Targeted Witness, page 2
When she had first started dating Ryan, she’d believed her handler, Gerald Hawkins, would be on board with the relationship and let Ryan in on her situation. Unfortunately, the request had been firmly denied. It didn’t matter that Ryan was a cop or that he was former FBI. Rules were rules, and who Ryan was and what he meant to her didn’t matter. Cassie had pushed her handler to reconsider, but he opted to tell her sickening tales of what The Wolf would do to her if Ryan ever betrayed her.
“You can trust me. If...”
“Ryan, honestly,” and she was being honest, “before I came to Bakerton, I was not in any abusive relationships.”
“Then what is going on, Cassie?”
“Why are you always so suspicious? Can’t I just be a girl scared by a stupid teenage prank?”
“Because there’s more to this, and we both know it.”
Their situation was impossible, and it didn’t matter what she did. It wasn’t going to get any better. Infuriated, Cassie hobbled out of the car and was surprised when she heard Ryan’s door slam shut behind her. She turned. “I don’t want to fight.”
“I don’t want to fight either,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I just want to make sure that the house is safe.”
Part of her wanted to say that she could take care of herself, but her throbbing knee strongly disagreed with her at the moment. “Knock yourself out,” she said, passing him the keys at the front door. He walked in first, and when she followed in behind him, he gave her a look. “It’s cold,” Cassie stated flatly. “I’m not waiting outside.”
He searched thoroughly around her sparsely furnished place. Not wanting to get caught staring after him, Cassie found herself overly focused on building a fire in the wood-burning stove.
“Everything appears fine,” he said, coming into the living room. “How’s your knee?”
“A little sore,” Cassie said, settling into the rocking chair and propping her leg up on the oversize ottoman.
Cautiously, he sat beside her knee. “Can I take a look?”
She thought about refusing, but it would only cause more problems if she didn’t let him. “Sure,” she said and drew up her torn pant leg. The knee was already starting to swell, and there were a couple of nasty scratches, but overall it didn’t look too bad. His calloused hands tenderly touched her knee, making her heart quicken. He looked up from his examination, his eyes filled with gentleness.
So much was left unspoken between them, so much that begged to be said. The fire crackled, filling the silence.
“We should clean that up.” Without another word, he disappeared into the kitchen. She heard him rummaging around her cupboards, banging things around.
“What are you doing in there?” she called.
“Looking for your kettle... It used to be... Found it... Hey, what do you think about me bringing Duke by and having him stay with you for a couple of days?”
“Duke? Sure. Are you going away?” Cassie asked, surprised. Ryan always took Duke, his golden Lab, with him everywhere when he wasn’t on duty.
“No, just working a lot, and he always loved it out here. He’d be good company for you.”
“Good protection, you mean.”
“Something like that. What kind of tea do you want? You’re out of peppermint.”
“Chamomile would be perfect.”
When he came back, Ryan had a tray laden with snacks along with the tea. He set it beside her and brought a damp cloth up to her knee.
“I can take care of that,” she said, tugging the cloth from his hand. Being near him was dangerous.
“There’s an ice pack on the tray too. When you warm up a little, you should put it on.”
“Will do.”
He spied the TV remotes across the room and grabbed them for her. “I’ll bring Duke by tomorrow morning. You should probably stay off that knee for a couple of days,” he said, standing next to her Christmas tree.
“I’ll try.”
“Do more than try, okay?” He glanced over at her tree and his brow furrowed. Gently, he reached out, touching one of the ornaments they had made together last year.
“Are you staying for a bit?” Cassie asked.
“No. I need to get back,” he said, pulling away.
Maybe she was a chicken, but she waited until he was behind her chair and opening the door before she asked what she needed to.
“Ryan...”
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask a favor?”
“Cassie, don’t.”
She twisted in her chair. “Please, don’t file a report about this.”
His words were icy as he turned his head away from her. “If you were just spooked, what does it matter?”
“Just don’t mention my name.”
Ryan shook his head. “I can’t believe you sometimes.”
“Ryan, please.”
“Good night, Cassie,” he said, shutting the door behind him with a decisive click.
Yet again, her heart was ripping into a million pieces. Ryan wanted to know everything about her, and that was something she couldn’t offer. Maybe their breaking up was for the best, but it didn’t make it easy. The headlights from his car shone through the entryway windows.
Cassie rose and walked to the bookshelf. Her fingers quickly tugged out an old copy of a novel and took the bookmark—a business card—out.
The white card contained simple black writing. Gerald Hawkins—Tax Specialist it read with a number listed below.
No longer crisp, the edges had become dog-eared and mired with smudges. Cassie had long since memorized the details, but she kept the card anyway. Sitting back down, she slowly twirled the paper between her fingers. Should she call her handler? she wondered.
The chances of the assassin—dubbed by the media as The Wolf—finding her were slim to none so long as she followed the rules of the program, and Cassie was nothing if not obedient. What were the odds that the person following her was The Wolf? Her fingers tapped the card.
It had been eight years since she had witnessed Congressman Johnson’s assassination at the charity gala in her art studio in New York. Eight years since she’d testified against The Wolf’s accomplice, Gabriel Finch, and it had been almost that long since the program had discouraged her from working publicly as an artist. In all the days and months that had passed since that awful night, The Wolf had yet to make a single attempt on her life. Not a single one.
Cassie didn’t doubt that The Wolf still wanted her dead. After all, she had erased his anonymity. Her art skills had allowed her to make lifelike sketches and paintings of him and all that she had seen that night. The result had placed The Wolf’s face on every major news network worldwide. With a stroke of her brush, she had made his face one of the world’s most recognizable. And if that weren’t enough, once he was caught, her testimony against The Wolf would ensure he was locked in prison for the rest of his life.
“What to do,” Cassie muttered. Was the man on the trail tonight The Wolf or not? If it was The Wolf, wouldn’t she be dead right now? She leaned back in her chair. Oddly, the thought gave her comfort.
Given her history, it was only natural that she would be skittish. She lifted the business card up, picturing Gerald, the kind, balding man who had become a good friend over the years.
If she told the program what happened tonight, Gerald might decide to relocate her. The thought hit like a sucker punch to the gut. She’d already been stripped of her real family. The thought of returning to that nomadic lifestyle, of spending another Christmas alone, made her feel sick.
For the last three years, Bakerton had become Cassie’s home. Here, she had joined a loving church and made friends who were more like family. This was her new beginning, and the thought of having it taken away for something that might be nothing was unthinkable.
With her mind made up, Cassie put the business card down. Her only hope was that Ryan wouldn’t name her in a report if he filed one. If Gerald became aware of what happened tonight, her hands would be tied. He would present her with two options: relocate or quit witness protection. No matter how tough she had become, Cassie knew she wasn’t ready to leave the safety the program afforded her.
She turned on the TV and found a baking show to distract her thoughts. There was no point in worrying about what Ryan would do. It had to rest in God’s hands. She was safe, she was hidden, and no one, not even The Wolf, would be able to find her.
* * *
Ryan took a deep breath and parked his cruiser along the side of the snowbank where Cassie had burst into the intersection only an hour ago. As a former agent of the FBI, he was a master of staying calm underneath the most brutal of conditions, but seeing Cassie dart in front of his car the way she did had instantly stripped away his years of training. He hadn’t run out of his car like an agent who had faced down serial killers. No, he’d acted like a lovesick schoolboy. While he’d left the FBI four years ago to become a small-town cop and live a simpler life, there still was no room for personal feelings to cloud his judgment.
Cassie was his ex-girlfriend for a reason. Ryan didn’t want to think of her mixed up in something illegal, but she was hiding something, and whatever that something was, she wanted him to overlook it. Unfortunately for her, his dad had taught him young the cost of being emotionally blinded.
Well, if he could put his own father behind bars, then he could do the same to her. He just needed to get his head in the game. What he needed were facts. Facts were tangible. Facts forced the truth, no matter how ugly, into the light.
Ryan got out of his warm car and pulled on his gloves. He didn’t mind the cold tonight. The chill worked to center him and made his pulse slow. With his flashlight in hand, he easily picked up and followed Cassie’s tracks, making him thankful the earlier snowfall had stopped.
Stepping up onto the Powder River Trail, Ryan observed the compacted snow where Cassie had stopped, turned and seen who was behind her. At that point, she had bolted through the trees. Who had filled her with such terror? Thankfully, with it being so late, the scene hadn’t been contaminated by others. Ryan followed in his own footprints from before and counted off the distance from where Cassie had stood to where the perp’s boot impressions had stopped. He looked up at the path light and noted that the man had been careful to remain on the edge of its reach. Not something the average teenage prankster would think to do.
Ryan bent down to study the assailant’s tracks. He suspected they belonged to a man of medium height and medium build. He took pictures of the boot tread impression with his phone. Whoever this person was, they had stood in this spot, watched Cassie run and then doubled back. Why didn’t he chase after her?
Puzzled, Ryan followed the footsteps back along the trail, noting when the man picked up his pace and how Cassie had tried to do the same. The snow made it simple to retell the story of what had unfolded.
Upon reaching the place of her original fall, Ryan traced back the perp’s steps and found the spot where the man had stood in the trees. His jaw tightened when he shifted the evergreen branches revealing a perfect sight line to where Cassie had sat injured and vulnerable. He cleared his throat. A million different scenarios of what could have played out here tonight ran through his mind, and not one of them made the pit in his stomach feel any better.
He continued on to the entrance of Polson Park, where the streets had been plowed, obliterating the footprint trail. Since he knew Cassie’s usual route, Ryan simply crossed the road. Her trail was easy to pick up, and so too were the tracks of the man that had followed her. Here Cassie’s stride had been purposeful but didn’t show signs of panic.
When he reached Cassie’s Jeep, Ryan noticed a single half impression of the man’s boot print behind it. From its angle, Ryan surmised the man must have crossed the street here. A few snow-encrusted cars dotted the far side of the road, but Ryan focused on the wide swaths of empty parking spots. Instinct told him that the perp had been parked somewhere along there, watching for a target or perhaps, waiting for a specific one. A tumult of conflicting emotions rose, and he quickly forced them down.
Ryan crossed Main Street and scanned for any evidence that someone had been loitering, but nothing turned up. Frustrated, he walked back to Cassie’s Jeep and stood in front of it with his arms crossed over his chest. There had to be more here, he was sure of it. He stared carefully at the hood, now lightly covered in snow, and thought back on Cassie’s story.
An idea began forming, and he squatted down to look through the grill, shining his flashlight. Ryan took his knife from his duty belt and maneuvered the blade, popping the hood. Methodically, he ran his flashlight over the engine and noticed the dirt was disturbed over the housing to the fuse box. His pulse racing, Ryan opened the housing, not wanting to see what he suspected.
But there it was, plain as day; one of the fuses had been pulled loose. Cassie’s vehicle not starting had been no accident.
TWO
The clock over the television glared 2:32 a.m. Cassie stared at it disbelievingly. She should have gone to bed hours ago, but her mind would not stop replaying that unsettling whistle. Well, if she wasn’t going to sleep, she might as well do something productive.
She hobbled toward the hall and made her way into the garage. Ignoring the chill, she slid into her blue Crocs and unlocked the door at the back of the space. If US Marshal Gerald Hawkins were to find out about this room, he would be furious with her, but in moments like this, Cassie was willing to face his wrath.
She flicked on the overhead fluorescent lights, her eyes squinting with the sudden bath of light over her art studio. The original owners had meant for the cement room to be storage, but from the moment Cassie had seen it, she’d known its potential. In fact, it was the main reason she had bought this cabin. It was her oasis. A place where she could safely paint without anyone noticing or figuring out who she was. Artwork, her fine arts professor had explained, was like a fingerprint, unique and identifiable to each artist. The last thing Cassie or WITSEC wanted was some well-meaning person to notice her talent and blow her cover by publicizing it.
Half asleep, Cassie took her old green sweater from its hook, wandered over to the easel and studied the canvas she was working on. In the past, she’d been drawn to modern artwork with intricate details. But since that fateful night at her gallery, she’d not had the heart for it. Now she dabbled in acrylics, letting herself drift into peaceful landscapes. The work proved challenging, and Cassie contemplated her current painting. Something was off with it. She tilted her head, studying the canvas. There it was. She had missed the reflection of light on some of the trees. By rote, she reached down for her fan brush, and her heart stilled.
She stared down in disbelief, her fingers rubbing against white velvety rose petals. Panic squeezed her chest. Cassie whirled around, sending her stool clattering onto the cement floor. She started to run and stopped short, her eyes glued to the open shelves next to the door. The disorganized chaos of water jars, paint thinners and artist materials now sat aligned in militant rows, but her eyes didn’t register that. They only saw the painting. The landscape she’d completed last month now sat nailed into the wooden shelves, crude red lettering scrawled over the middle of it.
ordained with pure white roses,
their scent sweet upon your skin;
ardor long last requited,
love forever bound herein.
Holding her breath, Cassie reached forward and pushed her finger into the red paint. The acrylic, still tacky, stuck to her skin. She pressed her eyes closed, not wanting to believe the truth, but there it was, plain as the wet paint before her. A low scream tore from her throat as she ripped the canvas from the shelf and threw it across the room.
The Wolf had found her.
Fear and anger swirled together, threatening her focus, but Gerald’s training began to take over her thoughts. She needed her go bag, and she needed to get out now. Without bothering to lock the door to her studio, Cassie ran to her bedroom.
Wrenching her packed black duffel from her closet’s top shelf, she threw it onto her bed. There was no time to waste. Quickly, Cassie opened her top drawer and leaped back. Her garments lay neatly in stacks, scattered with white rose petals. Her grandmother’s necklace draped over the top of them. The violation tore at her gut, but she didn’t have time to be afraid. With sure fingers, she snatched the locket from its perch and slammed the drawer shut.
A scratching sound echoed along the side of the house, and she jumped, looking over her shoulder. It’s just the maple tree. Cassie steeled her heart and swiped her arm across the top of her dresser, scooping up the picture frames and shoving them into her bag.
A booming knock hammered at the front door. Cassie froze.
“I know you’re up! I can see the lights.”
Ryan? The banging came again, more insistent.
“Cassie, open up!”
She didn’t have time for this right now.
Storming to the front door, Cassie threw it open. Duke bounded in, his wet front paws jumping up on her in his excitement to lick her face.
“Down, Duke,” Cassie said authoritatively. The dog whined and nearly bowled her over, brushing against her legs, desperate for pets. “Not now, Duke,” she said, pushing him off and glowering at Ryan, who had shouldered his way past her with hands full of various pet paraphernalia. With a thump, Ryan dropped the giant bag of dog food on the kitchen counter.
“It’s two in the morning?” Cassie stated, unable to keep the irritation out of her voice. “This couldn’t wait?”
“No. It couldn’t.”
“Fine,” she replied, gesturing him out the still-open front door. “Thanks for bringing Duke by. Good night.”
Ryan squared his shoulders, matching Cassie’s ruthless glare.
