Reunion (17 page)

“Laura.”

Her answer was little more than an exhalation of sound.

“Don’t think…just feel,” he said.

She let him all the way into her soul.

Gabriel was still awake long after the madness had stopped, long after Laura had fallen asleep in his arms. He lay without moving, staring thoughtfully at a parting in the curtains and watching the light that spilled through making wild, nightmarish patterns on the wall and the ceiling. But there was nothing nightmarish about what he was feeling. His heart was full, so full of love for this woman he held. She shifted in her sleep and then sighed, and he felt her breath against his chest. At that moment he knew that he would do whatever it took to keep her safe and alive, even if it meant risking his own life.

Yes, love was good. When it was good, it was very, very good. Then he thought of Garrett. And when it was bad, it was horrid.

Harry Wallis turned left, heading under the overpass to get back on I-40. His mind was racing from explanation to explanation that he might offer the authorities, and all the while wondering how much culpability Reed House was going to have to shoulder. The only thing that gave him any measure of satisfaction was knowing that Althea Good was going to have to answer for what she’d done. But his concentration was shattered by the sudden pop and then wobble of his car.

Blowout!

Adrenaline shot through his system like a bullet through butter as he struggled to steer to a nearby exit ramp. Relief came as he maneuvered to a side street and put the car in park.

He peered through the windshield, trying to figure out where he was. Nothing looked familiar, and what he did see looked seedy and rundown. It figured.

He leaned back in disgust. There was no such thing as a convenient accident, but there
was
modern technology. All he had to do was call road service, get the tire fixed, and he would be on his way. He reached for his cell phone and started to punch in the numbers when he realized something was wrong.

“Damn, damn and double damn,” he muttered. The battery was dead.

He popped the trunk and got out with a grunt, cursing every step to the back of the car. As he leaned inside the trunk, he heard the rush of crunching leaves and stopped and turned, staring nervously toward the bushes at the side of the road. But when no one emerged, he scoffed at his own fears and began to remove the spare.

Time passed. Harry was squatting beside the jack, giving the last lug nut a final twist and cursing car manufacturers in general for that joke they passed off as a spare, when the skin on the back of his neck began to crawl. From the corner of his eyes, he saw movement. He tightened his fingers around the lug wrench and started to stand, but he was a moment too late.

He never saw the mugger’s face or knew what was happening after the blow to his head. Minutes later, Harry’s unconscious body was dumped into a nearby ditch. The thief sped away in his car, leaving nothing to mark what had happened but Harry Wallis’s body and a set of smoking tire tracks on the pavement.

Before, he’d been afraid of the dark. Now dark was his friend. Negotiating streets and alleyways at night wasn’t easy. He couldn’t see street signs, which didn’t much matter, because he couldn’t read many words. But he could write his name, and he could say his prayers. His mother had taught him to say his prayers. He thought about his mother and wanted to cry. They hadn’t come back like they’d promised. Before he got lost, they had always come back.

Up ahead, a car suddenly turned the corner and started down the street toward him. He froze in the oncoming glare like a spotlighted buck. A horn sounded, breaking the trance in which he was standing and sending a piercing pain throughout his skull. He threw back his head and screamed. The undiluted sound of pain and rage sent a cat on the hunt up a nearby tree and brought an old woman to her window to peer out. All she saw was a speeding car. Afraid of drive-by shootings, she quickly turned off the lights and went to bed an hour and a half early.

The teenagers shrieked with delight as they sped past, laughing and pointing at the screaming giant.

When the fire was no longer behind his eyes and the wolves had quit taking bites of his mind, he moved deeper into the shadows. Tied to an invisible bond that only his heart knew well, he continued to move ever closer to the other half of himself. And as he walked, he began to recite the verse his mother had taught him.

“‘Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”’

At exactly five minutes after eight the next morning, Kirby Summers walked into his office. Outside, it was threatening rain, and his expression was only a couple of shades less grim than his mood. The media was having a heyday with Prince Charming’s latest victim. They had interviewed an FBI profiler, as well as a Texas serial killer who was on death row, awaiting execution.

And, everyone had an opinion as to why Prince Charming had given a five-year-old child a rose and then let her walk away, when he’d killed other innocent people for no obvious reason at all. Pressure was coming at the police from all sides. They were facing mass hysteria from metro citizens. They needed to make an arrest. They needed someone in jail. They needed someone to blame.

Reports were already sifting into OSBI headquarters that gun sales in the greater Oklahoma City area had gone up three hundred percent. The jump had begun right after the first victim was murdered and soon after the police had been unable to come up with even one good suspect.

Kirby took off his jacket and loosened his tie before reaching for his coffee cup. His mind was in limbo as he walked out of his office and down the hall to the break room, his nose wrinkling as he walked through the doorway. The coffee smelled burned, which meant it was probably reheated from last night. He was, however, in need of caffeine too badly to care. He poured himself a cup and then took a slow, careful drink, sipping at the thick, black brew as if he were taking medicine.

“Hey, Summers. Did you see the report I put on your desk? It’s the top file in your In basket.”

Kirby looked up. Red Anthony, a fellow agent, was standing in the doorway.

“What report is that?” he asked.

“The DNA you had run on that nut who wanted to be locked up.”

“Already?” he asked.

“It’s an early report. The in-depth one comes later, but I think you’ll find it interesting,” Red said, and then grinned as he walked away.

Kirby bolted for his desk, juggling the hot coffee and a big case of anticipation. Something was up or Red Anthony wouldn’t have bothered to mention it.

It was there, right on top, where Anthony said he’d put it. He set down his cup and slid into his chair as he opened the file. Within moments, he began to read.

His eyes widened, and his heart began to pound. There was no misinterpreting the information. The blood and tissue samples taken from under the fingernails of Sadie Husser’s houseman matched the blood and tissue samples taken from Gabriel Connor.

“Son of a—”

He set down the report and then took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing pulse as he calculated the data he had left. He didn’t know how to explain the fact that another victim had died while Gabriel Connor had been locked in an Oklahoma City jail, but he figured there was a way. They’d just assumed it was the same guy. Maybe it was a copycat killer. He loosened his tie and reached for a pen.

Gabriel Connor had walked in of his own accord, claiming he’d been having psychic flashes into the killer’s mind. But what if Gabriel Connor
was
the killer? What if he was playing games with them? What if he’d planned the whole jail thing just to put them off the track?

Then he frowned. That didn’t make sense. They’d had absolutely
no
clues until he’d walked in with that crazy story. Still, Kirby was a realist, and facts were facts. Gabriel Connor’s DNA matched the samples they’d taken from one of the victims. It was enough.

He reached for the phone. “Chief, I need an arrest warrant. We just got a break on the Prince Charming case.” He paused. The smile on his face was genuine. “Yes, sir. I’ll be right there.”

Mike Travers was all smiles as he rang the doorbell. Not even the threat of an impending thunderstorm could ruin his day. When Matty answered, he bolted into the house and grabbed her around the waist, dancing her about in the hall as if it were New Year’s Eve.

A pink flush moved up Matty’s neck and onto her cheeks as she struggled to free herself.

“Dr. Mike, have you lost your mind?”

He stopped in a patch of light spilling through the stained glass window behind them, unaware that the purple and green colors settling on his hair had given him a punk rock look and that the exertion of their dance had put a youthful expression on his face.

“Good news is always a cause for celebration.”

Still haunted by the secret she’d kept all these years and the revelations that had come out last night, she couldn’t think of anything to celebrate. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she pressed her fingers to her lips to keep them from shaking.

“Good? Secrets are never good, Dr. Mike. You of all people should know that.”

With that cryptic statement, she turned and left, leaving him confused and alone in the hallway.

“Well now,” he muttered. “What
didn’t
they tell me when they called?”

He smoothed the top of his hair, shifting the purple side back toward the green where it belonged and then moved out of the light. At once the bizarre appearance disappeared and he became the graying, stoop-shouldered man that the years had made of him. He went in search of Gabriel and Laura.

A few minutes later he spied them in Angela’s rose garden. He could tell by the expressions on their faces that something was wrong. Then what, he wondered, had they meant when they’d left a message saying Gabriel was definitely cleared of any part in the killings? It would have been obvious to a blind man that everything wasn’t okay. He stepped out onto the patio and waved to get their attention.

Laura saw him first. “Gabriel, your uncle Mike is here.”

Gabriel pivoted angrily and started toward him. He wanted the truth. All of it. Even if it meant learning that Uncle Mike had been part of the great deception.

Well aware of how hurt and angry Gabriel was, Laura started running to catch up, hoping to stop something from being said that couldn’t be taken back.

Gabriel never even said hello. He just started talking, spitting out the bitter words without hesitation.

“Were you in on it, too?”

What was left of Mike Travers’ smile withered. He took a deep breath and then headed for a nearby chair.

“Where are you going?” Gabriel asked.

“To sit down. It’s too early in the morning for inquisitions.”

Gabriel was so angry he was shaking. “Early? From where I’m standing, it’s pretty damned late. About twenty-five years too late.”

Mike’s belly turned. This was bad. Very bad. His fingers curled around the arms of the chair in which he was sitting as he braced himself for whatever was coming.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mike said. “But if you’ll tell me, I’m sure we can work something out.”

A cold smile broke the planes of Gabriel’s face. “Don’t give me any of your damned—”

Laura bolted up the steps and grabbed Gabriel’s arm. He stopped in midsentence, his face contorted with fury. But when he saw the unspoken warning in her eyes, he began to relent. Anger shifted, leaving him with nothing but a wall of hurt he couldn’t get over.

“Let’s sit down,” Laura said softly. “Don’t rush to judgment, okay?”

He nodded, then slid into a chair across from his uncle and took a slow, deep breath. “Maybe I should start over.”

Mike managed to smile. “That sounds like a plan to me.”

Gabriel leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he pinned the old man with a stare. “Did you know about Garrett?”

Mike frowned. “Who’s Garrett?”

Something tight and binding that had been there since last night snapped loose inside of Gabriel’s chest, and the relief that came with it was weakening.

Gabriel put his hand on his uncle Mike’s knee. “You really don’t know?”

Mike Travers shook his head. “No, son. I don’t know. I don’t know that name, and I don’t know what you’re talking about. I got a phone call from Laura saying that you’d been definitely cleared of any part of the murders. I thought that was a reason to celebrate. I don’t understand what—”

Gabriel leaned back suddenly and covered his face with his hands. Deception from this man, too, would have been his undoing.

“Thank you, God,” he whispered.

Puzzled, Mike turned to Laura. “Look. Would someone please tell me what’s going on?”

Laura was standing behind Gabriel’s chair. She touched his hair, then leaned down, briefly hugging his neck.

“Let me,” she said softly. She began to talk.

A short while later, Mike Travers got up from where he was sitting and walked off the patio and out into the garden without speaking.