One Scream Away (19 page)

“Oh, that was good,” O’Ryan said. “I’ll be sure it makes my sound bite.”

“It better. That’s the only reason I said it.”

O’Ryan flashed a smile that rivaled that of anchor-women. She actually did have a perky nose.

“So go,” said Copeland, but he looked at Neil with an unspoken order to stay put.

Unnecessary. Neil wasn’t going anywhere.

I
notice you didn’t ask me where I want your ass,” the SAC said after the conference room had emptied.

“I’m pretty sure I know where you want my ass, sir. There’s no place for it on an active task force.”

Copeland steered around the table to stand face-to-face. “I remember you, Sheridan. Twenty-nine years old when you left the Bureau, and SACs were already calling you for the tough ones.”

A muscle twitched in Neil’s jaw.

“You know what they called you behind your back?”

Neil swallowed. He knew. It was the reason he’d gone back to find Anthony Russell.

“Pit Bull. Once you got your teeth into something, you wouldn’t let go.”

Let it go, Neil. Come home. Please. I need you here. Kenzie needs you.

“Then you let a personal tragedy bowl you under and ruin your career.”

“Is there something you wanted?” Neil pressed.

“This: An FBI task force is no place for civilians, with personal issues. You’re a civilian, and Standlin says you’re up to your eyeballs in personal on this.” He waved a hand when Neil opened his mouth. “Don’t deny it. She knows her stuff. She knows you, too.”

Neil wanted to wring Standlin’s neck. “You’re talking about ancient history, sir.”

“The loss of a child is never ancient history. Now, I don’t like it,” Copeland continued, “having someone who’s not on the team playing the game with us. But you’re a trained agent, and you know the Michaels case better than anyone else. Besides that, you’ve got something going with Denison. I’d be a fool not to use you.”

“Use me?” Neil’s pulse beat a little faster.

“I’m not a man who cares how many gold stars go beside my name. I want Chevy Bankes, and I don’t care who catches him—my task force or the city cops.” He narrowed his gaze on Neil. “Or an ex-agent who happens to be close to the woman Bankes is targeting, a man working alone and without sanction from this office.”

“Sir?”

“Alone and unsanctioned, do you understand?”

Neil was beginning to. And he liked Armand Copeland more and more.

“Stay with Denison; keep her talking. Keep us up with any connections to Gloria Michaels. I’ll give you whatever resources I can and let you sit in on the task force meetings. In return, anything you learn from Denison or because of your history with Bankes, you
share
.”

Oh, yes. He definitely liked Armand Copeland. Neil nodded and started to leave, then turned back. “One thing no one noticed in there is Chevy Bankes’s birth date,” he said, and Copeland frowned. “Gloria Michaels was killed on his twenty-first birthday.”

Copeland’s brows went up. “What does that mean?”

Neil shrugged, opening the door. “Hell if I know.”

When Neil stepped into the corridor, Standlin was waiting for the elevator. He tried to ignore her; couldn’t. “Christ, Standlin, what did you tell Copeland?”

“I told him two things everyone but you already knows.”

Neil crossed his arms. Goddamned shrinks.

“First, I told him that sixteen years ago, you were the best young criminal agent in the Bureau, and I was proud to have helped bring you on board.”

Neil actually felt his cheeks burn.

“And second, I told him that nine years ago, you went crazy and never came back.”

“Thanks a lot.”

The elevator opened and she stepped inside. “Oh, and I told him one other thing.”

Neil didn’t wanna hear it. But his hand barred the door, anyway.

“I told him the best chance he has of finding Chevy Bankes is to let you at him, and if he does, he could have the best damned criminal agent in the Bureau again.”

Something thumped in Neil’s chest—pride, maybe, or even hope—something he couldn’t quite identify. But on its heels came a bleaker, blacker emotion that he could. “I killed the wrong man.”

She nodded. “And getting the right man now won’t bring him back. No more than cuddling up with Beth and Abby will bring your family back. But,” she said, pushing the elevator button, “it just might bring you back.”

* * *

The rest of the day was paper: every detail of Gloria Michaels, Lila Beckenridge, Thelma Jacobs. The women from Omaha, Indianapolis, Silver Springs. Neil couldn’t remember anyone using the names of those last three; they’d become dead representatives of their cities.

By evening, he was caught up on what authorities in each city knew. Suarez, in the kind of nasty mood that comes from sitting in a hotel room all day long, met him at Beth’s suite. He reported that she had slept for six hours, stirred—probably to go to the bathroom—and had been silent again for the three hours since. Neil walked through hotel surveillance, learning pass codes, covers, the faces of the agents on duty; then Suarez signed off for the night.

At seven-thirty, Beth staggered into the kitchenette. She wore a thigh-length T-shirt and looked like a zombie. A pretty zombie, if such a thing existed. Damned shapely T-shirt.

She was looking for a phone.

“I have to call Abby,” she said. “She’ll be going to bed soon. I have to call Abby.”

Neil stuck a plate of lasagna in the microwave and punched in two minutes. Handed her his digital phone. “Her number is star-eight. She spent the morning at her aunt’s house, went to McDonald’s for lunch, and then to the park where she met a shih tzu and played with it for an hour. Ms. Stallings ran some errands—the grocery store, dry cleaner, and a public library branch—and Abby’s been at the Stallingses’ house ever since.” He winked. “Wanna know what she ate for supper?”

“Cocky jerk,” Beth said, but she smiled.

She slipped into the sitting room and spoke with Abby for ten minutes. Neil listened to her talk about the shih tzu and Abby’s little cousin and snickerdoodles that had apparently just come out of the oven. He smiled when Beth reminded Abby to brush her teeth and to make sure the back gate was always closed. It seemed Heinz had a history of trotting off to socialize with other dogs in the neighborhood whenever they visited the Stallings family.

Beth’s voice cracked when she told Abby she loved her, and two or three minutes passed before she came back into the kitchen.

“Okay?” Neil asked softly.

“Abby’s fine.”

“But you aren’t,” he said and looped his arm around her neck. He pulled her in and dropped a kiss on her head. She felt brittle and small tucked against him, and after a day spent reading what Chevy Bankes had done to women, a wave of protectiveness surged through him. Keeper of her secrets and keeper of her safety—the desire to be both was so unexpected it hit him like a brick. The desire to be her lover came, too, not so unexpected.

He succumbed to the Great Comforter: “Come on,” he said. “Lasagna.”

Beth demolished two servings, their conversation covering everything
except
the case. More than once, she caught herself staring. Lord, the man was easy to look at.

“… physical therapy with special-needs kids,” he was saying. “She dreams of doing it all on horseback—something called hippotherapy. She practically lives in a stable.” This was his sister, who lived in Atlanta.

“Is it just the two of you?” Beth asked. They’d already gone through her family tree.

“I have a brother, Mitch. He’s a photojournalist. J. M. Sheridan.”

Her eyes bugged out.

“Ah, you’ve heard of him.”

“Wow, you have a famous brother. I’ve seen his books. And I attended one of his exhibitions for an AIDS foundation once, with his photos from South Africa.”

“That’s him. Righteous do-gooder, champion of every underdog, and great revealer of government fuckups.”

“I take it you’re not close?”

“Mitch and I live by different mottos. He looks at something broken and can’t leave it alone; he’s gotta get in there and fix it. ‘Change the world,’ that’s his motto.”

“What’s yours?”

“ ‘Fuck the world.’ Can’t be fixed.”

Beth looked at him. “I don’t believe you.”

He shoved a pile of dishes together and picked them up. “Then ask Mitch,” he said, dumping the dishes into the sink. “He almost died in Iraq last month because I was working as a Doberman for two ‘operatives’ and never bothered to find out what they were operating. It was a bomb, by the way. They stole a Sentry helicopter, killed thirteen civilians, and messed Mitch up pretty good. But, hey. Fuck it.”

“Oh, God. Neil.” Beth studied the harsh lines of his face. “I don’t think you’re doing so well sticking to your motto now.”

A split second of surprise, then one dark brow rose. “Your fault.”

Beth hoped so, but she shied away from saying it. She had the feeling he’d just given her something dear. But it also reminded her of all he hadn’t shared. “Maggie said you were married to her sister.”

“Heather,” he said, and the tendons in his throat contracted. “We’re divorced.”

Beth waited, reminded herself she had no business asking, and asked anyway. “What happened?”

He walked over and stood one step away, his gaze boring into hers. “She kept secrets from me. Shut me out. And when I wasn’t there, she decided she could handle things herself.”

Beth swallowed. “Oh.”

“Oh,” he echoed. “That’s all you have to say?”

She stepped back. “What do you want me to say? ‘Gee, Neil, I’m sorry I tried to handle things by myself’? Or, ‘Gee, Neil, I promise that if you’re not answering your phone I’ll sit quietly and wait for you’?”

“That would be a start.”

She blew out a breath. “Look, I’m sorry I worried you by taking off with Abby. It’s not like I was unprepared. I had the guns and I’ve done a helluva lot of training. I can defend mys—”

He moved like lightning, her spine suddenly slamming against his chest, her throat beneath his forearm. She started to strike, but his free hand wrenched her arm to the middle of her back. Pain lanced through her shoulder.

“You’re a
kickboxer
,” he said against her ear. “That’s something they do in rings, for show, like the WWF. It’s not real.”

“Let go of me,” she croaked. She could hardly breathe.

“Two minutes,” he said. “Two minutes of this and you’re out cold. Three, and you’re tied up in the trunk of my car. Or, if I’m the expedient sort, I could just snap your neck and be done in three seconds.”

Beth wheezed, her knees going soft. And just that fast, her lungs expanded again.

“You bastard,” she said, heaving in oxygen. He relaxed his grip enough to allow air back into her lungs but not enough to free her. “Let go of me,” she rasped.

“Get out of it,” he said. “You think you’re so by-God tough. Get out of it.”

T
hink,
think
. She was barefoot and he wasn’t, so his instep was no good. He held her too close to kick him in the groin, and if she went for the eyeballs or ears he’d see it coming. Flipping him was out of the question; with her left arm in that position, he’d simply dislocate her shoulder.

But the kneecap—a hard heel jab, from virtually any angle—would hurt like hell. And would at least push him back for enough for a roundhouse to the throat.

She inhaled, and just as she moved her foot, his ankle popped up, tangling her legs. She flopped facedown onto the floor.

“I was careful not to break your leg just now,” he said, his breath against her ear. “That’s because I’m trying
not
to hurt you. Bankes wouldn’t bother with that consideration.”

“Bankes isn’t as big as you,” she muttered against the linoleum.

“He has a cruel streak and a sick need for vengeance. His insanity will take him a lot further than karate will take you.”

“Then what do you suggest?” She nearly stumbled when he jerked her vertical in no more time than it had taken for him to plow her down. He pulled her onto the carpet in the living room and moved the coffee table. Shoved back a chair.

“Forget your training,” he said. “Fight dirty.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you’ve been learning how to get away from an attacker. What you need to learn is how to kill one.”

“That’s why I have a gun.”

“And it will be in your purse when you need it.”

More gently now, he turned her around into the same position he’d held her in a moment earlier—her left arm pinned behind her back and his right forearm crossing her chest and throat. “You still have a free hand right now. Forget using it to disable me. Use it to kill me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Hold up your hand, palm in, and flex your wrist.” He shaped her hand with his. “Curl the tips of your fingers down tight so the heel of your hand is your weapon.”

She did.

“Now jab the heel of your hand under my nose, and up. Do it hard enough, and the bones will splinter into my brain.”

“Lovely.”

“Yes. And it will save your life while he’s expecting you to go for his kneecap.”

Beth went through the motions, tentative at first, then with greater speed and strength and agility each time Neil made her practice it. By the fifth time, she was gasping for air. “That’s enough. I’ve got it.”

“You don’t, but it’s a start.”

She made a move that should have taken him by surprise and wound up flat on her back. Neil straddled her hips, pinning her wrists on either side of her face.

“Damn it,” she said, panting. “You’re good.”

“So are you. But you’ve been taught rules, and Bankes won’t follow them.” He glanced at their positions, and an expression that seemed half pain, half pleasure canted his lips. He muttered a curse and went utterly still. “From here, what would you do?” he asked. “Tell me.”

His face was only inches away, his upper body brushing her breasts, his crotch grinding into her pelvis. With no small degree of astonishment, Beth realized she wasn’t afraid. The strength and heat in his frame were a source of comfort and pleasure, not fear. “I let you maul me for a second, then bite off your tongue.”