Twisted (18 page)

Stored-up rage exploded through her like cannon fire, and she planted herself right in Derek’s face, raised her head, and met his gaze with her own blazing stare. “That day in the alley when I was stabbed, my life changed forever.
Mine,
not
yours
. You had no idea what I was feeling. Not the pain. Not the fear. And not the isolation. All you knew was that my assailant was caught, the incident was over, and I should have found a way to be the person I was before. I should have risen above all adversity, overcome the trauma, and emerged as strong as before, unscathed by a near-death experience. When I couldn’t manage that, you categorized me as a weakling and a deserter—both to the Bureau and to you. Ever the Army Ranger, governed by an uncompromising set of rules and principles. You might be the family rebel who kissed off West Point and went the
ROTC
route while your brothers and sister followed in your father’s footsteps, but in this case, General Parker would be proud. Like him, it’s your way or the highway.”

A muscle was working furiously at Derek’s jaw. “Is that how you see it? That
I
pushed
you
away? Then how do you explain the two dozen unreturned phone calls? Or the five times I showed up at your apartment, knowing full well you were home, and stood outside pounding on your front door and bellowing for you to let me in, making such a racket that your neighbors had me thrown out of the building? Fine. I was hard on you—maybe way too hard. But
you
shut
me
down, and shut me out.”

“I nearly bled to death.”

“You think I didn’t know that? You think I wasn’t there? I showed up at that hospital the minute the call came in. I made a huge scene trying to get in and see you. But the doctors refused—not that I could blame them. They were busy trying to stop the bleeding and get you to the operating room. After the surgery, I was told you were really out of it, and visitors were discouraged. So I peeked in on you and left. When I called the next day, I was told you were wiped out and didn’t want visitors.”

“That wasn’t personal; it was true. I needed time alone.”

“Fine, well, afterward, I saw you twice—once at home and once at work. The first time you were so drugged up on painkillers, I’m not sure you even knew I was there. And the second time you were so emotionally distant, we barely connected.”

“Oh, we connected all right. Enough for you to let me know that I was overreacting in my response to what had happened and copping out by leaving the Bureau.”

Derek’s jaw tightened another notch. “I thought you were making a huge mistake. I still do. You could have been placed on medical mandate until you healed. You were a damned good agent. You speak more languages than I can count, and you’re the best hostage negotiator I’ve ever seen. You can talk a subject out of any situation, no matter how dire. There’s no good reason why you left. You could have stayed on, giving your all to the Bureau—the only difference being you wouldn’t be carrying your gun or making arrests.”

“The
only
difference? That’s all the difference in the world. Would
you
have settled for that? Never. Picture yourself watching your fellow Army Rangers deployed to the Middle East while you stayed behind and coached from the sidelines. You’d go nuts—and so would I. A medical mandate would mean I wouldn’t be a real agent anymore; I’d be a glorified pencil-pushing member of the support staff. And in my case that medical mandate wouldn’t have been for a few months. It would have been for at least a year—as it turns out, more. Did you ever stop to consider what that would have done to me?”

Derek didn’t answer, but Sloane could see by his expression that her point had gotten through.

“What’s more,” she continued, “when you saw how I was acting, did it ever occur to you that I was suffering from post-traumatic stress, not to mention enduring more pain than I ever anticipated? Or were you too pissed off that I was leaving the Bureau?”

“It wasn’t just the Bureau.” This time Derek blasted back, and Sloane was stunned by the suppressed rage in his tone. “You were leaving
me,
leaving
us
. No argument. No discussion. Just good-bye. As for what you were going through, give me a little credit. I’ve seen enough post-traumatic stress
and
pain to last a lifetime. I knew you were suffering. But what would you have had me do? I couldn’t get through that damned wall you’d put up. Let’s face it, Sloane, you were already gone long before you packed and left Cleveland. So, yeah, I was a principled, opinionated jerk. But at least I was willing to fight for what we had—which was rare as hell, by the way. You just gave up on it, along with your career. You were a coward, Sloane. You turned your back on everything, hoping to erase the past—and the pain—by starting a new life. But it didn’t work, did it? It’s still there, eating away at you, just like it’s eating away at me.”

Derek’s words cut through the wind and the rain, hovering like a dark, ponderous cloud.

There it was. Raw, exposed, and excruciating. Put out there for the first time.

Sloane pressed her lips together and swallowed. Rain was pouring down her face. She was shivering violently. And the pain in her hand was bordering on numbness.

This was more than she could handle.

“I can’t do this now, Derek,” she said quietly. “If you want to tear open old wounds and have it out, fine. But later. I need to get to health services. And I need to call my hand therapist. I can’t afford another setback—not again.”

Derek took one look at her white face, and nodded. “Come on.” He pressed a palm to the small of her back, guiding her toward his car. “I’ll run you over there now.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. By the time I return to pick you up, I’ll have changed your flat, started a trace on your phone stalker, and canceled dinner with McGraw. When you get back in this car, and after you’ve consulted with your hand therapist and made sure your physical scars are okay, that’s when we’re tearing open the emotional ones. So steel yourself. We’re putting all our cards on the table and finishing what we started—once and for all.”

DATE:
1 April

TIME:
2100 hours

OBJECTIVE:
Tyche

There she was. The goddess of fortune, prosperity, and luck.

She’d stayed at work late tonight. Usually, her schedule was like clockwork. She’d leave the martial-arts academy at eight-thirty. She’d wait until after the last class was under way and her bookkeeping work was wrapped up. Then she’d head to her car, and drive back to campus.

Once there, she’d park and either go straight to her dorm to finish up her assignments or trek across campus to play a few hands of cards with her friends. On those days, she’d still be back in her room by two; it was only Fridays that she stayed out all night for her weekly poker marathon.

Tonight would be a dry run. I’d follow her back to her campus, and make sure every detail was just as I’ve recorded it. Any adjustments had to be made now.

I had only a few days left.

And so did she.

Best Western Garden State Inn

Absecon, New Jersey

9:20 P.M.

Sloane rolled over and opened her eyes.

She blinked, totally disoriented, wondering where the hell she was. Darkness shrouded the unfamiliar room, although a single lamp cast enough light to tell her she was on a king-size bed covered by a bright blue-and-orange-print bedspread.

She propped herself up on one elbow, stared blankly down at the institutional-blue carpet as she tried to clear the cobwebs from her head. She hated this feeling—nauseated, headachy, and like her brain was filled with cotton. It brought back unwelcome memories of coming to in a recovery room after surgery.

No way she was feeling that way again.

She raked a hand through her hair, wincing as a twinge of pain shot through her palm, together with an unnatural stiffness and limited tactile ability and freedom of motion. She glanced at her hand, saw that it was bandaged and taped.

Abruptly, she remembered.

She was in Derek’s hotel room. He’d driven her here after the nurse practitioner at Stockton’s health services had treated her hand and given her some heavy-duty painkillers.

Sitting up, Sloane examined herself, noting that she was wearing an oversize olive sweatshirt with the Colorado State insignia on it. Derek’s alma mater. She vaguely remember changing into it, peeling off her wet Tahari suit—now fit for kitty litter—and pulling on the warm sweatshirt.

The clock on the night table said it was after nine. Sloane’s scrutiny said she was alone in the hotel room.

Beside the clock was an uncapped but unused bottle of springwater, and she reached out to get it—this time with her left hand. She gulped down half a bottle, partly because she was thirsty and partly to rehydrate her muscles and kick-start her brain.

She’d put down the water and was trying to piece together the events of the last four hours, when the door opened and Derek stepped in. He’d changed into jeans and a royal-blue fleece sweatshirt.

“You’re awake. Good.” He went over to the desk and set down two Burger King bags and a cardboard tray with two sodas in it. Sloane’s stomach growled at the aroma.

Derek chuckled. “Awake and hungry,” he amended. “No problem.” He carried the food over and set dinner up on the night table. “I got you your favorites—a Whopper with cheese, a large fries, and a Diet Coke with lemon. I assume that hasn’t changed?”

“No.” Sloane’s voice sounded raspy, probably from all that time spent in the pouring rain. “That hasn’t changed.”

“Good. Then we’re all set to eat.” He frowned, seeing how green around the gills she looked. “Is the Whopper too heavy? Because I also got a salad and a roll if you want something lighter.”

“No way. I never turn down a Whopper. I’m starving. My nausea’s from the Vicodin. It’ll disappear as soon as I eat.”

“It says on the bottle that it should be taken with food. But you fell asleep before I could get anything substantial into you.”

“Not a problem. I know the drill. Vicodin and I are old friends. I keep our reunions short, because it’s a narcotic and because it knocks me out. But it’s also a hell of a painkiller.”

“The nurse practitioner said she got you to eat some crackers when you took it.”

A mental flash, and Sloane nodded. “She did. I ate four saltines.”

“You need a solid meal. Here.”

“Wait.” Sloane reached out to stop him, frowning as she felt the nerves in her palm tingle. If she’d undone any of Dr. Houghton or Connie’s hard work, she didn’t think she could bear it. Not again.

“I’ve got to get home,” she announced, shoving back the bedspread. “I’m fuzzy about what the nurse practitioner said, and what she did. I need to see my hand therapist. And the hounds…I’ve got to pick them up.”

“The hounds are fine.” Derek halted Sloane’s motion, easing her back onto the bed. “Mrs. Wagner’s keeping them overnight. I found her number on your speed dial,” he added, preempting Sloane’s next question with an answer. “And you’re not going anywhere. Not till tomorrow morning. The nurse practitioner emphasized that about twenty times when she prescribed the Vicodin.”

“But I have some nerve tingling in my hand.” Sloane was trying to stay calm. “That could mean I redamaged something.”

“The nerves are inflamed. That’s it. Other than the fact that you tore up the tissue around your scars pretty badly with that wrench. The ice pack took down the swelling. Anyway, they did some tests. You passed with flying colors. And you spoke to your hand therapist, as did the nurse practitioner. Constance—I think that was her name—was satisfied with all the procedures that were done, and with the results.”

“Right.” Memory filtered back in fragments. “I did talk to Connie. She said I should follow the instructions health services gave me, take the Vicodin, and see her at her New Jersey office tomorrow at three.”

“Exactly.”

Relief surged through Sloane with the force of a tidal wave. Her hand would be okay. And the hounds were safe and cared for. “What about my car?” she asked.

“It’s at the local gas station. The mechanic is patching your tire. It’ll be good as new tomorrow, just like you.” Derek unwrapped Sloane’s Whopper with cheese and handed it to her. “Now eat. But use your left hand.”

“I intend to.” Sloane took the burger, her brows still drawn together in question. “How did my car get to the gas station?”

“I drove it there after I changed the flat. Tom picked me up and brought me back to my car. Then he took off and I swung by health services and got you.”

“I remember the drive.” Sloane was still sifting through filaments of memory. “I also remember us pulling into the hotel parking lot, and going inside the room. Oh, and I remember your giving me this to change into.” She plucked at the sweatshirt, which fit her like an oversize dress. “I don’t remember much else. I guess I was pretty out of it.”

“Those painkillers are strong. Still, you were pretty coherent until we got into the hotel room.” A corner of Derek’s mouth lifted. “Coherent enough to slam the bathroom door in my face when I tried to come in and help you change out of your wet clothes. But after you got into bed, you conked out. You’ve been asleep since.”

“Wow. That must be three and a half hours.”

“Close. Now eat your Whopper. You’re dripping sauce on my bed.”

Sloane glanced down quickly, smiling as she saw the predictable napkins and outer wrapper Derek had placed on her lap. “Somehow I knew that was a lie. Did you think I’d forgotten, Mr. Clean?”

“Nope.” Derek took a bite of his own Double Whopper. “Just checking to see how lucid you are.”

“More lucid by the minute. And this meal should help.” Sloane chowed down, devouring her Whopper and eating her french fries with gusto. In between bites, she gulped down her drink.

“I never did understand the whole Diet Coke thing.” Derek took a swallow of his root beer. “If you decide to pig out and stuff your face with fat and calories, why not go the whole nine yards? I think I’ve seen you eat junk food maybe five times since I met you. So why dilute a great experience with a drink that tastes like watered-down Coke syrup with a vile aftertaste?”