Together always (25 page)

"I'm taking you up to bed."

"I'm perfectly capable of walking."

"Maybe. But you're not going to. Hold on to me."

Her arms circled his neck obediently as he settled her against his chest. She looked at John, her face flushed a delicate shade of pink.

"Would you tell him that I don't need to be carried upstairs?"

John shrugged. "Not me. Hell, I'm tired enough that if someone offered to carry me to bed, I'd take them up on it. Sleep well." He lifted his hand in farewell as Trace carried Lily into the hallway.

The stairs creaked in all the familiar places, reminding Trace of the thousands of times he'd climbed them. There'd been a few times when he'd cursed the way they revealed his presence, but tonight the faint moans spelled home.

Lily rested in his arms, her slight weight a reassuring burden. Just having her here, warm and alive, was something to give thanks for. Nothing had ever frightened him as much as seeing her fall today, the car exploding behind her. For an instant, a split second, he'd known what it felt Uke to lose her. It was an unbearable thought.

He stopped, aware of her throwing him a quick questioning glance before she reached out to open the door. Trace carried her inside, kicking the door shut behind them. Lily said nothing as he walked across the room and set her on his bed. Still wrapped in the blanket, she looked up at him.

'*Why did you bring me here instead of taking me to my room? I'm fine. Trace. Really I am. A Httle bruised maybe, but there's nothing wrong with me. You don't have to watch me every second. I'd be okay in my own room."

**I wouldn't." His expression was calm but there were lingering traces of fear visible in his eyes. 'T want you in here where I can keep a watch on you."

Lily looked at him a moment longer, her eyes unreadable. **I have no objections to that."

So Trace held her throughout the night and it would have been impossible to say who gained the most comfort from their being together.

Trace lay awake long after Lily slept peacefully in his arms, his eyes on the darkened ceiling. She was a warm

precious weight against his side. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the car blossoming fire behind her, her slight body thrown forward.

Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe a love as strong as the one he felt for her could make up for everything else.

Chapter Fifteen

Trace leaned back in his chair and reached for his coffee, his eyes on the file in front of him. Around him the station bustled quietly. Outside, dawn was just breaking, but the only way to know that was to look at a clock. Crime didn't take the night off and neither did cops.

Trace was barely aware of the activity. All his attention was on the file that lay spread across the table. Harry Smith: Caucasian, male, convicted of first-degree murder, sentenced to life in prison. Convicted of murdering Maryann Lonigan.

Trace sipped the bitter coffee and studied the photograph. A fairly ordinary-looking guy. Not the kind of face you'd notice in a crowd except maybe for the fact that his left eyebrow kicked up at the outer comer, tugged upward by a small white scar that ran toward his temple. Other than that one small thing he could have been Joe Ordinary.

He and the victim had allegedly been having an affair; she'd decided to end the affair and he'd shot her twice in the face. Not a pretty way to go. The evidence had been clear: the murder weapon with Smith's fingerprints, a motive and a witness who saw him leaving the scene of the crime. An open-and-shut case. The jury had apparently thought so,

too. They'd come back with a guilty verdict after a short deliberation and Harry Smith had gone to prison.

Trace reached out to flip to another page of the report. Nothing special there. Smith had been a quiet prisoner, causing no real problems. He'd been paroled for good behavior five years ago and he'd been a model parolee. He was living somewhere in the San Diego area at last report. That would seem to be the end of it. Case closed.

So why was this the file he was looking at? Out of all the files he'd gone through in the past three hours, why was this the one that kept drawing his attention? He rocked his chair back on two legs and took another swallow of coffee, staring at nothing in particular. His eyes felt gritty and there was a vague pasty feeling in his brain.

He'd had, at a generous estimate, maybe two hours' sleep. When he'd finally given up trying to get any more rest, it had still been the dead of night outside. Lily had been sleeping heavily, her breathing even. He'd allowed himself a few moments just to watch her in the light of the small desk lamp he'd turned on, savoring her presence in his bed, reassuring himself that she was really there, safe and sound. And then he'd dressed and come down here, too restless to stay in the house.

Mike's files hadn't turned out to .be much more helpful than his own had been. No one who had obvious motives to cook up any bizarre revenge. Still, this one file kept drawing his attention. It was certainly the most personally relevant file he'd found. But it was over and done with. A closed case. Still, there was something there that drew him, and right now that was more than anything else he had to go on.

Trace yawned as he shut the folder. Not even adrenaline could make up for the strain of these past weeks. He was feeling the lack of decent rest. He stretched and then glanced at his watch. It was going to be another couple of hours be-

fore he could expect Captain Jacobs to be in his office. Maybe he'd go out and get some breakfast, plenty of black coffee, and then take a brisk walk. He stood up, picking up the file and tucking it under his arm. He could take a look at it over breakfast and see if he could put his finger on what it was that caught his attention.

The street was empty, the air cool and damp. A rare fog drifted around lampposts and cars, giving a surreal look to the sidewalks. Trace turned the collar of his jacket up around his ears, reaching into his pocket for his keys as he approached the 'Vette.

His fingers had just closed over the metal key ring when he heard a slight noise behind him, not quite a footstep but definitely a sound. He started to turn when something caught him behind the ear. There was a moment of blinding pain, an instant to wonder if this was what it felt like to die, and then a heavy blanket of darkness descended, blanking out everything.

The first thing Trace was aware of was pain. His head ached. Not a vague pain across his forehead but a demanding throb of pain located somewhere in the back of his skull. His arms felt stiff and something was poking him in the back. His tongue felt thick and dry. It took a great effort to force his eyes open and he almost changed his mind when the action only intensified the pain.

But the same stubborn determination that had led him at fifteen to take a little girl and run away from home refused to let him give up now. He opened his eyes the merest slit, letting them adjust to the light before he tried to force them wider.

He was lying on his side on the floor, a cracked vinyl floor that looked as if it had been installed sometime before the

flood and hadn't been cleaned since. He stared at the worn gray-and-black print, his mind slowly shifting into gear.

His arms hurt because they were tied behind his back. The cloth in his mouth accounted for the dryness of his tongue. He couldn't guess what was poking him in the back but the ache in his head was centered just behind his right ear and he had no doubt that there was a sizable lump there to show for the pain.

He didn't move but tried to use his eyes and ears to give him as much information as possible before he let anyone know that he was conscious. His field of vision was limited to the floor and the edge of a table with two rickety chairs pushed next to it. He listened carefully but he seemed to be alone. Still he waited, his muscles screaming for some movement to relieve the tension.

He moved at last, first turning his head as far as he could. No one spoke or moved, and after a time he came to the conclusion that he was alone. Once that was determined, movement became imperative. He had to find out as much as he could before whoever had trussed him like a Christmas turkey returned.

The struggle to sit up intensified the pounding in his head, leaving him faintly nauseated when he was at last more or less upright. His feet were bound together at the ankles, which placed severe limitations on his mobility, but he leaned back against the wall and studied the room from his new position.

Shabby did not do it justice. Tumbledown, perhaps. Ratty might be suitable. Pit was the description that occurred to him first. The antediluvian flooring was actually just about the most attractive component of the small room. The furniture consisted of a sofa whose springs looked poised to do fatal damage should anyone be so foolish as to sit on it. The table and two chairs stayed upright by sheer willpower. The

curtains hung in shreds from the windows, one of which was boarded up. There was a kitchenette in the far corner, almost out of his line of vision. He rather wished it had been completely out of sight as well as out of smelhng range. His nose wrinkled as the scent of old food drifted to him.

Not the Ritz but he was alive and, apart from considerable discomfort, in reasonably good shape. It was a safe bet that whoever had brought him here didn't intend for him to stay that way, however. Tugging experimentally at the ropes that held his wrists, he felt an encouraging give. He twisted his hands again, feeling a twinge of protest from the stitches in his left hand, which he ignored.

Trace couldn't have said how long he sat there, twisting his hands back and forth, trying to loosen the knots that bound him. His wrists were rubbed raw and he could feel the slow seep of blood running down to soak the bandages on his palm before he heard a key in the lock of the door.

He froze, his eyes on the door, his thoughts crystal clear. He didn't doubt that whoever was entering the room was the same person who'd shot Mike and left him to die all alone, the one who'd written the notes on his windshield, who'd cut the brake lines on John's car, who'd planted the bomb in Lily's car.

The door opened with a whine of old hinges. The man who entered was much older, his hair grayer, his skin showing the pastiness of someone who'd spent too much time indoors, but Trace recognized him. He wasn't in the least surprised to see that the left brow kicked up at the outer comer above dark eyes that were completely, totally insane.

Harry Smith. The man who'd killed Mike's wife nearly twenty-five years ago.

Smith looked up and saw that Trace was conscious. "Well, so you're back with us. How are you feeling?"

He shut the door behind him and set the bag he was carrying on the table. "I didn't think you'd wake up quite so soon or I'd have hurried back. I was just getting a few things I thought we might need."

His tone s^med to imply that they were old friends. Vaguely apologetic with an underlying friendliness that turned Trace's stomach.

"I bet that gag is uncomfortable. I'm sorry I had to do that but I couldn't have you making noise and disturbing the neighbors. Not that there are any neighbors, but you never know when someone might wander by."

He came over and knelt down next to Trace, and it was all Trace could do to keep from drawing away as Smith reached for the gag. The fabric fell away from his face and he forced his tongue to push the wad of cloth from his mouth.

"There. That's better. I bet your mouth is dry. Let me get something for you." Smith moved away, continuing to talk as he poured juice into a dirty glass. "I should warn you not to try and call out. As I said, there's really no one for you to disturb, but I dislike loud noises."

Reluctantly Trace took a swallow of juice when the glass was held to his lips. It tasted slightly rancid but it was wet and his mouth felt parched. The liquid trickled down his throat, moistening dry tissue. He drank again, his eyes never leaving Smith's face. That the man was going to kill him, he had no doubt. Why he was taking the time to give him something to drink now he couldn't begin to guess, but then, perhaps madness followed its own logic.

He didn't doubt that Smith was mad. It wasn't only the things he knew the man had done. Even without that, the insanity was easy to read in his eyes. They glittered with a light that wasn't natural.

"How are you feeling now?" Smith still knelt beside him, his mouth curved in a smile. "I hope your head doesn't hurt

too much.'* He reached out to touch Trace's hair and Trace jerked back. Smith's smile widened. "Don't worry. I just wanted to see if you had a bad lump."

*'It's fine." His voice rasped in his throat, the words slurred by his stiff tongue.

"Suit yourself. Would you like some more juice?" He would have all but killed for some more moisture in his throat, but more than that, he wanted Harry Smith at a greater distance. He shook his head.

"No, thanks."

"If you'd like some more later, just ask." To his relief, Smith moved away. "Of course, don't make it too much later because I have other plans."

He was unloading the sack as he spoke, his tone conversational. He might have been discussing the weather or the possibility of the Dodgers winning the World Series in the fall.

"I'm afraid my plans may not suit you. I'm sure you've realized that I'm going to have to kill you." He stopped and turned to look at Trace, his expression regretful. "It's too bad really, but it can't be helped."

"Couldn't we talk about this?"

"Certainly. I don't mind at all, but the end result will be the same."

Trace waited until Smith turned away again before going back to work on the ropes, twisting and turning his wrists, praying it wasn't his imagination that made it seem that the bonds were loosening.

"Why do you have to kill me? I don't know you."

"True, but it's not because you know me. It's because of someone else."

"Someone else?"

"Michael Jonathan Lonigan. Sergeant Michael Loni-gan." The way he said the name sent chills up Trace's spine.

His tone was almost caressing and yet he could all but smell the hatred.