So Close the Hand of Death (21 page)

The strains of some familiar music started, and Baldwin shook his head. What a crude, silly attempt to send a message.

It was a song from the fifties, by the Platters. He’d never thought of it in this context. It was perfect for a stalker.

“Oh, yes, I’m the great pretender…I’m lonely, but no one can tell…you’ve left me to dream, all alone.”

Jesus. He was overcome with rage. This goddamn freak was getting on his nerves.

“What’s it mean, sir?” Wells asked. He and Rogers had come into the living room, obviously concerned. Baldwin realized he’d been clutching the jewel case so hard that it had shattered. A small drop of blood dripped off the end of his finger onto the hardwood floor, followed by quicker, more insistent drops. Crap. He’d cut himself badly.

He pushed Stop on the player, ignored Wells and Rogers’s offers of help, and went to the kitchen. Grabbed a towel from the drawer and wrapped it around his hand. Stalked back into the living room to see how much blood he’d spilled on the floor. Wondered how many more chances he was going to get.

T
aylor heard voices, then music. What in the world? She forced her eyes open. Good. She’d slept. She sat up, surprised at how refreshed she felt. Just a couple of hours of rest, but rest it was. She’d dreamed heavily, not her usual dark, murky nightmares, but of a happy, smiling man wrapped in a rust-colored sheet. A monk. Holding out a small, thin piece of string for her to tie around her wrist, his toothless smile engaging and encouraging. “Protection,” he’d said.

Protection. Her hand went to her wrist. It was bare.

If only dreams were capable of such powers.

She pulled back the covers, dressed and hurried downstairs. Baldwin was standing in the middle of the living room, bleeding, and two very large men were standing on either side of him. What in the hell were they doing in the house? And why was Baldwin bleeding? Damn it.

“Gentlemen?”

All three of them started. The two bodyguards’ hands instinctively strayed to their weapons before they caught themselves. Baldwin gestured to the men.

“Your guards,” he said.

She was struck by the coldness of his tone. Something had happened while she was asleep, that was obvious.

She met his eyes for a moment, tried to ignore the frustration and questions in them, then addressed the guards. “Wells, Rogers, we’re fine here, as you can see. Why don’t you wait outside. We’ll be heading back to the CJC shortly.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Wells said. They turned and went to the front door, slipped out quietly. Stealthy, for such large men.

When they were finally alone, Taylor turned back to Baldwin. “What happened?”

“They got the drop on me. I was getting the mail. They seem very capable.” He shrugged, she could read the embarrassment in the line of his shoulders. There was more he wasn’t saying, but she didn’t push. He’d tell her when he was ready; she could feel him struggling with something. When he turned and went to the kitchen, she followed behind. A change of subject was in order.

“Let me see your hand,” she said.

“It’s fine,” he said, but let her glance at it to prove he was okay. She ran the water in the sink, let the blood wash down the drain. It was a shallow cut, but a bleeder. The gaping edges were already starting to clot and crust.

“I think you’ll live, but let me put some alcohol on it, just in case. How did you cut it?”

“We received a gift in the mail.” She retrieved the first-aid kit from the cabinet and went to work. He hissed as she dosed the cut in alcohol, then let her slowly wipe the excess off, apply Neosporin and close
it with a large Band-Aid. Echoes of the ministrations that had been performed on her back in Forest City.

“How’s your leg?” he asked automatically. Reading her thoughts again.

“It’s fine. I haven’t thought about it in hours.” Which was true, but now that she remembered, her shin gave a throb. “I’ll change the dressing on it later.”

She brought his hand to her mouth and kissed the bandage.

“All better?”

“We’ll see,” he said, and the obliqueness of his tone made her take a step back. He really was upset, just keeping it hidden, right below the surface. Was he mad at her? Or was it something else?

“What came in the mail, Baldwin?”

He flexed his fingers a few times, as if testing the binding. He made a fist and didn’t grimace. She knew he was okay.

“Our friend sent us a message. Though I’ll be damned if I know what to make of it. Come on, I’ll show you.”

The Valentine’s card was on the counter where he’d left it. She opened it with a pen, read the words. Was surprised at how little they affected her. She was becoming inured to his threats. This was just a game to Copeland, just a stupid game. No wonder Baldwin was so peeved. He was poking at them, just trying to get a rise.

She let the card close.

Baldwin led her back to the living room and pressed play on the stereo. Music streamed from the speakers.

After a moment, she said, “The Platters?”

“Yep. There’s more. Writing on the disc. He burned it himself, it’s not an original recording.”

“Let’s see it.”

Baldwin ejected the CD midwail and handed it to Taylor.

“It’s gibberish to me. I don’t see any rhyme or reason to it.”

At first glance, she had to agree. There were just a bunch of numbers and letters, none that spelled out anything obvious.

“White board,” she said, heading up the stairs to her office. She erased everything that was on the board, then wrote down the numbers and letters at the top, enjoying the strange scent of the erasable marker and its small, squeaking scratches as she wrote. She loved her white board.

When she was finished, she stood back and looked at the string.

148NAD77HCBOTM4482901QRE

“What about a VIN?” Taylor asked.

“Nope. Vehicle Identification Numbers are only seventeen digits. That’s twenty-four.”

“You remember when we used to get actual airline tickets? There was always that huge long string at the bottom that didn’t make sense, but it was really the codes for the airports, and the equipments, dates and seat numbers. Maybe that’s it.”

“Good idea.”

They started playing with combinations of letters, breaking them into groups, writing them backward, but nothing was apparent. No call signs for airports, no dates, nothing that made logical sense.

Baldwin was getting frustrated, his hair was standing on end. Taylor smoothed it down, then wiped away all
their conjecture, leaving them with the original numbers and letters at the top of the board.

“Let’s look at this a different way. He’s sending us a message. What do we think is happening, right now?”

“He’s playing a game.”

“Right. And we know that he has probably recruited people to play with him. There have been three recent copycat crimes that we know of.” She stared at the board, mind whirling.

“Break it into threes?” She transcribed the numbers on the board.

148NAD77 HCBOTM4 482901QRE

“Still means nothing.”

She had the first glimmers of an idea. “Let me see the disc again,” Taylor said.

Baldwin handed it to her. She looked closely at the placement of the letters, then wrote a new pattern on the board.

148NAD77HCBOTM4482 901QRE

“It looks like there’s a space between the first string of letters and numbers and the end. If we break that off, then separate them into three sections…”

She scribbled on the board, then stood back and looked.

148NAD 77HCB OTM4482 901QRE

“License plate numbers?” she said, and heard Baldwin suck in his breath. He tapped the computer on her
desk to life, fingers flying over the keys as he accessed a database through his FBI identification.

“Damn, you’re good. That’s got to be it. Let me call Kevin, have him put some elbow grease into this.” He smiled at her, his face radiant, and she knew she was forgiven her transgression.

Would he feel the same way if he knew she’d killed a man on purpose?

She shoved that thought away.

She took the CD and put it into her laptop, stepped out of the room so she wouldn’t interrupt Baldwin. Went into their guest room, sat on the bed, and hit Play. The song spilled out of the computer, and she listened carefully to the lyrics. They gave her the creeps. Such a simple song, perverted for a psycho’s purpose.

The song finished, and there was silence, deafening quiet. She started to press the eject button, then heard something. Leaning closer, she turned the speakers up as far as they could go. There was rustling, like a plastic bag being wadded up, then a cough. She strained to hear more, but there was nothing. Then a deep voice spoke.

“Don’t be late, Taylor. We’ll be waiting.”

The CD spun to a stop.

She froze for a moment. We’ll be waiting. We who? Ewan Copeland and Ruth Anderson? Ewan and his copycat monsters?

Her mind flashed back to the white board, to the last set of numbers, the ones that had given her the idea to break them apart from the rest anyway.

901QRE

We’ll be waiting
.

It hit her like a landslide, and she yelled for Baldwin.
She heard him excuse himself from the phone and rush to the room immediately.

“What’s wrong? You’re white as a sheet.”

“The last numbers. I was wrong. They aren’t a license plate.”

“What are they?”

“I don’t know what the E is, but 901QR has to be 901 Quaker Run.”

The significance dawned on him. “Oh, my God.”

“That’s Sam’s address. Baldwin, he’s got Sam.”

To: [email protected], 44caliber @ncr.ss.com, [email protected]

From: [email protected]
Subject: Game Over

Gentlemen,

My deepest apologies to share this untimely news, but your covers are blown.

Accelerate the schedule and rendezvous at your predesignated final assignment.

Time to come to Papa. And hurry. The Pretender

T
aylor had never felt the level of panic that was cruising through her system. Despite that, she stayed outwardly calm. She picked up the phone and speed-dialed her best friend’s cell number.

It went directly to voice mail, a sign that the phone had been turned off. Taylor ended the call, then dialed Sam’s house. Simon Loughley, Sam’s husband, answered the phone. Taylor could hear the twins crying in the background. She tried to sound as normal as possible.

“Hi, Simon. Sam around?”

“Hey, Taylor. Good to hear from you. No, she has the overnight shift this week, probably up to her elbows in entrails right about now. She has a doctor’s appointment this morning, too. She’s not supposed to be home until around ten or so. Hey, are you and Baldwin coming to Thanksgiving? No, let me rephrase. Please tell me you and Baldwin are coming to Thanksgiving. Sam can’t drink, and you know how she gets when she’s pregnant on national holidays.”

Taylor fought the rising nausea.
It’s okay. She’s okay.
She’s at work. Nothing can happen to her while she’s at Forensic Medical.

“We’d love to, Simon. We’re planning to be there. I’ve got to run, I need to track her down. I’ll—I’ll tell her I talked to you and told you we’d come, okay?”

“Everything all right, Taylor? You sound tense.”

“Big case. Lots of stress. You know how it is.”

“I do. Be good. See you Thursday, okay?”

She swallowed hard. “Of course. Kiss the twins for me.”

She hung up the phone and sought Baldwin’s hand. He grasped hers, gave it a good hard squeeze.

“Should you tell him what’s going on? Simon has a good head on his shoulders. He won’t panic.”

“We don’t know there’s a problem yet. There’s no reason to scare him for nothing.”

“You’re right. It’s going to be okay. I’ll call Forensic Medical, see if I can locate her there.” He flipped open his cell phone.

A horrible thought crossed her mind. “Hold on. I have to get Simon and the twins covered. Maybe he’s planning to hit them instead of Sam.” As she said it, she knew it wasn’t the truth, but it was better than doing nothing. She called McKenzie’s cell phone.

“Hey there. We got the warrant for Colleen’s blog participants.” he said, exhaustion making his voice hoarse.

She cut him off. “I need you to do me a favor, okay? No questions. Please go to Sam’s house and keep an eye on Simon and the kids. Don’t let anyone near them, for any reason. You understand me?”

McKenzie’s voice sharpened. “Yes. Are you okay?”

“I am. I’ve gotten what I believe might be a threat
against Sam, and I don’t want to take any chances. Take extra weapons, get backup, but most of all, be discreet. I don’t want Simon freaking out on me, okay?”

“He’s going to be suspicious. Where is Sam now?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m looking for her. She worked the overnight shift. I’m going down there right now. Just get to Simon, secure him and the kids, okay?”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Call me and let me know what’s happening, okay?”

“I will. Thanks, Renn.”

Baldwin was ending his call, too. “There’s no answer, just the overnight message.”

Taylor tried Sam’s cell again. No joy.

She shut her eyes and took a deep breath, felt a shattering tranquility course through her. She would not let anything happen to Sam. No. Absolutely not. This was her responsibility, her job. And the opportunity she’d been hoping for. She knew in her heart he wouldn’t kill Sam, not yet, anyway. He’d want to torture Taylor first, make her run all over town trying to figure out where Sam was. He wouldn’t do anything to her until Taylor could see, could watch. He wanted an audience, wanted her approval, in a sense. Or her fear. Taking Fitz while he was out of town was just meant to get her attention. This was going to be his final showdown.

Taylor wasn’t going to go at this willy-nilly. She had a plan. She’d been preparing herself for this moment for days.

She turned to Baldwin. “We need a BOLO on Sam’s car. Kris will have the license number in the personnel files. I’m going over there right now to talk to Kris. She’ll be there by the time I drive across town. I need to get a hold of Sam’s schedule, see what she had going
on last night. I’m going to track every movement she made, and I
will
find her.”

“I’m going with you.”

“No.”

“What?” His voice, laden with shock, went up an octave.

“No. I need you to do something else for me. I need you to find out why Colleen is involved in this. I’m assuming she’s being targeted, too.”

“Sam is designed to draw you out, Taylor. I will not let that happen.”

“I have the boys outside, remember? They will stay on me, and I’ll be perfectly safe with them. They won’t let anything happen to me. You saw that.”

“I did, but…”

“Honey, we have to split up. There’s too much to figure out. And we don’t have any more time. We are out of time.”

“Taylor—”

She stopped his protestations with her mouth. She kissed him, fierce and hard. There was a wild violence to it, no regret, no holding back. He responded, wrapping his arms around her and practically breaking her ribs. When she finally pulled away, her breath came in ragged gasps. She let her heartbeat start to slow, then said one word.

“Please.”

He looked her in the eye, and understood what she was saying. She felt his arms loosen fractionally, then he released her.

“Okay, Taylor. We’ll play this your way. But for Christ’s sake, be careful.”

“I will,” she said. And she meant it. She’d carefully aim before she put a bullet in Ewan Copeland’s brain.

Taylor had a regular pace going now—redial, ring, hang up, redial, ring, hang up. Sam could have forgotten to turn the phone on. The battery could have died. She could have left it in her office drawer. There were many, many innocent explanations for why she wasn’t answering. But Taylor knew that wasn’t the case. She knew in her soul that Ewan Copeland had her best friend.

She heard Baldwin’s BMW leave the garage. She didn’t think she was ever going to get him to agree to her plan. But he’d capitulated, for what was probably the first and only time in their relationship.

She needed the key to their safe. They’d upgraded to a 14-gun Sentry safe after the Pretender’s first letter, when she knew he was aware of where she lived. Her home. Her most vulnerable place. It was full to the brim and had a double lock, one keyed, one combination, an extra deterrent to any thieves, or accidental discoveries. She had a lot of important things in that safe, she didn’t want to run the risk of someone accidentally stumbling across them.

They kept the key in Baldwin’s office filing cabinet, probably not the most secure place—even though it locked, they rarely turned the key. It was convenient if they ever needed in quickly. They didn’t get into the big safe regularly anyway. It was there to protect their fun guns and a few important documents.

She’d already decided to take the Ruger with her, and a worn 9 mm Beretta. Both were recently cleaned, road tested first at the gun show where she’d purchased them, then out in the woods behind their house. They were reliable, and disposable. There was a Walther PPK in there as well, plus a few others, not to mention rifles
and shotguns, but all of those were registered in either her or Baldwin’s name.

In the off chance that she was able to get the Pretender alone, away from everyone and everything that she stood for, she needed a throwaway weapon, one that was unregistered, off the grid. All the cops she knew had a few hanging around, for whatever reason. She wasn’t dirty, she’d never carried them with her to a scene, never.

But this was different. In this situation, she was dirty. She was going to kill a man, premeditated and in cold blood, and she needed to be prepared for all the contingencies. If she couldn’t make it look like self-defense, she’d have to cover her tracks. She felt soiled, sullied in a way she’d never experienced, but shook it off. This man, this killer, was threatening her, threatening her family. Like a rabid dog, he needed to be stopped. He needed to be put down.

She was just the woman for the job.

Baldwin’s office was spotless. He had everything perfectly organized, the desktop clean, a small stack of paper filed in his outbox, his mouse pad and mouse just so. She smiled at the precision, the cleanliness. The order of his mind, the very essence of his abilities, laid out in the symmetry and perfection that was in evidence before her.

Just like Sam. The two of them were her anchors, her life. If something happened to either of them…

Nothing would. She was going to make sure of that.

They kept the key stashed in between several of his files. She pulled on the drawer, surprised to feel resistance. It was locked. Using her house keys, she unlocked the cabinet. Rifled through to the spot where the key
was hidden. Reached into the file and pulled back the metal. She started to close the filing cabinet drawer, but heard something, like a piece of paper was caught in the tracks. She ran the drawer back and forth, yes, something was sticking out, making a
shurring
noise. It was all the way in the back of the cabinet, past the file she’d just pilfered. She pulled the drawer out fully, extending it as far as it would go. Something was taped to the topside of the cabinet.

She pulled the loose corner, that was what had caught on the edge of the drawer, and felt the paper give way. She backed it out carefully, the tape peeling back slowly. She didn’t want to damage it, she knew immediately that she wasn’t meant to see this.

But she was feeling reckless, and Baldwin would never know. In case something happened, she wanted to find out what was so important to him to hide from her.

The last of the tape pulled free. She extracted it from the cabinet. Flipped it over. Felt the blood drain from her face, her head go swimmy.

It was a picture of a boy. Maybe two years old. Posed, in a soccer uniform. He had flaming-red hair, the color that would darken into bronze as the child aged. His face was still unformed, the skin pale and creamy, barely freckled, just beginning to show the edges of high, slanting cheekbones. It was the eyes that were unmistakable. They were the clear green of the forest after a spring rain. Bright. Wide. Stunning.

Baldwin’s eyes.

She had absolutely no doubt in her mind that she was looking at a child that had been fathered by her fiancé.

Her breath caught in her throat. She felt like she was going to faint.

Baldwin had a son.