Thin Ice (13 page)

Her eyes widened. “He saw us at Panera? How is that possible?”

“Good question—and I'll get to it in a minute. Let's see what's inside his package first.”

He set the note on the counter, picked up the cardboard, and felt the surface. Instead of cutting the tape, he used the edge of the knife to separate the two stiff sheets and tipped the opening toward the evidence envelope.

Ginny's gold locket slid out.

The one she never took off.

Christy's breath hitched.

“Is this your sister's?” His gentle tone wasn't enough to mitigate the shock.

“Yes. Mom and Dad gave her that on her s-sixteenth birthday. She always wore it. Even when she had to have her appendix out, she refused to take it off.”

“What's inside?”

“Photos of our parents.”

Again using the tip of the knife, he opened it.

A black
X
was slashed across each of the photos.

The lump in her stomach hardened. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“He could be rubbing in the fact that you're alone to emphasize the importance of playing along with him if you want to keep your remaining family member alive.”

“Or . . . ?” There was something he wasn't saying; she could feel it.

“I don't know. I want to think about this. Does that lead to your garage?” He motioned toward a door off to the side of the kitchen.

He was avoiding her question—and she doubted pushing would get her an answer. “Yes.”

“I'd like to take a look in there. Do you have a flashlight?”

“Yes. Why?” She crossed to the sink and pulled one out of the cabinet underneath.

“I have a theory I want to test.”

She followed him to the single-car structure, waiting on the threshold as he circled to the back of the Mazda, got down on one knee, and felt around under the wheel well. He repeated the drill on the other side. The next thing she knew, he was lying on his back and scooting under the car.

No wonder the leather jacket was scuffed.

A moment later he stood, a cigarette-sized device in his hand. “GPS, attached magnetically. Our guy's been following your movements on a laptop or PC.”

Her stomach bottomed out.

The kidnapper was tracking her?

“Why would he do that?”

Lance bent back down, and when he stood, his hands were empty. “He could be trying to make sure you're following his instructions to leave the cops out of this.”

Another
could be
.

Meaning Lance was mulling over other possibilities.

“Let's go back inside where it's warmer.” He rejoined her.

She gaped at him. “Are you going to leave that thing on my car?”

Taking her arm, he urged her into the kitchen and closed the door behind them. “If I remove it, he'll know you found it.”

“But if he didn't want me to know about it, why mention the incident at Panera?”

“He could be getting cocky. He might also be trying to freak you out by letting you know you're being watched. Based on his note, it appears he bought the boyfriend ruse. I'm also thinking he didn't hear anything about the visits our Rolla agent is paying to the people on your sister's list—none of which have produced any leads yet, by the way. Would you have checked for a GPS device if you hadn't contacted law enforcement?”

“No. I'd have assumed he knew about the bag because he was following me.”

“That's why we need to leave the device on the car. We want him to keep thinking you're in the dark about it—which will help keep him in the dark about our involvement. But GPS has its limits. It will tell him where you go, but it won't tell him
who you see or what you do once you get there. That means he had to be in the vicinity of Panera the day of the snowstorm.”

“There were only a few people in the café, and they were there when I arrived.”

“He must have been in the lot. No one followed you in—but with GPS, he could have shown up later and parked. A car did roll by while we were eating.”

Her brain began to shift into analytical mode. “Do you think he could be staying somewhere in town?”

“Yes. The letters have all been mailed from within easy-driving radius of St. Louis, on the weekend. Convenient for a guy who lives and works here.”

A surge of hope buoyed her spirits. “Do you think Ginny is here too?”

“Not necessarily.”

Her spirits deflated, and she wrapped her arms around herself. “Do you think he's outside now, watching the condo?”

“It's possible.”

A shiver rippled through her. “This is getting creepier and creepier.”

He touched her arm. Even through the wool of her sweater, she could feel the steadying warmth of his fingers. “Keep hanging in. We'll get this guy eventually. Every time he communicates, we learn new information. Patterns begin to emerge.”

“But any of these letters could be the last one.” A touch of hysteria raised her pitch. “We could run out of time.”

“If he follows his usual routine, we have a week to dig for clues before the next one arrives. I've been putting pressure on the lab at Quantico, and I think we'll have the DNA results on the body tomorrow. If we get a database match, that will be a powerful lead. And our guy in Rolla could turn up a significant piece of information in one of his interviews.” He slid the envelope, note, and locket into evidence envelopes. “I'll send
these to the lab tomorrow—and I'll have one of our Evidence Response Team techs swing by here tomorrow night and dust the GPS for prints on the off chance our guy was careless. They can also check the manufacturer and serial number. Sometimes those help us determine who bought the device.”

As he jotted some notations on the envelopes, she curled her fingers around the edge of the counter. He was getting ready to leave—and she didn't want him to. Not yet. Not when the kidnapper might be sitting outside her house this very minute, watching her every move.

“Have you had dinner?” The words were out before she could stop them.

Based on his raised eyebrows, the out-of-the-blue question surprised him as much as it did her. “No. I was planning to grab a burger on the way home.” He stripped off the gloves.

She tucked her hair behind her ear, taking a quick mental inventory of her fridge. Somehow she doubted an omelet would satisfy the tall FBI agent.

“I, uh, was going to throw together a quick stir-fry. After all the times I've intruded on your evening plans, the least I can do is feed you dinner.”

He hesitated, his expression unreadable.

Maybe he thought she was carrying the boyfriend ruse too far, crossing a personal/professional line.

And maybe she was—because her invitation had been prompted by a far deeper emotion than simple guilt over interrupting his evenings. Perhaps he was picking up on that . . . and her feelings weren't reciprocated.

If he was trying to figure out how to decline without hurting her feelings, she needed to give him an out. It was her fault he was in this awkward situation.

“On second thought . . . heartier fare might suit you better.”
She kept her tone light and casual. “You strike me as a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy.”

“I must admit I never turn down a steak.”

“In that case, since I can't offer you a steak . . .”

“But there's more to life than steak, and . . .”

When their comments overlapped, she stopped speaking.

Grinning, he continued. “And I do like a little variety in my menu. Stir-fry sounds great. Much better than fast-food stuff.”

As if to reiterate that he was staying, he slid his jacket off.

Wow.

She tried not to stare at the snug, long-sleeved black tee that accentuated amazing abs and the kind of biceps only acquired by serious weight work.

How many hours a week did this guy spend at the gym?

“Where would you like this?” Lance held up his jacket.

She coaxed her lungs to reengage as she took it. “I'll hang it in the coat closet.”

“If you'll point the way, I'd like to wash up.”

“Down the hall. First door on the right.”

They went their separate ways, and as Christy dealt with the jacket, she glanced toward the front door.

Was the kidnapper out there watching—or was he at home, keeping tabs on her movements via computer?

Both possibilities were stomach-churning.

Worse, no matter where he was, the odds were high he was plotting his next move. Planning how he could create more chaos. He might even be thinking about putting her in his cross hairs.

Now that was a chilling thought.

But at least for the next hour or two, she didn't have to worry about her safety.

Because she had a feeling that in a one-on-one battle with Lance McGregor, the kidnapper would find the handsome and very buff FBI agent an unbeatable adversary.

S
taying for dinner was a mistake.

Lance rinsed his hands in the bathroom sink and tugged the towel off the rack, Mac's and Lisa's warnings echoing in his mind. Not that he needed them. Mixing business and pleasure was never smart. From day one in the military, he'd kept work and play separate. Personal feelings could compromise judgment—and during his years with The Unit, a lapse in judgment could have been deadly.

The same would be true in his FBI career.

So why had he accepted Christy's invitation—especially after he'd looked into her eyes and known it was prompted by more than good manners and gratitude?

He folded the towel, hung it back on the rack, and stared at his reflection in the mirror.

Was it too late to back out?

And if he did, what excuse could he give that would get him off the hook without hurting her feelings, tipping his own hand, or sabotaging his chances with her once this was over?

He leaned on the vanity. You'd think a Delta Force operator who'd had to strategize under the toughest battlefield conditions would be able to come up with an escape plan.

Then again, he'd failed on that score in the not-too-distant past—with tragic results.

A muscle spasmed in his jaw, and he gritted his teeth. After eighteen months, why couldn't he let the memories and the soul-sapping guilt go?

You know why, McGregor.

Exhaling, he closed his eyes.

Yeah, he did.

Because of Debbie—and Josh.

He owed Debbie an explanation . . . and an apology. And until he found the guts to take care of that piece of unfinished business, he wasn't going to be able to put the whole mess to rest. Nor would he be able to pry his personal life out of hold and move forward with it, as he'd moved forward in his career.

Propping one shoulder against the wall, he noted the clear glass bowl of shells on the vanity—the souvenir of some pleasant vacation by the sea, perhaps. A reminder meant to stir up happy memories.

But some memories were best left buried.

At least that's what he'd tried to tell himself all these months, over the protests of his conscience. Through sheer force of will, he'd managed to keep them at bay, to convince himself he was coping fine for the moment and that he'd get around to dealing with all the bad stuff someday.

Then a beautiful figure skater entered his world, and suddenly someday wasn't a fuzzy spot on a distant horizon but looming just ahead.

He reached up and kneaded the back of his neck. Christy might be new in his life, but he had a feeling she could be here to stay. She was nothing like any of the women he'd dated. All the others had been easily forgotten the instant he ended a phone call or dropped them off after an evening of partying.

Not Christy.

From the time he opened his eyes in the morning until he closed them at night, she either dominated his thoughts or hovered around the edges of whatever else he was thinking about.

As for his dreams—she played a starring role in those too.

At this point, he was having difficulty imagining a future without her.

But there could be no future until he laid the past to rest once and for all.

He gripped the edge of the vanity and studied the solemn man staring back at him in the mirror.

Maybe it was time to take a trip to Virginia.

A muffled clatter of pots sounded in the vicinity of the kitchen, pulling him back to the present. Since he didn't have Superman's ability to rewind the clock to before she'd issued her dinner invitation, his best strategy might be to chow down quickly and make a fast exit. In the interim, he'd keep the conversation light, simple, impersonal. Ask some questions about her skating career, her hobbies, her work. Talk about recent movies, travel, books. Share a few laughs. That should get him through a stir-fry. It wasn't as if this was a multiple-course meal.

Armed with that plan, he joined her in the kitchen.

She gave him a tentative smile, almost as if she knew he'd been having second thoughts about staying. “This won't take long. I've already got the rice cooker going.”

“Can I help with anything?”

“That depends. Do you cook?”

“Does adding milk to cereal or dropping a bagel in the toaster count?”

Her lips twitched. “I might have to assign you to cleanup duty instead.”

“I can do that.”

“I'll keep that in mind—but in the meantime, you don't have to be a cook to chop and dice. How would you like to use that
knife for something other than opening envelopes?” She gestured to the wooden rack on the counter.

“I'm good with knives. Just tell me what you want done.”

Once she got him started, he launched into topic number one—her job—and by the time savory aromas from the stove were setting off a rumble in his stomach, any lingering tension between them had dissolved.

“If you'd like to set the table, you'll find glasses, utensils, and paper napkins over there.” She motioned toward the cabinets beside the sink while she set two plates on the counter and began dishing up the stir-fry.

“Ah. A job that doesn't tax my kitchen skills.”

“You did fine with the chopping.”

“Don't get too carried away. In general, it would be better—and safer—to assign me to cleanup duty.”

“I'll keep that in mind next time.”

Next time.

He liked the sound of that . . . once this case was over.

After finishing the table, he got them each a soda. She joined him in the dining area, heaping plates in hand—his piled higher than hers.

“Sorry I couldn't offer you steak, but I do make a mean stir-fry.” She set the plates in each place and slid into her chair.

“This looks great. You might even convert me.” Not that he'd ever admit that to Lisa after turning up his nose at her ladies-who-lunch place.

He took his own chair, picked up his fork—and froze when Christy bowed her head.

The lady prayed before meals . . . just like he and the rest of the McGregor clan had done during his younger years.

When she lifted her chin and found him watching her, she bit her bottom lip. “I'm sorry if that made you uncomfortable, but I'm used to offering a blessing at meals.”

Did he look uncomfortable?

Maybe.

How long had it been since he last thought about saying a prayer before a meal, unless he was home for a visit and his mother or father initiated it?

Too long to remember.

“You didn't make me uncomfortable.” He broke eye contact to scoop up a generous mouthful—and to hide that stretch of the truth. “We always prayed at meals when I was growing up. I just got out of the habit.”

“How come?”

He chewed slowly, buying himself a few seconds to compose an answer he hoped wouldn't offend her. “It was hard to feel God's presence in some of the situations I was in during my military career.”

Her eyebrows rose. “I didn't realize you were in the military. What branch?”

“Special forces.”

She stopped eating. “As in SEAL or Delta Force?”

“The latter.”

“Wow. I'm impressed. How recently?”

Uh-oh.

A direct answer would lead her to the obvious conclusion: he was an FBI rookie. Might be better to go with vague. If he was lucky, she wouldn't press the issue.

“Very.”

She poked at her stir-fry, a hint of wariness in those green irises. “How long have you been with the FBI?”

So much for luck.

He braced. “I finished the Academy in December. I've been in St. Louis since the first of the year.”

“You mean . . .” She bit her lip. “Is this your first case?”

He looked at her straight on, his gaze never wavering. “Yes.
But I'm well trained and I have plenty of experienced agents to call on if I need help—including a former Hostage Rescue Team operator.” He swallowed, then forced out the words he didn't want to say. “However, if you'd rather have a different lead agent on the case, I can talk to my boss.”

Several eternal seconds ticked by while the food congealed in his stomach.

At last she forked a piece of chicken. “I expect God knew what he was doing when your receptionist directed my phone call to you.”

He let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. “I appreciate your confidence.”

“I've read about you special forces guys. You're a formidable bunch—on and off the battlefield, I suspect. And your earlier comment about God makes a lot of sense now. War is tough enough for ordinary soldiers, but I imagine you've seen a lot of very bad stuff. I'm sure God can seem far away in those kinds of circumstances. And in the midst of trauma, it can be hard to feel his comfort or hear his direction.”

The voice of experience.

Christy might never have been on a battlefield, but she'd known personal tragedy and loss and grief—yet she'd held on to her faith.

“So how did you manage to do it?” The question was out before he could stop it.

If she considered his query too nosey, she gave no indication. “I didn't always succeed. I felt abandoned by God, first after my parents were killed, and again after the fire. But whenever I get depressed or discouraged, I think back to the lesson I learned after my career-ending fall: even if it seems God is ignoring us, he's listening. And when the time is right—his time, not ours—he offers us the guidance we need. Knowing that, believing it with all my heart, has always been a great source of comfort and strength.” Her voice was steady, her resolve absolute.

“I envy you that.”

“It's yours for the taking if you want it.”

“I wish it was that easy.”

She speared a piece of broccoli. “I never said it was easy. Most things in life worth having require effort. Maybe you should recultivate that habit of prayer you had growing up. It would be a start, anyway.”

“Maybe.” But he had a feeling it would take a lot more than a few words spoken from the heart for him to reconnect with the Almighty.

As if sensing his skepticism—and resistance—Christy switched gears. “You mentioned family. Does that mean you have siblings?”

“Yes.” He dived back into his meal. This was a much safer subject. “Two brothers—one older, one younger.” He filled her in on their background.

“Talk about an accomplished family.” She offered him another piece of bread from the basket she'd set on the table before they began eating. “SEAL turned homicide detective, Delta Force operator turned FBI agent, and Army Ranger. You all make me feel like a slacker.”

He buttered his bread. “Are you kidding? We might know how to fight, but none of us would have had the discipline to be an Olympic athlete, even if we'd had the talent—which we didn't.”

“I can't speak to the talent part, but from everything I've read about special forces soldiers, discipline is their middle name. Have all of you been to the Middle East?”

He chased an elusive piece of carrot around his plate. “Our missions were classified, so I don't know exactly where Mac and Finn have been. With the current state of world affairs, though, it's a pretty safe bet that if you're in special forces, you've been deployed to that region more than once.”

She rested her elbow on the table and propped her chin in her
palm. When she spoke again, her tone was more subdued. “You know, I can't even imagine being in some of the situations I've read about in the press. The conflicts over there don't follow most of the traditional rules of engagement. Just distinguishing between allies and enemies seems to be a huge challenge.”

Lance stopped pursuing the carrot and set his fork down. How had she managed to home in on the very situation that had led to the trauma he'd been dealing with for the past eighteen months?

When the silence lengthened, she set her own fork down too. “I'm sorry. I can see I touched a nerve.”

“It's no big deal.” He shrugged, but the stiffness in his shoulders negated his denial. “Every soldier over there ran into those kinds of situations on a regular basis.”

“But I expect some were worse than others.” Her soft, sympathetic voice was filled with compassion, as if she'd looked into his soul and seen the darkness and pain.

“Yeah.” He picked up his soda. Took a long swallow.

Once again the room went silent.

After a few moments, she rose and reached for his empty plate, lightening her tone. “Would you like some coffee? I have a few homemade chocolate chip cookies left from my weekend baking binge.”

She was dropping the subject. Moving on to dessert he didn't need.

This is your chance
to make that fast exit, McGregor. Take it.

Yet for some reason, other words came out.

“That sounds great. Thanks.”

As she returned to the kitchen and busied herself with the dessert preparations, Lance frowned and pulled out his phone. Checking messages would buy him a few minutes to regroup.

But instead of reading emails, he saw only a blur of type as he scrolled through the phone log.

Why in sweet heaven had he stayed?

Sure, he liked being with Christy, and that was a fine incentive to hang around—but the spark of attraction between them wasn't why he'd abandoned his original eat-and-exit plan.

The truth was, he'd lingered because her empathetic eyes and kind, caring manner had sucked him in. Tempted him to dredge up all the ugliness he'd buried in the murkiest corner of his heart for the past year and a half. Encouraged him to trust her with secrets he'd shared with no one. To expose his flaws—and the shame he carried—and see if she could dredge up enough compassion to stick with him or turn away in disgust.

There was a danger in following that inclination, though. If she couldn't live with what he'd done, there was very little chance Debbie would be receptive to his story, either . . . or to his plea for forgiveness. Plus, if Christy did distance herself, if she shut the door on the possibility of a personal relationship, where did that leave him?