gone downstairs for breakfast. Odd that she should have had
such an overwhelming desire to see him, talk to him, be with
him.
Now less than an hour later, freshly
showered, dressed for the day in tan twill slacks and a black,
short-sleeved cotton sweater set, she found herself taking more
time than usual to apply her makeup and fix her hair.
This is ridiculous.
You’re primping like a teenager getting ready for the
prom.
She stared at herself in the vanity
mirror, her long hair framing her face as it fell in layers down to
her shoulders. She had even taken great pains to use a curling iron
to style her hair.
All because you want
Derek Lawrence to find you attractive. And don’t you dare try to
deny it.
She couldn’t deny it. Not to herself
and not to the reflection staring back at her from the mirror. “All
right, so what’s the big deal? Why shouldn’t I want to look my best
this morning?”
While in the midst of having an
in-depth conversation with herself, Maleah heard a repetitive
rapping at her bedroom door. It might be Nic, even though she hoped
her friend was in bed with her husband, the two of them getting
some much needed rest. But more than likely Griff was still in his
study and Nic had lain awake half the night worrying herself sick
about him.
When she opened the door, she halfway
expected to see either Nic or Barbara Jean, but instead Derek stood
there, a dead serious expression on his handsome face.
“Good morning,” she said.
“How are you today?” he
asked.
“I’m fine, all things considered. How
about you?”
“I’ve been better,” he admitted. “May I
come in?”
“Sure.” She moved back so that he could
enter, and then she closed the door before asking, “What’s
wrong?”
“I was up until after one this
morning,” Derek said. “Helping Sanders with Griff. He . . . uh . .
. he drank a little too much. We managed to walk him into the
bathroom connected to his study, put him in the shower and finally
got him into a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Sanders sent me
on to bed around one-fifteen. I think he sat up all night while
Griff slept it off on the sofa.”
“I was with Nic until well after
midnight. She wasn’t drinking, but she wasn’t in much better shape.
She’s worried about Griff and she figured he was drinking.” She
stared at Derek. “Tell me why a man who professes to worship the
ground his wife walks on shuts her out the way Griff does Nic when
he needs her the most. The way he’s acting is killing
her.”
“I’ve told you that big strong men
don’t like to appear weak in front of their women. No matter how
misguided his actions, Griff’s intention is to protect Nic. He
didn’t want her to see him the way he was last night.”
“Men! I don’t understand any of
you.”
“That works both ways, Blondie. We men
don’t understand you women either.” He looked her over and smiled.
“You sure do look pretty this morning.”
She felt the warmth of a blush creep up
her neck. Turning away from him, she picked up a pair of small
pearl studs off her dresser. “Thank you for the compliment.” She
slipped one stud and then the other through the holes in her ears
before turning back around to face Derek. “Have you been downstairs
yet?”
“I went down for a cup of coffee about
fifteen minutes ago. Sanders and Barbara Jean are in the kitchen
preparing pancakes and sausage. I spoke to Griff briefly before he
came upstairs to see Nic.”
“Then they’re together
now?”
Derek nodded. “Griff has a meeting
planned for ten this morning in his office here at the
house.”
“Who’s being invited to this
meeting?”
“Only the people Griff and Nic trust
with their lives—Sanders, Barbara Jean, you, me, and
Yvette.”
She hadn’t realized that her expression
had altered in any way at the mention of Dr. Yvette Meng, not until
Derek said, “Making a face like that is a dead giveaway, you know.
It implies that you don’t like Dr. Meng.”
“It’s not that I dislike Yvette. I
don’t. She seems like a very nice lady, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Her presence here at Griffin’s Rest
creates problems for Nic, for her marriage.”
“It shouldn’t,” Derek said. “Yvette
Meng isn’t a threat to Nic’s marriage. If ever a man was completely
in love with his wife and totally dedicated to his marriage, that
man is Griffin Powell.”
“Is that your professional
opinion?”
“That’s my gut instinct. If there was
anything more than friendship between Griff and Yvette, it’s in the
past, and Nic needs to believe that.”
“So you do think there was something
more than—?”
“Whoa there, Blondie. Don’t put words
in my mouth. I said if there
was.”
Maleah felt the need to defend Nic. “I
think Nic has every right to feel the way she does. How would you
like it if the woman you loved moved a dear old friend, who just
happened to be male, into your home? And you knew with absolute
certainty that she loved this man?”
“There’s love and then there’s love,”
Derek said. “I’m surprised that a woman such as Nicole Powell would
be so insecure.”
“Loving someone the way she loves Griff
can make a woman vulnerable, even someone like Nic.”
“Yeah, love can make us all
vulnerable,” Derek agreed. “And to answer your question—no, I
wouldn’t like it if the woman I loved brought an old friend whom
she loved into our lives on a daily basis, had him practically
living at our back door, especially if I thought they had once been
lovers. But I’d deal with it somehow, if the only alternative was
giving up the woman I loved.”
“That’s what Nic is doing, what she’s
been doing ever since Griff built the sanctuary for Yvette and her
protégés here at Griffin’s Rest.”
“You disagree, don’t you?” Derek asked.
“What would you do? How would you handle the situation
differently?”
Maleah hesitated, uncertain just how
honest she should be with him. To hell with
it. “If I were in Nic’s shoes, I’d tell Griff to choose. He
could either have Yvette living within a stone’s throw of us, a
constant presence in our lives, or he could have me. If he didn’t
move her out, then I’d leave.”
“Why do you think Nic hasn’t done
that?”
“I think the answer to that would be
obvious.”
“Enlighten me.”
“No.” She had already said too much
about her best friend’s personal life. Her only excuse was that it
had become so easy to talk to Derek.
“Nic’s afraid that if she demands he
make a choice between Yvette and her, he might choose Yvette,”
Derek said. “That’s the reason.”
Maleah didn’t confirm his assessment of
the situation, but she wasn’t the least bit surprised that he had
zeroed in on the exact reason.
“I’m hungry,” she said, deliberately
changing the subject. “Let’s eat breakfast. I love Barbara Jean’s
pancakes.”
Derek nodded, and then opened the door
and offered her his arm. “Shall we?”
She slipped her arm through his.
“Derek?”
“Hmm . . . ?”
“I don’t think I ever thanked you
properly.”
“For what?”
“For looking out for me after that last
interview with Browning.” It had been on the tip of her tongue to
say, thank you for taking such good care of me. For holding me,
comforting me, letting me draw strength from you.
“Hey, no problem, Blondie. That’s what
partners do, right?”
“Yeah, right.”
Why was it that she wished he’d said he
had done it because he cared about her and not just because they
were partners?
The phone rang at precisely at 7:30
A.M. that morning.
“Well, hello there. What a nice
surprise to hear from you. How are y’all doing?
How’s—?”
“Listen very carefully,” he said. “You
are going to receive a phone call later today with instructions on
what you have to do, and if you don’t do exactly as he tells you to
do, she’s going to die.”
“What are you talking about? Who’s
going to call me? Who’s going to die?”
The caller explained about the
kidnapping, that the person they both loved had been kidnapped,
taken from her bed in the middle of the night, and a note had been
left on her pillow. Someone had managed to break in through an
upstairs bathroom window, go into her bedroom and abduct her
without anyone being the wiser.
Whoever had taken her was not an
amateur. He had to be a professional.
Had the Copycat Carver taken her? If
so, why had he changed his MO? Why had he kidnapped her instead of
killing her? It didn’t make any sense.
“You understand, don’t you?” the caller
asked. “If you don’t do what he tells you to do, we’ll never see
her alive again. Please, please tell me that you’ll do whatever he
asks you to do.”
“Yes, of course I will.”
“Swear to me.”
“I swear.”
The reality of the situation was
difficult to grasp. This was a nightmare of monumental proportions.
Life or death. But no matter what the instructions or how difficult
the assignment, the orders would be carried out. There was only one
choice—to do whatever was necessary to save her life.