A Deeper Darkness (25 page)

Mentally, she squared her shoulders. No, she wasn’t going home just yet. She wouldn’t run away from him this time. She would find the strength to see this through. She owed Donovan that much.

Chapter Forty-Five

Susan Donovan

Susan’s head hurt. She reacted to the pain, raising her hands to cradle her skull, but her arms wouldn’t move.

She opened her eyes. Her sight was woozy, going in and out of focus. Where was she? What was happening?

Memories floated back to her. Eddie’s casket, draped in the flag. Sitting alone at the house. Karen Fisher calling—Jesus, Karen. She’d pulled a gun, and Susan had smashed her in the head with the wine bottle.

The pages from Donovan’s journal. Oh, God, were they still in her back pocket?

There was no way to find out, her arms were tied tightly behind her back. She was seated on a chair, hard steel pressed into her skin.

The girls. Oh, my God.

She started to yell and realized her mouth was taped shut. Panic set in. She started to cry, breathing hard, straining against the tape. Her nose got stuffy immediately. She couldn’t breathe. She was going to die. She was going to die tied to a chair not knowing who or where or even why because she was crying so hard she couldn’t breathe.

“Stop fighting, Susan.”

A voice floated near her ear. A voice she recognized. But from where?

She heard a lighter, smelled a newly lit cigarette. Who did she know that smoked?

“Where are the journal pages, Susan?”

She shook her head.
Think, Susan. Who smokes?
Her brain was all foggy, like she’d been drugged.

“I know you know where they are. I need them, Susan. I need to make sure Donovan didn’t screw up.”

She shook her head again and closed her eyes. The pages. Everyone was after the pages.

The voice and the cigarettes, all of it clicked, and she sent a silent prayer that her person remained unsearched.

“Scream and I’ll kill you.” A rough hand ripped the tape off her mouth. “Now answer me.”

“I don’t know,” she murmured, her voice thick and slow. “Someone broke into the house. Stole them from his journal.” Her voice drifted away.

That worked. She heard a curse, smelled something acrid and her eyes shut again, the fear she felt leaving her drifting behind.

Part III

And could you keep your heart in
wonder at the daily miracles of your life,
your pain would not seem
less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your
heart,
even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your
fields.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your
grief.

—Kahlil Gibran

Chapter Forty-Six

Savage River State Park
Dr. Samantha Owens

The scenery was breathtaking. Rhododendrons lined the wooded walkways, lush and full. The banked w
alls on either side of the path were glowing with the apex of multiple spring flowers and grasses. A riot of color overwhelmed the senses: yellows and purples and blues and greens, all vivid and clear. Something about color in the mountains was different. Sam could hear the water from the river flowing nearby, smelled the
cool green sap from the evergreens. It was paradise. Paradise with the backdrop of a very serious hell.

They’d arrived at the coordinates Whitfield had slipped Sam at midmorning. They made it to the spot easily; the path was rated green for unskilled hikers. Fletcher kept looking around, as if he expected Whitfield to jump from the trees and yell, “Surprise!” Sam knew it wasn’t going to be like that. He was too smart to give himself up without expecting something in return.

Was the man guilty, or trying to help? She was of two minds. Either he was a master manipulator and they were walking into a trap, or he was truly trying to help them solve the murders. Sinner, or saint? It would be interesting to figure out which.

Sam didn’t really know what to expect. Would the man meet them there? Was he waiting for them? Would there be some sort of scavenger hunt to find him? Surely the spill of armed men, two with dogs straining against their leads, would be intimidating. Right?

But Whitfield was a soldier. As skilled as this group may be, he’d faced much worse than a D.C. tactical team. And they were all on his turf now.

Fletcher directed the team to disperse throughout the woods. Sam tried to fathom how he could set up an ambush for a man who was trained to see them, and was expecting them. But Fletch seemed to have an idea of what he was doing, so Sam stowed her concerns and followed him into the forest.

Ten minutes later they veered off the path. The foliage was thick, and the men disappeared into the brush, melting away as if they’d been set for camouflage all along. It was just her and Fletcher, standing side by side in front of a seemingly deserted forest ranger station.

The hunted come to the hunter.

In the solitude, as the quiet shrillness of insects and whispering breezes and the running river became overwhelmingly loud, Sam grew nervous. They were sitting ducks. Whitfield could pick them off one by one. This had been a very bad idea.

She could feel Fletcher’s unease, as well. There was no way he thought Whitfield was really the killer, or else he’d never have let the show go down this way. He must think Whitfield had the answers. Or he was trying to protect a man who didn’t think he needed protection. Fletcher didn’t strike her as a careless man, but maybe he was. Maybe he didn’t know any better. It wasn’t like he could defend them one-handed.

Breaking the interminable silence, Fletcher’s cell phone rang, making them both jump. Sheepishly, he fished it out of his jacket pocket and answered.

He listened, not saying anything, until he finally muttered, “Yeah. Keep me informed,” and hung up.

Something was wrong. Sam could see it in his face. Hart? Susan?

“What? What is it?”

“I don’t want you to freak out. But Susan Donovan is missing. They found her car at the house, parked in the garage. There was broken glass and blood on her kitchen floor. The blood’s being tested right now.”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Sam turned, started marching away, into the woods, back the way they’d come.

“Where are you going?” Fletcher asked.

“Where do you think? We have to go back. We have to help look for her.”

“Sam, stop. We’re three hours away. We already have a mission. Roosevelt’s working with the Fairfax County guys and her mother-in-law. They’ll find her. I promise, they’ll find her.”

She kept moving, ducking under branches. She had to get back. She had to help find Susan. She couldn’t help but feel that this was her fault, that she’d done something to curse this family. Brought her own sorrow and misfortune to bear upon them, perhaps.

Fletcher ran after her. “Come on, Sam. We need to stick to the plan.”

She didn’t listen, just kept crashing away through the brush. She didn’t care if Fletcher heard her cry. How could he blame her? This was all turning south. Every decision she made was the wrong one.

She heard him running behind her, but he was off-balance, fighting one-handed with the branches and undergrowth that she was able to thread through more easily.

“Sam. Please. Stop!”

She halted at last. He was right. She was being foolish, yet again.

Fletcher walked up to her and pulled her into his arms. She broke away immediately, panic flooding her system. God, she hated to be touched when she was upset.

“Don’t,” she said, started walking again, fast.

“Sam. Sam! I’m sorry. But you have to stop. We’re off the path. You’re going the wrong direction. If you want to head back to the car, that’s fine, but we need to go the other way. And we’re not safe out here alone.”

She quit walking. This time, he didn’t try to touch her, just turned and gestured back the way they’d come. She folded her arms across her chest and strode past him. He followed in silence.

They went for a minute until Sam heard a branch snap to her left. She stopped dead in her tracks, crouched, coiled, her heart pounding.

“Fletch. Fletch, did you hear that?” she whispered.

Before he could answer, the trees just to her right rustled, then parted. She wanted to run, to scream, but she was frozen.

A dark-haired man stepped out of the forest, silent, deadly. A knife was strapped to his thigh. He had the strap of an assault rifle slung across his chest, the weapon trained on both Sam and Fletcher. He gave them a sad smile.

“Detective Fletcher is absolutely right, Dr. Owens. You’re
not
safe out here alone.”

Chapter Forty-Seven

Savage River
Dr. Samantha Owens

Sam stared at the gun. It looked wicked, black and hard and lethal. She swallowed and glanced at the man holding the weapon. While she knew it was Whitfield, he didn’t look like the same man who’d come to Donovan’s funeral. He’d shaved, for one, and was wearing dark, wraparound sunglasses. His hair was shorn, as well. He appeared much more like the man in the picture than the man she’d seen just a day ago.

She heard the whisper of metal against leather as Fletcher drew his gun from its holster.

“Whitfield. We don’t need anything going south accidentally here. Put down the weapon. Put it down now.”

Whitfield cocked an eyebrow skyward. “You first.”

“You can’t do this. You need to come in. We need to talk.”

“Detective Fletcher. I appreciate your interest in me, but I assure you, I am not the one you need to be afraid of.” He turned his gaze to Sam.

“Dr. Owens. Would you be so kind as to accompany me?”

Sam looked from Whitfield to Fletcher. The tension between the two was ridiculously thick. She was in the middle of two loaded weapons, and it wasn’t just the guns she was worried about.

Fletcher was the first to blink. “I can’t let her do that, Whitfield. You’re wanted for first-degree murder. I can’t let her walk into the woods with you, never to be seen again. I promised to watch over her, and I damn well intend to do that. Now, I’ll say it again. Put down your weapon.”

Whitfield moved his head fractionally, as if to say okay, fine, whatever. There was a flash from behind Fletcher, and he went down, hard. Sam saw a tall woman standing behind them, a handgun turned backward in her palm, stock out.

“Like he was going to let her come with you, Xander. Really.”

Sam tried to stay brave. She had no way to defend herself. For all her talk, she was frightened to death, especially knowing she now had no choice but to leave with Whitfield. The first rule of kidnapping was not to let yourself be taken from the initial spot in the first place. She was about to be forced to break that rule.

“He okay?” Whitfield asked the woman. She bent and felt his pulse.

“Yeah. Gonna have one hell of a headache when he wakes up, though.”

“All right. Let’s get moving. Dr. Owens, give me your cell.”

Sam fought down the panic. She was loath to part with her phone. This was her last link, the only way Fletcher had to find her. But if Whitfield had it on him, they could still trace it, right? Even if he turned it off? As long as the battery was still attached…

She handed him the phone. He turned it over in his hand and heaved it as hard as he could overhand into the woods.

“You asshole,” Sam burst out. “That was my phone.”

He looked at her and her stomach turned to water. It was unnerving not to be able to see his eyes. But she didn’t need to see them to know this wasn’t a man to be messed with.

“I know it was your phone. Move out. Now.”

He turned and started to walk away. Sam didn’t move. The woman came up behind her and prodded her.

“Follow the man,” she said, her tone brooking no argument.

Sam tried to keep her fear in check. She’d come up here to be bait, yes. So Fletcher and Whitfield could talk. Traipsing off into the forest with a killer wasn’t on the menu.

She had one trick left in her arsenal. She took a deep breath through her nose and started to scream.

Whitfield turned and slammed his hand over her mouth, cutting her lip with the force.

“Don’t even think about it,” he whispered. “You want to get dead, too? Keep quiet or I’ll gag you. Don’t think I won’t. I’ve done worse things today.”

Sam shook her head. She could taste the blood in her mouth. Behind the shades, she could see his eyes boring into hers. She was trapped. Testing, he lifted his hand, and she spit the blood out. It landed on his boot. He just looked at it and sighed.

“You are not the first. Come on.”

* * *

They walked for what felt like an eternity. Sam didn’t exactly have the right gear—she’d worn fine leather boots and wool trousers—and the forest wasn’t kind to either. She was cold. They were climbing higher, up into the mountains, but she’d left her jacket in the car.

Smooth move, Owens. Now you’ve really gotten yourself screwed.

She assumed the woman at her rear was Karen Fisher. She was grim, determined and forceful. When Sam started to lag, she pushed her from behind with the gun in the small of Sam’s back.

She took heart in the fact that the dogs would be able to get her scent off her coat. If Fletcher woke up and was able to lead them back to the place they’d been ambushed. If. If. If.

She tried to engage them in conversation multiple times, asking questions about Donovan and Croswell and Everett, until Xander rounded back on her and said, “If you keep talking, we’ll never get there. Now shut up and walk.”

She listened. They were the ones with the guns, after all.

They hiked until the sun grew low in the sky. After what felt like ages—climbing through the woods, crossing streams, carefully sneaking over a barbed-wire fence—they followed a steepening path that opened to a glade. A sturdy log cabin sat in the middle, with smoke rising from the chimney. There was a huge pile of wood under a tarp, an ATV and a Jeep with the plastic pulled back. Sam saw laundry hanging from the line in the backyard. Children’s clothes. They’d set up quite a nice little house up here. A sweet little family estate in the woods.

Sam heard a joyous bark and a black-and-tan German shepherd bounded across the grass toward them.

Whitfield dropped the gun and let the dog leap into his arms. “Who’s a good boy?”

Big tough guy, undone by a puppy. That was it, she’d had enough. She’d been frightened, coerced, marched through the woods at gunpoint by strangers, hadn’t eaten and was scared witless. She did the only thing she knew to do.

“What’s his name?”

Whitfield turned to her in surprise. “Thor.”

“May I?” She held out a hand. The dog eyed her warily, stiff legged and alert until Xander said a word she didn’t understand. Thor relaxed and came willingly, cuddling up against her leg and giving her hand a good lick. She would pay for that. It only took a few moments for the itching to start, but she ignored it.

A little girl came flying out the cabin door, running down the porch stairs, calling, “They’re back, they’re back. It’s okay, it’s only Mommy and Xander.” Two boys followed her out more cautiously, staying on the porch instead of running to their mother. The taller of the two held a rifle in his arms, the barrel pointed toward the porch floor.

The woman smiled and grabbed the girl up in a hug. The girl said, “We missed you,” then turned to the stranger in their midst. “Who are
you?
Are you one of the bad guys?”

Sam’s heart tugged. Good grief, he’d brought his family into this, too?

“No. I’m Sam. Who are you?”

“Jennifer Jill Lyons. I’m six.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Jennifer.” The name registered. Lyons. Sam looked at the girl’s mother. This wasn’t Karen Fisher. It must be…

“I’m Maggie Lyons,” the woman said. “Sorry about that back there. We didn’t have a choice.”

“I thought you were Karen Fisher.”

“Hardly.” Maggie’s face tightened, and Sam felt like she was missing something. Of course, she’d felt like that for days.

The dog nudged at her hand again, then took off running for the boys. Sam turned to the man who’d kidnapped her. He’d taken off his sunglasses and was watching her with a bemused expression on his face, his eyes darkly unreadable.

“I guess we need to be properly introduced. You’re Alexander Whitfield, I take it?”

“Xander. Call me Xander.”

“Okay, Xander. I’m not sure what in the hell you’re up to, but now that I’ve seen your little domestic drama, can we go back down the mountain? They’re going to be looking for me.”

“They can look, but they won’t find you until I’m ready.”

The words had a menace to them that sent shivers down Sam’s spine.

“Xander,” Maggie whispered. “You’re scaring her.”

“So? She needs to be scared. Maybe then she’ll stop parading around like a fool, sticking her nose in places it doesn’t belong. Go in the house, Maggie.”

Sam didn’t want to see the woman go. But she wasn’t going to let this man know how scared she was. As Maggie and her daughter went back across the glade, Sam bit right back at him.

“Hey. You came to me. You gave me the card with the coordinates.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t supposed to show up with the cavalry.”

“No, I was supposed to ride off into the forest alone to meet a stranger who’s the number-one suspect in my ex-boyfriend’s murder. Is that more like it?”

She was pissed off now. She didn’t like being scared, didn’t want to be here. She was worried about Fletcher. Worried about Susan. Worried for herself.

Xander didn’t budge an inch. “I trusted you. And you told the cops about me.”

“I had absolutely no choice about that. I tried keeping your little visit to myself, but Detective Hart saw you talking to me. They were looking for you at the funeral. They think you killed Donovan, and Croswell. And you haven’t exactly given anyone reason to believe otherwise.”

“Do you? Think I killed them? The men I served with, whose lives I’ve held in my hands countless times? Do you think I laid in wait and shot Eddie in the back of the head? Or Hal?”

Back of the head. He said back of the head, Sam
. Donovan was shot in the temple. She’d seen the bullet track firsthand. Her anger dropped a notch.

“I have absolutely no idea. All I know is if you
didn’t
kill them, you should have come straight to the police and turned yourself in when you knew they were looking for you.”

“And if I did? What if I did murder them? If you thought that for a moment, why on earth did you agree to come out here? Unless you don’t value your own life. Or you’re just plain stupid.”

She looked away, taking in the clearing. He was well established up here in the forest. It was a good hideaway. But why had he run? Why had he disappeared? Why had he led them on this wild-goose chase? If he was innocent, why hadn’t he said that from the start?

When she looked back, she realized he was staring at her again with those intense brown eyes. She took a deep breath.

“I’m not stupid,” she said.

“Well, I’m glad we’ve established that, at least. I couldn’t turn myself in. Among other reasons, they have my DNA at Billy Shakes’s house. I’m sure they’ve already told you that.”

“No, actually, they didn’t.” And why the hell hadn’t they? She immediately got annoyed with Fletcher. Wasn’t that something he thought she might want to know? For Christ’s sake, that tipped the scales, didn’t it?

“So you killed him? Made it look like a suicide?”

His eyes hardened. “You really think I had something to do with their deaths, don’t you?”

When his voice got quiet, she could feel the danger in him, coiled and ready to spring.
Easy, Sam.

“You aren’t telling me you didn’t.”

“I didn’t. There. You satisfied?”

He whistled for the dog and strode away, disappearing into the woods where it didn’t seem there was a path.

“Wait,” she called, but he didn’t come back.

She got the strangest sense that she’d just hurt him, wounded him deeply, and she couldn’t understand why she cared. Why it even mattered. This was a stranger. A stranger who had allowed all of them to run around in circles, and whose games might be getting more people killed. She couldn’t possibly be feeling sorry for him, sorry that he’d lost his friends.

And yet she was. She’d read Donovan’s journal. She knew Xander was his right arm. That he trusted him implicitly, above all the others he commanded.

Maybe that’s why she’d come up here, walked right into his trap. So she could see what Donovan saw.

Maggie Lyons appeared by her side. Sam realized she’d been staring off into the woods after Xander as if thinking about him hard enough would bring him back.

“He won’t be back for a while. Not when his dander’s up. Why don’t you come in the house? I’m sure you’re hungry.”

Defeated, Sam followed her to the cabin.