Blind Faith (7 page)

He smiled at her, smug and superior and satisfied he knew everything there was to know. That he had all the answers.

"Tell me what's really bothering you, what you want," he said, flipping a small notepad open and resting it expectantly on his knee. He seemed satisfied that he could already count her as a success, as if some unseen force was keeping score. "We'll work it through, get you out of here and back to your life."

Realizing it was her key to freedom, Sarah had answered his questions, fabricating and agreeing with his self-important theories when need be. Anything to get out of there.

But she learned three important lessons from the young Dr. Freud wannabe.

First: research, research, research.

Second: drugs first, alcohol last.

Finally: go deeper into the woods. Go where no one will find you until it's too late.

Wednesday June 19, 2007: Manassas, Virginia

Even though it was almost dark by the time Caitlyn drove home to her apartment in Manassas, she kept her sunglasses on. The migraine pounded furiously, snarling like a beast that refused to be kept from its prey any longer.

She wrenched the steering wheel of her Subaru, parking it haphazardly in her space, grabbed her bag, and almost passed out at the noise of the car door slamming. Breathe, just breathe, she told herself as she doubled over, braced against the still warm and ticking engine compartment.

She pushed away from the car, refusing to fall apart out here where her landlady could see her, and stumbled to the steps leading up to her apartment on the second floor of the lovingly restored Victorian. Hauling herself up the twelve steps, her bag banging against her hip because she needed both hands on the railing, chips of paint splintering away in her grip, she finally made it to her door.

The key trembled in her hand. Her vision had almost completely gone black. The pounding in her head drove out any other sound, if she had screamed, she never would have heard it.

Finally the key turned and she shoved the door open. Rushing inside, dropping her bag, kicking the door shut, she ran to bathroom, barely made it before she vomited. Hugging the cool, smooth porcelain, she wretched her guts out. The stench of burning flesh overwhelmed her—a sure sign that this migraine was going to be a bad one. As if she needed more proof.

Her best laid plans ruined. After spending the afternoon reviewing the Hopewell case, she'd thought she could outsmart the headache by using some Imitrex at her office. The powerful, injected medicine never failed her. Never.

Until now. She slid to the floor, her cheek resting on the tiles beside the foot of the toilet, one arm still draped over the seat, and surrendered. The pain overtook her like HRT storming a building: shok-rounds powerful enough to blow steel doors apart, stun grenades with blinding explosions of light so intense they shook your body, the thunder of shotgun fire.

Unlike a quick-response raid, the migraine continued its close-quarter combat, taking its time as it stampeded through her brain, her body, her mind.

Caitlyn lay there, her body shuddering, twitching, out of her control. Nausea twisted in her gut, acid burned her throat. She opened her mouth, certain she would vomit again, but nothing came. The arm resting on the toilet screamed with pins and needles. She let it slip to the ground. That small movement was like pulling the pin from a grenade, setting off another explosion of pain.

Her Imitrex and Fiorcet were in the medicine cabinet above the sink. Light years away. Alongside it was the Phenergan the doctor prescribed for when the nausea got really bad—too late for that as well.

Her arsenal. All out of reach and useless to her now.

She cried out, the sound echoing from the tile walls, reverberating through her mind. In the darkness, she inched her hand forward along the floor. She closed her eyes against the pain and the vision of her hand holding her Glock, squeezing the trigger, the bullet spiraling in slow motion towards her head.

Not even the migraine from hell would survive a forty-caliber round at point blank range, she thought with satisfaction, glad to have devised a strategy to outwit her opponent. Like father, like daughter.

Why not? The doctors had told her if the headaches grew worse it meant one of two things. Rarely, it meant the brain was healing, the headaches escalating before burning themselves out. But more commonly it meant the scar tissue in her brain was causing more destruction, permanent damage, and things would only get worse. If the scarring weakened a blood vessel and it burst, she could die.

No. She wasn't giving up. It was only one headache. One did not a pattern make. Another strangled cry forced its way past her clenched jaws as her fingers found their target.

Not her Glock—that was in the living room in her bag, thankfully out of reach. Instead her fingers closed on the still damp washcloth she'd left on the tub's edge. Greedily she raked it in, mopping her face, inhaling the scent of lavender—anything was better than the acid stench of her vomit.

The headache pulled back, momentarily, then hit again with a sucker punch of pain. Caitlyn wadded the cloth in her mouth and bit down against her scream.

She was helpless, at its mercy, nothing to fight back with except her own stubborn will. Caitlyn concentrated on her breathing, forced herself to block out everything.

Think, focus, concentrate. Drive it back.

A woman's face appeared in her mind. Sarah Durandt, an expression of outraged disbelief twisting her features. Denial, anger that no one was searching for her lost boy and husband, and finally whimpers of pain when they showed her the proof that Wright had taken her son, killed her husband. She had crumbled, leaning heavily on the local police chief's arm, but Sarah Durandt had not fallen.

Instead, she had raised her head, eyes blazing out at Caitlyn, and said, "You find my son. You find Josh and Sam. I will not let that monster keep them. I don't care what it takes, you find them."

At the time, Caitlyn had both admired and pitied the mother for her fortitude. She knew from experience that the grief following an act of violence often destroyed the loved ones left behind. The strongest seemed most prone to snap under the burden of their emotions.

Although Sarah had spoken to her, her words weren't for Caitlyn. They were for herself. Caitlyn couldn't have done anything to help the lady anyway. Her job was to catch a killer before he struck again, not body recovery. In any case, events had quickly swept her away from Snakehead Mountain, the town of Hopewell, and Sarah Durandt's public tragedy.

Now, somehow, they had brought her back.

The migraine's grip slipped a bit. She kept her thoughts focused on the new puzzles Clemens had delivered her today. A missing US Marshal, a missing man and his missing son, a helluva lot of blood from both men at a crime scene. What did it add up to?

To find the answer, she'd gone to Durandt's previous identity, Stanley Diamontes. His records, like Durandt's, had been totally erased from the system. It was only through doing a Lexis/Nexis search that she'd been able to find enough to piece together a scenario. Thank God for the Internet.

Seemed Stan was involved in a money-laundering scheme for a Russian named Korsakov. Stan, seeing the errors of his ways—or more likely to cover his ass and avoid prison—had come to the FBI with enough information to convict Korsakov. Then Stan had promptly vanished.

Which translated to witness protection. And where better to stash a Malibu surfer boy than the mountains of the Adirondacks? That would explain Richland's involvement. Maybe.

If not for the fact that Richland had never worked WITSEC. His short, undistinguished career with the Marshals had been limited to fugitive apprehension and security details.

Her fingers and toes finally unclenched as feeling returned. She spit out her makeshift gag.

If Durandt was in the witness protection program, someone had concealed all record of it. Caitlyn had been unable to find any record of Stan Diamontes except for the single DNA sample. Collected fifteen years ago during a Stanford bone marrow donor drive, it hadn't shown up in CODIS or any of the evidence files. It was only luck Clemens had found it at all. Every other trace of Diamontes had been erased. Even the guy's prints had been removed from AFIS.

She rolled over on her back, able to breathe, the headache now a mere pounding. As she opened her eyes and stared into the darkness, she thought about the men who would have the power and ability to erase classified DOJ records.

Could be some kind of intelligence thing. NSA, CIA, somewhere in alphabet land? Nah, they wouldn't have any need for a second rate bean counter like Diamontes. And why would Richland be involved?

Maybe Richland wasn't one of the good guys? Her research on the Marshal had revealed a mediocre record. Less than mediocre if you knew how to read between the lines of the bureaucratese wording of his fit-reps. And one curious item—he'd worked the Korsakov task force with her old boss, Jack Logan, back when they were both field agents.

She blinked and it barely hurt at all. Nothing a fistful of Toradol couldn't handle.

Caitlyn sat up, breathed out against the head rush until her vision cleared, then braced herself on the toilet and slowly climbed to her feet. She kept the lights off, feeling her way through the boxes of syringes and bottles of medicine until she had the right ones. Despite the doctor's warnings about using it too frequently, she'd shoot up with Imitrex again—couldn't risk the migraine returning.

Not now, not when she had work to do.

She used the auto-injector, the pain of the needle in her thigh was nothing compared to the remnants of the headache. Or the thought that this might be her last case for the Bureau. If the headaches persisted like this, there was no way she could remain on active duty or carry a gun. She winced and turned on the cold water. The sound of rushing water was soothing, a happy sound, bringing with it a quick flash of memory: her father and her standing at the edge of a river, his arms around her, guiding her fishing rod as she cast.

A little water splashed on her face, mouthwash rinsed and spit, and the nausea was still under control, so she swallowed a few Toradol. They would give her an ulcer, burn a hole in her stomach eventually if she didn't take them with food, but the thought of anything to eat made her break out in a cold sweat.

She focused on the Hopewell case again before the nausea had a chance to grow. One thing was for sure, whoever wanted Diamontes erased from the known record had money. Lots of it. Because the only person with access to the files and the security clearance necessary to make them vanish was Jack Logan.

And Jack Logan worshiped two things and two things only: money and power.

Her fingers were still shaking, felt numb as she stripped free of her sweat-soaked clothes. She held onto the sink for balance, kicking off her leather flats and struggling out of her khaki slacks, sleeveless cotton sweater and underwear. Barefoot and naked, she crossed the hall into her bedroom and fell into her bed, pulling the covers tight over her, blocking out the world.

Sarah Durandt, her face filled with pain and yearning, was the last thing Caitlyn saw before she finally escaped into sleep.

Wednesday June 19, 2007: Snakehead Mountain

JD was hot, sweaty and totally starving by the time they reached the look out spot at the top of the Lower Falls. The flat viewing area was empty of any cars, all the day-tourists long gone. They were missing the best part, JD thought. Being here, the earth beneath his feet trembling from the force of the water roaring below him, the sun setting over the mountains beside them, streaking the sky red and gold, and best of all, a beautiful girl at his side.

Julia set up the tripod for her father's high-powered digital camera while he used his inexpensive hand-held video camera to film her. As she unfolded a towel and set out napkins, he unpacked the food, sneaking a chicken leg to munch on.

"Where was the last sighting?" she asked.

He wiped his greasy fingers on his jeans and unfolded his map. They'd tried to record every sighting of the mysterious lights over the past month, and now that school was out, they finally had the chance to record the phenomena firsthand. "My dad saw them last night. At the dam and along the east side of the reservoir. Said he saw them at 9:45 and again about a hour later."

"And two nights before was when Mrs. Patterson saw them along the ridgeline, just below here."

"Right. And we have that bus of church kids from Merrill who e-mailed me that they saw some around the Devil's Elbow as well, beside the Upper Falls, but no one can give me any specifics, so I'm not sure if we should count those."

He looked up from his spot on the ground. God, he loved the way she pursed her lips together, a small dimple digging into her chin when she really thought hard about something. Julia was the only person who took his project seriously. Even his dad, who had actually seen the lights, didn't think they were worth his spending his summer trying to investigate them, much less create a documentary out of the mysterious phenomenon.

Julia sat cross-legged in front of him. How the heck did she do that? One second she was standing, then the next she seemed to float through space, her legs effortlessly folding beneath her. Her knee brushed his as she leaned across him for a piece of chicken. She tore into it, her teeth bared, totally unladylike and absolutely mesmerizing.

"I think," she said, swiping her mouth with a napkin, "we should try to get one of those timers or motion sensors. We can't keep spending all our time watching when the sightings are coming from all over."

Sure he could—if it meant spending long summer nights huddled at the camera beside Julia. But she had a point. So far they'd tried for hours on end to spot the mystery lights without success. His documentary was doomed if they couldn't get actual footage.

"Seems like we're always one step behind," he said. He munched on another piece of chicken as he scrutinized the map of sightings. "They're all along this side of the gorge, but there just aren't any good vantage points. Maybe tomorrow we should go over to the other side? Up to the Devil's Elbow, there's a scenic overlook there."