Memories of the attack flashed through her mind in rapid succession. God. Was Heath all right? He’d been blown across the room. What about Denver? Tears pricked her eyes, and she willed them back. She had to think. It had to be the Copper Killer. Or maybe it was Cobb and that crazy doctor who’d created Heath. But why would they take her? No, it had to be the killer.
Her nerves turned raw. Where was he? Terror filled her. She opened her mouth and screamed.
A large male hand clamped over her mouth hard enough so she couldn’t bite. Her jaw protested, and pain slashed into her temples. When she stopped trying to scream, her heart ramming her rib cage, he removed his hand. “Scream again, and I’ll cut out your tongue.”
She whimpered.
“I like that sound.” He spoke near her ear, his voice low.
She tried to focus past the blood rushing through her head. Did she recognize his voice? Maybe a little? “Wh-what do you want?” she asked.
He chuckled. “I think you know.”
She swallowed. “Why am I blindfolded?” That hadn’t been in any of the reports.
“I find it enhances the experience,” he said, moving away from her.
Chilled air swept around her. Terror caught her in such a strong grip her limbs felt frozen. Her entire body shuddered.
Pots and pans clanked over in what sounded like a kitchen. She quickly took inventory, noting she was still wearing her jeans and sweater, although he’d taken her socks and shoes. She curled her toes into a roped rug. When did he put the women in the burlap? Static buzzed through her brain. Concentrate. She had to get him talking. “What kind of gas knocked me out?” she asked.
“A special concoction,” he said. Another pot clanked. “I hope you like steak.”
Should she say yes or no? Criminal psychology textbooks didn’t account for pure terror. “If I don’t, would you let me go? Find somebody who does appreciate a good steak?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“No.” His voice was at her ear again.
She yelped and tried to jump away from him.
He squeezed her shoulder. “I like that you talked to me through the news people. It’s as if you also knew we belonged together.”
She shivered. “How do you move without making a sound?”
“Maybe you’re not listening well enough.” He released her.
She tilted her head but couldn’t hear anything. A second later, more noise came from the kitchen area. “My name is Anya.” Didn’t she read somewhere that personalizing oneself to a killer might forge some sort of connection?
“I know.” The sound of chopping emerged next.
“I know you know. We’ve met.” A scream rose up inside her, and she ruthlessly shoved it down. He had a knife. But he was just making dinner. “Right?”
“You know we have.” He chuckled.
God. Who the hell was he? “Are we having salad?” she asked, trying to balance the conversation with politeness.
“Of course,” he replied. “Anya is such a pretty name. As is Loretta.”
Pain filled Anya’s chest. “Why did you kill her?” she asked, her voice breaking. More fear swept ice through her. This man had killed her sister. Her trained, tough, kind, FBI agent sister.
“Because she wasn’t the one,” he said, his voice catching.
God, when had she met him? Shouldn’t she recognize his voice? “Why me?”
“You know why. We’re soul mates and have been since that first touch.” His voice was gravelly.
First touch? This guy had touched her? She tried to remember anyone she’d dated who sounded even remotely like him. Everyone had been cleared, but maybe the FBI had made a mistake. “You sound odd,” she said.
He laughed again. “Some of the gas got into my mask. I’ll be back to myself in no time, don’t you worry. Have I told you how lovely you look here in our mountain hideaway?”
“Um, thank you.” There had to be a way for her to get free. “I think this would be more fun if I could see you, too.”
He kept chopping, each slice of the knife a reminder of what he’d do to her later. “You will in good time. For now, let’s chat while dinner cooks.”
How could she convince him to let her live? Nausea boiled up inside her, burning her throat. “I don’t want to die,” she whispered, her eyes filling beneath the blindfold. A tear slipped out and ran down her cheek, cooling it.
“None of us wants to die,” he said conversationally. “We’re meant to be together. We’ll live forever.”
Crazy. The man was freaking crazy. “Why did you kill those other women?” she asked, her voice trembling. God, she needed to get her hands on that knife.
“They reminded me of you,” he said, stopping his chopping. “I thought I could be happy with them for a while, maybe. I don’t know. Each time I wanted them, but then they weren’t really you, and I was so sad. So very sad. I took their pictures to show you that you were special. Better than any of them.”
She bit back a sob. He’d always be sad because he was freaking insane and would never find what he was looking for. No way would she live up to his fantasy of her. She had to think, but images from the previous victims kept flashing through her brain. Okay. She had to set herself apart. “You wanted me from the beginning.”
Silence for a moment, and then, “Of course. It has always been you.” He was right at her ear again.
This time she didn’t jump. If she confessed she couldn’t remember him, it might set him off. He might say he wanted a soul mate, but he was playing with her like a bully torturing ants with a magnifying glass. This is what he got off on. She had to actually engage him. “I called you out, remember? I was tired of you playing this game.”
He settled a hand on her shoulder. “Games are so much fun, though. Did you like the pictures I sent to you?”
“No,” she said, knowing to go with honesty. “They scared me.” Don’t flinch. Don’t flinch. Don’t flinch. Her mind tried to take her away, and she forced herself to stay in the moment. It was her only chance to get free. She was strong enough to do this. “I knew you’d find me,” she said, keeping her voice calm when all she wanted was to scream her head off and struggle against the bindings at her wrists. She hadn’t thought he’d get to her—she really hadn’t. “I didn’t expect the full-on assault, however.”
He laughed, the sound throaty. Then he released her, and soon the chopping commenced again. “Those private detectives are pretty good, actually. Your fiancé just didn’t expect anybody to find your real headquarters. The decoy was very convincing, I’ll admit.”
Anya breathed out. He was again a short distance away. She tried to blink beneath the blindfold to dislodge it. Nothing. “What about the other woman you took earlier today?” What was her name? “Jolene? Jolene Landers?”
“Ah, sweet Jolene. Now, she was a screamer,” he said amicably. “Didn’t even have pretty hair like you do. She was a red herring, Anya. I just took her to throw off the wolves, you know.” The knife scraped across wood, probably a cutting board of some sort. Did he kill his victims with the same knife he used to cook dinner?
“Where is Jolene now?” Anya asked, unable to keep her voice from trembling this time.
“Not sure. Do you believe in heaven? Or hell?” he asked.
Terror exploded in her chest. She took several deep breaths to calm herself. God, she had to hold it together. “Yes. Do you?”
“Not really. I figure we’re already there. This is hell for some, heaven for others. Sometimes it switches.”
Her mouth went dry. “Where are you?”
“At the moment, now that I’ve found you? I’d say heaven. How about you?”
She ran through what she knew of him. He was brilliant and no doubt read people very well. Lying to him would be a mistake, and yet she didn’t want to provoke him. “I’m not sure yet. Being blindfolded doesn’t help me to decide.”
“That’s a fair point.”
She wanted to know more about J
olene, but he seemed disinterested. “My favorite color is green.” She had to personalize herself.
“I know that.” A pot clanged. “You wear green a lot, and have for years.”
Years? God. Who was he? “What was I wearing the first time you saw me?” she asked, her voice trembling.
“You don’t remember?” His voice lowered.
“My clothes? No. I don’t keep track of clothing,” she burst out.
More chopping. Each slice cut through her, and she had to force herself not to jump each time.
“You were wearing a small blue skirt, white T-shirt, and girly flats,” he said.
Small skirt? She blinked. Nothing came to mind. “What’s your favorite color?” she asked, trying to listen for any other sounds. Nothing but the wind and an occasional rattle of ice against the windows.
“Red. The color of your stunning hair.”
Nausea rolled through her stomach. “Favorite television show? Video game? Movie?”
Something slammed down on a counter. “If you would’ve been true to me, you’d know the answers to those questions.”
True to him? “Sorry,” she said, tears filling her eyes again. “I just wanted to talk about something, and being blindfolded is confusing.”
“Why are you making me doubt you?” he yelled.
She cringed. Her mind spun so quickly she could barely catch a thought. “I told you to come get me, remember?” That had to make some sort of difference.
He remained silent for a few moments. “That’s true. You did.” Now he sounded thoughtful.
“We haven’t really talked in a while. You know that.” She pressed her advantage. “I like The Big Bang Theory on television. Sheldon is hilarious.” She cleared her throat, her stomach cramping so badly she wanted to bend at the waist. “I don’t have a favorite video game, but I love the X-Men movies.”
“Those are fun to watch,” he admitted.
Was there any chance the FBI had a clue where she was? If Heath had survived, he and his brothers would be looking for her. She just knew it. Her only goal, her only chance, was to stay alive until either they found her or she could make a break for it. Loretta was a trained agent, and she hadn’t escaped. Anya had to use her one advantage. “I thought you’d come for me earlier than you did.”
“I wanted to play the game for a while. It’s fun to build the anticipation.” His voice was almost familiar as it lost the hoarseness. How much gas had he taken in? Apparently not enough to make much of a difference.
She cleared her throat again. The guy wanted to impress her. She could use that. “How did you find the safe-house apartments tonight?”
“I piggybacked the GPS tracker on your phone initially,” he said conversationally. “I saw Carl Sparks with you at the funeral in DC, and I quickly learned everything about him. It was easy from there.”
Who was at the funeral? She went through everyone she could remember. “Did you, ah, kill Carl?”
“Of course.”
Adrenaline flooded her system, making sitting still difficult. “Why?” she croaked.
“I had reasons. For one, he was in the way. Two, it’ll come in handy.”
What did that mean? Poor Carl. Sure, he made a lot of mistakes. But he didn’t deserve to die like that. “Did I know you were at the funeral?” She brushed aside thoughts about Carl and her sister’s funeral and tried to focus.
“I think you’ve always known where I am. You feel me, right? Always with you?” he asked.
She faltered. Though lying would be a mistake, the truth might get her stabbed. “I don’t think I’m as intuitive as you are.” Probably true. “I like to study and learn, which is why I went into psychology. But that’s statistics and knowledge . . . not instinct.”
“What do your instincts say?” He was back at her ear, his voice a low drone now.
That there was no way to keep up with his fantasy. She coughed out, “I’m foggy from the gas. Kind of confused.”
“I’m sorry.” His sigh was regretful. “Also, I guess I should say I’m sorry I killed your sister. That was wrong of me.”
The words sliced right into her. Her body jerked as if she’d been hit. Her stomach cramped hard. “Loretta was a good person. I loved her.”
“Until I started our game, you only talked to her periodically—maybe once a month,” he said, his breath brushing her face. “Only saw each other once a year.”
Anya jolted. “That’s true.” How long had he been watching her?
“So I brought you back together—got you close again. You owe me,” he said.
She tried not to edge away from him. “Yet you killed her.”
“I said I was sorry,” he bellowed right into her ear.
Pain filled her head, and she cringed away from him. A sob escaped her.
“My poor girl.” He brushed hair away from her face. “You need to learn not to make me angry.”
Right. She tried to see past the blindfold, but there was nothing. “You’ve obviously been keeping track of me for years. Why start up the game this year? Why start taking redheads and playing the game now?” It was a risky question, but she had to know.
“Would you like a Shiraz or a Cabernet?” he asked.
She didn’t press or ask how he knew she liked both vintages. “Shiraz.” She held perfectly still. “I do have another question.” Maybe he’d answer this one.
“You can ask me anything.”
She swallowed over a lump in her throat. “The explosions back at the apartment. You could’ve killed Heath and Denver, and you didn’t. I’m sure you have guns.”
“That would’ve been no fun. If this works out, they need to see my happiness.”
If it didn’t work out, he needed them to be tortured by her death. Her nerves jumbled inside her with the urge again to scream. “I see. Thank you for the honesty.”
“No problem.” He shifted against her, and suddenly she was in his arms being carried. His very strong and fit arms. Who was this guy?
She gave a small yelp. “Where are we going?” Kicking wouldn’t do any good.
“To dinner.” He set her down on a hard chair and fastened what felt and sounded like handcuffs around her ankles. Seconds later, he sliced through the bindings around her wrists.
She stilled. “Are those handcuffs?”
“Yep.”
Okay. Cops had handcuffs. So did FBI agents. Was his voice becoming more familiar? Oh God. It couldn’t be. “Reese?” she asked.
The blindfold was whipped off.
She faced an empty chair over a table set with fine linens and crystal. A wooden counter ran along the wall of the kitchen, holding a sink and two plates. He moved then into her view, and she could see his broad back. He transferred the plates to the table and sat across from her. It took her a moment for her vision to focus on his face.
He smiled.
She blinked. “I know you.” He looked different without the colored contacts and weird putty along his chin. Her mind scrambled. He was the fake marshal who’d tried to kidnap her from her apartment before Heath had rescued her. “Marshal D. J. Smithers.”
He laughed again, his brown eyes twinkling. “Just a cover.”
“Oh?” Her hands were free, but no weapons were within reach. “Not your name?”
“No. You’ve met me before, however. My name is Daniel.”
CHAPTER
36
Heath came to as he was being loaded onto a gurney. Pain filled his entire body, so he dug deep and tried to expel it. When that didn’t work, he just ignored it. “Anya?” he croaked as he was lifted. Sounds bombarded him—surrounded him—the sound of too many people breathing and moving around.
“Hold on, sir,” said a younger male voice. “You have pieces of wood embedded in your body, but you’ll be okay. You need to hold still until we get you to the hospital.”
He struggled. “What? Where?” He opened his eyes to see the smoldering ceiling flashing by. “Anya?” He tried to je
rk up, and hands held him down. “Let me go.”
God, he could barely move. Was his right side going numb?
“Denver?” he bellowed.
“You’re all right,” said a guy holding his gurney. “Just hold on. We’ll get some pain meds into you shortly.”
“No.” Heath struggled to sit up. “Where’s Denver? Anya?” he called. Snow and wind hit his face, and a gray day came into focus.
Flashes went off, and he closed his eyes. Voices rumbled, all shouting questions. There were reporters? What was going on?
Seconds later, he was loaded into the back of an ambulance. The door shut, and they started to move. Something pierced his arm, and hands started working on him.
Pain exploded in his shoulder, and he passed out.
He came to in a hospital bed and sat straight up. His shoulder burned like hot iron rods poked him from inside, and his chest felt like he’d filled his lungs with needles. He blew out and tried to control the pain. Machinery beeped behind him, and liquid dropped into him through an IV.
“Ah, you’re up.” A forty-something male doctor with bushy brown hair strode into the room in Reeboks, his eyes twinkling behind thick glasses. “You have three cracked ribs, a concussion, multiple contusions, and several healing wounds that required stitches. I also removed some home-made looking stitches from you. That wound is healed.” The guy glanced at a tablet in his hands. “We have you on morphine and a saline solution. The irritation in your lungs from the gas should dissipate in a day or so.”
Heath shook his head to focus and then winced as agony slammed through his temples. “Where’s my brother?”
“The next room. He required stitches as well, but he’s a little better off than you are, so long as he stops fighting his nurses.” The doctor let the tablet hang loosely in his hands. “Agents from the FBI are interviewing him now, and I believe they’ll be in to see you next.”
“Anya?” Heath asked, his gut aching.
The doctor shook his head. “I don’t know but am sure the FBI will update you.”
“Great.” Heath reached for the IV and yanked it out.