Caribbean Rain (2 page)

The moonlight allowed her to see past the scattered trees to a bit of the trail that looped behind their campsite. She raced in that direction, and then promptly hit a low-hanging branch that knocked her off her feet. Dazed, she propped herself up on her elbows, shaking her head, and trying to chase away the mote of stars and colorful lines dancing in front of her face. She blinked, noticing the light glowing from inside her tent some forty yards away. She struggled to her knees, looking around for Dan’s killer.

There he was. Standing ten feet away, twirling a sword, grinning.

“Come on, Amanda, you can do this,” she whispered, struggling to rise.

The sound of heavy footsteps echoing from behind forced her all the way up. She staggered toward the tent, got her feet underneath her, then picked up speed, as did the maniac.

Adrenaline and the will to survive rushed her body. Fifteen yards and she’d be inside the tent, and maybe with Dan’s knife, she’d have a fighting chance.

The footfalls behind her made squishing sounds as they rapidly hit the moist grass and mud. He was gaining on her. She could hear his labored breathing.

Ten yards. She stumbled over a root, wobbled, then regained her balance.

Five yards. Her pursuer was closer than ever.

A millisecond later, she felt his hand clutch the back of her hair, yanking out a few strands, but unable to get the grip he needed. But then he did, jerking her head backwards with a strong hand. She pulled hard and felt her hair give way. It hurt like hell, but she was free. Just in time to hear the sword tear through the humid Caribbean air and nick her bare back. She moaned, but ran faster.

The tent. She dove through the opening, reaching for Dan’s backpack at the same time she hit the air mattress. Her hand probed the bag with frantic desperation—and couldn’t find the knife.

“Oh God, please. Where is it?”

“Looking for this?”

She flipped to her back, and stared at the man leaning inside the tent. He was holding Dan’s knife in his left hand.

Amanda threw the canvas bag at Dan’s killer and crawled on all fours to the rear entrance, grasped the zipper, yanked it down, and almost made it through. Almost.

A searing pain shot up her ankle, pounding her brain with unimaginable force. A second later, there was another, and she lost control of both legs.

Rough hands flipped her on her back, and she gazed into the eyes of the man that had chased her down. She expected to see a crazy, wild expression born of Satan himself, but instead she saw a calm, quiet, but determined face, one that she vaguely recognized.

“Please, don’t . . .” she sobbed.

“I’ve learned, young Amanda, that begging is for the weak.”

The flash of steel was the last sight Amanda Griggs saw.

Chapter-2

Alex reached for Sophie’s test results sheet from across the wide table at Kewpee’s restaurant. “You passed the psych exam? No shit? I got to see this.”

She snatched it off the table and pulled it to her chest. “Just keep your hands to yourself, Dough Boy.”

“Come on,” he grinned. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“Oh man. I can’t believe you went there,” said Manny, who’d been watching the familiar tug-o’-war with amusement.

“Yeah, me either, and that ain’t ever gonna happen,” she scowled. “The score was high enough, and that’s all you need to know. In fact, you don’t need to know that.”

“I guess you’re right.” Alex grinned. “I’ve worked with you for years without a psych evaluation like this one, even though you needed it . . . but it’s all good.”

Nibbling at the warm bacon on his plate, Manny shook his head. “You’re
both
crazy for following me to the Bureau, no matter what the psych evaluations say for either one of you. It’s nice and snug right here in Lansing, and you could live the life of leisure.”

Alex widened his eyes and lifted his eyebrows in an exaggerated surprise, “
We’re
crazy? You’re the one who joined the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI—a beacon for every deranged psychopath in the US— exposing yourself to people who only appear human, never mind what the crime scenes might look like. Yep, that sounds normal to my large ass.”

“Then why are you two coming along?”

“Hey. Somebody’s got to look out for you. Besides, Josh Corner is still the hottest special agent in Quantico.” Sophie winked.

“I rest my case; neither one of you is right,” said Manny.

Alex drained his cup and popped it down on the table. “Yeah, but you love us anyway.”

“He’s not going to admit it, but we know,” said Sophie.

“You’re right; I’m not going to admit it. Now, both of you need to get your asses to the shooting range and finish your last two certifications. Josh will be coming into town later this afternoon to finish the paperwork that makes you official FBI special agents.”

Sophie jumped up, threw on her zebra-striped winter coat, and motioned to Alex. “Come on, Dough Boy, I bet I out-shoot you so bad you’ll cry for your mama.”

“You’re on. And stop calling me Dough Boy.” He grabbed his black trench coat from the rack and hurried after Sophie. “And you ain’t driving.”

“Don’t shoot each other,” Manny called out.

Shaking his head and grinning, he waved to the waitress to bring more coffee.

A lot had transpired since he’d returned from Ireland. Especially involving his good friends.

Alex Downs was the best CSI on the planet, even though his outward appearance would tag him as more of an accountant. He was paunchy with thinning hair and black-rimmed glasses reminiscent of the ‘70s, but his appearance belied a brilliant mind, and even more than that, a loyal friend.

Sophie Lee. There just weren’t enough words to describe his Chinese-American, longtime partner and friend. Smartass, sarcastic, and crazy covered much of it, but bright, energetic, and fearless weren’t far behind. The two of them were as much family to Manny as anyone. That made him smile. And now they were both joining him in the BAU. They’d been through some intense training over the last two months and had a few more hoops to jump through, but having Alex and Sophie covering his backside like old times was, well, nothing could’ve suited him more.

The short, slender waitress filled his cup and moved to the next table.

Sipping his coffee, his thinking shifted to his daughter Jen. She was halfway through her senior year, embracing everything her final year in high school should be, and growing up faster and smarter every day, it seemed, in the course of time. That fact led him to remember how much Jen resembled her deceased mom Louise. Her speech, her mannerisms, even the way she spoke to Manny.

He’d be a liar if he’d said it didn’t hurt, every once in a while at least, to watch her evolution from teenager to young woman. There was no question that she was going to mature into her mother’s daughter. He sighed. There would always be a special place in his heart for Louise, maybe more than special, and it had been beyond difficult to move on after her death, but that’s where Chloe Franson came in.

Thinking of Chloe always made his insides quiver. Her emerald eyes and flowing red hair were only the beginning of who she was. Beautiful? Yes. Smart? Yes. But there was nothing that compared to her heart—and especially her heart for him. There had been electricity between them from the first time they’d shaken hands, but now that they’d made a vow to each other, it was more like an eternal storm. He ran his hand through his hair. That storm made
waiting
all the more difficult.

When he’d gone to Ireland to tell her how he felt, and that he wanted to be with her, he’d given her a Claddagh ring that symbolized his commitment to her. They cried, they kissed, and that fire they’d both felt had grown into a raging inferno. He wasn’t sure he’d ever wanted Louise this much. But his “Boy Scout” convictions had won out. No sex until they said “I do.” He knew how most of the world looked at that, but he didn’t care. Some things were more important. He’d made that pledge to God, and himself, and would stick to it. He wanted to be an example to Jen. It would be hard to preach one thing, like abstinence, if he were breaking the rules himself.

Chloe had told him a hundred times since then that she understood, but it was getting tougher, for both of them. The way she touched him, her walk, her scent, her pure, unadulterated love for him confused things even more. She’d even suggested that they take cold showers . . . together. He smiled. The woman was just no help.

His Irish love had also made Jen feel comfortable. They’d talked, even laughed a time or two, but the thought of someone, even Chloe, taking her mother’s place at his side was still something Jen was working through. He exhaled. Hell, they were all working through that, but Jen was a special young lady. Then there was that dream—

The sound of loud voices interrupted Manny’s world, and he glanced at the front door just as two men wearing long, black coats and ski masks entered the restaurant. The first man was shorter than the other, and much thicker, but both were carrying large handguns, Berettas maybe. The taller man held one of the waitresses around the neck, moving his gun to the side of her head.

“Everyone stay where you are and you get to leave on your feet,” he yelled, his voice deep and tinted with a Latino accent.

The short man scanned the breakfast crowd and honed in on Manny. He then strode toward him, raising his weapon.

“Ah. Detective Williams. Are you ready to meet your maker?”

Chapter-3

He stood, leaning against the antique, mahogany armoire, looking at his calloused hands. He turned them over and over, reflecting on what they were capable of and what they had already efficiently completed. Never had it entered his thoughts that they, or he, would be so important to “the work.” He’d traveled a path like so many others who thought education was the trail to illumination. But in the end, he’d been wrong. His supposedly enlightened professors and colleagues understood nothing concerning what it took to accomplish a gallant endeavor; they lived and died with theory. And his mission, his purpose, was nothing, if not gallant.

When he’d set his sights on a college education, despite his humble beginnings in Chicago, he’d thought of nothing else. Each day, he consumed what his teachers were serving. Each night, he read until his mother ambled into his room to his warped, two-drawer dresser to shut off the cracked tiffany lamp that glowed bright then dim from the short in the wiring. But it was enough.

She’d kiss him and tell him to go to sleep. But there were nights when he wasn’t ready. Nights where the book he had been reading had taken his mind, his emotion, his imagination to an exciting new destination, and he simply had to finish. On those nights, he’d pull out the old, yellow flashlight from under his mattress, cover his head with the tattered quilt, and continue reading until he’d finished, or had fallen asleep trying. Several times, the sun was peeking through his window when he closed his eyes. He knew his mother knew, but she wanted him to read, to learn. He loved her for it. They didn’t have much, but they had that.

Then it all ended so abruptly, he’d barely had time to understand. His mom had stabbed a man at the bar where she worked when he tried to steal her purse that held the month’s rent. The man died, and his mom went away for twenty years; and in essence, so did he, becoming a victim of Chicago’s foster care system. He rarely stayed more than six months in any one home. Some of the families were kind; some were not. But he hung in there and finally hooked up in one place long enough to finish high school.

But he’d more than finished, hadn’t he? He carried a perfect 4.0 through some thirteen schools, and it had earned him an Ivy League scholarship.

A few months later, he was on his way to the East Coast and brave new worlds.

After his first year of college, he’d spent a summer in Puerto Rico, doing volunteer work at El Yunque National Rainforest. The first time he laid eyes on her, he knew what he wanted to do. It had become as apparent as those almost-mystical revelations could be. He was going to take care of El Yunque. Educate people regarding her. It was the reason he had been born, and more importantly, he knew it.

Finishing his undergraduate degree, flawlessly and in less than three years, had set up his graduate career, and by the time he reached his twenty-fourth birthday, he was a full-fledged doctor of environmental science. His research papers and subsequent dissertation regarding rainforest habitat destruction and utility had met with international acclaim. So much so that he’d been the keynote speaker at the International Conference on Science and Technology two years in a row, an accomplishment that had never been achieved before. One of his speeches included a session on how human interaction in El Yunque could cause irreparable damage if camping and tourist interactions weren’t regulated more stringently. One reporter covering the event said he was a man among children in his field, but acknowledged that tourism, and rum production, was what made Puerto Rico roll and it would take an act of God to accomplish what his lecture had suggested.

If they only knew.

During that time, he’d became obsessed with reconnecting with his mother and finally found her in one of the southern suburbs of Chicago. He remembered knocking on the door of the tiny apartment and how special their reunion had been. They’d spent the night talking about everything, especially where his life had taken him. She was so proud. The look in her eyes said so. How could he ever forget that? The love, the satisfaction. Nothing matches the approval radiating from the eyes of a parent. Nothing. But he’d never see it again, thanks to
them
.

Over the next few years, he’d visited his mother as much as he could and constantly asked her to join him, but she refused. Chicago was her home, and she wanted to stay there.

He walked away from the armoire, stood next to the window facing the east, and watched the sun rise over his precious El Yunque. He had considered moving back to be with her, but that would have taken him far away from his rainforest, and
this
was
his
home. A move back to Chicago wouldn’t work for him on many levels, including his guest-teaching position at two of the local universities. The phone sitting on the lampstand suddenly drew his attention. It was nearly eight a.m. and that’s when they would talk practically every morning since they’d reconnected those seven years ago. She’d tell him about the snow and wind of Chicago, and he’d tell her it was eighty-five degrees and not a cloud in the sky. She’d laugh like mothers do, and it helped to begin his day on the upbeat side of this life. But the phone hadn’t rung for three months to the day. It never would again unless she, somehow, figured out how to call from beyond the grave.