Black Sheep (3 page)

Made no sense to Dad, either, and he was the one who’d left his family in Pennsylvania
to come live in Mom’s North Carolina hometown after he fell in love with her. Before
he met Jessalyn McSwain, he’d planned to stay in the marines, go to college, then
work for the FBI. Had it all mapped out. But, he always smiled, teeth flashing as
he finished the story, love had other plans for him.

“Lena,” Caitlyn murmured into the phone, her voice muffled by memory. Little Baby
Lena. Except not a baby anymore. “What’s happened?”

“She’s gone missing.”

The FBI agent in her closed the door on childhood sentimentality. “You don’t need
me. File a missing persons report. Why aren’t you talking to her mother and sister?
They can coordinate efforts better than I can. It’s not federal jurisdiction.”

He cleared his throat again. Stalling for time. “I’m sorry. Her mother and sister
are both dead. Killed almost four years ago now, hit by a drunk driver.”

She sagged against the wall opposite Paul’s door, focusing on the polished brass apartment
number reflecting the light from the tasteful art deco wall sconces lining the corridor.
A small part of her wished she was inside, his arms wrapped around her, protecting
her from the sudden slap of grief. She hadn’t seen Vonnie or her mom in twenty-six
years, there was no reason why anyone would have told her about their deaths, but
those cold facts couldn’t stop the tears.

She blinked them away before they could make it farther than her eyes. “Lena would
be, what, twenty-seven?”

“Not until next month.” Right, a Valentine’s baby. Caitlyn remembered the blizzard
that almost trapped Mrs. Hale at home when she started into labor. She and Vonnie
had boiled water and collected towels until Caitlyn’s dad made it through the snow
in his sheriff’s department SUV and got her to the hospital just in time. Whitford
continued, “She’s graduating law school this summer—”

“Lena’s going to be a lawyer?”

“Thought it was the best way to exonerate her father. She never doubted his innocence—neither
did her older sister or their mother. Despite his refusing to deny his guilt. But
while they seemed resigned to his fate, Lena was, well, stubborn. She was determined
to see her father set free.”

A twinge of anger cut through Caitlyn. Eli Hale was guilty. Everyone knew it. How
could he let his daughter waste her life like that?

“
Was?
Past tense?” Had Lena discovered more evidence against her father? “Maybe she couldn’t
take the truth of her father’s guilt and ran away.”

“When her father told her to stop working on his case they had a bit of a falling-out.
She was supposed to visit, call, but never did. But I’m sure she didn’t run away.
And, honestly, I’m not certain Eli deserves to be in prison for the rest of his life.”
The last came out with a touch of defiance.

“Hale confessed. There is no federal parole. Life is life.” The words escaped from
her flat, stripped of the emotions that churned through her gut. Emotions she’d spent
the last quarter of a century denying. Her father was dead because of what Eli Hale
had done, because Hale had betrayed their friendship. Hale himself didn’t deny it.
Hale had confessed in open court to killing a man and using his relationship with
a sheriff’s deputy to try to cover it up, further sullying her father’s reputation.
“He deserves to be behind bars.”

She was about to hang up—again—when Whitford made that irritating throat-clearing
noise. “After he tried to kill himself, while he was still woozy from the drugs, Eli
said something. Something he denies saying now, but I heard it plain as day.” His
words were rushed as if he realized this was his last chance. “He said, ‘Sean was
right. Death is the only silence they’ll accept.’ Sean, that’s your father?”

“My father’s dead.” Vertigo pressed her back to the wall, fighting the urge to slump
to the floor and surrender to the flood of memories and emotions. Dad didn’t know
she was there that day. She’d skipped school because he had a rare day off and Mom
was at work and it was a gorgeous spring afternoon, too beautiful to waste inside
a smelly old school, and the trout were just waiting for them to grab their rods and
head down the mountain to the river. That was the only comfort she had. That he didn’t
know, hadn’t planned for her to be the one to find him.

The door to Paul’s apartment opened. The lights were on behind him, silhouetting him.
A tall black man, like Eli Hale. For a moment it seemed as if the past had collided
with her present. He stepped forward, shattering the illusion: Paul was thinner than
Eli, had a lean, runner’s body. His brown eyes creased in concern; one hand clenched
a kitchen towel, the other reached out to her. “I thought I heard voices. Everything
all right?”

She nodded, changed hands gripping the phone as if that would help her suddenly sweaty
palms, held it even closer to her ear so Paul couldn’t hear, her body twisted away
from him. She needed to end this conversation. Lay old ghosts to rest once and for
all.

“I know your father kil—is dead. I understand how painful this must be for you,” Whitford
said. “Yet every time I see Eli he talks about your dad, won’t let him go, as if he’s
doing penance.”

“Good,” she snapped. “This has nothing to do with me. If he’s really worried about
his daughter, hang up and call the cops.”

“He won’t let me. Said if the police got involved, they’d kill her.”

Paranoid ramblings of a man who’d spent most of his adult life incarcerated.

Paul stood watching, his concern morphing into irritation when she didn’t join him
inside the apartment. She wasn’t sure why, but she needed to keep this part of her
life away from him. Avoid contaminating what she had now with what she’d lost so long
ago.

“Who’s ‘they’?” She immediately wished she hadn’t asked. Her curiosity couldn’t resist.

“He wouldn’t say. But the way he talked—” He paused. “I’ve been a prison chaplain
for thirteen years, Agent Tierney. I don’t spook easily, and I know a scam when I
hear one. What I felt from Eli was pure fear. Lena’s life is in danger if we don’t
do something to help her. The warden has approved a meeting between you and Eli for
tomorrow, eleven o’clock. Please come. Just talk to him. I think you’re her only hope.
Eli’s only hope.”

The last words convinced her of his delusion. Whatever was going on with Lena—and
plenty of twenty-somethings took off without telling their fathers where they were
going, even when their fathers weren’t locked up in a federal penitentiary—the minister’s
agenda was more personal: salvation for a self-confessed killer.

Next thing, he’d be asking her to forgive Hale.

Paul crossed the hall, took her free hand, and she let him lead her the six steps
into his apartment. His hand felt so solid, so real compared with the memories buzzing
through her mind. Soft jazz rumbled from the stereo; the table was set, wine poured,
candles lit, a warm man waiting.

“It’s out of my control. I can’t help you.” She did what she should have done ten
minutes ago. She hung up the phone and focused on the man before her, giving him a
bright smile. “Sorry about that, Paul. Work.”

“Something important?”

She hauled in a breath, used it to fortify her smile. “No. An old case that’s not
my jurisdiction. Nothing to do with me.”

He bought the lie, took her bag from her, and gathered her into his arms for a proper
greeting. Caitlyn held him tighter than she’d intended, but she couldn’t help herself.
She inhaled his scent: sandalwood and cooking spices blended in a rich, tantalizing
medley. This was so good, the best thing that had ever happened to her.

The thought made her wonder about Lena. The irony that Eli Hale’s daughter had spent
her life trying to prove a self-confessed murderer innocent. While Caitlyn had spent
her life putting killers like Eli Hale behind bars trying to win the approval of her
own dead father. Both facing impossible tasks. Both leading impossible lives.

Maybe Caitlyn’s mom was right: She’d never find happiness until she was willing to
put the past behind her. Maybe that’s why Paul scared her so much. He offered her
a future she wasn’t sure she deserved.

CHAPTER THREE

The room was all walls, no windows. Maybe a pantry or walk-in closet with the shelves
and hanger rods removed. The floor was carpet old enough and cheap enough that the
edges curled up. It smelled of sweaty feet and rancid bacon grease. Overhead, beyond
her reach, a bare incandescent lightbulb, its filament whining like mosquitoes on
a warm summer’s night, a string dangling down to control it. She only turned it on
when the darkness became too overwhelming, didn’t dare risk it burning out, leaving
her with nothing.

No electrical outlets to turn into a Bat-Signal with chewing gum and a bobby pin.
If she had chewing gum or a bobby pin. No baseboards to yank off and use as a weapon.
Beneath the carpet was plywood, nailed down with headless nails from a nail gun, so
she couldn’t even pry one out. Not that she didn’t try when she got bored enough.

There was no furniture unless you counted the small chemical toilet in the far corner.
Only enough room for her to lie down if she positioned the sleeping bag diagonally
across the floor. But they’d left a case of water and some Ensure, saltines, and peanut
butter—enough for a week if she was careful—and the room, wherever it was, whatever
it was before it became her prison, was warm enough as long as she kept her coat on.

She hadn’t seen their faces. Not really. That gave her hope.

She had no idea how long she’d been here. Other than searching her while she was unconscious
and removing anything that could be used as a weapon, including her watch, which she
missed dearly as time passed in fits and starts, they hadn’t touched her.

They’d taken her shoes. For some reason she couldn’t stop thinking about that. They
weren’t expensive, just Walmart knockoff dress boots she’d worn under her slacks—wanted
to look professional when she spoke to Dr. Bearmeat at the archives office. Without
them, only cheap white socks on her feet clashing with her navy slacks, it made this
all too real. Terrifying.

Until one of them, the skinny one—all she’d noticed was his eyes, strange, blue with
flecks of silver—he’d snuck back alone and returned her chain with its tiny gold cross.
Seemed to realize how important it was to her. She squeezed her hand around it now,
small comfort in the darkness.

They hadn’t even asked her anything—a relief since there was very little she could
tell them. She had a lot of ideas, ideas grown into full-blown conspiracy theories
after they took her, but no proof, nothing to bargain with.

Why had they kept her alive? No matter how much she prayed, tried to put her faith
in God’s plan, that question kept nagging at her. Wouldn’t it be safer for them to
kill her, shut her up for good?

Unless she was the bargaining chip. Being used as leverage against someone else. And
that could only be one person: her father.

“It’s no good,” she yelled. “He doesn’t give a damn about me.”

There was no sign anyone heard her. No sounds at all beyond her ragged breathing.
The silence encouraged her ranting. Trapped alone in the dark, talking to herself,
was better than listening for the sounds she didn’t want to hear: footsteps, a pistol
being cocked, the nervous laughter of men who’d decided to have some fun before disposing
of her corpse.

“What do you want from me?” She curled up in the corner, hugging her knees to her
chest, praying. She stopped, listened hard. A floorboard creaked with a man’s weight.
Or was it just her imagination? She held her breath.
Please, no. Dear God, please help me.

The creak came again. She was a woman of faith; it was all she had left. But for the
first time in her twenty-six years, Lena Hale wondered if maybe God wasn’t listening
after all. Maybe He was a self-centered bastard, with no regard for His children,
just like Eli.

Maybe, just like Eli, He would abandon her, leave her here alone to die.

CHAPTER FOUR

Dinner consisted of eggplant, tomatoes, and braised beef, served with candlelight,
a nice Merlot, and strained small talk.

She and Paul had an understanding: He didn’t talk about his patients and she didn’t
talk about her cases. But this was different. She could tell he wanted to ask, was
waiting, expecting her to explain what kind of “work” had her so upset.

What could she say? That it wasn’t a case but something to do with her father, dead
for twenty-six years? Dead because of the man she’d loved as a second father, when
she was young and stupid and hadn’t yet mastered the art of guarding her heart?

Or the girl. Baby Lena. Missing. Or maybe just not interested in talking with her
own father. Who knew? If what Whitford thought was true, Lena was in danger—of course
he had no facts, only fears.

After she cleaned the kitchen, Caitlyn used her cell to track down two numbers for
Lena, a cell and a residence in Durham. No answer at either. Didn’t mean anything.
Law students were allowed to take a night off, not answer their phones. Besides, it
was out of Caitlyn’s jurisdiction; she couldn’t drop everything to start asking questions.
Real-life law enforcement didn’t work that way.

Another reason not to explain Whitford’s call to Paul. He’d never understand. Just
like Whitford hadn’t. They heard “FBI” and thought she had the keys to some magic
kingdom where super computers could spot a face in the crowd at the Super Bowl or
trace a smudged fingerprint to anyone in the country in the ten seconds before a commercial
break. Damn
CSI.

“What’s wrong?” he asked as they lay together in bed later that night. Distracted
dinner conversation had led to distracted sex. Totally Caitlyn’s fault. When she was
anxious she tended to turn to sex as a diversion. Tonight it hadn’t worked.