Freefall (18 page)

Wondering how such a chaste kiss could leave her so needy, Sabrina dragged herself up the stairs, brushed her teeth, and fell into bed.

Even as she reminded herself that before the bombing she'd been a strong, independent woman, that she didn't need a bodyguard, she couldn't deny that it was comforting knowing Zach was downstairs.

Was he thinking about her? Wishing he was here in her bed, ravishing her blind instead of sitting alone in the dark?

And speaking of the dark, surprisingly, she didn't feel afraid.

Which, being a logical, levelheaded woman, she realized was precisely because there was an armed SEAL in the house.

Not just any SEAL.

Zach. And his strong, solid presence allowed her to truly relax for the first time in weeks.

Closing her eyes, breathing out a long, slow sigh, Sabrina tuned out.

Frustrated by a lack of sleep, which for once had nothing to do with war flashbacks, Zach had almost convinced himself that his uncharacteristic emotional connection to Lucie's delectable granddaughter was nothing more than a hormonal response to a sexually appealing woman.

Especially given how long it had been since he'd slept with any woman.

Take one attractive, sweet-smelling blonde and a hormone-driven male, stir in a bit of danger, shake well, and it was only natural you'd come up with a sex connection.

That, at least, is what Zach had kept telling himself all night.

What he'd almost managed to believe.

Until the woman who'd caused him so much emotional and sexual turmoil entered the kitchen looking like a summer garden in a brightly flowered halter top and crisp white slacks.

She also looked as if she'd gotten some sleep. Which made one of them.

"Good morning." Her smile, while only a bit tentative, brightened her moss green eyes.

" 'Morning." He poured some orange juice from the carton he'd watched her put away yesterday. Had that been only twenty-four hours ago? It seemed like a week. Month. Year. "Sleep well?"

"Very well, thank you." She took the glass he handed her and sipped. "How about you?"

"Like a rock," he lied.

"I owe you an apology." She perched on a barstool and crossed those legs that appeared to go all the way up to her ears. "For keeping you up just because I got skitterish about things going bump in the night."

"I got used to going without sleep in the SEALs. Besides, there was no point taking chances. Especially since you never know who Lucie might've given keys to over the years. I had one. So did Dad. And Line. The former housekeeper. And the service Harlan hired to come in once a week, and—"

"I get your point. Knowing Lucie, there could be keys all over the island."

"Which is why we're going to change the locks."

"You won't find me arguing about that." She slid off the stool and poured herself a cup of coffee he'd made from the carafe, then stirred in some milk and not one, not two, but three spoonfuls of sugar.

"I'm amazed you have any teeth left."

She flashed those gleaming whites at him. "I have tough teeth. And the rest of me is definitely tougher than I look."

"Yeah, I kind of figured that out for myself, seeing as how you had a seven-story building fall down on you and lived to tell about it."

"Only you."

He arched a brow, inviting elaboration.

"Except for the grief shrink in Florence, who wouldn't sign me out of the hospital until I agreed to a session, and some various international security types from the CIA, and Interpol, I've talked with only you about the bombing."

She walked over to the window and looked out over the fields of tea plants. "I'm still not sure why."

"Maybe because I'm a good listener."

She glanced back over her shoulder. "Maybe. But more likely because you, of all people, can understand."

"That too."

"But here's the thing." Her teeth were worrying her bottom lip. He confused her, Zach realized. Which was only fair, since she was confusing the hell out of him. "I've never dwelled in the past. Or even the present. I prefer to look ahead."

"Lucie always said you weren't one to stop and smell the roses."

She frowned. "You make being goal-oriented sound like a fault."

Feeling a near-obsessive urge to rub those lines between her brows with his thumb, Zach slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans to keep them out of trouble.

"It wasn't a judgment call, New York. Just a statement."

Hadn't he been the same way? Until these past few months when he'd been uncharacteristically drifting.

"Well, as I was saying, I don't believe in looking back."

"Hard to get anywhere when you're looking at life in a rearview mirror."

"Exactly."

Relief flooded into those remarkable eyes, making him wonder if she'd always been so open with her emotions. He decided this, too, was a lingering effect from the bombing. If she'd always had every thought written across her face in bold script she couldn't have risen as high and fast as she had at Wingate hotels.

"So, while I won't deny that it felt good to get that night off my chest, I also don't want to dwell on it."

"Put it away in a lockbox."

"Exactly," she repeated with a firm nod, openly satisfied by her mistaken belief that they were on the same page.

Which was where she'd gone wrong. He could tell her, from personal experience, that compartmentalizing, which had always worked dandy for him in the past, had its limits.

But since he doubted she would believe him—he certainly wouldn't have bought the idea himself a year ago—he decided she would have to find that out for herself.

"And now that it's officially behind me, I'm going to move on with my life."

"You're going back to work?"

"In a way." She polished off the coffee and put the cup in the dishwasher. "I don't suppose you brought the blueprints with you last night?"

"I had other things on my mind."

"That's okay. I need to go into town, find out from Harlan how to draw money from the Swarm Tea account. What was the figure Lucie and your father agreed on?"

Although she hadn't been engaged in any construction in the States since her stint in new hotel development six years ago, the amount he named certainly sounded fair and reasonable.

"Okay. I'll also run by the bank and arrange for bridge financing to cover your draws, if Line doesn't have any strong objection to the plan. And, of course, I'll need to let Titania know she's going to be working her tail off for the next few months.

"Why don't I meet you back here around"—she glanced at her watch—"two."

"I'm not wild about the idea of you running all over the island by yourself."

"Oh, for heaven's sake." Her frustrated breath ruffled her bangs. "It's daylight. What could happen?"

"Try asking Cleo that," he suggested mildly. "Oh, wait." He put up a hand as if the thought had just occurred to him. "You can't ask her, can you? Because some maniac serial killer rapist stabbed her to death."

"There's no need to be sarcastic."

"No." He pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose and tried to keep his mind from conjuring up the image of the nurse's body that Nate had described. "You're absolutely right. My tone disrespected a good woman, and I didn't mean to do that.

"However"—he pressed on when she opened her mouth to interrupt—"that doesn't make my point any less valid. Cleo was killed in the middle of the day. Seemingly by someone she knew."

"How do you know that?"

"Nate told me last night. Signs point to her having let her killer into her house."

The cute little house he'd helped her bring back from near-dead, the same one for which only last week he'd planed her bedroom door, which, like the ones at Whispering Pines, had begun sticking due to a spike in humidity.

"Well." She blew out another breath that trembled slightly. "That
is
unsettling. But so long as I don't let anyone in my car while I'm out, I can't see I'm in any danger. And here's the thing." She cocked her head, lifted her chin in that way he was beginning to recognize. "I'm hiring a contractor, Zach. Not a bodyguard."

"Maybe you should."

"And wouldn't that get everyone talking?"

"Gossip is a lot less painful than murder."

"Wow." She folded her arms. "If you'll wait a minute, I'll dig up a pen and write that down."

He liked the little spark of temper that flashed in her eyes and brightened her cheeks. The bombing may have gotten her down for a time, but no way could anyone count this lady out.

He dug into his pocket and pulled out a mechanical pencil. "Be my guest."

"Cute." Her lips twitched. Just a little. "It's a SEAL thing, isn't it?"

"What?"

"You probably get off on being the big macho superhero who rushes in to rescue the damsel in distress."

"You couldn't be more off base."

"Really?" She arched a challenging brow.

"Really. I came back to the island because I was through with saving the world. And everyone in it."

"Oh." Her eyes swept over his face as she took that in. "Well." She snatched her bag from the counter by the kitchen door. "You know, if I promise to take reasonable care, and you, in turn, promise to lighten up and not hover over me, we might possibly get through this construction job without driving each other crazy."

Driving her crazy, Zach thought, as he stood at the window and watched her drive away, was exactly what he intended to do.

But not right away. He'd spent a lot of time—okay, too much time—thinking about her last night and had come to the conclusion that despite the obvious chemistry between them, the timing sucked.

She still had issues.

He still had issues.

If he was looking for a blow-your-mind release, he'd go for it.

But as the tall case clock in Swannsea's foyer had noisily ticked away the minutes and hours last night, he'd decided to deliberately slow things down.

See what developed.

After all, he wasn't going anywhere.

And neither, it appeared, was she.

Having struck out at finding anyone on the island who'd seen Cleo the day she was murdered, Nate decided that after dusting Swannsea for prints, he would drive over to Somersett in hopes of finding the clerk who had waited on her. As he was preparing to head out, his dispatcher appeared in his office doorway.

"There's someone to see you, Sheriff," she announced, her mouth pulled into a line as tight as her salt-and-pepper perm. "A woman." Her eyes narrowed behind the bifocals. "That redhead who claims to be an FBI agent."

Nate reminded himself that patience was reputed to be a virtue.

"Perhaps that's because she is a special agent," he suggested.

"Well, she's no Efrem Zimbalist, Junior, that's for sure," Dottie Taylor sniffed.

"Why don't you send her in, please, Mrs. Taylor."

Deciding there was nothing to be gained by pointing out that Efrem Zimbalist had only played an FBI agent on TV, Zach stood up behind the battered desk, which, along with his disapproving dispatcher and a paroled-murderer janitor, was a legacy from his father.

"Good morning, Sheriff." She breezed into the room on a long-legged stride, bringing with her the fresh, clean scent of soap.

"Special Agent."

"Oh, please." After a brief handshake, she sat down and crossed her legs with an impatient swish. "Let's make it simple. I'm Cait. And you're Nate. And, wow, how about that, we rhyme."

"Seem to." Taking his own seat behind the desk, he glanced past her toward the door. "Where's your partner?"

"With any luck he's gone back to the mother ship. And for the record, it's nuns who always travel in pairs. Not FBI agents."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Despite today's gray and white suit, she was about as far from a nun as a woman could get. Once again it crossed his mind that if he weren't already involved with the woman of his dreams, he definitely wouldn't mind spending a lot of time consulting with Special Agent Cait Cavanaugh.

"What can I do for you?"

"It's more what I can do for you." She reached into her black leather bag and pulled out a thumb drive. "I've been thinking about your case."

"While protecting the ports from terrorism?"

"No, while forced to spend the day at the port with the most boring and sexist man on this planet. Anyway, I had my office run a check for all women between the ages of eighteen and forty reported missing in the Low-country over the last decade. Also all unclaimed female bodies."

"And?"

"And, unsurprisingly, there were quite a few. In the hundreds, actually."

"That's unsurprising?" Nate hadn't thought he was easily shocked.

"Unfortunately. Males are more frequently killed in acts of violence. Street fights, drug deals, two guys get into a drunken argument, that sort of thing. Which, even if there aren't any witnesses, the bodies are generally fresh and more easily identifiable.

"Whereas murdered females are more likely to be victims of abduction. Their bodies are often hidden, or left to the elements."

"Like in a marsh."

"Exactly. They decompose, which makes them more difficult to identify. The news, however, was better for the missing females. Most of them showed up within a few days or weeks."

"You say 'most' "

"There are still some unclosed cases. Some which point toward a significant-other homicide, but those aren't always easy to prove. But here's the thing. One of the women reported missing in Somersett was a prostitute."

"That doesn't seem unusual, given her occupation."

Nate watched movies. Read thrillers. Prostitutes often seemed to be victims of serial killers, given that they not only indulged in risky behavior but lived below the radar, in a world where people wouldn't necessarily go searching for them if they didn't show up for work one day.

"True. What's unusual is this woman had a friend who reported her missing. A friend who claimed to have escaped a guy who'd taken her home, supposedly for an all-nighter, and put her in a cage."

"That is interesting."

"Isn't it? And if that doesn't get your cop spidey sense tingling, try this: The woman had an
S
burned into her left butt cheek."

Every atom in Nate's body went on alert. "And this was when?"

"Three years ago."

"And no one thought this was worth investigating?"

"Unfortunately, no. Because the woman in question was already covered in ink, which, to the officer who took the complaint, indicated that she might be into weird body enhancements."

"Some people consider a tattoo an enhancement." Nate decided not to mention the eagle globe and anchor he'd had inked over his heart while on his first liberty in Singapore. "But a brand would seem to be pushing the envelope."

"For most people. But apparently this woman, and her missing friend, were the go-to gals if you were looking to purchase a little S&M entertainment."

She rubbed the back of her neck, appearing uneasy with this conversation. "Look, I agree—the complaint shouldn't have been dropped. But you have to understand, at the time the department was dealing with a serial arsonist and innocent people were dying. The missing woman fell through the cracks." She shook her head. "She shouldn't have. But she did."

"And her body never showed up?"

"Not that anyone knows of."

"Which doesn't exactly fit this case." Nate wondered how unusual a brand was in the S&M community and guessed it wasn't impossibly uncommon.

"No. But it's close enough you might want to go through the files I downloaded and see how many more you can find that fit the profile. I would've, but—"

"You have ports to protect."

"Yeah. Which is hugely important, although I have to admit that after all the years as a cop, I miss working more-active cases. But that's neither here nor there.

"I took time to call a friend who works in the bureau's Behavioral Science Unit. I minored in psychology, so I was jazzed when the Somersett, Georgetown, and Charleston PDs got together and had him come teach a weeklong class back when I was on the force.

"Although he wanted me to stress that profiling is an art, not really a science, from what I told him about what I knew of your case, he thinks it's very possible that your UNSUB's been at this a while."

"A while." And hadn't been caught. Wasn't that encouraging?

"It's just his gut. But he did give me some suggestions to pass on to you. Some things to look for."

"I'm grateful for any help I can get."

She tilted her head. "That's unusual. Most local cops get, shall we say, a bit
territorial
when the feds show up."

"I spent fifteen years in the Marine Corps. We worked in teams. Seems this is pretty much the same thing. But the good news is that no one's shooting at me." So far.

"Like I said, it's unusual." She paused a beat. Glanced down at her leather-banded watch. Then looked at him with frank feminine interest. "I've got a meeting with some politician types in Columbia, but I should be back by six. What would you think about continuing this discussion over dinner?"

Timing, Nate thought with wry inward smile, was, indeed, everything. There was a time he would've jumped at the invitation, which unless every instinct he possessed had gone on the blink, was as much personal as it was professional.

"Sorry, but I have plans."

She tilted her head. Studied him some more. "Serious plans?"

"Let's say I remain hopeful."

"It figures." She flashed a dazzling smile. Then, as if turning off a switch, moved the conversation back onto its professional track.

"A lot of serial killers have been found to have antisocial personality disorder."

"Killing strangers isn't the most social activity," he agreed.

"True. And the fact that at least one of your victims apparently knew her assailant points to some of the traits—manipulativeness and even glibness—that allowed him to get close."

"Ted Bundy was reported to be charming."

"Exactly." She nodded. "But if this has been going on a while, there are other traits my friend suggested might have surfaced. A persistent violation of social norms, breaking laws, low frustration tolerance, aggression, drug abuse."

"Things that would tend to garner attention from authorities."

"Exactly. Which is why it's possible—and remember, this is merely a hypothesis—that you're dealing with someone with a narcissistic personality disorder. Which means you might want to be looking for a guy who has a greatly exaggerated sense of being special, who limits his personal and professional associations only to those he deems worthy."

"Except when he decides to kill," Nate said.

"Good point," she allowed. "But that's part of the deal." She leaned forward to stress her next statement. "The narcissist is so caught up in his own self-importance, he doesn't develop empathy, which makes him more able to cause suffering to those he doesn't view as his equals.

"He could exhibit a sense of entitlement. And engage in arrogant behavior, but at the same time, my friend said, since narcissism is the beating heart of pyschopathy, the narcissist resembles the antisocial guy in that he can also be glib and manipulative. Which is not only how he attracts his victims but how he avoids getting caught. Sometimes for decades."

"Well." Nate blew out a long breath. Rubbed the back of his neck. No way was his killer going to get away for that long. "Sounds like all I have to do is go over to the Palmetto Golf and Tennis Club and round up all the men on the course."

"Swarm Island, for all its outward calm, is populated with more than its share of overachievers," she agreed. "Which makes sense, given how expensive oceanfront property's gotten. Though, of course, someone from the mainland could've decided to start using your little island paradise as a dumping ground.

"But even if I hadn't taken that class and called my friend, back in my cop days, if I thought this UNSUB had been around a while, I probably wouldn't be looking for some homeless psychopath who's acting on impulse."

"It's hard to keep a woman in a cage when you're living under a bridge," Nate murmured, as much to himself as to her.

"There is that." She stood up. "Well, that's all I've got."

Nate stood up as well, came around his desk. "It's a huge help. I appreciate it."

"No problem. Like I said, I minored in psychology, so this case intrigues me. I hope you'll keep me updated."

"Absolutely," he said as he walked her out of his office and past the narrowed, watchful eyes of his dispatcher.

She was about to leave, then turned in the doorway leading to the street. "Tell her she's a lucky woman."

He didn't have to ask who she was talking about. "I've been trying to do exactly that."

"Well." She gave him another one of those quick once-over looks, from the top of his head down to his boots, then back up again, her gaze meeting his with the frankness that he suspected had served her well as a cop but might cause problems in the more structured environs of the FBI. "If she isn't easily convinced, you've got my number."

He indulged in watching her walk out to the black SUV. The lady definitely had a nice ass. And from the lack of a ring on her left hand and the dinner invitation, it seemed she was unattached.

Wondering what was wrong with the men over in Somersett to let Caitlin Cavanaugh get away and drawn by the siren call of those files the sexy special agent had brought him, Nate glanced up at the round white wall clock and decided he had time to take a cursory look.

Thirty minutes later, his blood was running cold as he realized that his murders were just the tip of a very deadly iceberg.