So Close the Hand of Death. J.T. Ellison
for getting the chopper diverted. I’ll feel better having Fitzgerald close.”
“Sure thing. What’s happening there? Where did it all go south?”
Baldwin filled him in on what they knew so far, then asked, “Anything new from Nags Head?”
“Other than the director wanting to know why in the hell a suspended FBI agent sent up a red flag for some rather expensive help after a mass shooting?”
Baldwin groaned. “He found out?”
“Baldwin, son, the whole country knows. It’s been on all the news stations. Both you and Taylor were on camera leaving the station.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, oh. Have you told her yet?”
“Well, no.”
“Baldwin, I don’t think I need to be the one to break this to you, but I’ll try, just in case you’re not thinking clearly. You need to tell her. Everything. Now.”
He knew that. But he honestly didn’t know where to start.
What would she like to hear least? That he’d been suspended while they did a deeper investigation into his biggest failure, the Harold Arlen case from 2004, when he’d made the massive mistake of not turning in his protégée, Charlotte Douglas, when he’d found out she planted evidence at a crime scene? That he’d gotten three good agents killed because he’d been stupid enough to start fooling around with Charlotte? That he’d gotten Charlotte pregnant in the middle of the biggest case of his career? That he’d only found out a year ago that she hadn’t aborted the child as she claimed, but gave birth and had seen him adopted? That he didn’t know where in the world the boy was, or even what name he’d been given?
How was he supposed to tell his fiancée, the woman who held his heart, that he shared such an intrinsic, intimate link with another woman? He hadn’t cheated on Taylor, no, but would she ever forgive him?
He looked out the window, at the stark winter landscape far below. Bleak and barren.
“Yeah, Garrett. I’m on that.”
“Seriously, Baldwin. You’ve got one hell of a woman there. You don’t want to fuck it up. So listen to me. I’ve covered your ass for the day, but that’s not going to last long. Get back to Nashville, and get your head down.”
“I will. I promise. Has there been any other…news?”
Garrett was helping him search for his son. It had been a year of fruitless starts and stops. He was still getting over the shock of the news: Garrett had found the documents in Charlotte’s desk after her death—the birth certificate, with Baldwin’s name scratched out in ballpoint pen, and a two-year-old’s posed picture. He would be five now.
All Baldwin knew was that the child was a boy. There was no question the child was his, the boy had the same set of the shoulder, the same thick hair, but red like his mother’s. He’d inherited his father’s green cat eyes.
But he had no idea what his son’s name was. Charlotte had put Baby Douglas on the birth certificate; she hadn’t even bothered to name their child. He loved the boy, though he’d never seen him. He’d do most anything to get him back.
Pain ran through Baldwin’s chest. With the kid’s pedigree, would he be a normal, loving child? Would Baldwin’s genes predominate, or Charlotte’s? Charlotte’s entire family was full of horrors: her murderous father, her deformed brother, Charlotte’s own sociopathy and eventual psychosis. Did the kid have a chance at a normal life?
Garrett sighed deeply in Baldwin’s ear. “Nothing yet. You know I’ll call the minute I have something. Now, I have your word that you’re going to be a good boy, right?”
“Of course. Thanks for the update.” He placed the phone back on its receiver.
Taylor raised an eyebrow questioningly. He just shook his head.
“Nothing new. The news has the story.”
“Great,” she said. “Everything else okay?”
He lied to her, like he’d been lying. It was becoming second nature.
“Yep, everything’s fine. Just fine.”
He felt the engines ratchet back fractionally. They were almost home. He took her hand, felt the strong fingers close around his.
Balance. He needed to find some balance.
There was only one way they were ever going to be free, and it went against everything he’d pledged when he joined the FBI. Against the very fabric of his being.
He needed to find the Pretender and stop his heart beating, so Taylor didn’t try to do it first.
Ten
The Pretender received the emails one by one, each coming at their assigned time. The pattern harkened back to the discipline ingrained in him by his old master—the Snow White had always wanted a full report as soon as a deed was done, would sit in his dank office with those disgusting cigars, smoking one after another with his bent hands, waiting like a spider in a vast web.
Wretched man. Always bellowing orders, yet too crippled to do his own dirty work. He needed a surrogate to live out his fantasies. When Charlotte had brought them together, for a time it seemed like a dream come true. But that dream quickly turned into a nightmare.
Troy. The name Charlotte had given him, thinking she was being clever. Dead bitch, dead bitch, dead bitch. He felt so much freer out on his own. Running his show himself, learning new and better ways to fulfill his own fantasies. It was like moving from sous chef to owning the whole restaurant, then a franchise chain. He was the master now, with his own acolytes.
But he kept the name. It was easier that way.
The first wave was complete. Tonight would be a second round, the second stage of his plan. It was all going so well. So perfectly.
He played the song, his iTunes set on repeat. Over and over it played, reminding him of his purpose, his goals. He was so lonely. He wanted.
He needed a distraction, so he prepared a cup of tea. The actions soothed him: setting out the thin bone china, heating the water to just below boiling, the delicate green tea measured and placed in the strainer, brewing for exactly one minute before being removed. He discarded the soggy leaves, added a tiny bit of sugar and sat at his computer. He had a new email. His heart sped up when he saw the address. Was she in?
He clicked on the subject line. The message inside was simple. “It didn’t work.”
He sighed loudly, set the tea in its saucer with a clatter. A curse formed on his tongue. It had been a long shot. That damnable FBI agent was too acute, too sensitive to those around him. He would be on an even higher alert now; penetrating the team would be more difficult. But not impossible. Not at all impossible.
He sipped his tea and debated his next move. He should send a message. Renee Sansom’s imposter had failed him, and she needed to be punished. He should put the well-rehearsed plan into action. All it would take was two clicks of his mouse, the directions would be sent, the operative engaged. She’d be dead before nightfall, her accounts scrubbed, all traces erased. No one would ever find the link to him.
There were too many variables, too many players, to allow mistakes to be indulged. If anything, eliminating part of the team would send a very clear message to the rest of them—failure was not an option.
The idea of killing her was so enticing.
He wouldn’t be able to see to the task himself, though. At least, not right now. Too bad. She would be a fun toy to play with. A ballsy broad, willing to step into the mix, to kill and impersonate a federal agent.
He really shouldn’t eliminate her just yet. She could still be an asset. She was a well-educated forensics master. With a new disguise—a change of hair, posture, contacts—he could