Anything but Mine (16 page)

She’d danced in the darkness of enough killers to know that if Schaefer walked out of that courthouse, he wouldn’t be able to resist the challenge she represented for him. Before he disappeared to begin killing again, he’d come after her. But like him, she learned from her mistakes.

This time, if need be, she’d be ready for him.

“So I guess you’re going down to Chandler County, huh?” Taylor glanced sideways at her, his face more unguarded and readable than any FBI agent’s should be. “Schaefer’s trial starts today, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.” She tugged open the office door.

“Yes, you’re going, or yes, it starts today?”

“Both.” She shrugged at the exasperated noise he made in his throat. Changing her personality for him wasn’t an option. If he wanted to be her
partner
, he might as well get used to her now.

The level of activity in the office stopped her dead at the doorway, adrenaline kicking to life in her stomach. The small office’s four other agents pulled on duty jackets, checked holsters, pocketed cell phones, all while glued to the small television next to the coffee station.

“What’s going on?” Obviously something more than the background checks they’d been swamped with the last week. Excitement joined the adrenaline.

All eyes jerked to her before the four men exchanged shuttered glances. Bruce Milton, agent in charge of the office, cleared his throat. “Falconetti, there’s no easy way to say this.”

Oh, God. Those had to be the worst words in the English language and every cop knew what lay behind them.

Tick. Had something happened to Tick? No. Please. She clenched her hands, nails biting her palms, and waited.

Milton gestured at the television. “There’s been an explosion at the Chandler County courthouse. We’ve been called in to assist.”

An explosion. She stared at the television, where a pretty blonde reporter stood on the main street in Coney and addressed the camera. Behind her, fire trucks blocked the street, ambulances raced by and officers swarmed.

Blue uniforms. City cops.

Not a tan sheriff’s uniform in sight.

No tall figure with black hair always in need of a cut and the charcoal suit she loved on his lean form.

He’d walked away from her in anger that morning, wearing that suit, and she’d let him.

“…local authorities won’t confirm any fatalities,” the anchor said, her expression earnest. She turned and pointed to the courthouse, barely visible in the distance. Smoke rolled behind the decimated structure. “But it’s apparent the courthouse has experienced extensive damage. The GBI is on scene now, George, and we have seen the LifeFlight helicopter from Worth County Hospital arriving and leaving. Obviously, there are life-threatening injuries involved here…”

Caitlin shook her head. She shouldn’t have let him go like that. Dazed, she turned to Milton. “I’m going with you. I…I need to change.” Her slim suit skirt and heels, perfect for court, would only be a hindrance now. “Give me five minutes.”

It only took her three. With jeans, a T-shirt and sturdy boots paired with her FBI-emblazoned duty jacket, she scrambled into the bureau-assigned vehicle she shared with Taylor. For once, there was no argument about who would drive. Her hands shook too badly to steer and her attention was too focused on prayer and recriminations to watch the road.

She closed her eyes and conjured Tick’s face in her memory, the sound of his voice, his touch on her skin. He would be fine. He always was. He had to be.

She’d waited too long to find him and she had no intention of letting go now.

Getting into Coney proved to be a nightmare. All traffic had to be rerouted, producing one mother of a traffic jam. Caitlin wanted to scream as they presented IDs, had them verified and finally proceeded to the courthouse square. Yellow tape cordoned off the vicinity and a rough triage area had been set up in the parking lot next to the bank, opposite the courthouse. Firemen trained hoses on the cars smoldering in the lot between the courthouse and the sheriff’s office.

Caitlin’s breath caught in her throat. The back wall of the sheriff’s department was gone. In the park north of the building, two refrigerated semi trailers waited. Temporary morgues, she realized, as firefighters lifted a sheet-draped body into the closer of the two.

Following her colleagues toward the makeshift command center, she scanned the parking lot. Tick’s truck, the windows shattered, the white paint obscured by dust and ash, sat in its customary spot. Her chest tightened. He’d been here. There’d been no miraculous occurrence to keep him from that courtroom.

In the rubble, officers and inmates worked side by side, clearing debris, yelling for survivors. The smell of scorching rubber and concrete dust lingered, the air so thick Caitlin could taste it. Taylor thrust a filter mask at her. “Put that on.”

She obeyed, boots crunching over glass and pebble-sized chunks of marble. Dusty papers, the edges charred, whispered under her feet. She glanced at them—file folders, legal briefs, tax records.

A sheriff’s department report, filled with a distinctive, slashing handwriting that took her breath again.

She stopped, snatched it up, smoothed it against her chest. The top corner was singed away, but Tick’s signature remained at the bottom. She traced her fingers over the letters—
L. E. Calvert, Jr.
With shaky hands, she folded the paper and tucked it into her jacket pocket. She looked up to find Taylor stopped in front of her, his face lined with sympathy as he watched.

“We’ll find him, Falconetti. I’ve known him for years; he wouldn’t go down easily. He’s here and we’ll find him.”

She swallowed, the acrid dust invading her throat again, mingling with the lump of tears. “I know.”

The command center, set up at the corner of the courthouse lawn under a funeral-home tent, was a den of bustling activity and a cacophony of voices. A local police officer sprinted by them, rolled papers in hand. “I got them!”

Gasping, he spread them over a table and the men under the tent moved to set whatever was handy at each corner, holding the paper flat. At the edge of the crowd, Caitlin glimpsed blue paper and white lines—blueprints of the courthouse.

Milton introduced himself to Dix Singleton and Caitlin watched him shake hands with Will Botine, head of the local GBI offices. She turned away, wanting to throw herself into the search, to find her husband.

A tall, familiar figure detached himself from a group of rescuers and her heart lightened. Reed. If Reed were here, Tick wouldn’t be far behind. Maybe she’d gotten her miraculous delay after all.

She hurried from the tent. “Reed!”

He spun, his face grimy with soot and dust above an equally gritty mask. Blood oozed from a long scrape on his arm. He tugged the mask down and graced her with a curt nod. “Falconetti.”

Stopping in front of him, she reached for his uninjured arm. Urgency flooded through her, and over his shoulder, she scanned the area.

“Where’s Tick? He’s with you, right?” He opened his mouth, closed it, and panic curdled in her belly. “Where is he?”

He shook his head, pain glittering in his hazel eyes. “I don’t know.”

“You have to,” she whispered. Her gaze jerked to the mound of rubble, what had to be tons of marble and concrete and rebar. “
You have to
.” She covered her mouth, stifling the sob clawing to get out of her throat. “Oh, God.”

“Don’t fall apart on me, Falconetti.” His face was grim. “We’re going to need every available pair of hands. We’ll find him. I swear.”

She nodded, forcing the FBI training to the forefront. He was right. She didn’t have time for the luxury of tears and panic. Straightening, she sucked in a deep, calming breath. “What happened?”

He chafed a hand over his hair. “Looks like a car bomb. Went off a little after nine. We…we’ve had fatalities. I don’t know how many. Even more injured. God knows how many still missing.” He swallowed, muscles in his throat moving in spasms. “That courtroom was packed. It seats close to two hundred people. And that’s not including the staff in the offices. So far, our survivors have come from the west wing, the part still partially standing.”

She wouldn’t think about the implication in his statement. Instead, she stared at the sheriff’s office, looking injured and forlorn. Her eyes burned. “The department?”

“We were lucky. Only one dispatcher and two jailers on duty. Roger ended up with a busted arm because of falling debris. One prisoner with minor injuries. Everyone else was okay. All off-duty personnel are en route.”

Blinking back tears, she glanced at him. “What about Autry?”

His eyes darkened. “Not yet.”

Taylor jogged up to them. He held out a pair of work gloves. “Come on, Falconetti. Let’s go find your guy.”

Tugging on the gloves, Caitlin nodded and met Reed’s tortured eyes. She put on a smile, her face aching. “And Autry too.”

He fought the panic crawling over him, forced his breathing to a slow, even pace. God only knew how big the pocket around him was—he’d tried to map it with his left hand, but a hunk of concrete pressed against his shoulder, prohibiting movement of that arm. Jolie Williams, whom he knew from the GBI crime lab, lay pressed at an awkward angle on top of his right arm. The particular perfume she fancied filled his nose, mingling with the choking dust. He could wriggle the fingers on both hands, his toes too, so he didn’t think he faced any permanent damage there. He simply lacked room to move.

And he couldn’t see a damn thing. He stared into darkness blacker than any night—an absolute absence of any possible light.

With the disorientation, he couldn’t even be sure how much time had passed, how long he and Williams had been trapped here. How much air they might have left. A shudder ran through him, the panic trying to fool his lungs into working overtime. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed, all the while making sure he breathed with an even rhythm.

What had happened?

One second, he’d been at the door of the witness sequestration room, convincing Monroe he really needed a cigarette. The next…

He didn’t remember the next second, his memories a jumble of noise and disorientation, debilitating fear and a slow return to awareness.

An explosion of some sort. Maybe the gas main on Scott Street had blown.

And maybe it hadn’t been an accident.

The whys and hows weren’t going to matter, though, if no one found them. He opened his eyes, squinting into the dark. It had to have been only hours. It couldn’t be days yet, could it? His stomach growled and thirst dried his mouth, but it was normal hunger. Not days-without-food hunger. He’d skipped breakfast because of that fight with Caitlin, so maybe it wasn’t even lunchtime…

Caitlin. His chest went tight.
Lord, thank You she wasn’t here.
This was the last place he wanted her. What he wanted was her safe, free from danger—

He hadn’t told her goodbye. Pain coursed through him. She’d pissed him off, with her insistence they try for another pregnancy despite the risks to her health, and he’d walked out.
Father God, please. Don’t let her last memory of me be that one. Not me stalking out on her in anger and self-righteousness.

His eyes watered and he closed them again. If that was the memory he left her with, it would be his own fault, letting his stubbornness get in the way of their talking. He hadn’t wanted to listen, had wanted her to merely agree with him. Now, he faced the very real fact he might die without having a chance to make it right.

With a smothered moan, Williams shifted her head. The stiff spikes of her short hairstyle brushed his throat and dust settled on them.

Tick wiggled his fingers, the tingling of lost circulation moving up his arm. “Williams?”

She groaned, a strained laugh puffing against his shoulder. Against skin. He rotated the joint and his arm scraped along concrete. His shirt was torn. Frustration curled through him. He’d tucked his cell phone in the inside pocket of his suit jacket, which he’d tossed over a chair upon entering the sequestration room. God only knew where it was now.

Probably with his unopened pack of cigarettes.

“Calvert,” Williams breathed, with that sound like a laugh again. “S’that you?”

“Yeah.” He tried to sweep his left hand along the debris, managed six inches or so, felt nothing but rebar and dust and rubble. “You okay?”

“Not…sure.” She shifted against him, pressing a hand against his midsection for leverage. “Stuck. Can’t move. Shit, it’s dark.”

“Hurt anywhere?”

“Don’t know. I can’t…Calvert, I can’t feel anything below my waist.” Panic flooded her choked voice. Her nails dug into his abdomen. “Why can’t I feel anything?”

“I don’t know. But, don’t move, okay? If you’re injured, we don’t want to make it worse.” He flattened his hands, feeling along the surface beneath them. Marble, covered with dust. A fallen wall? The floor maybe. “Just be still until they come for us.”

She subsided, breath coming in panicked bursts against his shoulder. He stretched his left hand, the muscles along the top of his shoulder protesting. His fingers brushed human flesh—a hand, long slender fingers, a ring. Wet and not moving. Gritting his teeth, he slid his hand farther.

And touched protruding bone. Nothing beyond that.

He squashed the scream that pushed up in his throat.

An engine kicked over above them, at a distance to his right. The noise filtered through the rubble, vibrating into him. Not a jackhammer. A generator maybe? A crane?

Voices, dim and far away.

Hope surged in his chest. If he could hear them, maybe they could hear him. “Hey! We’re down here! We need help!”

Williams moaned, a weak mewl.

“Sorry, Joles,” he whispered and gathered oxygen for another shout. “Hey, help!”

The concrete next to his shoulder shifted. The creaking grew stronger. Tick tensed. Above them, a roar and Williams screamed.

Oh, holy hell.

It was crashing in on them again.

Stanton grasped the chunk of stone and tugged. His feet slid on the uneven pile and his elbow smashed into a gap in the debris. Pain shot up his arm and he levered to his feet. His gaze trailed over the huge layers of wreckage.

They weren’t getting anywhere. In nine hours, they’d pulled survivors from the mess, but most had come from the western sections of the courthouse.

Most of the dead were lifted from the courtroom wing.

Eyes closed, he rested his forehead on his wrist. Nine hours. Nine hours since he’d looked into Autry’s eyes. Nine hours that she’d lain God knew where, and he couldn’t find her. Couldn’t help her.

He hadn’t kept her safe, not after he’d promised to do exactly that. Images of the injured flashed in his head and his stomach cramped when he thought of Autry—hurt, bleeding, in pain. What about the baby? What would happen to her? They needed him.

There wasn’t one damn thing he could do but move fucking chunks of rock.

“Reed?” Falconetti’s husky voice was subdued and weary. He lifted his head and she extended a bottle of water. Dust smudged her face and tiny scratches marred her arms.

“Thanks.” He pushed his mask down and lifted the bottle, drinking even as guilt lashed at him.

Falconetti fiddled with her own bottle, her gaze dull and distracted as she peered out over the rescue site. “Was he in the courtroom? Do you remember seeing him there?”

“I…” He shook his head. His thoughts had been only of Autry, what she was feeling as she prepared to face the jury. “I’m not sure. I didn’t look for him.”

She nodded, the muscles in her throat flexing. “I just wondered.”

A yell came from yards away, where a crane lifted large slabs from the wreckage. Stanton spun, only to see more of the building slide away, crashing to the rubble below.

“Oh, God,” Caitlin whispered, blanching. “What if there’s someone under there—”

“Don’t think about it. We’re going to find them.” Stanton turned away to tug at the chunk of white marble again. “We will.”

As hours passed and daylight faded, he found it hard to believe his own reassurances. The painstaking process dragged on, and with each lifeless victim removed, his heart ached.

“Hey!” One of the Coney firefighters waved wildly from a small pit near what had been the courthouse’s southern wall. “I’ve got two. Alive!”

Autry? Please. Let it be her.

Stanton scrabbled over jagged chunks and lethal spikes of rebar. He joined the firefighter in tossing aside the loose debris. Excited hope jumped under his skin and made him dizzy. As they worked, green fabric came into view. Familiar hunter green fabric, with a golden patch of embroidery bearing a six-pointed star. Stanton dropped to his stomach, peering into the small space.

“Cookie?” He reached in, pressing his fingers against the other man’s pulse points. The beat was strong and relief flowed through Stanton.

Cookie’s eyelids flickered and a weak smile curved his mouth. “Hey, boss. Been waitin’ for y’all.”

“How do you feel?”

“Wrist hurts and I really need to take a leak. Other than that? I’m good.”

The firefighter was already helping the second survivor from the pit—a woman wearing a multicolored pantsuit, blood oozing from a cut above her eyebrow. She cradled her arm, the elbow twisted at a weird angle.

Stanton met Cookie’s pain-blurred gaze. “Think you can slip out?”

Cookie shook his head. “One of my legs is pinned. I don’t think it’s broken or anything, but I can’t move it.”

“All right, let’s see if we can get you out of there.”

He stayed with Cookie while the rescue team cut and lifted the building materials free. After checking him over, a medic tagged his wrist with a green plastic band—injured, but not serious or life threatening.

Once Cookie was off to have the wrist evaluated and the gash on his leg stitched, Stanton attacked the rubble in the area with renewed hope and conviction. When he’d walked out of the courtroom, Cookie had been standing right behind Autry. He didn’t remember the blast, but if they’d been that close, she had to be near.

She had to be.

He was struggling with yet another slab of marble when another yell, this one more subdued, came.

“I’ve got a body.”

As Will Botine picked his way through to the location, Stanton turned away. He’d find her before it was too late. He would.

Botine and the officer who’d found the body conferred for a moment, voices rising and falling in the evening air. One word stood out to Stanton, sent his heart to a screeching halt.

Holton.
He’d heard Botine say Holton, and suddenly, Stanton’s lungs refused to work.

Pushing up from the area where he’d been working, he headed for Botine as fast as he possibly could.

Caitlin splashed lukewarm water on her cheeks and pushed her dusty hair away from her face. Tears scalded her eyelids and she sucked in the urge to cry. She covered her eyes and blew out a long breath.

My God, she just wanted him back.

She bit her lip, until metallic blood flowed against her tongue. She wanted to keep hoping, but clinging to positive thoughts grew more difficult with each lifeless form discovered. The survivors numbered fewer and fewer as the hours wore on, and even though she tried to tell herself that in other situations—earthquakes, other explosions—rescuers had located victims alive days later, her heart froze in agony each time someone called for a body bag.

“Falconetti?”

At Taylor’s tentative tone, she turned, schooling her features into her bureau facade. He tugged his mask down to lie about his neck, and when she glimpsed the sympathy in his ebony gaze, her chest contracted. “What?”

“They want you to come take a look at a…they want you at the morgue.”

She closed her eyes, all oxygen whooshing from her body in a soft moan. She nodded.

“I’ll go with you,” he said, his voice quiet and firm.

Making the two-block walk to the makeshift morgue took sheer will, forcing one foot in front of the other. With each step, memories beat in her head—the cocky young lawman she’d first met at Quantico a decade ago, the confident man who’d slowly won her trust and convinced her to take a chance on loving him, the cherished husband she lived for.

It wasn’t long enough. She’d only loved him a few months—not nearly the seventy years or so he’d promised her.

She sighed, a shuddery sound bordering on a sob. Taylor glanced at her. “I’m sorry, Falconetti.”

“Not now, Taylor.” If she thought about what she was about to do, she’d lose it completely. One foot after the other. One more memory to catalog. Maybe the last memory.

The backdoor slamming shut behind him so hard the glass rattled, his truck firing to life. She’d glared at the door, anger and pique twisting through her.

Oh, that couldn’t be it. That couldn’t be the last moment between them.

At the two refrigerated trailers, GBI personnel worked at tagging bodies, rezipping bags and transferring them to the shelves inside. A line of bags waited, gaping open. Caitlin’s stomach rolled. Was he inside one of them?

No. She shook her head. Those dark, compelling eyes, closed forever? She wouldn’t believe it.

A slim woman stepped forward, concrete dust marring the smooth pecan tone of her skin. Her eyes darkened with sympathy. “Falconetti, I’m sorry to ask you to do this.”

Caitlin glanced at her. She knew her; Tick had introduced them a few weekends ago at some political fundraiser. Agent Price, GBI. “Where…?”

Price gestured toward a body bag at the far end of the row. Caitlin frowned. The ends lay flat, only a small bulge in the middle. Horror filtered through the numbness.

“The…the remains aren’t complete, but there are some personal effects…”