Terrorbyte (3 page)

“I have no words!” I said, shaking my head.

“I bet you find some,” he replied.

“You think now is the best time to get mouthy?”

The corners of his mouth turned up. “No, ma'am.”

“That's what I thought. We should get ready.”

I couldn't imagine Mac asking Eddie to save him. It defied reason. He held an intense dislike for his older brother.

Mac grinned. “After you.”

“I don't think so.”

I took his hand and we walked together into the living room.

I knew about his nervousness. I understood how badly he was affected by the knowledge that complete strangers had heard him rambling over a surveillance audio link about rainbow people, when he'd been doped, but this was a different situation. Glancing at the clock on the wall told me we had two hours before the car arrived.

I knew I would regret my words but it didn't stop me; it never stops me. “You could do with a Valium.” Or a bottle of bourbon, or maybe both. Okay, bourbon was a bad idea; it is too easy to sniff it out on someone's breath. Maybe vodka. My sense of professionalism took over: even in my worst moments I would not turn up to such an event plastered. We'd survived a hellish year. Taking the edge off tonight with a little yellow pill sounded good.

His arms tightened around me. “Valium?”

“Yep.”

“Where did you get Valium?”

I replied, “The doctor last week.”

“Are you okay?”

Of course, I'm okay! I'm always okay.

“Yes, I am okay.”

“Then what's with the creepy smile?”

“What's with the close, suffocating observations?” Instantly, I regretted being so sharp.

“Do you feel better?” he asked.

“No, I'm sorry. That was uncalled for.” I really was sorry. “I was just thinking about Aidan and the whole fundraising thing tonight at The Aquarium.”

“You were planning his demise!” Mac accused with amusement.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe's ass.” 

“He swam with the fishes,” I said, without even trying to hide the satisfied smile on my face. The subject had successfully moved away from Valium.

Mac steered it back. “Does this have anything to do with those nightmares?”

I smiled and kissed him. “I'm okay.”

I was okay, just so long as no more bodies turned up near me and I didn't think too much and no one ever publishes anything of mine ever again.

“Does it?”

“I've mentioned them, therefore I guess it does.” Nightmares. Flashbacks. It's all semantics and hardly worth quibbling over. I didn't believe that for a second but I tried. If I tried harder, it might even be plausible. I looked at the clock again. “We have to get ready.”

I stood in front of the bedroom mirror fussing with my hair.

“Did you get a call today from dad?” Mac asked from the bathroom.

Both our fathers were heavily involved in our Butterfly Foundation project. They both retired over ten years ago and had volunteered to take over the brunt of the day-to-day work created by the Foundation's existence.

I'd spent the last few years telling myself that one day I'd have more time. One day there will be fewer freaks to track down. One day I will be able to let the FBI go. Yeah, right! One day pigs will fly. So for now, our fathers take care of business and we take care of criminals.

“Mine or yours?”

“Mine.”

Mac's dad, Bob, had called me that morning while I was in the office. We had discussed the upcoming board appointments. I nodded. “Bob told me he wants my dad to take the chairman of the board position.”

“Will the announcements be made tonight?”

“Yes. During dinner, the chairman will be announced, and so will the trustees.” Guess he now had a reminder about the speeches. Something outside caught my eye. I moved to the window. On the balcony railing sat a large Monarch butterfly. So very beautiful.

Mac had a reminder for me, too. “Tomorrow you and I are flicking the proverbial switch, the server is up and running. The Foundation goes online officially at midday.”

The Monarch fluttered its orange wings then soared skyward. I watched until it was gone from view. We had a vision and that vision now had life. No matter how much I hated having our poetry published, the proceeds from sales had made possible the Foundation that supported the kids of bipolar and schizophrenic parents. Okay, not entirely; I'd used my trust fund money, which had been sitting in the bank since I was eighteen, the insurance money left to me when mom was murdered, as well as half the insurance money from when my house burned to the ground.

Oh, the life I lead.

All in all, life was good. We were making a difference. Even if it wasn't a huge difference, at least some kids had a safe place to talk and get support. Inside the Foundation server, sanctuary was provided by moderators and counselors.

Our mission statement rang in my ears from an internal looped recording: ‘To provide security and a safe place for the children touched by bipolar disorder, dissociative identity disorder and schizophrenia.'

Mac whispered in my ear, “Earth to Ellie, we best get into our monkey suits, sweets.”

“Yeah … and take a chill pill.” Five milligrams of calm coming right up. I swear I felt it doing me good well before I'd swallowed it.

He kissed my cheek. “Yeah, let's do that first. Let's turn up loaded to a function full of FBI and the media.”

“Exaggerate much?” Under my breath I growled, “I won't be loaded and you could do with chilling, dude.”

A little while later and in a better mood, I stood in front of the bedroom mirror surveying the dress I wore. Mac came up behind me in his black suit, wearing a platinum shirt that matched the platinum silk of my dress. We looked fantastic.

I stepped back and felt my shoe catch on Mac's. His arm snaked around my waist to steady me. A hundred memories collided all at once and, for a split second, I was back in a car park in Lexington viewing the first body left by the killer known as Jack Griffin.

***

I slipped out the door unseen and quietly edged my way between two police officers. We all stared into the trunk. My eyes struggled to comprehend what I saw.

My brain stuttered. “What the fuck is that?”

“I'm not sure,” Doug replied. “It's hard to tell.”

There was a mass of flesh and fabric, no obvious beginning or distinguishable end. It didn't resemble anything in particular. I glimpsed a flash of something silvery.

“Gloves? Flashlight?”

Alex handed me a pair of latex gloves. He took a flashlight from his belt. I carefully lifted a piece of bloodied fabric and revealed what I figured was an arm. “Shine it here for me.”

Alex directed the beam of light over my shoulder.

“Looks like a bracelet,” Doug commented. He was right. Not only that, it looked familiar.

I leaned in and read the inscription.

“Oh, man.” I gulped for air. My legs threatened to buckle. I staggered slightly as I turned away. I managed to unload the meager contents of my stomach by the back wheel, preserving the integrity of the crime scene as much as possible. Someone pulled my hair back and had hold of my shoulders. A tissue magically appeared in my hand as I straightened up.

“Thank you,” I spluttered, wiping my mouth.

“You're welcome.” Alex's voice sounded just as smooth as Doug's. “Go on back inside. Do you want me to call someone for you?”

“Give the forensics team a hurry-along.” I was facing the café and sure as hell was not going to look back at the car. I pulled my wallet from my pocket and handed over my card, “My number is on here, ask for SAC Grafton.” I took a breath. “Tell him … we found Carter.”

Alex frowned at me. “He'll know what that means?”

“If he asks, tell him he's in the trunk of my car.”

***

Suddenly a night of fund raising and celebrities didn't seem so bad after all. It was a relief to get into the limousine.

The evening could have been worse. There were no dismembered bodies and no Post-it note poems. I was not covered in blood nor was anyone else.

Mac smiled at my surprise in having enjoyed the evening.

“I'm going to change out of this,” I said, sweeping my hand down my body.

His eyes followed my hand.

“You're sure we shouldn't make some babies? They'd be damn cute!”

I could see the laughter in his eyes as I replied, “Cute they would be, insane most certainly. You know our gene pool needs cleansing, babe.”

I fervently hoped the laughter in his eyes wasn't masking something deeper; an actual desire for children. Breeding from our combined genetic line was not a great idea. On the grand scale of ideas, it ranked right up there with bamboo shoots under fingernails or a stint in Guantanamo Bay.

Mac turned me to face him, kissed me, and said, “You're sure?” The smile in his eyes faded.

A sinking feeling hit me. I couldn't tell whether he was joking or not. Suddenly it didn't look or feel like a joke. Damn
.
We'd agreed a year ago that having kids would be a bad idea.

We had agreed.

I didn't want to have that conversation again. Ever.

“I'm sure.” I changed the subject. “Make some coffee, will you? I'm going to change.”

Wearing the more comfortable attire of jeans and a tee shirt, I settled on the sofa with my laptop and checked my email.

We had fulfilled our duty to the publisher and the kids. It was almost fun playing dress-up and grown-up. Even so, I was relieved to be back at home and away from all those pretty people, most of whom lived far from the reality I saw every day.

I had a hard job imagining what their lives would be like. It's not that those people are immune to crime; they just seem to not notice it. I suspected I was being somewhat unfair. Few people saw the side of crime I dealt with, and it was my choice to work violent serial crime. I could've chosen a less gory job, with more congenial hours, but I hadn't. My choice.

Several times during the evening, I thought I saw the singer Rowan Grange. I didn't recall him being on the guest list but, then again, I didn't see the final list. I considered that we should've had him and his band, Grange, perform. What a coup that would have been: one of the biggest bands (next to Bon Jovi) to come from New Jersey. That sure would've made the night more fun.

My mind wandered off to the last Grange concert I attended. Normal things like attending rock concerts were rare gems in my life. I tended to hold those memories tightly. Another Rowan Grange memory edged to the forefront. He was gorgeous and smiling in the lobby of the Marriott, while I, the recipient of the smile, was shoeless and disheveled. Such is my life. One day it would be nice to run into him when I'm behaving normally. I'm not entirely sure I ever do, so it could be a long shot. I realized I had Googled him while daydreaming. Cringing, I closed the browser.

Dad's smile floated into view and evoked more amusing thoughts. We'd finally met the famed former President, GW. I'd noticed the presence of the Secret Service immediately. I'd also noted that the security was about as low key as those guys get; bit of a giveaway that someone important was around and it wasn't the current President. I shouldn't have been surprised at who it was. Our fathers had known him for years but would neither confirm nor deny the identity of the mysterious friend they'd told us about before my father's heart surgery. GW seemed to enjoy the evening; I doubt he understood any of the poetry. It's not that we write flowery prose, or even particularly intellectual prose for that matter, it's just that he was once photographed reading a book upside down and he can't say nuclear.

Enough said.

My brother survived the evening without me feeding him to the sharks; I allowed myself to dip a toe into a shiny puddle of my earlier fantasy. Watching him twitch in a tank of electric eels would've been most therapeutic. My mind conjured up a delightful image of Aidan struggling to swim to the surface in a deep glass tank, his plight exacerbated by deadly Sea Wasps and Portuguese Man of War jelly fish. A stingray or two appeared, moving ever closer; other sea creatures were attracted by his fearful flailing. Oxygen bubbled out of his mouth as his last remaining breath escaped.

I blinked and imagined Aidan sinking to the bottom of the tank, eyes bulging, mouth open, one small bubble floating to the surface.

Back to reality. We hadn't fed him to the sharks or even dropped him in the tank with the electric eels. I felt a smile creep across my face. Tossing someone into a tank of sea creatures is not something one should attempt in evening finery. But I knew that had a suitable moment presented itself, I would've succumbed to temptation.

“Ellie!”

I dragged myself from the email screen I was staring at. There were no emails from Rowan Grange. I was mildly disappointed.

“Uh-huh?”

“Phone, sweets.”

“Thank you.” I leaned over and kissed Mac as he passed me the phone.

He whispered, “It's Caine.” He grinned as I rolled my eyes. Mac's boss never called him in the middle of the night. He had taken a position in the FBI's Cyber Division. I never thought he'd join up but he said he found stock trading a little too tame after running around the countryside with me, scared half to death and avoiding a bad poet. Now he spent his days dealing with email scams, viruses and Internet threats. Guess that floated his boat, although I can't say I found his field terribly exciting. Part of his job was monitoring certain chat rooms and chat formats, especially if complaints were received about the conduct of patrons and such. He was also an expert in social network sites. His Twitter page had more followers than Oprah and he'd garnered quite a following on MySpace and Facebook. They don't have emergency midnight callouts in Mac's part of the Cyber Division.