Sacrificial Muse (A Sabrina Vaughn Novel) (18 page)

FORTY-SEVEN

The moment her door
clicked closed, Sabrina let out a shuttering breath. She saw herself jumping up and flinging it open, pulling him back in. Asking him to stay. Instead she drew her leg up to her chest, pressing her scar into her hip bone, harder and harder until the pressure brought pain.

It’s just as well darlin’. Three’s a crowd …

Standing, she went to the window and opened the curtain. She could see her house in the distance. Knew her family was there, tucked away safely. Nick would make sure of that.

Val had been wrong, Nickels wasn’t Sabrina’s chance at being happy. If she hadn’t known it then, she knew it now. She was in love with Michael, which meant there would be no happy ending for her. Not ever.

She looked down, hadn’t even realized she’d picked it up until she saw it. The card, clutched in her fist. She turned it over in her hands; saw the elegant, rust-colored lettering:

Calliope

This was who she was. Not happy. Not normal. She would never get to be those things. This was what she was. What she was allowed to have—death and blood. She ran her fingers over the rust-colored lettering.

Blood …

Revelation jolted her into action, and she turned toward the bed and her backpack, sitting on the floor beside it. Most cops carried tools of the trade with them everywhere they went, and she was no different. Dumping her backpack out onto the bed, it all tumbled out—gloves and booties, evidence bags and markers … and a blood-collection kit. She plucked the long plastic tube from the pile and snapped the thin inner tube inside of it, releasing the chemicals, allowing them to mix together and saturate the swab before removing the red rubber cap. She ran the swab lightly over the envelope, across the lettering. The end of it instantly turned a bluish green. Blood.

She took pity on her knees and sank down, perching on the edge of the bed before they collapsed beneath her. The killer had written to her in blood. It was too much to hope that he’d used his own or that his DNA was stored in CODIS. No, not his own—he was too smart for that. Maybe Bethany Edwards? His
next
victim? Did that mean she’d been wrong? That he’d not only chosen his next muse but that he’d already taken her?

She felt the unbearable weight of helplessness drag her under, rob her of the hope that she’d find the woman in time. That she’d be able to save a faceless girl whose only mistake had been to be found worthy of sacrifice. She let it hold her down for a second, let herself feel it and the urgency and resolve it brought. Even if she failed, she would try.

She stood, intent on … what? Getting dressed? Storming out and driving to the station? And then what? Turn over the evidence she’d been withholding in an investigation she had no business pursuing? There were a few techs in CSU who would do her a favor no questions asked, but she’d killed enough careers for one day. No, she needed to think this through.

Her field test only confirmed her suspicions that the killer had used blood as ink, not who it belonged to, or even if it was human. She needed a lab for that—fortunately she knew where to get one without causing further damage to anyone but herself.

Fishing her cell from her coat pocket, she dialed and listened to it ring. The phone was answered on the fourth ring, but for a moment all she heard was the muffled wail of Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me.”

“Sweet Jesus … ” she muttered. She should’ve known he was on leave. She almost hung up.

“Hello?” Ben said.

She let out a sigh, lowering herself onto the bed. “In church again, I see.”

“I do love a good sermon,” Ben said with a laugh. “I take it our boy made it safely.”

“Would’ve been nic
e to have gotten a warning he was coming.”

“Yeah? Then stop ignoring my phone calls.” The din of loud music and giggling strippers faded away, followed by the distinct clap of a door being pulled closed. “I’ve called you a few
thousand
times since I dropped him off.”

“Sorry,” she said, even though she wasn’t sorry at all.

“Yeah, you sound real contrite.” Ben sighed into the phone. “He tell you why he was there?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

Now was not the time to play mental chess with Ben—not when she was too exhausted to keep up. “Michael isn’t why I called. I need DNA tests run on some evidence.” She had to force the words out; she’d never been one to ask for help.

“So? You’re a cop. Take it to the crime lab,” Ben said.

“I can’t … I need an independent lab. Something anonymous.” Sabrina ran a hand through her hair. The son-of-a-bitch was going to make her beg. “
Please
.”

A long stretch of silence followed, so long she had to bite her lip to keep from saying anything else. He’d want to know why, what it was for so he could find the angle in it to use against her later.

“Okay.”

She blinked a few times, unable to process his reaction. “You don’t even know what it’s for.”

Ben laughed. “Don’t care. I’ll send a courier in a few hours.”

She hesitated. This was why she’d called him, wasn’t it?

“Sabrina?” As usual, he sounded as if he knew exactly what was going on in her brain and he found it amusing.

“What am I going to have to do for you in return?”

He sighed quietly. “Don’t make this into something it’s not. You asked for help and I’m feeling generous, so the answer is nothing. The courier will have a work order; fill it out and send him on his way. You’ll have whatever answer you need by end of day. For free.”

End of day
? The police forensic lab would’ve taken a week or better—and that’s with her doing the hard lean on some poor tech. “Okay … thanks, Ben,” she said, feeling awkward and clumsy.

“You can thank me be actually keeping your PT appointment tomorrow.” he said. “Nine a.m., you better be there this time, Sabrina. I’m done fucking around with you.” Before she could respond, he cut her off. “Got to go, the nuns are about to pass the
collection plate.” Then he was gone, leaving Sabrina alone on the open line.

She killed the call and dumped her cell onto the nightstand before finally allowing herself to stretch out on the bed. She had to be on the qualifying field by seven and then to Kyle’s office by nine to endure seventy-five minutes of therapeutic torture … and somehow, she had to make time to find a young woman who had a connection to astronomy, however tenuous, and stop her abduction and subsequent murder.

She’d be able to do none of it if she didn’t get some rest. Forcing herself to close her eyes, she felt herself drift almost instantly, lulled to sleep by the fact that Michael was across the hall.

FORTY-EIGHT

Those five hours sleep
on the plane hadn’t done him any favors. Michael was wide awake, but he kicked off his boots and laid down anyway.

You have a way of making me do the stupidest things …

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. The long lines of her back, the soft curve of her breasts. The ugly lump of knotted flesh at the top of her thigh. The shame and pain it caused her.

He reached up, scrubbed rough hands across his face. Stupid wasn’t the half of it. Selfish. Impulsive. Self-indulgent … The list went on and on. The past few hours had been nothing more than a long series of lies and half-truths that no one believed but him. Everyone else had known despite his best intentions and protests to the contrary exactly where he’d end up.

When he’d de-boarded the plane, he’d been mildly surprised. Instead of the bright lights of the Vegas strip glowing in the distance, he’d seen the lighted outline of the Golden Gate. Waiting for him on the tarmac was a midnight blue Mustang Shelby GT500 with white racing stripes. “Keys are in it, along with a few essentials in the trunk,” Ben said behind him, leaning against the frame of the jet’s cabin door.

Michael looked at the car and almost laughed. “Ever heard of
blending in
?” he said, tossing a look at Ben once he reached the bottom of the stairs. “Ya know, like maybe a Honda Accord or even a Volvo?”

“Sorry, bro—I don’t do beige and boring,” Ben said, getting ready to shut the cabin door to the Lear. “And don’t worry; this unscheduled detour is off the books. As far as
mein fürher
is concerned, you’re in Vegas with me, debauching yourself silly.”

He barked out a laugh. “I’ve heard that one before.”

“Lark was an amateur—I’ve been dodging my dad for a very long time,” Ben said with his best
trust me, I’m a professional
smile.

Just the mention of Lark was enough to dry up any amusement he may have felt. Ben seemed to read his mind. “Your choice. You can always get back on the plane … ”

Thinking of Sabrina and the mess he’d created for her where Croft was concerned, Michael readjusted his duffle and shook his head. “See you in a few days.”

“Right … tell your girl I said hi,” Ben said with a smile and shut the door, cutting off his protest that he had no intention of seeing Sabrina.

He’d driven straight to Miss Ettie’s, stashing the Mustang in the detached garage. Fitting the only key he carried into the back door lock, he let himself in to find Miss Ettie in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher. She looked up expectantly for a second before a surprised smile creased her softly lined face. “Michael, I didn’t know you were coming,” she said. Surprise was replaced by concern as she wiped her hands on an embroidered dish towel, turning her cheek and lifting it to catch the quick kiss he dropped there. “You should’ve called.”

“Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you.” He gave her an apologetic smile, glancing at the clock hanging above the sink. It was almost midnight. “What are you doing up so late?” he said, dropping his bag at the foot of the stairs.

She hesitated, just long enough to let him know that whatever she was about to say wouldn’t be something he wanted to hear. “I’m waiting for Sabrina.”

“What?” Her words jerked his attention back to her face.

“She showed up on my doorstep last night, needing a place to stay for a few days so … ” She folded the dish towel as if that simple act would close the subject. “I gave her one.”

He shot a glance at the closed kitchen door. “And she’s coming back?”

“Well, I haven’t seen her since this morning, but she took the key, so I expect she will.”

Now. He should leave now. Seeing her was a complication neither of them could afford. The fact that he couldn’t seem to move his feet toward the door compounded that complication into impending disaster. “You should’ve called me.”

“Why? My house, my decision.” She gave him a shrug. “Besides, something’s going on with her, I just can’t figure out what,” she said, her tone sharpened by worry.

He was suddenly sure that the situation with Croft went deeper than he initially suspected. He gave her a smile he hoped was reassuring. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.”

Miss Ettie returned his smile. “I never do when you’re here,” she said, removing her apron and hanging it on a hook by the stove.

He caught her hand and gave it a soft squeeze so she’d look at him. “But you can’t tell her I’m here, okay?” It was a big house; the car Ben lent him was safely stashed. There was no need for her to even suspect he was here as long as he did his job quietly and stayed out of sight.

She chuckled softly, “Whatever you say, dear,” she said giving his cheek a soft pat. She pulled a key from her pocket and pressed it into his hand. “I gave her your room, so take any of the others you like … ” she said before disappearing down the hall, her bedroom door shutting seconds later.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand where he’d tossed it. A quick glance at the area code told him who it was. “I’m surprised you actually called me,” he said by way of greeting. “Being how I shot you and all.”

“Way I figure it, you wouldn’t have had the balls to ask Tomahawk to put in the call unless it was important. Since I got a few questions of my own, I guess now’s a good a time to get ’em answered.” Carson’s slow, east-Texas drawl held an odd mixture of disdain and respect. Michael had never been Jed Carson’s favorite person, and he suspected he was even less so since that day in Tom’s diner. Eight months ago, he’d been convinced that it had been Jed Carson, Jessup’s chief of police, who’d taken Melissa and murdered his sister. When Sabrina disappeared again, Michael shot him at point-blank range and came damn close to torturing him for Sabrina’s whereabouts. As it turned out, Carson had been just as fooled by his deputy and best friend as everyone else. “What’s this about, O’Shea?”

“Jaxon Croft.”

“Croft?” Carson laughed. “That reporter kickin’ shit on your shoes, Mikey?”

Michael gritted his teeth so hard it sounded like cracking glass against his eardrums. Very few people had ever gotten away with calling him Mikey—most of them were dead, and Carson knew it. “Look, you don’t like me—fuck, you probably hate my guts and you’ve got every right to—but this isn’t about me. This is about her. You think I’d be asking for your help if it wasn’t?”

Carson’s laughter withered into a charged silence that left him no doubt that he knew exactly who he was talking about. Sabrina. “What kind of shit-suckin’ mess you get her into this time?”

The kind that could get her killed.
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Croft. He was there not too long ago, asking questions about things he has no possible way of knowing. In order to protect her, I need to get ahead of it. To do that, I need to know what he knows. I figure since the two of you spent a fair amount of time alone together, you’d have a better idea than most,” Michael said, feeling his own cadence slip back into that same east-Texas drawl he tried so hard to suppress. The further he distanced himself from his old life, the safer everyone would be.

“Well, like you said—he showed up here, asking questions. At first they were about our girl. Wanted to know what happened that day in the woods with Wade. How I found her. How I ended up shot,” Carson said. “I told him the story you, me, and Tomahawk worked out to the letter, and he seemed to buy it. Then he went and took a bus to Marshall and started poking around there. Ended up digging so deep, he came up with some answers that didn’t add up. Showed back up at the diner and started in on the customers, which riled ol’ Tomahawk and they ended up in a scuffle. I hauled the reporter off to the station and sat on ’im until morning. We had a good long talk … only this time he seemed less interested in Sabrina and more interested in you.”

That’s what he’d been afraid of. “Did he say what he got ahold of in Marshall that got him interested?”

“Seems the medevac pilot who flew Sabrina out of there that day—name’s Harrison, I think—recognized you. Said the two of you served in Afghanistan together and that he’d flown you and your team on quite a few missions.”

Michael tried to remember that day, but it proved nearly impossible. Every time he tried to recall it in his mind, all he saw was Sabrina. Tubes and needles sticking into her arms, bloodied pants cut away from her cool, gray skin to reveal a bullet wound that he knew now had never completely healed. He tried to focus but could remember nothing past the pressure of the pilot’s hand on his chest, barring him access to the helicopter, telling him what he already knew. That he had to let her go.

Truth was, he’d been so wrecked it could’ve been his own mother and he doubt he’d have recognized her. “Is that all? Did he get anything else?”

“Now, hold up a minute—it’s my turn for a back scratchin’,” Carson said. “I believe I mentioned I have some questions that need answers.”

“Okay,” he said, doing his best to bury his impatience.

“How long did you know she was alive?” Carson said quietly. It was a question he’d expected, probably one of the only ones he could answer truthfully.

“Lucy came to me a few days before Frankie’s funeral with the truth. Told me about what’d happened to Melissa and that she’d been living in San Francisco as Sabrina Vaughn for a while.” He opened his eyes to watch predawn shadows begin to shrink away from the strengthening light of morning.

“So, a whole year. You knew for a whole goddamned year and you just kept it to yourself?” The indignation in Carson’s tone was enough to pull him upright. “How about Tom? He had more of a right to know than any of us … or did you suspect him of killing Frankie too?” Carson was relentless … and absolutely right. Tom hadn’t just loved Melissa; he was going to marry her. He’d had plenty of opportunity to tell him where he’d been. Who he was with. Instead he’d hoarded the information like a greedy child.

“I made a promise to Lucy, and I kept it,” he said stubbornly. But that wasn’t exactly true, was it? He’d told Lark—trusted him with the truth and in return, the man had used it to set loose a series of events that nearly cost Sabrina her life. The fact that it was ultimately Lucy’s trust in him that had gotten her killed and had led Wade to Sabrina in the first place was not lost on him.

It didn’t seem to be lost on Carson either. “Way I remember it, Mikey, you told your friend and he told your aunt … who told Wade. Seems to me, if Lucy hadn’t trusted you, she’d still be alive.”

“Is that another question?” He stood and walked to the window, twitching the curtain back just a bit. It was still dark, but he could make out the fence line separating Miss Ettie’s yard from Sabrina’s. His eyes wandered over to the neighbor’s. Even without sunlight, he could see it was overgrown with weeds—the only thing that seemed to thrive in the absence of a caretaker.

“More of an observation, really. The two of you sleeping together?” Carson said, no longer sounding amused.

He saw her—damp hair following the curve of her cheek. Long, dark lashes framing eyes that were blue enough to stop your heart. Felt the slight tremor of her muscle as he caressed the inside of her thigh. The warm expel of her breath against his neck as he leaned into her …

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no. Not then and not now. She’s involved with someone else. A cop, name’s Nickels.” He had no way of knowing if it was true, but assuming it made it easier to stay away from her. “Enough questions. Did Croft ever get an official statement from the pilot? Anything on the record he could build a story around?” Even as he asked it, Michael knew the answer was no. If he’d had enough information for a story, Croft wouldn’t be blackmailing Sabrina.

“I don’t know for sure … what I
do
know is that Harrison no longer flies out of Good Shepherd … or Texas for that matter. It’s like as soon as he started running his mouth about knowing you, he just up and disappeared.”