Anything but Mine (15 page)

“All right.” He leaned in and opened the door, the unique blend of his spicy soap and fresh deodorant enveloping her. He nodded toward the deputy manning the metal detector and another standing between the twin staircases. “Monroe and Troy Lee are right here if you need anything before I get back. Tick and Chris are around too.”

With a tight smile and a nod, she stepped into the small room. She’d been in it dozens of times before, but as he closed the door behind her, her stomach jumped again. Black iron bars covered the two tall windows. The door offered only one way in and out.

Sighing, she laid her briefcase on the table and straightened her back. She rubbed at the tiny ache there and wandered to the window. Below her, in the parking lot between the courthouse and the sheriff’s department, Stanton and Mark Cook stood by as Jason Harding helped Schaefer climb from the white transport van. Even at this distance, Autry could make out the tension bunching Stanton’s shoulders. Schaefer wore the dark blue suit she’d provided, the shackles a stark silver against the fabric. The line of his body was tense, his movements jerky.

Trapped. He looked trapped.

Autry could understand that, even with disgust roiling through her.

Because she was trapped with him.

Eight-fifty-five.

As they walked up the stairs to the courtroom, Autry glanced at her watch. Her stomach still jumped and twisted periodically. Schaefer walked beside her, his face expressionless, the shackles gone. She ran the high points of her opening statement through her head and tried to ignore him. Tried to ignore what she was doing.

Behind her, the authoritative and distinctive sound of Stanton’s footsteps was a welcome reassurance. Mark Cook murmured something and Stanton chuckled. Harding replied, his voice an indistinct echo in the massive marble hall, now empty of spectators.

They stopped before the large mahogany double doors. Troy Lee Farr, Stanton’s youngest deputy, snapped to attention, his gaze skittering over Schaefer’s face, resting uncomfortably on Autry for a second before focusing on Stanton. His leather belt creaking, he stepped to the side and opened the door. “Morning, Sheriff.”

Stanton nodded and held the door. “Troy Lee.”

He motioned for Autry and Schaefer to precede him. Autry caught his gaze and he smiled, a quick reassuring tilt of his mouth before the professional mask descended. The baby chose that moment to turn over within her womb and she resisted the urge to lay a hand over her, to protect her from being tainted by the mere presence of Jeff Schaefer.

Amy Gillabeaux hadn’t had a chance to protect her unborn child from Schaefer.

Who deserved more from the justice system? Amy? Or Schaefer?

The urge to flee gripped Autry and she lifted her head, facing down the people she’d known all her life, now turning to look at her with anger and disdain. Or not deigning to look her way at all. She focused instead on the bench where her father would be seated and concentrated on taking slow, deep breaths to still the nerves jumping in her belly.

A ripple of whispers moved through the room as they approached the defense table. The jurors eyed Schaefer. Autry watched them, trying to read their expressions, seeing nothing but stoicism at this point.

She stepped back to allow Schaefer to take the inside chair. A bailiff stood against the far wall, next to the door to the judge’s chambers. The court recorder was already in place.

Harding and Cook sat behind them. Autry glanced at Stanton, saw him looking down at his cell phone. He grimaced, caught her gaze and shook his head. Turning away, he strode back to the doors and disappeared into the hallway.

The doors closed behind him with a soft thud.

Through the next few minutes, her senses seemed heightened as the bailiff called the court to order and her father took the stand. For a second, she fancied she could hear his black robe rustling. The scent of dusty law books and licorice curled around her, settling the nerves somewhat.

She pulled herself together as Tom McMillian addressed the jury. While he outlined the state’s theory of the crime, she scratched notes on her legal pad.

Finally, it was her turn.

She stood, resisted the urge to straighten the edge of her suit jacket. Smiling, she stepped forward and faced the jury.

He flipped his cell open. “Hadden?”

“Dad, I got it!” Exuberance bubbled in Hadden’s voice, only deepened into manhood in the last year or so. “Mrs. Roberts just handed me the letter. I got it!”

It. What was it? Stanton raced through all the conversations he’d had with his eldest son in the last month—they’d been more frequent the last couple of weeks. It. Finally, something clicked into place. The “Character in Athletics” scholarship he’d applied for. “The scholarship?”

“Yeah. A full ride for my first year at FSU. And it’s renewable. I can’t believe it.”

“That’s great, Had.” Pride created a warm glow in Stanton’s chest. The boy was a good kid; Renee had done an excellent job raising him. It wasn’t like Stanton could take much of the credit for how he’d turned out. But with his daughter…he had a second chance. He wouldn’t screw that up.

“I’m proud of you, son.” He cleared his throat and glanced at his watch. Just after nine. “Listen, I have to get into court, but how about I drive down tonight? We’ll go get a pizza and celebrate. You can tell me all about it.”

“That’s fine.” Hadden lowered his voice. “I need to go before I’m late for second period. See you tonight.”

“I’ll be there around seven.” Stanton hesitated to break the connection. “I meant what I said, Had. I’m proud of you.” He swallowed. “And I love you, son.”

Silence stretched between them. Stanton wasn’t sure he’d ever said the words to either of his sons. Hadden coughed. “You too, Dad. See you tonight.”

Stanton folded his cell and returned it to his belt. Saying it felt like a release, leaving him lighter and warmer. What would giving Autry the words feel like?

He glanced toward the second floor windows. The early morning sunlight washed the glass and white marble in a golden glow. Once he returned from Tallahassee, he’d tell her tonight. He frowned. Would the words be enough?

His gaze traveled to the stores across the street, to the gilt script on the window at Hodges Jewelers. He needed to do this the right way, to offer her a sign of his devotion as well as the words.

What if she said no again?

Then he’d deal with it. He’d back off, be patient, give her the time she needed. And he’d love her all the while.

Because he did. Admitting it merely to himself lifted some of the tension he’d been carrying around since June when he’d let her go.

He rotated his shoulders, as if he could feel the weight sloughing off them. Smiling, he turned to reenter the courthouse.

A deafening noise rolled over him.

The concussion knocked him off his feet.

Blinking, he stared at the concrete sidewalk, inches from his nose. His body ached, heart racing, ears dull and ringing as if stuffed with cotton. His hands formed an instinctive cradle over his head.

Debris—glass and concrete and marble—rained around him.

The dust invaded his nostrils and throat and he choked on the thick acrid smoke.

God, what was happening?

He pushed up to his knees, entire body trembling.

Paper fluttered to the ground. Dust fell like snowflakes. Larger chunks of concrete thumped down, clipping his shoulders and back, his hands where they covered his head.

He shook his head and stared at the courthouse. The western side doors hung from their hinges at a weird angle. The windows were gaping holes, the glass and frames gone. Gray smoke poured from the openings, joining the black cloud billowing skyward.

A creaking, grinding sound came from deep in the earth and the western walls toppled inward with a raucous roll of sound.

His stomach clenched and rolled, bile pushing into his throat.

God. Oh, no. Please.

Sounds filtered in—the high-pitched squeal of the bank’s alarm, car horns and alarms, the roar of a hungry fire, glass tinkling to the concrete, chunks of debris hitting metal and sidewalk with muffled thuds.

Screams.

People poured from the businesses surrounding the courthouse.

He pushed to his feet, the training taking over.
Call it in.
His radio. He jerked the square from his belt and keyed the mike, called his dispatcher. Silence, broken only by static, answered him.

Hell, the department. He eyed the smoke billowing behind the courthouse. What had happened to his department? What the fuck was going on?

He ran for the corner, fumbling with the radio to pick up the city PD’s frequency. “C1 to Coney. 10-20, county courthouse. 10-70, 10-33, 10-18. Repeat, 10-70, 10-33, 10-18!”

Stumbling over a chunk of marble, he skidded to a stop at the edge of the courthouse square and stared. The back wall of his department building was gone. Thick black smoke rolled from the parking lot, flames shooting from vehicles.

The eastern half of the courthouse had disappeared, smoke and dust fluffing out of what had been the basement.

The courtroom was in the east wing.

An image flashed in his mind, Autry standing at the defense table, uncertainty darkening her blue eyes as he walked away to take Hadden’s call. His mouth dried.

Autry. Oh, Jesus. Where was she?

She couldn’t be in that rubble. She couldn’t be. Something had to have pulled her out of the courtroom, out of the courthouse, and she was somewhere safe.

Because he simply couldn’t make his mind wrap around the idea that somewhere in that pile of smoldering concrete and marble lay the woman carrying his child. The woman he loved.

Sirens wailed to life from the city’s emergency center, a block away, and blended with the bank and car alarms still shrieking.

A small car, next to the ones already burning, exploded with a roar, a fireball shooting skyward. Metal flew and Stanton ducked. Staying close to the broken building, away from the fire and vehicles in the lot, he scrambled toward the east wing. In that mass would be survivors, injured, needing help. If they were lucky, there would be no bodies to recover.

Autry would be just fine, waiting for him on the sidewalk when he got to the end of the building. She had to be.

He climbed over a pile of marble blocks, where the back of the courthouse had simply sheered off. A flash of hot pink caught his eye. Fabric, stained with red, still clothing a human torso. A silver pin shaped like a lighthouse lay attached to one shoulder.

An arm and the head were nowhere to be seen. The legs had disappeared. His stomach pitched again. Let Autry be all right. Let him find her before it was too late.

His men. He’d left Cookie and Troy Lee in there. Chris and Monroe, too.

Tick. Dear God, his
partner
. They’d worked Oklahoma City together, when Tick had been a rookie agent. They weren’t FBI anymore, but Tick was still his partner. Still like his right hand. Stanton stared at the destruction, with paper fluttering to earth like dusty angels’ wings. His stomach pitched. How much of that paper debris had he watched Tick meticulously tag in evidence bags in Oklahoma? He couldn’t do this without Tick.

He sucked in a breath and immediately wished he hadn’t. The stench of burning fuel and rubber swamped him, combining with the sights and sounds and fear to turn his stomach one last time. He spun, vomiting in violent, helpless waves.

The sirens wailed closer, followed by the
whup-whup
of the city’s police cars. Voices boomed over loudspeakers, asking people to vacate the streets, to begin walking west, to clear the area so they could help the victims.

The heaving over, Stanton straightened and once again moved toward the east wing. A foul taste lingered in his mouth and throat, not helped by the sooty air he breathed. His movements were shaky and uncoordinated, entire body weak and trembling. Shit, he had to get himself together or he’d be no good to anybody.

Running feet pounded on pavement, voices yelling instructions. Water exploded from fire hoses and the fire hissed, angry and tortured.

He slid on a hunk of concrete, his ankle twisting, the rough surface scraping skin from his arm. The pain registered, but was so far removed from the reality around him that he brushed it off. The agony in his chest, the fear and worry, the absolute devastating truth that Autry wouldn’t be waiting for him, superseded any physical hurt.

City officers in their dark blue uniforms ushered bank employees to the end of the block, herding them east. Officers and civilians alike glanced over their shoulders, shock and horror, the same dazed awe Stanton had faced at first, on their faces.

Things like this didn’t happen here. It happened other places, to other people, but not here.

“Reed!” Dix Singleton, the city’s police chief, sprinted down the sidewalk and stumbled over rubble to meet him. “What the hell happened?”

“Explosion,” Stanton muttered, his chest tight, throat burning. No telling what the fumes he’d inhaled had been. “Between the courthouse and the sheriff’s office.”

His office. His employees. His gaze darted toward the building again and he took a step toward it. He needed to be there. Only he needed to be here for Autry too.

A fireball erupted from yet another parked car. Singleton jerked and ducked, his eyes wide. “Goddamn. The gas main?”

Stanton glanced at the blazing vehicles, the spray from a fire hose doing little against the flames. “No.” He shook his head, trying to pull his thoughts together to do his job when all he wanted was to rush into the rubble and find Autry. “The gas main would still be burning. Probably came from a parked vehicle.”

Oklahoma City flashed through his head again. A truck parked in front of a building, one hundred sixty-eight lives lost, countless more destroyed. Jesus, had he let that happen here, to the people who depended on him? To Autry, who everything in him screamed was his to protect?

“A bomb?” Singleton tugged a hand through his hair. “I’m gonna call for help. We’re going to need the GBI, probably their bomb squad. County inmates for digging, the county equipment.”

Ambulances screamed to a stop in front of the post office, behind the fire trucks. EMTs in blue and white streamed into the street.

Police officers were already in the rubble, yelling, moving chunks with their bare hands.

There were no tan county uniforms among them.

Stanton jerked his gaze from the courthouse to what was left of the sheriff’s office. “…get GEMA on the way here. Call in LifeFlight.” Singleton’s voice seemed to follow a stream of consciousness and it took Stanton a second to realize he was calling directions into his radio. “And maybe the FBI from the local office in Albany…”

FBI. Stanton closed his eyes. Someone would have to find Falconetti, in federal court in Albany, and tell her what had happened. That Tick might be among the missing. Even worse, among the dead. God, he wanted to wake up from this nightmare.

Because it couldn’t be real.

Or maybe it was. Maybe it was real.

And he was in Hell.

Caitlin jogged lightly up the steps to the Albany regional FBI offices. The defendant in the case she’d been set to testify in had pled out at the last possible moment, and she should be happy that was off her plate.

Instead, lingering irritation simmered under her skin. Tick Calvert had to be the most stubborn man alive, and when he got an idea in his head, there was no changing his mind.

Or so he thought. She wouldn’t let him win this one. Since her miscarriage, he’d been withdrawn and absolutely adamant they wouldn’t attempt another pregnancy. She passed a hand over her flat stomach, the nagging little pain tugging at her heart. She wouldn’t deny that losing this baby hurt, almost as much as losing the first much later in her pregnancy had, but she refused to let fear of another loss hold them back. They’d argued over it again that morning, until Tick had stormed out to his truck without his customary “love you, precious” or even kissing her goodbye.

She was mad as hell, not hurt. That squeezing around her heart was anger. Not the ache of separation from the man she loved.

“Hey, Falconetti, we’re not running a race. Slow down, would you?” Agent Demetrius Taylor caught up with her at the top of the steps.

She shot him a cool look. “You know, if you quit smoking, keeping up with me wouldn’t be a problem.”

“You know, if you were less bitchy, we’d get along better.” He swiped his ID through the electronic lock at the back entrance. “We’re supposed to be partners. Bond and be best friends and all that bullshit.”

“Bullshit is right,” she muttered and swept into the building. Partners. Taylor was the guy she worked with, not her partner. She’d buried her partner more than four months ago, thanks to the son of a bitch standing trial in Chandler County. The shame of it was they couldn’t prove he’d killed her. Schaefer wasn’t facing charges of murdering Special Agent Gina Bocaccio.

The more Caitlin watched Tick bury himself in the evidence, the more she worried Autry Holton might work some miracle of defense and get him off. A shudder worked its way over Caitlin’s body. Schaefer, on the loose. He’d planned to kill her, to make her beg before strangling her, all in front of Tick.