Twisted (12 page)

“No, I insist.” Sloane was already carrying china over to the sink. “You’re a wonderful hostess. But you’ve done more than enough. Please go up to bed. I’ll take care of everything and be out of here in twenty minutes.”

“But you’ve worked nonstop,” Elsa protested. “You just said you were exhausted. You need to get some sleep.”

“I need to, yes. But it won’t be happening.” Sloane was efficiently washing and drying the cups and saucers. “I’ve got a pile of work waiting for me on my desk. So I’ll get that hot shower, but sleep’s relegated to the back burner, at least for tonight.”

“Well, if you’re sure…” Elsa’s eyelids were at half-mast as she scooped up Princess Di.

“I’m sure. Thank you so much for taking care of my little terrors.” Sloane leaned forward to scratch Princess Di’s ears. “And thank you, too, Your Highness.”

“You’re very welcome from all of us.” Elsa smiled faintly. “The hounds are welcome anytime. Burt?” She turned to her son questioningly.

“I’ll be leaving, too,” he supplied, carrying the empty tray over to the sink. “I’m opening the bookstore an hour early tomorrow to do inventory. So I’ll lock up the house, then walk Sloane to her car, and head for home. I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”

“All right, dear.” Elsa was already making her way slowly out of the kitchen. “Good night.”

“Good night, Elsa.” Sloane watched her disappear around the corner. “Your mother’s not herself,” she said quietly.

“No, she’s not. I’ve taken her to the doctor. He’s prescribed some vitamins. And he wants her to drink one of those nutritional supplement shakes every day.” Burt’s jaw tightened. “None of it seems to be doing much good. I guess life’s just taken its toll on her after all these years.”

“You’re coming by and spending so much time with her must help. It gives her an incentive.”

“Yes and no. She’d rather have grandchildren. That didn’t work out.” He cleared his throat. “At least not yet.”

Feeling a little uncomfortable with the turn the conversation had taken, Sloane resumed her cleanup.

Burt stayed where he was, watching Sloane thoughtfully. “You’re quite the dynamo,” he observed at last.

“Not always.” She didn’t look up. “When my adrenaline drops, I’ll collapse.”

“Nice to hear you’re not completely superhuman.” Finally, Burt turned away. “I’ll lock up and get Moe, Larry, and Curly’s things.”

“Thank you. By that time, I’ll be ready to leave.”

Ten minutes later, Burt walked Sloane to her car. He waited until she had settled the hounds in the backseat, and had buckled herself in and turned on the ignition.

“I enjoyed our conversation,” he said. “Maybe we can continue it sometime over dinner.”

Now Sloane was
really
uncomfortable. “These days, my life is crazy. I’m pretty much on overload. Dinner for me is a can of tuna.”

“Then maybe when things quiet down.”

“Maybe.”

Burt hovered beside her car for another minute, his hands shoved in his pockets, his expression unreadable.

“I appreciate the escort,” Sloane prompted, hoping to fill the void and end the conversation all at once. “And I’m grateful for your help with Moe, Larry, and Curly.” A quick glance in her rearview mirror. “But I’d better get going. They’re shivering.”

“So I see.” He acknowledged her claim with a nod. Then he stepped away from her car. “Good night.”

“Good night.” Sloane shifted the car into drive and veered around the top section of the driveway in a full circle so she was facing the road. This way, she could negotiate the twists and turns of the Wagners’ endless driveway in forward rather than reverse.

She gave Burt a quick wave, relieved when he waved back and headed for his own car. He was obviously in a vulnerable state right now, and the last thing she wanted was for him to make more of their neighborly friendship than it was.

With the hounds yipping and standing up against the windows, Sloane put on her brights and headed back to the main road.

Her gaze fell on the digital clock.

Eleven-ten. Too late to make phone calls.

She was itching to know if the Atlantic City agents had turned up anything at the Richard Stockton campus.

She knew one person who’d still be awake.

Derek never went to bed before one.

That knowledge was irrelevant. There was no way she’d call him. Not at home. And not on a Friday night. He was probably working. Or out with a woman. Derek was way too hot to be spending his weekends alone.

Sloane felt that familiar knot tighten her gut, the knot that occurred every time she visualized Derek with another woman.

And she hated the fact that, despite what a bastard he’d been, despite the thirteen months that had passed since the two of them were over, that knot was still there.

DATE:
31 March

TIME:
0500 hours

I’m losing.

Time. Control. The culmination of everything I’ve planned.

All being threatened.

The demons are screaming. They won’t be silenced. Satisfying them takes more time and energy each day. I must stave them off, devote my efforts to the preparations—for those already here, and those who have yet to arrive.

Especially for
her.
When her time finally comes, everything has to be perfect. She’s my counterpart, my other half.

The epitome of all goddesses.

Most of the goddesses are in place—Aphrodite, Hera, Astraeus, Hestia—situated in the wings as they await their ultimate passage.

Gaia is not following the timetable. I can’t allow that. She must be regulated until all the others are acquired and ready. Anything less is unfathomable.

I’ll expedite my plan. Cut corners. I loathe that. Haste spawns regret. But my options are nil.

And Gaia isn’t the only obstacle. A new one is presenting itself.

Athena.

She’s still a warrior with a will of iron. She refuses to submit to the inevitable, and to accept her fate. With the others, acceptance came more easily. And the few times they resisted, I silenced them with drugs. That doesn’t work with Athena. She can’t tolerate any of the sedatives. Every time I administer them, she vomits profusely. She’s lost so much weight and looks so ill that it worries me. I increased her meal portions and stopped sedating her, while at the same time taking great care to lock her up in case she had any thoughts of escape.

She still didn’t eat. When I visited her room, she was just sitting on her bed, staring off into space. She looked dazed and weak. I went to her, and asked if she needed anything. She requested a cool cloth. I was happy to oblige.

I should have realized she was just trying to lull me into a false sense of security. When I returned with the cloth, she flew at me and tried to knock me down and run away. Of course I stopped her. But that wasn’t enough. She had to be punished. I had to make sure she didn’t try something like that again. So I had no choice but to hurt her. I know I was justified. Still, it upset me to hear her sobs. It upset me more to see her blood.

I bandaged her wounds. But I still had to make it up to her. So I brought her one of my lemon squares at dinnertime—a token of apology. She called me horrible names and flung the lemon square in my face. When I took out my handkerchief and began wiping my face, she overturned the dinner tray—dumping plates, plastic silverware, cups, and food—all on the floor. Then she swung the tray wildly, trying to strike me as hard as she could. I stopped her just in time. Then I sedated her and left her to lie in her own vomit. Even a gracious man can take so much.

Killing her is not an option. Not now. Not in anger. That would be blasphemous. It has to be for a higher purpose.

I needed to be reminded of that higher purpose.

I needed to see
her
.

Hunterdon County,

New Jersey 5 A.M.

The rest of the world might be just waking up, but for Sloane the day was well under way. She’d nodded off for an hour or two after devising a preliminary plan for the next phase of Penny’s case, then leaped up at 4:30 A.M. and finished mapping out the details.

The
FBI
might already have started the ball rolling. She had to know where things stood at their end before she did anything. The last thing she wanted was to step on their toes, or bungle their investigation by doubling up on interviews they’d already conducted.

She had to speak to Derek. She’d wait until seven-thirty to call. He’d be at his desk by then. But for now, she needed a three-mile run to clear her head.

6:15 A.M.

Upon returning from their run, she’d unleashed the hounds in her backyard and romped all over the grounds with them until they were exhausted. The whole bunch of them, herself included, went inside and drank tons of water, after which the hounds plopped on the sofa and fell fast asleep.

With a loving smile, Sloane left them to their nap. She collected her archery gear and went out back, trudging over to the far side of her property where her archery course was set up.

She loved the bow and arrow. She always had, since she’d learned to shoot them as a kid. Being a target archer cleared her mind, sharpened her focus—and, these days, strengthened her grip. In her gut, she believed that one day her relentless target practice would play a major role in getting her back into the Bureau.

For now, she still anchored the bowstring with her middle and ring fingers. But one day that would change. Her trigger finger would heal. And the scars on her palm would toughen up enough to withstand the tight grip needed to anchor a Glock 22.

It was up to her to make that happen.

She reached her destination, and put down her gear long enough to set everything up. That done, she pulled on her leather glove with the reinforced finger pads to protect her injury. She checked to make sure her bowstring was adjusted to just the right tension, then pulled the first arrow out of its quiver and placed it across the bow. Planting her feet, she straightened, pulling back the bowstring as she took careful aim at the target. She gritted her teeth against the twinges of pain in her wrist and fingers, keeping her arm as steady as possible.

When her focus was dead-on and her breath was suspended, she let the arrow fly.

It cut through the air and struck the target in the red circle, a solid inch and a half away from the bull’s-eye.

“Dammit,” Sloane muttered. She lowered the bow, wiping her arm across her forehead and doing a few shoulder rotations to release the tension in her upper body. Patience. She had to have patience. At least she was hitting the red and the blue now. There was a time when black was a reach, with most of her arrows hitting the outer white ring, and a few of them flying off into the woods.

Even so, she wanted that bull’s-eye so much she could taste it.

Her quiver held nine more arrows and she shot them all. Only one surpassed her first shot, lodging closer to the inside line of the red, just outside the coveted yellow circle.

Close but no cigar.

She put down her gear and went to collect the arrows.

Her cell phone rang.

Startled, she pulled it out of her pocket. It wasn’t even 7 A.M.. The caller ID read
restricted,
which gave her no clue. So she punched it on.

“Hello?”

The only response was some crackling noise and a prolonged silence.

“Who’s there?” she demanded.

More crackling sounds and then the
beep-beep-beep
that told her the connection had been broken.

Before she snapped her phone shut, Sloane glanced down to see the number of bars registering. Four. Great reception at her end.

So the problem was with the caller, who probably had lousy cell reception and had, no doubt, punched in a wrong number. On that thought, she resumed her task of retrieving the arrows.

Her phone rang again.

With an exasperated sigh, she abandoned her task and whipped out her phone again. “Yes?”

There were those damned crackling noises, interspersed with silence.

“Is someone there?” Sloane asked in a strong voice.

There was a definite breath or two, another prolonged silence, and then the connection was broken.

Weird.

Just for the hell of it, Sloane accessed her log of received calls, zeroed in on the most recent entry, and made a callback attempt. But, as she suspected, the connection failed, and her display read
unavailable,
since the number was clearly blocked.

There wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

With that, Sloane dismissed the entire incident and finished pulling the arrows out of the target. She packed everything up, collected her gear, and turned to head back to the house.

She’d barely taken three steps when the phone rang again.

This time the crackling was minimal and the breathing was audible.

“Who is this?” she demanded again.

Nothing. Just an awareness that someone was there and that whoever it was had no desire to hang up.

Abruptly, the phone call took on a whole new meaning. Violating. Personal.

The slow, raspy breathing continued, scraping Sloane’s ear like chalk against a blackboard.

She stopped in her tracks. Gut instinct made her head snap up, and she looked around, although she had no idea what she was looking for. The woods were quiet. The trees were drizzled with snow. And the sun was slowly rising in the east. No one was around except a few deer. Then why did she suddenly feel as if she were being watched?

The caller was still on the other end of the line, breathing and waiting.

“Tell me who you are or I’m hanging up,” Sloane stated in a hard, no-BS tone.

Silence.

She disconnected the call and turned off her cell phone.

She continued to scrutinize the yard, plagued by the nagging feeling that her anonymous caller was more than a phone presence. He was somewhere nearby. She could sense it.

The hair on the back of her neck stood up. She wasn’t scared. She was poised to strike. Derek used to say that between her agility, her training, and her watchfulness, she was like a cat. And like a cat, her instincts were keen.