Hold on to Me (14 page)

Tick slumped in one of the leather chairs facing Stanton’s desk and watched the other man pace. Caitlin stood in the doorway, leaning against the doorjamb. Exhaustion dulled her eyes and dust smudged one high cheekbone. He tried to remember if he’d seen her eat anything during the day. Worry nagged at his gut again. She looked like hell.

Earlier, she’d all but admitted to suffering some horrific act.

Talking about it doesn’t make it go away.

It had been in her eyes then, the pain and terror, still holding her prisoner. He wanted to make it go away for her, knew from experience he couldn’t. All he could do was stand by her, be there when the memories were too much. Except she wouldn’t let him.

And he didn’t know what to do to reach her.

Stanton dropped into his chair. “So what did we end up with?”

Caitlin lifted a shoulder in her familiar, elegant shrug. “Not much. The blanket. A couple of hairs that probably aren’t human. A very smudgy partial print, which doesn’t even look usable, from her bracelet. It may be hers. Fibers from her clothes.”

“What do we have to do? Catch this guy in the act?”

Tick sighed at Stanton’s frustrated outburst, but if Caitlin was disturbed, she didn’t show it. “That would be helpful, but it’s unlikely.”

“I was being facetious, Falconetti. You don’t have to take everything so damned literally.”

“Gee, I’m sorry, Reed. I didn’t realize you actually possessed a sense of humor.”

Tick muffled a weary laugh at Stanton’s outraged expression, but resisted the urge to play peacemaker. One thing Caitlin had made perfectly clear—she didn’t want his help.

Jeff Schaefer appeared in the doorway, and Caitlin glanced at him before moving farther into the office. “Hey, Tick, there’s a call on line two for you.”

He unfolded himself from the chair. “I’ll be right back. Y’all try not to kill each other while I’m gone. I’d rather not process another crime scene today.”

Caitlin leaned against the counter running along the wall in the squad room. Trying to ignore the headache four acetaminophen tablets hadn’t dulled, she paged through the work schedules Cookie had printed for her. He poured the last of the coffee into a dark green mug bearing the department’s insignia and she eyed the thick, scorched liquid. “You’re not going to drink that, are you?”

“You planning on running a fresh pot?” He set the empty carafe on the counter and reached for the cream and sugar.

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

He laughed. When he turned toward his desk, his elbow brushed the glass carafe and it tumbled to the floor, shattering on the dingy gray floor.

The sound singed Caitlin’s senses, and the printouts slid from her nerveless fingers.
Her grandmother’s crystal vase exploding against the Mexican tile, Fuller’s weight hitting her from behind, searing pain ripping into her consciousness. The wild fluttering of her unborn child, the knife piercing her body, those whispery movements dying away.
Her vision blurred, darkness rising in a dull red tide. The fear wrapped tentacles around her throat and lungs, cutting off her breath. She struggled to breathe, the panic intensifying.

Oh, God, not now. She pressed against the counter. Pulse thudding in her ears, she fought the tremors attacking her body. Eyes closed, she heard Cookie’s uneasy voice from a distance, but she remained trapped in the overwhelming terror she couldn’t control. She counted, the rhythm of numbers doing little to stop the fear.

“Cait?” Tick’s voice, rough with concern, broke through the darkness, his arms supporting her. “Cookie, what happened?”

“I broke the carafe, and she just went white as a damn sheet.”

Icy perspiration dampened her skin. Caitlin grasped his arms, riding out the receding horror. She sagged into him, Tick brushing her hair from her face. The sensations weakened, leaving her shaking in the aftermath. Her ability to breathe returning in ragged gasps, she buried her face against his throat. His scent surrounded her and she rested her palms against his back, wanting the solid connection. Relief trembled in her. He was here; she wasn’t alone.

The episodes only lasted a few minutes—her body could only sustain the fight-or-flight rush that long. What frightened her more than the attacks themselves was that she never knew one was coming until it was slamming into her full force. And there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop it once it began, other than counting and trying to breathe through the panic.

Tick rubbed her spine in a long, soothing motion. “Cait?”

“Anxiety attack,” she whispered, her mind clearing enough for her to realize they were alone in the squad room. “It’s over.”

“You’re shaking.” He pulled back but didn’t release her. “Does this happen often?”

She shook her head, blowing out a long, uneven exhale. “Not as often now. I haven’t had one in weeks. At first, it was several times a day.”

“Sit down.” He tugged the chair out from Cookie’s desk and eased her onto it. Caitlin leaned her head back, eyes closed. He moved away, but her perception still felt fuzzy, unreal. “Here.”

She opened her eyes and took the paper cup he pressed into her hands. Grateful, she sipped the cool water. Tick crouched in front of her, cradling her knees, thumbs kneading her lower thighs in a gentle, circular motion. Worry darkened his eyes and she forced a smile. “Thank you.”

A frown drew his brows together. “This was happening several times a day?”

“Yes.” She attempted a laugh, the shaky sound without humor. “Gina took my car keys. I had to talk Vince out of assigning me a keeper.”

The warmth of his caressing hands began to seep into the chill gripping her body. “You’re taking meds for this, right?”

“Yes, I’m taking something. It helps, but—”

“Now will you talk to me?” A pleading note hoarsened his voice.

“Tick, please.” Exhausted, she passed a hand over her eyes. “It’s been a hellish day, and I could use several hours of uninterrupted sleep.”

Not that she’d probably get it. Most often the panic attacks increased the frequency and intensity of her nightmares.

“Precious, please talk to me.” His long fingers pressed against the outside of her thighs. “Let me help you.”

Help her? Didn’t he get it yet? The tension and exhaustion overwhelmed her, flashing into anger. “God, what do you want to know? How I can tell you what was in Amy Gillabeaux’s mind as he killed her, because I’ve been there? How it all happens so fast and so slow at the same time?”

She stumbled over the words as they rushed out. “She was terrified…he caught her off guard and she couldn’t figure out what was happening…why he was hurting her…”

Oh, dear Lord in heaven
. The squad room blurred in front of him. Her words painted a picture, not of what had happened to Amy Gillabeaux, but of her own experience. He tightened his grip on her legs and closed his eyes briefly, opening them to find her watching him with a haunted gaze that glittered, bright and unnatural, against the pallor of her skin.

He swallowed hard. “Cait, you—”

“He worked for my grandfather.” The anger drained from her voice, leaving only the desolation. “I was home for Troupe’s birthday. Troupe…we call him by his name, my grandfather.”

The words tumbled out of her in a wild disconnected stream. “He…Fuller thought I was in love with him. I…I smiled at him once too often, I guess, and he created this whole life for us in his head. I came home from the party early, I wasn’t feeling well and he was waiting for me in the kitchen…”

His throat tight, he leaned forward, pulling her from the chair and into his arms. He smoothed his palms over her back, wanting to absorb her anguish.

“He kept talking to me, saying all these crazy things that made no sense. I-I started upstairs, my gun was in my room and I just wanted to get away. He came after me. He put his arm over my throat, I couldn’t breathe, and then h-he was stabbing me. And there was nothing I could do…”

Her voice broke and she wept, her face pressed into his neck. Tick held her even closer, trying to take away the pain wracking her body. A familiar rage smoldered under his skin, a rage he thought he’d locked away with Billy Reese. Someone had hurt her, and he hadn’t been around to stop it happening.

Someone had hurt her and she’d kept it from him, bottled all the pain inside.

Hating the bastard who’d attacked her, he rubbed his face against her hair and pressed a kiss to her temple. She stilled, huddled into him, her hands splayed against his back, her breath coming in shuddery sighs. “I’m so tired.”

“Come on. I’m getting you out of here.” He rose, pulling her up with him, still enveloped in his embrace. She swayed on her feet, the top of her head brushing his chin.

In the parking lot, he ushered her into the truck from the driver’s side, and she slid as far as the middle of the bench seat. He fired the ignition and tugged her closer, her head against his shoulder. She shifted nearer, her hand resting above his knee, and his chest tightened. When he reached the road, he deliberated for only a second before turning in the direction of his home.

“Tick?” Her voice was a drowsy whisper.

“What, Cait?”

“It’s not you. I didn’t want you hurt, and I can’t…I wanted…”

“Hush.” He rubbed his fingers over her knee in a firm caress. “Not right now.”

She subsided into silence, the only sound in the cab the hum of the engine and her occasional shaky breath.

Minutes later, he turned into his driveway, headlights sweeping the pine trees. She straightened. “Where are we?”

“Home.” He slid from the truck and helped her out. A muggy breeze washed over them, carrying the scent and whisper of the river with it.

With a glance at his house, she stiffened. “Tick, I can’t—”

“It’s not up for discussion.” He traced a fingertip along her jaw. “I’m not leaving you alone tonight.”

Inside, he rummaged in his bureau and came up with his favorite Jimmy Buffet T-shirt, soft and faded from repeated washings. He pushed it into her hands and then gently bullied her into the bathroom to change.

“Are you hungry? I can fix you something—”

“No.” She passed a hand over her flat stomach, her expression twisting. “Thank you. I don’t want anything.”

Food was the last thing on his mind, too. All he wanted was that awful look off her face. He brushed back a strand of her hair. “I think there’s an extra toothbrush in the medicine cabinet. Towels are on the shelf by the shower.”

She twisted the shirt around her hand, looking everywhere but at him. “Thanks. I’ll just be a minute.”

Seconds later, the sound of rushing water filtered through the closed door. Tick squashed the image of her in his shower, water sluicing over her slender frame, of him joining her under the spray. That was not what either of them needed tonight. After flipping the bedcovers back, he went to the closet and pulled down another of his grandmother’s handpieced quilts and an extra pillow.

In the living room, he tossed them on the couch and picked up the remote, tuning to the late news. The pretty blonde anchor prattled on about a wreck on the Albany bypass and the latest efforts to clean up abandoned properties in Dougherty County. Tick leaned back, rubbing his hands over his face. His body ached with exhaustion, but his mind was running ninety-to-nothing, thoughts tumbling over each other in a wild scramble. He’d never get to sleep tonight.

The shower stopped, and he tried to focus on the weather report rather than what was going on in his bathroom. A sunny Sunday coming up, high of ninety-eight, late afternoon thundershowers. Not a towel easing water from a flat stomach, an elegant back and long, runner’s legs. Not haunted green eyes and a full mouth trembling with remembered fear.

“Damn it,” he muttered, staring at the ceiling.

The bathroom door creaked, and bare feet whispered on his hardwood floor. He glanced up. Caitlin appeared in the doorway to his bedroom, hair damp at the edges, his T-shirt covering her to upper thigh, arms wrapped around her midriff. “I feel badly about taking your bed.”

Letting his head fall back again, Tick closed his eyes. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I…I should warn you that I have nightmares.” Her voice held an uncertain attempt at humor. “I haven’t roused the neighbors yet, but I wake up screaming. Gina bought earplugs when I moved in with her.”

Rage chased everything from his mind. He’d kill the bastard. One way or another, he’d kill him. “Nearest neighbors are two miles away. I don’t think you’ll bother them.”

“Well, good night, then.”

“Good night.” He waited for her to leave, but heard nothing.

“Tick?” A tentative note colored her voice.

He sighed and straightened. “Yeah?”

She glanced away. “I don’t know how…damn it, Tick, I don’t want to sleep alone tonight.”

The words shivered through him. Lord, Cookie was right. He was already whipped. He’d crawl into bed with her and hold her like the honorable man his father had raised him to be. Even if it killed him, he wouldn’t do any of the other things his body clamored for—pull her close, kiss her until he couldn’t remember his own name, slide his hands beneath that T-shirt, bury himself within her.

He stood, cut off the television and the lamps, aware of her gaze on him the whole time. He crossed the room to her, massaging her shoulders. “Then I won’t leave you alone.”

In the bedroom, he turned off the lights. The sheets rustled as she climbed into his bed. He tugged his shirt over his head, kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his jeans, pulling his socks off at the same time. Clad only in his boxer briefs, he slid in beside her.

Caitlin lay on her side, and Tick rolled so his chest was against her back, her bottom tucked against his groin, and the back of her legs lay along his thighs. Lord, she fit him to perfection. The tension eased from her body, muscles relaxing against him. His arm draped over her waist, he dropped a kiss on her neck. “Comfortable?”

Her palm rested on his arm, and she turned her head, her cheek brushing his biceps. “Better than comfortable.”

“Yeah?” He yawned. Sleep tugged at him, surprising him.

“Yes. I’m safe.”

Good. He meant to keep her that way. He spread his hand across her abdomen and her pulse beat against his palm. He pulled her closer and she covered his wrist, tracing a random design on the back. His skin tingled under her easy touch. Heavy contentment settled in him. Damn, but he never wanted to move again. His eyes slid closed.

“I should have been able to stop him.” The darkness of her memories trembled in her voice. “I tried, Tick, I swear I did…”

He snapped to full alertness, staring into the blackness over her head. “Baby, don’t.”

Her hair swept across his chin. “I’m an FBI agent, with over a decade of training. Hell, I’ve taught other people how to—”

“It wasn’t your fault.” He tightened his hold. “You can’t think that, Cait.”

Her finger continued drawing circles and squares on his hand. “I relive it in my head, trying to figure out what I could have done differently. If I’d waited for my brother or my grandfather to drive me home, if I’d taken my gun that night. Even if I’d stayed in Virginia instead of going home in the first place. Or if the training had kicked in sooner, before he had the upper hand. But he had me down and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get free…if Vince hadn’t come home when he did…”