Authors: Tami Dane

Blood of Dawn (6 page)

BOOK: Blood of Dawn

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Preparing myself mentally to defend my innocence, I said, “I’ve always felt you took calculated risks and reasonable measures to protect me.”

“We have done our best.”

“I know.” And I did. What I wanted to know now was where this conversation was headed. “Does this have anything to do with Mrs. Walker’s death?”

“No.”

No? If not, then what is it?

Was this the result of some kind of disciplinary action? Had someone reported what I was doing and decided the bureau needed to put a stop to it, pronto?

“Chief, I realize I don’t have the training to be a full member of this team yet, and maybe you’re bending the rules a bit—”

“Sloan, I haven’t bent the rules. I’ve looped them up and tied them in knots. My superior reviewed our work on the last case, and there is talk of my facing a disciplinary review.”

Oh, no.
“I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for. You followed my direction, and we got the job done, thanks to you. I knew from the start I was taking a risk. The bottom line is my superior has determined you should be facing no more dangerous tasks than driving in.”

I sighed.
Bureaucracy.
“What can I do?”

“Nothing. I’ve informed my superiors that you will be delegated tasks that are more suited to your current position with the bureau.”

In other words, the fun was over. I would be, from this point forward, filing and fetching coffee. “I understand.”

“In the meantime, I’ve secured your spot in the next FBI Academy class. You’ve just finished up your master’s. I don’t know what your plans are for the fall. But the slot is yours, if you want it.”

My insides did a somersault. “You bet I do. Thank you.” When I’d applied for the internship, I’d hoped I might receive some kind of recommendation for the academy. I hadn’t expected the path to be paved for me.

“Excellent. I know you’ll be a very valuable member of the bureau for years to come. And I hope you’ll choose to join our team when you graduate.”

“I would be honored.”

“Good.” She steepled her fingers under her chin. “Another thing: Hough is out on medical. She miscarried last night. The unit is putting together a care package, if you’d like to contribute.”

Miscarried.

That explained JT’s sour mood earlier.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Of course, I’ll contribute.”

“Very well. Thomas is handling all the specifics. You can get with him later. Now, about our current case. We’re having a status meeting tomorrow morning. I want you there. I have an assignment for you. I don’t know how anyone could argue with this one. It’s no more dangerous for you than it would be for any teenager.”

I was intrigued. On the one hand, she’d just been warned to pull me out of danger. While on the other hand, it appeared as though she was sending me undercover again. “I’m all ears, so to speak.”

Her lips curled into a slightly devious smile. “I knew I could count on you.”

If you only do what you know you can do—you never do very much.

—Tom Krause

The day I said
“sayonara”
to Osbourn High School was the happiest day of my life. Over were the days of being teased and tormented by students who were years older than me, but dozens of IQ points beneath me. I had endured being stuffed into trash cans and lockers, called any number of derogatory names, humiliated and harassed from the day I stepped into the concrete-and-tile building until the day I stepped out of it.

And now, I was about to dive right back into the shark-infested waters of high school. Oh, the joy. I hoped Fitzgerald High wasn’t as bad as Osbourn.

This time, in the interest of fitting in somewhat, I was pretending to be a below-average student. If not for the mean girls and obnoxious boys, it might have been an interesting experiment. But for whatever reason, I seemed to be a bully magnet, attracting them no matter what I did.

I hoped I wouldn’t be playing the part of a below-average high-school junior for long.

Standing in the FBI Academy parking lot, I made a few adjustments to my clothes before I tumbled out of the car. I’d done some shopping yesterday, after my meeting with the chief. She let me know Mom’s clothes just weren’t going to cut it for this assignment. Thus, instead of the wool trousers and ugly silk blouse I’d been wearing yesterday when I’d come in, I was now sporting the unofficial uniform of the high-school student: miniskirt, top, and sandals.

The skirt was too short. The top was too tight. The heels were too high. The ensemble screamed “slut.”

I yanked on the skirt’s hem again. I felt ridiculous, more ridiculous than the time I had to pretend to be nine months pregnant and had to wear one of Brittany Hough’s castaway maternity dresses. The ugly thing had a freaking bib, and still I felt worse in this getup. Especially when I caught the look on JT’s face as I pushed my car door shut. He parked his car and shoved open his door. “Not one word,” I warned him as I tried to pretend his obvious staring wasn’t making me feel a little warm.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You said it with your eyes.”

His lips curled into an adorable half smile as he sauntered over to me. I couldn’t help noticing the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I just can’t hide anything from you, Sloan, can I?”

“I don’t think you even tried.”

“You’re right. I didn’t.” His gaze dropped to boob level.

I pushed on his chin, forcing him to lift his head. “Do.”

He chuckled and the two of us headed inside. Despite my suspicion that his semi-inappropriate leer was just an act, to cover up his pain, I was glad to see he was acting a little more like himself. I’d never been pregnant. I couldn’t even imagine how it felt to lose a child.

One of the reasons why I’d decided to draw the proverbial line in the sand with JT was finding out he had
donated
his sperm to Hough, and she was carrying his child. Granted, their situation was somewhat unique. She was a lesbian, despite having conceived the child the old-fashioned “Tab A, Slot B” way. She’d initially intended to raise the baby with her wife. But since she’d suffered an ugly breakup—which, rumor had it, was leading to what promised to be an even uglier divorce—JT had been taking a more active role in preparing to parent. And a more active interest in Hough’s pregnancy. Thus, I suspected he might have felt the loss more keenly than he’d expected.

Inside the building, as we waited for the elevator to rumble its way down to us, I asked, “How’s Hough doing? The chief told me yesterday.”

“She’s doing as well as could be expected, I guess. She took it hard.”

“I’m sorry.” The bell chimed, and the door rolled open. A couple of guys in suits stepped out; their gazes flicked to me as they walked past. I smashed my arms over my chest. “This is ridiculous. I want to change.”

“You look fine,” JT said, poking the button for our floor.

“People are staring.”

“That’s only because you appear younger than you are. You look out of place.”

“I don’t know.” I glanced down. My boobs looked mighty big in this shirt.

“I’m telling the truth.”

The car bounced to a stop at our floor, and I scurried into the sanctuary of the unit, dropped my stuff on my desk, and grabbed a legal pad and pen. Then I headed up to the conference room, situated at the back of the open space, elevated slightly. A raised walk led to the entrance. I clomped up the steps in my high-school “ho heels” and plopped down in a chair at the huge table. Within minutes, the others joined me. JT, Chad Fischer, our media liaison, some man I didn’t know, Gabe Wagner, who seemed to appreciate my outfit more than JT, and the chief.

Chief Peyton cleared her throat. “Good morning.” She motioned to the stranger. “This is Steve McBride. He’ll be handling Hough’s duties while she’s on medical leave.”

We all uttered a polite hello, to which he gave each of us a little nod.

“Now let’s go over the case.” Peyton motioned to the board she’d set up. There were two pictures on it—one of each of our victims. There was a line drawn from each photo to the words “Fitzgerald High School.” Another line was drawn from Stephanie Barnett to Michael Barnett. “This is what we have so far. The only connection between our victims is their school. They share nothing else in common, outside of gender. Different races—one Caucasian, the other black. Different body types. We’ve found no link between our one person of interest, Michael Barnett, and Emma Walker.”

“But they both live in single-parent households. Middle-class,” I pointed out.

“True.” She uncapped a whiteboard Magic Marker and wrote some notes below the high school.

“They are geographically linked too,” JT pointed out.

“Their homes are located within blocks of each other. Michael Barnett’s house is close to both.”

“Has cause of death been confirmed for either victim yet?” I asked.

“Yes. The official COD for both Barnett and Walker is fibrillation and heart failure caused by electrocution.”

“Electrocution?”
I echoed, completely surprised.

“Yes.” Peyton turned on a projector, displaying a set of two photographs, both of the young women’s torsos. One was a smooth ivory color, the other a deep mocha. A series of branching red marks, like those found on lightning-strike victims, fanned out from the center of their chests.

“Lightning strikes generally cause no entry or exit wounds. No muscle damage,” I recited. Back when I was little, after our neighbor had been struck by lightning, I’d done some reading on it. It seemed that it might come in handy in this case.

“That is consistent with our victims,” the chief said, pointing at the photos. “The current interrupted the normal electrical activity of the heart, causing the cells to beat independently from each other, rather than as one coordinated system.”

“What about the bite marks?” I asked as I jotted down some info. “Is our unsub vampiric?”

“It appears he may be. Both victims were bit, but the level of blood loss was not lethal.”

“Electrocution,” I repeated. I’d read a lot of my father’s research before I’d lost it. But I didn’t recall any Mythic that used electricity to kill its victims. I was going to have to skim through the book Damen had given me. ASAP.

“Is it possible we’re dealing with a mortal unsub, pretending to be Mythic?” Chad Fischer asked. “Someone who is using some kind of electrical device to deliver the current and is merely biting, to throw us off?”

“We may be. But the markings don’t support that theory. Either way, we need to find out why he is using this mode of killing. I haven’t done any research yet, but it seems to be his signature, unique to our unsub.” Peyton pointed to Gabe Wagner. “I’d like you to see what you can find out on electrocution. See if there have been any serial killers who’ve used it as their method of killing.”

“Will do, Chief,” he said, standing.

To me, Peyton said, “You know what your assignment is, Skye. It’s July. Summer classes are just getting started. You’ve registered, correct? If you register yourself, I’m not technically sending you undercover . . .” At my nod, she added, “Excellent. Keep your ear to the ground. See what you can learn about our two victims.”

“I’ll do my best,” I said, yanking once again on my skirt.

“And the clothes are perfect. Good job.”

Perfect? It was no wonder I was a social outcast back in the day. I wouldn’t have been caught dead in a getup like this.

This assignment was nothing like the last. I wasn’t putting myself directly in the line of fire, so to speak. I wasn’t setting myself up as bait. But, by the same token, I was about to revisit a time in my life I would have gladly forgotten. And I was doing it dressed like a ho.

“I know you will do a great job.” She turned to JT next. “Thomas, you, Fischer, and I are going to have to sit down and hammer out a plan. Thomas, Fischer will be focusing on the victimology, looking for any common connections between the girls. I want you to work with McBride. See what you can dig up on Michael Barnett.”

I gathered my things and scurried back to my desk. Class would be starting in a little over a half hour. I needed to get myself mentally prepared for this. And I might have to bend a few traffic laws to make it to class on time.

I grabbed my purse, a notebook, and a pen; then I hauled ass out of the building, eliciting more than a handful of curious stares along the way. Outside, I cranked on my car and zoomed out of the parking lot.

I was about to reenter the third level of hell. Yay, me!

I read Dante’s
Divine Comedy
when I was in third grade. I never forgot it. This is why I can say with absolute certainty that he missed the mark, particularly when it came to his description of the deepest bowels of hell. I know this because I was in it.

The teacher was droning on and on about nothing in particular. This was supposed to be an economics class, but he was talking about dodging the draft during the Vietnam War. I was getting the stink eye from the gaggle of girls in the back row. There was no air-conditioning, and it had to be at least 120 degrees in the classroom. And my phone, set on vibrate, was ringing nonstop.

How the heck would I convince anyone that I belonged here? That I was one of them?

Moving carefully, I slid my hand into my new backpack to check my phone. The last call was from Katie. I gave a mental sigh.

“Excuse me, Miss Skye,” the teacher said. “Care to answer my question?”

I zipped my backpack, snapping, “What question is that?”

The class broke out into riotous laughter.

At first, my face flamed. But then, as I noticed that more than one student was giving me a friendly smile, a virtual high five, my mortification lifted.

Could it have been so easy? Could I have avoided years of torment if only I’d dressed like a prostitute and acted like I was stupid?

Now the teacher’s face was turning colors. That shade didn’t look so great on him. It deepened when a few residual snickers echoed through the room. He pointed toward the door.

I was being excused from class. I’d never been thrown out of a class. I’ll admit, I was a little embarrassed. But I did my damned best to hide it as I gathered my things. Just before leaving, I glanced at the gaggle. One of them acknowledged me with a little tip of the head.

I headed out into the hall, wandered down to the principal’s office, and sat outside it. Principal Glover knew why I was here, at the school. He knew I was working undercover. But, as far as I knew, he was the only one. He gave me a look as he rushed in from somewhere, waved me into his office, and closed us in.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“I’m trying to fit in.”

“Got it. Just try not to piss them off too badly.”

“Will do.” The bell rang. I checked my printed-out schedule. “I guess it’s off to introductory algebra next.”

“Good luck.” He opened the door, stepping aside to let me pass.

“Thanks.” I donned a grim expression and shuffled out into the packed hallway. It was loud and chaotic, exactly as I remembered it. I joined the stream of bodies heading toward the math classrooms.

“That was hilarious,” someone said behind me.

I glanced over my shoulder. “Thanks.” I stepped to the side so I wouldn’t be trampled. A girl, the one I surmised had spoken, followed me. “He wasn’t even talking about economics. I was dying from boredom,” I added.

“So was everyone else.” Jostling her books, the girl leaned closer. “If you want to skip class, we all go down to the bathroom on the D Wing. Nobody ever checks it.”

“Thanks. D Wing. Where are you headed next?”

“Algebra.”

“Me too. I’m Sloan, by the way.” I extended a hand.

“Cool name. I’m Megan Carter.” She took it and gave it a shake. We began to walk down the corridor together.

BOOK: Blood of Dawn

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