J.T. Ellison - So Close the Hand of Death

She had been envious of the woman’s height, about six feet tall without heels, and her whole look: a flattering black cashmere turtleneck, black leather jacket, low-slung jeans and black Frye motorcycle boots. She’d seen the holster and badge attached to the waistband of the jeans and felt a mild shock of surprise: this woman didn’t look like a cop. But she was a cop—Cici knew from the manifest. A Homicide lieutenant from Nashville, Tennessee.

The lieutenant sat in the wide leather chair with an uncommon stillness—no fidgeting, no crossing and recrossing of legs, no drumming of fingers. Her hands were folded loosely in her lap, her head turned away slightly so she could stare out the window. This lack of motion left Cici feeling uneasy, and she tiptoed around the cabin so as not to disturb.

Cici also knew the woman was closely attached to one of Cici’s favorite men in the whole wide world: Dr. John Baldwin. Baldwin was her boss’s darling, and she understood why. His handsomeness aside—oh, those green eyes are to die for!—Baldwin was insightful, and caring. He was the glue that held her boss together, the son he’d never had. She knew that because Garrett Woods had told her so, once, when he’d been drinking something stronger than Voss water.

Baldwin had led men and women into battle, fighting the forces of evil that came across their desks, pushing back the tides of blood that swept out before their opponents’ wickedness. He was polite, so much so that she sometimes wondered if it was an act. Who could be like that all the time? So contained. So like his woman. She’d often wondered just what made Dr. John Baldwin tick. Cici was no profiler, but she’d studied psychology in school. His calm facade was a veneer, she was sure of it. He had demons, coiled and writhing in his gut. Guilt, and shame, and hate. Everyone did, right? Right?

She felt that same sort of fight going on behind the lieutenant’s gray eyes. Guilt, and shame, and hate. And if Cici wasn’t mistaken—remember, she was no expert and would be the first to tell you that—if Cici wasn’t mistaken, there was something else lurking in those loch-gray depths.

Fear.

Taylor felt the landing gear unfold and lock into place. The tarmac appeared beneath her, gray and chilly. The jet landed softly, came to a halt within minutes. Baldwin had arranged for his boss’s plane to collect her in Nashville and fly her to North Carolina. She had to admit, flying in the Gulfstream was a habit she could get used to.

The attendant opened the galley door, bid her farewell. Taylor wasn’t sad the flight was over; the woman was as twitchy as a deer in an open meadow, pale and staring from under nearly lashless lids.

She stepped down the stairs onto the tarmac, surprised to see little flakes of snow drifting swiftly from the slate sky. She could already feel it accumulating on her hair, so she shook it out and wound it back up into a ponytail.

Baldwin was waiting for her. His deep green eyes lit up when he saw her step down the stairs. He hadn’t shaved since he left her Monday morning, and he looked like he belonged on a billboard, a perfectly groomed-to-be-scruffy model. She felt that strange pull of desire deep in her gut, and the uncontrollable joy at being near him again made a huge smile break out on her face. He smiled in return, grabbed her by the waist and kissed her deeply. When they broke for air they both spoke at the same time.

“Was your flight okay?”

“Is Fitz here?”

They laughed, and Taylor said, “You first.”

“He’s not here. The North Carolina State Bureau of Investigations agents have him. They’re still doing a debrief, and he’s scheduled for surgery this afternoon. He’s going to be flown to Duke. There’s a specialist who’s been retained to help.”

“We have specialists in Nashville. Why can’t we bring him home?”

“Because the North Carolina SBI want to keep him in their jurisdiction for the time being. They have three district offices involved. This is a big case for them, a score. They want hands on him at all times. You know how it is. Besides, this guy at Duke is one of the best. They’re going to clean up the eye socket, put in an orbital spacer so the ocular muscles won’t collapse. Then they’ll transfer him to Vanderbilt for the duration of his recovery. I’ve seen Fitz, but just briefly. I know he’ll be thrilled to see you though.”

See me. That spike drove right through her. “His poor eye. Is he in much pain?”

“He was stable enough to be checked out of the emergency room and taken to the police station for questioning, so I’m sure they’ve given him everything he needs. He’s a tough old bird, too. He’s going to be just fine.

They said the damage was fixable, and he’ll be able to have a prosthetic in about a month.”

“I want to talk to him. See if he’d rather go back to Nashville. They can’t treat him like a suspect. It should be his choice.”

They started walking toward the terminal. The private airstrip in Duck was tiny, accommodating only the smallest of jets and single-engine planes.

“Any other news?” Taylor asked.

“Yes, actually. The harbormaster discovered Fitz’s boat. It’s been docked at the marina here for a week or so. He went to collect the rent and knew immediately something was wrong, pulled out and called the cops. There’s a lot of blood. The Nags Head Police found Susie’s body stuffed in the head. Multiple stab wounds.”

Taylor felt a wave of nausea pass through her. Susie McDonald was the best thing that had happened to Fitz in a long time. Taylor had liked her, Fitz had loved her. Her loss would be enormous.

“Poor Susie. Does Fitz know?”

“Just that she’s dead, not the details. He was there when Susie died, though, so he probably has some ideas. He’s in remarkably good shape, considering what he’s been through. Losing an eye isn’t life-threatening. Painful as hell, but he’s going to be just fine. I’m sure he’ll tell you all about it.”

“Does the marina have cameras? Did they see anyone leaving the boat?”

“They do have cameras, but nothing has been found yet. We’re early days, remember. I just got down here myself.”

Taylor watched the snow fall in graceful dances. It was gathering quickly. The forecast was for at least three inches, quite a lot this early in the season for this neck of the woods.

“The Pretender isn’t stupid, Baldwin. He’s trying to draw me out. Hurting Fitz is a guarantee. He knows I’m coming for him, and if I don’t, he’ll come for me.”

“Taylor.”

“Seriously. No more foreplay. I want to see the bastard bleed.”

He sighed deeply. “Which is why you’ve got a security detail on you 24/7 as soon as I send you home. I refuse to let him get his hands on you.”

“I know. You’ve said that before. I don’t need a detail.”

He stopped short of the terminal door and pulled her around to face him.

“You listen to me. I am not kidding. This is building to a head. I know you can feel that, too. We have to be alert.”

“I’m alert. I’m alert. Stop fretting.” She patted her waist, the Glock nestled in its holster on her hip, then reached into the front pocket of her jeans and brought out a single .40-caliber Winchester jacketed hollow point.

“See? I’m even carrying the bullet the bastard sent me. I’m saving this one for him.”

Baldwin’s mouth twitched, she could tell he was fighting a smile.

“What’s on it?” he asked finally.

She flipped the bullet into his hand. She’d used a marker to draw a lopsided hamsa, the hand of Fatima, on the casing. The eye felt like a talisman of sorts to her. It was juvenile, she knew that, but the action had given her great satisfaction.