Twisted (29 page)

“They need to go out,” Sloane said, biting back laughter as she saw the douse-of-cold-water expression on Derek’s face. “I usually jog with them at dawn. It’s way past that. Larry’s letting us know that they’ve been more than tolerant, but that they’ve reached their limit.
FYI
, they won’t be holding it in much longer. Soon they’ll be donating puddles for me to clean up. Larry’s the most direct. He’s issuing an ultimatum. Curly’s going for a more subtle approach. He’s prancing on my back, pausing now and then to scratch me like a bone he’s digging up. And Mona’s feigning patience and holding it in so she can flirt with you.”

“I see.” Derek scratched Moe’s ears and was rewarded with a two-minute cheek-licking session. “I’d almost forgotten what mornings are like with these three.”

Sloane felt an unwelcome twinge as a memory popped into her head. The hounds were just puppies. It was a particularly cold, winter morning in Cleveland, and snow was falling in a blanket of thick flakes.

That was the day she and Derek had introduced the hounds to their first snow experience.

They’d taken them outside, enjoying their sheer delight as, one by one, the exuberant dachshunds discovered the miracle of snow. Sloane and Derek had romped around with them, laughing until their sides hurt as they watched Moe, Larry, and Curly shove their snouts into the accumulating inches, then come up with white noses. After that, they’d alternately tried catching snowflakes on their tongues and racing around. Their stubby little legs had sunk into the cold white powder, and it hadn’t slowed them down a bit.

It seemed like a lifetime ago.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Derek interrupted her reflections.

“Hmm?” Sloane’s head snapped up. “Oh, I was just thinking that I’d better meet their demands
ASAP
. I don’t want a major cleanup job on my hands.” She knew Derek didn’t believe her, but she didn’t modify her statement. “Rain check on round five?”

“Definitely. With many more rounds to follow.” Derek didn’t press her. But he did stop her as she started to climb out of bed. “I’ll take the hounds for their run. You put up a pot of coffee.”

“Okay. I also picked up a few blueberry muffins the other day. I’ll put them out with the coffee.” Sloane eyed Derek speculatively as he pulled on his clothes. “I know why you’re doing this. You don’t want me out in the woods alone.”

“Right.” He didn’t deny it. “I promised you round-the-clock protection. Well, today I’m it.”

“Ah. Well, you’re doing a great job. Remind me to put in a good word with the Bureau.”

Derek paused in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder at Sloane as the hounds rushed passed him, heading off to fetch their leashes. “I’ll do that.” A quick wink. “One suggestion. When you put in that good word, leave out the
really
steamy perks of my bodyguarding.”

A half hour later, Sloane and Derek were sitting at the breakfast nook, sipping on coffee and munching on muffins. The hounds, having gobbled up their breakfast and lapped up their water, were sprawled on the kitchen floor, snoozing.

“It’s after ten. Why haven’t we heard from anyone?” Sloane asked impatiently.

Derek glanced at his watch. “I called Joe while I was jogging with the hounds. He’s a perfectionist, so it’s taking him a few extra minutes. But we’ll have our final within the hour. As for the rest, Yan Dié, my language analyst, is coming in around noon. She’ll decipher our curse words
ASAP
. Bill Mann, my colleague at the
BAU
, had meetings scheduled all morning, so we’ll hear from him after lunch. And the
DNA
found at the crime scene is being analyzed as we speak.”

“I know.” Sloane grimaced. “I wish I’d at least get a return call from Larry Clark. Then I could run some of this by him. He’s got years of experience with the
BAU
.”

“He’s also retired and living on a ranch in Virginia. He might be out riding. Or napping in a hammock.”

“Fine, you made your point.” Sloane went back to eating her muffin. “I’ll try to take it down a notch.”

“Good idea.” Derek gazed pensively into his coffee mug, that familiar furrow between his brows.

“Something else on your mind?” Sloane asked.

“Actually, yes.” He raised his head, looked at her. “You asked me not to revisit the past, and I intend to respect your wishes—for the most part. But there are some things I do need to know, if for no other reason than because we’re working together and I have to understand the full extent of your physical and psychological limitations.”

“Such as?”

“Such as yesterday. You think I didn’t notice your reaction to the crime scene at the hospital. You’re wrong. I did. You’re a strong, self-sufficient woman. You’re also a pro at hiding your vulnerabilities. But I saw how white-faced you became when you looked at that bloody floor, listened to the police describe the details of the homicide. At one point, you actually flinched. Knives still freak you out. I’m not judging you,” Derek quickly clarified. “But I need you to tell me exactly what happened the night you were injured, and whatever permanent damage it resulted in—not just to your hand, but to your psyche.”

Sloane considered his request, saw its merit, and slowly nodded. “God knows, I’ve told this story often enough. Reliving it shouldn’t upset me. But it does—on many levels. I also have to warn you, it’s not exactly appetizing breakfast conversation.”

“Not to worry. They have yet to invent the subject that kills my appetite.”

“True.” Sloane pushed away her food, and interlaced her fingers on the counter in front of her as she thought back to that life-altering day. “I don’t know how much you’re already familiar with. At the time, your squad was working with three other field offices trying to solve that string of family homicides.”

“All I know is that there was a bank robbery gone bad in some small town in Ohio, that a bunch of innocent people were being held at gunpoint by the robbers, and that a crisis negotiation team was called in.”

“Ten,” Sloane qualified. “There were ten innocent people being held hostage—the guard, the bank manager, two tellers, and six customers. Yes, the bank was in the sticks. But we were the closest field office with a
CNT
. So the team of us—Laurie, Jake, Andy, and I—went to the scene, along with
SWAT
, and the local sheriff and police. The gunmen were armed to the hilt, panicking, and headed up by a ringleader who was
not
the negotiating type. He and his two sidekicks had already successfully held up several banks in Ohio, Kentucky, and Tennessee—and he’d killed one guard in the process. I wasn’t about to let that happen again, not on my watch.”

Sloane paused, reaching past the coffee for a bottle of water and twisting off the cap. “I was the primary negotiator on the case,” she continued after gulping down some water. “I was on the phone with that
SOB
ringleader for five and a half hours. My team was engaged every second of that time. They gathered intel, liaised with all the field offices that had dealt with these subjects, and worked with
SWAT
and the locals to get me what I needed. Because of their hard work, and mine, we defused the ticking bomb. The hostages were safely released, every agent and local went home alive, and all three subjects were taken into custody—eventually.”

“I’m guessing that the ‘eventually’ you’re referring to is what resulted in your getting your hand carved up.”

“Yes.” This was the tough part, because Sloane would forever blame herself for underestimating her attacker. “At the end of the standoff,
SWAT
went in. They handcuffed two of the subjects, including the obnoxious ringleader. The youngest subject, who was barely eighteen and built like a wiry monkey, tried to escape. He squirmed his way out the bathroom window and took off. Based on my position outside the bank, I was the first one to see him running. So I took off after him. I was way ahead of backup. I cornered him in an alley a few blocks from the bank. When I yelled for him to drop his weapon and get down on his knees, he did. I walked over to him. It wasn’t until I was handcuffing him that I holstered my gun.”

She didn’t excuse herself or make light of her actions. “I should have waited for Jake, so he could cover me. But I didn’t. I thought I had things under control. I was wrong. The wiry monkey was quick. He reached down and whipped out a switchblade from inside his boot. He pivoted around on his knees, and went at me. He sliced up my right hand until I dropped the handcuffs. And even then he didn’t stop. He slashed my hand a few more times for good measure. I knew he’d severed some serious blood vessels. The pain was excruciating, my palm was gushing blood, and I was so weak I couldn’t stand up. I saw him running past me, heading back up the alley to escape.”

Pausing, Sloane took another swallow of water, then studied her scarred palm as she finished up the story. “I acted on instinct. I grabbed my weapon with my left hand. I fired three shots. The last one hit that little
SOB
in the back. I saw him jerk from the impact and collapse to the ground. An instant later, Jake came tearing around the corner of the alley. That’s when I passed out.”

“And?”

“And the wiry monkey came through surgery just fine. Better than I did.” Sloane’s jaw tightened. “They removed the bullet from his lung. He’s healed—and behind bars. I testified at his trial. But Jake—if he’d gotten there one second sooner, he might have caught one of my stray bullets. If anything had happened to him, I’d never have forgiven myself. I can’t believe how stupid and reckless I was. That will
never
happen again.”

Derek frowned. “You’re being way too hard on yourself. The kid still had a knife in his hands. He could have stabbed Jake as he rounded the corner. As for the little shit himself, if I’d been in your shoes, he’d be dead.”

“No, he wouldn’t be.” Sloane managed a small smile. “I’m better with my weak hand than you are. You’d have missed him altogether.”

“You’re probably right.” Derek was watching her expression. “So after you passed out, that’s when they rushed you to the closest hospital, where you had the emergency surgery.”

“Mm-hmm. And you know the rest of the story.”

“Not really. I know where the hospital was, since I tried to visit you there. And I know the snatches of information you blurted out to me in the Stockton parking lot the other day.”

“That’s enough. There’s no point in going over an entire year of surgeries and physical therapy. I think I answered your question about why knives freak me out. Whether you choose to understand it or dismiss it is up to you.”

“And whether you choose to stop blaming yourself for what happened is up to you.”

Sloane gave him a hard stare. “I was a good agent,
and
a good hostage negotiator. I’ve got great instincts. And I’m smart. But not that time. That time I royally fucked up. I should have waited for backup. Because I didn’t, my whole life changed. An agent’s life was put at risk. And me…let’s leave it at that.”

Before Derek could answer, a resonating
bing
sounded from his laptop.

“E-mail.” Derek was already on his feet, heading to the coffee table, where he’d set up his computer.

“Is it from your forensic engineer?” Sloane asked, following close behind.

“Yup. And there’s an attachment. That’ll be the finalized jpeg.” Derek waited until Sloane was perched on the arm of his chair before opening Joe’s e-mail.

It read:

Derek—This is the best I could come up with. The lens flare is definitely a knife. From the size and shape of it, I’d guess it to be a Bowie type. And, based on body mass and physique, the shadow is a man. You can’t tell from the still, but when I watch it in motion, it looks like he’s drawing the knife out of its sheath. So you’ve got a subject and a weapon. Hope that helps. Let me know if you need anything else.—Joe

“Open the jpeg,” Sloane urged.

Derek clicked on the attachment, and he and Sloane watched the jpeg appear on the screen.

“He’s right,” Derek stated. “There’s no doubt about it. That’s the kidnapper and the weapon.”

“Absolutely.” Sloane squinted, peering at the details of the photo.

“Let’s go for broke.” Derek leaned forward, and punched the reply button.

Quickly, he typed:

Great work, Joe. This is spot-on. One more favor. Can you switch your analysis to the cameras that face the lake, and do an in-depth search from ten minutes before through ten minutes after the time stamp on this jpeg? With our Unsub taking out his knife, there’s a pretty good chance he’d spotted his prey. I’m hoping you can do the same.

FYI
, Penelope Truman is medium height, with black shoulder-length hair. She’ll look more styled and sophisticated than the college girls. And she was wearing a red pant suit, which should make it easier to pick her out of the crowd. If you find her, follow the footage. Maybe we can pinpoint the location where the Unsub grabbed her. It’s a wooded area. Check clusters of trees and less populated sections of the lake path. Let me know if you find anything. Thanks—Derek.

“Good thinking.” Sloane rose from the arm chair. “But even without that added bonus, we have three definable victims. Which means the
BAU
can classify two of the victims as no-body homicides, and our Unsub as a serial killer.”

Sloane’s phone rang. She picked it up, hoping it was Larry. “Hello?”

“Sloane? This is Burt. Is it a bad time?”

“Burt.” He was the last person she’d been expecting. “No, of course not. I’m just buried in work. Is there a problem with your mother?”

A brief hesitation. “Sort of. Her vitals aren’t great, and the doctor’s not happy with her deterioration. I took her to see him today, and he ran some tests. Hopefully, the results will tell us what’s going on. In the meantime, she’s on strict bedrest. I’m stuck at the bookstore tonight doing inventory. I won’t be back until around ten-thirty. The visiting nurse will only be at my mother’s place until seven. She’s leaving a casserole in the refrigerator, but my mother’s not up to warming it up, much less sitting down at the kitchen table and eating it. And then there’s Princess Di, who needs to be walked and fed. I was wondering if I could impose—”