They’d put it together, he thought grimly. He hadn’t expected that they would. It was the letters. I never should have started that.
But it was done now. At least they can’t trace the victims to me. He’d never been fingerprinted and his DNA had never been analyzed anywhere, so the skin samples that the cops took from under Daisy’s nails could not implicate him. Nor could any prints he’d left on the beige Chevy, if any of the car was even salvageable after being burned up.
He found his shoes, shoved his foot into one, then leaned over to tie it. But he paused once again when a new photo popped up on-screen. And he heard himself growl.
“Special Agent Gideon Reynolds,” the anchor said, “one of the lead investigators on the serial killer case, was shot and hospitalized yesterday. It is believed the shooter, the serial killer, and the kidnapper are one and the same. Special Agent Reynolds should be released from the hospital later today and is expected to make a full recovery. The FBI and Sacramento PD will be holding a joint press conference later this morning. This is a developing story, so stay tuned for further updates.” She then turned to her left. “And now, the weather.”
The Fed won’t make a full recovery, he thought. Because I’m going to kill him. But at least while he’s in the hospital, he won’t be hovering over Daisy. He glared balefully at his bandaged hand. Who shot me, the bitch.
It was bizarre how he’d been fantasizing about keeping Daisy as his own less than twenty-four hours ago. Now all he could think about was making her suffer for shooting his damn hand and ruining his car.
He wondered where Daisy was at the moment. It was Monday morning. Turning off the TV, he switched on the radio next to his bed and set it to The Big Bang with TNT and Poppy—a.k.a. Eleanor, a.k.a. Daisy. He could at least find out if she was at work or home. That way he’d know where to go to shoot her, for God’s sake.
The station was actually playing music for a change instead of talk, talk, talk. He applied a mustache and eyebrows and smoothed a wig over his bald head, finishing as the song was over, and poor Mutt was spinning in circles next to his bedroom door. He paused, leash in his right hand, when the DJ started talking over the music.
“And that was a blast from the past,” the man said. “Kansas with ‘Dust in the Wind.’ I’m Alfred, substituting for TNT and Poppy. TNT’s taking a vacation and Poppy’s out sick, so send her good thoughts, okay?”
He switched the radio off and slipped both his gun and his switchblade into his coat pocket. Not at the radio station? He’d find out if she was home, and if so, he’d create a disturbance so that she came outside. He could force her back inside her place, slit her throat, and be gone in under a minute.
With one hand?
Fine, I’ll shoot her. His gun was silenced. Even if her upstairs neighbors were home they wouldn’t hear anything. He’d prefer to bring her home and make her a guest in his basement, but if that wasn’t possible, a fast kill would have to do.
“Her home it is, Mutt.” Mutt panted his approval.
And if she wasn’t home, she was probably at the hospital with Reynolds. If so, he’d hide outside and shoot her as soon as she was visible.
And then when Reynolds was released, he’d do the same thing to him.
SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 20, 7:25 A.M.
It didn’t take Gideon long to spot the beige car on the shopping center’s surveillance tape. It had already been parked in the lot when he and Daisy had arrived.
A shiver of cold ran down Gideon’s spine. He’d been waiting for her.
He fast-forwarded in bursts until the car was gone, then rewound until he saw it again. Then he waited.
And clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw popped. A man approached. With a dog.
Gideon recognized the man. He was the unemployed drama teacher who’d hit on Daisy. The one Daisy had been kind to.
“Son of a motherfucking bitch,” he snarled.
And the pulse monitor began to beep just as Daisy entered with two cups of coffee and a fast-dwindling smile. “What happened?” Sitting in the chair farthest from the monitor, she set one of the coffees on the table next to his bed but out of his reach. “The nurse is going to be here any—”
“Agent Reynolds!” the nurse scolded. “What are you doing?” She forcibly took the laptop from his hands, closed it, and handed it to Daisy. “You are resting. Not working.”
Gideon closed his eyes, trying to relax, but all he could see was that man, sitting less than an arm’s length from Daisy. He could have hurt her then. Could have shot her. Could have touched her.
But he hadn’t. He’d waited. He’d followed them, all the way to Redding, then Macdoel. He shot at me. Not Daisy.
Because he wanted me gone. He wanted her. And then? Gideon didn’t have to imagine what the bastard would have done to Daisy had he been successful in killing Gideon.
He’d already done it to Trish Hart.
But he didn’t. Because Daisy can take care of herself.
Gideon was finally able to drag in a breath. Then another. The memory of Daisy’s face as she’d taken aim at the bastard’s shooting hand . . . She’d been strong. Intense. Focused. Confident in her abilities.
And as sexy as that was, it was more comforting at the moment. Little by little he calmed himself, reining in his racing pulse, until the nurse finally made a noise of approval.
He opened his eyes to find Daisy watching him, her coffee clutched in one hand, Brutus in the other. She held Brutus up to her face, nuzzling her cheek into the little dog’s fur. When he smiled she seemed to breathe again.
“I’m okay,” he assured her. He glanced up at the nurse. “Really.”
“That’s because now you are not working,” the nurse said tartly.
He chuckled. “Yes, ma’am.”
The nurse shook her head. “You are not fooling me with that one, not again anyway. You ‘Yes, ma’am’ to make people leave you alone.”
Daisy snorted into her coffee.
He raised a brow at her. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am,” she said. “Which is why I’m agreeing with her.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
The nurse glared at him as she backed toward the door. “I’m watching you.”
Daisy snorted another laugh when the woman was gone. “You’re a piece of work, Agent Reynolds.”
“But you like me,” he said smugly.
Her grin softened to the sweetest of smiles. “I do. Tell me what had you so angry.”
He swallowed hard. “What was the name of that out-of-work drama teacher who talked to you on Saturday? At the adoption clinic?”
She frowned. “Really, Gideon? You’re not still worried about—” She suddenly paled and set her coffee on the table, her hands trembling. “That was him?”
He nodded. “He left the store and got into the beige car. The shopping center’s surveillance camera got part of his plate. It matches the one you saw yesterday.”
She was nuzzling poor Brutus again, but the dog wasn’t complaining. “I don’t think he told me his name. His dog was George, that’s all I remember.” She was breathing fast and hard. “Gideon, he sat right next to me.”
“I know,” Gideon said grimly. “Cocky sonofabitch.”
She covered her hand with her mouth, rocking herself slightly. “Oh my God.”
He patted the bed. “C’mere.”
He didn’t have to ask her twice. She climbed on the bed, resting her head on his uninjured shoulder as she had in the wee hours of the morning, except this time she cuddled with Brutus as well. He kissed the top of her head, stroking her back as best he could reach with his other hand, mindful of the IV.
“He tried to hurt you,” she whispered. “He would have killed you.”
He blinked at that. “He wanted to get to you, honey.”
“I know. But he would have killed you to do it.”
For some reason that made him smile. “Lucky I had you to protect me.”
She lifted her head to glare at him. “I’m not joking.”
He kissed the tip of her nose. “Neither was I.”
She narrowed her eyes slightly. “Well, all right then.” She resettled her head, placing Brutus on his chest and her own hand over his heart. She was quiet for so long he thought she’d gone to sleep. But then she whispered, “What are we going to do, Gideon?”
He sighed. “We’re going to track him down and put him away.”
“He had a dog. He seemed good to it. The dog didn’t seem afraid of him.”
“Maybe it’s a good lure. Gets his victims to let their guard down. A guy walking his dog can’t be bad, right?”
“Yes,” she said sadly, “you’re probably right. It’s just . . . when I think what he did to Trish and then I think about how he treated his dog . . .” She stiffened. “That night in the alley, he hesitated. He was going to shoot Brutus because she kept barking. But he hesitated. I used it to knee him and get away.”
“He didn’t dump the baby, either. He brought the kid with him. Changed cars at least twice along the way. Then left her at the hospital.”