Mac held up his hand in a wait-for-it gesture. “That symbol also looks like the Christian cross with a hook in the bottom. I found an obscure post about the symbol. It means”—Mac sucked in a slow breath through his nose and spoke while exhaling—“slave of Satan.”
“Are you sure?” Cain packed his voice with theatrical disbelief. “I’m pretty certain it means property of the Tooth Fairy.”
Mac almost cracked a smile, his eyes crinkling in amusement for only a moment, but then settling into a grave and grim expression.
“That was my reaction too. And then I showed it to Stan Pitts. In the eighties, he worked a Satanic cult case. He saw that symbol tattooed on a guy who claimed to be—you guessed it—a slave of Satan.”
In the middle of Cain’s spine, right between his shoulder blades, a dull throbbing ache began. “Satanic-cult-ritual bullshit doesn’t fit the murders.”
“I agree. There was nothing ritualistic about the deaths of Mercy’s family. The Dawsons’ house was odd with the blood painting on the wall, but it didn’t have a ritualistic flair. Stan agrees on those points. But it is strange.”
“Strange doesn’t equal slave of Satan.”
Mac didn’t say anything.
“Come on. You can’t be buying this shit.”
“I’m not buying it. But I am looking at the merchandise. And I am keeping in mind that whoever is involved might be wearing the merchandise. I’ve got a couple new agents looking through the old Killion crime-scene photos to see if that symbol shows up anywhere else.”
They both went quiet. Everything that needed to be said had been said, and there was no reason to stay. “Um…thanks for…you know…showing up. I know you had a case, and I don’t know what you had to do to be here instead of there, but I appreciate it.”
“I’m glad you called.” Mac stared into Cain’s eyes as he spoke. He might have been Cain’s adopted dad, but he did a fair imitation of an emotional mom at times. “I’m here for you. Have been from the beginning.”
When the guy got all sentimental, it always made Cain feel like a kid. Like he had suddenly shrunk a few feet and lost a few decades—and damn if he didn’t sometimes want to throw himself into those fatherly arms and pretend for just a minute that Mac really was his dad and that nothing that came before Mac existed.
But he couldn’t do that. Had never been able to do that. No matter how much he wanted to. Something always held him back. That something being his father and the life he’d lived before Mac. The things he’d done before Mac. The thing Mac didn’t understand was that Cain didn’t deserve him.
Cain did the only thing he could. He nodded and changed the subject. Again. “I need to get going. Keep me updated”—about Mercy—“about the case.”
“I will.” Mac gave him a slow, sad look, the kind that always made Cain feel like an asshole.
He should say something more. Offer some sort of…something to the guy. But he had no words. None. He wasn’t programmed that way. Didn’t speak that language. The language of affection and emotion.
“Listen.” Mac’s tone was in the serious range. “I don’t know everything that’s going on with the Liz and Mercy situation. Keep your eyes open.”
“I didn’t think anyone was looking for her.”
“I want to check a few back channels to be certain.” Mac was more protective than a momma bear. “Lay low until I give you the all clear. I’ll call as soon as I know something.” Mac gave him another long, assessing look, then turned and headed toward the cabin.
Cain watched until the guy hit the porch, then forced himself to turn away and head toward the car.
In the Mustang, a pervasive emptiness grew in his torso—as if someone had taken a giant ice cream scoop and hollowed him out one giant spoonful at a time. There was a name for that feeling.
Lonely.
He felt goddamned lonely.
After two days in Mercy’s presence, it felt different, odd, weird, not to have her nearby.
“What the hell is wrong with me?” Once he got back to his place, got back to his routine of waiting for Mac to call with the next case, life would balance out again. He was lying to himself. And he damned well knew it. Something had happened in that cabin with her. In those few moments when she’d been flirty and friendly with him, she’d ruined him. Given him a taste for affection when all he could afford was apathy.
He had the urge to look up, look at the cabin window, hope for one last glimpse of her, but he focused on turning the key in the ignition and then K-turned the car until it was aimed down the rutted drive.
Overgrown bushes and brambles slapped and smacked the doors, but Cain didn’t have the brain capacity to care. His mind overflowed with her.
At the end of the driveway, he let the car coast to a halt.
It didn’t feel right leaving her.
It didn’t feel right staying.
For her, he needed to leave. Didn’t want to scare her again. For him, he needed to leave. Didn’t want to see that look of fear on her face again.
He rammed his boot down on the gas. The tires chucked gravel, the back end fishtailed, then the car shot out the driveway onto the road with a skid and roar of engine. Nothing like speed to narrow his concentration.
He pedal-to-the-metaled it. The car surged forward, all its horses galloping. A quarter mile ahead of him, the road curved left, and he fisted the wheel—no brakes, baby. The car could handle it. And he needed the adrenaline to get his mind off her.
A tiny, gray sports car shot around the curve, coming toward him. It was the kind of car a guy with a small dick and a large ego would drive. The vanity plate read HEADOC. What the fuck was a headoc? And what was the point of getting a personalized plate if no one understood its meaning?