In Harm's Way (Heroes of Quantico Series, Book 3) (5 page)

Eight minutes later, he slipped his arms into the sleeves of
his dark gray suit jacket and picked up a notebook and pen. If
he was lucky, this Rachel Sutton would have some innocuous tip he could dispense with quickly. Most off-the-street visitors
offered little information of value. No reason this one would
be any different.

As he approached the security door to the lobby, Sharon was
shutting down her computer. He queried her without breaking
stride. "Which room?"

"Two. Maybe it won't take long"

"We can hope"

"Hot date tonight?" She shot him a saucy grin.

With an enigmatic smile, Nick pushed through to the lobby
in silence and strode toward the interview room. Being single,
he was used to such ribbing. But in truth, his hot dates were
few and far between. By choice. There were plenty of women
who thought dating an FBI agent was exciting and glamorous.
He could pick up half a dozen at most bars.

Thrill-seeking women, however, were not his definition of a
hot date. He wasn't in the market for one-night stands or casual
romance. A hot date for him would be spending an evening with
a woman of substance who had more to offer than her body and
whose values matched his.

As he'd discovered, however, that kind of woman wasn't easy
to find. And at thirty-eight, after twelve years of serious looking,
he was on the verge of giving up the search.

No, his Friday night didn't involve a one-on-one encounter
with a special woman. Yet he was looking forward to it nonetheless. He might be the odd man out, but fellow agents Mark and
Coop never made him feel that way. Nor did their wives, Emily
and Monica. It would be a good evening with good friends, a
rare chance for the five of them to get together, since Coop and
Monica didn't get in from Virginia very often. And it was far
preferable to a solitary evening spent rehabbing his house-his
usual Friday-night agenda.

Pausing outside the door to the interview room, Nick adjusted his jacket and grasped the knob. Professional, polite, fast. That
was his plan.

He pushed open the door, and a slim woman who appeared
to be in her early thirties rose from her seat at a small table.

"Sorry to keep you waiting" He shut the door behind him,
closed the distance between them, and held out his hand.

As she returned his firm grip, her slender fingers cold and not
quite steady, he did a rapid assessment. Height about five-six.
Weight one-fifteen, one-twenty, tops. Shoulder-length brown
hair with auburn highlights, parted on the left side. Velvet brown
eyes fringed by long lashes her copper-rimmed glasses couldn't
camouflage. Classic oval face, pert nose, long, slender neck.
Minimal makeup. Her black slacks hugged trim hips, and a
gold filigree cross on a slender chain rested against her plumcolored turtleneck.

A pretty woman.

Who didn't want to be here.

It took mere seconds for Nick to reach that conclusion. The
uncertainty in her eyes was easy to read, as was the tremor in
her fingers when she tucked her hair behind her ear with her
free hand.

Trained to pick up such nuances, Nick had learned to use
that skill to his advantage. Depending on the situation, he could
turn up the heat-or turn on the charm. Whatever best served
his purpose.

In this case, he chose the latter tactic.

"I'm Special Agent Nick Bradley, Ms. Sutton:" He gave her a
relaxed smile. "Why don't we sit down while you tell me how
I can help you?"

For a moment, he thought she was going to bolt. He could
sense it in the subtle tensing of her muscles, in the way her throat
worked when she swallowed, in the quick glance she aimed at
the closed door.

He maintained a relaxed stance, his smile steady. "Ms. Sutton? Please, have a seat. I'd like to hear what you have to say." He
indicated the chair, reaching over to pull it out-and effectively
blocking her escape.

Folding her arms across her chest, she examined the crisp
white cuff extending below his jacket. A tiny smile quirked one
corner of her mouth. "Interesting technique for corralling nervous subjects. Very smooth" She tilted her head up toward him.
"But not necessary. I've come this far. I don't intend to leave
without telling you my story."

She retook her seat and perched on the edge of the chair,
her posture taut as she intertwined her fingers on the table in
front of her.

Sharp woman, Nick concluded. Not to mention insightful
and determined. Plus, she had a sense of humor. He admired
her ability to dredge it up despite her obvious unease. A lot of
people couldn't pull that off.

This might turn out to be interesting after all.

He took the chair at a right angle to her and opened his
notebook. Extracting a card from his pocket, he laid it on the
table. "So how can I help you, Ms. Sutton?"

She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. She had
nice lips, he noted. Soft and full and well-shaped.

"I'm not sure where to begin"

Clearing his throat, he picked up his pen and forced himself
to raise his gaze and redirect his train of thought. "All right. Let
me ask a few questions. What specifically brought you here
today?"

She did that distracting lip-moistening thing again, then
leaned away from him and lifted a small shopping bag off the
floor, holding it gingerly by the handle as she transferred it to
the table in front of him. "This"

His expression impassive, Nick considered the bag. It had passed through the magnetometer and X-ray machine at the
entrance to the building, meaning it didn't contain anything
overtly dangerous. Yet she was handling it as if it were about
to explode. Curious.

"What is it?"

"A Raggedy Ann doll:"

Startled, he bought himself a few seconds by tipping the bag
toward him. A battered cloth doll was folded inside, the face
sporting a large patch above the right eye, the orange hair matted with dirt, the clothing stained. He felt as if he should put
on latex gloves before touching it.

Letting the bag resettle on the table, he shot her a cautious
look. "Why did you bring this to us, Ms. Sutton?"

She blinked, and her throat worked again as she swallowed,
the tension in the room almost palpable. His curiosity was now
thoroughly piqued.

"I found it in a Bread Company parking lot' She named the
location.

He waited, but when she didn't continue, he tilted his head and
leaned back, his posture informal and at ease as he rephrased his
previous question. "Why did you think we'd be interested in it?"

She closed her eyes, sucked in a deep breath, opened them.
Her gaze met his, and he sensed she was bracing herself. "Okay.
This is going to sound crazy. I know that. But it's the truth,
whether you choose to believe me or not. I found this doll yesterday at lunchtime, buried in a drift from a snowplow. Except
for the orange yarn sticking out. That's how I spotted it. I thought
maybe some little girl was missing it, so I dug it out. I planned
to set it on the air conditioner next to the building in case her
mother was a regular customer."

She gripped the edge of the table, and her knuckles whitened.
"This is where it gets ... weird. When I picked up the doll, I
had a ... reaction"

An alarm sounded in Nick's mind, warning him to proceed
with caution. Keeping his expression neutral, he studied her.
"Could you define `reaction'?"

"I felt terror. Danger" Her volume dropped. "And I think I ...
could hear a baby crying"

Oh, brother.

In his fifteen years with the Bureau, Nick had seen his share of
kooks, from the guy who insisted he'd been abducted by aliens,
to the woman who claimed God had told her to assist the FBI
by acting as his intermediary on difficult cases, to the guy who
believed he was J. Edgar Hoover reincarnated and wanted to
be FBI director again.

Now this. At closing time on a Friday, no less.

What a way to end the week.

In the silence that followed Rachel Sutton's revelation, he
considered her. She might look normal. No, scratch that. She
was well above normal in the looks department. Lovely, even.
But nutcases came in all sorts of packages. And her story put
her in that category, no question about it. Now it was a matter
of getting rid of her in a diplomatic way.

"You don't believe me, do you?"

Her quiet, resigned words-more comment than questiontook him off guard. Lots of people who relayed bizarre tales to
the Bureau became indignant, even angry, if they suspected an
agent doubted their story. But the pink tinge on Rachel Sutton's
cheeks, the slight tremor in her words, spoke more of embarrassment than outrage. Not the typical reaction to skepticism.

"I'm not questioning what you experienced, Ms. Sutton" He
chose his words with care.

"But you don't think it's real:"

Instead of responding, he countered with a request. "Why
don't you tell me exactly what happened when you had this
reaction?"

"I couldn't breathe. My heart started pounding. I got dizzy. I
could feel my adrenaline pumping. I was terrified:"

"Has this ever happened to you before?"

"No"

"You've never had a panic attack?"

"No. And I'm not some psychic nut. I don't even believe in
that stuff. That's why this experience was so disturbing"

"But the doll is sitting a couple of feet away from you, and
you're fine"

"It only happens when I touch it:"

Nick debated his next move. He was already running late for
dinner, and prolonging this interview was a waste of time. He
needed to get the woman's address and phone number, thank her
for coming, and get rid of her. That was the best way to handle
this. The way he always handled these cases.

But Rachel Sutton's earnest eyes sucked him in. She believed
her story, whether he did or not. And for some reason he found
it difficult to dismiss her tale with his usual quick dispatch.

He toyed with his pen, turning it end to end on the table.
"Why didn't you share this information with the police?"

"I considered that. But the husband of one of my co-workers
is a cop, and she ran it by him for me. She was very diplomatic
in passing on his message, but it was pretty clear I'd be the
laughingstock of the precinct. No one would take me seriously. I
hoped I'd fare better with the FBI:" She drew an unsteady breath.
"I guess I was wrong"

Lifting her chin in what Nick suspected was a last-ditch effort
to hold on to her dignity, she unhooked her shoulder purse from
the back of her chair and stood, ignoring the card he'd placed in
front of her. Taken aback, he rose too. This interview definitely
wasn't following the typical pattern. In general, it was hard to
shake the weirdos. Rachel Sutton, on the other hand, seemed
intent on disappearing as fast as she could.

"Ms. Sutton, I'd like to get some contact information before
you leave:"

"In case you have any questions about the notes you took?"
She sent a pointed glance toward the blank page of his notebook.

Heat surged up the back of his neck. "I wasn't sure what to
write. Your story is very ... peculiar:"

"I know that" All at once her shoulders drooped. "And I don't
blame you for being skeptical, Agent Bradley. If I were in your
shoes, I'd have had the same reaction. I just felt a need to follow
through. I've done that. Now I intend to walk away. Thanks for
your time"

She turned to retrieve her coat, and Nick pondered his strategy. The smart thing to do ... the reasonable thing ... was let
her leave. She'd admitted she would do as much herself. Yet he
found himself reaching out, touching her arm.

"Before you go, would you do one favor for me?"

She angled toward him, her expression wary. "What?"

"Pick up the doll:"

Her complexion went a shade paler and she took a step back.
"I'd rather not"

He pinned her with an intent look. "Ms. Sutton, I'll be honest. I've had my share of tips like this through the years. None
amounted to anything. That makes me skeptical. On the other
hand, you strike me as an intelligent, rational person. I'm curious
to see this reaction you describe. Physical evidence is difficult
to refute:"

She hesitated. Caught her bottom lip between her teeth.
Darted a glance toward the shopping bag. Tightened her grip
on the strap of her shoulder purse.

Nick waited her out. If this was an act, she was very good.
He'd buy her indecision, her dread-her fear-in a heartbeat.

At last, wiping her palms on her slacks, she let the strap slide from her shoulder. Setting the purse beside her coat, she took
a step toward him. "All right:"

In silence, he picked up the shopping bag and held it open.

She walked to the bag. Sucked in a lungful of air. Her spine
stiffened, and she reached in and withdrew the doll.

What happened next was like nothing Nick had seen in all
his years of law enforcement.

The little color remaining in Rachel Sutton's complexion vanished, revealing a faint dusting of freckles across her nose. Moisture broke out on her upper lip. She held the doll away from her,
arms rigid, and her whole body began to tremble. Her respiration
grew shallow and rapid, and she had to struggle for breath. If he
checked her pulse, Nick was sure it would be racing.

A few minutes ago, she'd described her reaction to the doll
as terror.

She hadn't been lying.

This was real.

Nick didn't want to accept that. But he doubted even a superlative actress could fake the physiological reaction Rachel
was having.

Yet it made no sense.

All at once Rachel's knees gave way, galvanizing him into action. He grabbed her upper arms and backed her into the chair
she'd vacated sixty seconds ago, easing her down. Without taking his eyes off her, he tugged the doll from her shaking hands
and set it on the table.

The transformation was immediate-and startling. Her trembling subsided, her breathing steadied, her muscles began to
relax. Color crept back into her face.