Wanted By The Marshal. Ryshia KennieЧитать онлайн книгу.
said nothing. There was nothing to say, for in reality, he had no say. It was up to the FBI. For him it was an assignment, nothing more. The only thing he knew was that everything about this case was troubling.
Her attacker, Eric Solomon, the man now known as a serial killer who had silently hunted, killed and raped women across the country, was behind bars. Something about the emergency call had triggered an instinctive reaction by the detective in charge that night. He’d felt something off and deployed unmarked vehicles without sirens or flashing lights. The victim had been taken to the hospital while officers had converged quietly on the deserted house where the victim claimed she’d been held. The perpetrator had been caught when he’d returned minutes later and had been unprepared for what awaited him. There, the baby-faced man had been surprised by the police presence. He’d turned to run and been caught and arrested on the spot. The evidence had almost been too easy. The victim’s DNA was lodged under his fingernails and strands of her long hair were twisted around his ring finger like a trophy. Once the victim had identified him in a lineup of photos, it was clear that they had their man. He was now awaiting trial.
“In all my years, I’ve never dealt with this kind of situation,” James said. “The perp is behind bars and the victim is still terrified for her life. She thinks there’s another killer out there.”
“Could it be a delusion brought on by post-traumatic stress?”
“We’re definitely considering that possibility. In fact, that is why she was held in the hospital a day or two longer than necessary,” James said. “Right now, as you know, our biggest concern is that she might be saying one thing and planning another. I think her talk of going back to work is only a ploy to let us believe she’s alright. Truth is, I think she’s far from it.”
James glanced at his phone as it dinged a message and pushed it away. “I’ve never seen a victim escape something as dire as she did in quite the way she did. She has a mind of her own and where that might lead her...” He leaned forward. His blue eyes stood out more than usual against his tan complexion. “I can’t take any chances with this. We need her on the stand. But...” He paused. “This witness appears to have more guts than any I’ve seen before.”
Travis had to agree with that. For the woman had literally clawed her way out of a closet and broken out through a boarded-up window by crawling through an impossibly small opening. Then, she’d run barefoot down a dark, neglected alley to safety. And when she’d been brought in, James had told him how deadly calm she’d been. There had been no tears or hysterics, only a shaky voice as she’d reported what happened. The tears had come later according to hospital staff but even then, there’d been few. According to the file, and James had confirmed it, she’d been solid in her testimony that would incriminate the perpetrator of one of the worst serial killer rampages the country had seen in recent years. She was a five-star witness and had identified Eric Solomon from a picture lineup presented to her while she was still in the hospital. But there was only one glaring glitch, and it was the fact that she claimed to have heard two voices—both she believed to be men and both with the intent to hurt her. That belief was a glitch that cast a shadow on both her stability and her believability. It was her insistence, with a complete lack of supporting physical evidence, that the killer hadn’t worked alone.
The covers were twisted, some on the bed, some off. The room was still in darkness as Kiera fought with a sheet and finally reached over and flipped on the bedside light. She’d thought she’d heard a sound, something out of the ordinary. Seconds passed. She clutched the sheet as the fridge fan clicked on. The soft whirring seemed loud in the night silence.
“It’s the fridge,” she muttered as if saying those words would reassure her, as if they would change everything.
It was her second night back in her own home, in her own bed. It had been over a week since the attack. When she’d been discharged from the hospital, she’d been more than ready to pick up her life where it had left off. Except, that wasn’t the way it was. The condo she called home no longer felt like one. The funky, crafty style she’d created by shopping flea markets and craft sales, the style that had felt so completely her and so homey, felt foreign. She’d been on edge since she’d come home. And a police officer had been assigned to patrol her area. He made a regular pass of her property, checking in often and would continue, the officer had assured her, until a US marshal took over. While she wasn’t under twenty-four-hour surveillance, she was promised a patrol car in her neighborhood and a regular check-in.
She grabbed the book she was reading and her blanket. After heading to the kitchen to start the coffee maker, she curled up on the couch while it brewed. But the cozy mystery lay unopened on her lap despite the fact that it was one that she’d anxiously been waiting to read. She sat quietly, trying to think of anything but the trauma she’d endured.
She looked over at the half-grown cat she’d so recently taken in. Her name was Lucy. Both the name and her reason for being here were fate more than choice. She’d taken the cat so one of the residents at the home where she worked wouldn’t lose contact with her pet and would still be able to see her. Now the adolescent cat was curled up on her raspberry-and-blue flowered armchair. Lucy had claimed that chair from the minute she’d been brought home. Kiera stood up and went to sit on the edge of the chair and ran her fingers through Lucy’s soft fur. The cat batted at her hand and curled up tighter, presenting her with her back.
“You win,” she said with a smile and went back to the couch. But, despite the cat’s rejection, it felt good to have her here, to have another living being sharing her space. In fact, she’d picked the cat up from her friend’s house the minute she’d been discharged from the hospital. But she knew that she needed more than Lucy to move past the trauma. She needed to dive back into the work she loved. Returning to her routine would get rid of the fear and uncertainty that had rooted in the midst of her life like a field of thistles. Even now, she missed her colleagues’ banter and the everyday comings and goings of the care home. The thought of that brought a touch of normalcy to the sense of unreality she’d had since she’d been kidnapped.
She stood up, paced and then sat down again. She knew that the experts disagreed with that theory. They thought that counseling sessions and rest were the answer. She didn’t need counselors or psychiatrists or any other health professional to talk her into wellness. What she needed, besides her life back, was to know that both her kidnappers were behind bars. That would make her feel so much better than any therapist ever could. But the authorities thought they had her attacker. No one believed that there were two involved in the attack for there was no physical evidence. Instead, the FBI had assigned a team of marshals to protect her. They weren’t here yet, and secretly she felt that they were putting them in place more to ensure that she didn’t skip town than to protect her. It was a feeling based on the way they’d phrased things as they laid their protection plan out to her. Whatever they thought about that—they were wrong.
It was five minutes to five o’clock.
The phone rang.
“It’s a prank,” she muttered. “Someone with a sick sense of humor.” That’s what the police officer had said when she’d told him that she’d gotten two calls early yesterday morning. One a hang up and the second heavy breathing. He hadn’t taken the calls seriously at all. In fact, he’d called the incidents unfortunate and bad timing, following so closely on the heels of all she’d been through.
Yet, in her heart she didn’t believe any of that. Her gut knew it would happen again and her hand shook as she answered.
“Hello,” she said and fought to keep the tremor from her voice. “What do you want?”
She was talking to dead air. They’d hung up just as they’d done yesterday at exactly this time.
If they followed yesterday morning’s pattern, they’d call again. In exactly ten minutes.
She hit End