Blood Stained Read online

  "None of them threaten my family by name." She shook his hand free. Walden hadn't worked New Hope; he didn't understand. He would as soon as he read the file. "Call me."

  She slammed the door, grateful for the safe haven of her car. She turned the ignition on and pulled past the guardhouse out onto Bigelow Avenue. November sleet and wind rocked the car in a staccato beat the windshield wipers struggled to keep up with. The radio was cranked high, as usual, and Mudvayne came on with "Scream with Me."

  As Lucy swerved between sedate, carefree drivers oblivious to her need, she followed the title's command. One ear-splitting release of noise before silencing the radio with a stab of her finger.

  If only Plushenko's lawyer could see her now.

  <><><>

  Somehow Lucy made it to the soccer field without crashing. She climbed out of the car and waved to the officer waiting in the police cruiser. He nodded, flashed his lights, and took off to return to his duties.

  She hugged herself against the cold. Her parka was unzipped and beneath it she wore her "court" suit: navy skirt and jacket and black pumps that sank into the soggy gravel of the parking lot. The week after Thanksgiving and it had already snowed twice in Pittsburgh, leaving slushy mounds to ambush unsuspecting pedestrians. Thick clouds, heavy as steel, pressed down against the waning sunlight, trying to squeeze the life out of the city, promising more snow to come.

  Happy squeals came from the soccer field where kids in colorful uniforms chased a ball covered in mud. The other parents lined up beneath bright golf umbrellas along the sidelines, clapping and cheering despite the weather. These were the top players in this age range invited for a special intersession all-star skills camp and their parents were the district's top soccer moms and dads.

  Lucy didn't join them. She didn't have an umbrella. She needed both hands free. She didn't raise her hood. Too restrictive. Cut off her peripheral vision. Resting one hand on the gun at her hip, she remained behind the crowd at her car. From there she could keep Megan in sight, target the crowd as well, plus the car provided cover and escape.

  A whistle blew. Lucy jerked upright, hand falling to her Glock.

  Hyper-vigilant, Nick had diagnosed her. Normal after almost dying two months ago, after seeing her daughter placed in harm's way. As if there could be anything normal about that.

  Megan vanished from sight as two fathers arguing about the Steelers' offensive line blocked Lucy's view. Her heart skidded, lurching into overdrive, pounding louder than the sleet drumming against the car roof. She ran two steps forward. Hands. She needed to see all of their hands, even as she scanned for Megan.

  It wasn't until the whistle blew again and she spotted Megan's form bobbing through the crowd of players that she realized she'd drawn her gun.

  Tears streaked warm down her chilled cheeks, a counterpoint to the embarrassment and fear flooding her. She hadn't raised her gun, hadn't pointed it at anyone. But that didn't matter. Her emotions overpowered her training.

  Thankfully the rest of the crowd remained focused on the players. Lucy turned away, needing both trembling hands to re-holster her weapon. Nausea left her mouth dry and skin clammy. Leaning against the car, she focused on the not-so-simple act of breathing, tried to force back her panic.

  It never left. Never entirely. Not since September. But she could control it.

  She had to. If she let herself fall apart, who would protect her family?

  Chapter 2

  Adam Caine got off the Greyhound in New Hope, PA with seventeen cents in his pocket. He wore everything he owned: ragged tennis shoes with a hole in one toe and a broken lace, jeans, a t-shirt, flannel shirt, Penn State sweatshirt with a rip in the hem, and his father's oversized denim jacket. He was fourteen, hungry, cold, and his home was no longer his.

  The bus stop was the curb in front of Thomson's Hardware. There was no depot. If you were lucky enough to be leaving New Hope, "No Hope," the kids called it when Adam was young, you bought your ticket from the clerk inside the Safeway at the other end of the parking lot.

  No hope of Adam leaving anytime soon. But that was okay. It was nice to be back. He'd spent the past eight months on his own, foraging for food, standing up to street bullies. Kids as alone and scared as himself, psych patients left to fend for themselves on the streets, plus other kinds of predators, the ones with money in their pockets and need in their eyes. To Adam, New Hope lived up to its name, simply by still being here.

  No worries about predators in New Hope. Unless you counted Adam.

  This was one of those November days where the sun didn't set so much as fade away without even a whimper of surrender. There were only four cars in the Safeway's lot and he recognized three of them. One of them was Mrs. Chesshir's bright yellow vintage VW bug. He edged through the hazy gray light, wincing when he stepped into a mound of slush and ice, the cold water rushing into his shoe. The icy wet made him walk funny as if he had a limp.

  A familiar form approached from the bright lights of the store, a woman juggling two cloth shopping bags and a large paper bag. Mrs. Chesshir. The last teacher he ever had. Back in fourth grade. The perfect fish. All he had to do was reel her in.

  Adam hesitated. Not because he was afraid. No way. That churning in his stomach was just hunger. Even if he was afraid—and he wasn't, of course he wasn't—he wouldn't ever let it show.

  His dad had hammered it into him: never admit fear. Deny it. Smile. Make eye contact. Offer help or a compliment. Get them to say yes—to anything. Hunch your shoulders so you don't look so damn tall and intimidating. Be polite. Never say "I" always say "we."

  Seven steps to getting just about anything you wanted. All you had to do was follow Dad's rules.

  Mrs. Chesshir stopped and nodded to the leg he hobbled on, ice water squishing between his toes. "Are you okay?"

  She startled him. He forgot all about the approach he meant to make. "Mrs. Chesshir. You remember me?"

  "Of course. It's good to see you, Adam."

  She recognized him right away even though he'd been gone four years. The thought swept through him like a fever. She hadn't changed—still the bright smile that lit her eyes, the glossy dark hair that swung below her shoulders. Back when he was a kid, he'd kinda fallen in love with her. Fantasized she'd be the one to rescue him. Adam knew better now. He needed to rescue himself.

  "Here. Let me carry those." Treat her like a fish. Follow Dad's rules. Before she could protest, he lifted the brown paper bag and one of the canvas ones from her arms.

  "Why thank you. Are you home visiting?" She didn't ask about his dad and he didn't volunteer. Never volunteer information, Dad always said.

  "Yes ma'am. Got an uncle and cousins over in Huntingdon, but when the bus stopped here, well, I couldn't resist—"

  Too late he realized his mistake. Huntingdon was too close. There was a good chance she knew he didn't really have relatives there. Stupid. Barely off the bus and he'd already screwed up. Good thing Dad wasn't here to see it.

  Adam shuffled his feet as she opened the trunk of her VW, the bag crinkling restlessly as he hugged it. He bowed his head as he thought hard about how to fix his mistake.

  "Such a shame about your mother. She was a brave woman," Mrs. Chesshir filled in the silence. "You came to pay your respects?"

  Adam swallowed hard and nodded. She patted his hand and looked away as if she thought he was crying. He wasn't, but after he placed the groceries into the trunk he swiped his bare knuckles, white with the cold, across his cheeks. Dad could cry on command—so could Morgan. Adam never mastered the trick.

  "Do you need a ride?" she asked. "I don't mind. It's on the way."

  A lie. The churchyard where his mom's marker stood—they'd never found her body or any of the others—was a good two miles out of her way. But that was just the way folks were here in New Hope. A third of the population was Amish or Mennonite, the rest farmers and merchants or folks looking to get out of the city and live in the middle of nowhere. There was no industry
except the fruit stands and craft fairs that popped up during summer tourist season. Not that they ever brought the town much revenue. The only tourists who found their way to New Hope were hopelessly lost, usually took the wrong turn on their way to a Penn State football game or tailgate party.

  "No. Thanks. I'd—I'd rather walk."

  "I understand." She clasped his hand, folding a five-dollar bill into it. "You know you can call me anytime. If you need anything."

  Stunned by the unexpected kindness, he nodded and said nothing. He wouldn't be calling her. He didn't have a phone. Too easy to track, Dad said. Although he let Morgan keep the smart phone Morgan lifted from a Starbucks they'd been walking past. Like watching a magic trick. Morgan laughing, telling a story, hands gesticulating. The phone on a table, then in a hand, zip, it went in the backpack and vanished. Dad had smiled.

  He never smiled like that at Adam. Not anymore. It was always Morgan, younger than Adam, but perfect in Dad's eyes. Unlike Adam.

  Not for long. He was going to make Dad notice. Make him proud.

  "Welcome home, Adam," Mrs. Chesshir said. Then she got in her car and left.

  Adam stood in the mostly empty parking lot of the Safeway, snow melting through the hole in his shoe, fear making his insides shiver.

  Five minutes back in New Hope and he was already falling apart. Maybe Dad was right. Maybe Adam was hopeless.

  He wondered, not for the first time, if he'd been wrong about everything.

  <><><>

  The whistle blew. Megan ran over from the sidelines, lifting her muddy cleat against the Subaru's front bumper to retie it. "You made it. Any word from Dad?"

  No one else would have noticed the undercurrent of longing in her voice, but to Lucy it was louder than the firing range during recertification week. "Sorry, sweetie. He's working late again."

  Two months ago it would have been Nick making that excuse for Lucy's tardiness. But when the VA clinic cut back its staff, Nick's private practice contracted to take their overflow. With more and more soldiers needing Nick's expertise, he just couldn't refuse.

  Megan bobbed her head, focused on her shoelaces. "Okay. Did you see me take that penalty kick? I nailed it."

  "You sure did." Despite the rain and mud covering Megan, Lucy pulled her into a quick hug. "I'm so proud of you." She wasn't talking about soccer and Megan knew it.

  Over the past two months Megan had become Lucy's anchor, keeping her connected to the outside world, despite Lucy's ever-growing litany of damn good reasons to stay inside, lock the doors, and keep the guns loaded and at the ready.

  "What's wrong?" Megan asked suspiciously. Hard to fool the daughter of a FBI agent trained in both undercover work and interrogation techniques. Even harder to fool the daughter of a psychologist specializing in post-traumatic stress. And Megan was her father's daughter in so many ways: extroverted, trusting, smart, empathic.

  Too bad Nick wasn't here to see it.

  "I came to take you home. Something's come up."

  "Mom," Megan said with a well-practiced adolescent whine that reminded Lucy of the defense attorney who tried to skewer her testimony an hour ago. "I'm one of the only girls invited. I can't leave early."

  This really wasn't the time or place to explain, and last thing Lucy wanted was to have a public confrontation with Megan. She opened the passenger door to the Subaru, hoped Megan would take the hint. "I don't like this. You playing in the cold. You'll get sick."

  Megan was merciful, sparing Lucy an eye roll. Instead she sighed, as if she were the long-suffering mother, patted Lucy's arm, and said, "I'm fine." She dribbled an invisible ball with her feet, impervious to the freezing rain and wind. "You can watch from the car if you want. Or go home. I'll catch a ride with Danny."

  As if Lucy would ever trust her thirteen-year-old alone with a twenty-something soccer coach. Especially not one who encouraged his athletes to call him "Danny."

  Her phone rang, distracting her just as the whistle blew again.

  "Gotta go." Megan raced into the crowd of parents and players before Lucy could grab her.

  Lucy kept Megan in sight as she answered the phone. It was Walden. Hopefully good news.

  "Guardino," she answered. "What have you got?"

  "No trace on the letter. The envelope, about what you'd expect." Of course. Send a threatening letter through the US Mail and you'd tie up fingerprint analysts for days with the number of random partials. "Taylor's at your house, just finished clearing it."

  "Nick?"

  "He's fine. Still at work. Galloway is with him, will see him home. He's not too happy about the whole thing. Especially us monitoring his mail."

  "I'll take care of it." It wasn't the monitoring or the security detail that bothered Nick. It was the fact that Lucy's work placed her family at risk. Again. She didn't realize she'd sighed out loud until it echoed back to her through the cell phone.

  "I think I calmed him down," Walden added. A big guy, intimidating as hell when he had to be, but whenever they needed to play good cop/bad cop, Walden was always the good cop, the sane one. The sight of a six-two, two-twenty black guy being unable to control a petite white woman fifteen years his junior got a subject's attention, fast. "We had a little heart to heart."

  Lucy shook her head. Nick and Walden, talking about her. She so didn't want to know. "Thanks, Walden."

  "Finally found your mom as well. She's with her gentleman friend. Said not to worry about her."

  That warranted another sigh, but Lucy swallowed it before Verizon could broadcast her feelings to the world. She pulled her copy of the anonymous letter from her pocket and scanned it again for clues. "What does he mean, we blamed the wrong man? I saw the killer die."

  "No body was ever recovered. Plus, we never identified the Unsub. Makes it easy for crackpots to try to grab credit." Walden, logical as always.

  "He mentions Megan by name. And he knows how old she is."

  "Your name's been in the news a lot lately."

  "My name." Lucy used her maiden name everywhere, but Megan was Megan Callahan, Nick's name. "Not Megan's. Or her age."

  "Taylor says any kid with a smart phone and five minutes online could find Megan's name and age. Said he could get her shoe size if you gave him ten minutes." Taylor was their resident whiz kid when it came to computers—when it came to almost anything except people. He was thirty-four, a recent graduate from the High-Tech Computer Crimes Taskforce before attending Quantico, and would be called "kid" until the day he retired.

  Walden dropped his voice. "The New Hope case was four and a half years ago. Maybe you mentioned Megan to someone back then? Trying to bond with local law enforcement or a witness?"

  "No. I never talk about my family with anyone on a case. Not my real family, at any rate." Part of Lucy's job was to slip into roles. Pretend to understand and offer forgiveness for the pedophile's urges while interviewing them at their kitchen table, the computer screensaver flashing porn from the countertop as they sipped iced tea. Playing at being a lonely pre-pubescent girl or boy in Internet chat rooms. Going undercover as a mom offering her child's services as a "model."

  Lucy understood the kind of persona needed for a given situation. Just like in court today. And she was very good at slipping them on and off again, like trying on outfits in a dressing room. Sometimes Nick said she was too good at it, that she liked to push the edge to get the result she wanted. She couldn't really argue with that. Nick was also good at his job and his job was to see the truth behind the veil of lies.

  "I skimmed the case file on New Hope," Walden said. "Didn't see anything out of the ordinary. Other than the fact we had no DNA to compare."

  "What did Greally say?" John Greally had been one of her field supervisors when she graduated from the FBI Academy and was now Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the Pittsburgh field office. But he hadn't been involved with the New Hope case. She wished he had been. Hamilton, her supervisor on New Hope, was an asshole. More interested in headlines and c
ommendations than the truth. "Is he going to move my family into protective custody?"

  It was Walden's turn to sigh.

  "They can't blow this off—"

  "They're not. Galloway's opening a case file. She'll handle it personally since it comes under the Postal Service's jurisdiction."

  Lucy was sure Jenna Galloway was perfectly competent with a letter opener, but with her family involved she'd rather have someone she knew and trusted—a real agent—on the case.

  Walden continued, "Greally doesn't have the manpower or funding for a full security detail. He also suggested since you were up for your semi-annual eval next week that you do it tomorrow, then take some time off. Mentioned that Cancun is lovely this time of year and you have plenty of vacation coming."

  Like Lucy was going to lie on a beach sipping margaritas while her team did the heavy lifting and her family was at risk. "He's at least re-opening the New Hope case, right? Are we taking the lead on it?"

  Silence.

  "Walden—"

  "He tried, Lucy. But like you said, witnesses saw the killer die. Case closed. There's nothing in that letter someone couldn't find reading the news accounts of the case."

  "We never found his body. Or maybe he had a partner." Still, it made no sense. Why come after her, announce his presence, after all this time? No. This was about something else. She was sure of it.

  Walden echoed her thoughts. "Maybe it has nothing to do with the New Hope case. It could be someone out to sabotage your career by casting doubts on your work."

  Lucy thought about that. She had risen through the ranks quickly and inadvertently made enemies along the way. Including her former supervisor. It would also explain why the letter was so vague on specifics. A true sociopath looking for glory would have built his case, boasted about the details the original investigation had gotten wrong. Whoever wrote the letter seemed like he wanted something, and it wasn't fame or credit.

  He wanted something from Lucy. He'd succeeded in frightening her, but to what end? More importantly, how much danger was her family in?