The Seventh Man, page 23
Mr. Elliott looked up and a world of love shone with such brightness Thain’s eyes stung. “Duncan. Duncan Elliott.”
50
She touched him. He felt her hand tremble as she caressed the bare, taut skin of his left arm, trapping him as surely as if she’d put chains on him. He watched as she laid her hand fully on his chest. She looked up at him, and her tears shocked him. Why was she crying?
He didn’t think past the question. He put his arms around her and stood there holding her, no words, no sound but her sobs. He had nowhere to hide from the trap she had laid for his soul.
Because for all his years of hiding from it, his soul held the memories he refused to acknowledge. This small, helpless woman had brought his heart forth and made it feel again. He’d thought he’d forgotten how to feel, had hoped that to be true, had believed it to be true until now. Until her.
And again the question raised its lively, ugly head: would he throw his life away for her? Would he give up everything he had become to try and be with her? Shocked to the depths of his consciousness, he suddenly knew the answer. It had been staring at him all along, only he had refused to see it.
He held her closer. He put his head next to hers and drank in the perfume of her, a woman’s scent, secret and half-remembered. He wanted to tell her he wanted her. He wanted to take her then and there, but her tears ripped him to shreds. “Don’t cry anymore. There is no reason—”
She laughed. She pulled away from him and laughed again, slowly at first, then hysterically. He’d seen her get this way before, and this time the walls of their room were thin. “Don’t . . .” He pulled her back into his arms, but she fought him. She struggled, pushed, pounded and kicked him. And she cried great sobs of grief, of fear and desperation. He was determined not to remember those feelings himself, but they found an echo inside him anyway.
“Damn.” His lips found her face, feathering kisses all over it, then her mouth, his hands in her hair, on the back of her neck. He pushed her onto the bed, his mouth continuing to explore the world she was, until neither one of them could breathe, until she stopped crying and kissed him back.
He fought the pounding in his head, the tumble of too-bright colors, and traced her damp face with his fingers, desperate to commit to memory the feel of her, the look of her. He never wanted to forget, not this time. Not that forgetting was likely. He’d been a fool to think he could ever erase what had happened to him before, and with whom.
Here lay this woman beneath him, telling him with her body, if not her words, that she wanted him—that she fought not him but her own inner battle. He understood that each of them was alone, yet not. They both fought the inner beings they’d banished long ago, terrified of what it would mean if the persistent inner voices won, if they lost the battle to remain as they had become.
He continued to discover her skin, the soft easiness of her neck, and his fingers stumbled upon a long strip of hard, mottled scar tissue.
“No, don’t—” she cried out as his fingers began to follow the seam of it. She pushed his hand away.
She squirmed under him, trying to escape, but he didn’t let go. How in the bloody hell had she gotten a scar like that? “Tell me.”
“No. I can’t—I thought I could—” Her body heaved under his in desperation.
“Someone hurt you?”
“Stop, I can’t—oh, God.” She moaned and shoved his searching fingers away again, frantic now, panic in her eyes.
“Sh . . . I won’t hurt you.” His lips caressed hers again, tenderly, then with hopeless passion, wanting her more than ever, no matter his splitting head.
She sobbed, and finally clung to him. He held her tightly, crushing the breath from her. She grasped at him as if afraid to let him go. Her weeping resounded in his ears, and his head throbbed harder, the thrumming remorseless.
He fought not to hear the other cries, the remembered cries, but soon they drowned out those of the woman in his arms, and memories battered at his fortified gates, as if they realized this woman held the key and could let them loose. He shook himself free of her and crawled off the bed with his head a swamp of pulsating images and sounds he didn’t want to see or hear. Not now, not ever. The hateful odor of damp, musty hay invaded his nose, and vomit rose in his throat, stinging, choking him.
He gulped air and struggled to make it to the toilet in time, shaking his head, holding it until the pain started to ebb, which it did once he let loose the contents of his stomach.
He got the message. He must finish what he’d started, what those others had started. Until then, he couldn’t touch the innocent, beautiful woman he’d kidnapped. He could not afford to feel. There could be nothing but the emptiness he knew so well.
Otherwise he might not succeed. And he had to succeed. It was the only way to erase the past completely. The only way he might have a chance to be something, instead of the nothingness he had become.
51
When DI Hawthorne entered the interrogation room to escort the Elliotts out of it, Thain thanked them for coming and left. He needed to know the story after Duncan Elliott had run. He couldn’t wait to find out if the young man had turned himself into the Wraith and, if he had, how? If he was the Wraith, Thain now knew the why.
He barged into the murder room and grabbed a chair, flipped it around, and sat at his station. He yelled at Clive, “Clive, we need information on an old case in York, fifteen years ago. Can you get on it?”
Clive yelled back, “What type of case?”
“Murder, young girl named Rose something.”
“And why am I doing this?” Clive asked as his fingers tapped in the question with rapid precision.
“I’m looking for a young man named Duncan Elliott from York, right now.”
Thain busied himself with the keyboard entering Duncan Elliott’s name.
“Who’s Duncan Elliott, and what does he have to do with the assassin?”
“He might be one and the same. Elliott’s parents are downstairs right now. They brought in a photo—ah, there we are. Found him.”
“I’ve found the case. Girl’s name was Rose Etheridge,” Clive hollered.
“Right, got it. Duncan Elliott disappeared after she was raped and murdered,” Thain said, filling in details as to why he was looking up the information.
“So he’s wanted for killing her?” Carter walked over, as did some of the others. Thain’s temperature rose at the close proximity to Carter. Busy background noises gave way to silent expectation as more team members stopped working and listened.
Thain forced his shoulders down and nodded, but Clive answered for him. “Yes. No one knows for sure who did it, but he’s the one they looked for.” He paused. “Thain, did you know how bad this case was?”
He shook his head and stood so he could see Clive, and distance himself from Carter. “Read some more?”
“This report says the girl’s family was convinced he did it. His parents claim he told them six boys attacked him and the girl, and that they were the ones who killed her. But nothing was ever proven one way or the other, because Duncan Elliott disappeared before giving his parents the name of the boys. No one ever knew if the story was true or not, but no one cared once he ran. To her family, that proved his guilt. It’s no wonder they wanted a scapegoat. She was literally a bloody mess.”
“I wonder—” Thain started.
“Any photos?” Carter interrupted as he slid over to Clive.
Disgusted, Thain said, “Isn’t the description enough for you, Carter? Why would you—”
“I just asked,” he responded, as if anyone would do the same. “If she was such a mess that means our boy is psychotic.”
“If he’s guilty.”
“He ran!”
“If you think about it, so would any seventeen-year-old,” Thain said. In his pocket, his hand gripped his phone hard enough to crush it. Why did Carter never fail to bring out the worst in him? Why did he let him? He had no idea if Duncan Elliott was psychotic or not, but he’d seen Mr. and Mrs. Elliott’s faces, heard their inconsolable sorrow. Though he had no inclination to let an assassin off the hook, he couldn’t allow their son to be condemned, again, without at least trying to find out the truth.
Carter retaliated, “You certainly would have.”
That hit Thain where it hurt. His scar pulsed, his body tensed, ready to take Carter down.
“Enough!” Clive shouted, bravely taking them both on. “Get back to the point, all right?”
Thain calmed down, flexed his fingers open, and focused on what he’d started to say before Carter opened his famous mouth. “I wonder what happened to those boys.”
“If they existed,” Carter insisted.
Thain glared at him, and Clive stood up, taking a defensive stance. “Carter, get over there,” he pointed to the other side of the room. “Everyone in here is aware of what you did, and of the chief’s orders.” Carter glared at Thain, and slowly backed off. But it didn’t dispel the tension between the two.
“Why six?” Thain asked, trying to ignore the wretched man. He had more important things to think of right now. “Why would he make that number up? Did he run because it would have been his word against theirs if he were brave enough to name them? Did something else happen we don’t know about? Could he have been a part of their gang and something went wrong so he ran, after blaming the others? It happened before the regular use of DNA in investigations, and he was young. Clive, did you find any prior history of violence or criminal activity for Duncan Elliott?”
“I’ve just finished checking. Didn’t find anything. Clean as a whistle.”
“If he was telling the truth, he would’ve been frightened, probably in shock,” said Greene, who stood behind Thain.
“Thain, do you think he’s the Wraith?” Clive asked.
“If the man we’re after is the Wraith, remember?” Carter said from his corner, and Thain tensed again.
Rae walked in right then, looking like a detective with a shiny new clue. She halted mid-stride and glanced them all over. “What’s going on?”
Thain turned his back on Carter and raised his hands. “Nothing. We’re discussing the Rose Etheridge murder, and Duncan Elliott’s possible connection.”
She didn’t look as if she believed him, but when he glanced back at Clive, he nodded. She shrugged, but her look said she sensed a concoction brewing. She said, “If that’s true, then I have another intriguing fact about York.”
“What’ve you found? Is it better than the murder case?” Carter asked. Better? Thain seriously needed to throttle the man.
“I thought about what you’d said Thain, about searching missing persons all these years? I ran the request targeting York and guess what? Over the last ten years, four men, all in Elliott’s and McLean’s age range, have disappeared. They were all in your database, Thain.”
“Only four?” Carter sneered. “Over a ten-year time period? What could that possibly have to do with our case?” Evidently, Carter still felt slighted by Rae Bell.
But Thain stared at her because he knew exactly what it had to do with their case. “Do I need to ask if they all went to the same school, and if so, which one?”
Rae’s smile made him look at her twice. He’d never seen that particular one before. He could melt under that smile. She put a piece of paper in his hand. “All four went to Duncan Elliott’s secondary school.”
The paper held copies of photos from an old secondary school year book. Four school photos of young men the same age Duncan Elliott had been at the time of the murder. “Four,” he said, musing out loud. “Our murdered man Richard McLean came from York.”
“Ah. Clever Thain.” Clive’s voice smiled as he sat and put his fingers to work on the keyboard. “Oh, yes. Found it. Mr. Richard McLean went to the same school. Maybe our Mr. McLean isn’t so squeaky clean after all. Now we might have a real connection.”
Thain sucked in a deep breath. “We have more than that, Clive. If we’re correct in our theory, the four plus McLean makes five. Who and where is the sixth boy?”
“That, Thain, would be the lucky question of the day.”
Thain was awake now, wide awake; couldn’t be more awake, which said much after the week they’d all had. And he no longer even registered Carter on his radar. “We need the name of every boy who knew Duncan Elliott in that school. They must be interviewed, and we need to know who that sixth boy is before he disappears as well, if he hasn’t already. If he is still alive then perhaps he’s still in York. I would bet my life our suspect will head north when he leaves London, which he might have already done. He dialed St. John right away. “St. John, try and find any footage heading north out of London. Yes, north. Try toward Luton. I think our bird has flown.”
52
Celia’s head felt clearer and her arm didn’t hurt so much. She had no more need for the painkillers. She couldn’t watch him. She stood waiting for him to finish cleaning the room with a sadness weighing upon her, though she didn’t follow the feeling long enough to figure out why. She didn’t want to think about it. She ended up watching him anyway.
He took the sheets off the bed—the sheets that only she had slept on—and shook them out the window. He wrapped them in a bundle and set them by the door. His actions seemed rote, like habits formed from years of hiding, of living without a trace. Perhaps it had been easier for him before the widespread use of DNA testing, but obviously he’d adapted. He never let her help him clean.
From the moment he’d stepped from the bathroom the previous night, he’d reverted. It was as if he’d never held her, never found that damned scar and traced it, gently, as if he wanted to make love to her in spite of it. He’d pushed her away and grabbed his head again, as if in pain, the same way he had when he cut her, and when he kissed her afterwards. For the rest of the night he’d stayed in a chair as if afraid to touch her.
Celia had no idea what she’d been thinking. And she shied from the question pressing in on her. Why did she feel desperate to be with him instead of being alone?
She didn’t want to think at all as they left the inn and walked toward the motorway. Snowflakes fell with increasing speed and she realized it was really cold. But she wasn’t. She was warm, inside and out, even though bitterly cold white flakes fell upon the small bit of her face not covered by the ever-present scarf. He glanced at her as they walked, wondering, Celia felt sure, what she was thinking. He probably knew. For an instant her heart felt ready to stop. If he let her live, this chapter in her life had an ending in which he would leave. He would be gone, this mysterious man, so full of unfulfilled dreams and horrible memories.
In her logical mind she knew they weren’t the only ones in the world damaged by the past. She knew they weren’t exceptions to any rule. They were the rule.
And yet when she looked at him, at his serious face, now familiar to her, frowning at the day, she knew none of that mattered. He’d stirred up shattering emotions in her she hadn’t known existed. She wanted to feel his hunger, wanted to feel the way her own answered it. She wanted to succumb to the temptress in her that needed to be a lover, his lover, if only in her mind, because he touched her as she’d never been touched before.
What was this crazy sensation—love, or need? Desire, or survival instinct? She had no idea. Did it matter? A tempest had caught her up in its howling winds and thrown her to the universe. It didn’t feel safe, warm, or fuzzy—no, more like brutal and unforgiving, sensual and scary. She felt alive.
What was she supposed to do now? What would he do next? Being at someone’s mercy for days on end was harrowing enough on its own, but now she’d gone and let him into her heart. Kidnapper’s syndrome or whatever it was they called it. That’s all this was, of course. But she didn’t believe it. She needed to prove that she felt more than a syndrome. So she stopped walking. He looked at her with impatience, then wariness.
“Kiss me.” She demanded it, for she wanted to know he felt the same mixed-up confusion and helplessness she did. He hesitated, but when his lips touched hers, they didn’t leave until she forgot her doubt. When he stopped and pulled away a little, his breath was harsh, as if she’d forced him to climb a mountain.
“Do you love me?” she whispered, her mouth close to his, her breath vaporizing against the skin of his face.
“I can’t.”
“But you do, or you would have killed me by now.”
“You don’t know what I am.”
“A monster? A spy? A—”
He pulled away from her. “I’m an assassin. People pay me to kill other people. You can’t love someone who kills for a living.” It wasn’t a denial; it was a dare.
Stunned by his confession and his apparent dismissal of her feelings for him, Celia felt as if her thoughts were still hampered by painkillers. Uncertain and confused at first, she soon realized she was sure of only one thing. He hadn’t answered her question. She moved closer to him and he didn’t pull away. “Do you love me?” she whispered again and lifted her face to his. “Do you?”
“Yes.” No hesitation this time. No silence for an answer. Only one simple word, which fell to the ground with the snowflakes, just as precious, just as unique, just as doomed.
