Anything but Mine (17 page)

Oh, God help her. Not complete? Nausea roiled in her belly.

Dimly aware of Taylor at her side, she followed Price down the long line of black vinyl bags. At the last, Price leaned down, lifted a tattered, scorched piece of charcoal fabric. Black dots danced at the edges of Caitlin’s vision, her breath growing short. Another memory flitted through her mind, that gray suit flattering the lean line of his body, moving with his loose, easy stride.

Price slid a small silver square from the remaining pocket. His cell phone. Caitlin closed her eyes and turned away, teeth tearing into her lip. Behind her lids, she could still see the bright yellow SpongeBob sticker his niece had stuck on the phone during Sunday’s church service. He’d fussed later because he couldn’t get it off.

Dipping her hand into the pocket again, Price withdrew a pack of cigarettes. The unopened cellophane crinkled under her touch, and Caitlin covered her mouth, holding back a horrified laugh. How many times had she nagged him about those things, told him one day they’d kill him?

“There’s a wedding ring and a watch. We haven’t removed them but if you want to wait until—”

“No.” In order to believe, she had to see.

Price leaned down and widened the bag’s opening. Caitlin held her breath and leaned over.

Charred flesh—layers of black, white and ash gray. An exposed rib where the muscle had burned away. Her stomach pitched. Against the curled fingers, a dull glint of gold. A wide wedding band, with a distinctive coin edge.

She clutched her stomach and bent double, gasping. Taylor grabbed her arm. “Breathe, Falconetti. It’s okay. Just breathe—”

“It’s not him,” she said, her voice a torn whisper. “That’s not his ring. It’s not him.”

“Are you sure?” Price sounded relieved.

Caitlin nodded and straightened. She wiped her damp eyes. “I’m sure. It’s not him.”

Joy bubbled through her. She tugged away from Taylor’s easy hold and glanced at the rubble. Renewed energy surged through her.

For her, at least, there was still hope.

“Botine!” Stanton stumbled over a tangle of rebar; he caught himself from landing on his face. The skin peeled from his arm above his wrist, but he ignored the stinging and scrambled to his feet.

Wiping his brow, Botine straightened. Above his filter mask, his eyes were dull, his face drawn. “Reed.”

Stanton slid down the slight incline to the depression where Botine stood. The sheet-draped figure lying in the rubble inexorably drew his gaze. His throat closed and he cleared it with a rough sound.

“Who is it? I heard you say Holton—”

“It is.” Botine pinched the bridge of his nose and wiped his eyes. “Do you believe this—”

“Which Holton?” Stanton scrambled across the jagged hunk of marble and reached for the sheet. “Is it Autry?”

He flipped back the white fabric and looked into blue eyes, fixed, vacant, staring. His body sagged.

“It’s Virgil.” Botine spoke over his head.

It wasn’t her. He had a reprieve; he could still hope. Stanton dropped his head. Tremors raced over his body, the shakiness of extreme relief. But her father…when Stanton did find her, she’d be devastated. If he found her before time ran out. He ran a hand over his nape and leaned against the wall of debris behind him, knees weak.

What if it was already too late?

He shut his eyes, throat closed and hurting with a rush of tears. He couldn’t do this. The strength to handle the waiting and the not knowing, the constant barrage of images in his head, didn’t lay within him. He could take dealing with pain and death when it involved strangers.

But not Autry. Not his daughter.

God, help me. Please.
The prayer whispered through his head, surprising him. He hadn’t prayed since before his father had died and he’d been twelve then.
I can’t do this alone.

“Reed?” Falconetti’s husky voice, soft and weary, washed over him. He shook his head, fighting off the sob that wanted to claw its way out of him. Her fingers drifted over his shoulder, the contact tentative. “You need to take a break.”

He lifted his head, staring at her. “What?”

The tired lines of her face softened, sympathy glowing in the worry-darkened green of her eyes. “You’ve been at it almost twelve hours. You need a break, some water, something to eat, maybe some sleep.”

Sleep, with Autry still under there? Falconetti had lost her mind. He shook off her hand. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” She straightened. “Neither of us will be until we find them. But you can’t keep going like this. Take a break. Ten minutes.”

He looked away, his gaze traveling over the yards of destroyed building and lives. Bleak despair tried to horn into his heart and he pushed to his feet. “I can’t.”

“Reed—”

“I can’t. I have to keep looking.”

Caitlin shoved her dusty gloves in one back pocket and tugged two bottles of water free from one of the large coolers. Reed wasn’t going to stop but at least she could keep him from getting dehydrated.

“You’re not listening to me!” The distraught voice carried from the barriers blocking the street and Caitlin glanced over her shoulder at the tall brunette accosting Cookie there. “I can help—”

“And you’re not listening to me.” His voice calm and authoritative, Cookie folded his arms over his chest, one wrist bound in a fresh, hot-pink sling. “Only authorized personnel beyond this point.”

“People could be dying while you’re standing here arguing with me.” The brunette faced him down with something close to hatred twisting her face. She was casting looks over his shoulder, her gaze then darting to his arm. Caitlin set the water bottles aside. The woman had the edgy look of someone who’d been pushed too far emotionally, and as capable as Cookie was, she might be more than he could handle alone right now.

“Lady, people
are
dying.” He sighed, his face softening for a second. “I understand you want to help, but you’re not authorized to be here—”

“Who is she, Cookie?” Caitlin stopped beside him.

Cookie slanted an inquiring glance in the woman’s direction. She straightened. “Madeline Holton, Jacksonville PD.”

“Jacksonville?” Caitlin raised one eyebrow. “You’re a long way from home.”

Madeline shrugged. “My family lives here.”

“Holton.” With his uninjured arm, Cookie rubbed his chin. “Related to Autry Holton?”

“She’s my sister.” Madeline’s voice steadied. “Virgil Holton is my father.”

Oh no. Caitlin sighed. Cookie half-turned, a look passing between them. Great. She hated family notifications. She jerked her chin at Madeline. “Do you have your creds?”

Nodding, Madeline dug them from her jacket pocket and handed them over. Caitlin took the black wallet and examined the badge and identification. Finally, she nodded at the barrier. “Let her in.”

Cookie raised his eyebrows. “You sure? Botine—”

“I’ll answer to him.” The GBI head wasn’t fond of her anyway, so one more transgression couldn’t matter much. Besides, the guy had his hands too full right now to worry about Caitlin overriding his authority. “Let her in.”

He stepped back and pulled the barrier to the side. Madeline slanted a glare at him and skirted the bright orange wood. She glanced at Caitlin’s own identification, dangling about her neck. “Thanks, Agent Falconetti.”

“Sure.” Caitlin brushed a few loose strands of hair away from her face. “Ms. Holton, there’s something you should know.”

Madeline stilled, her gaze locked on what was left of the courthouse. Caitlin turned, trying to survey the chaos through the other woman’s eyes. Bright floodlights cast huge pools of white on the piles of wreckage. Men and women moved about, their freakishly huge shadows flickering and dancing on the courthouse square. Tramping feet and large machinery had destroyed the thick green lawn.

Arms arrow-straight at her sides, Madeline directed her attention on Caitlin.

“What do I need to know?”

Caitlin sucked in a deep breath. She simply didn’t have Tick’s or Cookie’s finesse for doing this. “I’m sorry, Ms. Holton, but your father’s body was recovered a little over a half hour ago.”

Madeline’s expression turned icy. “What?”

“I am sorry.” Caitlin gestured over her shoulder. “Let me take you to the morgue area. You can see him.”

“No.” Madeline shook her head. “You’re wrong. He can’t be dead.”

“Ms. Holton—”

“He’s not dead,” Madeline snapped. “He’s not.” She strode toward the ruined courthouse.

Caitlin followed. With a gentle hand she caught Madeline’s arm in a firm grasp and pulled her to a stop. She held the woman’s deep hazel gaze. “Believe me, I wouldn’t say it if we weren’t sure. We have a positive ID. I’m sorry.”

The line of Madeline Holton’s shoulders moved up and back to a near-impossible straight angle. “Take me to him.”

Thirty minutes later, Caitlin slumped onto the curb and rested her forehead on her knees. She was so tired, her muscles trembling with weariness. Her stomach grumbled and twisted, but she’d been unable to choke down any of the sandwich a volunteer had handed her earlier. Milton and Taylor had gone to catch a nap under one of the tents dotting the courthouse lawn and had tried to convince her to do the same. The same way she’d attempted to persuade Reed to take a break before he dropped.

She understood his refusal. Because she couldn’t leave Tick. He was here, somewhere, and she wasn’t leaving him.

She rubbed her eyes. Earlier, she’d expected Madeline Holton to fall apart once she saw her father’s body. The other woman surprised her—she’d stared down at him, blinked once or twice, and then turned away, ready to help search. She’d never uttered a word.

It didn’t mean she wasn’t grieving. Caitlin shuddered. After the recent miscarriage, she hadn’t cried over her lost baby. The searing hurt at this second loss had been too great and the tears wouldn’t come.

Tick had cried for both of them.

And she’d pushed him away.

If anything happened to him…she wouldn’t have enough tears.

Caitlin rubbed her gritty eyes. She had to get up. Keep looking. He needed her. She pushed to her feet, the world spinning around her. Breathing slowly, she closed her eyes, waiting for the dizziness to pass. A deep breath, another, until everything steadied once more. She lifted heavy lids and pushed her hair from her face.

She turned, making her way back to the rescue operation. Reed worked tirelessly in the rubble, with a determination she recognized because she lived it as well. He paused, wiping his brow, shoulders slumping with dejection. He’d been quiet, not talking to those around him, and that she understood too. The right words to describe the agony of not knowing didn’t exist.

One thing was obvious—big, bad, show-no-emotion Stanton Reed was deeply, crazily in love with Autry Holton.

Picking her steps carefully, she joined him and the two GBI agents working with him. The piles of debris didn’t seem to be getting any smaller, although truckloads of the stuff were steadily being carted away. She glanced over her shoulder at the parking lot, where the GBI bomb squad and evidence response team worked together, trying to piece together the tragedy.

For once, she didn’t want to be in on working the puzzle.

What she wanted was nowhere to be found.

The closer of the two agents shifted a slab of marble and swore. “I’ve got a hand.”

Another one. Caitlin pressed the heel of her palm into her eye. When would this stop?

The agent dropped to his stomach, shining his flashlight into the space beneath the slab. “Hey, there’s two intact bodies here.” He squirmed closer, trying to get his arm inside the passage. “Can’t get close enough to check for a pulse. My arm’s too thick.”

Reed slid down to crouch next to the agent. “Then they’re survivors until we know otherwise. Bag the hand.” He tagged the second agent’s arm. “Go get a medic.”

Caitlin eyed the dark crack between the slab and the rubble below. If they could tilt the slab, she might be able to slip at least her arm and shoulder in. “Reed, think it’s stable enough for me to get in there?”

“Are you insane, Falconetti? If it shifted, then we’d be looking for you too.” He ran a hand along the edge of the marble. “But the four of us might be able to move this without the crane.”

With cautious movements, she edged down beside him. “At least let me see if I can get close enough to check for a pulse.”

His mouth a thin line, he nodded. “Fine. But be careful.”

She eased by him, a few pebbles of concrete sliding down the slope, tapping away. On her stomach, she stretched an arm inside the space. Her fingers encountered only more rubble and thin air. Levering up, she shook her head. “I can’t reach them. Hand me your flashlight, Reed.”

He complied and she scooted closer to the opening. The space was tiny and any hope the two were alive dwindled. She played the light over the area. The back of a woman’s head, her hand against her ear. No signs of life.

“One’s female.”

Beneath her, the rubble creaked, an eerie shifting deep in what had been the basement. Her stomach clenched.