No One Left to Tell (17 page)

The afternoon sun burned off the gray morning clouds, and glistening streams of melted snow held the promise of a break in the weather. None of it lightened Christian's mood as he drove his SUV down a deserted side street. His gut twisted over what he might find inside the old abandoned armory.

Would he be opening a Pandora's box of Fiona's creation?

After pulling a paper from his coat pocket, he confirmed the address. A gray cyclone fence, laden with rusted metal signs, declared the red brick armory to be the property of Dunhill Corporation. Set amidst other forsaken hulls of warehouses, the place looked like a disaster. In the fading gray of winter, even under the warming sun, it looked bleak and ominous.

"Why here, Mickey?" he muttered as he brought his vehicle to a stop. "This place is not exactly your style."

Christian parked next to the main gate, then walked toward the entrance. He reached for the padlock and metal links dangling from the fence. No need for the set of keys in his slacks pocket. The chain had been severed, leaving the gate open.

And just ahead, a discarded shell of a black Mercedes lay atop cinder blocks, stripped of anything valuable. Neon spray paint marred its once sleek finish. The local criminal element had marked their turf with cryptic taunts, thumbing their nose at law enforcement with bright paint. No attempt made to hide the metal remains. Through the vehicle identification number, the police would have identified it sooner or later. He had no need to check DMV records to know. It had once belonged to Mickey.

Hunching his shoulders against the cold, he shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets. "You sure loved that car, Mick."

Shadowed by the old building, a metal door lay to the right of the elevated delivery bays. The door looked like it would've been Mickey's only option. With a tug, Christian found the entry locked. He tried his keys and gained access.

The sun poured in from the doorway, only dimly lighting the skeletal core of the old munitions factory. The gloom repelled the light as if the shapeless void were a sentient being, cowering from view and hoarding its secrets. Looking overhead, he noticed every window had been blackened, embellishing the sinister nature of the chamber. A faint smell of paint lingered in the air, making him believe the modification had been recent— and very deliberate.

He stepped farther into the darkness, but stopped short. Tiny feet skittered across the floor. With a frenzied screech, a rat darted to his right, shocked by the sudden exposure to daylight. The commotion caused a ripple effect. An army of unseen creatures slithered for more suitable places to hide, puckering the skin at the nape of his neck.
God, I hate rats!

The old building gave him a bad case of the creeps.

The darkness came alive, seizing Christian with panic before he had mentally prepared for it. Despite years of therapy, he succumbed to the sensation, an unavoidable reaction. He kept the door open to reinforce his control over his phobia. If he shut it now, he'd be drawn into it, without footing. As if he were lying in a sensory deprivation tank, or had been set adrift in dead space, he sensed his equilibrium faltering. The oppressive silence weighed heavy, tightening his chest. He felt his breathing grow shallow.

An old, familiar affliction.

One thing was certain. The place could harbor his worst nightmare. No one needed to tell him Mickey had died here. Death loomed heavy in the putrid air. How he knew this, he couldn't quite grasp. Christian no longer questioned his bizarre link to the Grim Reaper. He just knew.

In an instant, he'd been transported back to his childhood terror, the wound made fresh with his early-morning nightmare.

"Deep breath." He found his center and searched for composure. The old terror was hard to quell. "Now let it go, slow." He uttered his reflexive mantra.

To avoid being swallowed by his habitual fear, he shut his eyes. He listened patiently for his heart to slow, until he no longer felt every single beat thrashing in his chest. Yet an odd sensation inched its way hot from his belly to his fingertips. An inexplicable aura warmed him, giving him immeasurable comfort. At first, he couldn't place the peculiar tingle. Soon it had a name.

Raven Mackenzie.

The delicate scent of her skin bathed in fragrant soap. The tentative touch of her fingers along his stomach.

The luster of her dark hair. Eyes that sucked you in, cradling you in safety.

Unlike his usual recovery method for anxiety, the thought of Raven spread rapidly throughout his body and mind. It filled him with serenity. Unnerving. A part of him would've preferred a merciful rap upside the head with a baseball bat. Another side of him longed for—

"Damn it!" he cursed. "Quit thinking from below your belt."

Finally losing the harsh rhythm to his heart, he opened his eyes again, letting Raven dissipate from his thoughts. Getting accustomed to the dark, he found the shapes making sense. Walls of wooden crates, rusted metal foundry equipment, and garbage lay piled in disarray, like his war room at the Dunhill Estate.

At least, that's what he told himself.

Venturing into the shadows to his right, he felt for the lights. His fingers found a panel pulled from the wall, wires exposed. If the damage had been done years ago, he would've expected the wires to be encrusted with dirt or cobwebs. These were free of such texture. Whoever cut the wires hadn't intended Mickey to find the light switch operable near the main entrance.

Closing his eyes again, he let his instincts take over, skills honed over the many years since the violent loss of his childhood.

Just like the war room, Delacorte!

He felt certain the old building maintained a minimal amount of electricity for security reasons. Allowing his mind to wander, he imagined how the electrical circuits might have been set up and began his systematic search for a backup light switch.

If Mickey had died here, surely there must be clues to help him seek the truth. And he'd need light to do a thorough search.

Making his way farther into the darkness, he kept his eyes shut, heightening his other senses. When he neared a solid obstruction, the airflow around him changed with only a faint subtlety. The perception brushed his skin. Coupled with that, sound bounced from the mass and deadened as he drew closer, giving it dimension. He supposed his ability was similar to that possessed by a bat with its sonar. With skill and agility, he sidestepped the obstacles in his path, eventually discovering another light panel in a far corner. This one had juice. The lights crackled to life, flickering a meager battle against the darkness until they eventually won out. He squinted and raised his hand to shield his sensitive eyes from the welcome intrusion.

"Why the hell did you come here, Mick?" he asked again. The place looked like a war zone. From where he stood, light shed no greater understanding.

The obstacles he'd sensed earlier were arranged in a makeshift maze. Discarded machinery, heaps of trash, and rusted barrels were strewn in grand design. Barriers erected in a pattern created a funnel wider by the doorway, then narrowed as the path led farther away to an inner circle.

He wandered the main passage, feeling certain Mickey would've done the same, but he had the benefit of electricity. Mick would've been lost in the dark. Small breaks in the barricades allowed access between the passageways, but unless the man had known the layout, his escape route would've led into countless dead ends like a frustrating maze. Catwalks and metal stairways overhead gave high ground to his attackers, making Mickey an easy target.

When he neared the inner circle of the labyrinth, his jaw fell slack with shock.

A sense of what the man had endured submersed him in an emotional quagmire. He pictured Mickey being tormented, pummeled from above, then ritualistically murdered in the center ring like the main event to a circus. The twisted mind that orchestrated the macabre killing staggered him—a prime example of the cruelty mankind visited on its own. The same kind of deranged mind that could pull the trigger on his younger sister while she ran to her mother in fear.

Fueling his imagination, his senses dimmed the overhead lighting to black, setting the stage for savagery. Flashes of Mickey's terror darkened his eyes, infused by images of his own childhood trauma. Undistinguishable, visions lambasted him in rapid succession, embroiling him in a waking nightmare. Blinding him.

Now I lay me down to sleep
—
Please, God . . . Help me!
The tortured screams of a child filled his brain. Powerless. Trapped. Happening all over again. But a familiar voice beckoned him to release his pain.

The voice cried out, "Stop where you are, Delacorte. We've got a warrant to search the place."

As if he had emerged from a thick haze, his mind slowly cleared. A figure eclipsed a bright light like a vaporous mirage. He raised his hand to shield his eyes. An image of a woman came into focus. Detective Mackenzie hurried toward him, armed with a document. Her partner was close behind. No doubt, he'd just lost his edge in the investigation.

"This is Dunhill property. What brings you here, Detectives?" His words sounded hollow. Jutting from his memory, cruel images still tortured him.

No amount of posturing or stalling would help. What lay in the inner circle would be incriminating enough. He had no hope of dissuading her from her duty. Whatever evidence remained of Mickey's murder would clearly imply a connection to Fiona. No way to stop it. Given his link to the family, he'd consider it a stroke of good fortune if the police allowed him to stay involved with the case at all. Now, he needed Raven on his side. How he would accomplish this feat, he had no idea.

Slapping the paper to his chest, the detective smirked, "Let's drop the charade, shall we? You ditched me earlier so you could come here alone and get a jump on your own investigation. Why are you here, Christian?" Raven questioned.

But the sound of her voice carried in the chamber. They'd have no privacy to talk about how he'd acquired the address. He didn't know how to answer without giving himself away. So he didn't.

Saving him from the wrath of Detective Mackenzie, her partner stepped past him, making his way to the inner circle. "You touch anything, Mr. Delacorte?" the man asked.

"No. Just got here. It took me a while to find lights that worked." His eyes shifted to the floor, taking in the disturbing scene. "What the hell—"

The cement floor was stained a deep brown, the stench of blood still in the air. Arterial spray tainted a wall, like a gruesome display of modern art. Dried blood told the story. Mickey had died here—in this desolate place. The man's coat and tie were carefully laid out on the floor, away from the heaviest concentration of blood. Shirt buttons had been gathered and set beside the high-priced coat in mockery, trivializing

Mick's lifestyle at the scene of his slaughter. Whoever killed him had no respect for the law. Everything had been laid out for the police in obvious contempt.

Most shocking were the copies of newspaper clippings placed upon a grouping of wooden crates. Some were unrecognizable, but the ones he knew well stole his breath like a punch to the gut.

The headlines and photos of his childhood terror filled his eyes and blurred them with tears. Disturbing as these articles were, those set alongside them made his mind reel with even more questions. A chill shivered through him and exposed his heart with the precision of a surgeon.

CHARLES DUNHILL MURDERED

SNIPER KILLS PROMINENT LOCAL

What connection did the murder of Charles Dunhill have to his family's horror? Whoever killed Mickey Blair knew the answers. Suddenly, the sign pinned to Mick's chest invaded his confusion.
Seek the truth, Christian.

The truth about what?
His eyes zeroed in on the newspaper clippings, blocking out the rest of the world—a world that had ceased to exist for him in that instant. He felt entrenched in his past. Sinking to one knee, he picked up one of the articles with trembling fingers. A tear lost its hold and trailed down his cheek.

Reality hit hard. His past had been nothing more than an illusion—devoid of substance. Fiona must have known. Yet she had chosen to leave him floundering in ignorance. The only person he trusted had left him behind, to discover the truth on his own. But why?

Who the hell was he? And why was he connected to so much death?

Christian slumped to the cement floor, stunned. Raven knew he shouldn't be touching the evidence, but she couldn't deny the man his shocking disbelief. He looked dazed. Her heart ached for him.

"Scott. We're gonna need a team here." Tony's voice droned in the background. Her partner served as a stark reminder of her duty. Despite her feelings to the contrary, she'd come to do a job. And Christian was not officially part of it. Kneeling by his side, she clasped his hand and squeezed it. She found defeat in his eyes.

"Christian, come with me."

She felt sure he hadn't heard her at first. Then he stood and let her lead him through the maze, toward the doorway. Although he stared straight ahead, he looked completely lost. Only a small part of him remained. With the sun low in the sky, a chill captured the intruding night air, hurling a gust at their feet. Standing by the entrance, she broke the silence.

"I'll make sure you get copies of the articles," she offered. In reply, he merely lowered his head. "What do you think they mean? Obviously, the killer staged it all."

By the pained expression on his face, she knew the question already had occurred to him. He just shook his head. For a long while, she wasn't sure he'd speak.

"Seek the truth, Christian.
I wish I knew . . ." His thought trailed off, vanquished by his overwhelming ordeal. He didn't hide the emotion, nor had he wiped the drying path of a tear. Her attraction deepened. But she had a job to do.

"What do you know about the murder of Charles Dunhill?" The accusation was absent from her voice. He'd been only a boy when Dunhill had been murdered. "I want to help you find the truth, Christian. Please let me do that."