Eye for an Eye, an (Heroes of Quantico Book #2): A Novel (12 page)

As Steve handed the copies over, he motioned Mark and Coop into seats and hit the intercom button. “Clair, you can come get the originals now. Put them on the earliest possible plane.” He turned off the intercom and regarded the two agents seated across from him. “It would appear our man still has killing on his mind.”

“But why would he tell us that?” Mark frowned as he examined the copy of the note, his shoulders tense. Something didn’t feel right.

“By now he’s concluded we don’t have any good leads. If we did, we’d be breathing down his neck. It could be an in-your-face, yank-your-chain kind of thing.”

“Or it could be a red herring.”

At Coop’s comment, both men turned to him.

“That’s possible,” Mark acknowledged as he played out the possibilities in his mind. “It could also be a hoax. Somebody who saw the media coverage and wants to stir things up for laughs.

But if it is legit, it surprises me. The shooter was careful not to leave us much to work with after his first attempt. Why drop a piece of evidence into our laps?”

“Cockiness, maybe. Which can translate to mistakes. This could be a big one.” Steve held up the plastic sleeves. “And if it is, let’s cross our fingers that Quantico finds it.”

Resting an arm on the wooden gate that led to the pasture, he took a sip of coffee as he watched the two grazing cows in the distance. He’d always enjoyed raising his own beef, taken pride in his well-cared-for vegetable garden and carefully pruned fruit trees, liked eating scrambled eggs laid in his own chicken coop.

It was good to be self-sufficient. A sign of strength. Providing his family with everything they’d needed had always been a matter of honor for him.

But he didn’t much care about any of it anymore. He’d sold the chickens a month ago. They laid too many eggs for one man to eat. Weeds were taking over the garden, and the birds and squirrels were feasting on the ripe tomatoes littering the ground under the tall stakes. He hadn’t set foot among the fruit trees in weeks. Why bother to maintain the orchard and garden when Ruthie wouldn’t be canning and preserving?

As for the cattle . . . he’d always sold one to the local butcher and had the other slaughtered, storing it in the deep freeze in the basement for Ruthie to turn into savory stroganoff and potpies and spaghetti sauce. But there was plenty of meat in the freezer from the spring butchering, untouched in the past two months. Enough to last a solitary man for years. He didn’t need more. He should find a buyer for both cows.

Turning his back on the pasture, he let his gaze wander over the remainder of his property, ignoring the barn to his left. He hadn’t been inside since . . . for eight weeks . . . except to move the livestock feed and vet supplies into the empty chicken coop and pull the mower out. It was sitting in the open now, exposed to the elements, rusting a little more with each passing day.

He focused on the small house he and Ruthie had called home for all but the first three years of their marriage. It was nothing special, just a small clapboard, one-story farmhouse painted white with a screened porch in the back where they used to sit on summer nights and count the fireflies or watch the moon rise. They’d married a bit later in life than their friends, he and Ruthie. He’d been thirty-three the day they’d said their vows. She’d celebrated her thirty-first birthday the week before. They’d both wanted to live in the country, and these ten acres had given them their dream home.

The only thing missing in their life had been children. But no sooner had they stopped praying for a family than Ruthie had found out she was pregnant. Their son had been born on their tenth anniversary, and after his birth, that day had always been a double celebration. He and Ruthie would have marked twenty-six years come November.

But there would be no celebration this year.

He took another sip of his coffee, which had grown cold and acrid. Tilting the cup, he watched as the earth absorbed the black, bitter liquid. And wished he could find a way to erase the gnawing pain inside him with the same ease.

Maybe, after he finished God’s work, he would find peace.

Didn’t Pastor Phelps always talk about the serenity that came from following God’s call? And God had called him to this task, his voice incessant. He’d first heard it in his dreams. Now it kept him awake at night. And he had begun hearing it during the day too. It was clear to him the Lord wanted the deaths avenged.

And the Almighty had put the task in the hands of the man most wronged. While he didn’t relish killing, he couldn’t ignore God’s command: an eye for an eye.

When it was over, he’d have decisions to make. Grief to deal with. All of that had been put on hold while he carried out his mission. But he couldn’t lose focus now. He was too close. That’s why he’d sent the note, directing attention away from his quarry. Soon God would show him the rest of the plan.

All he had to do was wait and watch for the message.

12

“Les, are you with us?”

Steve surveyed the table in the FBI’s Joint Operations Center as he directed his question toward the speaker phone. Mark and Coop were there, along with Clair. Carl Owens represented the Oakdale PD at the Tuesday meeting.

“I’m here. Christy and Paul Sheehan, our handwriting expert, are with me.”

“Good.” Steve turned to the ERT lead investigator. “Clair, you’ve talked to the lab in Quantico. What do we have?”

“Unfortunately, not much.” She consulted a report in front of her. “The paper the note was written on is standard typing stock, thinner than usual, but there’s nothing to distinguish it. It was pristine except for Rose’s elimination prints, meaning the author wore some kind of gloves. The address was written on the same kind of thin paper and glued on the envelope. There were a few prints on the envelope, but none matched any in our database. I also checked the Missouri Highway Patrol records for new print entries that might not yet be in the national system. No matches there, either. Both the message and the address were written with a common ballpoint pen.”

“Our man is still being very careful.” Steve tapped his finger against the table and furrowed his brow. “What do you have from your end, Les?”

“I’ll jump in here,” Christy said. “Les asked me to look at this from a behavioral perspective. Assuming this note was written by our shooter, the fact that he’s communicating his intent to strike again is interesting. As is the choice to handwrite the message.”

“I wondered about that too,” Mark said. “Why wouldn’t the guy just buy a set of kids’ block letters and stamp out the note?”

“Cockiness or sloppiness, perhaps,” Christy responded. “If he’s getting cocky, he may be starting to have fun with this and is pushing the limits because he feels invincible. Sloppiness, on the other hand, might indicate his thinking is beginning to muddle. If we’re dealing with an unstable person, increasingly erratic and unpredictable behavior wouldn’t be a surprise. But we have no way of knowing his motivation or mental state from the evidence we have to date. Either scenario, however, could result in mistakes.”

“This could also be a harmless hoax from some nut unrelated to the shooting,” Les chimed in. “But I think we have to assume worst case—that this was written by the shooter. And if it was, this guy is either a loose cannon or a meticulous killer. Either way, he’s determined to finish what he started.”

During this exchange, Mark watched Coop jot a few words on the notepad in front of him. His partner shoved the pad toward him when he finished.

Les is going to yank you back to Quantico.

The same thought had occurred to him. That was Les’s style. The HRT chief wasn’t afraid to hit hard if necessary, but he took seriously the FBI’s directive to reduce risk and avoid excessive force whenever possible, always opting for a negotiated resolution versus a tactical conclusion if given a choice. In the current scenario, reducing unnecessary risk would mean removing Mark from the line of fire on the assumption he was the target.

But Mark wasn’t convinced of that yet.

“Let’s talk about the handwriting,” Steve said.

“The letters were traced one by one from another document and linked,” Paul responded. “The writer was very careful, but under magnification you can see some overlap in pen strokes at the points of connection. If we had a handwriting sample from the person who wrote the source document, we could confirm the match and use that to explore some leads. Without an original, we’re left with nothing more than an apparent forgery.”

“Meaning we’re back to square one.” Carl heaved a frustrated sigh.

There was a brief silence.

“Steve, how would you feel about cutting Mark loose early from his St. Louis assignment?” Les said at last.

“I’d prefer to see this through, Les,” Mark interjected, glancing at Coop.

“The risk there is too high. Steve?”

When Steve shot him a questioning look, Mark gave a subtle shake of his head.

“He’s been assisting with a major bank robbery case, Les.

And we’re still shorthanded here. With Coop glued to Mark and another agent filling in as backup when necessary, we’ve got him covered. I’d like to hang on to him unless you have an urgent need.”

Silence again. Mark had no doubt Les was giving his cigar a workout, and he held his breath. The final decision rested with his Quantico boss, and everyone knew it.

“Okay. We’ll revisit this in a few days. How’s your friend doing, Mark?”

Les’s question told Mark his boss wasn’t fooled about the reason for his reluctance to return to Quantico. That the Bulldog had figured out there was a strong connection between Mark and Emily. If there wasn’t, both men knew he would have hopped a plane for Virginia without protest and left the investigation in the hands of the local police and the St. Louis office.

“Better. We’re keeping an eye on her too.”

“Good. She’s in capable hands, then. Stay in touch.” The line went dead.

“How do you want to handle the next steps?” Carl refocused the group around the table.

“There’s not much more we can do.” Steve shook his head.

“The guy’s just not giving us anything to work with. I’d like to think he’d start making some mistakes—before he launches a second attack.”

“Is there anything we could do to force his hand? Push him to take some action in a setting we control?” Coop proposed.

“I don’t see how. Not without putting Mark directly in the line of fire.”

“If that’s what it takes to flush him out, it might be worth a try,” Mark said.

That earned him a disapproving frown from Steve. “If your boss heard that, you’d be on the first plane back to Quantico.”

“We’re running out of options.” Frustration nipped at Mark’s words.

“I say we hold. Keep the security on Mark and wait this guy out. He sent one note. He might contact us again. Maybe next time he’ll slip and tell us more than he intends to,” Carl said.

“Agreed.” Steve picked up the tablet he’d been doodling on during the meeting. “And in case the letter was a red herring, let’s maintain Dr. Lawson’s escort service for the next few days.”

As the meeting broke up, Steve cut Mark off as he headed for the exit, his expression grim. “I know you want to get this guy, but no chances, okay?”

“I never take chances.”

Casting a skeptical look at Coop, Steve jerked his head toward Mark. “Watch him.”

Folding his arms across his chest, Coop regarded his partner as Steve strode away, a grin tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“I don’t think he trusts you.”

“I want this guy.”

“So do I.”

“Getting tired of my company?”

“Missing Monica. I’m ready to go home.”

“I hear you.”

“How about you?”

“How about me what?”

“Ready to go home?”

There was more to Coop’s question than appeared on the surface, Mark knew. It was his way of asking him if he’d dealt with the aftereffects of the convenience store shooting—without having to directly address the emotional stuff.

In truth, Mark hadn’t dwelt on that incident in the past ten days. Since Emily’s reappearance in his life, his focus had been on protecting her.

As for going home . . . Mark had never thought of Quantico in those terms. It was a place he stayed between missions, nothing more. And he was in no hurry to return. Not because of the convenience store episode, though he had a ways to go before he’d feel at peace with that. His lack of enthusiasm about returning was due more to Emily, and their providential reunion. It was as if fate had given them a second chance to connect after a twenty-year separation. And he’d never been one to discount fate.

“I guess I have my answer.”

Coop’s comment pulled Mark back to the conversation, and he shrugged. “I still have some issues to work through. More than when I came, to be honest.”

“Yeah. I know. She’s a very nice lady, by the way.”

Once again, Mark was reminded that his partner knew him too well.

“Pizza and a movie, as promised.” Mark grinned and held up a flat box with a DVD balanced on top as Emily answered her door later that evening.

Smiling, she stepped aside and ushered him into her condo.

“Where’s Coop?”

“Dropped me off and disappeared.”

“He could have stayed.”

“Nope. Not a chance. I’m too old for chaperones on a date.”

Date.

Emily tried not to give that casual reference much credence, but she couldn’t quite subdue the flutter in the pit of her stomach. “Em?”

At Mark’s prompt, she closed and locked the door. “Sorry. I was feeling sorry for Coop.”

“Appropriate, considering Nick plans to put him to work tonight at the construction site. Otherwise known as his house.

Or, as Coop calls it, Sneeze City.” Mark grinned at her over his shoulder as he headed toward her kitchen.

“Poor Coop.” Emily chuckled and shook her head. “I’ll have to see this place sometime. Nick told me it’s a Federal-style house from the late 1800s. It sounds fabulous.”

Mark’s dubious expression suggested otherwise. “Let me be kind and say it has potential.” He set the pizza on her counter and opened the lid. “You’ll note there are no mushrooms and extra green pepper on your half.”

Leaning over, she examined the savory-smelling pizza. “And olives and extra pepperoni on yours. I see your tastes haven’t changed much in food.”

“Or other things.”

At his quiet comment, she turned to look up at him—and found herself mesmerized by his intense eyes, mere inches away.

Suddenly Wren Lake felt like yesterday. As did the emotions she always associated with it. The innocent passion of young love, restrained by deeply ingrained moral principles, straining at the leash as Mark’s kisses wreaked havoc with her equilibrium and left her yearning for more.

Her gaze sought his lips, and the memory of their tender, gentle coaxing drove the breath from her lungs.

Not good. Don’t look there.

She raised her head a bit, but his dark brown eyes weren’t any safer. They warmed her to the core, with a heat searing and intense.

Keep going.

Unfortunately, even his hair wasn’t safe. Still thick and dark, she could recall with startling clarity the rich texture of it beneath her fingers.

Fingers that itched to renew their acquaintance.

Say something lighthearted!

Reaching out in a gesture she hoped came across as playful, she brushed her fingers across the hair at his temple, unable to resist.

Soft, but with great body. Just like she remembered. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve gotten a tad grayer in the past ten days.”

When his eyes darkened, Emily realized her mistake at once.

Her touch had evoked passion, not play. She withdrew her hand, linked her fingers, and eased back a few inches.

She watched Mark tamp down the desire simmering in his deep brown irises. Then he summoned up a smile and rubbed his hand over his hair. “Given what’s been going on, it wouldn’t surprise me.”

She nodded to his hands, keeping hers safely clasped in front of her. “I think I found the culprit.”

Several tiny white specks clung to his fingers.

“Paint.” He shook his head in disgust. “No matter how often I wash my hair, I can’t get all the flecks out. Nick had me painting the ceiling.”

Emily tilted her head and inspected him. “It gives you a distinguished appearance.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Look on the bright side. Eventually it will wash out. Real gray isn’t as easy to get rid of.”

“Don’t tell me you know anything about that yet.” He studied her. “Your hair looks the same to me.”

She gave it a self-conscious pat. “I haven’t hit the bottle yet, if that’s what you mean. But don’t look too closely or you’ll see silver threads among the gold, to quote an old song.” She retrieved two sodas from the fridge and handed him one as she nodded toward the DVD. “What are we watching?”

“Father Goose.”

“Isn’t that a Cary Grant movie?”

“Yep. An oldie but goodie.”

“I’m surprised. I thought you’d go for an action/adventure flick.”

There was a brief, almost imperceptible flicker in his smile. “I get enough of that in my job. Besides, this is set in World War II.

I expect there will be some action.”

She picked up the DVD, fingering it with a faraway look.

“This reminds me of the classic movie series we went to at the Tivoli.”

“That occurred to me too. I recall there was a Cary Grant movie or two in the mix.”

“There was. You called them chick flicks.”

“Did I?”

“But you went anyway. Earning you mucho brownie points.”

“That was the plan.” He gave her an unrepentant grin.

Elbowing him, she took her seat at the table. “You are so bad!

What’s the ulterior motive tonight?”

“Who says it’s any different?”

“On that note, I think I’ll pray.”

Emily bowed her head, and the room fell silent. When she lifted her chin, Mark’s expression took her off guard. He looked . . . envious. As if he wished he had a connection with the Lord too.