Freefall (12 page)

Damned if he wasn't thinking about her. Just as, though he knew she was fighting against admitting it, she was thinking about him. The difference was that while he would bet his left nut that she'd rather have his father be the one to show up in the morning with the blueprints for the Swannsea addition, Zach welcomed the diversion.

Sabrina Swarm might have gone up in the world since that summer Lucie had thrown her a sweet sixteen birthday party—from what her grandmother had told him, she was a real hotshot in the international hotel world—but she was still a woman. A woman who'd once kissed him with all the pent-up fervor of a teenager in love.

Okay. Not love.

At sixteen she hadn't even known the meaning of the word. No, what she'd felt for him was good old elemental lust. The same lust that, God help him, had caused his dick to leap to attention when she'd wrapped that lissome young body, barely clad in a teeny-weeny pink bikini, around him and made it all too clear that she was his. If he wanted her.

Which, hell, yes, he had.

But while he might have been reckless and rebellious, he hadn't been suicidal.

Sabrina Swann had been jailbait, pure and simple. And while certainly he'd enjoyed his share of women since losing his virginity to Patsy Buchanan his fifteenth summer, he'd never had sex worth going to jail for.

And even if Nate's dad hadn't thrown him in the pokey, Lucie probably would've gotten that old shotgun out of the gun case in her former husband's den and filled him full of buckshot.

Doing the math, he realized she was now twenty-seven, past the age of consent, and damned if she hadn't been looking at him the same way she had all that long, hot summer. The difference was, back then she hadn't the faintest idea what she was offering.

Since he doubted that she'd hung on to the virginity she'd been so eager to shed, she had to know exactly how a guy felt when a woman looked at him like she was fantasizing jumping his bones.

Just the mental image of her riding him, her slender body glistening with sweat, her long hair tumbling nearly to her bare ass as she arched her back, her tits jutting out, begging for him to take them in his mouth, kicked his libido, which he'd begun to fear had died in those faraway mountains, into high gear.

Before the helo crash that had taken the lives of too many good men and changed his life forever, Zach's mind had mostly focused on two things: his team and sex.

Afterward, while his former team was never far from his mind—particularly since Quinn had also landed back here in South Carolina—sex had disappeared below the radar.

Until he'd looked in the window and—sweet Jesus save him—seen Sabrina Swann, nearly naked, with that shirt twisted up to her thighs.

And although he'd done his damnedest to forget how hot she'd looked by sweating buckets and pounding those big fat nails into her slate roof, he was rapidly coming to the conclusion that the image had been indelibly imprinted on his sex-starved brain.

Which meant, unless he wanted to go through life in a horny haze, he was going to have to do something about her.

He'd never been one for entanglements. Though he knew SEALs who'd gotten married, he'd never thought the nature of his work would make him a very good husband.

The business of a warrior was to fight. Period. And when he did fight, he fought to win, because anything less would not only put his team and his mission at risk but could well cost him his life.

From the moment he'd shown up at BUD/S, Zach had trained for that single instant when he would kill or be killed.

At least the Marines and Special Forces went in all cannons blasting, which had never been the SEAL way. SEALs were all about covert operations; if anyone knew you'd been there, you'd fucked up.

And even if the bad guys were terrorist scum who deserved to die, there was no getting around the fact that setting up an ambush was, pure and simple, premeditated murder.

He could envision it now, his wife at some froufrou ladies' tea at the Hotel del Coronado being asked what, exactly her husband did for a living, and saying, "Oh, my Zach? Why, he's an assassin."

Talk about your conversation killers.

Also, from what he'd observed, the learning curve for a SEAL wife was every bit as steep as for a guy entering the teams. At least the guys were trained for the role; women had to pretty much figure it out for themselves.

He'd watched more than one marriage between two good people disintegrate because the woman hadn't planned on having to put up with the pack behavior of a band of SEAL warriors even when they were off duty.

Women, at least the ones he'd met over the years, liked dating SEALs. Liked it a lot, and being male, and human, he'd taken his share of groupies home from country clubs and dives around the world.

Dating a guy who was always taking off on mysterious missions was probably kind of a rush. But being married to a husband who spent months overseas, was away much of the time training for his next deployment when he was stateside, and didn't come home at six p.m. like other neighborhood husbands did had to be the pits.

You'd think a wife's having a career of her own would ease the problems. But from what he'd seen, from the outside looking in, it could make things even worse. Because when her SEAL did get home from deployment and wanted to spend all his leave time with her, well, likely as not she wasn't going to be able to drop everything and fuck like a sex-crazed bunny twenty-four hours a day.

"Even if you were still in the team, you're not talking about marrying the woman," he reminded himself. "Just getting her naked."

And keeping her that way.

All night long.

Another thing he'd learned in the SEALs was that a failure to plan was a plan for failure.

Flipping open his cell phone, Zach set his plan in motion.

Using the accepted definition that a serial killer is someone who commits three or more murders with an emotional cooling-off period between the homicides, Nate had to suspect that was what he was dealing with.

While Cleo Gibson, Hallie Conroy, and the still unidentified John Doe weren't identical killings, there was enough similarity, particularly in the slashed throats—which Harlan believed had all been done with the same type of blade—that Nate tamped down his pride and made a call to the Somersett regional FBI office.

After all, as a former Marine, he was accustomed to working with others, right?

Still, having to call in the feds grated. He was, after all, one of the few. The proud. But he was also pragmatic. If he waited until he had a clearer picture of the situation or, even worse, held back because of his pride, the murderer could claim another victim. Which was not an option.

Apparently it was a slow day, because the pair arrived within the hour: a redhead with mile-long legs who was wearing a charcoal gray suit and a guy in black suit and shades who looked as if he'd come from a casting call for
MiB III
or
The Matrix
, His New Jersey accent, straight out of
The Sopranos
, was Nate's first clue that he wasn't a local.

Although MiB, aka Special Agent Frank Angetti, barely skimmed the autopsy reports and Nate's field notes, the redhead, Caitlin Cavanaugh, went through them line by line, stopping every so often to question Nate on some detail. Not that he was much help.

Hell, if he'd had a handle on the case, he wouldn't have called them in the first place.

"Okay." She leaned back in the chair and, lifting her arm at an angle that had her breasts moving in an interesting way beneath her white silk blouse, rubbed the back of her neck. "So victims number one and two were murdered and moved."

"So the medical examiner said," Nate replied.

"But number three's body was found at the murder scene."

Nate nodded. "After an obvious struggle and an attempt to escape."

The canister of pepper spray had told its own tragic story. As had the semen left behind. Nate had sent that pretty white bedspread to the state DNA lab in Columbia, but given the backlog, he figured he might, if he was lucky, get a response back before his retirement party.

He hoped that bringing the feds in would speed things up.

"Pretty risky, attacking a woman in the middle of the day."

"Shows a disorganized UNSUB," MiB declared.

"Or someone who knew the victim," Nate said.

"And the territory," Special Agent Cavanaugh mused, revealing that she wasn't discounting his idea. "She was comfortable enough to let him in—"

"Doesn't mean he knew her," MiB argued. "That serial killer down in Baton Rouge gained access to some of his victims' houses by asking to use the phone."

"Hallie Conroy wasn't killed at home." Nate pointed out what the guy would've known if he'd read the notes. "Her car was found broken down on the side of the road. It's my guess that she was picked up while walking home."

"A crime of opportunity is another sign of a disorganized killer," MiB pressed his point.

"Always a possibility," Caitlin Cavanaugh allowed. "Though lie could have been hunting. At night," she stressed. "Which again points to the victim knowing her killer, since I doubt all that many women would get into a car late at night with a total stranger."

"Hookers do it all the time," her partner argued.

"Hallie Conroy was no hooker," Nate said between clenched teeth. "But, according to witnesses at the motel, she was majorly pissed off at finding her husband in bed with another woman. That could be reason enough for a woman not to be thinking clearly."

"Maybe she got into the killer's car looking for a little revenge sex," Special Agent Cavanaugh suggested.

As she crossed her legs, Nate enjoyed a quick flash of camellia-pale thigh.

"Again suggesting that they might have known each other," he said. "Especially given that the population of the island is a little under fifteen hundred people. Not counting the tourists."

"The time period between the killings tends to narrow the possibility of it being a tourist," she said thoughtfully. "At least a short-timer. It should be easy enough to find who's rented a vacation home or condo for a full month."

"I've already got a man working on that." Nate had assigned one of his three deputies to the task of calling every place on the island. So far nothing had panned out. But that didn't mean it wouldn't.

"It's a single white male," MiB declared.

"And you know this how?"

"Whether she needed a ride, or was looking to get fucked, victim two felt safe enough to get into a car with him, on a deserted road, late at night. Plus, most serial killers are single white males."

"But not all." It took an effort to keep his tone even after having to listen to the implication that a black man driving a car would automatically have been perceived as a threat. "If you want to play the race card, I probably should point out that a black woman might be less likely to get into a car with a white man.

"As for serial killers being mostly single white males, you brought up Derrick Todd Lee, from Baton Rouge. And don't forget Wayne Williams."

Who'd gone undetected for too long because the victims were black children, whom many white law enforcement officers had written off as runaways, accidents, or drug deals gone wrong. Even after a pattern had begun to develop, many people were focused on rumors of a KKK conspiracy. Some, Nate remembered his father saying, had even blamed witches.

"Well, there are always exceptions," MiB allowed testily.

Obviously the fed wasn't used to having his authority questioned. Tough.

"What you're undoubtedly looking for, Sheriff," MiB continued, "is a single white male, with an above-average IQ, who did poorly in school, has a spotty employment record, and works in a job that doesn't require many skills.

"He could come from a deeply troubled family, might have been abandoned at an early age by his father, and grew up with a domineering mother figure, since the rapes point toward a hostility toward women.

"You can expect psychiatric problems, including criminal behavior. As a child your UNSUB probably suffered significant abuse. Physical and most likely sexual, which has instilled in him profound feelings of humiliation and helplessness. Which he makes up for by humiliating others. Thus the branding of your young female victim.

"He'll have also manifested brutality toward animals in his youth in which he rehearsed his later murders, and a precocious interest in deviant sexuality."

"Well, hell, that should make it a snap to locate him."

Nate drawled, understanding why his father had denned "FBI" as "full of bullshit ideas." "Except for the little fact that besides a stint in the Marines, I've lived here all my life and can't think of a single citizen of Swann Island who fits that very narrow description."

"Those are general characteristics," the redhead—who'd rolled her eyes during her partner's recitation, which made Nate decide that not all feds were dipshits—said. "And while they can be helpful, they can also admittedly divert attention from the actual killer, who, when caught, often appears to be the guy next door."

Which was exactly what Nate was concerned about. According to witnesses, Hallie Conroy had been a loose cannon ever since she'd met the bad boy she'd pissed off her military father by running away with. Even her grieving parents and closest friends had described her as impulsive. And unpredictable.

But Cleo was another case entirely. As an ER worker, she was not only required to keep her head in the midst of chaos, she had to have developed a pretty strong bullshit detector. The fact that someone had managed to get past her defenses indicated that her killer was not only someone she knew but someone she trusted.

"I wish we could do more to help you out, Sheriff," Cavanaugh said. "But you've probably heard of a little problem called terrorism—right now most of our resources are being focused on that.

"Together, Somersett and Charleston harbors receive millions of containers, most of them from foreign countries, coming into port every year. Add to that the Naval Weapons Station with the capacity to handle sixty-two million pounds of explosives, and the two Air Force Air Wing Commands flying several flights a day, and you've got yourself an attractive target. Especially given that bin Laden has purchased several ships specifically for terrorist purposes.

"We were on our way to a Project Seahawk exercise in Charleston when we received your call. As things stand right now, I'm afraid we're not going to be able to devote many resources to your possible serial killer."

Having served two tours in Iraq, and another in Afghanistan, Nate knew firsthand about resources being overextended. He understood that three murders would seem like small potatoes if a crazed terrorist cell decided to blow up one of the nation's busiest container ports.

But that didn't mean he had to like it.

He also wondered how many more people would have to die before the FBI considered their deaths worth bothering with.

"I understand the need to prioritize. But our state labs have a long backlog on DNA analysis. A sample from the third victim's been sent to CODIS. Anything you could do to move your agency along would be much appreciated."

MiB opened his mouth, and from his aggressive expression, Nate figured he was about to explain to the rube cop how the system worked, but the redhead lifted her hand, cutting off whatever her partner had intended to say.

"I can't guarantee any results, but I will call the office in Columbia and see what I can do."

"That's all I can ask."

Actually, he'd like a helluva lot more cooperation, but remembering what Nate Senior had always said about beggars not being able to be choosers, he decided to settle for what he could get.

There was also the fact that, worst-case scenario, he might need to call Special Agent Caitlin Cavanaugh and her asshole partner in again. No point in burning bridges.

"Well, then, I guess that about covers it." She stood up, smoothed the front of her pin-striped skirt, and held out her hand. "It's always a privilege to meet an honest-to-God hero. I wish it could've been under more pleasant conditions."

"I'm no hero." Her nails were buffed to a glossy sheen, her palms smooth.

"Tell that to people who awarded you a Silver Star for valor."

"I was just another Marine trying to do my job on the battlefield." What it had been was a really ugly ambush in Fallujah. "And I'd give it up in a heartbeat if it could bring back the lives of all the men who died that day." He'd never spoken truer words.

Her smile lit up her eyes. "And that, Sheriff Davis, is exactly why you're a hero."

Nate walked her out, ignoring the asshole, who was making a point of ignoring him in return. Just your federal taxes at work, he thought as he watched them move toward the black SUV with dual whip antennas that screamed government agent car.

She was about to climb into the driver's seat when she took out a card embossed with the FBI shield from a black leather folder and wrote an additional number on it. "If anything new comes up, give me a call on my cell. That'll be quicker than going through official channels, which could get your murders assigned to someone different. Someone not familiar with the case."

"Thanks." Nate pocketed the card. "I appreciate any help you can provide."

"I've lived here in the Lowcountry since high school. The idea of some cretin killing people in my homeplace pisses me off. Besides"—her eyes smiled again in a way that if he wasn't already head over heart in love with another woman, would've had Nate calling Special Agent Cait Cavanaugh for reasons that had nothing to do with a suspected serial killer—"we good guys have to stick together."

Since he was in love, not dead, Nate took a fleeting bit of pleasure in watching her climb into the SUV.

After she'd driven away, he checked his watch. Titania would be taking dinner to her father, which gave him another hour before she would show up at his house, looking to work off the stress and unhappiness of the nursing home visit with a round or two of hot, raunchy sex.

She would insist, if pressed, that she was merely scratching an itch. An itch they'd both been working on since those high school days they'd spent rolling around in the bed of his old Dodge pickup parked out in the marsh.

But it had always been more than that for him. And although she continued to refuse to admit it, for reasons he suspected had something to do with her mother having died giving birth to her, Nate knew it meant more to her, too.

So, since his hunger for her was as strong—stronger—than it had been back when he was a hormone-driven teenager and since he was confident that he would eventually convince her to see the light, Nate was willing to take pleasure in what she was offering.

For now.

Meanwhile, he thought with a long, slow sigh, he had three murder victims who needed someone to stand for them.

Which, since his retired, RVing father was currently off in some place called Tucumcari, New Mexico, left him.