Anything but Mine (21 page)

Madeline waited until the door closed, leaving them alone, to speak. “Mackey says you’ll need some time to recuperate. You should come back to Jacksonville with me. This place is poison, Autry, believe me.”

Having Madeline of all people offer to take care of her should have shocked the hell out of her, but the whole world was upside down. “I’ll be fine. Like Mama said, sometimes these things happen for the best…but I’d appreciate it if you’d ask Stanton for my things from his house.”

“I’ll do that.” Madeline waved toward the door. “I’d better go check on Mama. For what it’s worth, Autry? Reed looked like someone had kicked him in the balls when they told him about the baby. Having that ventilator removed was probably one of the hardest decisions the guy ever had to make.”

The sun was setting when Stanton finally made it to the hospital again. The state bigwigs from the GBI, not to mention a handful of his former colleagues from the FBI, had corralled him in an interview, wanting his initial impressions of the explosion. The nurse who’d kicked him out of Autry’s room when she became hysterical had assured him she’d sleep for most of the day.

Having to leave her after witnessing her grief had broken his heart.

All day, he’d ached to be with her, to hold her, to share her grief, and maybe find relief for his own.

He’d begun to think he was never going to escape from the duties that kept rising all around him, never going to make it back to her.

Carefully holding the single white rose he’d cut from Mrs. Lydia’s yard with her permission, he eased open the door to Autry’s room. The room’s only illumination came from the fluorescent light above the bed, but that was enough for him to see Autry lay awake, staring at the ceiling. Warmth gathered in his chest, driving out for a moment the chill of loss and horrors that had surrounded him the last two days.

He let the door close behind him. “Autry? Sweetheart?”

She looked at him and his heart stuttered. Her eyes were as lifeless as her sister’s. She dropped her gaze to the rose in his hand. “Is that supposed to make up for her being gone?”

Unease gripped his chest. “Autry—”

“How could you let them take her off the ventilator?” Her shaky voice hit him like a body blow. “How could you let her die?”

He shook his head. Surely she didn’t think that. She had to understand he’d done what he had to do, what was best for their baby. “Is that what you…Autry, baby, no. It wasn’t like that—”

“Why are you here?” She narrowed her eyes, blue glittering slits of pain. “Guilt?”

Stanton swallowed. His worst fear was coming true. He’d lost Claire and now he was losing Autry, too. Only this was far worse than he’d imagined. “Because I love you.”

She laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “Oh, now you love me.”

“Autry, please don’t do this.”

“Don’t do this? Don’t
do
this?” Her voice rose, cracking on a brittle note. “My father is dead. My baby is dead. Because some maniac got around your security. You let this happen. You told me everything would be all right and I believed you. I believed you and you let this happen.”

Thinking it himself was one thing. Hearing Autry say it was worse. “Autry, please—”

“I want you to leave.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I do. I can’t handle you right now.” She turned her face away. “I want you to go.”

Rescuers swarmed over the wreckage still, although they’d not had any new survivors since shortly after two in the morning. The bodies were still coming, nevertheless, and every call for a body bag turned his stomach with another stab of guilt.

They’d been snowed by Schaefer, turned the murdering bastard loose on the county.

And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out this disaster was linked to his trial.

He ducked under one of the funeral-home tents that lined the street. Most of the cots beneath the tent were empty. On one, Demetrius Taylor, Caitlin’s partner, lay with an arm over his ear, snoring. A couple of city officers dozed as well, faces and clothing streaked with dust and dirt.

On the cot in the far corner, Caitlin slept on her side, duty jacket pulled tight around her, head pillowed on what was left of his charcoal suit coat. He’d had a hell of a time getting her to take this break and catch a couple of hours of rest. Careful of his hurting ribs, he eased to sit beside her. He set the cans on the asphalt, balanced the sandwiches atop them and shifted so he could see her sleeping face.

Her chin was bruised around an angry scrape. He smoothed back disheveled hair and bent down to brush a kiss over her cheek. “Cait?”

Her eyes flickered open and a sleepy smile curved her full mouth. “What time is it?”

“A little after seven.” He continued to stroke her hair, sifting his fingers through the thick strands. “Botine wants to debrief at seven-thirty.”

She nodded, lashes fluttering down for a second before she blew out a long breath and shifted to sit cross-legged facing him. With gentle fingers, she touched his bruised jaw. “How do you feel?”

“Like I got hit by a Mack truck. Brought you breakfast.” He reached down and snagged one can and its waxed-paper-wrapped cargo. Once his hands were free, he dug in his jacket pocket for the red-foil-wrapped squares there. “And dark chocolate.”

“Thank you.” She angled in to kiss him then pulled back, wrinkling her nose. “You’ve been smoking.”

He popped the top on his own can. “Do you blame me?”

“No.”

He smiled at that and they ate in silence broken only by the sounds of machinery, the low hum of the searchers’ voices and Taylor’s occasional rasping snore. After he’d eaten his sandwich and half of hers, he rolled the wrappers into thin cylinders and dropped them into his empty drink can. He reached for her hand, rubbing his thumb over her wedding rings.

“I love you,” he said in a fierce whisper.

“I know. I love you too.”

Still holding her hand, he looked away. Stanton was in the rubble once more, working with tireless dedication despite the grief and exhaustion ravaging his face. Tick didn’t think he’d said two words to anyone since he’d come back from the hospital that last time.

Swinging his gaze back to Caitlin’s green eyes, he leaned forward. “I can be a stubborn ass when I want to be.”

“No.” Her fingers tightened around his. “I never noticed that.”

“I’m serious.” He tugged on her hand, pulled her toward him. “The idea of losing you scares me. I want a baby with you, but not if it means endangering you.”

“I want to have your baby. Our baby.” She held his gaze, her murmur as ardent as his had been. She rested a finger against his lips. “One more try. Just one.”

“One.” He cradled her chin, careful of the contusion there. “And then we consider adopting.”

She closed the distance between them, taking his mouth in a sweet kiss to seal their bargain.

“Falconetti, if you get pregnant again,” he muttered against the corner of her lips, “be prepared to have me all over you for the duration. I don’t plan on letting you out of my sight.”

She turned her head to kiss him again. “Oh, Calvert, I like the sound of that.”

“Our official death toll stands at eighty-seven.” Botine glanced over his shoulder at the decimated courthouse and cleared his throat, an abrasive sound that grated on Stanton’s already strained nerves. “We expect it to go higher. The reconstruction team says we’ve got melted plastic, a red polymer. Initial tests indicate diesel fuel residue.”

“Diesel and fertilizer?” A hand over his ribs, Tick shifted on the chair next to Stanton’s.

Botine nodded. “Could be. No timing device has been recovered as of yet.”

Stanton caught the look Tick slanted his way. He had no doubt what was tumbling through Tick’s mind—the whys and wherefores of what had happened.

“We’re figuring the timing of this was no coincidence.”

Tick dropped his head. “You think, Sherlock?”

Falconetti, leaning against the table beside them, nudged his shoulder. “Behave.”

Botine rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Stanton? Those notes you sent over to the lab, the ones Autry Holton had received. Think those are tied to this?”

Stanton frowned. His gut said no. There’d been something personal about those notes, the fear they inspired. This explosion…why kill dozens if Autry had been the target? He shook his head. “I don’t think so. We’re still following up on that case. If there’s a connection, we’ll find it, but—”

“We won’t make it the focus of our investigation,” Botine finished for him. He tilted his chin toward Falconetti. “Agent? Any thoughts on the mind behind something like this?”

“Reed’s right. It’s probably not the same guy sending Ms. Holton threatening notes.” She brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Her gaze strayed to the courthouse, rescuers thronging over the rubble in the early morning light. “The letter writer was angry, but his anger was focused on one person. This perpetrator wanted to make a larger statement.”

“By killing eighty-seven people?” Agent Taylor, Falconetti’s partner, swigged from a bottled water. “That’s a huge motherfucking statement.”

She fixed him with a look. “The people, the number killed, are incidental to him. He’s felt ignored, like an issue of some sort, something important to him, had been brushed aside.”

Botine’s face hardened. “Well, he has our attention. More than he’s gonna want before it’s over.”

The meeting broke up, officers and agents heading back into the fray. Stanton rested his hands on his knees, gathering his strength for one more go. His head wanted to spin a little, the ground tilting crazily if he stood or moved too fast. Food would probably be a good idea, if he thought he could choke something down without it coming right back up.

Beside him, Tick hadn’t risen either, a frown pulling his brows together as he stared at the pile of rubble.

“Tick?” Falconetti paused at the edge of the tent, pulling on her gloves. Taylor loomed behind her.

Leaning forward, Tick shook his head, his gaze trained on the destruction. “You said a statement.”

“Well, yes.” She gestured behind her, an absent wave of one hand, her eyes locked on Tick. “Terrorist acts usually are. They’re meant to provoke a response or to strike out at someone, maybe a group, for some perceived wrong.”

Tick shifted, turning his attention to Falconetti. “This wasn’t about Schaefer.”

“No.” An infinite sadness shifted over her face. “It wasn’t.”

With a muttered oath, Tick looked away. Irritation crawled along Stanton’s skin. He hated when the two of them did this, talked in the damned shorthand that seemed particular to their relationship.

Scowling, he caught Falconetti’s shuttered green gaze. “What?”

“Don’t you get it, Stan?” Weariness and defeat dragged at Tick’s voice. “This wasn’t about getting to Schaefer. Someone could have accomplished that with a good hunting rifle. This…this was about us.”

The words slammed into him.

About us.

Because of them, because of
him
. Echoes of Autry’s accusations, pounding into him. Claire gone, Autry hating him now. All of these people dead, their families devastated.

Because of him, because he’d screwed up.

“Reed?” For once, Falconetti’s voice was soft as she addressed him. He ignored her.

He closed his eyes and pushed up to his feet. Time to get back out there.

Tick’s sure hands steadied him when he rocked where he stood. “Whoa, Stanny-boy. Man, you have to get some sleep.”

Stanton shook him off. “I’m fine.”

Tick’s reply was a frustrated grunt. His gaze tangled with Falconetti’s and she shook her head slightly at her husband. Anger flickered in him. There they went again, the connection pissing him off more than it normally did.

“Come on.” He tagged Tick’s chest, a little harder than necessary, and Tick sucked a pained breath between clenched teeth. “We’ve got work to do.”

Autry stared out the window. The problem with hospitals was they gave a person too much time to think. She didn’t like what kept running through her head, but the more she pushed the intrusive thoughts away, the stronger they nudged.

Who was she now?

Yesterday morning, she’d been Virgil Holton’s daughter. She’d been a card-carrying member of the public defenders’ network.

A soon-to-be mother, filled with joyful anticipation.

Stanton Reed’s lover, falling deeper into that relationship every single second.

She closed her eyes, clenching the sheets. She’d been, if not
sure
, at least hopeful, optimistic, that once this trial was over, she could move forward.

Now…

Now she didn’t know anything anymore, except she’d lost both the man who’d shaped who she was and the child she’d wanted. Would they still be here if she’d recused herself from taking Schaefer’s defense, if she’d given in to her own unease? She pressed her lips together against an anguished moan and a wash of overwhelming guilt.

What kind of daughter, what kind of mother, was she?

“Hey.” A light tap at the door followed Stanton’s quiet greeting and her eyes snapped open. Lord, please don’t let what she felt show on her face.

She eyed him, standing just inside the open door, his stance uncomfortable. Under a dark layer of stubble, his face was worn, his eyes dull and shuttered. Her stomach clenched. He seemed a stranger to her, even after everything they’d shared.

She swallowed. “Hey.”

He hefted the overnight bag in his left hand. “Some of your things from the house. I thought you might need them.”

“Thanks.” She didn’t know what to say to him. Surely she should know what to say? She pleated the sheet between her fingers, wishing he’d go so she wouldn’t have to struggle for words.

He moved forward and set the bag on the vinyl chair in the corner. He darted a quick glance at her. “How do you feel?”

Talk about a question open to millions of interpretations. She brushed a hand through her hair, lank despite her mother washing it to get rid of the blood, dust and debris, and went for the easy one. “A little sore.”

He shifted from one foot to the other, looking as awkward as she felt. His gaze trailed over her face. “You look good.”

Before, she’d have laughed and called him a liar. Before, she’d have relished his presence. Now, she wanted him gone, wanted to be alone. She laid a hand over her abdomen, the stitches burning. “I’m tired.”

His gaze dropped to her midsection, and pain flickered in the hazel depths of his eyes. “Autry, I—”

“I’m sorry about before.” She rushed into the apology, desperate to keep him from mentioning the baby. His pain she couldn’t handle right now. “I was unforgivably rude.”

“Rude.” He laughed, although it held no humor, and rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Is that what you call it?”

This was too hard. Couldn’t he see that? “Stanton…”

He fixed her with a look. “I didn’t have a choice about the ventilator. She was too small.” His lashes dropped, his jaw clenching. His voice roughened. “I did what I had to.”

A scream pushed up in her throat and she smothered it, forcing herself to use an even tone. “I know, and I’m sorry for what I said to you. I shouldn’t have—”

“No.” His eyes opened, no glimmer of emotion in them. Nothing. Just…dead. Autry shuddered. She knew how that felt. “You have a right to your feelings, but I need to know where I stand with you.”

She didn’t miss the question in the quiet words. With a deep breath, she looked away. “Do we have to talk about this now? I really am tired.”

“You’re right.” His expressionless voice fell flat between them. “I should go. But Jarrod O’Shea may come by to see you.”

Jarrod? Why would Jarrod come to see her? She frowned at Stanton before it sank in. O’Shea and Willis Funeral Home. Of course. She brushed at her hair again, her throat tight. “Oh. Okay.”

Stanton jammed his hands in his pockets. Her gaze followed the long angry scrape on his arm. A huge purple bruise spread over his elbow. His throat moved in a swallow. “Whatever you want to do, I’ll go along.”