There was a flash and an explosion, then the feel of searing heat. He heard a scream, unaware that it was his own, and then everything went black.
Caitlin was watering an ivy plant when the telephone rang. Mac was in her office on his cell phone with his office manager. She raced to answer it before he was disturbed.
“Bennett residence.”
“Miss Bennett! This is Teresa Lane, from Hudson House Publishing.”
“Oh, hello, Teresa. How are you?”
“Oh, Miss Bennett. I have terrible news.”
The smile froze on Caitlin’s face. After her day yesterday with four of New York’s finest, she wasn’t sure she could bear more bad news.
“What’s wrong?”
“They said that Mr. Workman’s brother is staying with you, is that true?”
Caitlin’s fingers curled a little tighter around the receiver.
“Yes…yes…he’s here. What’s wrong, Teresa?”
“It’s Mr. Workman. There was an explosion…he’s—”
“Oh God.” Caitlin’s knees went weak, and she slid to the floor. “Please. Please tell me he’s not—”
“No, no, but they’ve taken him to New York General.”
“We’re on our way,” Caitlin said. She was already screaming Mac’s name as she hung up the phone.
He came out of her office with a gun in his hand, stopping her square in her tracks. She didn’t have time to absorb the fact that it was the first time she’d known that he was armed.
“What’s wrong?”
She grabbed him by the arms, willing herself not to shriek.
“It’s Aaron. He’s been hurt. We have to get to the hospital right now.”
The color faded from Mac’s face as his body went limp.
“What? How?”
Caitlin could hardly bring herself to say it.
“There was an explosion at his office. They didn’t say anything more.”
“Christ,” Mac said, then pivoted sharply, running toward his bedroom. “Get changed. And hurry.”
Caitlin did as she was told. Now was not the time to remind him that her stalker had promised to bomb the publishing house for putting out her books, or to consider the fact that her interview with the media had most likely been the trigger that had set him off. All she could do was pray that when they got there, Aaron would still be alive.
Fourteen
D
etective Amato met Mac and Caitlin at the entrance to the E.R.
“My brother…where is he?” Mac demanded.
“They took him up to surgery about fifteen minutes ago.”
“Ah, God,” Mac groaned, then slumped against the wall. The thought of losing Aaron was impossible to consider. They were all the family each other had, and although they did not share the same blood, they had a bond forged by years of love and friendship.
“We were told it was an explosion,” Caitlin said. “Was it a bomb?”
Amato nodded. “A letter bomb. As bombs go, it was a small one, but large enough to do damage to the person opening it.”
Caitlin glanced at Mac, then grabbed his hand. “Aaron’s injuries…how bad are they?”
“You’ll have to talk to the doctor for that,” Amato said. “All I know is he’s got flash burns on his face and hands. I would imagine his eyes were impacted, but it’s hard to know how much until they get him out of surgery.”
The first wave of panic had passed, leaving Mac numb and searching for focus.
“Amato, you said this was an explosion.”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you here? You’re Homicide, right?”
“When the bomb went off, the windows behind where Aaron was standing blew out, sending large shards of glass into the street below. One of them struck and killed a man who was getting out of a cab. That makes it murder.”
Caitlin’s expression went blank. The urge to scream and never stop was overwhelming. Everything just kept getting worse and worse.
“Dear Lord…because of me…because of me.”
Mac grabbed her arm and pulled her to him, his voice shaking with emotion.
“Stop it, Caitie! Don’t you quit on me now, girl. I need you to be with me on this.”
The panic in his voice was more startling than the news they’d just received. Mac was her rock. He wasn’t supposed to come undone. A cold shudder rocked her body, and when she saw the devastation on his face, all she could do was apologize profusely.
“I’m sorry…so sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he said softly. “Just stay with me, okay?”
Blinking back tears, she turned to the detective. “What can you tell us…? About the bombing, I mean.”
“Not much. The bomb squad is at the scene now. I’ll have a full report in a day or so. Until then, all I can tell you is to be careful of your own mail. In fact, I would advise not opening any of it on your own. Bring it down to the bomb squad and let an expert check it first.”
Another wave of disbelief swept over Caitlin, filling her with frustration and a sense of growing anger.
“This is unbelievable,” she muttered. “This man, whoever he is, has not only killed wantonly, but has invaded every aspect of my life. If only we knew why, then maybe we could find out who.”
“I have Neil and Kowalksi checking into your father’s old business associates. Maybe we’ll come up with something there.”
“Have you spoken to Juanita Delarosa, Daddy’s old secretary?”
“Detective Kowalski has been trying to contact her by phone, but we’re not getting an answer. If I’m not mistaken, she and Neil are going to New Jersey tomorrow to find out if she’s still at the same address.” He glanced at his watch and sighed. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got to get back to the station. If there’s anything we can do for you, let us know.” Then he gave Mac a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Sorry about your brother.”
Caitlin hesitated, then spat out the words as if confessing a sin. “He was my editor, you know.”
Amato looked startled. This cemented the bombing squarely into the middle of the case. “No, I didn’t get that connection.”
“It’s because of me.”
Now Amato was really confused. “In what way?”
Caitlin bit the inside of her lip to steady her nerves. “You saw the story about me in the paper last night?”
“Yes, but I assumed that—”
Mac put his arm around Caitlin’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “She leaked the story herself.”
Amato looked stunned. “Why the hell would you—”
“I believe the explanation would be that she was using herself for bait,” Mac said.
Guilt weighed heavily on Caitlin’s conscience as she confessed what she’d done.
“I didn’t know about the women. I didn’t know that he was killing people who looked like me. I just wanted it to be over. I thought if I taunted him enough, he would make a mistake and then we could catch him.” A single tear silently rolled down her cheek. “I wanted this to stop. Instead I made it worse.”
Amato shook his head in disbelief. “Well, if you’d asked me first, I would have told you it was a damned dangerous stunt, but I have to give you credit, Miss Bennett. It was also a real gutsy move, and in ordinary circumstances, it would probably have worked. However, I don’t think we’re dealing with an ordinary man. He’s not only crazy and cruel, he’s cunning. You be careful. Real careful.”
“Yes. I will, but right now, all that matters is Aaron. He has to be okay.”
“I’m sure the doctors are doing all they can.”
Caitlin nodded. “Please call if you have any news on the case.”
“Yes, I will,” Amato said, then hurried out the door.
Caitlin turned to Mac, expecting to see hate on his face. “If he dies, it will be my fault.”
A sheen of tears glittered in Mac’s eyes, but the tone of his voice was hard and sure. “No, it won’t, Caitie. Don’t ever let me hear you say that again. I told you before, and I’m telling you again now, the only person at fault is the man behind the crimes.”
She wrapped her arms around his waist and laid her cheek against his coat.
“I love Aaron,” she said. “He’s like the brother I never had.”
“I know,” Mac said, then managed a little grin. “He loves you, too.”
“Thank you, Connor, more than you will ever know.”
“Let’s go tell someone we’re here, so when the doctor comes out of surgery, they’ll know he has family waiting for news.”
Caitlin let Mac lead her to the nurses’ station, but her thoughts were on what he’d said, not what he was telling the nurse in charge. Family. He’d included her in his family. She hadn’t had family in so long that it felt good to think she belonged, even if her feelings for Mac were anything but brotherly.
A few minutes later they entered the surgical waiting area. Caitlin’s heart went out to the people who were already there, reminding her that she wasn’t the only one with troubles.
“There are a couple of seats against the wall,” Mac said, cupping her elbow as he led her across the room. “Now, let’s get these coats off,” he said, and helped her out of hers, then took off his own, draping them across the back of the small sofa.
She sat quickly, conscious of the other people’s curious stares, and looked down at her feet, afraid she might be recognized and forced to talk about what was happening.
Mac slid his arm around her and pulled her close against his side. She looked up at him then, her chin trembling, her eyes welling with tears.
“Oh, Mac.”
“I know,” he said softly.
“He has to be okay.”
A muscle jerked at the corner of Mac’s mouth, the only indication of the struggle he was having with his own emotions.
“Yeah,” he said gruffly, and gave her a quick hug.
After a bit, Caitlin realized the looks they were getting were nothing more than the curiosity any newcomers would have received, so she settled back, unobtrusively looking around. Out of the fifteen people waiting, it was the only child who caught her attention.
A tiny girl, no more than five or six, was sitting silently on the floor with a coloring book. With a scattered array of brightly colored crayons and a coffee table for a desk, she chose only the red, digging into the picture on the page with hard, angry slashes—an obvious reflection of her mood.
Caitlin watched her for several long minutes, lost in the tender curve of the child’s neck, the way her long, curly hair fell across her little pink sweater, and the fierceness of her grip as she marked the page with angry strokes. A few moments later, she realized the little girl was staring at her, as well.
Caitlin started to smile, but there was something in the child’s expression that held her back. Instead they looked, one at the other. It was the little girl who made the first move by reaching for a crayon and holding it toward Caitlin.
The offer was obvious and, for her, impossible to refuse. Caitlin slipped to the floor and slid over to where the little girl was sitting, casting a questioning look at the man at whose feet the child sat. She saw he was surprised by what the child had done, but he nodded his permission for Caitlin to come closer.
The look in the child’s eyes was haunting. Caitlin wanted to hold her. Instead she took the crayon, watching with interest as a new page was turned, offering a new picture for Caitlin to color.
The crayon was black. Caitlin suspected the choice of colors was telling, but she took it without comment and began coloring the mane and hooves of the pony in the picture. When she was through, she laid the crayon down.
The little girl looked up, seemingly surprised by what Caitlin had done. Again she picked up the black crayon and handed it to Caitlin.
This time Caitlin shook her head, pointing to a bright turquoise crayon instead. By now the child was frowning, but Caitlin didn’t give in. She crossed her arms and sat back, waiting to see what would happen.
Mac leaned forward to watch, his elbows on his knees, and happened to see the father’s eyes welling with unshed tears.
The child offered the black crayon again, pointing to the page.
Caitlin shook her head and pointed to the turquoise crayon. It was a standoff of major proportions.
The child dropped the black crayon onto the floor and began coloring the opposite page with the red, jamming the crayon onto the paper as if it was a knife.
Such anger in such a young child was frightening, and Caitlin couldn’t bear to watch, but when she started to leave, the child abruptly grabbed the turquoise crayon and all but flung it in Caitlin’s lap.
Resisting the urge to grin, Caitlin quietly picked it up, using it to color the little saddle on the pony’s back. When she was through, she laid the crayon down on the table and sat back.
Again the child looked up, the frown deeper on her face. She pointed to the page, indicating that Caitlin should keep coloring. Caitlin pointed to the yellow crayon. The little girl’s fury was almost comical, but Caitlin feared her reasons for resistance were anything but.
The child shook her head.
Caitlin pointed again at the yellow one.
The child looked at Caitlin, judging her expression to see if she was as adamant as she’d been before. Whatever she saw convinced her to hand over the yellow crayon next.
And so it went, crayon after crayon. Caitlin colored her picture, using a different color every time until she was through. Suddenly she leaned back and laid down the last one, holding up her hands in delight.
The little girl looked at the page and then up at Caitlin, then back at the page again. Her gaze slid from the page she was coloring to the one Caitlin had done. She looked down at the nub of red crayon, her shoulders slumping in defeat as she slowly laid it down.
Caitlin sensed that something momentous had happened, but she was afraid to move, afraid to guess what was on the child’s mind. But when the little girl pointed to the pile of crayons, Caitlin suddenly understood.
All but holding her breath, she picked up a blue one and laid it in the child’s outstretched hand, then turned to a new page in the book.
The little girl sighed, staring at the picture as if she’d never seen it before, the crayon awkward in her grasp. With hesitant movements, she slowly leaned forward and began to color—tentatively at first, as if afraid of the marks she made. But the more she colored, the bolder her strokes became, until finally she was using the crayon normally.