Targeted (Callahan & McLane Book 4) (21 page)

“We didn’t. She was pregnant when she died. Later they told me it’d been a girl.”

Her heart broke. “You never told me.”

“You never asked.”

“I was trying to respect your privacy. I figured if you wanted to tell me, you would.” Her shoulders sagged. He was her friend and she’d let him down.

“I’m being unfair,” he said. “You’re right. I didn’t want to talk about it. I avoid thinking about it at all costs.”

“What was your wife’s name?” she asked softly, watching his face. “I’ve never heard you say it.”

“Faith. Faith Alexandra Wells.” He stared at her hands on his.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

He swayed slightly in his seat, and she wondered if she should just put him in bed.

“We tried for years to get pregnant,” he said. “It finally happened, but they found the cancer early during her pregnancy. They suggested we abort the baby so they could treat it more aggressively.”

“Oh, Zander.” She hadn’t thought her heart could break any more. “How horrible for the two of you.”

“I told her to do it.” He looked at Ava, his eyes hard. “She refused.”

“No one should ever have to make that decision.”

“You’ve got that fucking right.” He looked back at the kitchen and his glass on the counter. “I need my drink.”

“In a minute,” said Ava. “What happened?”

“She refused to have an abortion and she died.”

“She would have survived if she’d given up the baby?”

He seemed to shrink. “Probably not. Her cancer had invaded several organs by the time they found it. Stage four. They said treatment might extend her life a little longer.”

“And that wasn’t good enough for her,” Ava said, understanding the horrible decision his wife had made. “She was going to die no matter what.”

“We could have had more time,” Zander said urgently. “Maybe a new treatment could have been found in those extra months, maybe we could have gone somewhere else, where the drugs didn’t have to go through the trials and approvals.” His words slurred, and his chin dropped to his chest.

“I’m so sorry, Zander.” She’d never seen him so defeated. He’d always been the quiet rock. Dependable. Steadfast. Driven. When she needed something, she never hesitated to ask. He always came through for her.

“She never knew it was a girl,” he whispered.

“Oh,
she knows
, Zander. She knows.”

“We’d agreed on the name Zachery for a boy and Fiona for a girl. I think about my daughter every day. Would she have looked like Faith?” His eyes begged for her to agree.

“No doubt.”

“I have to pull out Faith’s pictures to remember what she looked like when she was healthy. Those last few weeks at the hospital, she didn’t look like herself, and those images are burned into my brain. She was swollen everywhere, a horrible caricature of the beautiful woman she’d been.” He covered his eyes. “My memory of her is fading. Sometimes when I’m at work, I’ll try to remember the exact color of her hair and I can’t. I hate myself for it . . . I’m forgetting her and she doesn’t deserve that. Yesterday I couldn’t remember what the color of her eyes looked like.”

“How long has it been?”

“Eight years.”

“I would expect the memories to have faded a bit, Zander. But as long as you have her photos, you don’t have to rely on your memory.”

“But I remember everything! Why can’t I recall the woman she was instead of that horrible sick body she was at the end?”

Ava fumbled for an answer. “I don’t know.” Guilt swept through her. “I’m sorry I kept pressuring you to accept dates, Zander. I didn’t know you weren’t ready.”

He waved an unsteady hand in the air. “I’ve dated.”

“Oh.” Ava frowned. “You seemed so reluctant. I always assumed it was because of Faith.”

“I know she didn’t want me to be alone. She told me that. She knew she was going to die, Ava. She made me promise to look for someone who made me feel alive.” He looked away sheepishly. “I’ve turned down all your suggestions because . . . well . . . because they came from you,” he finished quietly.

She pulled back, stung. “You don’t think I’m a good judge of character? I wouldn’t set you up—”

“It’s not that,” he stated, meeting her gaze. “It’s because I wanted it to be you.”

She froze, feeling her heart pound in her chest. A tiny part of her had known, but for him to state it out in the open when it was clearly too late . . .

He gripped her hands. “Don’t run away.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. I can feel you pulling back. I just fucked everything up, didn’t I?”

“No. Nothing has changed.”

“You’re lying to me.”

Blood pulsated in her ears. “I’m not. I knew . . . sorta, I think. I think I chose to ignore it. Even Mason knew . . . he was okay with it.”

“What?”

“Mason likes you. He knew you wouldn’t make a move on me because you’d respect his friendship.”

Zander looked away. “He’s right.”

“You’re still my friend, Zander . . . oh, my God. Was it the talk of the wedding venue the other day that was bugging you?” He still had a firm hold on her hands. She tugged, but he didn’t let go.

“Yes,” he said simply. “It’s getting closer. Before there was always a chance that the two of you wouldn’t last. But now I can see you’re meant for him. Not for me.”

“That’s right,” she said softly. “I love him like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. He’s part of me. I suspect you know the feeling I’m talking about.”

“I do.” He gazed at the table.

“Can you live with this relationship?”

“I have no choice.”

“Do you want off our case? Would that make it easier?”

He looked back up at her, holding her gaze for a long time. “No and no. I don’t want to lose what we have.”

“Me neither.”

His doorbell jangled.

“That’s Mercy Kilpatrick.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Christ. How many other people are coming?”

“Just her. We were both worried about you. You’re lucky I didn’t send over a squad of patrol cars first. I probably should have.”

He pushed back his chair. “Send her home. I’m going to bed.” He eyed the freshly opened bottle of vodka. “I’m done with that. Take it with you, would you? And I’ll be at work in the morning. Good as new.”

“Thank you for telling me about Faith and Fiona, Zander.”

The doorbell rang again.

“Can you handle Mercy? I don’t want to see anyone else tonight.” He headed for his stairs.

The slump of his shoulders worried her, and she decided to shock him out of it. “Isn’t Mercy single?” she nudged.

He stopped and turned to stare at her, his jaw dropping. Then he spotted her small grin and swore under his breath. “Screw you, McLane.” He continued his unsteady trek toward his stairs.

She watched him go, satisfied she’d gotten a reaction out of him but ready to rush forward if he couldn’t manage the staircase. He carefully stepped his way to the top, and she went to answer the door. At least she’d seen him smile when he realized she was joking about the other agent.

But she’d never forget the soul-deep pain in his eyes when he’d said his daughter’s name.

26

He scrolled down through the local news station’s website, looking for new information on the murders of the cops. The other night had been a close one; he’d fucked up. He hadn’t expected Lucien Fujioka to fight back.

He’d incapacitated each man before he’d known what was happening.

Luckily he’d been armed. He’d been armed for the other encounters, but he’d never had to actually fire the gun. Fujioka had nearly gotten the upper hand.

He’d placed the mask on the kitchen floor when Fujioka was out of the room. Confused, Fujioka had picked up the mask when he returned. The floor creaked as he stepped into his swing with the bat. Fujioka heard it and turned. The bat didn’t fully connect and Fujioka lunged at him. They’d fought. He’d knocked the slightly dazed cop down and fired.

The sound had been deafening.

He’d fled, leaving the mask still in Fujioka’s hand.

An ad blasted from the news station’s website and he turned off the volume. He wouldn’t screw up like that again.

His list had one more name.

The last person who’d torn out her heart.

As he scrolled, a familiar name jumped off the screen. Micah Zuch. He caught his breath and rapidly read the article. And then read it again.

Why is that punk a person of interest in the case?

He knew Micah. He knew Micah
very
well.

Over and over he’d seen echoes of himself in the boy. Their lives had too many similarities and parallels. He’d tried to ease the boy’s way, make up for what he was lacking. Protect him from what he knew was coming.

He read the article a third time, looking for subtext. It stated the police didn’t consider Micah a suspect—which they shouldn’t—but that the information he’d brought to the police had made them focus their efforts in a different direction.

What direction?

How could Micah know
anything
about those deaths?

He pulled out his phone and called a friend. “Hey, Steve. I just read about the young guy they’re holding for the cop murders. You guys must be relieved they caught someone.”

The cop predictably set him straight that they didn’t believe Micah Zuch was the killer.

“I must have misunderstood. Then why are they holding him?” he prodded.

The cop’s next few sentences chilled him to the bone.

“Well, I hope he’s a good lead and you guys nail the bastard.” He ended the call and sat still, staring at his computer screen.

Why did Micah confess to the murders? How could he have known exactly what the victims were wearing?

His train of thought shot in a million directions. “Maybe he knows someone who had access to the crime scene documentation,” he muttered out loud. But different law enforcement departments had handled the evidence collection in each case. He could understand Micah having a friend in one department, but not in four of them.

That left one option.

Micah had followed him.

He slammed his laptop shut and pushed out of his chair, stalking about his dining room. He’d thought he’d been so careful. Fury raked through him.

“That little sneaky asshole! This is what I get for trying to help him?” He turned and slammed his fist into the wall, leaving an impression in the drywall. “Fuck!” He hit with his other fist and the drywall broke. He yanked his hand out of the wall, staring at the blood that immediately welled in the scratches on the back of his hand. The pain cleared his head.

How long did he have before Micah told them the truth?

Why had he kept it a secret this long?

He had a mission to finish and he wasn’t going to let that goth loser screw it up. There were twenty-four hours left in his personal timeline. He would finish.

He wouldn’t let his mother down.

Twenty years ago.

She sobbed as she sat cross-legged on the floor next to the Christmas tree. Their tree was scraggly, decorated with strings of popcorn, a few lights, and some of his little old toys, which his mother had hung with ribbons. “I love these old toys,” she’d told him. “They remind me that you’re no longer a little boy.”

He didn’t think toys from McDonald’s Happy Meals deserved to hang on their tree.

His friend Jason’s mother had decorated their tree with a million strings of white lights and dozens of glass ornaments that were all the exact same shade of blue. She’d bought matching strings of shiny blue beads. Jason said a blue tree was dumb, but he thought it was the most beautiful tree he’d ever seen. It made their popcorn and toys seem cheap and lame.

His heart broke as he watched his mother cry. Lately it seemed all she did was cry. They were poor. He understood that and knew better than to ask to go see the movie
Scream
with his friends. Movies at the theater were not in their budget. He also knew he wouldn’t get the videotapes of the
Evil Dead
movies that he’d put on his Christmas list.

His mother believed horror movies would warp his mind.

Her hatred of them increased his desire to see them.

He knew what had crushed her this time. It was that man. It was always a man. Why did they choose his mother to abuse? This last one had started off so good. He’d been kind and helpful, and appeared genuinely interested in helping him with his math homework. He’d taken him to a Winterhawks hockey game.

He’d never been to the ice arena downtown. It was loud and cold and huge and packed with people excited to cheer for their team. Best of all, he’d seen a fight. They’d been sitting in the right place when it’d happened. Two players had slammed into the side of the rink, making the plexiglass shake. The people in the rows in front of him had leaped out of their seats and beaten their hands on the glass, shouting, “Fight, fight, fight!” One player held the other in a headlock and swung his fist at his face over and over.

Blood had dripped on the ice.

All his fifth grade friends had been impressed when he’d told them the next day.

The man had come to their house every week, sometimes eating dinner with them, sometimes showing him how to throw a football in the backyard. But then the man had pulled back, only offering to pick him up and take him to McDonald’s, saying his spare time was tight.

He’d known the man lied.

It’d happened a few times before. The men would use him to get close to his mother. He didn’t mind that much. He wanted his mother to find someone who’d bring her flowers and make her happy. Each time a man started coming to the house, she’d get excited. She’d invite him to dinner, bake her special apple pies, and spend an hour choosing her clothes and putting on her makeup. He knew his mother was delighted when it took her a long time to get ready for a simple dinner at home.

But the men never came around for long. This time the man had called and said he couldn’t take him to the video arcade until late in January. He claimed he was swamped at work.

He knew a brush-off when he heard one. His mother did, too.

He’d thought this man might be the one. He’d stayed very late one night last week, drinking wine and laughing with his mother. She’d made an incredible dinner. A pot roast with gravy, and mashed potatoes with lots of butter. There were even store-bought rolls. She never bought rolls, saying they were too expensive and not good for him. Dessert was a cheesecake, and he’d had two pieces. She’d smiled as she dished up his second piece, and he’d hoped they would eat like that every night from now on. When he’d gone to bed, the man and his mother had been sitting on the couch, two empty bottles of wine on the table beside them, leaning close as they talked. He’d been happy when he crawled in bed, enjoying the sound of his mother’s laughter from the other room. She didn’t laugh very often. Maybe their luck was turning.

The sound of the man’s car had woken him at four
A.M.
when it backed out of their driveway. He’d smiled as he watched the taillights move down their street. He must really have liked his mother to stay so late.

Within the next week he’d realized the man wasn’t coming back.

“Why do they do this to me?” she sobbed from beside the tree.

There were three presents under the tree. He knew one of them had been for the latest man. Would he ever come back to get it? He knew she’d spent too much on the man’s present because she’d had little money left for his gifts. He suspected that one of them was new pajamas. His current ones stopped halfway down his calves. New pajamas weren’t anything to brag to his friends about. He’d have to lie when they all shared what they’d gotten for Christmas. His mom had promised to make it up to him for his birthday in June.

Anger flowed through him. How could these men do this to his mother over and over?

Other men had come in the past. They took him to movies and once his mother started inviting them to stay for dinner, they’d leave the two of them in the dust.

It must be him. He wasn’t clever enough or engaging enough or talented in sports. The men found him boring and unworthy of their time. His mother probably knew this but was too polite to place the blame on his shoulders where it belonged.

She wiped her eyes and smiled at him. “It’ll be a good Christmas tomorrow, you’ll see. Let’s plan to make cookies. We can watch TV all day long, just you and me. It’ll be fabulous.”

He forced a smile and nodded eagerly at her.

One day the men would pay for the pain they’d caused his mother.