Bait (26 page)

“We checked it before I got in,” Wynne assured her, absentmindedly reaching for another doughnut.

“Oh, no you don't, Elvis.” Gardner snatched the box out of reach.

“Listen,
Cynthia,
the last thing I need is for you to go around acting like the calorie police.” For the first time since Maddie had set eyes on him, she saw Wynne frown. It was directed at Gardner, who scowled right back at him.

“You need somebody to,” Gardner retorted, hugging the box to her.

“Put the damned doughnuts down.”

“No.”

“Okay, I'm out of here,” McCabe said to the room in general. He glanced at Maddie. “I don't expect him to try anything while you're at home today. Too bright out, too many people around, and he'll think he'll get a better chance later. Still, I wouldn't want to be proved wrong, so consider yourself grounded for the day and stay inside.” He headed toward the door, then glanced back over his shoulder. “Wynne?”

Wynne was still glowering at Gardner, who was glaring back with both arms wrapped around the box. “Yeah, I'm coming.”

“Wait a minute.” Hurrying, Maddie followed McCabe across the living room to the door. “I can't just stay inside. I have errands to run. I have to go to the grocery, for one thing. And I need to pick up my dry cleaning. And ...”

He paused with one hand on the knob. She was only a couple feet behind him as he turned back toward her, barely arm's length away, close enough so that he had to look down to meet her eyes.

“Like I said, I want to make this hard for him.” His voice was dry.

“Well,
I
want to go to the grocery.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” he said, as though it was entirely his decision to make.

Maddie's lips tightened, but before she could reply his hand came up to cup the side of her face. The gesture was so unexpected that anything that she might have been going to say was instantly forgotten. Her eyes widened as the warmth of his skin coupled with the feel of his big, capable hand against her cheek just blew her away. Her gaze locked with his.

“Your bruise is getting better,” he said, and his thumb brushed her cheekbone.

Her insides turned to liquid. Just like that. All it took was the slide of his thumb over her skin.

“Exercise,” she heard Gardner say behind her.

Thank God for small favors,
Maddie thought as the interruption startled her enough to break the spell. McCabe's hand dropped away from her face. Taking a quick step back, she glanced around to find Wynne charging toward her with the Krispy Kreme box in his arms and Gardner right behind him. Wynne was looking over his shoulder at Gardner. Gardner, however, was suddenly looking at Maddie.

“I know, I
know,
” Wynne said over his shoulder. “Sheez, we've been on the road for a month. I'm not smoking. I can eat doughnuts if I want. Give me a break.”

McCabe opened the door for Wynne, who stomped through it while at the same time waving a dismissive hand behind him at Gardner.

“Keep her inside,” McCabe said over Maddie's head to Gardner. Then, to Maddie, with the faintest hint of a smile in his eyes, “Be good.”

He was gone before she could reply.

For a moment Maddie simply stared at the closed door. Then she got a grip and turned away to find Gardner watching her.

“So you've got a thing for McCabe, do you?” Gardner said, her eyes narrowed. Then she snorted. “Honey, might as well get in line.”

Maddie was momentarily struck dumb.

“I do not have a thing for McCabe,” she said with what dignity she could muster when she had regained her power of speech. Gardner dropped onto the couch and picked up the newspaper she had left on the coffee table along with her cup of coffee. Not that she was trying to end the conversation or anything, but Maddie headed toward the kitchen.

Somebody had to put those dishes in the dishwasher.

“Don't bullshit me.” Gardner snapped the paper open. “I can spot a fellow sufferer a mile away.”

Arrested, Maddie stopped just short of the kitchen doorway and turned to look at Gardner.

“
You've
got a thing for McCabe?”

Gardner looked at her over the top of the paper.

“Oh, yeah,” she said wryly. “He knows it, too. I'd hop in the sack with him like
that.
” She snapped her fingers. “Problem is, I'd have to knock him cold to get him there. I'm not really his type.”

Maddie couldn't help it. She knew she should drop it, knew she should walk away, but the topic was just too fascinating. Folding her arms over her chest, she cocked her head inquiringly at Gardner.

“So what's his type?” she asked cautiously.

“Slim. Pretty. Brunette. Youngish—under thirty. Sweet little wholesome girls. Yeah, in case you're wondering, you fit the type.”

Maddie blinked. “What?”

Gardner nodded. “You're his type. One hundred percent. On the plane up here from New Orleans, he was about to jump out of his skin from worrying that the UNSUB—the sick bastard we're chasing—would get to you before we did. As soon as I saw you, I had it figured out: He was so worried because you're his type.”

“Do men even have a type?”

Gardner lowered the paper to her lap. “You mean you haven't noticed? Honey, where've you been? Of course they do. They all have a type. And if you don't fit his type, you have to work like the devil to get a particular guy to even look at you.”

The faint undertone of bitterness underlying that comment made Maddie look at Gardner in a whole new light. She sounded genuinely pained.

“So you're really interested in him? McCabe, I mean?” Maddie approached the seating group and sank down into the squashy depths of her green corduroy armchair. Yesterday she and Gardner had barely exchanged half a dozen words. Today they were going to chat? This was new. Intriguing, though.

“If he gave me half a chance, I'd have his babies.” Gardner gave a wry little grimace. “I'd take him home to Mama. I'd wrap him up in cellophane and ... well, you get the idea. Maybe it's something to do with my age. I'm thirty-seven. All of a sudden, I keep hearing my biological clock ticking. And every time I hear it tick, McCabe's is the face I see.”

“He's not married, then?” Maddie asked cautiously. It was bad enough to be asking the question. It was worse to be so interested in the answer.

“Single, just like me. Just like Wynne.” Gardner made a face. “Hell, who would have us? Except Wynne. Somebody might take Wynne.”

“Wynne seems nice.”

“Wynne
is
nice. Just the nicest guy around. But you have to admit, he's no stud-muffin.”

Maddie thought about that. “Maybe a stud-muffin isn't the best choice to give you what you want. Maybe for a long-term relationship—for babies—you should be thinking in terms of just a really nice guy.”

“Like Wynne.” Gardner sounded less than convinced. Then she sighed. “To tell you the truth, the thought's crossed my mind. The thing is, Wynne seems to be interested in me. So far, McCabe doesn't. And I know Wynne's probably a better long-term prospect. But I hate it that he smokes. ...”

“He quit,” Maddie interjected swiftly.

“And I hate it that he doesn't take better care of himself.”

“The doughnuts,” Maddie said, suddenly understanding.

“Yes. Exactly. You saw him with the doughnuts.” Gardner sighed. “See? It's always something. That's the thing with men. None of them—not one I've ever met—is perfect.”

“Unlike us,” Maddie said.

Gardner looked at her sharply. Then she grinned. “All right. Point taken. But if I could somehow take Wynne's personality and stuff it inside McCabe's body ...” She paused, her eyes gleaming. Then her face fell. “The new perfect hybrid would not be interested in me. How dismal is that? Oh, forget it. Hey, you want part of the paper?”

Maddie laughed, and accepted the Metro section.

By late afternoon, though, Maddie was going stir-crazy. Having been stuck inside her apartment—which, ordinarily, she loved—for almost two full days, she was ready to climb the walls. After finishing the paper, she'd worked on her laptop. She'd played back all the phone messages that had been left—it was amazing how fast the news had gotten around that her car windows had been shot out—and returned a judicious few. She and Cynthia—they were on a first-name basis by that time—shared soup and crackers for lunch, as Maddie's cupboard was practically bare. Over the meal, she'd learned just about everything there was left to know about the other woman. In a nutshell, Cynthia had been born and raised in New Jersey, her marriage had been right out of high school and had lasted two years before ending in divorce, and she'd joined the FBI twelve years earlier, as soon as she had finished college. Maddie had also learned a great deal about Wynne. Wynne was also thirty-seven, also divorced once, also childless. He'd grown up in Connecticut and had very WASPish elderly parents still living there, to whom he was devoted. He visited them all the time, whenever he got the chance, and Cynthia had met them once. They hadn't seemed overly impressed with her, which Cynthia professed to find amusing. As for McCabe—Maddie especially enjoyed the nuggets Cynthia let drop about McCabe, although she did her best not to ask any more leading questions about him than she could help. According to Cynthia, he had parents still living, too, although she had never met them, a gaggle of siblings she had likewise never met, and a string of ex-girlfriends—Maddie imagined all the aforementioned slim, pretty brunettes—a mile long. He was thirty-five years old, never wed, and basically married to his job.

And Cynthia wanted him bad.

It had been on that note, reiterated with a kind of wry smile, that Wynne had knocked on the door. Cynthia had immediately reverted to Rambo Barbie mode, motioning to Maddie to stay back while she looked through the peephole. Recognizing Wynne, she had relaxed and let him in. When Maddie saw that he was bearing bags of groceries, she was ready to fall on his neck.

Cynthia left, and Maddie fixed a light supper—spaghetti and salad, which had the dual advantage of being easy and nutritious—for herself and Wynne. They talked while they ate, and Maddie got the distinct impression that Wynne was as taken with Cynthia as Cynthia was with McCabe. Not that Wynne said so in so many words. Unlike Cynthia, he seemed inclined to keep his secrets. After supper, Wynne helped her clean up and then watched TV while she settled down with her laptop at the kitchen table. She checked her e-mail, checked the next week's schedule, and gave some thought to a campaign Creative Partners was preparing to pitch to a local ice-cream chain, making a few sketches and writing a few lines of copy that she was unhappy with almost as soon as she finished them. Vowing to work on it more the next day, Maddie allowed herself a moment to bask in the remembered glow of Friday's success
—we got the Brehmer account—
then packed her laptop into her briefcase and left the kitchen. Given the fact that she hadn't been able to get to the cleaners, her choice of outfits for the morrow was somewhat limited, so she settled on her favorite basic black summer dress. Sleeveless and made of some kind of wrinkle-proof synthetic that looked like slubby raw linen, it was cool and comfortable. Add a loose white linen jacket to wear with clients and spectator pumps, and she was good to go.

By then it was after ten. McCabe would be coming at eleven. Maddie took a bath, applied ointment and a fresh bandage to her shoulder—which, she was glad to observe, was healing nicely—put on her nightclothes and, with a quick good-night to Wynne, retreated to her bedroom. There she meant to stay until the following morning.

She'd been careful to limit her liquid intake after supper, so there should be no need for her to see McCabe at all.

Even if she had one, which, okay, she might, she was absolutely not stupid enough to encourage it. Given what he was—and what she was—she would stand a better chance of emerging whole from a game of Russian roulette.

She was already in bed with the lights off, trying desperately to go to sleep, when she heard McCabe arrive. He and Wynne talked for a few minutes. Although she couldn't quite hear what they were saying over the TV, the deep drawl of his voice was unmistakable. Wynne's tones were a little higher-pitched, a little more clipped, milk chocolate rather than dark. Listening, Maddie was ready to concede that Cynthia was exactly right—Wynne even
sounded
like the nicest guy in the world.

McCabe sounded like pure sex.

On that sleep-inducing thought, Maddie pulled the sheet up over her head and squeezed her eyes shut. It only helped marginally. She heard McCabe laugh, heard the door close, heard a
pop
as though he had opened a tab-top can. More Diet Coke? Probably. She lay there with the door ajar, listening to what sounded like ESPN, unable to keep from picturing McCabe sprawled out on her couch—and fell asleep.

THE DREAM CAME, as she had known that sooner or later it must. It was late at night, and she was in bed—another bed, a long-ago bed. In a house that wasn't hers. It was a narrow bed—a cot, really—and it was old and creaky and smelled faintly of mildew. She was alone in it, alone in the room. The dark room. So dark that even with her eyes open, she couldn't see the broken chest that she knew was pushed up against the opposite wall just a few feet away. There were people in the house—people who scared her. She could hear them talking. The voices got louder, and she could feel the pulse knocking below her ear. Her fingertips throbbed—her hands were tied behind her back. Something stabbed painfully into her palm—her nails. She was just absorbing this when, without warning, the door opened. A rectangle of light spilled over the bed. Her eyes closed instantly, and she lay very still. A shadow fell across the bed, across her. A terror unlike any she had ever known twisted her stomach, tightened her throat. Even as cold sweat drenched her, she took care to breathe
—in, out, in, out—
in the slow cadence of deep sleep. All the while she watched the shadow from the tiny slit between her upper and lower lids, watched the horrible elongated thing that spilled like pure evil from the dark figure silhouetted in the doorway. She watched it, and prayed that he wouldn't come any closer, wouldn't come into the room.
In, out, in, out.
Lying still as death, just breathing in that interminable rhythm, while her heart beat like a trapped wild thing in her chest, she started to shake. God, he would see....
Don't let me die. Please, don't let me die.
Then the shadow rippled, moved—a scream crowded into her throat but she forced it back
—in, out, in, out ...