Closer Than You Think (31 page)

The hard ridge that had felt so good against her behind when they’d crawled across the lobby floor felt even better now. Bigger. Impossibly harder. She wrapped her arms around his neck, lifted higher on her toes, trying to position his erection where it would do some good.

His sudden hiss of pain had her freezing, and too late she remembered his shoulder – the very reason he was in her room. She dropped from her toes, pulling her arms from around his neck. ‘Oh God. I’m sorry, Deacon. I’m sor—’

His mouth swallowed the apology, this kiss soft and tender. ‘I’m not. I’m not sorry at all.’ He was breathing hard. Trembling as he released his hold. She’d made this strong man tremble. But she didn’t have more than a second to bask in the knowledge before he hissed again.

‘What the . . .’ He glared at the blood that covered his palm, then gently brushed the hair from her forehead. ‘Why didn’t you tell me I was hurting you? Why didn’t you stop me?’

‘You didn’t hurt me. Not just now, anyway. That happened when you tackled me – which saved my life. I thought I’d taken care of it downstairs.’ Dabbing her head with a tissue, she stepped aside so that he could wash her blood from his hand.

‘I need to take you back to the ER.’

She wanted to say yes. She wanted to hide in the ER, or anywhere in the world that wasn’t the house. But that was cowardly. And selfish.

Selfish.
Guilt smacked her like a brick. She’d distracted Novak when he needed to be looking for Corinne, just like Kimble had said she would.
If that missing girl dies, you’ll break him. And not just professionally.
‘Take me to the house first. Corinne is running out of time.’

He studied her face, then nodded grimly. ‘Change your clothes. But hurry.’

Cincinnati, Ohio, Tuesday 4 November, 4.45
A.M.

He powered down his computer, satisfied. Novak hadn’t been hard to find at all. The man attracted media attention everywhere he went. He’d already been covered in the Cincinnati papers four times, even though he’d only transferred from Baltimore a month ago. Coverage in Baltimore was even more extensive.

Novak had been part of a joint task force there, just like he was here. He appeared to be something of a wunderkind, with degrees in chemistry, psychology and computer science. He’d been pre-med in college, accepted to med school, but turned them down for a career with the FBI.

It had been so kind of him to do a Q&A session with the kids at that Baltimore high school on career day. It had been even kinder for the teacher of those eleventh-graders to post their summaries of Novak’s visit online.

But what he’d learned from all that was that Novak wouldn’t be easy prey. He was pretty damn smart, which was all the better. He’d always loved to take the geniuses down a few pegs. Novak, of course, would go down more than just a few pegs. He hadn’t been very smart about keeping a low profile personally. He’d bought a house recently, in his own name.

He was ridiculously easy to find. And if he didn’t go to his new house any time soon, that wasn’t a problem either. Because he had a sister. Dr Danika Novak was an ER doctor right here in town. How sweet. Doctors were notoriously careless about their own safety, forgetting everything and everyone around them when they were saving a life. He imagined Novak’s sister wouldn’t be an exception.

And if the hospital had security, she also volunteered at The Meadow, a haven for the homeless.
I can look homeless. I can look wounded.
He took a long look at the photo he’d pulled up of Danika Novak. She was pretty, also in a comic book hero kind of way. He imagined Agent Novak could be convinced to trade Faith for his beautiful sister, if it came to that.

But the first order of business was to silence Faith before she returned to the house. She would tell them things he did not want them to know. If the cops continued to believe he’d only kept Arianna and Corinne there, they’d collect their evidence and go away. But if Faith remembered how things had once been . . .

They’d start digging. And that was something he wanted to avoid at all costs.

Chapter Fifteen

Mt Carmel, Ohio, Tuesday 4 November, 5.15
A.M.

I
n a generally foul frame of mind, Deacon parked his loaner sedan in front of the O’Bannion house. Faith had said little since they’d left her hotel, looking more fragile with every mile they drove. Now she stared out the window at the big house, her eyes huge in her pale face.

Deacon muttered a curse, hating that she had to face a nightmare that had haunted her for twenty-three years. But hating himself more.
I should have kept my hands to myself.
He’d known she was vulnerable. But he hadn’t been able to stop himself.

She’d been so soft. Fit him so perfectly. Made those little greedy sounds that had made him want to take her right there in her kitchen. Bishop had been right. It was too much, too soon. He needed to put Faith’s kissable mouth out of his mind and concentrate on finding out what it was about this house that made Combs keep trying to kill her.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked, and she nodded once.

‘It’s just a house. I keep telling myself that.’ She unbuckled her seat belt and slid from the sedan before he could come around to help her out.

‘Faith, wait.’ He got a bulletproof vest and slid it over her head. It was way too big, hanging on her slender shoulders, falling past her hips. ‘I don’t have a smaller one.’

‘At least the target on my ass won’t be a problem,’ she said wryly, and he chuckled, proud of her. She was still pale. Still visibly afraid. But her jaw was set, her mouth determined.

He led her through the gate and to the front porch, glancing at her every few seconds. Her breathing had become shallow and rapid, her teeth sunk into her lower lip. Her hands gripped each other so hard that her knuckles were white. She stopped abruptly at the stairs.

‘Just a house,’ she whispered. ‘Just a goddamn house.’

‘Lean on me,’ Deacon murmured. ‘You’re not here alone, Faith.’

She took his arm then in a grip so hard he sucked in a surprised breath. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, but she didn’t loosen her hold.

‘I can take it.’ He helped her up the stairs, worried when she stumbled over the threshold. ‘Breathing is good,’ he said lightly, aware that they were now the subject of the stares of the two forensic techs who’d set up a mini-office on the living room floor. ‘You should give it a try.’

She shuddered in a breath and blew it out. ‘Just a house, right?’

‘Just a house, honey. Open your eyes. It’s just a house with a lot of old furniture. It’s dusty and desperately needs a few coats of paint.’

She opened her eyes and looked around cautiously. ‘It’s bigger than I remembered. I thought it was supposed to be the other way around.’ Her gaze landed on the ornate banister that framed the grand curving staircase. ‘I used to slide down that banister. Gran would be so angry but my mother would laugh.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I can’t tell you if anything’s missing, Deacon. I don’t remember everything that was here.’

‘Maybe one of your uncles can help,’ he suggested, watching her face. She flinched, and something deep within him wanted to roar.

Someone had hurt her in this house. It was plain to see. Deacon didn’t care who it was, he’d find them and make them pay. One way or another.

‘What do you dream, Faith?’

Her gaze flew up to meet his, panicked. Like a deer ready to flee.

He stroked her hair. ‘You know you need to tell someone.’

She closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she was in control and wary. ‘Don’t play therapist with me, Deacon. Please.’

‘Faith, whatever it is, it’s eating—’

‘Whatever it is, it has nothing to do with any of this,’ she snapped. ‘If you can’t respect that, I don’t know what else to tell you.’

He stowed his frustration. ‘I’m sorry. Let me get you geared up.’ He took the vest off and gave her gloves, then knelt and slipped protective booties over her shoes. Rising, he helped her put the second glove on because her hands were shaking too hard to do the job herself. ‘The crime scene is in the basement,’ he said. ‘Will you—’

She’d tensed again.

Deacon wanted to scream, but he kept his voice calm. ‘Will you go down there with me?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘It’s through the kitchen.’

She walked stiffly, one foot in front of the other. The door was open and she stood there looking down the stairs, her face frighteningly serene. Like she was gone.

‘Faith? Are you all right?’

‘I’m doing what I need to do, Agent Novak.’

He hid his wince at her return to formalities, realizing that she was coping with whatever it was that she refused to tell him.

She leaned forward, a curious expression coming over her face as she inspected the walls on either side of the basement staircase. ‘That’s not how it was.’

Standing behind her, Deacon twisted so that he could see her face. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It was open. No walls.’

‘Maybe they were added later.’

She gave him a long, hard look. ‘No. I was here on that last day. There were no walls.’

‘The last day? The day your mother died?’

She nodded. ‘There were no walls.’

Okay. ‘Will you go down the stairs?’

‘Of course.’ She closed her eyes and took a step down, wrapping her gloved fingers around the wooden pole that served as a banister. He followed her as she took one stair at a time, her movements jerky. He stayed ready to catch her if she fell.

She got to the bottom and took a final step, far bigger than she needed to. It caused her to stumble, and Deacon quickly grabbed her shoulders.

‘Steady,’ he murmured. ‘You’re down. You did it.’

She froze. ‘No. I’m not. There are two more steps. Always twelve.’

Her eyes were clenched shut. ‘Faith, open your eyes and look at me.’

She swallowed hard and opened her eyes. ‘There were always twelve steps.’

‘Maybe you’re just remembering it wrong.’

Her eyes flashed and he was relieved. She was still in there. He was a little worried he’d pushed her off some kind of emotional ledge.

‘I remember twelve steps. Always twelve. I’d always count.’

‘Why? Why would you count?’

‘Because I wouldn’t look.’ She drew a deep breath, her nose wrinkling. ‘I smell bleach.’

‘Yes. Why wouldn’t you look?’

She looked side to side, her eyes growing wide. ‘None of this was here. This was all open.’

‘He added walls, then.’ Which surprised him. That was not the behavior of a wolf just biding his time as he waited on Red Riding Hood. Her attacker hadn’t just set up shop. He’d set up house. ‘Why wouldn’t you look, Faith?’

‘I never liked this basement. It always scared me, even when I was really small.’ She looked up, squinting at the overhead lights. ‘None of that was here. It was dark and dank. Gran’s cook used to send me down here for canned vegetables. She didn’t like it down here either.’

‘What do you dream?’

She sighed wearily. ‘Of the steps. Always twelve. You think I’m misremembering. I’m telling you there were twelve fucking steps.’

He blinked at her, surprised not only by the curse, but by the softness with which she’d uttered it. ‘Okay. I’ll tell Tanaka.’

‘Your forensics guy. He swabbed my hands. He was very kind. Where do I go next?’

‘Can you look in each room?’

‘Of course.’ She checked the office first. ‘I know that desk came from upstairs. It was in my grandfather’s study. How did he even get it down here?’

‘Good question.’ The desk was massive. ‘Maybe he took it apart.’

‘Maybe. The metal file cabinet wasn’t in the house. He must have brought that.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Gran wouldn’t tolerate anything that looked so common. Everything was wood.’ She shrugged. ‘I guess I remember more than I thought.’

‘I thought you would.’ He pointed to the small kitchen. ‘And this?’

‘The table came from my grandmother’s bedroom. She had a vase on it. A blue vase with clouds. The vase she took with her when she moved to the city. It’s Uncle Jordan’s now. He got all the furnishings she’d taken from the house. I got everything else. Go me.’

‘Could there be an item in the house valuable enough that someone would kill you for it? Something one of your family members doesn’t want you to have?’

She gave him a level look. ‘You’re suggesting my uncles are involved.’

‘Maybe.’

‘That’s ridiculous. If there was anything here of value, either of them could have come back at any time over the last twenty-three years to retrieve it. Nobody’s lived here and the alarm system is fairly new. Anybody could have come back and looted.’ She pointed to the refrigerator, stove and microwave. ‘None of those are original to the house.’ She turned to leave, then noticed the blanket hanging over the dug-in hallway. ‘What’s that?’

‘There’s a crawl space back there, where someone was sleeping.’ Except that he’d found a women’s small T-shirt in the box and nothing to indicate that a man Combs’s size had been down here.

Neither Corinne nor Arianna wore a size small. Who else had he had down here?

He followed her to the room with the cot and the shackles in the wall and heard her small cry of anguish. ‘He held them here?’

‘Probably,’ Deacon murmured.

She stared at the cot for a moment longer. When she turned, she was pale again, her eyes cool and detached. She brushed past him and opened the door to the final room.

The torture room. Deacon waited for another cry of anguish, but she made no sound. She was staring straight ahead, ignoring the autopsy table, where Tanaka was collecting samples.

‘Where’s the door?’ she asked quietly.

‘What door?’

‘There was a door in that wall. It led to the outside.’ She turned right, avoiding the autopsy table completely. ‘And there were windows on this wall. Up near the ceiling. I remember.’

‘She’s right,’ Tanaka said. ‘About the windows, anyway. They’ve been covered up outside. Someone plastered over them and painted to make it look like they were never there, both inside and outside. I think this interior wall is a fake. I ordered X-ray equipment to be brought out here. I want to be sure nothing is being hidden in these walls.’

‘How long ago were the door and windows covered?’ Deacon asked, frowning.

‘Hard to say without some analysis. We can look at the kind of paint used, how much it’s oxidized, run it through a few aging models. Doesn’t look recent, though.’

‘Like older-than-a-year not recent?’

‘Like older-than-ten-years not recent,’ Tanaka said, and Deacon swallowed a curse.

His timeline was unraveling, he realized. Combs had only crossed Faith’s path four years ago. Something else was going on here and he didn’t like any of it.

‘She also remembers twelve steps,’ he said.

Tanaka’s brows lifted. ‘There are only ten.’

Faith’s jaw clenched. ‘I know what I remember.’

‘I believe that you remember it,’ Tanaka said.

She turned to look at him. ‘But you don’t believe it’s true.’

‘I didn’t say that, Dr Corcoran.’ Tanaka left the torture room and crouched at the base of the steps, shining his flashlight on the floor seams. Then he straightened and went back into the room with the cot and shackles in the walls.

Faith followed him, Deacon at her back. They stopped in the doorway, watching Tanaka walk carefully across the floor. The forensic specialist paused, bounced softly on his toes, then took a giant step back. When he turned to face them, his eyes gleamed.

‘I thought I felt a slight give in this floor when I came through earlier,’ he said. ‘I was going to check it further, but I didn’t feel it anywhere else, so I back-burnered it.’

Faith had gone very still. ‘The floor is fake, too? Like the wall?’

Tanaka shrugged. ‘It’s not supported in that one spot, that’s all I can tell you.’

‘Are you saying that someone lifted this entire floor by sixteen inches?’ Deacon looked up at the ceiling, roughed out beams and exposed pipes. ‘I’d have thought I’d be bumping my head right now, but there’s still six inches of clearance. That would have meant the ceilings were very high to begin with.’

Faith’s breathing had grown rapid and shallow again. ‘Yes. They were high.’

Deacon tipped her chin up so that he could see her eyes. ‘Why? Why were they high?’

She closed her eyes and shook her head, pulling free of his grip. ‘It would take someone a long time to raise a floor by sixteen inches, wouldn’t it, Detective Tanaka?’

‘Sergeant,’ Tanaka corrected mildly. ‘Possibly. I heard you telling Agent Novak that the walls were different too. Were any of these partitioned rooms here when you were a child?’

‘Yes. That one.’ She pointed over her shoulder to the torture room. ‘But not the way it is now. The door opened into a little alcove, where you could change your clothes if you got muddy. My grandmother didn’t let muddy shoes in the house.’

‘Were your shoes often muddy?’ Deacon asked quietly, still trying to get to her dream.

‘Yes. I liked to play outside.’

Tanaka looked concerned. ‘Maybe you should sit down, Dr Corcoran. You look pale.’

‘I’ll sit down when I’m done. I’d really like to get this over with.’

‘You’ve seen everything down here,’ Tanaka said.

‘No,’ she said shortly, tersely. ‘I would like to see you remove that piece of flooring. If something is under the floor, I’d like to know.’

Tanaka looked at Deacon, who gave him a nod. ‘Let me get photographs of the floor first, then we’ll take up the tile.’

‘Will you see the rest of the other room while we’re waiting?’ Deacon asked her.

She swallowed hard. ‘Of course.’ She marched herself through the door to the torture room, straight to the corner furthest from the autopsy table. ‘This is where the little changing room would have been. There were hooks for coats and drying stands for boots.’

Deacon took her shoulders and gently turned her so that she faced the metal table and the wall beyond, feeling her body stiffen with dread. ‘What was there? On that wall?’

‘Shelves with jars,’ she said. ‘Jams and jellies mostly. My grandmother’s cook made preserves back then.’ Her forehead wrinkled. ‘And olives.’