Edge of Midnight (18 page)

The man spun, weapon poised.

Eric didn’t halt. He moved steadily closer, remaining in shooting stance. The man’s finger twitched on the trigger, its barrel aimed directly at him. The other agents had caught up, advancing on both sides.

“Put the gun down or they’ll put you down,” Eric warned.

“Fuck!” the man finally yelled in frustration, realizing he was cornered. He lowered the gun and let it fall to the ground with a thud, then raised his hands in surrender.

“On your knees! Now!” Cameron stepped forward and shoved the man to the dirt face-first. He kicked the weapon away. “Hands behind your head! Gordon Clark, you’re under arrest!”

Eric bent slightly forward to catch his breath. Holstering his gun, he ran a hand down his face, his palm coming away with sweat and blood, probably from the branch.

“You all right?” Cameron asked, studying him. Eric simply nodded in response.

A short time later, he stood in the house’s unkempt yard as the handcuffed arrestee was put in the backseat of one of the Bureau cars. The man’s muscular shoulders were slumped, his scraggly hair concealing his face. Meanwhile, the woman—apparently his mother—stood in her housecoat on the patio, railing at the agents.

“It’s not him,” Eric said quietly, as much to himself as anyone. The area behind the house was wooded, but there were no stripped cars along a winding gravel road. No cinder-block building with a low-slung metal roof like the one Mia had described. Instead, the house’s cheap, detached garage was painted brown and had a rusted metal pull-up door.

“You’re basing that judgment solely on Ms. Hale’s recollection?” Cameron asked. “She was stoned out of her mind—”

“I’m basing it on my gut.”

One of the other agents emerged from the house. They had no warrant but had gone in anyway under exigent circumstances, in case Karen Diambro was stashed somewhere inside. The agent shook his head. A cursory search of the garage had revealed the same discouraging results.

Cameron looked at the car that contained the suspect, his eyes narrowing. “Either way, this dickhead must be up to something or he wouldn’t be running from us.”

They were just spinning tires here. Clark wasn’t The Collector. One look at the untidy surroundings and the man’s slovenly appearance—uncombed hair, grease-stained wifebeater—and it had been clear to Eric he wasn’t the man they were looking for. Which meant both he
and
the unsub could have been shopping at the same, soon-to-be-defunct electronics store on the same night. It sent a chill through him thinking how much evil there really was in the world. He made a mental note to call his sister in Maryland and tell her to be safe.

“You could’ve gotten yourself killed back there, you know that?”

Eric released a breath. He’d been expecting it, had seen the reprimand in Cameron’s eyes earlier. At least he had waited until they were out of earshot of the other agents. He avoided his gaze. “I was doing my job.”

“You should’ve waited for the rest of us before stepping into that clearing and advancing. The guy had a direct shot at you—”

“Which he didn’t take.”

“Jesus Christ, Eric,” Cameron whispered roughly, shaking his head.

Hatcher approached. Judging by the look on his face, he was clearly still enthralled with his first foot chase.

“Did you at least see anything in the house?” Eric asked.

“We know why he was bargain hunting for computer equipment now,” the rookie agent revealed. “He forgot to shut down his screen before hightailing it into the woods.”

18

M
ia sat on the couch in her apartment, attempting to lose herself in a crisp glass of sauvignon blanc. Despite the fact that she’d been up since the early-morning hours, she still felt too wired to sleep. The discovery that Joy Rourke had really existed, her tense words with Grayson—all of it continued to weigh on her. As did the repeated news reports on Karen Diambro’s disappearance. With a sigh, she glanced at the laptop on the coffee table in front of her. She’d been working on a story about a recent string of downtown muggings for the paper’s online edition.

Violence was everywhere, it seemed.

At the knock on the door, she tensed. It was after 10:00 p.m. and she knew Will was out at a Chamber of Commerce cocktail party with Justin. She went cautiously into the foyer and looked through the peephole. Eric stood on the landing. Mia disarmed the security system.

“What happened?” she asked, her eyes going to the angry scratch on his right cheekbone as he stepped inside. He had changed from the jeans and T-shirt she had seen him in earlier that day.

“It’s nothing. I hope it’s not too late?”

“No…I’m just having a glass of wine.”

He handed her a manila folder. “It’s Joy Rourke’s file from the JSO. I made copies for myself, but I wanted to bring you the original.”

Taking it, Mia bit her lip. The folder had yellowed with age. She followed him into the living room. “What does it say?”

“It’s a cold case, basically. The child was never found. It took Detective Scofield most of the day to find the file. The detective who led the investigation has been retired for years.”

A renewed sadness bloomed inside her chest. “I only found the one article about her in the archives. I guess no one cared much about a missing foster kid.”

His eyes were sympathetic. “It was twenty-five years ago. Things were different then. There were no child advocates or AMBER alerts.”

“And there was no family to fight for her or demand that someone do something,” Mia said. She opened the file and saw that Joy Rourke had no living relatives. Her mother had died of a drug overdose, and the state had been in the process of moving her from the foster care group home to an orphanage. Taking it to the table, she scanned through the contents, stopping at what appeared to be a school photo. A shiver ran through her as she stared at the thin-faced girl with a missing front tooth and mop of reddish hair.

“Oh, God, it’s really her,” she whispered. “The little girl I’ve been dreaming about.”

He’d come to stand next to her, and she felt his hand on her shoulder. After a long moment, Mia replaced the photo and closed the file, deciding to review it all more thoroughly later. She couldn’t handle the raw emotion of it now, and she wanted to concentrate on Eric.

“You look tired,” she noted, concerned. “Would you like something to drink?”

“A beer would be great.”

Mia went into the kitchen and got him one. He thanked her and took a long swallow from the bottle. His tie had been loosened, and she noticed a few drops of dried blood on the collar of his dress shirt.

“Is there any update on Karen Diambro?”

“No,” he admitted, adding somberly, “but I received the recording of Cissy Cox’s murder this morning.”

An image of her slit throat filled Mia’s head, as did the sickening sensation of slipping in her blood. She heard a tightness in his voice as he continued. “There was a second female in the audio’s background. She was gagged, but—”

“It was me.” Her stomach flip-flopped uneasily.

Eric put the bottle down and moved closer. “I’ve stepped up the police presence in your neighborhood, Mia. That’s about all I can do for now. If it were up to me, I’d have you under protection.”

She shook her head, not wanting to be made a prisoner. “He hasn’t come after me again.”

“Maybe not, but if it’s true you witnessed this bastard’s first abduction years ago, you’re special to him. And I meant what I said this morning. You have to start being more careful.”

The seriousness in his eyes nearly made her flinch. Desiring a change of subject, her fingers rose to gently touch the scrape on his face. He still hadn’t answered her question from earlier. “How
did
this happen?”

“We had a lead this afternoon, a possible suspect in the latest abduction. The guy even lived on a wooded property like the one you described.”

“But it wasn’t him.”

Eric shook his head. “It took a shoot-out and a foot chase to confirm that, though. He isn’t the unsub, but he
is
into child pornography. Underage females—some of them barely teenagers. He had camera equipment and images on CDs, plain brown envelopes for mailing.”

Mia felt ill. She recalled a recent newspaper statistic indicating there were more than a thousand registered sex offenders in Jacksonville alone. “Do you know who any of the girls are?”

“He wasn’t exactly forthcoming. We went into the home without a warrant—we had to—but the evidence was in plain sight. My gut tells me what we found will be admissible in court.”

“Good,” Mia said.

“His attorney will probably still try to get it kicked out. Regardless, he’s being charged with fleeing authorities and aggravated assault. That’s enough to get him a prison term.”

The thought that he’d been so close to danger was unsettling. She took his hand. “Come with me? I want to clean up that scratch before it gets infected.”

He allowed her to lead him into the hall bathroom. She knelt, searching under the vanity for the basket that held first-aid supplies. Mia was vaguely aware of how her tank top rose above her yoga pants, exposing her lower back as she reached into the cabinet. Standing, she placed the basket next to the sink. “Tell me that’s not a bullet graze.”

He laughed softly. “It was a tree branch. But a sinister one.”

“You’re tall and I’m…not,” she remarked, looking up at him. Taking the hint, Eric sighed and sat on the edge of the vanity so she could reach him more easily.

Filling the basin with warm, soapy water, she wet a washcloth and wrung it out. Mia stepped between his legs, her heartbeat increasing a little as her body brushed his. Carefully, she pressed the cloth against the cut, letting its warmth sink into the wound. Eric closed his eyes as she worked, his brown lashes thick against his high cheekbones. Mia studied the elegant planes of his face unobserved. He was classically handsome—straight nose, full, masculine mouth and strong jaw. His skin was flawless. She could imagine a younger version of him gracing a poster for some Ivy League college.

“There,” she whispered a bit shakily, applying a small amount of antibacterial ointment to the cut with the tip of her pinkie. “All done.”

Eric’s eyes opened, his gaze heated as it traced over her features. They were so close she could feel his breath playing over her skin. Mia’s throat went dry as they stared at one another. Then his right hand closed around her slender wrist, slowly drawing her even nearer to him, so that their bodies touched. She saw him swallow, uncertain. More than anything, Mia wanted his mouth on hers, she realized. Their breathing seemed timed together as she made the first move, tilting her head and softly pressing her lips to his. He returned her kiss, gentle at first and then with an increasing fervor, deepening it and taking control. Settling more fully against him, every troubling thought in her head was swept aside, replaced by a lustful tightening in her core.

Eric released her wrist, his right hand cradling the nape of her neck. Mia’s arms looped around his neck, her fingers threading through his hair. She felt his hands move to her waist, skimming under her tank top so that his fingers lay on her fevered skin. As they continued kissing, he stroked the small of her back and up her sides. He lightly cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her gentle curves. Heat radiated from him, and she felt his male hardness, insistent. Mia ground herself against it, lost in the sensual thrill.

“Mia,” he murmured as he reluctantly pulled his lips from hers. She tasted his jaw, the hollow of his throat, her fingers working at a button on his shirt. “Mia.”

Gently, he took hold of her arms. Disappointment wound through her and she felt a flush rise over her skin. He appeared just as shaken, his breathing erratic. He briefly laid his forehead against hers.

“I should go.”

“You don’t have to,” she offered quietly.

Eric gazed at her, appearing torn. He caressed her face and she closed her eyes, not wanting him to see the raw need she suspected shone there.

After he was gone and the security system reinstated, Mia stood in the solitude of her living room, unable to stop thinking about what had happened. He’d left her unsatisfied, wanting more. The place seemed far emptier without him.

Being alone was something she’d never minded. In fact, after a youth spent in and out of foster care, sharing a bedroom with one or more other girls, having no place that was just hers—sometimes not even a bed—she relished her privacy and space. Tonight, however, Mia ached from the isolation. She wondered whether it was Eric’s sense of propriety that had stopped him from taking things further, or if he was still grieving for his late wife after all the time that had passed.

Have you slept with him yet?

Grayson’s prying question had delved more deeply into her desires than she’d cared to admit.

She was single by choice—she’d dated, had casual affairs, but in the end she had never really trusted another person with her heart. Her mother had made it difficult for her to put her total faith in someone.

Eric could break through her armor, she realized.

Leaving her wineglass on the table next to his unfinished beer, she picked up the case file on Joy Rourke. It wasn’t ideal bedtime reading, but she had to know more. Guilt tugged at her. Whatever had happened to Joy was in many ways her fault. She flipped through the folder’s contents, a dull pain inside her chest.

The little girl whispered to her, her gap-toothed grin a ghost in Mia’s head.

“What are you thinking about?”

Cameron sighed. He lay next to his wife in bed, staring up at the ceiling. “How did you know I wasn’t asleep?”

Lanie had turned onto her side to look at him, her head propped on her elbow and her face in shadow. “Um, no snoring?”

“That’s ridiculous,” he said softly. Sitting up on the edge of the bed facing away from her, he ran a hand over his face. “I don’t snore.”

“You keep telling yourself that.” Lanie sat up as well, although the growing mound of her belly meant it took her a little more time. Behind him, she burrowed her face against his bare back, kissing his shoulder blade. “Something’s on your mind, Cam. You’ve been quiet all night. Is it the case?”

The bedroom’s grainy darkness was like a velvet blanket, disrupted only by the moonlight spilling in through the sliding glass doors. Tomorrow morning would come early. Maybe he would try a glass of warm milk. If that didn’t work, a shot or two of Jack Daniel’s.

“Yeah, it’s the case,” he said finally, not wanting to reveal much more. He liked to keep his personal life a separate thing from the Bureau. Lanie, the baby on the way after a long time trying, their cozy house on the waterway—these were the things that kept him grounded and sane. He smiled faintly as she rose onto her knees and shifted behind him. She kissed the side of his neck, then massaged his tense shoulders. Cameron couldn’t imagine what it would be like to lose her. Merely entertaining the thought made it difficult to breathe.