Wade snorted—nothing ambiguous about it. “Come on.”
“Look, all I know is, she’s had some success working with other departments—Seattle, San Francisco, L.A.—and there was that kidnapping in Yreka last summer, she was involved with that. Hey, man, let’s face it, we’re not getting anywhere with these murders, and she lives right here in Portland. Be pretty dumb not to give her a shot, seems to me. What’ve we got to lose?”
“Credibility?” Wade said dryly. “Self-respect?”
He looked over at the woman. She was sitting in one of the swings with her head down and her hands over her face. She didn’t look so much like a cheerleader now as a little girl who’d lost her mommy.
Well, hell, he thought. I’ve got to talk to the woman sooner or later. Might as well be now.
“Play nice,” Francks called to him as he hitched his jacket more squarely on his shoulders and stepped over the curbing into the sandy playground.
Wade grunted.
Darkness…cold…so cold.
Fear…paralyzing fear…can’t think…should fight, struggle…maybe if I could scream…I am screaming! Why can’t I hear myself screaming?
Don’t hurt me! Please…don’t hurt…don’t hurt…nohurtnohurtnomorehurtpleaseplease…
Oh God… No! No…no…
Can’t be happening…not real…can’t be real!
I can’t die! Please…I don’t want to die!
I don’t understand…why are you doing this?
Why…why…why…
“Why…what?”
The voice was deep and flat, and came from somewhere outside the terror that held her in its clammy web. Tierney Doyle clung to the voice, used it like a lifeline and managed to haul herself back to corporeal reality, the tangible, tasteable, seeable world. As she struggled to focus on the tall figure of the man standing in front of her she felt the reassuring hug of the swing seat around the backs of her thighs, the warm Portland sunshine beating down on her head, the bite of the steel chains she’d gripped so hard she knew there would be red indentations and white ridges across her fingers and palms when she let go.
She touched a toe to the depression in the sand beneath the swing dug by small, pushing feet, making the swing rotate slightly as she looked up, up, up, past the slightly rumpled tan slacks, the darker brown sport jacket with the Portland P.D. detective’s badge pinned to the pocket, the unbuttoned shirt collar and the hard, square jaw wearing a hint of five o’clock shadow, though it was not yet noon. On up to eyes the color of mountain lakes under cloudless skies, with lashes any woman would die for.
“What?” she said vaguely as she met the look of cold appraisal in those deep-blue eyes. This she recognized—she’d seen that look often enough before. A skeptic, obviously, like so many in his line of work.
“Are you all right? You looked like you were about to pass out.” It wasn’t an expression of sympathy; his mouth hadn’t softened, though there was a pleat of frown lines between his dark brows.
Skepticism, but compassion, too. Nice, even though he doesn’t look it.
She tried to produce a smile, but it was too soon. Too soon. “I’m fine,” she murmured, and mentally added a determined, I will be.
She rose from the swing but kept one hand tightly on the chain, uncertain of her legs. She brushed at the seat of her pants and nodded in a way that took in the sandy playground, the children’s play equipment incongruously painted in happy primary colors, and the people—not children, but grown-ups, dressed in muted shades of gray and tan and brown—moving purposefully among them. Like sparrows, she thought, foraging in a bed of flowers. “It gets to me sometimes, that’s all.”
“Yeah, crime scenes can be tough,” the detective said, slipping a pair of sunglasses from his inside jacket pocket and putting them on. “Especially on civilians.”
She glanced up at him, and this time she did smile. “You’re not a believer in…what I do.”
His eyebrows lifted in mock surprise. “Wow, you are a mind reader.”
“I read emotions, not minds.”
And he watched her eyes change, an effect so unmistakable it startled him, but which he couldn’t have described to save his life. A veil…a shadow…and yet, neither of those. Somehow, though they continued to gaze into his, her eyes seemed to be looking at something else, something only she could see. He wanted to tell her to stop whatever it was she was doing. She was creeping him out. But before he could open his mouth, she spoke again, in a hoarse almost-whisper.
“He tortured her…tied her here—” she gestured toward the swing that hung limp and empty next to the one she clung to “—so her feet wouldn’t touch the ground. He cut her, burned her…” And as she spoke the words in a breathy undertone her hand wandered here and there over her body, showing him where.
A strange prickling sensation washed over his skin. He felt his stomach go cold. How could she know that? No one outside the task force knows that—no one. And it wasn’t covered in the briefing this morning, either.
“Who told you that?” he demanded, his voice raw with anger. But she didn’t seem to hear him.
“He covered her mouth with something—tape, I think—so she couldn’t scream. Couldn’t—” She let go of the chain suddenly and gripped his arm instead. He felt the cold of her hand through the layers of his shirt and jacket. The veil—whatever it was—was gone from her eyes and they focused on him again. “Please—I need to get away from it. From here. This place. Do you mind?”
“Sure,” he said, “why not? Where do you want to go?”
He had to hand it to her—she was good. Damn good. The hand on his arm actually felt like it needed his support, and he could see tiny beads of sweat scattered across her forehead and the bridge of her freckled nose. He could hear the faint shudder of her uneven breathing. And even with her tousled head of sunshot red-gold curls just inches from his shoulder, he realized he hadn’t thought of cheerleaders since she’d first looked into his eyes.
“I don’t care, just—” She nodded toward the parking lot, crowded now with law enforcement and crime scene vehicles of all shapes and sizes. The news media, thank God, had been restricted to the park perimeter by manned police barricades. “Just anywhere. I need some distance. From where it happened.”
“Sure. Whatever you say.” Annoyance made him tight-lipped and shorter with her than he should have been, though the annoyance was with himself for beginning to believe, even for a moment, that there might be something to her flimflam. And for not being smooth enough to think of a way to rid his arm of the oddly disturbing weight of her hand without seeming churlish.
They walked, slowly. He had the interrogator’s knack of patient waiting, and in due time it paid off. She began to talk, in a voice that seemed completely normal, nothing like the hoarse half whisper of a few minutes