Twisted (40 page)

Mark walked up the sidewalk and mounted the steps leading to a one-story clapboard house with chipping blue paint. The door stood ajar and Mark used his elbow to push it open without leaving prints on the knob. He stepped over the threshold and found himself in a living room like others he’d seen before.

“That was quick,” Donovan said from a doorway.

Mark nodded at him over a Ping-Pong table piled with newspapers and magazines. “Came from Clarksville,” he explained, referring to the nearby town where less than an hour ago, Richard Gooding, forty-five, had ended a half-hour standoff with police by committing suicide. On the passenger seat of his Toyota, which had been pulled over for speeding, was a cell phone containing text messages from Hannah Eckert and Rita Romero. Insurance papers inside the vehicle had led FBI agents to this house in hopes of finding the women’s missing daughters. Blood discovered in the trunk of that vehicle had dimmed those hopes, at least for Mark. But he was here to do his job anyway, and had already begun building a profile of the dead man to help investigators retrace his steps.

Gooding’s home was squalid. Mark had been in many like it long before such places were brought to the public’s attention by reality-TV shows. Mark stepped carefully around overstuffed boxes and milk crates and passed through a dining room crammed with trash and
furniture. The place was an indoor junkyard, and Donovan stood in the kitchen, glancing around with dismay, as a woman in an FBI Windbreaker took photographs.

“Any other vehicles registered to this address?” Mark asked Donovan.

“No. Lady across the street says he lived alone.”

Mark glanced at the back door as a camera flash outside caught his attention. He looked at Donovan.

“Wait till you see the back.”

Mark stepped outside onto a cement stoop that led down to a lawn littered with all manner of debris. Two aluminum storage sheds sat at the back of the property along a high wooden fence. A blue tarp had been stretched between them, and several agents stood beneath it taking pictures of a rusted-out car carcass sitting up on cinder blocks. Mark recognized it as the hull of a ’75 Corvette, similar to the one his father had once restored in his garage.

Mark noted the swags of wiring between the house and the sheds. He tromped down the stairs and glanced into the first one. Not seeing a light switch, he took out his mini flashlight and shined it around. Yard equipment, fertilizer, a pair of rusted wheelbarrows.

“Check this out.”

Mark joined Donovan at the door to the second shed. A bare lightbulb dangled from a hook on the ceiling, illuminating a tarp covered in car parts. In the shed’s corner was an overturned red wagon and a green plastic Big Wheel.

Donovan lifted his eyebrows at Mark.

“Have them printed,” Mark said grimly, turning to survey the rest of the yard.

Mark’s shoulders felt heavy. A familiar anger consumed him as he thought of the pair of missing girls. His thoughts went to a pair of toddlers in California who had never known their mother and a woman back in Texas who’d been scarred for life because of
his
mistake.

And he thought of Allison, fighting the same monsters he was fighting in her own little corner of the world. And now she was scarred, too. But she was going to get up each day and keep doing her job, investigating murders and bar brawls and domestic disturbances, because it needed to be done. She’d never stop, and Mark knew he never would, either, and for all their differences, it was an important thing they had in common.

Mark stood in the cold backyard and pictured Allison’s smooth face, peaceful in sleep, and he knew he’d lost an important battle. For years he’d been struggling to live and work and exist while somehow remaining an island, so he’d never have to trade places with Sheryl Fanning’s husband or Dara Langford’s father.

But he’d failed. Because when he’d knelt on the banks of that creek with dirt and leaves swirling around him, he’d understood
loss
in a way he never had before. And he’d realized that losing Allison, the one bright spot in his life, would kill something inside of him, something he hadn’t even known was still alive.

Hope. That’s what she gave him. And lightness and laughter. And the possibility that maybe he wasn’t destined to be alone.

“We done out here?” Donovan was watching him warily. “The computer guys got the password cracked. They’re seeing what’s on his laptop.”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Mark said as his gaze fell on a slat in the wooden fence. It stuck out from the others. He walked over and shined his flashlight on it and saw that it was two slats connected together, forming a narrow gate with a rusty hinge. Mark squeezed through and found himself in the yard of the neighbor’s house, which he recalled had a
FOR SALE
sign out front. He glanced around the overgrown lawn, and his gaze zeroed in on a purple tricycle abandoned beside the back stoop.

Mark climbed the steps and peered through a dusty pane of glass. He shined his flashlight over the empty kitchen. On a hunch, he tried the door.

Unlocked.

Mark’s pulse picked up as he stepped over the threshold. The air smelled musty. The kitchen was empty of all appliances, and even the faucet was missing from the sink. The only furniture was a gray metal folding chair. Cabinet doors hung open and the far wall was tagged with graffiti.

Mark listened to the silence. His skin prickled. He stepped through the doorway and shined his flashlight over an empty living room. In the corner, two metal folding chairs with a tattered quilt draped over them.

Mark approached slowly, holding his breath. He crouched down and lifted the corner of the blanket. A child lay curled on the floor, sucking her thumb, peering out at him with wide blue eyes.

Mark cleared the lump in his throat. “Hello, Kaylie.”

She blinked at him, but didn’t move.

“Your grandmother’s looking for you.”

No movement.

“Would you like to see her?”

A slight nod.

Slowly, Mark held out his hand.

Allison sat on the side of her bed and yanked off her white cotton blouse. Too virginal. She tossed it on the floor and thumbed through the pile of shirts she’d taken from her closet. She found a black scoop-neck T-shirt and pulled it on. Too low cut. Fuming, she yanked it over her head and threw it on the floor.

A knock sounded at the door. She glanced over her shoulder, panicked, then looked at the clock.
This
was what she got for being such a girl. Now he was here, and she hadn’t even started anything.

Damn you, Wolfe.
She grabbed the next thing she saw—a gray sweatshirt she’d worn all day yesterday and tossed over a chair. It wasn’t virginal. It wasn’t low cut. There wasn’t a single appealing thing about it, and she pulled it over her head because tonight wasn’t about sex. She grabbed her crutches and took one last look in the mirror before making her way to the door. She glanced through the peephole, and her heart did a little flip. She unlatched the door and pulled it open.

Two weeks since she’d seen him. Fourteen days. He stood on her doorstep now, and the sight of his broad, strong shoulders and his serious brown eyes put an ache in her chest. He wore one of his crisp white shirts, no tie, sleeves rolled up. His beautiful hands were tucked into his pockets.

“Hi,” he said.

Why haven’t you called me?
she wanted to scream.

“You’re early,” she said instead.

“Sorry about that.” He glanced down at her cast,
then leaned over and pecked her cheek. Allison’s throat tightened.
Not
the greeting she’d been hoping for, but probably what she should have expected. She turned away. He stepped through the door and did her the favor of closing it as she adjusted her crutches under her arms.

She felt his gaze on her as she made her way into the kitchen with what had become a well-practiced lope.

She looked over her shoulder. “Drink?”

“I’m fine.” He was smiling at her.

“What?”

“I’ve never seen you in a skirt before.”

She glanced down at the faded denim mini she’d unearthed from the back of her closet. Until two weeks ago, she hadn’t worn it since college.

“It’s the easiest thing,” she said. “Too cold for shorts, and I didn’t want to cut up all my jeans.”

“It looks good on you.”

She cast a glance over her shoulder. That was a little better, but he had a long way to go.

“You sure you don’t want a drink?”

“Maybe later.” He leaned against the counter across from her, and for a moment they simply stared at each other. She tried to read his face, tried to figure out why after thirteen days of silence, he’d suddenly called to say he was in town and could he take her to dinner tomorrow?

She’d squashed her excitement at hearing his voice and told him she’d prefer to eat in. Damp weather, crutches, yada yada. The real reason was she felt fairly sure this conversation wasn’t going to go well, and she didn’t want to have it in public. Ever since Mia’s phone call last week, in which she’d mentioned seeing Mark,
Allison had been in kind of a funk. The fact that he hadn’t called her . . . well, there was nothing to say about it except that it
hurt
. She’d been dying to hear from him, assuming he must be busy with something important, but actually he’d come through town without even bothering to give her a call.

She watched him now, trying to calm her nerves. His gaze moved around her kitchen, and he seemed to notice the cans on the counter and the unopened package of spaghetti.

“The rain’s let up,” he said. “We could still go out.”

“I’d rather stay in.” She turned around and reached for a cabinet. She desperately needed something to do with her hands.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

She glanced up and saw the concern in his eyes.

“Good,” she said as she filled a glass with water. “I mean, I’m piloting a desk right now. But that’s only for six weeks. Everyone at work’s been cool about it.” She couldn’t suppress a smile. “It’s amazing what taking a bullet in the line of duty will do to your street cred. For the first time, I’m actually feeling some respect.”

“You deserve it.”

The sincerity in his voice both pleased and hurt her. She took a long sip of water.

“So,” she said, turning to face him. “I had a chance to visit Moss again.”

Mark’s eyebrows shot up. Clearly, it was the last thing he’d expected her to say.

“When?” he choked.

“Sunday. Regular visiting room this time. We talked through Plexiglas.”

He closed his eyes, looking pained. “Allison,
why
—”

“I needed some questions answered. The dates, for thing. Turns out they were birthdays—his and his mother’s.”

“I could have told you that.”

“But you didn’t.” It came out sharper than she’d intended, and she knew she’d revealed how much his not calling had hurt her feelings.

“Anyway, I also needed to go for me,” she said. “To show him I wasn’t afraid. That he didn’t win. He actually opened up to me, if you can believe it. Told me about his mother. She was pretty psychotic, it sounds like, especially when it came to Edgar. She used to scream at him about how he’d ruined her life, how she wished he’d never been born.”

Mark’s jaw hardened.

“Anyway, enough about him.” Allison put the water glass down. “How are
you
? I saw on the news about those kidnappings. You guys rescued one of the little girls.”

He nodded. “Only one, unfortunately. But it was good.” He paused. “A better outcome than I’d expected.”

“Congratulations.”

“It was my last case.”

Allison stared at him, not sure she’d heard him right. But the look in his eyes told her that she had. Her arms dropped to her sides.

“You mean—”

“I resigned last week.”

She didn’t know what to say. Her brain was spinning. She couldn’t imagine him not being an FBI agent.

“But . . . but your
work
.”

“I can still work without the Bureau.” He looked at
her closely. “In fact, I seem to recall you pointing that out. Saying I should consider other options.”

She gaped at him.

“Fact, I think what you
said
was if I continued on my current path, like some kind of robot, my cases were going to suffer just as much as my personal life.”

Allison groped for words. “I’m just . . . I’m surprised. I didn’t think you were listening.”

“I was.”

“So what will you do?”

He watched her face carefully. “I’ve been offered a job at the Delphi Center. They’re starting up an online profiling team targeting child predators.”

“Delphi?”
Laughter bubbled up. “You’ll be working for the Pub Scout?”

The side of his mouth curved up. “He’ll be working for me.”

Allison realized she was smiling. The fist that had been clenched around her heart had loosened and she could breathe again.

“I guess that explains why you came down last week and didn’t call me.”

He looked surprised.

“Mia saw you at the lab. She mentioned it.” Tears came into her eyes, but she blinked them back. “I thought—” She paused. “Forget it.”

He pushed away from the counter and stepped closer. “You thought I was dodging you.”

“Yes.”

He took her hand carefully in his. He gazed down at it and rubbed her knuckles.

“I was. I wanted to see if I could get the job first before
I came knocking on your door to tell you . . . what I wanted to tell you.”

He lifted his gaze to hers, and once again it was hard to breathe because standing so close to him made her feel giddy. She’d
missed
him. And he hadn’t been dodging her. And he wasn’t here tonight to let her down easy and then walk away.

He reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Do you remember what you said to me in the helicopter?”