Deadly Pursuit (17 page)

And as denial warred with reality, a single agonized word roared through her mind.

No!

Mitch sliced through the water in the Y pool, staying dead center in his lane, counting laps—six more to go—and thinking about the call he was going to make to Alison in a few minutes about a date for Saturday night.

He was so focused on debating the merits of one of the higher-end Italian restaurants on The Hill versus a sidewalk café in the Central West End that the ringing of his phone didn't immediately register.

By the time it did, he was at the far end of the pool. No way could he get back to the other side before it rolled to voice mail.

After executing a flip turn, he used the combat sidestroke he'd mastered as a SEAL to propel him back toward the phone. In light of the demands of his job and his father's recent health issues, he tried to stay within arm's reach of it at all times. Since that wasn't possible in the pool, he'd grown accustomed to leaving it on his towel, set to audible. But it rarely rang at the hours he swam.

When it did, there was usually a problem.

At the end of the pool, he pulled himself out of the water as another call came in. He grabbed the phone with one hand, his towel with the other, and wiped the water off his face as he checked caller ID.

Alison.

He'd memorized her number too.

Maybe this wasn't a problem call, after all.

His lips tipping into a smile, he pressed the talk button. “Hi, Alison. I was just going to call you.”

He waited for her to toss back some pert reply. Instead, an odd noise came over the line.

One that sounded a lot like a strangled sob.

Adrenaline surging, he shot to his feet and took off at a jog for the dressing room, wet feet slapping against the cement surface, a drip line marking his path.

“Alison, what's wrong?”

“S-somebody k-killed Bert.”

As she choked out the words, Mitch felt as if someone had kicked him in the stomach.

“Where are you?” He put the phone on speaker, set it on a bench in the dressing room, and grabbed his clothes out of the locker. No time for his customary shower to rinse the chlorine from his skin.

“In m-my backyard.”

“Okay. Listen to me.” He shoved his legs into his jeans. “I want you to go in the house right now. Lock the door behind you. I'll wait while you do it.”

“I c-can't leave B-Bert.” Once more she began to sob.

“I'm on my way. But I need to know you're safe. Go in now. Please.”

No response.

His pulse kicked into overdrive, and his fingers fumbled the laces on his shoes. “Alison? Are you still there?”

“Y-yes.”

“Please . . . go in the house. Now. I'm waiting.” He slammed the locker shut, pulled his keys out of his pocket, and charged toward the exit. If he floored it, he should be able to get from the Y in Kirkwood to her house in Fenton in less than fifteen minutes.

He heard some shuffling on the line, then the sound of a door opening and closing.

“I'm in.”

“Is everything locked?”

“Yes.”

Pushing through the main door of the Y, he sprinted toward his car, hitting the button on his key chain to release the door locks as he approached.

“I'm getting in my car. I'll be there in a few minutes. Sit tight.”

“Okay.”

Severing the connection, Mitch called dispatch and requested that a patrol car be sent to Alison's house. Then he pulled up Cole's number and used autodial to connect. Alison's brother answered on the second ring. Mitch didn't waste words.

“Cole, it's Mitch. Alison just called me. Someone got to her dog. I notified dispatch and I'm on my way.”

The other man uttered a word that wasn't pretty. “I'm right behind you.”

The line went dead.

As Mitch merged into the westbound traffic on I-44 and accelerated, he wasn't certain what he'd find at Alison's house. But one thing was very clear.

Bingo man was back.

Twelve minutes later, as he slammed on his brakes behind one of the two patrol cars parked in front of Alison's house, an officer appeared from around the side of the attached garage, following the beam of a flashlight.

Mitch met him in the middle of the front yard and flashed his badge. “What do we have?”

“Somebody sure did a number on that dog.” The man looked a little green. “He's in the back. I'll show you.”

He retraced his steps, pausing at the edge of the patio, where the other officer stood. “About fifteen feet straight ahead.” He pinpointed the spot with his flashlight.

Mitch understood at once why the man's complexion had taken on a sickly hue.

Clicking on his own light, he approached the mound of fur. Two feet away, he stopped.

Bert lay on a small square of plastic. One side of his head had been smashed in, and his body had been slashed in several places. A bingo card had been propped against him. Two of the squares were marked off with a skull-and-crossbones stamp.

The whole thing was beyond sick.

And the small pile of vomit off to one side told him more eloquently than words what Alison's reaction had been to the scene. He'd heard the shock and horror and terror in her voice. But the sadistic cruelty startled even him—and he'd seen a lot.

He turned to the two officers, who were conversing in low tones behind him. “Stick close while I talk to Ms. Taylor.”

Without waiting for a response, he took the three steps to the back door in one leap and knocked. “Alison. It's Mitch.”

He heard a chair scrape, and a few moments later the lock was flipped.

When she opened the door, a second shock wave rocked him. Her face was colorless. Ravaged. And the numb blankness in her eyes reminded him of how he and his fellow SEAL wannabes had looked during the Hell Week training segment, after they'd gone five days with a mere four hours of sleep while being pushed to their physical and psychological limits. The trauma had been so great that the only way he could get through it was to distance himself. Withdraw to a place where he couldn't feel the pain.

That's what Alison had done.

But when she saw him, that shaky defense shattered. Her face crumpled, the horror returned to her eyes, and she swayed.

He'd intended to lead her to the kitchen table, get her some clear soda, and calm her enough so she could run through the events of the evening. Now, he scrapped that plan.

After crossing the threshold, he shoved the door shut with his foot and pulled her into his arms.

She clung to him, clutching his shirt in her fists. Shaking and silent as tears trailed down her cheeks and soaked into his T-shirt.

He held her, searching for words of comfort and consolation. But all he could come up with was the old standard that was never adequate.

“I'm so sorry.” He rested his chin on top of her bowed head and pulled her closer, rage roiling in his gut. If he ever got his hands on the guy who'd done this, he'd . . .

“Why?” Her whispered word, filled with anguish, interrupted his vengeful thoughts and tore at his heart.

“I wish I knew.” He stroked her back, the fierce feelings of protectiveness that swept over him reinforcing what he'd already suspected—Alison Taylor was fast laying claim to his heart.

All at once the door banged into his back, and he shot an irritated look over his shoulder. Cole peered back at him through the six-inch opening. He assumed the tall, dark-haired guy behind his colleague was the brother he hadn't met, Deputy U.S. Marshal Jake Taylor.

“You want to let us in?” Cole's expression was grim, and anger flared in the depths of his eyes. The same anger Mitch was struggling to contain.

Moving to one side, Mitch kept an arm around Alison as she shifted to face her brothers.

Based on the simultaneous narrowing of their eyes as they entered, neither missed his proprietary gesture. And Mitch sensed they had mixed feelings about it.

Tough.

Still holding on to Alison, he offered his hand to Jake. “Mitch Morgan.”

There was an infinitesimal hesitation before the other man took it in a firm grip. “Jake. The other brother.”

“That's what I figured.”

Jake edged around Cole, touched Alison's cheek, and gentled his voice. “You okay, Twig?”

“I guess.”

Cole moved closer to his sister and pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. “It's clean.” The words came out husky as he dabbed at her tears, and he cleared his throat.

She took the handkerchief from him and squeezed his hand. Rising on tiptoe, she kissed Jake's cheek. “Thanks for coming.”

“We're going to find this guy, Alison.” Cole's jaw settled into a hard line.

“I hope so.”

“Will you be okay in here alone for a few minutes while Cole and Mitch and I do a quick sweep of the area? There are two officers outside too.” Jake touched her shoulder again, as if reassuring himself she was okay.

Mitch could relate.

“Yeah.”

“Let me get you something to drink first.” Mitch guided her over to the kitchen table, removed a clear soda from the fridge, and pulled the tab. Keeping his back to her brothers, he set it in front of her and leaned close, speaking in a voice only she could hear.

“Remember, you've got three able-bodied men dedicated to keeping you safe and tracking this guy down.”

She took a shuddering breath. “You have enough on your plate already. You don't need to add me to your list of responsibilities.”

“Maybe I want to.” He locked gazes with her, and only after the barest hint of color seeped back into her cheeks, telling him his message had been received, did he straighten up. “We'll be back in a few minutes.”

Jake and Cole were waiting for him by the back door. As they exited and walked over to where Bert lay, he half expected Cole to comment on the cozy scene with his sister. But for once, his colleague had more pressing matters than Alison's love life on his mind.

Namely, her safety.

Mitch was glad Cole had his priorities straight.

As they gathered about three feet from the dog, Jake flashed his light along the lawn from the square of plastic toward the back of the yard. A subtle path of crushed grass was discernible. “The guy took care of the dog farther back and dragged him closer to the house.”

There was a hard edge to Cole's voice when he responded. “He must have hidden in the common ground, waiting for Alison to let Bert out for his nightly run.”

The implication was obvious. Someone had been watching Alison's house. Knew her habits.

That didn't sit well with Mitch. Or with her brothers, judging from their somber demeanors.

Mitch spoke to the two officers at the edge of the patio. “Did you guys see anything when you got here?”

“Just the dog,” one of them replied.

“Okay. Hang tight for a few more minutes. We're going to check out the back of the property.”

He took off for the woods, and Alison's brothers fell in behind him.

Much to his surprise, the perpetrator hadn't made any attempt to erase evidence of his presence. A large, bloodstained rock had been left at the edge of the property. A half-eaten hamburger patty lay on the ground beside it. A bribe for Bert, no doubt.

“Over there.” Cole trained his flashlight on a bloody sheet of plastic that appeared to have a hole cut in the middle. It lay in the center of the thicket, as if it had been discarded on the run.

Jake moved into the underbrush, staying wide of the bloody plastic as he swept the beam of his light toward the far side of the common ground. “I can see a trail of broken branches. He must have exited on the other side.”

“I think it's time to call in the Crime Scene Unit.” Cole's voice was somber. “I didn't want to overreact to the dead roses, but there's a pattern of threats now. Plus an act of violence.” He turned to Mitch. “Let's get some patrol officers canvassing the neighborhood. Alison's street, and the one behind us.”

“Okay. But then we need to address another issue.”

“I'm with you.” Jake shot him a look that told Mitch they were on the same page. “Our guy's been here twice. This incident was far worse than the first one. And the fact he left another bingo card with a second square marked off tells me he's not through yet. That this has become a game to him, and he won't stop until he hits bingo—which is just two squares away.”

“That leaves us with one critical question.” Mitch looked at the two men beside him and cut to the chase. “How are we going to keep Alison safe?”