Voice of Fear, page 3
Whatever. Jackson had the situation covered.
“I’m going in,” Jordan said.
Jackson nodded.
“Good eye,” he told her, leading Marie Donnell away.
As she headed back toward the building at a sprint, she could hear the woman cursing Jackson with one breath and swearing her innocence with the next.
Jordan headed into the building. One of the SWAT officers was directing law enforcement the best he could amid the fleeing women. He motioned Jordan to the right, reminding her, “We need the captors alive. Do your best.”
She nodded. Do your best.
That meant she should try to take the captors and caretakers here under arrest; but if they were shooting at her, hell yes, she’d have to shoot back.
She took the direction he had indicated. Officers were breaking in doors along the way.
Many of the rooms were empty.
But ahead of her, a door was ajar; she slid against the wall and looked in.
There was a woman wearing a shift on the bed, but she wasn’t alone. Patrick was with her. He had ripped up a sheet and was creating a tourniquet for the woman’s leg. It appeared she had been shot.
He must’ve heard Jordan because he looked up. “We need an EMT in here, pronto!”
She turned and shouted to one of the officers in the hallway. Jackson had supplied her well, but she didn’t have a phone or a radio on her.
She hurried back into the room and saw there was a man down on the floor. Patrick had shot him and kicked his gun into the far corners of the room.
“Can I help?” she asked.
“I think I’ve got it until we can get an EMT. He nicked an artery, I think. We need someone in here fast. This hall should be clear. I’m afraid to carry her out and start the bleeding up again,” he said.
His attention was on the victim until he suddenly swung around, warning, “He’s conscious!”
Jordan turned quickly. The man on the floor had bled heavily, but his fingers were twitching, and he was reaching down to his ankle.
She saw he carried a second weapon. One he was trying to reach.
He just might have the strength to pull it out.
When his fingers curled around the butt of the small gun and shakily brought it up to aim straight at her, she got off a shot removing a few of his fingers.
He roared in pain and stretched out, convulsed, then lay still.
Jordan hurried to his side.
They were going to need more than one EMT.
* * *
The operation stretched into the night. In all, there had been forty-four captives in the warehouse, mostly attractive young women, but a few teenage boys had been held captive as well. A few of the captors had been taken alive, but they’d fought so furiously that most were in the hospital. The captives had all been questioned. Many had been runaways or sex workers, but one young woman was a hairdresser on vacation in the Capitol. And Jordan’s so-called “Valley girl” friends had been college students, enjoying a break.
The police and the Krewe would be handling it as a joint investigation. Because of her key role in the operation, Jordan found herself at headquarters as it neared midnight, waiting for Jackson to finish his questioning of Marie Donnell.
Both the young woman and the man who had been in the room where Jordan had come upon Patrick were in the hospital. The woman was doing well. The EMTs had been impressed with Patrick’s makeshift tourniquet, telling him that he might have saved her life.
The man with blown-off fingers had suffered a seizure and had been put into a medically induced coma.
A day that had begun with a pleasant poolside breakfast had turned into hell—but a hell that she had to admit had been better because of Alfie. And Patrick. She was alive—and so were so many victims.
That meant it had been one hell of a good day.
Patrick Law had remained at the warehouse while she, Jackson, and a few other Krewe agents had headed to headquarters, along with a select group of captives.
Jackson had been determined to get at Marie Donnell. She was capable of appearing demure and frightened. He knew better, and Detective Flannery agreed that Jackson just might get something out of her, using his “Krewe magic,” as Flannery called it.
Donnell hadn’t demanded an attorney, but she’d refused to back down on her claim she’d been held captive as well. She kept crying and asking for food and drink, which was provided to her.
Jordan was in Angela’s office, where Jackson’s interview could be watched on the computer screen via the conference room’s camera as Jackson brought in another cup of coffee for Marie. Angela sometimes questioned people, but she usually kept to her office for observation. Angela was glad to have Jordan with her, as many of the agents involved were still working with other departments. “Two eyes are always better than one—wait, I mean two sets of eyes.”
But as they prepared to sit and watch Jackson try again, there was a tap at the door.
It was Patrick Law.
Jordan was surprised when Angela greeted him warmly; she hadn’t thought Patrick Law had been that involved with the Krewe other than having been there on the day Jordan had set herself up to be taken by one of the “Embracers.” And he had been at the gun range when part of the last case had gone down.
Patrick was a psychiatrist, after all. That meant he typically dealt with criminals after the fact, or possibly in figuring just how far their criminal acts had taken them.
He glanced at her and nodded. She found herself wondering how he’d been so quick to figure out the man in the room with them had a second weapon.
She didn’t know why she was feeling so resentful. Patrick Law had saved her life—possibly twice. But he had all but chastised her as if she’d somehow messed up. Yes, she had been in a bad position. And the outcome could have easily been worse. But she’d had no choice, really; once they’d been brought into the warehouse, her chances to escape would have been nil.
“Thanks for joining us,” Angela said to Patrick. “You just might see what we don’t. Draw up that last chair, if you don’t mind.”
Patrick grabbed a chair that was uncomfortably close to Jordan’s. He didn’t seem to notice. His attention was on the screen.
Jackson had taken a seat across from Marie. He waited as she sipped her coffee and then said, “Marie, help us, and we can help you. There’s no way that you were one of the captives; you are impeccably dressed, and you were trying to slink away—”
“I knew you would think I was guilty,” the woman cried. “Those horrible people! They might have known about my past, too. I was at the library, and when I left, they just swept me up.”
“Marie, you’re going to go down—just how far is what’s up in the air,” Jackson said calmly.
She shook her head. “You need evidence in court. You don’t have a shred of evidence against me.”
“I’m sure we’ll find lots of shreds as we finish tearing apart the warehouse,” Jackson said. “And talking to some of the captives.”
“I was a captive!”
“Really? Like I said, it will be curious to know what the young women and men being held there will have to say.”
“I—They’re all liars! I was treated better than others. They will hate me for that and lie about me!”
Jackson smiled at her. He opened a folder he had in front of him, and produced a sketch done by Maisie Nicholson, one of the Krewe’s amazing sketch artists.
“Who is this?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. It’s a sketch,” Marie said.
“You’ve never seen this man? I hear his name is John Smith.”
Marie looked at Jackson. “I don’t know a John Smith. And I don’t know this man.”
“Well, I guess it’s time you got your attorney,” he told her. He rose.
She did the same. “No! You’ve got to let me go!”
Jackson walked out of the room. Marie continued to rant and rave as he did so.
“She’s lying,” Patrick said, looking at Angela. “Of course, we all know that. But there’s something more going on. Her mind is a mess, and I’d guess fear is the reason for it. She’s afraid to talk—and she’s terrified of being locked up. She’s got a special reason for wanting to get out of here and not be incarcerated.”
“What is it?” Angela asked.
“Like I said, she’s afraid.”
“I’d be afraid of prison,” Angela said.
Patrick shook his head, his eyes intense as he said grimly, “She’s afraid of being killed once she’s in prison. I believe there’s more than that, though. I think Alfie may be right; there’s a major connection here.”
“To John Smith, yes. We’ve been questioning Ayers, looking high and low for more connections between guards and prisoners and attorneys.”
“Well, whether it’s Ayers or not, there is someone at the top who is protected by use of threats against the family members of those working for him. I think he’s been running major criminal rings, including the burial murders that were stopped recently. We keep thinking Rory Ayers is manipulating everything from behind bars, but we don’t know how. A lot of the people who died today knew what was coming. Because the big boss is afraid someone will talk, and his minions know if they don’t die, someone else will.”
Angela nodded gravely. The door opened and Jackson entered. Angela asked Patrick to relay everything to Jackson.
“They’ll hold her in a federal facility in isolation,” Jackson said.
Patrick nodded. “She’s scared to death. Though there is something behind her fear. She just might break. I’d hold on to her tonight, then have someone let it slip she might be going into the general population. Which would be too bad. If others think she did talk, that might frighten her into believing she needs our help. And she was lying; she recognized that drawing.”
“The drawing isn’t Ayers,” Angela said.
“Not as we see him now,” Patrick said. “If Ayers is John Smith, he plays it safe. He makes sure he’s nothing like his usual self. The drawing could be him—all he had to do was use some putty, stage makeup, change his hair... He could do anything he wanted. Until he got too cocky and was caught.”
“But is it possible? That he’s pulling strings while incarcerated?” Angela posed.
“If so, we have to find out how,” Jackson said. “Damned magician. We’ll need to keep close tabs on Marie. She might not know everything, but she could know enough to give us something. Patrick, thank you. You’ll stay on this?” Jackson asked.
“I promised Alfie.”
“I love consultants,” Jackson said, grinning.
“And I hope to hell I prove worthy,” Patrick said.
“It was your move that got the troops out,” Jackson said. “So many saved from possible death or lives of servitude. Of course, the congressman—tough as he can be during his campaign speeches—was in tears over getting his daughter back. All in all, it was a good day.”
“I just wish—” Jordan started before breaking off.
“You wish we could have found Susie?” Patrick said.
She nodded. “Every life is equally important,” she said. “And I still wish we could find her for Alfie. He’s done so much for all of us.”
“We won’t stop looking for her. If we can break any of this wide open, well, we may be on to something and it all relates back,” Jackson said.
“Where is Alfie, anyway?” Patrick asked, frowning.
“He’s with the police and social services. They’re trying to make sure we separate the good guys from the bad, probably also hoping for some intel we can use. The problem is, those held captive don’t know much beyond how they were taken—and how they were kept. Marie and the few captors who were shot but didn’t die are our best bet for information. Alfie can go where we can’t, so he might learn something.” He looked at Jordan, nodding a bit grimly. “My office?” he asked.
She nodded. She was afraid Jackson was going to put her on desk duty. He probably felt she’d made the wrong moves that day.
Except he’d allowed her into the building—and she had managed to catch Marie Donnell before the woman could slip away.
Patrick Law headed for the door. She was surprised when he turned back and looked at her.
“It all turned out okay,” he said quietly. And she thought he smiled. That his words maybe meant more than he was saying. He gazed at Jackson, adding, “Krewe are special—in so many ways.”
“We need you. You could join anytime as more than a consultant, if you’re willing to go through the academy,” Jackson told him. “You’re more than a little special yourself.”
Patrick laughed. “That can be taken many ways. Anyway, I’m here. I’ll be here; I’m helping Megan compile everything she can dig up on Alfie’s case.”
“Thank you again,” Jackson said.
Then Patrick was gone. Jackson shrugged. “We don’t really need to go to my office; I just wanted to tell you—”
“I know. I’m sorry. I did put myself in a position—”
“As it happened, the day went well. And I understand what you were trying to do, and who the hell would expect what did happen?” Jackson said. “But—no more. No undercover without a partner, without backup, someone on observation at the least—”
“Alfie was—”
“Someone living. The dead can’t make emergency calls,” Jackson said firmly. “But that’s my department, and I’ll work on it. Anyway, it’s been one hell of a long day. Go home. Get some sleep. All in all, a hell of a long day, but a good day. Not an officer or agent was killed and only a few suffered minor injuries. A lot of people were rescued. Get some sleep.”
“Thank you,” Jordan said, trying not to show just how relieved she felt. “Oh, I don’t have my car. It’s at the hotel.”
“We’ll get you to it. I can’t leave yet, but we have a few agents still here. We’ll get you a ride home.”
Jackson opened the door, and as he followed her out, she turned and asked, “Do you believe everything Patrick Law says because he’s a psychiatrist?”
He smiled and said, “Because he’s a Law. They have special talents—he has a way of practically seeing into the human mind. Anyway, looks like he’s still here. Talking to Bruce McFadden. Hey, Patrick, Bruce, can one of you drop Jordan off at her place?” he asked.
“If she can wait a few minutes—” Bruce McFadden began.
“I’m going now,” Patrick said. “If you’re ready, I’ll drop you.”
Jordan forced a smile. She wasn’t sure she wanted to spend any more time with Patrick Law that day.
That had to be it; he had been caring for the female victim, but somehow, he’d seen the mind of the man who was about to reach for his weapon!
A ride home. She could handle that.
She saw him smile. Surely, he knew she’d prefer a ride from just about anyone else in the world.
“Yes, I’m ready. Thank you,” she said flatly.
He nodded to Jackson, and they left the offices and walked into the parking garage.
Two
“I’ll get you home, safe and sound,” Patrick said, smiling at Jordan as she slid into the passenger’s seat.
She gave him a very pleasant—and very fake—smile.
He realized he’d come down hard on her. And maybe that was good.
But maybe it had been unfair. Because if they had gotten her inside the warehouse, there might not have been a way out. But she had still risked her life—and inadvertently risked the lives of others—through her actions, even if she’d found herself between a rock and a hard place.
Patrick wasn’t sure why he was so drawn to the story Sergeant Alfie Parker had given them, but there had been something in the ghost’s words that haunted him more than any ghost had ever managed. Alfie deserved justice.
He would have loved to have known the man in life; Alfie Parker was a good guy, the kind of man you’d always want on your team. None of them—at least, none of the small percentage of people who could communicate with the dead—understood why some souls remained, while some did not. It was assumed that souls lingered because something had been left undone, because justice needed to prevail, or because an event had been so traumatizing that too many remnants of history remained in the air.
Patrick didn’t have answers. But he’d been lucky. It was an odd thing, growing up as a triplet. He and his sisters were close. As the only boy, he was a bit of an odd man out, but in other ways, Megan had been. She loved words. She would help in any situation that she could, but she preferred a life in which most days were dedicated to working in a day-to-day rational world rather than dealing with guns and crime and prison. She believed stories influenced lives, whether they entertained, taught, or did both. In her time as an editor, she’d seen how stories could change people’s lives.
And that was great.
But for him, it had always been the mind—and law enforcement. He’d known at a very early age he had a skill for “seeing” inside the human mind. And while their strange talents had become evident to each of them when they were young, their parents had merely thought they were playing with imaginary friends. As a threesome, they had realized other people might think they were crazy, but after Colleen had “heard” an unconscious woman calling for help from the trunk of a car, their parents had become involved.
Jordan was watching him, he realized. They’d reached his car and were sitting in it; he needed to start the engine.
“You were deep in thought,” she said.
“Yeah, sorry.”
“Were you reading someone’s mind?” she asked. She sounded a bit dubious—more puzzled than anything else.
He shook his head. “I guess I was just thinking about Alfie and this...strange sixth sense that brings us all together.”
