See No Evil (29 page)

THIRTY-THREE

C
ONNOR PACED
the emergency room while Julia was in surgery.

They needed to repair extensive muscle and arterial damage, and sew up the wound. The knife had gone in between the subclavian and pulmonary arteries. Had it been any higher on the shoulder, Julia would have bled out in minutes. Connor’s heart jumped into his throat and he squeezed back the moisture in his eyes. He shuddered at what could have happened, that but for a half inch, Julia would have died in his arms.

“She’ll be fine,” Dillon was saying. “They stabilized her in the ambulance. She’s going to make it.”

“I know. I’m just worried.” He ran a hand over his rough face. “Did Will arrest Laura Chase?”

When Dillon didn’t say anything, Connor stared at him. “Where is she?”

“They’re out in full force looking for her. Her house was empty,” said Dillon.

“She wasn’t at the art studio?”

“No. And her car is missing. We know she’s driving a silver Mercedes registered under the name Marisa Wohler.”

“Why? Why all…this?” Connor asked in exasperation.

“What we’ve been able to piece together after talking to Tom Chase is that Laura was devastated and inconsolable after Shannon’s death. She’d lost one daughter, Camilla, as an infant. She immediately got pregnant again and her entire life revolved around Shannon. She’d likely had an untreated psychosis already, and Shannon’s suicide flipped a switch.”

“So, kill the kid who raped her daughter, but why kill Bowen? Or Montgomery?”

“Will’s still trying to figure out how Tristan Lord and Laura Chase hooked up, but we know from records in Bowen’s office that the good doctor had an appointment with Laura Chase nearly two years ago that she never showed up for.”

“Where does Tristan Lord fit into this?”

Will Hooper walked in. “I think I can answer that.”

“Did you find Laura Chase?”

He shook his head. “We have the airports, trains, ports all covered. Border patrol is on the lookout as well.”

“So why did Tristan want to kill his uncle?”

“The station brought in a forensic artist to look at his paintings. The gal said each painting tells a story, that Tristan Lord was a master of perspective. From different angles, primarily from above, you can see something completely different from looking at it head-on.” Will grinned wryly at Connor. “So you weren’t wrong when you saw the number ten and the girl hanging.”

“And Bowen?”

“We know that Tristan’s mother died of cancer when he was eighteen. A painting in Bowen’s own house shows a man with a needle over a woman lying in bed. Under a microscope and ultraviolet light, you can see that some lines are made up of microscopic letters. They spell out ‘Mother was murdered’ over and over. Thousands of times. Sounds obsessive to me.”

“Tristan thought his own uncle killed his mom?” Connor asked.

“Tristan was probably right,” Will said. “I just came back from Eric Bowen’s house. He said his aunt Monica, Tristan’s mother, had breast cancer. Bowen’s wife died of breast cancer several years before. He watched her waste away, in pain, and eventually die so drugged she didn’t remember her husband or son. Monica Lord was in the final stages of cancer but was still mobile. Her medical records indicated that she had three to six months to live. Her doctor suspected she may have committed suicide—she was adamant about not wanting to ‘waste away’ like her sister-in-law.”

“And you’re thinking that maybe Bowen helped her.”

“Why wasn’t there an autopsy?” Dillon asked.

“Her doctor signed off on the death certificate without one. Her medical history showed invasive cancer; there was no reason to think anything but cancer killed her. And Dr. Bowen didn’t want her family to think she killed herself. There’s a matter of some insurance money.”

“Insurance money?”

“Bowen and Tristan split over eight million dollars from Monica’s estate.”

The surgeon came out of the operating room. “We’re done.”

Connor asked, “Can I see her now?”

“She’s in recovery, still sleeping. I’ll let you know when she wakes.”

“But she’s going to be okay, right?”

“She won’t be able to use her left arm for a while, but yeah, she’s going to be fine.”

It was over.

Laura Chase slowly walked to the grave of her daughter. Her beautiful, perfect daughter.

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.

Vengeance? You don’t know the meaning of vengeance, God. The wrath of a mother is far greater than yours. You let them hurt my baby, my little girl. And nothing happened. No lightning bolts, no earthquakes, no floods or famine.

I didn’t want to wait for them to burn in Hell.

Hell. She’d been living in it for nearly two years, but now it was over.

She sat against the headstone that read
Shannon Marisa Chase, 1988–2005.

Across from Shannon’s grave was a smaller one, for an infant:
Camilla Christina Chase, October 12, 1986–April 13, 1987.

Tomorrow marked the twentieth anniversary of Camilla’s death. Six months old and died in her crib. The doctors said it was sudden infant death syndrome. Laura knew different.

For years she’d suppressed the guilt. It had been an accident. No one knew, not even Tom. Shannon, perfect Shannon, was Laura’s chance to make everything right again.

She closed her eyes. Took out the bottle of pills she’d stolen from Garrett long ago. Swallowed them two by two.

Two by two.

Two by two.

Her head spun, but she kept taking the pills. She felt heavy. Heavy. Of course, they would put her to sleep. Forever.

But Shannon was dead. Vengeance, perhaps, for Laura’s own sins.

Connor sat with Julia as she woke from surgery. “You’re back.”

“How long?”

“You skipped a day. It’s Thursday morning.” He glanced at his watch. “Five-fifteen.”

“Wow. I didn’t think—Did Michelle fall over the railing?”

“Michelle’s dead. So is Laura Chase. They found her body near the grave of her daughters. Suicide.”

“I could almost feel sorry for her.”

“Dillon said Laura Chase was psychotic. She snapped. She managed to hold it together for a while. There’s a twisted logic to all the victims. Except for Paul Judson. Dillon thinks he was a test, to bind the four kids to a common goal, as well as keep them in line.”

“Skip, Robbie, Michelle, and Faye.”

“Tristan Lord accessed his uncle’s files and learned the identity of all his online patients. Then it was just a matter of matching up the so-called anonymous e-mails with real people.”

“Like Emily.” Julia frowned. “Michelle’s parents were of modest means. How did she hop back and forth from Palo Alto and San Diego? How did she live?”

“Will’s still digging into the finances and timeline, but the penthouse apartment Michelle lived in was paid for by Laura Chase. In the divorce, the Chases split a substantial pot of money. Laura changed her identity and bought the house near Garrett Bowen. There’s evidence that Michelle had a room there as well as the apartment.”

“Maybe to keep the act going, that ‘Cami’ was ‘Marisa Wohler’s’ daughter.” Julia reached for Connor’s hand and he squeezed it, bringing his lips down to her fingers. She asked, “All this in an elaborate plan to kill Garrett Bowen because he helped Tristan’s mother commit suicide and testified for Jason Ridge. It’s amazing that Laura Chase and Tristan hooked up in the first place.”

“Not that amazing,” Connor said. “E-crimes is still putting together a timeline of Wishlist and it looks like Michelle O’Dell was on the list long before Shannon committed suicide.”

“She said something that disturbed me,” Julia said. “She said she drugged Jason so he’d hurt Shannon, thinking they’d break up. She thought it was all one big game.”

“Michelle was one sick young woman.”

“Sick? No. She knew exactly what she was doing and she enjoyed it.” Julia paused. “Maybe James and Stephanie Ridge would like to know their son had been drugged. Give them some closure.”

“Will is going to be talking to them and the O’Dells,” Connor said.

He took Julia’s hand and brought it to his lips. “It’s over.”

“Emily can come home now?”

Connor nodded. “She’s coming back from Montana with Carina on Sunday. I hope that’s okay. She seems to be having a good time up there, and you need a couple of days to recuperate before a teenager moves in.”

“I’ll call her later. Thank you.”

Connor played with her palm. “Are you really okay?”

“Just tired. And sore.”

“I can get you some pain medication—” He started to rise.

She squeezed his hand. “No. Stay.”

He sat back down. “I was worried. You lost a lot of blood.” His voice cracked.

“Did you mean what you said at the studio?”

“I always mean what I say.” He stared at her. “I love you, Julia.”

A single tear rolled down her cheek.

“Don’t cry,” he said.

“I’m not. I just—I was worried about the past. What I did to your life.”

“We don’t live in the past, Julia.” Connor leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips. She was still too pale, but time, sun, and lots of love would bring back her old self.

“We were both in a different place then,” Connor said. “We were both right, and we both made mistakes. In the end, though, the dead girls were avenged through the system, not outside of it. And
that
was the right thing to do, even if it hurt like hell at the time.”

“I think I’ve always loved you,” Julia said, her emerald eyes bright with emotion. “Do you think we can find happiness?”

Connor kissed her again. “As long as we’re together.”

Read on for a special sneak peek at

F
EAR
N
O
EVIL

the spine-tingling conclusion to the Evil Series by Allison Brennan

PROLOGUE

Five Years Ago

T
HE SICK AND DEPRAVED
had voted: death by stabbing.

“No.”

Kate’s whisper became a cry as she pocketed her cell phone, unable to respond to the text message her only remaining friend in the Bureau had sent.

Unable and unwilling. She was so close, dammit! She knew it, sensed it, but no one believed her. Why should they? Less than two days ago, she’d led her people into a trap, and an agent—a lover Evan—ended up dead. Another agent—her partner Paige—kidnapped.

She had been tracking the webcam of Paige for twenty-four hours. The sick reality of what had already happened to her partner live on the Internet propelled her forward. She’d called in every favor, stolen expensive equipment from FBI headquarters, and hacked into private companies all in what she feared was a futile effort to save Paige’s life. Saving Paige had become her mantra, so she wouldn’t think about Evan being killed.

She breathed heavily through her mouth as she ran harder, faster through the woods. Her internal clock audibly ticked in her ear, pushing her. Fear crawled up her spine and slithered into her heart, constricting her chest until every breath hurt. She wasn’t going to make it.

An all-too-human scream echoed through the wooded canyon, then was abruptly cut short.

Kate tripped, caught herself, and was surprised to feel moisture on her face. She couldn’t be crying. She wiped her forehead and came away with blood. The gash on her head from the failed sting operation had needed stitches, but she’d had no time. No wonder it started bleeding again.

Wiping her bloody hands on her jeans, she tied her bandanna tighter around her forehead and continued running, gun drawn.

The grand, two-story cabin stood in a clearing. She stared at the satellite dish on the roof and knew this was it. Her training and instincts had paid off, and she was right about where Trask had taken Paige. The dish opened into the clear blue sky, enabling Paige Henshaw’s rape and murder to be bounced from satellite to satellite in space, and broadcast live for all to see. She almost ran across the open field to storm the cabin, but that would certainly have gotten her killed.

Don’t be stupid, Donovan!

Kate circled around, staying behind the tree line, ignoring her vibrating cell phone. They knew where she was. If they had really wanted to save Paige, they would have listened to her, come with her instead of trying to arrest her.

A black Suburban was parked next to the cabin. No other vehicles were within sight. Trask wasn’t stupid enough to be out here alone. Without security. Even losing men the night before last when he’d ambushed her and Paige in the warehouse, he had at least two other dedicated henchmen in his employ.

Her skin tingled. Someone was watching her. Swallowing, she looked around, keeping low. She thought she’d bypassed all his security traps. Had she triggered something without knowing? A camera, a microphone? What kind of technology did this monster have?

She crouched in the bushes, as still as a hunter with prey in sight, yet feeling more like a deer than a woman.

Nothing
. No sound from the cabin. No sound from the woods except the soft
whish-whish
of the breeze rustling the pine needles. Some frogs. A bird.

Where was he?

Dammit Trask! Where are you?

Sixty yards away, the cabin door opened and there he stood.

She didn’t know his real name. She only knew him as “Trask,” the founder of Trask Enterprises, an online pornography company. She didn’t know his race, his nationality, or his age. He was Caucasian or light-skinned Hispanic, perhaps European from his high chiseled cheekbones and strong chin, darker than Scandinavian, lighter than Mediterranean. Thirty? Forty? Older?

She may not know anything about him, but she’d never forget his face. She’d stared into his icy blue eyes thirty-six hours ago as he aimed his gun at her head.

Now, he stared at her hiding place, as frozen in time as she. Her mouth went dry, her hand itched to fire her gun. She swallowed and training won out. There was no way—even with her excellent marks-manship skills—that she could assuredly take him down at this distance with her service pistol.

He stepped through the doorway and two men, both larger than him, followed. One carried two large suitcases. The other carried a semiautomatic rifle and eyed the horizon. He didn’t see her, his eyes sweeping back and forth as the three men walked purposefully toward the Suburban.

There was no hope. She couldn’t take down all three men alone without losing her own life. And while she might be able to get one of the guards, she wouldn’t be able to get to the leader, the man who came up with the plan, executed it, who took pleasure in killing.

If she could kill the bastard who called himself Trask, she would be willing to die. Already the pain of losing Evan was eating at her. But if she couldn’t get Trask, any sacrifice would be for nothing. She would not die in vain.

She let the Suburban drive away, deep anger and remorse clutching her heart. She’d lost him, lost everything because she’d moved too fast, too soon, at the warehouse. She hadn’t verified crucial information, where if only she hadn’t been so eager to capture Trask and to prove to her boss and everyone that she was right, she wouldn’t have lost her career, lost her best friend, lost her freedom.

Being right meant nothing when everything you cared about evaporated.

The Suburban disappeared around the bend. She left her hiding place and ran to the main door of the cabin. Her instincts told her everyone was gone, but she did a perimeter check anyway.

Through the back window she saw Paige.

Her best friend lay on a blood-soaked mattress, a knife protruding from her chest. Her body was in shreds, her eyes open, staring at Kate, accusing her.

You promised you’d find me.

Paige had saved her life at the warehouse. Trask had Kate first, when she was momentarily winded, and brought his gun to her head.

“You’re coming with me.”

Paige had attacked him from behind, momentarily stunning Trask long enough for Kate to dive behind crates to retrieve the gun she’d lost in the struggle. Sirens cut through the night and Kate looked up just as Trask hit Paige over the head and his partner, Roger Morton, carried her from the warehouse.

Kate couldn’t shoot for fear of hitting Paige.

Paige had given her own life to save Kate. A cry escaped her burning lungs and she swallowed her pain and failure. Kate almost ran into the room, just to shut Paige’s eyes. To call their boss and blame him for not backing her up. To turn off the damn video camera in the corner, broadcasting Paige’s mutilated body to the thousands of sick bastards who’d paid to see her raped and murdered.

A blink of something green caught her attention. Next to the door a digital clock. All at once, Kate took in the entire room, not just Paige’s dead body.

The wires.

The plastique.

The time.

The clock was counting backward. 1:11, 1:10, 1:09.

Looking quickly around the window for any booby traps, she broke it with the butt of her gun, cleared the glass as best she could, and jumped through.

The countdown turned from one minute to fifty-nine seconds. Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven.

She fired a round into the video camera lens, then took off her windbreaker and approached Paige’s body. She wanted to get her out, but she didn’t have time.

So much blood.

I’m sorry, Paige.

Forty-one seconds.

Using her windbreaker as a glove, she reached over and retrieved the knife from Paige’s body. It was stuck in bone. She winced as she used her strength to remove it, wrapped it in her jacket, and leaped out the window.

She couldn’t count on Trask not wearing gloves, but all evidence was about to be destroyed and this was one thing that might lead to him.

She glanced back at her friend. “I’ll find him, Paige.”

Then she looked at the clock. Nineteen seconds.

She ran as fast and far as she could. The explosion shook the earth, knocking her off her feet. Her jacket fell from her grasp and the wind was knocked out of her.

She didn’t care about contaminating evidence. She just wanted a print. A print that might lead to the real identity of Paige’s killer.

You don’t need evidence if you never go to court.