Bait (25 page)

She wriggled some more and dug deep in her mind for pleasant thoughts and counted everything she could think of to count, then finally gave up all thought of sleep and lay, listening unwillingly to the TV. It was about then that she realized something: If she had been in her apartment alone, she would have been curled up in a little ball in the farthest corner of her closet by that time, gibbering with terror.

At least, with McCabe in the next room, she was not afraid.

FOURTEEN

Sunday, August 17

 

 

When Maddie awoke the next morning, her bedroom was dark. That might seem like a small thing, but it was enough to remind her of how radically her life had changed: Her bedroom was never dark in the mornings. She always opened the thick, oyster-colored silk curtains that covered the window just behind her bed right before she fell asleep so that the single halogen that illuminated the parking lot could cast its distant glow over her as she slept. That way she could turn off the lights, yet never have to sleep in the dark. Fudgie, too, was out of place. Instead of watching over her from his usual spot on her dresser, he'd been tucked away in a drawer.

Fudgie was like her that way: He and the feds were fundamentally incompatible.

As she swung her legs over the side of the bed, it occurred to her that she was going to have to walk past McCabe again to get to the bathroom. That made her frown. On the best of mornings she was something less than a rosy-faced, sleep-tousled beauty. This was not the best of mornings. Her shoulder throbbed, her head ached, and she needed caffeine like a vampire needs blood. When she got to her feet and opened the curtains, blinking in the sudden brightness, then glanced in the mirror over her dresser, her reflection confirmed it: Her hair was all over the place, there was a red crease across her cheek where she'd slept on her pillow wrong, and her eyes were all puffy and heavy-lidded.

She looked, in a word, scary.

She hated the thought of having McCabe see her that way. And she
really
hated the thought that she hated the thought of having him see her that way.

There was no help for it, though. Although her instinct was to spend the day skulking in her bedroom, out of sight, she couldn't: Once again, she had to go to the bathroom.

Shrugging into her robe, running her fingers through her hair, determined to do her best to behave as though she were home alone, Maddie gathered up her clothes, marched to the bedroom door, opened it—and heard voices. Multiple voices. Coming from the kitchen. A peek into the living room confirmed it. The coast was clear. Her babysitters—all three of them from the sound of it—were nowhere in sight.

Huffing a quick sigh of relief, she scuttled for the bathroom.

When she emerged some twenty minutes later, she was looking—and feeling—much better, having showered and blown her hair dry and dressed in navy shorts and a loose sun-yellow camp shirt that put no pressure on her tender shoulder. She'd flicked on mascara, slicked on lipgloss—things she normally wouldn't have bothered to do on a lazy Sunday morning unless she was heading out to church—and patted concealer over the bruise on her cheek. The one on her throat was in the process of changing from purple to an even uglier yellowish green, and she didn't even bother to try to hide it. After examining it in the mirror, she had concluded that there was not enough concealer in the world.

The best thing about having a houseful of FBI agents, she reflected, was that it gave her a really good excuse not to go to church as compared to her usual lousy one of sleeping in. The worst thing about it was everything else.

Padding barefoot toward the kitchen, drawn by the smell of coffee, she frowned slightly as she realized that she heard nothing. Total silence was potentially not such a good thing, Maddie realized, and as the possible ramifications began to revolve through her brain, her step slowed, her heart speeded up, and her stomach went all fluttery. A sideways glance at the front door showed her that it was still in one piece, and the lock seemed to be intact. A quick visual sweep of the room found nothing out of place. But still—no voices, no TV, no sound at all except, from behind her, the steady drip of the shower, which always took a few minutes to shut off completely. Her mind raced. What if the hit man had broken in and murdered her minders while she was in the shower, blissfully unaware? What if he was waiting for her somewhere in the apartment? What if ...

Someone walked out of the kitchen. Squeaking—she only barely managed to swallow the rest of what would have been a full-blown scream if it had gotten all the way out—Maddie reflexively jumped a good foot in the air even as she recognized Rambo Barbie, today dressed in black pants and an acid-green T-shirt, with the ubiquitous black belt circling her waist. She, too, was looking better today. Her Raggedy Ann-red hair was clean and actually more tousled than spiky, her makeup, while a little heavy on the black eyeliner, was at least where it was supposed to be, and her cornflower blue eyes were clear.

“Did I scare you? Sorry.” Gardner didn't
sound
sorry as her eyes slid over Maddie. She sounded just the slightest bit contemptuous of a woman who would jump and squeal when surprised. She was carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and a newspaper—Maddie couldn't be sure, but she guessed it was probably
her
newspaper, retrieved from the rush mat in front of the apartment door—in the other.

“No, not at all,” Maddie said, skirting the other woman to reach the kitchen. “I always jump and squeal first thing in the morning. Gets the blood circulating.”

A green-and-white Krispy Kreme box took pride of place in the center of the table. Other than that, the kitchen looked just as it always did: clean and neat and empty, except for a few dishes in the sink that hadn't been there when she'd gone to bed. Pale morning sunlight streamed in through the window over the sink; the refrigerator hummed. She was just starting to feel disappointed because she had missed McCabe—and registering with alarm that she
was
feeling disappointed—when she spotted him through the window in the kitchen door. He had his back to her and was standing on the back stoop, talking to Wynne.

As her gaze slid over as much of him as she could see, over the back of his head, over his wide shoulders and strong arms and tapered back, her heart gave an odd little skip.

You're being really stupid here,
Maddie thought, and wrenched her eyes away from him. It helped that she could smell coffee. Directing her gaze toward the coffeemaker instead was, therefore, not quite as difficult as it might have been, and was amply rewarded. A freshly brewed pot of coffee sat on the burner, keeping warm.

Maddie had just poured herself a cup when the back door opened and McCabe—and Wynne—walked into the kitchen.

“All clear outside?” she asked, as much to cover the sudden confusion she felt when her gaze encountered McCabe's as because she had any real doubt of the answer.

“A few birds, a couple of squirrels. Nothing potentially fatal.” McCabe grinned at her. The sudden warming of his eyes as they met hers—to say nothing of the dimples that appeared on either side of his mouth—made her breath catch.

Stupid,
her brain warned all on its own.

“Glad to hear it,” she said, proud of how casually offhand she sounded. Lifting her cup, she took a swallow, hoping that the caffeine would jolt her to her senses. It was nothing short of idiocy to notice that his hair was all mussed and his chin sported a nice, studly amount of five-o' clock shadow and his eyes looked sleepy. Of course, unlike herself, he had stayed up all night. Knowing that he was keeping watch was what had enabled her, eventually, to fall asleep.

“How's your shoulder?” The grin had faded. His eyes darkened as they touched on her shoulder.

“Oh, I don't know—kind of feels like I got shot yesterday,” she said wryly.

He laughed, and, lo and behold, there were those dimples again. Funny, Maddie thought, until she met him she never would have believed that she could be such a sucker for dimples.

“Want a doughnut? Help yourself,” Wynne said, having crossed to the table and opened the box. He was talking to her and, glad to be distracted, Maddie tore her eyes away from McCabe and moved toward the table just in time to watch Wynne hook one out of the box.

“Thanks.” Except for the fact that he was an FBI agent, she actually had no beef with Wynne, who was looking even more cherubic than usual this morning in a candy-pink polo shirt and khakis. She smiled at him as she set her coffee cup on the table, then fished out a chocolate-covered doughnut from the already half-empty box and took a bite.

“I thought you were watching your weight,” Gardner said from the doorway. This was directed at Wynne, who swallowed the last bite of doughnut with a guilty air as he looked at her.

“I am. I'm watching it creep toward three hundred.”

“You know, it's probably counterproductive to quit smoking and then eat yourself to death.”

Wynne flushed.

“It's hard to quit smoking.” To her own surprise, Maddie found herself leaping to Wynne's defense. Okay, he was a grown man, and an FBI agent to boot, but under his fellow agent's disapproving gaze he suddenly looked so—vulnerable. “I would think that anything somebody could do to make it through until the craving gets easier would be a good thing.”

“You smoke?” Wynne asked her, clearly grateful for the distraction.

“No. My father did, though. He kept saying he was going to quit, but he never made it longer than maybe a day and a half.” Then it occurred to her that talking about her father in such company was probably not wise. Although that particular memory was harmless, she didn't even want to start the conversation down that path.

“How long has it been now?” McCabe asked Wynne, joining them at the table. He stopped so close to Maddie that his arm brushed hers, warm skin against warm skin, and to her annoyance she felt that brief contact all the way down to her toes. Sidling sideways away from him even as she chomped down on her doughnut for cover—and if ever there was a waste of a good doughnut that had to be it, because she suddenly couldn't even taste it—she glanced around the kitchen for a distraction. Those dishes in the sink—three plates, three cups, a couple of spoons. Maddie realized that what she had heard earlier was the three of them chatting over coffee and doughnuts.

“Two months, four days, and”—Wynne glanced at the clock over the window; it was not quite nine a.m.—“nine hours.”

“That's impressive,” Maddie told him through her mouthful of tasteless fat and sugar.

“Okay, Elvis, I admit it: It
is
impressive,” Gardner said, coming toward them. “I didn't think you had it in you. Now all you need to do is wean yourself off the food you used to wean yourself off the cigarettes.”

“Elvis?” Maddie looked at Wynne.

“It's his name,” McCabe said to Maddie. “Elvis Presley Wynne.”

Maddie couldn't help it. She smiled.

“Gets that reaction every time,” Wynne said glumly. “That's why I pretty much go by Wynne.”

“All right, enough picking on Wynne,” McCabe said, and held something out to Maddie. Taking it, she saw that it was a key.

“It's to your back door,” he said in response to her questioning look. “We replaced the lock, just so you know. We're still getting things in place, so for today it would be best if you'd just stay inside your apartment. The hardest thing to guard against is a sniper shot, and we saw yesterday that he's willing to try to take you out long-distance. That's actually a good sign, it means he's desperate enough to get to you that he's willing to abandon his usual MO, but what we want him to have to do is to come after you physically. If he breaks into your apartment, we've got him. If he comes into your workplace after you, we've got him. What we want him to have to do is put himself where we can see him. That's all we need, and then it'll be over. Just to make sure we cover all the bases, I'm having your car windows replaced with bulletproof glass as we speak, so when they're done you should be able to drive without worrying about a repeat of yesterday morning. We'll be following your vehicle everyplace you go, so if he tries anything while you're en route somewhere, we'll be right there. Oh, yeah, and we'll be sweeping your car periodically for bombs.”

“Bombs?” The thought of a bomb being placed in her car was so unnerving that Maddie momentarily quit breathing. She hadn't thought of that, and she realized she should have. Her blood ran cold as she wondered just what else she hadn't thought of yet.

Of course, she reminded herself quickly, the odds were good that she had managed to get the hit called off. If she had, McCabe and Co. could follow her until the cows came home and they would come up empty-handed. Eventually, they would get tired of following her and go away, and her life could get back to normal. That was poor justice for the dead woman who'd had the misfortune to share her name, she knew; but then, no amount of justice would help that other Madeline Fitzgerald now. What
she
had to do was concentrate on saving herself.

“You're scaring her,” Wynne said to McCabe in a reproving tone, which made Maddie wonder exactly what he'd seen in her face. She wanted to be careful about that. McCabe seemed uncannily attuned to her emotions, and he was looking at her, too, with an inscrutable expression that made her faintly uneasy. Hunky or not, when all was said and done he was a fed, and it would behoove her not to forget it.

“I was just thinking.” Maddie looked at Wynne. “If there'd been a bomb in my car yesterday morning at the airport,
you
would have been toast.”