The Survivor (2 page)

3:25 P.M. WEDNESDAY

K
ariss scanned the coffee shop for a woman who resembled the photo of Dr. Amy Garrett she’d seen on the website. This first meeting would help Kariss decide if the writing project was a good fit and if the two women could work together. Skepticism had wiggled into her thoughts since the call. The more she researched the story online, the more the project looked like a nonfiction book. And Kariss was a novelist.

“Ms. Walker?”

At the sound of her name, Kariss turned toward a corner café table, where the owner of Freedom’s Way waved. She was an attractive blonde and wore a gray suit with a vivid green scarf. Excitement bubbled through Kariss at the thought of writing another suspense novel, but it warred with her feelings about working with a psychologist. What if the famed doctor saw a crack in Kariss’s character? Or pointed out some weird aspect of Kariss’s personality that indicated she needed to be on medication or hospitalized? As if Kariss didn’t already recognize a few quirks. Creative people always had them.

Amy rose from her chair and shook Kariss’s hand. She was a good six inches shorter than Kariss. The petite woman’s wide-set blue eyes brimmed with intelligence and something else, possibly curiosity. Good, they were on even ground.

“Shall we order and then chat?” Dr. Garrett said. “I’ll buy since I suggested the meeting.”

A take-charge woman. Kariss relaxed just enough to smile and agree—this one time at least. As long as a latte didn’t obligate her to spend four hundred pages with a story that didn’t work.

“Dr. Garrett, I’ve looked forward to meeting you all day. I’m flattered to be in the company of a woman who has helped so many other women achieve emotional independence.”

Amy shrugged. “It’s who I am, but thank you. I’ve been excited too. Please, call me Amy.”

“And I’m Kariss.”

“I hope this is the beginning of something grand. This project is special, actually a dream. I wish we had more than an hour to talk, but I have a heavy client load today.” She glanced around. “Is this table okay? I prefer facing the door.”

“Sure. It’s fine.” Odd that Amy appeared to be nervous.

“Do you have a watch so we can keep track of the time?” Amy said. “Oh, you’re not wearing one. And I left mine on my desk.”

Kariss shook her head. “I can’t wear one. Too much electricity in me. The watch always goes wild.” She pulled out her iPhone and set it on the table between them. “I’ll keep track.”

“Thanks,” Amy said. “I’ve never met a real author.”

Kariss laughed. “I’ve never had coffee with a woman who held two doctorates.”

Amy used organic sugar in her soy latte, while Kariss sipped on a mocha latte with no whipped cream.

“I’d love an oatmeal-raisin cookie,” Amy said after taking a drink.

“Yum. That sounds good. A warm oatmeal cookie. But they’re huge.”

“We could split it.”

Kariss agreed. After purchasing the cookie, she bit into a juicy raisin while Amy reached for a small bottle of hand sanitizer and used it, twice. Time to get the show on the road.

“I’m—”

Amy raised her hand. “First of all, let me tell you I read lips. I’m going deaf. Not there yet, but it’s inevitable.”

Counseling, speaking events, conferences, and media appearances had to be difficult with a hearing impairment. Kariss’s admiration for Amy grew. “How do you manage communication in so many different settings?”

“It’s not a problem unless I can’t see the person I’m talking to. For phone calls, I have a special tool that writes out the words for me, so that works pretty well. However, I prefer text or email rather than voice messages. Faster.” She laughed. “So no clandestine meetings in the dead of night, okay? Seriously, I do appreciate your willingness to discuss a potential novel.”

“I’m intrigued with your story, what little I know of it,” Kariss said. “I have a number of questions. The first that springs to mind is why me for this project?”

“You’re a bestselling author.”

“I’m not the only one.”

“But you’re a bestselling author who’s become a Christian. Nearly shipwrecked your career with that announcement last year.”

Although Amy received a gold star for doing her homework, Kariss was a long way from accepting the task of writing the story or allowing accolades to affect her judgment. “I also changed genres from women’s fiction to suspense. Have you talked to other writers?” Kariss said, turning the focus away from herself.

“Not yet. I very much admire how your research for your latest book eventually led to solving the child’s murder.”

“My impulsive nature nearly got me killed.” Kariss’s pulse raced as she was hit by a barrage of memories—always the blood. “I intend to never risk my life gathering research again.”

“Are you doing okay with the trauma?”

Kariss felt the psychoanalysis to the tips of her hot-pink toes. The nightmares had lessened but were still there. “I’m good. Just wiser. Took a self-defense course. So tell me why
your story should be told in a novel, using a character to experience your tragedy. In my opinion, nonfiction has the potential to help many suffering women take a positive step toward healing. They’d be impressed by knowing your full story.”

“To inspire them.” Amy leaned closer. “To show my clients they can be survivors. Fiction reaches a wider, even different, audience.”

“I understand,” Kariss said. Amy had put some thought into this project.

“And a novel is a nonthreatening environment,” she said. “An abused woman would feel safe within the confines of a fictional story and hopefully feel inspired to change her current situation. But she may not read a nonfiction book for fear the wrong people would find out.”

Kariss nodded. Point taken. “Biographies are fact, and novels are filled with emotion. That’s why readers keep turning pages. They’re involved with the characters. In your case, many could identify with the story line.”

“Another reason for my story to be fiction. You and I have fought the demons of terror. We also care about those who’ve been victims of violent crimes.” Amy smiled. “I researched you before I wrote the email.”

“I guess you did.”

“Your days of TV reporting proved your passion for helping others. And it shows in your novels as well.” Amy appeared to study her. “Too many of my clients don’t know how to escape their abuse or roll up their sleeves and get to work.”

To Kariss, Amy’s words sounded artificially noble, even rehearsed, but why? What motivated the woman? Kariss sat back in her chair and nibbled on her portion of the cookie.

“So you think a novel is a better choice to accomplish this?”

“I do.” Amy’s confident tone and subject change indicated the matter was settled. She took a bite of her cookie and smiled. “This is so much better warmed.”

“It’s been twenty-three years since your attack. How long have you been considering having your experience written into a novel?”

Amy took a sip of her latte, her fingers circling around the cup. “A few years.”

“Why tell your story now?”

For a moment, pain flickered in the woman’s face. “It’s the only way.”

“Only way for what?” It had to be more than a means to help her clients. “Is your assailant still in prison?”

Amy didn’t even blink. “He wasn’t apprehended. Understand that my attack occurred before it was popular to use DNA in investigations. In short, he got away with it. Kariss, I want my story written as a suspense novel.”

“If a fictional book of your story is released, he could see similarities.”

“I doubt he’d read it.”

“But what if he does?”

“If he happens to pick it up, I’ll be okay, because I don’t want my name on it.”

Did she not want her name on the project because she was afraid he’d see it? “You don’t worry that he’s been following your life?”

“Not in the least.”

“Did your attack occur in the Houston area?”

“Yes. Montgomery County.” Amy moistened her lips. “It was during the spring of my third-grade year. We lived on a small farm. It’s built up into a subdivision now.”

“Why tell your story at all? Just the thought has to be frightening for you.”

“As I said, this is for all the women who live in paralyzing fear.” Amy tilted her head, her emotions appearing distant.

She was hiding something. “Tell me briefly what happened when you were nine.”

Amy took a deep breath, one that filled her face with
darkness. “I was abducted from my bedroom while my family slept. Then I was assaulted, had my throat cut, and was abandoned in a field. A couple of boys found me the following morning.”

Whoa. Kariss could only imagine the nightmares. “I’m sorry.” Now she understood why Amy wore scarves and turtle-necks in all her pictures.

“Thanks. I dealt with it a long time ago.”

Really? Kariss doubted it, especially since the assailant was still running loose. “I can’t imagine the horror.”

“Made me a little fearful.”

Kariss would keep this conversation stored in her memory bank. “If we move forward with this project, how do you envision the financial aspect?”

Amy shook her head. “I don’t want any monetary compensation, and I’ll have my attorney draw up the papers indicating so.”

The response made little sense. “Why? What about your practice? Couldn’t your scholarship fund benefit from a cushion?”

“My reasons for having my story written have nothing to do with money. I’ll share more of my thoughts about that at another time.”

Kariss needed more information before she committed to writing the book. “How much of your story do you want included in the novel?”

“Every detail exactly as it happened.”

“The art of fiction means including elements that might not be factual. Nonfiction would be a better venue for you.”

Amy shook her head. “I disagree.”

“Surely you know the danger in pursuing this.”

Amy smiled. “It’s only fiction.”

3:40 P.M. WEDNESDAY

T
igo sat across the desk from Special Agent in Charge Linc Abrams, known as the SAC. The two had been friends since college days, and now they were on the backside of thirty. His old friend frowned at the computer screen. His shoulders lifted and fell. This morning’s findings were a setback, but they’d hit speed bumps before. Something else must be troubling Linc.

Tigo had showered at the FBI complex, but he hadn’t shaved. The scruffy growth itched, fueling his frustration of not knowing who’d killed Pablo Martinez, his girlfriend, and the other gang member, who happened to be Martinez’s bodyguard.

“So we have three murders and no assault rifles?” The lines across Linc’s dark forehead deepened. “All those hours watching that apartment, and the guns are gone.”

“The killer had to have been waiting for Martinez. Must’ve passed the weapons through a back window to avoid being seen.”

“We’ll have to see what the fingerprint sweep finds. Plenty of men wanted Martinez dead, but who would slit his throat and take the time to mutilate the bodies before confiscating the weapons?”

“His girlfriend’s sister has ties to the Skulls,” Tigo said. “She could have set up her sister. Both women grew up with the same values. It’s all blood-in, blood-out.”

Linc eyed him. “Cynicism is in full force.”

“I’m tired.” Tigo knew that more than disillusionment weighed on him. No sleep in over thirty hours was only part of the problem.

“How long has it been since you saw Kariss?”

If Linc hadn’t been the SAC and his friend, Tigo would have told him to lay off. The situation with Kariss had nothing to do with his job performance. “What does she have to do with the case?”

“Your attitude. How long have we known each other?” Linc steepled his fingers.

Tigo knew where this was going, but the net had been tossed. “Sixteen years.”

“How long since you were serious about a woman?”

“Don’t have time for relationships.” They never worked anyway.

“Right. Call her and patch it up. Suck up that Argentinean pride and take responsibility for what separated you two.” Linc smiled with his matter-of-fact advice. “Fix it.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“What’s the problem?”

Spilling his guts wouldn’t fix a thing. “Linc, it doesn’t matter. It’s over. I’m done with women.”

Linc stood and leaned over the desk, his six-foot frame tense. “All right. But sometimes your stubbornness isn’t your best attribute.”

“I’m tired and my game’s off. I don’t appreciate being made a fool of, especially in gang warfare.”

“None of us do.” Linc’s frown returned. “I have another situation to discuss. At ten thirty this morning, Joanna Yeat and her daughter were killed in a car explosion triggered by a cell phone. Forensics is on top of it.” He pressed his lips together. “HPD has asked us to assist. So I’m taking you and Ryan off the current case to find out who killed Jonathan’s wife and daughter.”

Tigo detested unfinished business. The Houston Police Department’s investigators were good enough. But Jonathan Yeat and Linc were friends. “Linc, I know this is tough. I remember Jonathan from our college days, and we talked here in your office a few years ago. But I hate to have Martinez’s murder get by us. Can’t you put our bomb techs on it?”

“Ryan used to be a bomb tech. You don’t understand, Tigo. Jonathan is like a brother to me.” Linc paused. “Once the Yeat case is finished, then you’re back on gang business.”

Tigo got the picture. No choice in the matter. “Okay. We’ll get on it.”

“Jonathan’s in bad shape, and he’s worried about his sons.”

“Any suspects?”

“Not yet.” The bitterness in Linc’s voice was a rarity. “That bombing was meant for him, not his wife and daughter. They traded cars for the day.”

Tigo recalled a news release earlier that week. “Monday Jonathan laid off two hundred employees. There’s your bomber. His labor pool is infested with piranhas.”

“We’re researching the threats, but nothing concrete. Some of the past employees have alibis and some don’t.”

Tigo thought about the reports that had come through after the layoffs. Jonathan Yeat’s commercial construction business had been hit hard by the recession. “The media claim he turned on his own employees. To me, that’s a possible motive for murder. With his policy of hiring ex-cons, he walked a tightrope.”

Linc walked to the window, where traffic sped by on US 290. “Jonathan and I grew up in a neighborhood where the life expectancy of an African-American male was twenty-eight. We wanted to make a difference. We thought getting an education would keep our families safe.”

“There aren’t any guarantees.”

“I know. Such a waste. Yvonne and I worked alongside Joanna and Jonathan building a church in San Paulo. Camping
trips, football and basketball games. Plenty of good times.” Linc drew in a sharp breath. “You’re right. Jonathan’s ministry of giving ex-cons a second chance might have killed his wife and daughter. Most of his employees are young African-American and Hispanic males with a history of violence.”

Tigo admired Yeat’s dedication to helping others better themselves, but maybe he’d been too trusting. “Please give my regrets to Yvonne.”

Linc shuffled papers on his desk. “Thanks. She’s in shock right now. Hard to work alongside a man in church, know his heart, and have him face a tragedy. I know I can depend on you and Ryan.” He picked up his Blackberry. “Sending the information now. I haven’t briefed Ryan.”

“He had a situation at home but should be here within the hour.”

Linc nodded as though he knew about the decision Ryan and Cindy had to make about her bedridden mother. “Didn’t mean to pry about Kariss. You’ve also been a brother to me, and I want to see you happy.”

Just the mention of her name bothered Tigo. “You have too many other things to worry about without tossing my problems into the mix. We’ll find this bomber.”

“Jonathan and his sons have 24/7 protection until an arrest is made. I talked to him briefly around noon, and Yvonne and I will see him later this evening. I’ll send you an update.”

“Has anyone questioned his sons? Teen boys have ways of making enemies.”

“Jonathan indicated they’ve kept their noses clean, and I’ve seen nothing to indicate otherwise—both in church and youth group. But let’s look at every angle.” He studied Tigo. “I know you and Ryan are exhausted, but if you could spend a few minutes talking to those boys before heading home, I’d appreciate it.”

“I’m willing. I imagine Ryan is too.”

“Then go on. The file sent to your and Ryan’s Blackberrys
includes Jonathan’s interview with HPD right after the bombing. I’ll let Jonathan know you’re coming.”

Tigo longed for a bed—and an antacid, since the pizza kept resurfacing. But Ryan had the same sleep deficit. Neither of them would put their own needs ahead of Linc’s request—he was more than a friend. More than their SAC. Something about him ordered the lives around him. Ryan said the power rested in Linc’s faith, but Tigo was still exploring that aspect.

In the hallway outside Linc’s office, Tigo read the initial report about the car bombing. Insane situation. Joanna was taking their daughter to an orthodontist appointment when the Lexus exploded in the driveway and killed them both. The explosion occurred outside the front gate of the Yeats’ massive home, destroying the car, a section of the iron gate, and the right side of a stone wall that bordered the property. The bad guy had probably wanted to see the explosion and had most likely watched from close by.

Everything pointed to Monday’s layoffs. A wife and mother as well as an eleven-year-old little girl had been killed because of some idiot’s vendetta.

Tigo stepped into an empty elevator, resolved to find the car bomber—beginning with interviewing the two sons. Maybe they’d seen someone loitering near their home.

Tigo would commit his best to the case, not only because of the violent nature of the crime and his friendship with Linc, but also to keep his mind off Kariss. He’d decided to shake off her rejection and go on with his life. Hadn’t worked yet, and the memories drove him nuts. Tanned skin. Dark, shoulder-length hair that always had a wind-blown look. A smile that made his knees buckle.

There he went again, remembering instead of forgetting. Tigo had ruined the relationship simply by definition of who he was. Their problems went far deeper than a mere apology or two dozen red roses would ever fix.

The elevator door chimed and opened. He could call her.
Check on her. Make sure she was okay and listen to her voice. He checked his Buzz Lightyear watch and saw he had time to call. Her sister’s baby had been born in November. That would help carry the conversation for longer than ten seconds. He pressed a number on his phone—Kariss’s number still on speed dial. Her brown eyes danced in his mind. But they didn’t dance for him.

She answered on the third ring.

“Hey, this is Tigo. How you doing?”

“I’m good. How’s work?”

Her words were cool, polite. “One case after another. How about you?”

“Busy.”

She sounded distracted. He heard music in the background. Was she with another guy? “Did I call at a bad time?”

“I’m meeting with someone.”

His ego hit ground zero. “And I’m late for an interview.”

“I’ll call you later. Take care.”

The call disconnected. What made him think she would return his call? Time to focus on finding whoever had inflicted tragedy on Jonathan Yeat’s life.