Night Stalker. Shirlee McCoy

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      “Just thinking out loud.” He took a sip of the cold brew and grimaced.

      “Why don’t you go get us some hot coffee?” Wren suggested.

      “I’ve already had too much of the stuff.”

      “You can’t stay here forever, Adam.”

      “I can stay here until she wakes up.”

      “Then I hope River gets back from Boston soon. I hate cold coffee.” She set her cup down.

      “I thought River and Sam were on protection duty here at the hospital.”

      “They are. I sent River back to Boston this morning to double-check the ballistic results on the bullet they took from Charlotte.”

      “Why?”

      “Because he’s as much an expert as anyone working in the lab.”

      “That’s not what I’m asking, and you know it. Why did you feel the need to have the ballistic results checked?”

      “Because I’m wondering the same thing you are. Why the Night Stalker suddenly changed his MO. Why he chose a victim who worked in a small town at a small hospital. Before we pour more resources into this case, I want to make sure we’re not dealing with a copycat—someone who had a bone to pick with Bethany and thought mimicking the Night Stalker would help him get away with murder.”

      “That’s a stretch, Wren. Especially since the initial ballistics results are a match.”

      “River is going to give his own expert advice. And not just because I don’t want to waste resources. Nine women are dead. When we catch their murderer, I want to make sure we have every i dotted and every t crossed. I don’t want any doubts, any reason for a jury to hesitate.”

      Wren leaned forward, her suit jacket swinging open to reveal her holster. “It’s not just about the case to me. I hope you know that, Adam. It’s about seeing the victims get the justice they deserve. It’s about seeing the survivors heal and move on.”

      Her phone buzzed and she pulled it from her pocket, read a text message and then tucked it away again.

      “River is back,” she announced, standing and stretching her nearly six-foot frame. She was model-slender, her build belying the strength Adam had seen her use during self-defense training.

      “And?”

      “You’re not on the case, so I shouldn’t tell you.”

      “But you’re going to,” he guessed, and she nodded.

      “The bullet taken from Charlotte matches the ones taken from the Night Stalker’s victims. This is a go.” She was suddenly all business, her dark eyes flashing with barely banked energy. “River is on the way up to the room. He’ll be out in the hall. I have a meeting scheduled with Sam and some local and state law enforcement. Call me if she wakes up.”

      She was gone before he could respond.

      He waited until she closed the door, then turned his attention back to Charlotte. She’d been his first love and his last. He’d walked away from her when she’d needed him most. He could do it again. It would be the easy choice: go back to Boston, pick up the case where he’d left off, let Wren, River and Sam handle things on this end.

      That would require no emotional commitment, no trips down memory lane. No drives past the graveyard where Daniel’s tombstone had been set. No visits to the cottage on the lake. It required him to do nothing but the job he’d been trained to do.

      He couldn’t do it, though.

      He’d taken the easy path five and a half years ago. He’d failed Charlotte, and he’d failed himself. There was a big part of Adam that felt he’d also failed God. He hadn’t been a Christian when he’d married Charlotte. They’d both been wild teens who’d lived by their own set of rules. Maybe if God had been part of what they’d been building together, the foundation would have been strong enough to withstand Daniel’s death.

      Still, Adam had taken vows.

      He’d broken them.

      In the years since, he’d learned what faith was. He’d learned what mercy and grace were. What he hadn’t learned was how to forgive himself for what he’d done. He couldn’t go back and change things, but he could do this.

      He settled in the chair again.

      “It’s going to be okay, Charlotte,” he said, patting her lax hand.

      Her fingers moved—a tiny twitch that made his heart jump.

      He waited, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest beneath white hospital sheets, the flicker of her closed eyelids.

      “Charlotte?” He touched her cheek, his palm resting against cool dry skin.

      She opened her eyes.

      He’d forgotten how beautiful her irises were—deep purple-blue rimmed with black. He’d forgotten how it felt to watch her wake, the haze of sleep slowly dissipating, the softness of her features sharpening.

      “Why are you here?” she said, her voice raspy and raw, her eyes closing again.

      “I thought it was time I was finally around when you needed me,” he responded honestly, certain she’d already lost consciousness again.

      “I don’t need you,” she whispered so quietly he almost didn’t hear, and then she was unconscious again, the soft beep and hiss of machinery the only sounds in the quiet room.

      He could have left then.

      He’d done what he’d said he would. He’d stayed until she woke. She’d been lucid enough and aware enough to know who he was and to know she didn’t want him around.

      That shouldn’t have hurt.

      He told himself it didn’t.

      But there was a piece of his heart that still belonged to Charlotte. He might have failed her after Daniel died, but he wouldn’t fail her now. Whether she needed him or not, he was there to stay until the Night Stalker was found and he knew for sure that she was safe.

       TWO

      Nine days.

      That was how long Charlotte had been cooped up in the hospital. There’d been a steady stream of visitors during her stay. County police. Town sheriff. State police. FBI. All of them asking questions, most of which she couldn’t answer.

      She hadn’t seen the face of the man who’d shot her.

      She had seen his truck.

      Just enough of it to know it was old. Big. A pickup with two doors.

      She’d seen him, too. The man the FBI called the Night Stalker. СКАЧАТЬ