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Helen Long was rushed to the hospital, and Jackson climbed into the ambulance to drive with her. Soaking wet, Abby and Malachi again made the drive to the police station, where David Caswell met them. Encased in blankets, they gave more statements.
David kept them as briefly as possible. He looked at Abby curiously and asked how she’d known Helen was in the river. Abby told him she hadn’t known—she’d just been there and seen the disturbance in the water. They called Jackson at the hospital before they left; Helen Long was still unconscious. But the doctors hoped she’d make a complete recovery.
When they returned to the Dragonslayer, Grant Green and Sullivan were just shutting down, and Abby realized they’d gone into the wee hours of the morning.
It had been a long day. They’d found the body of one dead woman—unknown, but surely loved and missed, and there would be sad news for a family somewhere.
But, she reminded herself again, they’d also saved a woman. Someone she knew and even considered a friend.
“Oh, my God, you both look like bloody hell!” Grant told them.
“We took a swim,” Malachi said. He didn’t mention Helen, but Abby knew everyone would hear about it soon enough. No need to come up with something clever to explain their sodden shape.
“A good swim. We found Helen,” Abby said.
“You found her?” Sullivan demanded.
“She was in the river,” Abby explained.
“You just found her—in the river?” Grant asked. “I mean, that’s wonderful! I haven’t had the news on. Oh, no, wait, is she. . . dead?” he asked, the last word a whisper.
Abby shook her head. “She’s alive. They’ve taken her to the hospital. ”
“Then. . . then she’ll be able to tell them what happened,” Grant said. “Thank God! The cops will catch this bastard. Maybe he’ll resist arrest and they’ll have to shoot him. That would be justice!”
“Grant, we have courts for justice, but, yes, we hope she’ll be able to tell the police what happened to her,” Abby said.
“She hasn’t said anything yet?” Sullivan asked.
“She isn’t conscious,” Malachi answered.
Sullivan let out a sigh. “But she will regain consciousness?”
“They’re hoping for a full recovery,” Abby told him.
“Thank God!” Grant breathed.
“Yes, thank God,” Sullivan echoed.
“Well. ” Grant wrinkled his nose and stepped back. “They’ve done a lot to clean up that river, but you two are pretty disgusting. Abby, that hairstyle—plastered to your face—is not your best. We’ll finish locking up. You two go take showers. And get some sleep. We’ll take care of this place. Go on. ”
“Going now,” Abby said.
She turned and started up the stairs. “Good night, you two,” Malachi said. He followed Abby and they went into the apartment together.
“It’s not locked,” Malachi noted.
“I rushed out,” Abby said.
“I’ll just take a quick look around, huh?”
She nodded. Malachi went down the hall. His “look” wasn’t really that quick. She heard him open doors and she was pretty sure he checked under the beds. When he returned to the living room, he headed straight to the bank of cameras. He knew how to use the equipment, running through the time they’d been out, scanning it all, screen by screen. He sat back after a minute. “Nope, no one even tried this door. Sullivan came up at about nine to get two bottles of bourbon. Grant came and worked in the office for a while. . . . Everyone else just worked. All seems well here. ” He looked over at her. “Why did you go to the river?”
“I saw a shadow by the grating—it was Blue. He led me all the way through the tunnel and to the river. Malachi, the hatch was open. It should have been sealed. ”
Malachi drummed his fingers on the computer desk. “When you found Gus, he was at the end of the tunnel. ”
“Yes. ”
“The police and emergency crews came, didn’t they?”
“Yes, but. . . well, no one checked the hatch. ”
Malachi pulled out his cell. He called David and winced when his friend answered, then covered his phone. “Sounds like I woke him and he’s cranky,” he said. But she could dimly hear David’s voice; he might’ve just fallen asleep, but he was already awake, telling Malachi he’d get crews right on it.
He walked over to the apartment door and locked it. Smiling, he said, “Despite Grant’s comment, I’m not sure you could find a bad hairstyle, Agent Anderson. Even dank from the river, you don’t look bad. ”
“Thank you. We’re locked in, so we’re fine, aren’t we?” she asked him.
“We are,” he assured her. “And I have some news. ”
“What?”
“We found out about the finger—from Gus’s drawer,” he said.
“Oh?”
“It belonged to Ruth Seymour. The first victim. ”
“Gus couldn’t have known that!”
“No, I don’t believe he could have. But I do believe he called you because of it. ”
“Why not the police?” she murmured.
“He must have been worried—and perhaps he knew you’d never suspect him of such brutality, but the police might. Still. . . I don’t think it would’ve changed anything if he had called them. ”
She nodded.
“You’re okay?”
“Of course. I know Gus was doing his best. ” She gave him a weak smile. “I’m going to have a shower. ”
“I’ll go do the same,” he said.
Abby walked down the hallway to her own room. She stripped, but before she went into the shower, she tended to her Glock. This wasn’t a night she wanted to discover that she’d damaged her service weapon. When she was sure it had dried properly and was back in good shooting order, she set it in a drawer of her bedside table, then finally walked into the shower. The heat that suffused her, the sense of being clean again, was almost sinfully delicious.
When she emerged, she slipped into a terry robe and returned to the living room. A figurehead gazed sternly down at her from the far wall; she smiled, looking at the various flags that adorned the walls. Gus had loved his heritage, loved this place.
She loved it, too. No monstrous killer making use of it would change that. She would find him.
She sat down to check the screens. There was no movement anywhere in or near the Dragonslayer.
As Malachi came out of Gus’s room, she stood up. She saw that he was wearing a blue terry robe, his dark hair slicked back and wet. “Everything okay?” he asked her huskily.
“Quiet. Just like it should be. ”
She sat at the computer table again and he leaned over her to study the screens. She became very aware of the heat of his body and couldn’t help thinking that he might be naked under the robe. She was naked under hers. . . . She focused on his face as he watched the screen. She noted again the character that seemed etched in the rugged planes of his cheekbones and jaw. She felt the vitality of his muscles.
“Looks good,” he agreed. “And these same screens are on at your home. Someone will be up all night—they’ll take shifts. ”
“We don’t have to take a shift?” she asked him.
He shook his head. “We’re the principal agents,” he told her. “I admit I’m new to this, too, but I did spend some time getting to know the people in both Krewes. Usually there are one—or sometimes two—agents closest to what’s happening. The people most connected to the situation. That’s us, in other words. So. . . we sleep when we can. The others cover the watches and do the research on people, places or possible suspects. ”
She wasn’t really listening. There was something exceptionally compelling about the scent of soap on newly washed male flesh. There was something about. . . him.
He looked from the screen, into her eyes. She saw a sudden chan
ge in their mercurial hazel color.
Time passed, and then he touched her face, his fingers caressing and following the lines of her cheeks and jaw. She stood up, coming straight into his arms, and when his hands fell away, it was only because he needed them to pull her against him.
He kissed her, a pressure on her lips that was, at first, a request. She drew closer to him, responding, parting her lips, welcoming his tongue. Arousal swept through her, and she continued to feel the hunger of his lips, his touch. They seemed to stand there for an eternity, their kiss going on and on. It was as if a kiss were a brand-new thing, as if they’d invented it.
But in time, the kiss wasn’t enough, and she felt his hands under her robe, moving along her skin. His touch was almost. . . reverential. She threaded her fingers through his hair, moved closer and closer to him. And as they stumbled in their haste to touch and kiss again and again he whispered, “Bedroom. ”
She whispered back, “Mine. ”
He inhaled sharply, his teeth grating. “Wait. We have to slow down. I’m not—”
She smiled. “I am. I wasn’t planning on anything, but I’m on the Pill. ”
He returned her smile.
They made their way down the hall, still touching, still kissing, crashing into a wall here and there. Finally they reached her bedroom and they fell onto the softness of her bed, the robes a tangle around them. Straddling her, Malachi wrangled out of his robe and helped remove hers. He paused for a minute, and she wasn’t sure what went through his mind. She didn’t care; she rose against him, loving the feel of her breasts against the heat of his chest. Again, they kissed, still kissing as they eased back down.
She felt him slide down the length of her body. She felt his touch, so evocative, so arousing that she was nearly delirious. Her life had been the Dragonslayer and the academy for so long. . . but she knew that wouldn’t have mattered. Nothing would have mattered. There were people who changed reality for others, created magic for them, and Malachi was that magic for her. She had never wanted anyone so much, never felt so afire, so hungry. And his every touch fulfilled her. His intimacy brought her almost to the brink, teased her and let her slip to become almost insanely aroused again. And then, he thrust deeply into her, filled her, and his movements elicited that same fevered urgency.