Hold Your Breath (Search and Rescue) (6 page)

Time passed—either hours or minutes. It was hard to keep track of things like that. He straightened as her bedroom window lit, pooling warm light on the snow. As his heart accelerated, he walked toward the cabin, step by cautious step. He hated to leave the cover of the trees, but the lure of seeing her was too great. The clearing stretched between him and Lou, the light surface of the snowdrifts silhouetting him, but the reward outweighed the risk. He focused on that square of light, drawing him closer and closer to the cabin.

Once he saw her framed in the window, he knew the hours of silent vigil had been worth it. She faced away from the window as she pulled her shirt over her head. The warm lamplight brought out the peach and gold in her skin.

She was so beautiful and, at the same time, so careless with his feelings.

Reaching behind her with both hands, she unhooked her bra, allowing it to slide down her arms. At the sight of her bare back, his breath caught so hard he almost choked. Although he kept silent, he couldn’t stop himself from moving forward until he was just a few feet from the window.

He watched, mesmerized, as she stripped down to her panties. That body, that gorgeous, elegant body, was
his
. She might not realize that yet, but she would. He’d make sure of it.

Risking another step forward, he held back a disappointed sound as she pulled on her shapeless flannel pajamas. Once she was sharing his bed, she wouldn’t wear such ugly things. He’d buy her delicate and expensive lingerie, the kind her luscious body deserved.

She finally turned to face the window. At first, he ducked automatically, before he realized that she couldn’t see him. To her, the window was a wall of darkness, while he saw every detail of her life. A small, smug smile curled his mouth. This moment of power and superiority almost made waiting in the cold worth it.

His victorious thrill lasted until the light blinked out, leaving him exposed. He knew he had hours before she went to bed. Although he was tempted to circle her cabin and watch her through the living room windows, he forced himself to wait. It was too early for that. Once she was sleeping, he could look all he wanted.

So he returned to his hiding spot in the trees, growing colder and angrier with each passing moment. When the bedroom window lit again, just for a few moments, he allowed himself to move toward the cabin. His muscles had grown stiff, and his gait was awkward. Despite his discomfort, he had to catch himself before he ran toward the cabin. What had started out as practicality had grown into an obsession.

As he drew closer, there was no scream of discovery, no shotgun pointed at his face, so he dared to cross the final few steps until he was looking right into her window. He was close enough for his breath to leave condensation on the glass. Silently, he wiped the fogged spot clear with his sleeve.

She was in bed, curled in her usual position on her side. As he watched her sleep, time blinked forward again, until the numbness in his toes turned to a burn he couldn’t ignore. Soon. Soon, he wouldn’t have to haunt frozen forests and abandoned parking lots to see her. She’d be right next to him in his bed. Where she belonged.

This needed to work. It
had
to work. Nothing was right without her.

“So…?”

It had taken her the entire dive-team training session to finally corner Callum. They’d been forced inside Station One by low temperatures and a biting wind, so they were polishing their first aid skills, checking equipment, and practicing with the rope-filled throw bags that were used to get a line from a rescuer on shore to someone in the water. When Callum moved away from the group to retrieve a stray throw bag, she saw her chance and followed.

“So?” he repeated, sounding distracted as he watched the others. “Chad throws like a fucking five-year-old girl.” He glanced at Lou. “No offense.”

“Why would I be offended? I’m not a five-year-old.” She paused. “Though for the record, I
am
a girl, and I’m more accurate with the throw bag than half the guys on the team. Anyway, I wanted to talk about our…research project.”

The slightest of grimaces crossed his face.

“Oh, no, no, no,” she said. “None of that.”

“None of what?”

“You’re thinking of backing out.” Lou planted herself in front of him, her fists on her hips. “There will be no backing out of this. I need your help. I realized last night that I have no clue what I’m doing.”

His eyes shifted over her shoulder, as if he were wishing he were away from her and back in the safety of numbers. Lou tipped her body slightly to the right so she could put herself in his line of sight.

“Please?” She bounced a little on the balls of her feet. “C’mon, Cal, you’ve been dive-team leader for how long now? Share your wisdom. Be my sensei. Lead me on the path of criminal enlightenment.”

He exhaled heavily, and she gave another tiny hop of excitement, knowing she had him. “You’re just going to harass me until I do anyway.”

“That’s right!” She beamed at him.

“Fine. Wait until everyone’s left, and we’ll talk.” Glancing at his watch, he bellowed, “Time’s up! See you all in two weeks. It’s CPR recertification, so attendance is mandatory.”

Several groans and mutters met his announcement as the dive-team members began to gather the equipment. Lou started stacking chairs.

“What are you so happy about?” Derek grumbled, grabbing her stack of chairs and carrying it to the storage room. “CPR training blows. Or do you enjoy sucking face with those creepy plastic dummies?”

Lou just grinned, starting a new stack of chairs. Not even CPR recertification could dampen her happiness. “Oh please, you drama queen. We all have our own breathing masks. It’s not like in junior high babysitter certification where all that was between you and the last girl’s spit was a funky-tasting alcohol wipe.”

“Whoa.” Derek blinked. “That image is…disturbing.”

She smirked at him and hauled her chair tower into the storage room, dumping the stack by the one Derek had just deposited. A small, pained sound next to her brought her head around. Callum was eyeing the slightly lopsided, uneven stacks with a scowl.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, looking from the chairs to his face and back.

“It’s fine.” One look at his twitching jaw muscle told her that it was
not
at all fine. When he reached out to straighten one of the chairs that hung a little drunkenly on top of its brothers, realization dawned.

“It’s okay,” she assured him, taking a step back. “It won’t hurt my feelings if you rearrange them.”

“It’ll hurt mine,” Derek objected as he entered the small room with the last few chairs. “I worked really hard to get these arranged exactly the way I wanted them. It’s like art. Chair art.” He tipped the newly straightened chair so it drooped askew again.

Callum glared at Derek, who was shifting another chair so the legs were misaligned.

“Stop,” Lou scolded, although she couldn’t completely erase the laughter from her voice. She gave Derek a push toward the door. “Don’t torture his OCD soul.”

The hard gaze shifted to Lou, and she held up her hands defensively. “Not that I’m saying you have OCD or anything. You just like things to be organized. Really, really organized.” When Callum didn’t look any happier, she gave up trying to appease him and just focused on getting Derek out of the storage room with another hard shove.

“Ow!” he whined as she herded him like a sheepdog, but he gave in to her less-than-gentle nudges and stepped through the doorway. As he entered the main training room, he gave a yelp at the sight of the huge digital clock on the wall. “It’s late! I’m going to run. See you kids later.”

“See you,” Lou responded, waving as he grabbed his gear and headed to the parking lot. She turned back to the open storage-room door and stopped abruptly. In the short time it had taken for her and Derek to exchange good-byes, Callum had moved the chairs into perfectly even, exactly aligned stacks, arranged in two rows with almost frightening precision.

“Wow.” Lou couldn’t look away from the Stepford chairs. “That’s…um, tidy.”

With a satisfied grunt, Callum turned to face her. “Want to do some research?”

She beamed at him. “Yes, please. Here? Or do you want to go to my place?” With an inner wince, she thought of the lived-in look of her cabin. It was never actually dirty, but it was rather messy. Maybe taking Callum to her place wasn’t a great idea. “Or here is fine, too.”

He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again silently. His gaze had moved to something behind her, so she turned around to look through the doorway into the training room to see what had distracted him.

“Hey, Cal.” It was firemen-calendar-centerfold himself, Ian Walsh. “And it’s Louise, right?”

“Lou,” she corrected, although she couldn’t help smiling. She also might have batted her eyelashes, just a little. Ian was just too perfect, as if he’d been modeled after someone’s sexy fireman dream.

Callum moved around her, bumping her shoulder on the way. She shot him a surprised look. Callum was many aggravating things, but rude was normally not one of them. He didn’t seem to notice her miffed gaze, too busy giving Ian the glare of icy death.

“Walsh,” he said. “Need something?”

“Forgot my phone,” Ian explained, apparently unoffended by Callum’s chilly tone. Instead, one side of his mouth quirked up in a half smile. “I’m addicted to the thing.”

“Oh, me too.” Lou knew she was gushing, but she couldn’t help herself. In her defense, she was pretty sure that anyone with a hint of estrogen would gush when looking at Ian Walsh, especially when he was wearing that smile. Ian was the definition of swoon-worthy, even if she couldn’t help but think he wasn’t
quite
as handsome as a scowling Callum. “If I’m away from it too long, I start getting the shakes.”

That brought a full-out laugh from Ian. “Don’t forget the imaginary bugs crawling on you.”

She nodded mock-solemnly. “They’re the worst.”

Callum cleared his throat. “Your phone?”

“Right.” Ian sent her another grin and winked before crossing the training area toward the locker room on the other side. Lou couldn’t help but watch him walk away.
Whoa.

“Quit drooling, Sparks!” Callum snapped, dragging her attention back to him.

“Oh please,” she said dismissively, waving a hand. “Who could resist looking at that eye candy?”

He just glared. “Me.”

She resisted the urge to mention that, as the resident iceman, Callum did not count. Instead, she just reminded him, “Research?”

“Sure you can tear yourself away from Walsh?”

“Quit being pissy, and let’s identify a dead man.”

“I’m not being pissy.” He still sounded pissy.

“Fine. Research?”

“Fine.”

* * *

“‘Research’ isn’t some new euphemism for getting laid, is it?” Lou asked, looking around at the sparse scattering of patrons at the Simpson Bar.

Callum made a sound that could have been a swallowed laugh. It was hard to hear it over the country music blaring from the overhead speakers. He didn’t answer her question. Instead, he headed to the bar.

Lou followed him and slipped onto the bar stool he had politely pulled out for her. She turned to give a social smile to the thin woman occupying the next stool and then blinked in surprise. The woman was none other than Coroner Belly.

“Oh! Hi!” Even as the words left her mouth, Lou winced inwardly. There was way too much enthusiasm there. “Sorry,” Lou added quickly. “I just didn’t recognize you at first. I’m Lou, one of the dive-team members? We met yesterday at the…uh, reservoir.”

Belly’s chilly expression thawed considerably. “Right! The cute little blond diver who kicked the corpse. I remember you now.”

“Oh, um. Right.” Her voice lost a lot of its enthusiasm at the reminder. “Is that how people are going to identify me now? As the person who kicked a dead guy?”

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Belly took a long drink of her beer. “I said you were cute, too, didn’t I?”

“Sorry?”

“Hey, Bel,” Callum said. “They figure out who that guy is yet?”

After another drink from her bottle, Belly answered, “Nope, poor bastard.”

“Huh.” The bartender approached, and Cal held up three fingers and pointed at Belly’s beer. “Poor bastard is right.”

“And his poor family,” Lou added. “Probably thinking he walked out on them when he was actually murdered. So sad.”

The bartender set three beers in front of them. Lou reached for her purse, but Callum was quicker, pulling out some bills and handing them to the server with a nod of thanks.

“Thank you. I’ll get the next round,” Lou said. Callum made a sound that could’ve been agreement but most likely wasn’t.

“Thanks, Cal,” Belly said as she finished off the remains of her beer and reached for the next one, almost in the same motion.

“Something’s bothering me,” Lou said slowly, not sure if she was crossing a professional line but unable to ignore this sterling opportunity to ask some of the questions that had been plaguing her. “Whoever cut off the guy’s hands, it…well, it wasn’t when he was
alive
, was it?” She almost didn’t want to hear Belly’s answer, just in case it wasn’t the reassurance she wanted, but it was worse not to know.

“Nope,” Belly said. “Don’t worry about that. Definitely postmortem.”

“That’s good. Not good about the cutting part, of course. That he wasn’t alive when… I mean, I’d rather not be feeling it if someone was going to chop off my hands, if I had to choose, although I probably wouldn’t get a choice in that situ…um. Right.”

Her babbling cut off at the heavy weight of one of Callum’s hands on her shoulder. Closing her mouth with a snap, she stared at her beer and started picking at the corner of the label.

“Much better to be dead if someone’s going to chop off your hands with a Sawzall,” Belly agreed.

Swallowing, Lou had to ask, “Is that how the murderer did it? With a Sawzall?”

“Yep. The head, too. Messy business. Didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. Guess we’re not looking for a surgeon or a butcher or even someone who hunts much.”

Making a conscious effort not to meet Callum’s gaze, Lou gently probed, “How old was this guy—the victim, I mean?”

“Sixty-five-ish.” To Lou’s surprise, Belly seemed perfectly willing to share. “Caucasian, diabetic, five-ten or thereabouts, one hundred and fifty pounds, gray hair—although the hair on his head might be different from the hair on his body—probably died of some kind of head trauma.”

“How can you tell it was head trauma if he, ah, didn’t have it on him? His head, I mean.”

“Well, it had to be, didn’t it?” Belly asked. “The rest of him was fairly healthy—except for the diabetes—so it was either a bullet to the head or something hit him really hard. I’d need to see the head to tell you for sure.”

“Oh, that makes sense.” Lou thought for a second. “How’d you know he had diabetes?”

Belly gave her a flat look. “Do you really want to hear about a dead man’s pancreas?”

“Um…not really.” She was pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to understand what the coroner told her, anyway.

“Plus,” Belly added, turning back to her beer, “he was missing two toes on his right foot.”

“Had they been amputated before he died, or was it part of the whole Sawzall thing?”

“Amputated. Few months before, I’d guess. Pretty common for diabetics. Nerve damage and poor circulation can lead to nonhealing foot ulcers. If they’re not treated quickly, the resulting tissue damage can require part of the foot or leg to be amputated.” Belly sounded impressively coherent for a small woman with several beers under her belt. Glancing at Callum’s untouched beer, Lou realized that Belly was the reason Callum had brought her to the bar. The coroner was their research source.

“Hmm.” Great, now she was doing the humming thing again. Lou tried to think of any other questions she could ask the coroner. “He didn’t have any birthmarks or tattoos or anything, did he? I don’t remember any, but I was a little distracted by the dead body and the shock and everything at the time.”

Belly gave a short laugh. “Yeah, you have a pretty good excuse for not noticing his back had been ripped to shit at one point, a long time ago. Looked like shrapnel scars, from Vietnam, I’d guess—just a guess, mind you, since he’s about the right age, plus he had an Army tattoo on the left side of his chest.” She patted halfway between her breast and collarbone. “Served our country and then someone chopped him up and tossed him in the reservoir. There’s respect for you.” Turning her head, she spat in the general direction of the floor. Lou hurriedly yanked her foot back before the loogie could land on her boot.

“Thanks, Bel.” Callum gave Lou a light time-to-go pat on her shoulder before tossing another bill in the bartender’s direction. “Have a good night.”

“Yes, thanks for talking with us, Belly,” Lou echoed as she slid off her stool. “Good-bye.”

Belly waved, focusing on her beer as they moved away from the bar.

* * *

“I feel kind of dirty,” Lou admitted as they walked through the bar’s snow-packed parking lot.

Callum’s eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. “Excuse me?”

She gave an uncomfortable shrug. “Like we took advantage of Belly’s, you know, tipsiness or something.”

“Oh.” He was quiet for a moment. “She wouldn’t have said anything to just anyone, if that makes you feel better. She also, most likely, would have shared all that with you sober.”